Cheating A-Rod Only Fools Himself

In the interests of full disclosure, I'm not a Yankees fan. I grew up in Flushing, New York, the home of The Mets.

But the reports about A-Rod, this professional athlete who has gained a reputation for cheating on his wife, intrigue me. This morning, Good Morning America asked why the very attractive Cynthia Rodriguez remains loyal to a man who allegedly text messages strippers from across the country when he isn't dating them.

I'll tell you what I'd do if I were married to A-Rod. I'd tell him not to let the door hit him on his way out. Yeah, I know he makes a lot of money, but who cares? Money can't buy respect, and I couldn't respect a dude who carries on like that. It's just sad.

I'd take comfort in the fact that, since strippers don't come cheap, it won't be long before A-Rod is a fat, washed-up MLB player who blew a fortune paying women who couldn't care less about him for their company. I'd very quietly shut the door, raise my child with dignity, and move on to better things.

What disturbs me most about the A-Rod drama? It perpetuates the myth that all men are compelled to cheat. In other words, Cynthia may be lovely, but she's just one woman. One woman's never enough for a major league no-neck like A-Rod.

Nonsense.

Check out this Boston Red Sox fan's fascinating take on the matter.

My Father-In-Law Died

Nothing to say about dating today, I'm afraid. The envelope on which I scratched some ideas disappeared during the last-minute clean-up for the onslaught of visitors we're expecting in the next couple of days (thank you, Children).

We got word that my father-in-law died on Friday, just before midnight.

My sister-in-law and her four children will be down from Canada tomorrow, my mother-in-law and brother-in-law will be on their way up from South Carolina with Peter's father's remains some time later in the week.

Peter's working overtime to finish the renovations to our main bathroom as I write.

Last night, he downloaded a boatload of Cape Breton and Irish fiddle music for the wake, along with some Enya. He loves Blood, Sweat and Tears but resisted the impulse to include "And When I Die."

Everybody Keep Your Clothes On

The other day someone asked me if she were a prude because she didn't feel like sleeping with some guy on their third date.

According to the box in her living room, Date 3 marks the customary kick-off for a new sexual relationship. If you're unwilling to hit the sheets with a new male by then, you may be branded a frigid loser and tossed onto the reject pile.

Guys have expressed reservations to me about this so-called rule, too. If they don't make a move by the third time out, some women accuse them of being weird or gay. But think about it: What kind of man gets into bed with women from the get-go?

Guys who think James Bond is a real person.

Guys who need to feel better about themselves.

Guys who have absolutely no self-control.

Put it this way, if a guy keeps pushing you, a virtual stranger, for sex right away, chances are he's pushing every other virtual stranger for sex right away. He probably won't make an ideal boyfriend.

I know what you're thinking. Sometimes a couple will click immediately. I do believe in love at first sight. But, most of the time after a third date, a woman doesn't even know if a guy picks his nose at traffic lights, let alone if he harbors a contagious lung disease. As for me, I would probably like to have a fair idea of a dude's hygiene practices before making serious contact. Why learn the hard way he gave up showers for well-targeted squirts of Axe Body Spray?

By the third date, you're just getting to know a person. Sure, you may be really attracted to the guy, but wouldn't you rather know that he still lives in his parents' basement before you sleep with him? Does he possess the characteristics you want in a friend? Is he worthy of your respect and admiration?

In the end, we all need a friend we can respect and admire.

When you sleep with a person you don't know, you don't know him any better afterwards. You don't really know if he likes you, or if you like him (although you may tell yourself you do to justify the sex). You don't know if he's honest, trustworthy, or kind, and he knows none of those things about you.

You're walking around with a big scary question mark in your head, and for what? Everybody keep your clothes on!

Dressing For Dating Success

It may seem like common sense, but it's amazing how many women hit the streets in belly shirts, blouses cut waaaay low, and short shorts. Then they can't understand why they keep attracting men who make their skin crawl.

If you want to attract a decent guy, don't dress for men who subscribe to the Girls Gone Wild DVD series. (Repeat after me: Yuck.) You can be out-and-out sexy without looking like an idiot. Abbreviated clothing tends to attract men with abbreviated imaginations. You can do better than that.

