Which Rules Rule?

And deep breath….

Hello! This post I would like to talk to you about this book.

The Rules by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider. There it is, all red and judgemental and 90s.

Now. You may well ask: “Siouxsie, this seems like a radical departure from your usual blog content. What gives?’

You, bless your heart.

And I would agree with you. As a rule, I keep a respectful distance between myself and the self-help department unless it is to gaze with fascinated horror at the shelf of David Icke conspiracy theories or to pick up useful looking books on improving my dog’s self-esteem. (None of which have worked, by the way. He’s currently in a co-dependant relationship with a bikini clad rubber chicken).

We're all very worried.

My knowledge of The Rules, therefore, was formerly limited to a vague cultural awareness and a suspicion that I may or may not have seen Carrie Bradshaw waffling on about them in a breathless-type way whilst slobbing around an apartment large enough to make you believe in the Tardis. (No otherwise unemployed newspaper columnist could afford that many square feet in central Manhattan, surely?)

Yeah, my freelance writing job totally pays for this

My life could have continued happily in this semi-ignorant state but for my mother. The same mother that once put shampoo in the washing machine, my DVD rentals in the airing cupboard and a Christmas holly wreath on my head came home with this bizarre offering from our local charity shop.

At this point, it should be noted that I have been in a stable relationship for three years. Of which she approves. My mother took a left turn at the traffic lights of reason many years ago and has never looked back.

Anyway. Back to The Rules. This edition is a bitesize version of the actual book. It contains maxims and handy pocket-sized advice on sticking to the programme.  It took me a little while to realise I had met my nemesis.

So far so good.

That seems reasonable.

Erm… What?

This little book served as a gateway drug to the real thing. The entire programme surfs the addictive crest between common sense and total batshit lunacy.

For example: One of the book’s main ‘Rules’ states:

Try not to overshare during the first stages of dating.

Ok. Yes. I can back this one. Don’t you hate it when you meet someone for the first time and within twenty minutes could write the first draft of their biography? Yeah, that really gets on my…

Wait. Were you saying something? Sorry, do go on…

I’m sorry? Are these people for real? Have they ever met a woman? Is this based on their own pre-rules dating lives? Did their diaries read:

Dear Diary,

Met up with Frank tonight. Went to a lovely Italian restaurant. I wore my tight jeans and a cute top. Everything seemed to be going so well! But diary, as soon as I mentioned I might need to pop into the little girls’ room every half hour to top up on magical fairy pixie dust, he seemed to go cold on me! I just don’t understand! What am I doing wrong here?

Oops, got to go, my septum just fell out again.

Oh well. YOLO. LOL.

Who is the person who needed to purchase this in order to realise that that’s where they were going wrong?

"The rule is don't talk about your inner shame? Damn. messed up again!"

 

But perhaps this says more about the authors’ attitude towards alcohol than a real problem in the New York dating scene of the 1990s. It swiftly becomes clear that Fein and Schneider would perhaps have been happier living and loving during the prohibition era. In the multitude of scenarios presented to us in the book, hawt sexy singletons are delicately sipping Perriers on dates and in clubs. Alcohol is presented as an unsafe topic of conversation during a first date – remember, you’re trying to hide your dependency –  or as a signifier of a potential bad catch: he’s downed a whole bottle of wine to himself during the date… might he be…. An alcoholic?!?

This man thinks he is.

In reality, of course, it’s less likely that your sozzled date has a dependency problem. You’re just boring him to tears.

Tips for a first date, Rules style:

-          Avoid looking at him.

-         Be quiet and mysterious.

-          Cross your legs and smile.

-         Don’t talk so much.

-         Hike up your skirt to show some stocking.

-         Never go Dutch.

-          Don’t tell sarcastic jokes.

-          Don’t be a loud, knee slapping (?), hysterically funny girl.

Remember, you might feel like this will suppress your intelligence and personality… but men will love it!

Oh good. Glad we don’t have to compromise there, then. But there is light at the end of the tunnel. By date four, we are told, it is appropriate to show sympathy if his football team loses or his dog dies. Oh. Four dates in I’m allowed to act like a human being if someone’s fucking pet kicks the bucket?  Lovely.  It was really awkward on that first date when he told me his fish died and I had to try and be quiet and mysterious about it. I think he thought I killed it.

How can he commit to you and not to me? This will not stand, Rex.

But maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. We’re starting on a date. How does one acquire such a rendezvous, one might ask?

In the freakiest manner possible, it transpires.

Firstly, one must never initiate a date. Men are aggressors apparently. Any sign of interest from the weaker sex will cause this man-beast’s brain to short-circuit. He may say yes, they say sniffily:  but he will resent it forever – EVEN IF HE MARRIES YOU.

Don't be fooled, Mrs. Bear. He's seething with raging hatred. Quick, check he's not crossing his fingers.... or holding a shiv.

So. To catch a man without showing any apparent interest in him at all:

-           If you have a bad nose, get a nose job. (Because seriously, fuck self-esteem).

-       Grow your hair long: Men prefer long hair. It doesn’t matter what your friends think. (Or you. But you should know that by now. Your opinions are worthless in the face of superior man-knowledge, fool. Snip-snip and you may just get the old chop-chop!)

-     Don’t leave the house without wearing makeup. Even to go jogging. (…Ew.)

-         Never make eye contact. Smile at the room. (unfocussed joy is sexy, ladies.)

