Dad’s House

Unhooked: How Young Women Pursue Sex, Delay Love and Lose at Both, by Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Laura Sessions Stepp gives a detailed look at the hookup culture that is permeating social scenes in American colleges and even some high schools.

Hooking up involves two people getting together for sex without commitment or attachment. Ms. Stepp suggests hook-ups have replaced dating for the young-20s generation. The reasons vary: students preparing for lucrative careers refuse to be distracted by relationships; children of divorced parents don’t trust relationships; the new generation doesn’t value love; dependence on a partner is seen as a weakness; working on a relationship is less important than working on yourself.

Great insights, but I have some news – hookups aren’t confined to bright young women on college campuses. They’re everywhere. As a 40-something single dad, I’ve hooked up with women of all ages and various life stages. (Craigslist is a great resource for casual dating.)

There’s the mid-30s Burlingame woman, an ivy-educated finance professional currently pursuing an MBA. She told me over dinner on our initial meeting that between work and school she didn’t have time for a dating relationship. She then invited me back to her apartment for a sleepover and first-date sex. (Given the attraction and chemistry, I accepted.) In the morning she ushered me out, kissing me goodbye and thanking me for a fun time. In subsequent days and weeks, I tried asking her out again, but she didn’t return my calls.

There’s the early-40s single mom in San Mateo. We flirted over drinks at a restaurant bar, then she invited me to her place to fool around. We made out on the couch, then she kicked me out promptly at 11pm so she could go get her son from a friend’s house. I’m a single parent, so I could relate. When I asked to see her again, she laughed and said her dating days were long past, but promised she’d call me when the mood struck for another hookup. I need more than that from a relationship, and told her don’t bother.

There’s the late-20s San Jose nurse who works at a hospital near my house. She’s searching in earnest for a potential husband close to her age. While she enjoys coffee and dinner dates with her suitors, she doesn’t hook up. Instead, she asked me – a charming, fun, respectful, experienced, older man - to be her monogamous lover while she looks for a mate. (The single dad as booty call partner is something I’ll definitely blog about in future posts.)

I have to admit, I’m mulling this last option. As a single parent protecting the family unit I share with my children, I’m selective about who I bring around. Only two girlfriends have met my kids, and then only after we’d been dating a few months and there was long-term relationship potential.

While I’m not sold on the hookup culture – it’s unhealthy, and ultimately unfulfilling, and I know from experience that intimacy is heightened when two people truly care for each other, when the emotional and spiritual connection is deep – I also know that No Strings Attached (NSA) hookups serve a purpose. In between serious relationships, they’re a way to touch another person, share some intimacy, stay sane.

Hookups are everywhere, even in popular music. When I hear Radiohead’s Thom Yorke croon on the song House of Cards - I don’t want to be your friend, I just want to be your lover – I give a knowing nod and sing quietly along with the tune.

If you liked this post, you might also enjoy:

• Single Parents are Missing Out on Intimacy
• You-Know-What-us Interruptus
• Who Needs Protection? It’s Only a One Night Stand
• There’s an Order to a Single Parent’s Relationship Universe
  

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.

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One of my favorite vacations was spent sailing around the British Virgin Islands on a catamaran with six adult friends. By day, we sailed, snorkeled, swam, sunbathed, hit beach bars, relaxed. By night, we partied. We’d moor in a cove with other boats, motor our raft ashore and dine in a restaurant, hit the dance floor until the too-sleepy bartender sent us packing.

Along the way, we picked up some great cocktail recipes. Here’s one to serve at your next neighborhood party. If you’re short any ingredients, don’t worry. Every BVI bar has a different recipe for this drink.

1 part dark rum
1 part light rum
1 part amaretto
2 parts Kahlua
2 parts Bailey’s Irish Cream
2 parts crème de cocoa
1 part cream of coconut
Ice

Blend in a blender until smooth. Sprinkle nutmeg on top.
The soccer moms will never know what hit them.

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.

I was drinking sangria at the bar of Cascal, a local tapas restaurant, when an attractive woman and her date sat down beside me. It took a moment to catch her eye, at which point I couldn’t help but flash a wry smile. No, I wasn’t hitting on her, trying to flirt when her date wasn’t looking. I’d already bought her drinks the night before.

Is the dating pool really that small?

