adiaforon

Not essential to the faith

Tag Archives: women

Girls (and everyone else in their lives) on film

This is a quickish post before I head out to hike on this gorgeous and sunny day . . .

Attention-whoring among modern-day girls and women is very well-known in the ‘sphere. We see it all the time on Facebook and its spinoffs, like Pinterest. There isn’t a day goes by when some of my Facebook female friends are posting some new pic, usually of themselves.

Philosopher that I am, I’ve often wondered about the female fascination with photos and taking photos of themselves, friends, and family. It might seem obvious, but as I’ve not really concentrated on this subject, it’s hard for me to come up with a cogent argument for or against.

Then, I found something from Sue Hindmarsh, and Australian philosopher. It hits the nail on the head beautifully.

Women love to keep mementos and souvenirs from past relationships, or events. Many of them place framed photos of their loved ones on every available surface, or hang them on their walls, or they’ve kept every doll they were ever given as a child, or they collect knick-knacks and fill cupboards and side-tables with them, or, like Elizabeth, they like to keep gifts from ex-boyfriends. All this ‘stuff’ surrounding them is a constant reminder of how special and wonderful their life really is. It also makes the transference from one object of desire to another object so much easier. She can still hang on to something before crossing over to the next.

It’s like they’re rock climbers, they never let go of one hand-hold before getting a grip on the next, otherwise they might fall; or in the case of women — disappear.

Reminders of how special they are. Bingo! I think she’s on to something here, by Jove!

My attitude towards and relationship to photos is more ambiguous. Sure, I’ve taken many photos in the past, especially when I was traveling, because I wanted a memento of what I had seen. It was more important in the days before digital cameras, when you had to buy film and then pay to get it developed. You were more concerned with getting that “perfect” shot so as to not waste film. Not anymore.

With that in mind, I wonder if it wasn’t Facebook but digital cameras that brought out the latent attention-whoring in women. Might be a good topic for a blog post another day.

Anyway, as I said, I think that Hindmarsh is definitely onto something here. You can read more of what she has to say here.

Now, off to hit the rocks.

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One ring to fool them all

The semiotics of ring-wearing women could fill a volume or two. It can be maddening if you spend too much time on it.

In my foray into the Dating 2.0 world, I sometimes notice a few women here and there who are wearing rings on their left fourth finger, which I’ll call the wedding ring finger or WRF. Here in the US and much of the Western world, if the ring has a stone in it, the woman is most likely either married or engaged. (And, the size of the stone is a clear sign of how much lucre she extracted from her hubby in purchasing it.) Men, as we know, wear a simple gold band. What I’ve found interesting over the years is how there are more and more men who wear wedding rings. My father has never worn his ring (as far as I can remember) because he, like me, has never liked wearing rings. The last time I tried to wear rings was in the 5th grade, and it drove me up the wall. As soon as I put it on, I was hopping around, trying to get it off. No way, Jose, was I ever going to wear another ring!

With women, the subject is muddled. Of course, if the woman is wearing a ring with a stone in it, it’s safe to assume that she’s engaged or married. If it’s something else, it’s hard to tell.

I once dated a woman who wore a gold ring with some filigree in it. I met her online, so that was a clear sign that she was available. Yet, she showed up on our first date wearing the ring. I wondered why. On our second date, I asked her outright why she wore the ring, and she told me that it was to ward off the “undesirables” while she rode the bus on her way to work. It made sense, but I found it peculiar. In any event, I scored bonus points with her because I was, according to her, the first guy who noticed and who asked about the ring. My natural curiosity drove me to ask about it.

Now, fast-forward several months later, and I’ve not dated any other woman who wore a ring on her WRF. But, I’ve seen several who fall into this category.

I’ve heard of the Claddagh ring, but don’t remember seeing it. At least with this ring, the semiotics are much clearer.

But, I don’t really give a shit as I’m not a sentimental guy and a ring is just an ordinary band of metal — some with a higher price tag than others.

Recently, I encountered an early 30s woman who was giving me strong eye contact and a flash of a smile here and there when I was patronizing my one local used bookstore. Now, Blue Pill Me wouldn’t have paid much attention to what this woman was doing. Red Pill Me was watching her. I returned the eye contact, but didn’t smile. (Alpha move, heh.) Finally, I asked her for some advice on books in fiction, when she was alone in the stacks and away from the register. She answered my questions and then I left. I was running late for an appointment and so didn’t have time to game her. But, I know she works there and will return.

Oh . . . something not-so-unique about this woman: she was wearing a ring on her WRF. But, no stone. One wonders.

I was intellectually offended

Family issues have prevented me from attending to the blog. Now that the dust has settled and I have some breathing room, let me tell you of an early dating experience that you, dear readers, might find amusing.

I’ve mentioned before that my Myers-Briggs type is INTP. In short, this means that I’m prone to be introverted, work alone, stuck in my head, and drawn towards science and philosophy, among other intellectual pursuits. It also means that I value logic and clarity quite highly, and have little patience with people who lack these qualities. Especially “chick logic” that’s based in feelings and Rollo’s Feminine Imperative, and that has no qualms in bending reality to its own ends. I’ve met many women who fit into this mold, but have banged on a few of them because they were pleasant enough where I could stand them and then get their panties off.

