Beyonce Says: Call me, Neilochka!

You’re not going to believe this. Remember a few days ago, I wrote a post saying how insecure women were, and I said that since I am a male, I’m more confident than you. I gave you the example of how I was watching Beyonce on the Grammy Awards, and saying to myself that if the circumstances were right, I could totally woo her.

You’re not going to believe this, but RIGHT NOW I’m sitting in a Coffee Bean on Sunset Boulevard, and Beyonce (note: accept this as a fact at your own risk) just walked in!

She is more beautiful in person than on TV or the movies.

She is by herself, dressed in lavender velvety pants and a light leather jacket. She is sitting at the table next to me. She is carry a paperback copy of “Eat, Pray, Love.”

She just looked at me! She smiled at me. This is my chance. How many more opportunities am I going to get to woo Beyonce?

I’m playing solitare now, trying to come up with perfect opening line.

There are some completed interviews that I haven’t added to the list yet. Let me do that first, then say hello to Beyonce. I don’t want to seem rude to people online.

As you probably have figured out by now, I’m probably going to be moving out of Redondo Beach soon. Sophia and I have both been under too much stress. I think it is the best thing for both of us. If anyone has any leads on rentals here in LA, send me an email.

I probably should be looking for a place rather than sitting here at the Coffee Bean, even if I have lucked out by sitting next to Beyonce.

I wonder if I could live with Beyonce? I bet she has a nice place. I could be her friend/roommate/lover/personal blogger.

I’m on Wikipedia, looking up Beyonce. It says she is from Houston. I bet you she’s been to the Nasa Space Center in Houston on a school trip.

What if I accidentally drop my coffee on the floor and then say laughing, “Houston, we have a problem.” She’ll laugh, too, thinking me very witty and a “soul mate.” And then we’ll start talking about the Johnson Space Center, and I then I can tell her about this science report I once did about Skylab. She’ll find that interesting… coming from Houston.

Doesn’t that big Chinese guy play for Houston?

Sophia’s calling. The toilet won’t flush. Damn, I gotta go fix it!

I could have totally wooed Beyonce.

Next time.

Truth Quotient for gullible Ms. Sizzle: 32% — actually in Coffee Bean, played solitaire, spilled coffee, looked up Beyonce in Wikipedia, did report on Skylab, moving out, toilet won’t flush (actual Beyonce not included)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Live-Blogging the 1987 Academy Awards

Therapy has had two opposite effects.   It has motivated me to be more productive and organized, hence my post two days ago on how to be better organized.  Thank you!    Therapy has also made me incredibly self-absorbed, which is perfect for procrastination.   I never knew I could be so interesting to myself!   So, rather than working today, I spent most of the day mulling my own existence.  

First, let me ask you something.  I don’t know about your therapist, but my one hour session is really fifty minutes, because “Barbara” needs ten minutes to write her notes.   Does your therapist do the same?  I like Barbara a lot, but this business practice sounds a bit like the plumber charging you labor costs for his time filling out the paperwork.    Maybe I’m just grumpy because fifty minutes is not enough for me.  I’ve even started to skip the pleasantries of talking about the weather for a couple of minutes because I can feel the clock ticking.   When I walk out of therapy after such short sessions, I feel unfulfilled, as if I just went to a beautiful, naked Thai masseuse who rubbed by entire body in sensual oil, then told me to “get the hell out” so she could watch “Oprah.”  After my session today, I was in such a crazed mood to talk… to talk about myself.  Unfortunately, for many of you on my email list, there is the little invention called IM.  Please accept my apologies — all twenty of you — who I IMed with today while you were in the office.  At first, I was polite, meekly saying, “Hi there! How are you?” and then when you answered, I knew I had you trapped. 

“So, I just got back from therapy and it was very interesting.  I’m beginning to realize that I…. and that I… and… is the best for me… and… more sex… more for me… what I want… me…me…me…oh, right, your grandmother is dying… I remember when my grandmother was dying… me… me… and I was fourteen… and there I was, with my penis… me… aren’t I interesting?   What?  You have a job? … when I grow up, I want to be…”

I use Trillian for my IM messages, because the application can work on Gmail, Yahoo, MSN, and AOL simultaneously, so I had the entire world covered today.  Is it my imagination — or is everyone  on my IM list “invisible” tonight?   Oh, well, maybe everyone is just watching TV.   I can’t imagine that you would “hide” from me.

Barbara is a traditional therapist and she believes in all that crap about everything stemming from your childhood.   OK, I shouldn’t say “crap.”  I actually believe it too, but I am using humor as a “defense mechanism.”  How do you like them apples?  Defense-mechanism!   Don’t I sound self-actualized?  I know my stuff! 