Elisabeth and I met on craigslist, that place you go for concert tickets without having to pay an eBay or StubHub surcharge. Unlike other dating sites where you post a profile containing your photo and an essay about you and your ideal match, along with checkboxed lists of traits you possess and are seeking, craigslist posts are more often short, free-form requests for companionship. Who wants to join me at the Giants game this weekend? Who wants to meet for coffee tomorrow afternoon? Who wants to be my friend with benefits? Or in the case of my post the previous night, Who wants to meet for a drink, flirt and see what happens?

A handful of women responded, but Elisabeth sounded by far the most interesting to me. College educated, slender yoga figure, mid-thirties, strawberry blonde, career in marketing, family in the area. She lived in Los Gatos, just twenty minutes away. I emailed her about me: educated, fit from cycling, early forties, dark blonde, successful engineer turned writer, single dad with two kids. We swapped photos and agreed to meet at Steamers, a restaurant bar in her town.

The date was a lot of fun. We quickly found out we had opposite tastes in wine – I like big bold reds, she loves Chardonnay. Drinks in hand, we got to know each other. She was pretty, articulate, well traveled; we shared similar interests in movies and books, sushi and pasta, vacation dreams of Greece; she laughed at my jokes, enjoyed my wit; she twirled her hair and touched my arm and showed plenty of other body language signs of attraction. There was sexual energy and genuine chemistry between us. I was entertaining thoughts of third date sex and a healthy future of mornings waking up together.

“David, I like you a lot,” she said. “But I can’t get over the kid thing.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“I hate ruling you out so completely, but I don’t want to date a single dad.”

Say what? She knew I had kids, before we met.

“You’re right, I knew,” she said. “And you sound like a great dad. I hear your enthusiasm when you talk about your children. You really light up. But I don’t want an instant family. I want to start my own from scratch.”
“Why did you meet me, then?” I asked.
“A drink sounded fun. And honestly, I wasn’t sure how I felt about dating a man with kids. Now I know.”

Huh. Well, glad to help her figure that out about herself. I guess.

When I suggested we hang out as friends, she said she worked too many hours, and needed to focus her remaining time on the search for a suitable mate.

In Cascal, she looked warily at me, perhaps fearful I might spill the beans to her date. He was the opposite of me in many respects – longer hair, hipper clothes, younger, presumably childless. I watched as he fumbled through the wine list, overwhelmed by its scope.
“Boy, there’s a lot to choose from,” he said. “Do you like reds or whites?”
“I’m partial to whites,” she said.

I chuckled. I’d been there just last night. I was tempted to lean over and tell him to get her a Chardonnay. Unless he had kids, of course, in which case he might as well end the date now.

I called to the bartender and asked for my check.

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.

I don’t want to charge this blog up with politics, but a commentary piece I read over the weekend resonated with the single dad part of me. Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Ellen Goodman wrote about the language used by Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, noting that “Obama co-opts female communication style”.

While Hillary talks tough and showcases her ability to get the job done, Obama speaks of the need for us to acknowledge differences then compromise and cooperate for the common good. His message is closer to the collaborative way women typically approach problems. For me as a single dad, this insight struck a chord.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m a big fan of powerful women, and want my daughter to feel empowered to make fulfilling life choices. I know full well that men can be nurturing and women can be tough, and gender doesn’t have to play a role. But I also see broad Mars/Venus differences between the sexes, not only in how men and women are prone to act, but also in societal expectations.

As a single dad, I spend a good deal of time cultivating “feminine” qualities. When I’m taking care of my kids, I’m caring, nurturing, accepting, showing a softer side. While many of my male friends exhibit some of these same qualities, for the most part they seem more comfortable letting their wives carry the bulk of those traits. Raising my kids alone (the half time they are with me), I don’t have that option.

I’ve been a Hillary Clinton supporter through the primaries, mainly because of her proven experience, but also because it’s about time we had a female President. More than that, my stance on a variety of issues is more aligned with hers than with the other candidates (as illustrated by several online quizzes like the one at Electoral Compass.)

But now Barack Obama is starting to appeal to me, at least in a broad sense. (The quizzes say he’s my second best choice.) I like that he’s a man who is comfortable showing feminine qualities. I can relate. And I know that doesn’t make him any less masculine than other men; it makes him more evolved.

Of course, the slogan recently coined for Hillary by Tina Fey on Saturday Night Live’s Weekend Update - Bitch is the New Black! - strikes a chord, too. Maybe Hillary’s “male” style will be more accepted by the public.

All in all, it’s good seeing gender-role stereotypes questioned on such a big stage.

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.

