I stood by the elevators waiting for the car, focused on the woman in front of me. How is it that some women who look good in pants can appear horrendous in a dress? And the reverse as well - why don't the two correspond? Some women possess just the right amount of hip curve and ass to make a pair of dress slacks or jeans look good, yet pull them out of those pants and put a dress on them and the hips aren't so flattering anymore, and their legs too twiggy - or worse, too fat and untoned to help the package - and the woman's overall look has taken a turn for the worse. The same holds true going from skirt to pants I've noticed, as a woman's lack of ass becomes more noticeable in pants. One was definitely not made with the other in mind. My mind was wandering because it was trying to stay away from the distressing situation at hand.

Today was Valentine's Day, and I had unknowingly agreed to have dinner with a group of about nine women, all of whom were single, all of whom I worked with. For a guy Valentine's Day is a sham perpetrated by marketers and advertisers who are after his hard-earned buck. Valentine's Day is about disguising dollar signs as love. Don't think so? Then why is there so much pressure on the guy to buy something - anything - for his paramour when he can do it any day of the year? Does such emphasis on a singular day of copulative cash spending then free guys from spending money on their significant other for the rest of the year? Pose that question to any woman and see what eyebrow-raising, arm-crossing, frown-fueled response you get.

That covers only women who are in relationships. For singles, Valentine's Day takes on a whole different significance. It's not the "woe is me" emotional outbursts pushed on generations by 50s-era technicolor Hollywood movies and modern-day Merchant Ivory fare. Instead the pendulum swings the opposite way, providing said single woman with an opportunity to reflect on her past failed relationships and in her spurned, jaded, and dejected state, project her paramour's faults onto males as a whole. Men are pigs, men are dogs. Lowly animals who can't commit or come to terms with their true feelings. They cheat. They lie. And women are the victim. Mind you they project this onto any man who crosses her path on this day of love, and may mercy fall upon whomever that man may be.

I was about to become "that man," walking into a dinner party where I'd be the lone representative of the male sex. I would have to withstand their barrage, and I would have to defend and speak for all men everywhere tonight.

I am the Lorax, I speak for the trees.

I walked back to my hotel room and changed, the whole time thinking about what I'd gotten myself into and how easily I was suckered. I mumbled random curse words as I threw on my suit and ran some Korres styling gel through my hair. I felt like Custer riding into Little Big Horn. The best I could hope for was it being quick and painless. Who was I kidding, I was going to be roasted over a spit. I stopped in front of the mirrored wardrobe closet door and checked everything, smoothing any wrinkles and shooting my cuffs. I looked at the links that came with the Hermes shirt, a plain patternless silver oval link. I needed some new cufflinks, I thought, something that blended the suit jacket against the creme tones of the Hermes shirt. Maybe two-tone onyx cased in sterling silver. I'd devote more time to it later. I unbuttoned the lower button on the coat and made one final sweep. I’ll admit, I looked good.

I found my way to Margot’s house with little trouble and she showed me in, having me take a seat on the sofa. “You look very nice tonight,” she added as I sat. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not quite ready but I shouldn’t be long...about five minutes.” I knew what that really meant – about half an hour. I grabbed the issue of Cosmo laying on the coffee table and began thumbing through some of the more savory columns. Could I keep a lover forever? Am I doing my all to give her mind-blowing orgasms? Will I be the type to dump her or will she pull out the rug from under me? These articles and more screamed their advice in large, bold lettering fonted against pastels and other soft colors, meant to subtly reinforce to the reader that she wasn’t being scolded – scolded was too harsh – she was being helped by people who genuinely cared. I yawned and tossed the magazine back on the table.

I sat around for another five minutes, not hearing a peep upstairs. “Margot,” I began, “if you’re running late I can just meet you there so we don’t worry the rest of the group,” I lied. I hated waiting for anybody. Is it so wrong to be ready when you say you’re going to be ready?

I heard footsteps on the wooden stairs and turned around expecting to see Margot. Instead it was somebody else, a younger, thinner version of Margot with the same wavy black hair and piercing dark eyes. “Who are you talking to?” the girl asked.

“I thought…your…Mom?” I wasn’t sure; the girl was just at the age where she could have been the daughter of a very young mother, or a very young sister. Knowing Margot was a single mother, I hedged my bet.

The girl turned and took a couple of steps in the direction of the second floor. “Mom, there’s somebody here calling for you.” I heard some muffled discussion as the two exchanged words, and then it went silent. Shortly after they both came downstairs.

“My daughter seems to think that I can’t leave anybody waiting downstairs for a few minutes while I get myself ready.” Margot looked good, better than she did in the office. She showed that extra special attention applying her makeup that a woman does when she goes out on the town, where preparation and showmanship mean so much more. She wore a long dress that made her look a little thinner, a little taller, and accented the outfit with mid-sized heels. If she looked like this everyday she might have had a man in her life by now.