Here’s one of them . . .

She was an Asian-Hispanic mix. Nice and exotic-looking, but enough of an Americhick where she could get pop culture references. (The “true Asian,” in my experience lately, is too groupthink and socially awkward to be more forthcoming, as well as hindered by her own awful English conversational skills. Bad memories of my time in Asia teaching them always resurface . . . ugh.)

She was 28 years old when I met her, on OKC. Quick emails, then to the phone, then Facebook friending. That was beneficial for me because she had bikini pics (N.B. she was a big attention whore) so I could see more recent pics to decide whether she was worth meeting or not. She was. In my book, a solid 7. Nice little body and her face lit up when she smiled.

At this time, I had learned enough Game to be successful. Of course, I think I caught her eye in the beginning, anyway.

We agreed to meet for drinks at a local lounge I like to visit now and again. Quiet, sophisticated, and close. No loud thumping and douchebaggery at this place, thank the gods.

I got there early and took a seat at the back. I put my chair against the wall so that I could see the front door. She arrived and I waved to her in the back. She looked like her pics and was affable enough. We each had two drinks apiece and I paid for them. I kept to the Leykis 101 rule of “no more than $40 on the first date” successfully.

She talked about herself, reiterated some of the things she told me on the phone. A native of Cincinnati, she graduated in pre-law from Miami University of Ohio, then attended some kind of law/social work combo program at the University of Cincinnati. She was working at a non-profit outside the city and did more social work for substance abusers and general n’er-do-wells than she was doing law. She wanted to get into child advocacy law. But, her current job paid the bills.

(N.B. Miami University of Ohio has, for many years, been labeled as a “prep school,” where the rich kids go.  It’s been listed as a “public Ivy” and thinks itself thus, because Ohio residents can pay in-state tuition and get an “Ivy League education.”  In recent years, Miami U. has also gained a reputation as a hotbed of feminist indoctrination.)

As I said, she seemed affable enough, and was giving me some strong IOIs during the conversation, hinting that she might be DTF. I kept the focus on her and she dropped me the following clear indicators about herself and where I fit into her picture:

1.  She complained about the local guys her age, how they were douches and, in her words, “hard to talk to.” Apparently, they weren’t intellectually stimulating enough for her. I, on the other hand, seemed to be, what with my interests in classical music, literature, science, and other more “worldly” things.

2.  She told me, outright, “you’re much better looking in person than your pictures.”

3.  She mentioned that she had been dating a guy not too far away from the city for about a year and then broke up with him. The reason? He didn’t want kids.

My deduction = she was DTF, needed that boost to swing that way, and was certainly hubby- (or at least baby-daddy) hunting for the long term. After all, she was 28 years old. The clock was ticking.

We finished our drinks and appetizers at the lounge and I proposed a venue change. A pub up the street where we could get a beer and watch the douchebags mingle. Her turn for drinks, since I got the wine and cocktails for us at the lounge. I got one beer on tap, and she strategically ground her ass gently into my crotch as I reached for the beer at the bar. A clear sign for DTF.

From the bar, we moved over to one of the couches where we talked some more. Halfway through my beer, I leaned over to kiss her after getting the “go ahead” signals. She was ready for it. We then started making out there on the couches, me groping her stomach and tits through her bra, before one of the pub dudes came and shone a flashlight in our faces with a “cut that shit out!” movement. We agreed to ditch the pub, pile into her Toyota Yaris, and drive back to my place. Wine and warm sheets were waiting for her.

Suffice to say, she was a loud one (and a tight one).  Once was enough for me and she got herself off again manually. Later, she left.

I banged her a few more times after that. Once, without a condom, and her being slightly annoyed. I didn’t gush warm life into her that night and held back, but it proved to me that she was being a typical Americhick and foregoing protection. (Probably that subconscious wish in her hindbrain to get the seed of an older, more mature, and more sophisticated gentleman like myself, as opposed to her douchebag cohort. Older dick = better dick. Older also means better magic fingers, which I know how to use.)

Eventually, this chick stormed out of a local bar where I was meeting my friends. Dunno, really, what happened to her, but it was clear that she was a bit mentally unstable. Enough for a pump-and-dump, but in no way for something long-term.

She was also intellectually offensive. Though she claimed to like some classical music and had a piano in her apartment, she said that Baroque music was “just one big math problem.” (Obviously, she never listened to some of Bach’s and Handel’s vocal works.) She also couldn’t reconcile how someone could be in the military and have studied philosophy, like a friend of mine has done in his life. (I told her that he majored in philosophy and then wanted to do something different.) She thought that all philosophers were pacifists. She obviously wasn’t aware of just war theory or that someone like Wittgenstein, who served in World War I and was a POW in Italy, could have done what he did. Uh-huh . . .

She also had two yappy chihuahas. I like cats better.

Good riddance. Too bad, because I could have banged her one or two more times.

Moral of the story = oh, how the intellectual deficit has increased in the succeeding generation. On the other hand, as an older woman once told me, “if you want higher-quality pussy, then you’ll have to give up on the brains.” She was right.

 

 

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