My ex-wife’s parents came to the US from southern Italy. Through 14 years of Saturday picnics, Sunday dinners, and holiday meals, I learned the basics of Italian cooking from them. Here’s a carrot recipe that uses balsamic vinegar and garlic to create a flavorful dish your kids will love.

Single parent tip: cook more than you need and save the leftovers for another meal during the week. Though if your kids are like mine, don’t be surprised if the carrots get eaten as an after-school snack!

Recipe:

Take 1/2 pound baby carrots. Cut lengthwise into 1/4 inch matchstick pieces (I usually halve each carrot, then halve the thick ones again). Boil in salted water until tender, but still firm. The marinade will make them softer, so don’t overcook.

Drain the carrots and put in a bowl. Mash two garlic cloves by pressing on them with your hand, peel them, and bury them in the carrots. Add 2 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar, some salt, pepper, and dried oregano. Pour olive oil to cover the carrots. Stir.

Let this marinade a few hours! Stir occassionally to help the flavors meld. The bowl can sit out on the kitchen counter (room temperature.) My daughter always adds more balsamic vinegar, and she’s half Italian, so I’m good with that. Just find the taste you like. You can make these in the morning and let them sit all day. Serve them cold with the meal. Leftovers go in the fridge.

Buon appetito!

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.

I’ve salsa’d all night in Lima with a Peruvian woman, and in the Caribbean with a Cuban, so you’d think I’d be a natural on the local salsa scene. You’d be wrong. While I enjoy the sounds and rhythms, I’m not a gifted dancer. And for a single man, that’s a terrible thing. When my buddies and I sailed our boat into San Francisco’s The Ramp for Sunday salsa, the crowded dance floor jumped with people completely out of my league. I never stood a chance.

The thing is, I’m attracted to latina women with dark hair, tan skin, big smiles, and sexy hips that know how to move to salsa music. Not all latinas are like that, and it’s not just about shaking booty. I appreciate cultures that passionately embrace family, food, music, and sex, i.e. polar opposites to my Scandinavian-laced American roots. For me, a woman who packs it all is lethal.

With so many latina women in San Jose and the south bay, and with The Ramp nearby, it was time for me to get proper training. Alberto’s, a popular dance club in Mountain View, offered salsa lessons for early arrivers. I went on a Wednesday, hump day, a warm summer night that seemed ready-made for love.

But the club was nearly empty. Did I have the wrong date? Alberto’s was known for its Hot Latin Nights. “Is there dancing tonight?” I asked the bartender.
“Yes, it will heat up,” she said.
“And lessons?”
“They’ll start soon.”

A few dozen men trickled in, but only six women. Typical Silicon Valley ratio. At eight o’clock the female instructor had us form a circle around her. “Don’t worry, men,” she said. “The women will come. You just learn your moves.”

She showed us the basics, and we were all so focused on doing the steps and moving our hips, a partner would have been a distraction. After half an hour, though, it was time to pair up. We looked around for someone to dance with, but with four men to every woman, it was a joke.

“We’ll take turns,” the instructor said. She put the men in a tightly packed outer circle, with women loosely spaced on the inside. A quarter of the men danced with a partner for thirty seconds at a time, then the outer circle rotated so the next in line had a turn. The non-partnered men practiced their steps. It actually kind-sorta worked.

As nine o’clock approached, the club started to fill. Women in summer dresses came onto the dance floor to help us practice more complicated steps. Things were heating up. With Bay Area diversity there were women of all ethnicities, but I managed to partner myself with a latina beauty. The woman of my dreams.

We danced hand in hand, arm in arm, body to body, and I was entranced by her bright eyes and the sexy Cuban motion of her rolling, swaying hips. I fast-forwarded the night through my mind. We would dance till we tired, flirt over drinks, chat and get to know each other, then dance some more. I’d pull her close and telegraph desire, my fiery eyes penetrating her smoldering gaze. We’d kiss, exchange numbers, meet for romantic dinner dates, begin a sizzling fling that stretched through summer to eternity.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said.
I broke from my reverie. “How about another?” I asked.
She smiled. “That’s sweet, but my usual partner is here now.” She pointed to a man drinking bottled water at the bar. He flashed a goofy smile and waved.

So much for my Hot Latin Night. By 9:30, Alberto’s was pulsing with its usual crowd. And the beginners were left to practice our moves on the edge of the dance floor, alone.