-     If no one asks you to dance, (because it’s so awkward when even Elizabeth Bennett gets a dance before you *cringe*): go to the bathroom five times if you have to, reapply your lipstick, powder your nose, order more water from the bar (whoa there, don’t go crazy), think happy thoughts and walk around the room in circles until someone notices you.

    Yup. If you’re having a bad night, don’t go and dance with your girlfriends…

    go and walk around the room in circles like a normal person.

The party was a disaster. No one had invited any men, but two women collapsed from exhaustion.

   What a wonderful evening out. I wish I lived like that. But then, the authors seem to thrive on the concept of healthy exercise whilst at social gatherings. Here’s another scenario:

   He’s noticed you and you’re talking. But, being the tedious creature that you are, you may not wish to carry on speaking for too long. Far too forward. Your voice is offensive to the race of man. You may start talking about shoes. Don't lie, you were thinking about shoes... bloody woman.

Politely make your bid for freedom by announcing: ‘I think I’ll walk around now’.

Byee!

 I just can’t process this. We’re not taking a turn around the room at the bloody Bath Pump Rooms in an Austen novel. Could everyone just stand still a minute?

So. You’ve caught a man’s attention. Maybe he’s an obsessive rambler who mistakes you for a kindred spirit with all that bloody leg-work you’re doing. You went on a date and somehow managed to avoid honking like a performing seal whilst disclosing your inner drugs turmoil. Well done. Chances are he’ll ask you out again.

Fantastic. Logic dictates you should start acting like a rational human being now, right?

WRONG!

Sister, if he ain’t put a ring on it, you’re doing jack. You don’t return his calls. You continue to act demure and mysterious, and above all you resist contributing to the progression of the relationship in any way. Like the idea of checking out that new Japanese place? Forget it. That’s his call. And he likes pizza, the swine.

Got two tickets to an awesome show? Nuh-uh. Shows you’re thinking about him. Plus you’ll have committed the cardinal sin of opening your wallet and paying for something. Shocked intake of breath ladies and gentlemen if you please.

So why the games? Because, according to the book, you’re trying to get a ring on it within a year. Maximum two. It is taken as read that the minute you start to date a man, any rational female will be starting to plan the wedding cake. This, apparently, is healthy as long as you keep it well hidden. But be warned. Some men, it transpires, may date for up to five years!

Five years?! No! The Philistines!

And before you set the date you can kiss goodbye to sharing a flat, you hussy. Want to go on holiday for more than a few days? Forget it. It’s honeymoon or nothing, buster.

(To be honest, holidays are a topic best avoided. If a man is falling out of love with you, be warned: he may say something along the lines of ‘Lose weight and I’ll take you on holiday’. Wow. I'll sure miss that one when I'm burying the body.) 

There’s even a confusing paragraph about continuing to date other men right up until the proposal.

Yup. Commitment’s for suckers.

But finally, the ring is superglued into place. The church bells have rung and Bridezilla here has made three flower girls cry. It's been a long two (*snort*) years, but it's worth it. We've reached the end of the line games-wise, surely?

Oh no, no, no, no, no! Are you crazy? You're going to let out all that raw personality you've been bottling up? Bad move, darlin'. He may start abusing you. (No, I'm not exaggerating too much here. Rules girls never get beaten, apparently. The others... well the others take their lives into their own hands.) Try to be interested in his hobbies. Don't expect him to see things from your point of view all the time. Try not to be too resentful when he comes home stressed and you've been cleaning all day.

Seriously. It's like the Pankhursts, voting rights and the Spice Girls never happened. 

And Heterosexual ladies past the legal age aren’t the only targets. No. People of the LGBT community must also conform. In a hideously patronising section (have you, gay men and women, gone through a lifetime of hurt?) it is suggested that even being on the same biological keel as your partner should not stop you acting like a complete head-case. This raises the question of what would happen if two people both following The Rules were to go on a date. Both staring demurely at their food, trying not to be funny and subtly trying to show off a bit more underwear. Fun times. Let’s just hope no-one mentions any dead pets.

The perfect crime...

Speaking of conformity, those of you under the legal marriageable age aren’t forgotten! Nope. Best to get some practice in early, ladies! Nip that personality in the bud.

-          Notice what kinds of clothes, shoes, bags, jewellery and hair-styles the most popular kids in school are wearing. Don’t try to be too different or frugal in this area. You’ll feel lousy, so it’s not worth it. Don’t let your mind tell you that all of this is superficial and beneath you. Don’t you like boys who wear polo shirts and cowboy boots when that’s in fashion? Well, they like girls who wear what’s on MTV and in the magazines.

I'm blinded by my own inanity.

I’m going to have to stop soon because, really, reading this once was enough without flicking back through the pages for references.

And the sad thing is, it won’t even make a dent. This isn’t the first edition of this Bible of dating for psychotics. And, in the interim, the authors have noticed that not a lot of people like what they’re saying. So they’ve sewn it up pretty tight.

Men who say they don’t date Rules girls are lying.

Women who argue against the rules are well-meaning but ultimately misguided feminists whose own relationships are bound to be riddled with neglect and sadness.

This is a common theme in the book. Fein and Schneider have more case studies than David Cameron come election time.

BRB. Off to meet some peepz.

Cindy did the rules and is now perched on an actual physical pedestal made of gold where her loving and slightly Stockholm-syndrome husband scatters petals over her serenely smiling figure hourly.

Katie didn’t do the rules and now she’s living in an abandoned caravan in Swindon with chewing gum in her hair being relentlessly pelted with eggs by songbirds and small cherubic children.

Swindon.

Take heed, my friends, take heed.