Online Love

The Love Lost Generation: The Problem with On-line Dating and Choice.
Love-lost genration? Sadly we are more confused than ever. Our cave life made it all much simpler. A hundred possbile dates? Are you kidding?

GF Becca calls. Disgusted with on-line dating- too much time, too much work, too little results. Is she alone? Hardly. The industry calls it “one of the best tools,” but unfortunately our cave brains see it as a massive stimulus overload. You just have too many choices! It might seem great to have hundreds of potential matches but then again our mind plays some tricks with all that information.

First, it gives us a false sense of confidence that we are in more control than we are. Then we make the next mistake, thinking we have control we maximize our pay-off. So when Becca saw Tom, a heart surgeon who took a liking to her pic, she chose him—Not for nothing but Becca is a cocktail waitress and wouldn’t know an artery from an arterial.

What she doesn’t know is that our brains get irritated when we are faced with too much choice. Oh how we hate to be wrong, indecisive and leave tings to chance. So she makes her contact. Now her brain decides to screw her over again—she becomes convinced they are destined. She goes back to his profile and works over all the reasons they are a couple. We call it post-decision dissonance and without all the science gab, it’s a way that we make ourselves feel better after we make a choice. We feelmore confident. Those dating sites know this. They know you might do all the things that Becca did and that’s why they give you certain information and then smack it with a percentage. He was 97% her match. For the next day she read, reread and presumed that they had everything in common.

Now effort- justification kicks in. What’s that? It’s when we amp up our confidence that our efforts are well-justified. After all, she spent two solid days filling our questionnaires and another weekend responding to questions and queries. Our minds don’t like to think our efforts are worthless and Becca was absolutely convinced that there was a pay-off in there for her. Of course her mind filled in all the gaping pot-holes in her path—after all with hundreds of choices and a 97% match, what could go wrong? Plenty.

The date was a disaster. He, like 67% of men use on-line dating as a hook-up tool. After plying her with gin he proceeded to tell her about his other vein—She bolted from the restaurant.
But even if that last scenario didn’t happen all that choice lends us to experience some big disappointment. So what can you do? First you just learned something about how thinking can undermine our efforts. However in the next weeks I’ll set out some great rules that can help in maximizing on-line dating efforts.

For more information: Online Dating: A Critical Analysis From the Perspective of Psychological Science, by Eli J. Finkel, Paul W. Eastwick, Benjamin R. Karney, Harry T. Reis, and Susan Sprecher

To The Moms out There....Sex and Children!

Sex and Children

     Without sex, no children; with children, no sex.  It’s a common reality; romance seems to fade out of the picture. Your once lofty bed, that place of heated passionate interludes, is now home to diapers, wipes, and baby accessories.  What’s that long thing with the rubber tip you feel under your thigh?  A bottle. 

      Most marriages decline after the birth of a child.  Both partners report less sex, romance, communication, and worse—stress.  We all know this, yet we’re so tired, feeling yucky and stressed that something has to give.  Sex can sneak right out the door if you don’t watch it, which is a recipe for disaster.  Want to know how to get rid of a man?  Stop having sex with him.   

      Nature didn’t intend it to be this way.  Did you know that a little gift following pregnancy is an ability to twitch out an orgasm quite efficiently?  While your body was creating all sorts of vascular hook-ups to nourish your baby, it sent some to the organs that control blood flow to your genitalia.           Have you ever seen a pregnant woman’s genitals?  What a shock!  Instead of that pink tulip you might be sporting the lips of an elephant -wearing lipstick. Our gorilla male cousins liked this sort of thing.  In fact, when they mate they rely on those red bulging labia as a signal that the female is in heat.       Although you might look like you came out of Animal Kingdom those swellings might make caveman a little more excited.  And unlike your animal cousin who doesn’t have sex after her egg swallowed the sperm, you have the ability to knock out dozens of orgasms.

      After pregnancy that vascular system finds itself more efficient.  Those blood vessels have been stretched out like a pair of pantyhose and they will fill up quite nicely.  If you were a cavewoman you’d have another great benefit.  You’d be breast feeding.  Quickly your belly would disappear and although you would have less time to engage in sex with your hands full, you’d have more time since you would not be menstruating.  Did you know, fully breastfeeding women usually do not menstruate or produce eggs?  Your body realizes you are raising young; best of all, your brain is dripping neurotransmitters to keep you cool, calm and collected—the three C’s.  Your sex motor runs best under CCC.   But cavemother had a lot less to do.  Yes, I say less because their social system was a lot different.  She had other women to rely on, including cavemom and cave sisters.  She did not have ready herself every morning and drive 30 miles to a job, drop off baby on the way and cook and plan a meal after her day was done.  And when caveman came home she had no shame in leaving baby next to her sleeping while she adored caveman.  You’re shocked?  Nanook did not build two igloos.  Our ancestors slept with their children and mated with their children in close proximity. 

