What’s Up With the ‘Zsa Zsa Zsu’?
I saw that episode of ‘Sex and the City’ last night – the one where Carrie is all googly-eyed over Berger in the Hamptons at the faux-wedding because he gives her the “zsa zsa zsu”. (A saying which I love and have appropriated into my daily vocabulary.) And before that I had the never-ending conversation with I_____ about the list of requirements in a mate we all have that needs to be satisfied. There’s your standard sense of humour/intelligence/polite criteria that all need to be met. And then there’s the indefinable zsa zsa zsu that makes you feel swept away.
My Non-negotiable list, for the record, is as follows:
1. Intelligence. It can take many forms. He can be book smart, or street smart, or both. But it has to feel like, forty years hence, he’ll still have something to say to me. And I’ll still want to hear it.
2. Sense of humour – of the form “goofy” or “ruthlessly sarcastic.” He doesn’t have to be a complete whore for a laugh, but the occasional purposeful pratfall usually does work on me. And if he’s going to be sarcastic, then he has to include himself in on the joke from time to time, otherwise he will just fall into the category of “mean”, and that’s no good. Oh, and to clarify, for me “sense of humour” does not mean the ability to find something funny. It means that the subject is, himself, funny. I don’t care if he laughs at MY jokes, I can do that for myself. (ba-dum-bum-chh!) He needs to bring original material to the table.
3. Ability to make me feel safe. I don’t know where this one comes from. I think it may be some throw back to hunter-gatherer societies where the men hunted and protected the women, and the women nurtured and healed the men. Whatever. I’d like to think I’m strong and independent and all of those good modern women things. And I am. But if I don’t feel like when a man has his arms wrapped around me that nothing on earth could hurt me, well, then there’s something that’s not being satisfied. I oughta feel safe.
4. I like to group all these tiny little idiosyncrasies of mine into one category. He can’t litter. EVER. He’s got to have the basics of table manners down cold: no hats at the table, chew with your mouth closed and sit up straight. He has to like dogs more than he likes cats. He has to be able to get along really well with at least one member of my immediate family. I know Mom can seem pretty intimidating at first, and Dad is basically American sometimes, and Mr. Grumpy-pants is, well, grumpy, and The Adjudicator has the market cornered on being obnoxious… He doesn’t have to love them all the way that I do, he just has to choose one. He has to have decent grammar, both spoken and written. I’m willing to put up with the “dyslexia” excuse for the occasional whacked-out spelling, so long as he remembers to begin each sentence with a capital and makes an effort for his written work to be pleasantly readable. You may think it’s stupid, but I think it’s important. He also has to be able to put up with reality TV. He doesn’t have to watch it, or even enjoy it, but he must be willing to accept the fact that I always have the TV on and it often showcases fame-whores who want to be on TV just to be on TV. Whining or proclaiming this a sign of the apocalypse is not allowed.
And then there’s #5, which is as close as I can get to defining what gives me the zsa zsa zsu. Not every guy has got it. And not every guy who has it gives me the zsa zsa zsu. But if he’s got the first four covered, then this kind of completes the set.
5. Freckles along the top of a set of nice, broad shoulders. I don’t know why, I just know it works for me.
Some people like big hands. Some people go for good teeth. Some people are all about the abs, or the butt, or the eyes. And sure those things are nice. Hands I’m not too fussy about – so long as they aren’t, you know, girl hands. And sometimes I like a crooked smile even more than a perfect smile because I feel it has more “character” somehow. A nice body is always a good thing, but not so nice that I feel guilty for eating donuts or McDonald’s. And I prefer blue eyes to brown. That’s just the way it is.
There are all these little physical indexes that have to align before you can even get out of the starting gate, and they are different for EVERYBODY. I know a guy who loves it when a girl wears a sporty pony-tail, nice and high on the back of her head so that it bounces when she walks. I know a guy who loses all train of thought when a girl goes by him with long, dark, curly hair. And another proclaims simply to be looking for Natalie Portman – specifically the character she played in “Garden State” (to which I say, good luck.) For some people I know, if you can sing then you’re automatically on the hot list. For me, it’s the shoulders with the freckles. Which is sort of random, I know. I can’t quite explain it, but there you have it.