If you're into preppy men, wear a collared shirt with a white skirt, bare legs, and flat sandals. Wear earrings. If you're into bikers, perhaps pair a feminine peasant blouse with a Harley belt buckle or leather pants. If you're into corporate guys, wear a dead-sexy fitted yet conservative suit and a pair of killer shoes.

Whatever you do, emphasize toes, calves, wrists, neck and ears. Squeezed up cleavage is less attractive than you may imagine, and it's catnip for perverts. A neckline that shows off your clavicle is so much sexier.

You've heard the expression, "Dress for the job you want in the long run." It's the same thing with men. Dress for the guy you want in the long run.

And you'll repel losers at the same time.

How Phil Lesh Met His Wife

Online dating certainly isn't the only way to meet Mr. or Miss Right. I often advise people to just be friendly everywhere they go, whether it's to a bar or the dry cleaners.

Apparently this technique paid off for Phil Lesh, the cutish bassist from the Grateful Dead. Here's how he describes how he met his wife in his very excellent book, Searching for the Sound: My Life with the Grateful Dead:

"For some time, I'd been eating my breakfast at a little place in San Rafael (where I'd moved after leaving Fairfax): the Station Cafe, owned by old friends, Mark and his wife, Karen. One morning just before Halloween (during the six-week break between Europe 2 and our East Coast tour), I was sitting at the counter there, gloomily muttering mindrot into a handheld voice recorder I'd brought in Edinburgh. My breakfast arrived, brought in by my regular waitress, Jill, a slim young woman with warm brown eyes whom I'd gotten to know slightly over recent months. Without thinking (or even saying thank you) I pushed the record button, said, 'And here's Jill's phone number,' and held up the little machine for her to respond. After a startled glance, as if she'd never really seen me before, she clearly enunciated a number into the recorder --one that I knew (and she knew that I knew) was the number of the cafe where we were sitting--and finished with a little smile, as if to say, 'Your move.' I muttered something like 'nice save' or 'better luck next time' as I forced a smile and turned to my breakfast. But after that I kept thinking that she was looking at me a little differently than before. Not that I looked like much of a prize, thank you very much, with my booze-for-breakfast habits, puffy face, and thirty pounds of beer belly."

You'll be glad to know that Phil gave up drinking a long time ago. From his account, he and Jill remain in love and have been married for over two decades. They have two sons.

Talk About Objectifying Yourself

Seen at a Memorial Day barbecue: An attractive blonde 17-year-old wearing a 'FUTURE MILF' t-shirt.

I wonder if people would have been so relaxed about it if it had been a 'FUTURE MWLF" t-shirt (by that I mean, Mother Who Likes to...' instead "Mother I'd Like to...").

Somehow I doubt it.

Dating Disasters Undone

Loved this story that arrived today from Jeannette Maw in her Get What You Want ezine:

I rarely meet a client that doesn't experience some sort of struggle, somewhere along the way to their dream come true. Even - or rather, especially - those appearing in the Success Spotlight do a great job of getting past the funk when things go "wrong."

Diana's proven herself an expert at managing the funk. Lately she's manifesting love, and finds herself with one potentially great guy after another. But each time, whether it's a no-chemistry conversation, mention of an existing wife, or a date who regularly forgets his wallet - she found herself with one "frog" after another.

(It's interesting to note Diana's story is that she's known for having awful first dates. Great entertainment for girlfriends; not so good for the love life.)

Then her luck changed. (If we believed in luck.)

An intro to a guy who fit every detail on her list: funny, handsome, easy to talk to, successful in his field, interested in her and great mutual chemistry. Before their first official date, Diana invested lots of energy in imagining things going very well in their future. Which they did, right up until he invited her over for a sleepover at the conclusion of date #1.

Which for Diana meant there was no date #2. This is where many would throw in the towel, reinforcing their story about how impossible it is to find love these days.

Certainly she had moments (maybe even hours) of despair. But like any good rodeo queen would, Diana got back on the horse. She found her way to thoughts that kept her out of Funkville for long. She made up good meanings about what her past experiences were. And kept an eye to a happy future.

You know how this ends, right?

