IT'S RAINING MEN . . .

***

I love men. I really do. I love them platonically, romantically, and any other way there is to love them. But sometimes, they are INSUFFERABLE. It's like they were all made missing that tiny 1/8"-square filter in their brains that tells them to back off when necessary, or to throw in a kind word when necessary, or to look up and catch a glance and feel the undercurrent when necessary. Or maybe the filter is in there and they have all figured out a way to deactivate it, thereby nullifying its positive effects. And the filter-less effect is horrifically and exponentially magnified the more men that are gathered. God forbid you protest the filter-lessness, for you will simply be spurring the exponential growth of boorish behavior, and opening yourself up to "Can't you take a joke?" I hate men.

***

Well, it turns out that Mr. Fab-U-Lous is not so fab-u-lous after all. Mrs.G's brother "does not approve because he is a player." Now, if a girl says a guy is a player, people assume -- accurately or not -- that she is (1) bitter at not having been played by this particular Player; or (2) generally assigning the term to any single guy who has many female friends or has many females dogging him. But if a guy labels his own friend a player, you know he's right. Guys know each other, and they can pretty securely gauge each others' mojo. I have never met Mrs.G's brother, but I trust her when she says he is a good and fair judge of character. So goodbye, Mr. No-Longer-Fab-U-Lous; I hardly knew ye. But that's okay -- I've never really relished the role of Playee anyway. . .

***

I feel like crying today. Not because anything has or has not happened. Not because I'm feeling sad or angry or any other strong emotion. Just once in a while, thoughts and feelings and memories and experiences come together in a cosmically emotional knot that settles in the bottom of my throat and can only be released through my eyes, resulting in that truly unsexy, slightly bloated, red-rimmed look that was so the rage on the catwalk two or three European spring seasons ago. Thank goodness I'm at work where Hooch will simply grin benignly at me, encourage my de-knotting and tell me I need a snifter of something strong. Imagine if I were with the Filter-less?!