Ah, but practice does make perfect; someday I’ll get back to The Ramp. In the meantime, perhaps another vacation is in order. After all, Peru and the Caribbean didn’t have mismatched dance floor ratios of men and women. And for a single man, that’s a very good thing.

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.

A few years ago, a group of neighborhood soccer moms asked me to train with them for the Napa Valley Marathon. I’d just turned forty and was an avid cyclist who’d left hill workouts, interval training, and twenty-mile runs well behind me.

“I can give you some tips,” I said. “But my serious running days are over.”
“We need you out there with us,” they said. “You’re the marathon expert.”

I did know a thing or two about marathons. I’d run seven of them in my 30s, and had a collection of finisher’s medals that my kids and I took turns wearing in a showy display that rivaled Mark Spitz. But in my late 30s, twelve mile jogs brought sharp knee pain, and runs over two hours shut down my immune system, landing me in bed with a terrible cold. My body could no longer take the tremendous toll of training for the 26.2 mile event, and I hung up my Asics Gel Kayanos.

Cycling was a better activity for me. I could enjoy a three-hour ride, then saddle up the next day and do it again. I covered far more ground on a bike than I ever could running. I’d pedal out to Crystal Springs reservoir, up Old La Honda Road into the Santa Cruz mountains, lunch at Alice’s restaurant with the Ducati crowd, enjoy a winding speedy descent, hammer my way home. All on the same ride. Cycling had firmly become my new sport.

While the moms awaited my response, I realized here was a chance to connect with them. As a single dad working from home, you’d think I could have been part of the stay-at-home social scene – morning coffee circles, book clubs, power walks – but the moms did all these things without me, claiming I’d be bored with the motherly, feminine focus of their gatherings. I wasn’t so sure; at neighborhood barbecues, I usually chatted with moms about books rather than dads about golf. But when I’d invited some moms over for coffee, I didn’t have much luck. I simply wasn’t part of their scene.

Training with them for Napa would change everything.

“I could join you for a run or two each week,” I said.
“No, we want you to run the marathon with us,” they said.

No way. Forget the the painful workouts, the torture inflicted by the grueling race. I already had plans. “I can’t,” I said. “I’m riding the Solvang Century, and it’s the same weekend.”

The moms were clearly deflated. “We can’t do it without you,” they said.

I have to admit, it felt good to be needed and included again. Besides, this was a chance to get to know the moms better as friends, and show them that, whether single or married, as parents we had a lot in common. The Solvang Century could wait a year.

“Okay,” I said.

Nothing went as planned. Weekday scheduling proved a major problem, and each mom ran on her own. Weekend runs they did together, but I was busy with my kids and doing activities with friends, like skiing and wine tasting, that had been planned in advance.

As the weeks progressed, one by one the moms dropped out of the race. They were overbooked – weekend soccer matches, morning ceramic classes, the occasional kid home sick. A few moms quit due to injury. Overtraining, undertraining. Soon there were only three of us left.

“This isn’t going so well,” I said. “Maybe I should just cycle Solvang.”
“No, don’t quit,” the two moms said. “You have to run the race with us. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Of all the marathons I’ve run – Silicon Valley Marathon, Marine Corps Marathon, San Diego Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon, San Francisco Marathon, and Napa three times – Napa was by far the most scenic, friendly, and enjoyable. And I’d run especially well there, nearly qualifying for the Boston Marathon. Running it would be fun. Besides, the deadline for Solvang had passed, and the century ride was full.

A week before Napa, one more mom dropped out, leaving just one woman and me to run the race.

“I don’t think I can run,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked. “You’ve trained.”
“I’m worried what people will think. A married women and a single dad spending a weekend in Napa together.”

I was dumbstruck. What was she worried about? I wasn’t whisking her off to wine country for a romantic affair. We were running a marathon, and she’d invited me. We’d already booked separate rooms in separate hotels. We could even take separate cars for the ninety minute drive. Once in Napa, we’d stay busy and focused on carbo loading at the pasta feed, downing water and Gatorade, getting extra sleep, running the race.

“We both happen to be running the same race,” I said. “No one cares.”
“I don’t want my husband to worry,” she said. “He has to stay home with the kids.”
Worry? About what, gossip? We were friends, but she was married. My sights were set on eligible singles. “Have him bring the kids,” I said. “You can’t bail on me, now.”

But bail she did. Here I was, roped into a race I didn’t want to run, suddenly left to do it alone. Depressed at the thought of another weekend of solo travel – I’d endured plenty – I dropped out and stayed home.