When I look through my blog, I see themes that are played over and over.   I don’t mean that I use the same stories over and over again.  I do that, too, hoping most of the readers from 2005 have disappeared by now.  I mean that many of my posts have a certain world view that relates to my own neuroses.  One of them has to do with gender issues in my marriage.    Over and over, we’ve seen that Sophia is outwardly the strong one, while I sit at home, listening to ABBA.   Who wants a wimpy husband?  Gender roles affect our home, our family, and our relationship.  

Since these issues didn’t play much of a role in my life until I married Sophia, I saw it as a “marital” problem, but Barbara is helping me realize that you can’t really fix a couple; you can only fix yourself.   The seeds of my behavior were planted in me way before I had met Sophia.  I learned about gender roles and marriage from my own parents.  My confusion over a “man’s role” in society were already bouncing around my head as a child, my brain crowded with images of Clint Eastwood and James Bond battling it out with sweater-wearing Bill Cosby.

When I was at USC Film School, my final thesis film was a broad comedy called “Little Artie.”  It was just a little funny film, but when I mentioned the plot-line to Barbara, she was surprised that the story foreshadowed my relationship with Sophia — and I hadn’t even met her yet.   It feels pretentious analyzing my “work” as if I am Ingmar Bergman, but I’m surprised how unaware I was of the similarities. 

Is this how little I know myself?

Little Artie:

Artie and Elaine are a married couple.  They have a little dog named Little Artie, and they treat him as their child, like many pet-owners do when they don’t have children.

Note:  While it seemed funny at the time, it now seems a bit odd that I named the two characters, Artie and Elaine, since my parents’ REAL names are… Artie and Elaine!  And who would be Little Artie then?

In the story, Artie works as a curator at an art gallery.  He is peace-loving , cultured “liberal.”   Elaine is training to be a black belt in karate.  She is more conservative and believes in self-defense, and is more aggressive in the bedroom.   They get along great, except for differing opinions on how to “raise” their dog, Little Artie.   Artie wants him to be a loving pet, while Elaine wants him to be stronger, able to take care of the family if there is danger.   Later, while they are at work, their home is burglarized and the dog stands there watching all the furniture disappear.  When they come home and see their empty home, Artie and Elaine have a big fight.  Elaine insists that Little Artie go to “guard dog school” to get him into shape, while Artie refuses to allow this.  The argument gets intense and they file for divorce.  The question remains — who gets the dog?  At this point, the dog runs into the dog house in the backyard and refuses to come out for either of them.   The couple goes to court and the judge rules that whoever can get him out of the doghouse first can keep him.  And then there is some crazy comedy!  Well, except for the parts that fell flat.  There’s some new “lovers,” and a karate fight finale (I used a real fight coordinator) between Artie’s two rival women at an art gallery opening.  At the end, Artie and Elaine learn to compromise — Little Artie needs to be both strong AND sensitive.

Anyway, that’s therapy — week seven.
 

When I was a child, I used to ask my mother on Mother’s Day, “When is Children’s Day?” and she would give the tried-and-true answer, “Every day is Children’s Day.”

I was perusing through some blogs this morning, and noting all the buttons and links, and how so many of them are female-centric, like BlogHer and Blogging Chicks. I once wrote a silly post about what I thought BlogHim would be like, but today I thought about the subject in a more serious manner. Why do women feel so comfortable teaming up together, while men like to go it alone (or at least fake that they do)? For a second, I thought of starting a Blogging Guys group, but then I realized — I would be the last person to want to join it.

Is it because “Every day is Men’s Day” in this “patriarchal society” and men don’t need to join together — or are men just uncomfortable with each other and fear looking unmanly?  Is it any wonder that women can talk for hours together, complimenting each other on their shoes, hair, and bodies, while men are more comfortable talking with their penises than talking with other men?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Neilochka’s Favorite Things 2005

(Manneken Pis in Brussels)

Male Bloggers,

Let’s be honest with ourselves. Female bloggers are selfish. We write posts about issues that matter to them: body image, fashion, mommyblogging, breast cancer, etc. — but when it comes to OUR issues, they are strangely silent. How else do you explain the lack of outcry on this story from Norway — ?

The head of The Democrats Party, a splinter group of former Progress Party hardliners, Vidar Kleppe, is outraged that boys at Dvergsnes School in Kristiansand have to sit and pee.

Kleppe accuses the school of fiddling with God’s work, and wants the matter discussed at the executive committee level of the local council, newspaper Dagbladet reports.

“When boys are not allowed to pee in the natural way, the way boys have done for generations, it is meddling with God’s work,” Kleppe told the newspaper.

… [School Principal Anne Lise] Gjul told NRK (Norwegian Broadcasting) that the young boys are simply not good enough at aiming, and the point was to have a pleasant toilet that could be used by both boys and girls.

Can you imagine the humiliation that boys in Norway are going through? Why do we send troops to Iraq and not Norway? Is there anything more central to being a man than the joy of standing there, taking aim, and peeing? What boy wants to sit like a girl?

No wonder why Europeans are turning into a bunch of wusses.