       So there you are with an ear turned towards the baby monitor trying to be amouous after working, cleaning, cooking and taking care of everyone.  Nothing like the scream of an infant to snap back those swollen labia. So what’s a mother to do?

       Some say you should schedule sex.  I was the mother of 5 (now making babies of their own) and I never resorted to a datebook, but whatever works….

       I can suggest this.  My mantra was always marriage comes first.  My younger brain anticipated the sight of sleeping children.  It meant opportunity.  Put the mop in the corner.  Despite, dishes in the sink, washloads, or children’s activities, sex or romance topped the list.  I say romance, because romance is the lube of sex—at least for women.  The best part is that it can be banked, like money, and it grows interest.  A candle lit dinner, sharing a bottle of wine or simply watching a great flick can turn on the mood: we all know what that vibe leads to. 
Dr. Dawn Marlena Hopper

Faking Orgasms- Enter at your own risk!

     Research tells us that 50% of all women fake orgasms.   Personally, I think these women are lying- there isn’t a woman alive who has not faked it.  No one wants to admit they are not ‘in touch’ with their vagina’s.  There is a sure way to drive a man away; stop having sex with him or make him feel you don’t want it.  Men love hot and horny women, who want them.  Do you think there is market for porn where women just lay there, then tell the guy how bad he was in the sack?
     Research tells us women fake for a variety of reasons.  The most popular is to end it, preserve his self-esteem, or because we were not aiming for the big O anyway.   We fake it because we have sex for many different motives  (I’ll blog about this later).  We fake it, because we can.  Men can’t.  There is only one time when women do not fake it- when they are doing it alone.
     There is hardly any research on women and orgasms because no one cares whether you have one or not.  If 50% of men missed their ‘O’ we’d declare a national crises--level red. Wait!  I know what we’d really do.  We would come up with a medicine he could take.  He could take a pill when he’s not in the mood, has limp-willy syndrome; which usually happens when men are old, tired, under stress or medically unfit.  The pill would cause his penis to swell and accompany an urge to rupture like a volcano.  He'll  feel 15 again, only without the pimples. He will need a partner.  I see him now, searching the house for poor wifey; he finds her either in the laundry room folding  or scrubbing dishes in the kitchen sink.  “Look what I have for you!” he exclaims. She looks and realizes she has her third chore of the night.
     Okay, I’m exaggerating.  When I see that Viagra commercial I want to vomit.  All I can think of is the elderly women with hip issues, rivaling what my German Shepard went through, spread eagle, or worse, on all fours, in service.  When I’m eighty with brittle bone disease the last thing I want is a few extra hundred pounds laying on me.  Don’t people know that the sex urge needs to decline?  At that time when your spine has stenosis or that shoulder is frozen, nature knows that the penis or vagina should get a rest too.  Maybe rocking back and forth might be best accomplished on the front porch.
     I remember a recent night of passion.  My husband began howling.  I looked up at him, grimacing.     “Oh my God,”  he yelled.  “My leg has a charley horse.”  My ride was over. Now for TMI but you can skip this (or know that maybe it's just humor.)
     Oh sure, I still love sex. But not every day.  I figure that for the first 15 years of blissful union Hubby had 5,250 orgasms (that I knew about).   I was a winner too, at least three fourths of the time.  But for the last five years he’s gotten at least 875 frequent  flyer miles to my 434.5.  There is a half orgasm in there, probably from the time I couldn’t concentrate because the headboard decided to detach from the bedframe and I had to hold it steady for fifteen minutes.  Or maybe it’s from when my grandson appeared at the bed asking, “can I have a horsey ride too?”  Anyhow, that’s 50% of the time which makes me part of the female statistic.  At this rate, which I have calculated, at 70  I can expect to run out of orgasms.  Two weeks ago my gynecologist told me my ovaries felt like raisins.  He did not give me hope.
     But my husband did.  “What would you do if I couldn’t preform anymore,” he asks me one evening after one of those pill commercials.  This is the commercial where they tell the couple that the pill works any moment he desires it to take effect.  I think, "How about never?  Is that a prefect time?"  I decided to answer him.  I tell him that his perfect, wonderful, satisfying buddy,  will never stop working.  I had to say that;  because I love him, and I'm not hopeful. 
“You’d go and find someone else to get satisfaction,” he mutters. 
“No honey, that would never happen.”  Then I think to myself, what planet is he on?  When my husband’s dick dies I am going to bury it.  Yes I’ll put up a tombstone and memorialize it, but there wouldn’t be a prayer in hell that I would give it mouth to mouth recessitation even, if it were taking its last breath.
     Then, I decide to make him feel good about our accomplishments. “Honey, we have broken the Guinness World Book of records for screwing.”  I’ve never met anyone else who had sex in the hospital after their caesarean section.  Well, maybe the Duggars have us beat.  I owe it to him to inflate his worth. “You are the Jack LaLane of machismo, of bravado, and you are just going to be fine.”
He sighs. “It’s just that you are such a highly sexual woman, so responsive and sexy….you are every mans dream…so  I wonder how I could every satisfy you forever.”
     The poor man is worried.  All because my vagina had been speaking in double talk!  I brought it on myself.  The academy award winning performances, in prefect character,  vocalizing impeccably; those words, sounds and movements, had bitten me back.  I had convinced him that I was the perfect partner; a $5000 hooker who could cook, clean and stay faithful to one John.  Should I tell him about my counterfeit orgasms?
     Instead I demurely inquire,  “Am I really the prefect partner?”
He says just the right thing.  “Sweetheart, I can’t stop thinking about you...sometimes.. .and I just love to touch you…” He cupped my hand and brought it to his lips.  I couldn’t help looking into his deep blue eyes or reaching for his arm.  He does have the strongest arms.  He kisses so perfectly, light kisses that begin on my lips and go up my face.  Thank God, those raisins must have has some juice left.
      Like most women I could have been perfectly happy to be adored that night.  Men don’t get the fact that we don’t need the orgasm fairy every time our heads hit the pillow.  But that night she didn’t have to pull any teeth…    Dr. Dawn M. Hopper