No, you don't! (Sorry, trick question.) Because this stuff never ends! Right now Diana is too busy to email with updates, since she was swept off her feet less than a week later by someone in her line of work who encompasses just what she wanted in her next guy.

And yes, our "happily ever after" might last a few days or weeks or decades, but what's important is that we enjoy the journey, right? To know that things unfold in our best interest, and that it only gets better as time goes on. As we think, so shall it be. :)

Diana, yoo hoo!! You out there?! Way to set the example for releasing the struggle and getting back to good. You go, girlfriend!

Pole Dancing As the Key to Happiness

Natalie Morales of Today revealed in a report this morning that housewives are gathering in living rooms across America to enjoy tropical drinks and explore the magic of pole dancing.

I think I'll stick with my book club.

How They Met

Just back from Massachusetts, where I visited my grammar school and post-college roommate and her husband. She's a nurse, he's a cardiologist, and they met while in the employ of Booth Memorial Hospital (now known as New York Hospital-Queens). Both my daughters were born there.

Over the weekend, we had fun eating, drinking, and discussing politics. Cathy and I watched her son score three hits in a baseball game, before going to Barnes & Noble (where I bought Kurt Vonnegut's A Man Without a Country) before hitting a local farm for ice cream.

I took the train to and from Massachusetts. I've been licensed to drive for ages, but I've never liked it. In fact, I hate it. I'd much rather read and stare out a train window. I realize I'm in the minority, judging by all the auto traffic we saw while Cathy drove me to the station this morning.

On the train, I managed to nearly finish one of several books I'd been reading. Unfortunately, I don't put 'em away at home the way I used to; I feel guilty sitting still. I figure I should be doing something else (like folding laundry or stirring tomato sauce), but on a train there's really not much else to do but read and relax.

How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?

EFT practitioner Alison Held suggests you start by reading this article.

I suggest that you view the following video for more information, and then download the free how-to manual offered at the end of it:

Don't You Love Being a Woman?

I just received the latest issue of Woman's Day. I only subscribe to this rag because it was one of the few magazines offered in the annual Parent Teacher Organization fundraiser that I didn't already subscribe to.

Every time I find it in my mailbox, I put it aside until I have time to fully savor its condescending tone and out-and-out stupidity.

The cover of the new issue, dated June 19, features 'Summer's Best Party Cake So Easy to Do' (no semicolon required, apparently). Upon seeing it, my 12-year-old exclaimed, "Wow, that looks like one partially-hydrogenated oil fest." Reading the recipe inside didn't disappoint: The thing includes two tubs of vanilla frosting, vats of assorted food coloring, Cocoa Puffs cereal balls, Green Fruit by the Foot, a Gummi ring, and Keebler Bug Bites. (Ever read the label of a Keebler product? Back away from that crap slowly.)

After taking in the list of ingredients, the kid muttered, "That is just one big loaf of death."

The mag also offers a "Summer Survival Guide," which is not, as you might expect, about keeping the family safe from bear attacks on camping trips. According to the subhead, "Who says you can't look dazzling when the mercury climbs?"

Well, since you mention it, the Amazing V was just telling me this afternoon, "You know, Terry, you cannot look dazzling when the mercury climbs."

Good thing I subscribe to Woman's Day to tell me the truth, that I can smooth out thigh and derriere dimples with a massaging hand tool, and that a large-brim hat will not only protect my skin from the sun (I had no idea) but also keep my hair color from turning.

A "Got Milk" ad featuring new parent Mariska Hargitay assures us that, "Motherhood brings fulfillment, and a new focus on getting back into shape." I don't want to disillusion anybody, but "fulfillment" isn't the first word that comes to mind when I think about motherhood. And, yeah, I do love my children and can't imagine life without them. But if I had never given birth, trust me, I'd have found something else to do with my life.

One of the high points of the issue was a short piece entitled, "Sweat to an A-list Playlist," that informs us that "Julianne Moore gets motivated with help from rocker David Bowie." Rocker David Bowie? As if my grandmother who would have been 104-and-a-half in March didn't know who David Bowie is.

Hell, she even knew who Keith Emerson is. Like him, she was a pianist and organist but never shared his compulsion to attack a keyboard with a pocket knife.