I believe this is another step towards world domination by feminists. Does it surprise you that it it is School Principal ANNE Lise Gjul who is destroying the manliness of Norwegian men, a country once so famous for it’s virile men that a song was written about them — Norwegian Wood?

Pretty soon, I fear that men will be put into metal cages and President Hillary Clinton will sign a bill enabling women to marry their vibrators.

“Do you, Susan, take this pink vibrator…”

I say, enough is enough.

It isn’t our fault that we can’t aim very well.

Years ago, when men were really men, we used to shoot animals with bows and arrows and guns. We achieved our aiming skills through ACTION. Now “feminists” have decided that “hunting” and “killing” are bad for society. Is it any wonder we piss on the seat? Mothers teach their daughters about having their first period. Fathers DO NOT teach their sons how to pee.

I love you, Dad, but you really failed me in that respect.

Men, as a minority in this Dooce-worshipping female world of the personal blogger, I say it is time to turn back the clock. I want you, whether you or at home or at work, to STAND UP — Yes, right NOW, stand up, proudly walk to the bathroom, pull down your zipper with a sense of purpose, and take a PISS! Take that PISS standing up! Feel the cool Fall air. Listen to the sound the water, so much like the mighty Colorado River. Feel a bond with men throughout history — Abraham Lincoln, Alexander the Great, Douglas MacArthur — all men who urinated standing up. Yes, even Adam peed standing up in the Garden of Eden. Shout it out loud, “I am a man and I take a PISS standing up!”

You’re a man, for god sakes. Pee like one!

P.S. –

Neil’s Penis: Right on, Neilochka! That was so inspirational. Finally, you got some balls.

Neil: Thanks, Penis.

Neil’s Penis: Hey, how about tonight we go over and say hello to those two pretty roommates who moved in next door. Maybe we can **#$@ both of them in the $$%&, then *%$#* until the morning.

Neil: Are you crazy? “Lost” is on tonight!

Neil’s Penis: (sigh)

UPDATE –

Talk about feminists taking over European society! It seems as if the statue of Manniken Pis (little boy peeing) wasn’t good enough being Brussel’s long-time city’s trademark. In 1987 this statue of a girl urinating (Jeanneke Pis) was erected on the east side of the Impasse de la Fidélité / Getrouwheidsgang (Faith Alley), a narrow dead-end street some 100 metres long leading northwards off the restaurant-packed Rue des Bouchers / Beenhouwersstraat (Butchers’ Street). Now parents tell little boys that they have a “choice” over which method is more appropriate, but usually add that “George Bush, Ugly Americans, and “bad men” pee standing up and “peace-lovers” sit like a woman.”

I lied to you on my last blog post — the one about that Forbes article, “Don’t Marry Career Women.”  I made it sound as if I’m a super-cool feminist guy, the type of evolved man who doesn’t mind one bit that Sophia “wears the pants in the family.” 

I lied.  I wanted you to like me.  I wanted you to respect me.  I wanted you to say, “Neilochka is so much more of a feminist than macho bloggers like PaulyD and Kapgar.  I’m only going to read his blog from now on.”

The truth is, yes — I do get insecure.  There is a lot to be insecure about with Sophia.  She makes more money than I do.  She is smarter than I am.  She has a better sense of humor than me.  She can easily beat me in Ms. Pac-Man.  And she looks better in her underwear than I do.

But these items are not what really bother me.  I’m cool with her inherent superiority.   They don’t make me feel any “less” of a man.  My Achilles heel, if we can call it that, revolves around something else entirely — the use of my Vons Club Card in the supermarket.

Let me give you some history:

As an innocent young boy in Queens, New York, I remember the supermarket as an unpleasant place, a world of chaos and anger.  The aisles were too small and customers were always smacking their shopping carts into each other — sometimes on purpose, as if we were in the middle of some sadistic urban demolition derby where people actually enjoyed seeing boxes of Cheerios flying onto the filthy supermarket floor.  Many New Yorkers did not have cars, so this is where all aggression was released.  They had “shopping cart rage.”  Back in the old days, no one ever said, “excuse me.”  If your cart was in the way, someone would rudely push it aside.  It was a Hobbesian world of shopper eat shopper.  No employee would ever help you.  Once, an old woman died on Aisle Seven of my local Waldbaum’s and the employees closed the store later, just leaving her there.  The underpaid checkout girls hated their jobs and never let you forget it.

When I moved to California, I was not impressed with the weather or the girls in bikinis.  I had already seen that in the movies.  What shocked me were the supermarkets. 

They were enormous.  They were clean.  Three shopping carts could fit side by side in each aisle.  Kids happily sat and played in their shopping carts while their mommies bought dinner.  Some of these carts were bigger than the playpen I used to have as a child. 

Customers were kind to each other.  They actually went to the “Ten and Under Checkout line” with the ACTUAL correct number of items!  They didn’t argue, like Mary Riccio’s mother used to do – that milk, eggs, yogurt, and ice cream was just one item — “dairy product.” 

