Monthly Archives: February 2011

Dear Fayza: How does a nice guy become mean enough to be sexy to women?

(Column originally published here.)

It’s only been one week, and I already love fixing you. Not that you’re all broken, per se. I don’t really mean that. But you’re a bit wild-eyed and salivating, like college freshmen — torn between your insatiable thirst for the largest kegger you can find and your obligation to your parental-income-fueled curriculum.

Don’t worry — I’ll lead you straight to the beer every time. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right? Don’t answer that.

Dear Fayza,

In all my 36 years, every girl that I have pursued has always turned me down because they just want to be friends. I recently started asking around about why that is, and the overwhelming response is: I am too nice. I’m an amazing friend but just too nice to be in a relationship.

Really? That’s why? Don’t girls want a nice guy? Apparently not.

I find it really impossible to be mean or even not as nice as I am. So, my question is, how does a guy go about being less nice? What’s the correct balance between mean and nice to get a girl?

- Too Nice

 

Dear Too Nice,

I hate to say this (but if I really hated to say it, I suppose I wouldn’t, would I?), but someone isn’t being straight up with you. Many someones, in fact. But it ain’t gonna be me.

Look, we girls know how to universally reject a man. Have you ever heard “It’s not you, it’s me,” “I’m not ready for a relationship” and “You’re just too nice”?

Yeah, that’s us, letting you go easy. Just because we’re not into you doesn’t mean we’re going to whack you silly with the bitch bat. If you’ve been hearing the same watered down refrain from trusted confidantes, we can translate for you — it is you.

You’ve spent the last 36 years rubbing nice and passive together, and I know why you aren’t creating a spark. It’s not that you’re merely “too nice.” It’s also that you’re lacking a pair. Of balls.

Women do want nice men, we do. We think you’re plenty nice when you open doors and carry heavy boxes for us (and yes, chivalry still feels marvelous, even to feminists), obliterate cockroaches, clear your pubic hair from the bathtub or refrain from sticking an expectant Mr. Happy in our backs at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday. We like when you put in the effort to be good to us. Those actions make you very nice men indeed.

We also think you’re pretty swell when you tell us no, you don’t want to eat at that snooty French bistro again. We’re cool with you telling us that it’s bromance time — not cuddling on the couch in front of another Katherine Heigl romcom — that you really need right now. And while we love that you want to try that new pretzel dip position we read about, we’re also relieved when you admit you just prefer us on top.

You haven’t been completely misled. We ladies do have a soft spot for nice. Nice gestures, nice times, nice treatment, nice attitudes, nice habits. But you shouldn’t take that to mean we want a nice, pliable man.

Simply put, we want your spine as unyielding as we want your erection. So don’t go tumbling into a potential paramour’s lap like a spilled $15 drink at a velvet rope club. Have some self-respect, for gawdsakes.

Ask yourself one question: Do you love yourself? Then love yourself first. When you love you — really, truly love you — chances are, she’ll love you, too.

In the meantime, grab a jersey, and get in The Game. The Game is still alive and well, and weaving its way through singleton circles everywhere. And you have to play it. No, man, it’s actually imperative that you play it. Give a woman everything she wants when she wants it, and she’s not going to want you, that’s for certain. So have a little self-respect above all else, and think about you for a second or two in the process.

The path to a woman’s heart is circuitous at best, and full of blind corners. It’s like The Legend of Zelda. It’s a deep, dark, foreboding maze, where the center is known but rarely seen. But if you reveal too much too soon in your path to the jeweled prize, you’ll quickly be right back at the entrance — one life down, wielding your sword in front of you like a lovelorn fool.

You have to play The Game. You’re not a fallen tree for a pretty lumberjack to catch. You’re a human being with an objective in mind — to win at The Game of Love. Putting all your cards on the table isn’t the way to take home the big bucks. It’s a game of inches. A little here, a little there and of course, a little more after that.

But her wish is not your command, no matter how badly you want her to rub your belly.

Many things are nice, but extremes are rarely among them. Whether it’s 100 percent you or 100 percent her, a monopoly never amounts to a winning equation. So scale back your ratios some, and go for golden.

 

Do you need me to wipe your tears and make it all better? Send an e-mail to advice@culturemap.com, or send a message to me on Facebook or Twitter. I’ve got Dora the Explorer Band-Aids and a big heart.

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Oh, stupid Cupid, you got me good.

I used to be the kind of girl that ran her life according to a predetermined set of instructions. And by “predetermined,” I mean, something I thought sounded good on Career Day in 1990, so I went with it.

This life plan that I concocted in 6th grade prompted me to go away to college, stick with my (useless, in hindsight) major of international relations (when journalism or interior design would’ve been a much better fit — again, in hindsight), move to California, go to law school, and become a woman that lived life sitting atop the bull, jabbing it with her heel when it didn’t move fast enough.