How did you learn about sex? A 1960's Sex Education Lecture

     When I was about 11 years old, I rode my bike to my friend Linda Scalotta's house to play with our ‘Barbie dolls’.  She was a whole two years older.  She said to me,  “Come in my brother Nicky’s room and look what I found under his bed."  I knew my bother kept his GI Joe's there, then again, Nicky was 23 and my bother was 9.  She pulled a pile of magazines from under the bed and placed them on the chenille bedspread.  She opened one up.   I saw something so strange.  It was a grown man and he was wearing a mask on his private parts, it had a horrible long pink nose, and hair all around it!  To this day I can't get myself to look at those Marx brother phony noses that hood up to the eye glasses.  I was confused, actually I may have been in shock.
     Of course, Linda explained.  I was horrified and imagine my contorted face;  Linda began to tell me what I was really looking at.  "That’s not true," I yelled furiously yelled  "That’s not true." Now, I insisted.  " I have seen my bother every night in the tub and he doesn’t have one of those things!"
        She replied that “that’s what your parents do!”  I attacked her like a vicious dog.  “My parents don’t do anything like this,”  I screamed.  I remember peddling my bike furiously home, running in screaming to my mother, who then told me "it was all true."
      “Don’t you remember the book I gave you called The Gift of Life?"  She asked.  I searched my memory.  Cartoon pictures.  First page, a girl with hair under her arms, a boy shaving.  Page two; they meet.  By page five they were standing at the altar.  By page 6 they kissed at the altar.  Page seven; I recalled a magnifying, the kind you got in the science kit.  In the lens was a tadpole-like thing, it was being met by something else.  Oh yes, it was a seed.  Of course I knew it.  You grow hair under your arms and meet a boy who shaves.  You get married.  As you kiss him at the altar a tadpole swims out of his mouth and you swallow it.  It would look for the seed to eat. Hence, page nine told it all; she had a baby growing in her tummy and the baby came out.  I assumed of the belly button.  The book never said.  But I had caught enough tadpoles in the yard to know exactly where they came from.  I thought of all the neighborhood boys who had jars of swimming tadpoles on in the bedrooms.  It all made perfect sense to me.   Then it was all ruined.
     My mother continued with the rest of the story. I recall hearing only the words penis, erection and pain.  Her warning came in the form of a secret;  if you had sex a man's penis could get stuck in your vagina, just like what happened with the neighbors dogs.  My mind raced back to the event between FiFi and King; the Smith's poodle and the Herbacks German Shepard.  My mother told me they had to hose the animals down to pull them apart.
      She peered into my face, eyes bulging,  “Don’t ever do this until you are married  --no no matter what!”  The "what" part hissed out then snapped, so  I knew she was serious.  Of course I would never do this terrible thing.  I immediately knew my mother and I were on the same page.  If the hideousness of the act itself didn't repulse me, the consequences did.  My mind took me to the scene: First I conjured up the scene, yelling for help,  someone would have to pull the fire alarm on the corner.  I'd hear sirens, lots of them.  Just like when my mother caught the kitchen on fire making french fries, the entire fire department would come.  They had hoses.  If that didn't work, I  imagined myself on a stretcher,  some boy stuck inside me,  being taken to the hospital, and then being detached.  I had no problem making the promise. 
     “Never, never even when I am married, will I ever do this terrible thing!”   Then, she made me make a second promise; “whatever you do never tell anyone about this, because if their parents find out you will never be able to play with them again.”
     I violated promise number one 9 years later.  It took only 3 hours to tell my best friend Joyce the secret I had just learned about!

Have any funny tales?  Did you think you grew in a cabbage patch, the stork brought you, or were you bought at the Walmart?