Life was like a dream in a California supermarket.  Music by “Air Supply” was piped in on the loudspeakers.  Some supermarkets were so large, you could also buy pots, pans, concert tickets, and even Samsonite luggage right there!

And the employees were always so polite.  Where did they find these people?  They acted less as if they had a low-paying job and more like they just won the lottery.

“Hi there, sir, can help you find the best fresh vegetables?”

“Are you looking for something that I could help you with?”

“Have you see our sale on Bounty paper towels?”

“Do you need any help carrying out that 1/2 pound bag of raisins?”

Now I knew why all these illegal immigrants were moving to California.  For the supermarkets!  

California supermarkets were like heaven to me — until Sophia signed up for a Vons Club Card.

Even though Sophia and I are legally married, Sophia decided to keep her last name –Lansky (what a typical career women!).    She wanted to remain Sophia Lansky, not become Sophia Kramer.  At first, it didn’t bother me a whole lot. 

But then was the turning point.  

One day, as I left my local Vons Supermarket, having just used our “joint” Vons Club Card, the overbearingly-friendly salesgirl shouted out joyfully, ”You saved $10.55 today… MR. LANSKY!”

Ugh.  What a strike to the male ego!  And it didn’t happen just once.  Every time I left the store, having used my Vons Club Card, it was the same –

…Mr. Lansky…  Mr. Lansky… Mr. Lansky…! 

But did I ever scream?  Did I ever say, “I’m goddamn Mr. Kramer, not goddamn Mr. Lansky — you stupid Stepford checkout girl!?”   No.  I kept it bottled up inside. 

I thought of not using the Vons Club Card at all  — but I would feel like an asshole for paying an extra $10.55.  It was a lose-lose situation.

The stress affected me physically.  The symptoms started small.  I began losing interest in sex after shopping at the supermarket.  It didn’t matter if it was for bananas or milk.  Just walking into Vons was a blow to my male ego.   The “Mr. Lansky” line would be pounding in my brain over and over.  What type of wimpy man is known by his wife’s name?

Mr. Lansky… Mr. Lansky… Mr. Lansky… 

I started shopping at the over-priced Whole Foods for one good reason:  they didn’t have a “club card.”  Unfortunately, the mere passing of the Vons Supermarket across the street would give me the inability to have an erection for 24 hours. 

I became desperate.  I drove to Santa Anita racetrack and bought myself a pair of horse-blinders, to prevent me from seeing any Vons Supermarkets as I drove down the street.  But I always knew the supermarkets were there, close by, mocking me — especially since Sophia’s new GPS system was constantly telling me so.

However, with Sophia away, I was desperate for some love and affection.  I decided to fight my fear.  On Friday night, I went out with my mother-in-law’s chiropractor’s unemployed sister, Andrea.   After a nice dinner at Chicago for Ribs,  we ended back at her place.  We drank some wine and watched some TV.  Soon, we were in her bed.  It felt good to be with a woman again.  I was proud of myself for moving beyond my problem.  We made love for an hour.  Andrea was passionate, screaming things like, “Neilochka, you are amazing!” and “I’ve never been f***ed so good!” 

(note:  This unemployed woman should have said, “I’ve never been f***ed so well!” — another reason to always marry a “career woman,” who usually have a better command of the English language).

The lovemaking grew even more intense.  It felt as if the bed was levitating off the carpet.  Her face grew red, her breathing irregular.  Andrea was nearing the orgasm of her life, when I noticed that the TV in the living room was still on.  It was the end of Conan O’Brien.   There was a cut to a commercial — an advertisement for a certain local supermarket chain:

“This week at Vons:  use your Vons Club Card and get two packages of fresh strawberries for only four dollars!”

“Don’t stop!” yelled the hyperventilating Andrea.  But it was too late.   The Vons Club Card took its toll, and the toll was on me.

I have not heard back from Andrea since then.   And I don’t expect to.

But this tale does not end sadly.   Every psychological problem has a solution, if you are willing to work on yourself. 

Today, I walked into Vons like a REAL MAN and signed up for my very own Vons Club Card. 

Problem solved.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  138th Post About Sophia
 

My Valentine’s day was great.  Sophia and I went out to dinner and then saw a comedy show.   After many years of experience, I was smart enough to hold my tongue when I saw that this overpriced "Valentine’s Day Romantic Dinner" was fifty dollars a person (and ten dollars for a glass of wine!)  

Ah, the high cost of romance.  

I even let Sophia eat most of the overpriced cheesecake herself.  So, yes, I was a real Prince Charming. 

Our only small bit of conflict was over whether or not we should pay the five dollar valet parking fee or keep on driving around Hollywood.  Let’s just say, we ended up paying the fee.

One of the comics we saw was particularly bad, telling unfunny jokes about venereal disease (a Valentine’s Day favorite!) — so I zoned out and just gazed at Sophia, this beautiful woman across from me. 