While my weekdays do not include coffee circles, book clubs, or power walks, my cappuccino machine is always on, ready for a friendly visitor. Just don’t invite me to run a marathon or help you train.

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.

In eight years of divorce, I’ve browsed thousands of profiles and met dozens and dozens of women through various dating sites like match.com, salon.com, chemistry.com, eHarmony, and craigslist, making me a bit of an internet dating expert. First dates covered a range of activities, including meeting for coffee, cocktails, hiking, cycling, dinner, museums, and even the occasional booty call. A very small number of these meetings actually led to second dates. And how many turned into real relationships? One. That’s right, ONE. Online dating does not work!

Whew, felt good to get that off my chest. For the record, I’ve had five serious long-term girlfriends since my divorce, and way too much in-between-relationship time. Besides the girlfriend I met online, I met three through friends (a few blind dates and a handful of parties), and one through everyday life.

The internet may be a useful tool for meeting random people, but as Malcolm Gladwell explains in Blink, chemistry is something felt, not thought about and articulated in checkboxes and paragraphs of online prose.

I must be a slow learner. Which is great news for you as I have plenty of good* online dating stories to tell. (*where good means: juicy, interesting, provocative, shocking, thrilling, jaw dropping, mind numbing, titillating, insane, crazy, sexy, stupid, and just plain bad.) For some reason, I’m compelled to start with this one…

Sati and I met on chemistry.com, which is to say, “world-renowned biological anthropologist” Dr. Helen Fisher’s algorithmic calculations of our personality profiles considered us to be a great match. Sati and I exchanged emails, then a phone call, then decided to meet in Palo Alto outside Mills The Florist. The summer evening was balmy, and Sati wore a white sundress that contrasted beautifully with her black hair and dark skin. (If anyone cares, I wore nice jeans, an untucked short-sleeve shirt, and black Kenneth Cole’s. Typical guy attire.)

I suggested cocktails at Zibibbo, an upscale restaurant that was nearby.
“I don’t drink alcohol,” Sati said. “Tea, perhaps?”

Oh, boy. Certainly a cocktail or glass of wine lends itself to a more relaxed first-date conversation than caffeinated (or, God forbid, herbal) tea. I’m a man who likes his martini shaken. And I don’t like drinking alone. That Sati doesn’t drink alcohol was Strike One against her.

We opted for a walk, then sat together on a park bench and watched children having fun on a play structure. Sati became dreamy eyed. “You know, David, it’s so great how chemistry.com matched us up. It’s like an arranged marriage, except we both had some input as to who we want to meet. And I must say, you’re much more handsome than any man my parents would have picked for me, had I stayed in India.”

Yikes! We’re not twenty minutes into our first date, and she’s already talking about our marriage potential? Strike Two!

Dinner was in a funky Mediterranean café, and Sati suggested we order a few plates and share, family style. Fine by me, I was in kabob heaven. “Do you want lamb, chicken, or beef?” I asked.
“I’m a vegetarian,” she said.

Ugh. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the eating choices of other people. But my kids and I like meat – lemon chicken, cajun chicken, chicken and dumplings, BBQ ribs, bacon on Saturday mornings, Santa Maria style tri-tip, thuringer sausage from Dittmer’s, In-n-Out burgers (double-double for me, flying dutchman for my son, animal style for my daughter), forty garlic-clove lamb, etc. etc. etc.!

At this point, I could draw only one conclusion. Strike Three! You’re out! This date is over.

But after dinner as I walked her towards her car, Sati grabbed my hand and snuggled her body close. “You know what I’d really like tonight?” she asked. “I’d like you to tuck me into bed.”

Ding ding ding ding!!! HOME RUN!!! If that’s not an invitation for a booty call, I don’t know what is.

Now, you may wonder why I would consider a booty call with Sati if I felt there was no relationship potential. Women will forever be asking men that question. And maybe I’ll get into it in a future blog post. For now, suffice to say I took her up on her proposition.

Her flat was small and spartan, in a hippie-ish apartment community. In her bedroom was her computer, the very device on which she received her chemistry.com communications. Our communications. She excused herself to the bathroom to change for bed, and I wondered if I should undress now or when she returned. (At that point, I recalled a scene from Jerry Maguire when Renee Zellweger comes out of the bathroom ready for sex, only to find Tom Cruise creepily posing in his underwear – and I kept my clothes on.)