Herewith for your viewing and listening pleasure, Rocker David Bowie performing one of my favorites. Merry Christmas.

Um, I mean, Happy Memorial Day.

You Can't Date If You're Dead

Just when I was completely grossed out by the number of cats and dogs killed by tainted food, I find out that humans are even more vulnerable to food contamination than I thought (and I wonder how many people, in the wake of September's Dole spinach debacle, have sworn off greens for life).

After reading this charming bit of information, I threw out fresh new box of Chinese green tea.

My mother died of cancer. My father-in-law is dying of cancer as I write. I don't want to die of cancer. Green tea is supposed to prevent cancer, not cause it, but Chinese imported leaves have been dried with leaded gas fumes.

Stephen Colbert and Bob Deans Slam Us Damn Yankees

Well, not really us Yankees. One hundred years ago, my family didn't live in this country. We were the sort of people Lou Dobbs wants to keep out.

Law of Attraction For the Love of Your Life

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Success In Love Leaves Clues

I once heard some dumb "personality" on TV saying that The New York Times wedding section is the women's equivalent of the sports page for men. She claimed that competitive females scour it to keep score on who made it to the altar before they did.

Well, I don't know any woman who reads it for that reason, but I'll tell you why I do: It's fun to find out how people met and fell in love.

On Sunday, I enjoyed several stories, including Sophia Chaknis and Joseph Levy's. They met just as Sophia's online dating account was about to expire. She had planned to let it lapse and "take the summer off from dating."

On their first evening out together, Joseph ordered calamari.

"I had never been on a date with a guy who had eaten, much less voluntarily eaten, calamari," the bride recalled thinking. She said to him, "I love calamari. I'm going to have to marry you."

And she did.

I also got a kick out of Alexandra Guarnaschelli and Brandon Clark's story. Romance blossomed between them when the groom took a class the bride, a chef, taught about cooking fish.

Dating Tip From a Reader

"I heard a simple little expression that really changed my attitude toward men. I used to cry and get upset all the time over men who treated me poorly...[The expression] goes: 'No boy is worth crying over, and the one who is won't make you cry.' Enough said."

-Leslie

After the VH1 Debacle, He Gives Me Hope

Once upon a time when I was in college, I met a fine, well-built, and handsome fellow. We discovered that his mother and mine taught Religious Ed together years before. They'd remained friends. He and I also became friends and shared a fondness for going out for lunch, discussing politics, and goofing on various professors.

We took a fiction writing workshop together, and I could always count on him to give me an honest (sometimes blistering) opinion on one of my characters, or their behavior (let's put it this way, they didn't believe in the double standard. I learned later that my friend hadn't been sexist; he just didn't believe that people should carry on as if life was a giant episode of Grey's Anatomy).

Our fiction workshop included a man who once served as Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper and had publicly drawn and quartered me over a piece I'd written lampooning celebrity culture. As this former editor earnestly read his latest story to our class, my friend muttered, "I can see Scatman Crothers playing that role."

This resulted in shoulder-quaking hysteria. We could not stop cackling and snorting and hooting to save our lives, which earned us sharp looks from both the editor and our esteemed professor, William S. Wilson, III (recipient of a Best American Short Stories award in 1975 and the author of Why I Don't Write Like Franz Kafka).

Since then, my friend and I have kept in touch loosely. No romance ever existed between us, and we've since married other people. Yesterday, he responded to my email wishing him a happy birthday by saying he'd recently passed the bar. Fourteen months ago, he and his wife adopted not one--or two--but three girls ranging in age from eight to 10 from Russia.

He attached photos from their baptism, which took place last month.

When women tell me that decent men don't exist, I always think of this guy. He was funny, handsome, smart, and definitely decent. If he exists, surely others like him exist, as well.

Kill Your Television (Before It Kills You)

I happened to stay up the other night, really late, and I put down Searching for the Sound: My Life with the Grateful Dead and turned on the TV, hoping to catch a repeat of The Best Week Ever, which I'd missed on Friday. This turned out to be an unfortunate move.