"For all the years I know her," I thought, " I still don’t feel I really KNOW her.  Isn’t that weird?  Why is it so difficult to know a woman?  Is it just Sophia or do I understand women at all?  Do women make themselves intentionally mysterious or is that their true character?"

When I sat down to think about this subject today, my first thought was about men themselves.  Men have a simplicity and comaraderie that women frequently lack.  Women can be sweet, but they’re also more complicated — and way more catty and backstabbing than any man can ever be.

Recently, I played Texas Hold-em poker twice — once with a group of guys and once with a group of women.  With the women’s group, I was the only male player.  The guys played poker — period.  At some point, we ordered a pizza from Domino’s, but we hardly talked about anything but poker. 

Things were different with the women.  The women brought pot luck dishes.  One woman brought a catalog showing the future locale of her wedding ceremony.  She kept on repeating, "My fiance… my fiance… my fiance," like I once saw in a Seinfeld episode.  One single woman looked like she was going to bust a vein.  At the other game, not one male ever brought up his wife or girlfriend.   OK, maybe I did — but now I’ve learned better not to.  We were there to play poker — and to get away from the women — not to talk about them.  On the other hand, the women wouldn’t shut up about their boyfriends and husbands.

At the women’s game, the poker was merely a backdrop for more important issues.  Two women got into a nasty fight because one of them took too long deciding if she was going "all in."  They started arguing about some weekend in Lake Tahoe from THREE years ago when they both liked this guy from Israel, but only one got lucky with him. 

This is poker?  I had prepared for this game by watching poker TV shows, hoping to learn how to "tell" when a player was bluffing.  But not one of these shows gave me any advice on how to play with women who were more interested in fighting over some hunky Israeli than what cards they had.

Will men ever understand women? 

One of best thing about the blogosphere is that we can turn to female bloggers for advice and information on the opposite sex.

Some bloggers are already doing a public service.  For instance, Trixie of Bated Breath, just wrote a post titled "Trixie’s Guide to Woman-Speak."   That’s perfect!  Just what we need:

Let’s face it. For men, understanding the inner-workings of the female mind is nearly impossible. At times, we can be incredibly vague, often leaving men searching for the appropriate answer so as not to find their nuts in a vise. On other occasions, we pepper our statements or questions with innuendo, leaving everything open to the males’ interpretation.

What a useful post!  I wish more women would help us clueless men.

Immediately, hundreds of questions come to my mind that I would love answered by some woman.  For instance:

1)  How can you be so neat and put-together, but your purse be such a mess?

2)  Why will you kiss me, but not use my toothbrush?

3)  Do women really talk like they do in "Sex and the City?"

4)  Are you really bullshitting about that PMS thing just to get some extra attention?

Today, I finally played around with the free phone I got for being a Sprint Ambassador.  It’s a cool phone with a lot of options:  the ability to go online, to download music, and to watch TV.  It also has a decent camera.  I was going to take some photos, but I couldn’t figure out what to photograph.  I was going to put the phone away when I heard my Penis talking to me from inside my pants.

"Hey, I have an idea.  Let’s do some cockblogging."

"Huh?"

"You know, all those websites that women have where men send photos in of their erections.  Let’s take a photo of me."

"And why on Earth would I want to do that?"

"Answer me this.  Have you ever looked at a photo of a naked woman online?"

"Uh,  sometimes."

"Think of this as giving something back to the community."

"I don’t think so.  I don’t enjoy the idea of plastering an image of my penis all over the blogosphere.  Especially since I’m supposedly looking for a job." 

"It might actually HELP you get a better job.  Employers like workers with initiative."

"I don’t really really feel comfortable with this."

"You say you’re a believer in feminism and women’s equality, but when women want to express their sexuality by looking at erect penises, you mock them."

"I’m not mocking them."

"Why don’t you just put them behind Burqas?  Move them all to Saudi Arabia, you hypocrite."

"Penis, you’re really being manipulative with this argument."

"As they say, if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem."

"You’re totally out of line, Penis…"

"C’mon… do it for the women.  The lonely women.  The ones who will be home on Valentine’s Day without a boyfriend and all they have is your erect penis on the computer monitor.  Be a mensch."

I started thinking about all my lonely Valentine’s Days, when the only one who sent me a card was my mother.

"Do you really think it will help brighten someone’s day?"

"Sure… sure…   and isn’t that what you’re all about…"

"I do like to make other people happy…"

"Then it’s settled…"

"OK, let’s try it and see what happens. "

"Great, let’s get to work!"

"What’s the first step?"

"Do you still have that "Dancing with the Stars" on the Tivo?  The one with the very sexy dancer named Cheryl doing the rumba in that short skirt?"

"I think so."

Four minutes later we were ready for the photo shoot. 

We moved to the bedroom, where I attempted to frame the perfect shot.  I checked the light with an old light meter I had used in film school.