Never in that equation did I ever plan to become a wife or a mother. In fact, it never crossed my mind to fall in love at all. Why? For what? With what time? I had SO MUCH TO ACCOMPLISH. And women like me — inconsistent, impulsive, highly opinionated, unyielding, fickle women like me — don’t have serious relationships. “It’ll just hold me back,” I convinced myself. “I’m selfish, I’ve got my own agenda, I’m an independent woman.”

Oh sure, I had relationships. If that’s what you’d call a few months of childish games. I’ll make it brief: They all failed. Miserably. Fiery vehicles squarely hitting a concrete wall and then bursting into flames have nothing on my past paramours. Sure, I cried, because of course, it sucked to get my hopes up. But if I’d ever truly believed I was meant to be someone’s girlfriend, it would’ve hurt a lot worse.

But we know what happens to the best laid plans, don’t we?

So when I met Him, I was already with someone else (albeit an ill-suited situation that was about to get worse after I caught him cheating). I’ve never been one to look around while I’m in a relationship, as pathetic as the circumstances might be.

But I couldn’t deny it. As soon as we were introduced, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

My whole life, I had convinced myself that I wasn’t meant to be in love. But that day, I realized how wrong I had been. I was meant to be in love. With Him.

I spent a month or so trying to patch my deceit-ravaged relationship, although I didn’t quite know why. It wasn’t going to work, for many reasons, and we both knew that. But I told myself that I didn’t need it, or deserve it, that love thing. And you know, it’s pretty hard to reverse years and years of self-inflicted brainwashing.

When Fate is talking, you’d better be listening, because she’s telling you what’s up.

Rest assured that over a year later, Fate has done her job well.

Love has gotten me good. I am smitten. I am unabashed. I’ve been knocked so hard upside the head that I don’t even remember life before Him. I love Him something fierce and something deep and something so profound, I never knew I was capable of feeling this way. Never in a million years would I have imagined feeling so passionately about someone other than, well, myself.

And now it’s coming up on Valentine’s Day #2 with Him, and I couldn’t be happier. Or more in love with Him. My whole life has changed — my way of thinking, my outlook on the future, my hopes and dreams for what I want — in the very best way.

I’m so lucky. I know this. I recognize it every day. Because the love I have is the love I need and the love I never knew existed in this world for me.

Happy Love Day to you and the one you cherish and adore. And if you don’t have one of those, keep that heart of yours buoyed. There’s no telling what’s around the corner that’ll suck the air out of your atmosphere and replace it with a cheesiness that knows no bounds.

I wish it on all of you.

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I think I was supposed to be asking these questions when I was, like, 17.

I know it seems like I talk about my age a lot, but as I get older, I become acutely aware of it. I remember turning 25, for instance, and thinking I’d be in my twenties forever. Of course I thought I would be. There was plenty of time for my thirties and beyond at a later date, with which I was unconcerned and probably wasn’t going to come, for that matter.

But now that I’m 31, panic has set in. Not that I’m in a rush to do anything. I’m unmarried, childless, have very little assets to my name (unless you can slap shiny price tags with plenty of digits on two naughty cats and an eight-year-old vehicle), and that’s just fine with me. I realize we’re not getting any younger, but settling down, buying a house, having a family — those things just aren’t priorities to me right now. (I know you don’t believe me about the kids thing, but trust me, my biological clock ain’t tickin’.) Maybe they will be, maybe they won’t be, but I’m not in a hurry to check off any of those boxes.

But like I said, there’s still that nagging whirr of panic. I’m 31. And I don’t have anything to show for it. I’m not talking about progeny or material things. Nah. It’s more existential than that. It’s meaning. Being useful. Having purpose. It’s just not there.

Perhaps I’m in the minority. Perhaps everyone else with 2.5 kids, a picket fence, and a mid-life crisis looming just ahead of the erectile dysfunction diagnosis on the horizon could care less about their places in this world.

Despite it not being presumptively popular, I’m certainly not the only one in her early thirties feeling this inability to fulfill a higher calling. I actually had this text message exchange just this evening:

“You know how older people look back at their lives and regret what they did/didn’t do with it? I feel like that now.”

“We’re not old enough for that yet! What do you still want to do?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know but I don’t want to look back and regret anything.”

“You can still do those things.”

“I feel like there has to be something more to it than the everyday grind of the 9-5.”

But is there something more?

As Americans, we work. We work all the time. We work hard, we work hard, and we work hard some more. We squeeze in play wherever we can fit it, and make excuses when we don’t, justified by clucking tongues and pitying nods. Sometimes even play becomes work. We don’t mean it that way, but it does. And then sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between work and life.

Is that how it’s meant to be?