Instead, I found The Fabulous Life Of: Celebrity Sex, which probably qualifies (after Grey's Anatomy) as the most depressing show in the world. In it, I learned that Penn of Penn & Teller fame once had an S&M room in his apartment, which was converted to a nursery after his daughter, Moxie CrimeFighter was born (yeah, "Moxie CrimeFighter" really is the poor kid's name; it must be great having morons for parents).

I also found out celebrities love vibrators (as long as they're platinum or 24K gold, that is), and that there are plenty of merchants who are willing to discuss with the media who digs what and why.

Check out this sad little detail from the show, which also appears on the VH1 website:

"...a mere plaything compared to the sexy gift David Beckham bestowed upon his posh wife, Victoria. Because nothing says, 'I love you' like a $2 million platinum vibrator with a 10-carat diamond encrusted base linked to a 16-carat diamond necklace-one of only 10 in existence in the entire world."

Gross.

A smarter person would have snapped the TV off at that point, but like any good tragedy, I had a hard time turning away from it. After a 30 minutes (or 60; I really can't remember), I felt oddly bored (and maybe a bit scared, in the case the mental picture of Penn Jillette wearing nipple clamps) by the very idea of sex.

As for Grey's Anatomy, it's flown so far off the rails, it's at the bottom of the ocean. If real people slept around the way they do on that show, they'd be too busy nursing running sores to continue taking on new sex partners.

I, for one, may sue ABC for the murder of millions of my innocent brain cells during the season finale of Grey's Anatomy.

Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert--One Sweet Presidential Ticket

We could do worse. Hell, we've already done worse.

The Law of Attraction, Norman Vincent Peale, and the Grateful Dead

Today's USA Weekend includes an interview with Bernie Siegel, M.D., the renowned author of the classic Love, Medicine & Miracles.

Dr. Siegel, along with Spiritual Literacy: Reading the Sacred in Everyday Life co-author Mary Ann Brussat, lists five books that have inspired legions--and will continue to do so for years to come. "Each generation thinks somebody new is starting the process," says Siegel, "but we keep repeating the wisdom of the sages and ages."

Siegel includes Norman Vincent Peale among those sages and recommends his book, The Power of Positive Thinking . You may already know I'm a big fan of Dr. Peale's; his Positive Imaging is a great primer on the Law of Attraction, especially for those who fear it's New Age or "not of God."

You may also know that I believe the Law of Attraction is key in attracting the love and romance (and every other good thing) you deserve.

After lunch on Tuesday, E. and I popped into the Marble Collegiate Church on 5th and 29th Street, where Peale used to be a pastor. I used to walk past it every single day on my way to work and always meant to stop in but never did. On Tuesday, the Director of Media Relations took us around the lovely old church and gave us its history.

As for my own book recommendations, right now I'm reading Searching for the Sound: My Life with the Grateful Dead. I bought it for Peter for Father's Day 2005, and he loved it.

I never liked The Dead when I was in high school; years later, when I met Peter, his passion for them gave me pause. I'd stepped over hundreds of Dead Heads in Penn Station over the years. Few of them appeared to be on the frequent bather's program.

Peter took me to my first Dead show at Madison Square Garden in 1990, and I 'got' them. They were more than "Casey Jones" and "Shakedown Street" and the crap they kept in constant rotation at WNEW-FM. "Terrapin Station," which I heard for the very first time on April 7, 1991, blew my mind.

I've since become a fan of The Dead, especially Phil Lesh. Aside from the amazing music he makes, he comes off as a generous, kind, and genuinely good man.

Our friend, Mike, made a CD of one of Phil's recent shows (historically, The Dead couldn't care less about their fans recording and distributing their music, although I read that some of Jerry Garcia's heirs aren't thrilled about it).

I had it on yesterday at the gas station while Peter filled his ecologically unfriendly beast with petrol. Phil went into his frequently repeated plea for the crowd to consider organ donation. He added, "Every day I pray for the soul of the young man," whose liver now resides in his body.

Brought tears to my eyes.

Peter has just come back from dropping Child One off at a Bat Mitzvah; the other child and I will see Beauty and the Beast at a birthday party at the Downtown Cabaret Theatre this afternoon.

We'll carpool with the Amazing V and her offspring as soon as they get home from church.