"Penis, could you just move over a little to the left… that’s it… good…good… Brilliant lighting.  It reminds me a little bit of the opening shot in "Rear Window""

"You do realize you’re setting things up to take the shot from the left side.  When I’m actually more photogenic on my right side. 

"Well, I have to do it this way if I want the mirror in the shot.  There supposed to be a reflection.  Did you ever see Bergman’s "Wild Strawberries?""

"Are you an asshole?  I’m the one who’s going to be in the photo and I’m telling you that my right side is better!"

"Does it really matter which side I shoot you from?"

"Would you ask that of  Barbra Streisand?  On talk shows, they rearrange the furniture just for her. She even comes with her own special lighting equipment."

"For a man’s dick, you’re a real prima donna."

"I think you’re a little jealous that I’m the star here, and you’re just the crew.  Below-the-line, as they say in Hollywood."

"I’m the photographer, jerk.  Like Ansel Adams, they remember the photographer, not the subject."

"Oh yeah, so tell me, what were you thinking of naming this photograph?"

"How about something like… "Neil and his Cock?"

"You slimy backstabber.  I knew it!  It clearly should be named "The Cock and his Neil.""

"You’re my cock.  Why should you get top billing?"

"Oh, I see.  Now you want top billing?  Before you didn’t even want anyone to do this.  Now all of a sudden, you see the fame and fortune.   Very "All about Eve" of you.   I do the work and you take the money.  Welcome to the entertainment industry."

"Listen, Penis, I don’t care what you say.  I’m not going to put my own name after my own cock."

"Oh, Big Neilochka.  Now I see the real you.  You say you’re a nice guy, but you’re really a creep.  You want to play hard ball…"

"Calm down, Penis."

"Who are you to tell me what to do?  I run things around here."

"Actually you don’t.  I do."

"Bullshit!"

"You know, forget it.  This photo shoot is off!"

"Fuck you, Neilochka!"

"OK, Penis, go back to normal."

"Ha Ha.  Sucker!  I’m staying up as long as I want.  Hard as a rock."

"Go down, I insist."

"Fuck you.  Fuck you.  Fuck you."

"Look, if you’re not going to go down yourself, I can just –"

"Get your goddamn hand off me.  How rude.  You don’t touch me unless I agree to it.  Sometimes no means no."

"OK, I’m sorry.  May I, please…?"

"No."

"OK, fine.  Then I’m going to take a cold shower.  That should work."

‘No, it won’t.  Not if I don’t say so."

"Oh, yes it will."

"Ten bucks."

"You’re on!"  

As I headed to the shower, I could hear –

"Scarlett Johannson’s gorgeous ripe, delicious tits.  Imagine them in your face.  Sharon Stone slowly opening her thighs revealing the good stuff in Basic Instinct.  She’s calling you over.  "Neilochka, Neilochka, fuck me, fuck me.  Sophia in Madrid during the honeymoon, slowly taking off her clothes."

"OK, shut up!  Shut up!"

I reached over for the telephone and dialed it.  Sophia answered.

"Hello?"

"Sophia, it’s me.  I need you to come over right away."

"I’m watching last week’s Celebrity Poker Showdown."

"It’s an emergency."

"What’s the matter?"

"It’s, uh, my cock… I need you to…"

"Gee, how romantic.  Good-bye."

Click.  She hung up.

"OK, I give up."

"Say "Uncle" and I’ll give up."

"I’m not saying "Uncle" to my dick."

"Cry Uncle, Neilochka!"

"OK.  OK.  Uncle."

"Good, but first — let’s go back to the shoot."

"Fine."

"Ha Ha.  The Penis always wins."

But I didn’t say I was going to take a GOOD SHOT. 

Who’s the sucker now, Penis?!   You are!!   Loser!  

Man 1    Penis 0

Every Friday night, a group of Jewish men meet in the apartment building I grew up in and greet the Sabbath.  Most of the men are older or find it difficult to travel to a temple.  Traditionally, you need ten men to form a “minyan,” the group that prays together.  In Judaism, praying in a group during Shabbat is considered more important than praying alone (sorry ladies, traditional Judaism doesn’t count women as part of the minyan). 

I’m not very religious and don’t go to temple very often, but I was honored to be asked to join the minyan for the night.  The leader of the group said it would be a good opportunity for me to say “Kaddish,” the traditional prayer said for the deceased.   I can read Hebrew and know the prayer, but I’ve never stood in front of a group of religious men and said Kaddish out loud in honor of my father.  It was an experience as powerful as my bar mitzvah.   The ancient text praising G-d really leapt off the page for me.  During the service, Kaddish is said three times.  During the first time, my voice was uncertain and croaky, so the leader said the prayer along with me.  But by the last reading, I found my confidence and read it in a strong voice.

When I returned to my apartment, I felt nervous energy coming from my mother and Sophia.  My mother was going through a pile of my father’s paperwork.    He was a real “paper saver” who kept bills and receipts from decades ago.   I showed my mother how to use the shredder I bought my father last year, something he never even plugged in.