Sati came out wearing long pajamas. Decidedly not sexy. But hey, maybe that’s her style, her comfort level when entertaining a man. Helping her take the pajamas off would be part of the fun. But she climbed right into bed and pulled the covers up tight. “Okay, David. Tuck me in.”

I’ll make a long story short – tuck her in is all I did. Presumably, more would happen on our wedding night. It was probably for the best. I’m a big believer that sex on a first date is not a good way to start a relationship. But a three-strike evening is not a good way to start out, either. Despite future phone call protestations by her that “we have to work through problems like any other couple,” and “communication is the key,” we never had a second date.

I wonder if Dr. Helen Fisher would consider adjusting her matchmaking computations to better account for booze, meat, and booty. Or maybe I should just let my mom set me up.

If you liked this post, you might also enjoy:

• CONTEST - First Date Tips and Horror Stories
• Confessions of a Serial Online Dater, part 1 (Craigslist coffee date gone bad)
• Boys are the New Girls, Women are the New Men
  
• How to Start Dating a Single Dad

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.

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Tom Perrotta’s new book, The Abstinence Teacher, is for the most part an enjoyable read. But what’s with the main characters – a divorced man incapable/not allowed to raise his child, and a woman whose only male friends are gay? Isn’t it time to stop furthering these socially toxic stereotypes?

As a heterosexual man who is deeply involved in my kids’ lives, and who has platonic female friends, I find myself battling social stereotypes every single day – people questioning my ability as a father, assuming the mom is the more capable and responsible parent; and questioning my sexual orientation (or my intentions) when I have female friends who are married.

Come on, already. Not all single dads are deadbeats. Some of us choose to stay involved. We can actually run a household, cook healthy meals without resorting to microwave dinners and take-out pizza, load a washing machine, shuttle kids to soccer practice, volunteer in the school. We can be friends with married women, have girlfriends who aren’t married, and still do beer night with the guys.

Perrotta’s not the only culprit. Richard Ford wrote about deadbeat dad Frank Bascombe three separate times (The Sportswriter, Independence Day, Lay of the Land), and even won a Pulitzer Prize for his efforts. Those were all excellent books, by the way, and some of my favorite-ever reads; but they only give one view of post-divorce parenting. Not every single dad disappears from his kids’ lives and lets the mom have full say in their upbringing.

Then there’s the ever popular Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I hated the ending. The girl’s dad might have been a strict disciplinarian, but at least he chose to stay involved in her life, raising her the best he could given their circumstances. Sure, he could have been more nurturing, bought her the birthday gift she really wanted, but at least he was there! He chose to take care of her. Ah, but a girl’s bitterness is best soothed by a band of women, right? Please.

How about movies like Weatherman (Nicolas Cage’s character, deadbeat dad), and War of the Worlds (Tom Cruise’s character, deadbeat dad). Why in so many books and films are the dads such losers while the moms remarry such successful men? Life isn’t always like that.

Involved dads do show up occasionally in stories. Dustin Hoffman in the film Kramer vs. Kramer is not deadbeat, in fact he desperately wants to be the primary caregiver, but early on is simply not capable (remember the french toast scene?) Will Smith in Pursuit of Happyness is a capable caregiver, but needs a chance to get his life and career on track (and he does).

This is not to diminish the blight of single moms who often struggle mightily. I know there are deadbeat dads in the world. But there are also some capable, nurturing, caring guys who can take care of kids and keep their own masculinity. And as long as bestsellers and blockbusters keep promoting outdated stereotypes, ingraining them in the public’s consciousness, involved single dads will continue to struggle for social acceptance.

If you liked this post, you might also enjoy:

• Men Who Read and Cook – Sexy or Unmanly?
• A New Earth – Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose
• Cocktails and Booty - Ironman Rocked!
  

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.

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For years I was strictly a vodka martini drinker, until my brother introduced me to Plymouth Gin. Supposedly, the New York Times cocktail guru swears by the brand. Here’s my brother’s recipe for a perfect gin martini. For optimal drinking conditions, have his wife fix it while you sit on the deck, basking in the warmth of a late-afternoon Santa Barbara sun, relaxing, preparing to watch a beautiful Pacific sunset… (hey, it happened once. Let me dream!)

5 parts Plymouth Gin
1 part Martini and Rossi Extra-Dry Vermouth
Shake sharply with crushed ice
Strain into a martini glass
Serve with a blue-cheese stuffed olive

© 2008 DadsHouseBlog.com. All rights reserved.