I’m not sure. I do know that I lead a generally privileged life. Not as a result of my upbringing, but because of sacrifices and hard work and smart moves and tears, lots of those. Does everyone have the same opportunity to make the same pivotal decisions that I could? Of course they don’t. Am I lucky? Absolutely am. Should I hoard that luck? I should think not.

Therein lies the problem. The purpose that’s so required to make charmed, spoiled grown-ups like me feel whole and maybe even a little bit special. It’s a First World dilemma to the highest degree, but there it is — the intense need to make your fortunate days on earth count for something. Or else, your horribly wonderful life seems so, well, gloriously vapid, doesn’t it?

Cue the violin. This one’s a real weeper.

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Dear Fayza: Must you tell potential employers that you’re pregnant?

(Column originally published here.)

Can you believe it? The long-awaited day is finally here — my advice column, “You Know What I Mean?” is finally up and running! Fueled by your questions, your drama, your dilemmas. I couldn’t be happier that you’re all so very functionally human.

At last, I’ll be solving all your problems and positioning myself as the savvy messiah in your life! Or perhaps I’ll just provide my personal insight as to how you should manage your inner maelstroms.

Feel free to crown me your hero later.

 

Dear Fayza,

I’m newly pregnant, but I’ve been looking for work through the past few months and starting to get several interviews. I’ve been considering temporary roles just to fulfill financial needs and stock up on money for baby time. This situation would be excellent — both parties win, with me fulfilling their need, while I earn the paychecks I need up to just a couple months prior to the baby’s arrival.

However, one of the most perfect jobs for what I’ve been seeking may present itself to me as a permanent hire. When do I tell them about my pregnancy without losing the job offer (assuming it’s presented)?

I’m at the stage where I can still hide the baby growth. This kind of role doesn’t come up often where I live, and it’s only five miles away with good pay, etc. 

While I thought I was previously considering temp work as my preference, a job like this is one that I wouldn’t want to pass up. I would even consider returning to work after the baby, because it is too hard to let go of such a long-term opportunity.

- Pregnant With Possibilities

 

Dear Pregnant,

As a woman, it’s such a shame that we still must have these inner debates, isn’t it? It’s not like we’re going to be incapacitated for months after we give birth, and yet, we feel like the child we’re carrying is kryptonite for our careers.

Instead of being penalized, our vaginas should be awarded blue ribbons for keeping the species going, if you ask me. But you didn’t ask me that, exactly.

We all know what the real question is. Would you get hired if you told the employer about your pregnancy now? Sadly, probably not.

I mean, the company can’t legally penalize you for what’s in your womb, of course. But it’d be easy to nix you from the hiring pool based on those grounds, no matter what reason was given for ending your candidacy for the position. You’d never know the truth, anyway.

But if you’re still small enough to hide your belly during the interview process, then it’s still a small enough (read: negligible) concern to your potential future company. As of now, the organization has plenty of time left with you and your bun safely baking in the oven before your belly begins to affect your work schedule.

Perhaps some will find this controversial. But remember, this is your body — not your brain, not your resumé, not your experience, not your skill set. Unless the position calls for extensive travel or heavy lifting, your pregnancy won’t affect your ability to perform your job duties in the short-term — or in the long-term, for that matter.

And if this is a permanent position, as you’ve said, then I imagine the company is looking for someone substantial and lasting, which isn’t changed by giving birth.

Sure, your impending motherhood will be an issue in the future, but so is any employee’s familial obligations or extracurricular activities. Those issues surface later, during the course of employment, not during the interview process, because they have zero impact on your job performance — and they shouldn’t.

Interviews are for determining whether you, not your uterus, is a good fit for the position. Besides, your uterus is otherwise occupied, thankyouverymuch.

But then again, you can’t lie.

Whether you tell the company after the offer is given and accepted or once you start showing is up to you. But if they do rescind the offer after you break the news, the company subjects itself to a discrimination lawsuit. Because firing a woman because she’s with child is, well, kind of illegal.

Barring a messy lawsuit, you can still glide into mamahood and back to the daily grind unscathed. Once your belly starts protruding into noticeable territory (and after you’ve had the chance to prove yourself a valuable asset to the company, ahem), sit down with your boss and have the birds and bees talk with him or her.

And be smart about it — have a plan of action for both your maternity leave and your return to corporate America. Your boss will appreciate your honesty and your proactive stance on what could be a dicey situation otherwise, and will appreciate you more as an employee as a result.

It’s just a matter of balls-ing up later rather than sooner, but you can do it, mama-to-be. Being a career-woman and a mommy aren’t mutually exclusive.

Want me to fix what’s broken? Send an e-mail to advice@culturemap.com, or just message me on Facebook or Twitter — if you dare.

 

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