Sophia was involved in another matter – our trip home.  When we learned that those so-called “bereavement fares” were a joke (and cost more than the regular fares), we used our American Airlines frequent flier miles to come to New York.    Earlier that day, we learned that if we wanted to, we could make a multi-day stopover anywhere in the continental U.S. on the way back.   Sophia said we could use a few days of rest after the last few weeks of stress and sorrow.  We asked my mother to come along wherever we went, but she wanted to go back to work.   I went through my list of bloggers, thinking whom to visit, but we decided on Albuquerque because I saw that they are having a world-famous International Balloon Festival next week.   We booked the flight, but then we realized the most of the hotels were already filled.  So, when I came back from services, Sophia was all frustrated from trying to find a hotel.   She asked for my help, but I told her I was exhausted.   The week’s tensions were finally hitting me.  Until now, we had all been too busy to feel tired.   From the minute we arrived in New York, it’s been visits to the hospital, arranging for the funeral, and sitting shiva.  I felt my body collapsing and went to my parents’ room and quickly fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up in the same bed.  Sophia was sleeping next to me.  My mother was asleep in the living room.   It was pretty early in the morning, but the New York City Sanitation trucks were already rolling outside.   I had a morning hard-on.   I moved against Sophia and she told me to get lost.  “We’re separated, remember?”  Besides, she was up half the night looking for hotels in Albuquerque and was upset that I woke her up.   I went to take a shower.

I turned on the water and stepped inside the shower stall.  It was nice to feel the water against my back.  I’d been so tense.  Still hard, I started playing with myself.   I looked down at my penis and laughed — I remembered being in the exact same spot doing the exact same thing when I was fifteen years old.   Maybe I was just too tired from the last two weeks, but for some reason, after a few minutes, I lost interest in what I was doing.  That would never have happened to me when I was fifteen.

I stepped out of the shower and dried myself off.    Through the closed door, I could hear that my mother was now up.    I could hear the grinding of the shredder ripping up my father’s receipts from 1995.  I could hear that Sophia was now awake also.  I could hear her watching the “Alias” episode that she had taped on my my mother’s ancient VCR.   Well, for a minute, at least.  Then I could hear her telling my mother off for switching channels and taping a Food Channel show and the cable menu instead.

With my cock still up, I couldn’t leave the bathroom… just yet.  I wiped the “fog” from the bathroom mirror and looked at myself standing there.    While we were sitting shiva, we had covered all the mirrors — as is traditional.  Now that the mourning period was over, was my father looking down at me now from heaven?   Do I even believe in that stuff?  And if he is, couldn’t the same be said for my Grandma and my late Aunt Ruthie?  Jeez, are all of my deceased relatives seeing me now with an erection?  How embarrassing. 

But It didn’t seem weird at all to think of my father as I looked at my penis.  After all, the male circumcision is what bonds the Jewish male to the Jewish people.   I remember when I was a little kid, I used to take a shower with my father.  I remember looking forward to the day when I could have hair on my chest and a man’s penis hanging there, not a boy’s penis.  Suddenly, it occurred to me that, as the only son, I’m now the “man of the family.”  But what does that mean?   My father was so much more of a “man” when he was my age.  He had a steady job, a steady marriage, and a son. 

“You have none of these.” I thought I heard my penis say to me.

“You’re right,” I said.   

"You know it’s Rosh Hashana in a few days," my penis continued.

"I do."

"The Jewish New Year is the ideal time to make changes in your life.   You can start to become the man you want to be."

My wants as a man have so far been pretty simple so far:  good Chinese food, the open thighs of a woman, and a subscription to HBO.   Maybe it was time to become as accomplished a man as my father.  To know what it actually means to be a man.

"You stood up and said Kaddish at the minyan.  That’s a good start." said my penis, being encouraging. 

"Thank you," I told my friend.

Sophia knocked on the door.

“Hurry up, Neilochka.  I need to use the bathroom.  And… who are you talking to anyway?”

A few months before we got married, Sophia and I went to a dinner at at Chinese restaurant with a large group of people.  As we left the restaurant, the two of us had an odd conversation about one of the guests who took the last shrimp from the large banquet serving plate.

Sophia:  "If you wanted the last shrimp, why didn’t you take it?"

Me:  "There are three types of people.  Those who take the last shrimp on the plate, those who take the shrimp after asking, and those who never take it, even when offered." 

Sophia:  "And you’re the last one?"

Me:  "Exactly."

Sophia:  "If you wanted the shrimp, you should have just taken it."

Me:  "I know it sounds stupid.  I would feel too guilty.  It would be like everyone is looking at me and thinking I’m selfish."

Sophia:  "That’s ridiculous."

Me:  "I know.  I’m just like… my parents."

It’s something that always upset me about my parents, mostly because I’m the same way.  Always eager to help out, but too wimpy to take the last shrimp.