So now, what gives you the zsa zsa zsu?
My Non-negotiable list, for the record, is as follows:
1. Intelligence. It can take many forms. He can be book smart, or street smart, or both. But it has to feel like, forty years hence, he’ll still have something to say to me. And I’ll still want to hear it.
2. Sense of humour – of the form “goofy” or “ruthlessly sarcastic.” He doesn’t have to be a complete whore for a laugh, but the occasional purposeful pratfall usually does work on me. And if he’s going to be sarcastic, then he has to include himself in on the joke from time to time, otherwise he will just fall into the category of “mean”, and that’s no good. Oh, and to clarify, for me “sense of humour” does not mean the ability to find something funny. It means that the subject is, himself, funny. I don’t care if he laughs at MY jokes, I can do that for myself. (ba-dum-bum-chh!) He needs to bring original material to the table.
3. Ability to make me feel safe. I don’t know where this one comes from. I think it may be some throw back to hunter-gatherer societies where the men hunted and protected the women, and the women nurtured and healed the men. Whatever. I’d like to think I’m strong and independent and all of those good modern women things. And I am. But if I don’t feel like when a man has his arms wrapped around me that nothing on earth could hurt me, well, then there’s something that’s not being satisfied. I oughta feel safe.
4. I like to group all these tiny little idiosyncrasies of mine into one category. He can’t litter. EVER. He’s got to have the basics of table manners down cold: no hats at the table, chew with your mouth closed and sit up straight. He has to like dogs more than he likes cats. He has to be able to get along really well with at least one member of my immediate family. I know Mom can seem pretty intimidating at first, and Dad is basically American sometimes, and Mr. Grumpy-pants is, well, grumpy, and The Adjudicator has the market cornered on being obnoxious… He doesn’t have to love them all the way that I do, he just has to choose one. He has to have decent grammar, both spoken and written. I’m willing to put up with the “dyslexia” excuse for the occasional whacked-out spelling, so long as he remembers to begin each sentence with a capital and makes an effort for his written work to be pleasantly readable. You may think it’s stupid, but I think it’s important. He also has to be able to put up with reality TV. He doesn’t have to watch it, or even enjoy it, but he must be willing to accept the fact that I always have the TV on and it often showcases fame-whores who want to be on TV just to be on TV. Whining or proclaiming this a sign of the apocalypse is not allowed.
And then there’s #5, which is as close as I can get to defining what gives me the zsa zsa zsu. Not every guy has got it. And not every guy who has it gives me the zsa zsa zsu. But if he’s got the first four covered, then this kind of completes the set.
5. Freckles along the top of a set of nice, broad shoulders. I don’t know why, I just know it works for me.
Some people like big hands. Some people go for good teeth. Some people are all about the abs, or the butt, or the eyes. And sure those things are nice. Hands I’m not too fussy about – so long as they aren’t, you know, girl hands. And sometimes I like a crooked smile even more than a perfect smile because I feel it has more “character” somehow. A nice body is always a good thing, but not so nice that I feel guilty for eating donuts or McDonald’s. And I prefer blue eyes to brown. That’s just the way it is.
There are all these little physical indexes that have to align before you can even get out of the starting gate, and they are different for EVERYBODY. I know a guy who loves it when a girl wears a sporty pony-tail, nice and high on the back of her head so that it bounces when she walks. I know a guy who loses all train of thought when a girl goes by him with long, dark, curly hair. And another proclaims simply to be looking for Natalie Portman – specifically the character she played in “Garden State” (to which I say, good luck.) For some people I know, if you can sing then you’re automatically on the hot list. For me, it’s the shoulders with the freckles. Which is sort of random, I know. I can’t quite explain it, but there you have it.
So now, what gives you the zsa zsa zsu?
posted by nerdifer at 11:49 a.m.
1 Comments:
I sat at my desk a good 5 minutes contemplating that question...and I guess the answer is...5'8, brown hair, average build.
I'm looking for a male me.
MY GAWD...I'm a narcisist! I'm in love with myself and am looking for exactly that.
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