I’ve grown a lot more assertive in the past few years, mostly because I’ve seen how Sophia goes after what she wants, and rather than people hating her, they actually respect her.  Maybe that’s because she mostly uses her natural power to help others first.

Today, I still hesitate taking that last shrimp, but at least I might actually take it — once I ask everyone four or five times if they didn’t want it first.

Recently, I’ve been working on the Flash design and content of a online "Stress Management" course.  (You can see a sample here, under ABOUT — but remember, I’m still working on it).  One of the chapters is about "Assertiveness and Stress" and how a lack of assertiveness can add to a person’s anxiety.  One of the most common problems with non-assertive people is their inability to say "No" to people. 

For an interesting perspective on this, read Megan’s post about how she’s finally learning to say "No" to her co-workers’ constant asking for help. 

I thought of the importance of assertiveness while watching the aftermath of the Katrina disaster.   I asked myself, how would I act if I were there?  Would I be heroic and help others?  Would I take off on my own?  Or would I go to the convention center and sit there for days, helplessly waiting for help to come?   I think we all saw what being helpless gets you.

One of the hard lessons of life is that you can’t always wait for someone to help you.   I know I’ve missed opportunities in my own life by assuming that things were going to come to me — like women and jobs.  Sometimes I wonder how I even had enough nerve to propose to Sophia (unless I’m remembering it wrong, Sophia, and you proposed to me?)

Lizriz wrote a post complaining about the lack of "balls" in men today.  They seem to have trouble asking women out and even paying for the bill on a date. 

I’ve mentioned before that Sophia and I had some problems because our basic natures went against the traditional gender roles.  She is the more assertive one, and vice versa.  We loved each other because of this, but we also fought about it constantly.  When it comes down to it, women still want a man who is "manly" and a man wants a woman who acts "womanly" — whatever that means.

Last week, Sophia and I went to an outdoor concert of Latin music.   During intermission, we bought some coffee.  There was a ledge along the wall where we put our styrofoam coffee cups down so we could add cream and sugar.   At the same time, a young girl was walking along the ledge, coming towards us.  Her mother, a well-dressed woman of about thirty-five, a Beverly Hills type, was holding her daughter’s hand, guiding her along.

Daughter:  "Coming through!  Coming through!"

I lifted up my cup so the girl could pass.  Sophia was in the middle of pouring creamer into her cup.

Sophia:  "One second."

Beverly Hills:  "She needs to come through.  There’s no stopping her."

Daughter:  "Coming through!  Coming through!"

Sophia:  "You’ll need to wait a second, I’m almost done." 

Beverly Hills:  "You don’t have to be rude to my daughter."

Sophia:  "I’m not being rude.  You’re being rude.  You can tell your daughter to wait a second."

Meanwhile, I was tensing up.  I hate conflict.  It’s the reason I don’t take that last shrimp.  It’s the reason when Tatyana and ACG were arguing about looting in one of my posts earlier this week, I threw in a sex joke just to defuse it.

Beverly Hills:  (to daughter)  "Let’s go.  "We don’t have to stay here and hear this." 

They left.

Five minutes later, Sophia and I were at our seats, drinking the coffee and waiting for the show to begin.  All of a sudden, I see the Beverly Hills Lady walking towards us.  I can feel my blood pressure rising.   I figured she was coming to say something to Sophia, but instead she stops in front of me.

Beverly Hills:  "You know… you really can do A LOT better."

My body went into overdrive.  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say.  I came up with a lame joke, making believe I misunderstood her. 

Me:  "You mean these seats?  I think they’re pretty good."

The woman took off.  Sophia turned to me.

Sophia:  "She just insulted me… in front of everyone.  Why didn’t you say something?"

Me:  "I did.  I said, "You mean these seats?"  I showed her how ridiculous she sounded."

Sophia:  "No, you didn’t.  You just wimped out."

Me:  "She’s the one who looks like an asshole if she had to come here and say that." 

Sophia:  "She mocked me.  Why don’t you say something to her?"

Me:  "Like what?"

Sophia:  "For one thing.  You can say the same thing about how you feel about rude spoiled children that you did on your own blog."

Me:  "Look, it’s too late.  I don’t even know where she is anymore."

Sophia:  "She’s over there.  About ten rows up, in the center."

Me:  "Aw, Sophia, it’s a big nothing.  I’m not going to make a big scene.  Forget it." 

Sophia:  "Wimp."

Me:  "I’m a lover, not a fighter."

Sophia glared at me.  If we were still together, it was a look that would mean there wouldn’t be ANY loving for this lover for a long time.   Since we were already separated, it just meant that she wouldn’t speak to me for two days.

OK, bloggers, I’m ready for the attacks on my manhood, especially after I told you how Sophia always comes to my rescue.  At least I now know what flowers to send all of you as apologies for you disappointment in me — from the information you gave me during the last post.   I can buy all the flowers at the same place I did for Sophia.