“Reed, this is my daughter, Corrine.” I stood up, turned to face her, and for the first time we each got a good look at each other. Corrine was very thin, with long legs and a shorter, less-defined torso. She looked like she was going through the awkward growth spurts of puberty, where nothing happened in proportion to anything else. Her skin was fair and void of makeup save for a bit of eye shadow. She curled her hair behind her shoulders.

“Hi Corrine, very pleased to meet you.”

“Uh, yeah.” Margot went into the kitchen and Corrine followed. There were whispers back and forth at an uneven pace. First hurried, then slowed, then paused, then hurried again. Soon they forewent the secrecy and I could here them talking.

“You’re totally going out on a date Mom.”

“I am not, Corrine. There’s a big group of us all meeting at Henry’s. He’s works at the office with us.”

“Mom – he is so cute!”

“I know, he’s a looker isn’t he. He has such pretty eyes.” Some girlish giggles followed.

I decided to cut in. From the couch I said “Would it help move things along any faster in there if I told you I can hear every word you’re saying?”

Hushed silence. Then more muffled girlish laughing. Finally Margot emerged. “Oh it’s just girl talk, Reed.” Corrine opened the kitchen door gently and filed out silently, trying to blend unseen into the background.

“My daughter thinks you’re the bees knees.”

“Mom!” Corrine protested. She started turning red with embarrassment.

“Is that so?” I replied, slowly walking in the direction of Corrine. “Well, you know she’d be right, because I am.” I added a little smirk at the end and Corrine’s embarrassment level hit beet red.

“Ready to go?” asked Margot. When we were on the other side of the door Margot said, “that felt good to give her a little public humiliation. Sometimes getting revenge on your kids for being pain in the butt teens can be nice,” she laughed. I am convinced all parents go to great lengths to give their child an embarrassing jab in public. It’s payback for all the things adults endure as parents of a teen.

“That was funny back there. Know what else? In ten years Corrine will be 24, I’ll be 34 and likely single. And dateable,” I added. “Still think that’s funny?”

“Shutup.”
___________________________________________________________________

Henry’s is what the mind thinks of when the term “neighborhood family restaurant” gets thrown about. Henry, the founder and sole proprietor, was an Italian immigrant who settled in Toronto’s northwest area some time shortly after World War II, when much of Europe’s population was hastily moving to more secure and less war-torn countries. Henry and his family started the restaurant a few years after arriving in Canada and turned it into one of the most successful and popular Italian mom-and-pop places to eat. Reservations were mandatory and waits were expected. But the décor, the service, and most importantly the cuisine, echoed another time, from the candles in the Chianti bottles whose melted wax had overrun the bottle’s sides to the family-sized portions of food on the immigrant style menu, from the never-ending plates of doughy garlic bread to the ever-present waiters asking if you needed more, more, more. Previous generations would have called it “old-world hospitality.” Today’s might mistake it for overeating and a fast track to diabetes.

As we approached the restaurant I noticed a woman leaning against the big bay window at the entrance. She was dressed to the nines, and the makeup and hair was perfect. She was talking on her cell phone.

“No, it’s okay, I can wait. How long do you think it will before you can get here?” she asked the person on the other side of the line.

Margot and I filed inside, filling in what remained of a crowded waiting room next to the bar. Some in our group were already drinking. Some sat and scowled when they realized it had been us they’d been waiting on. I did a quick tally of the group. I was still the only guy.

Luckily the staff intuitively knew there’d be bloodshed during the evening’s activities and graciously sat us in a private room around a large round table. Just like the type King Arthur and his knights used to spar around, I thought. How apt.

Being from Canada, none of them knew a thing about wine – how could they, so little of it is grown in Canada and the best comes from elsewhere, mostly California and the recent trendy “Pinot explosion” of Oregon wineries – so they deferred to me.

“We’ll have a bottle of the Justin Isosceles, the Rutherford ’02 Chardonnay, and the BV Sangiovese. That should be a good start.”

One started in right away. “Do you always do that, take control of the situation?” It was Dianne, a short squat brunette who from her looks and demeanor gave the impression her last date took place before Hong Kong reverted to Chinese rule.

“Some situations call for that, wouldn’t you say. Nobody wanted to pick the wine, so I did. Problem, solution.”

“Yes, but it was your smugness that was a turnoff.” Now I was being analyzed. Great, I mused. Great but expected. You can’t really be in the presence of a woman without that happening.

“Smug? Was I? Then I apologize. I knew these three wines would be good pairings. It was more satisfaction than anything, but if it came off differently I’ll have to work on that.” Diplomatic was the best I could play it tonight. They’re a sisterhood, a sisterhood of dominoes. Get one going and before you know it will tip the next woman, and then the next. Before long I’d be staring down a bitter table of dominoes.

The apology and the conviction with which I delivered it seemed to work, and Dianne shrank back into her personal space. Small talk ruled the night, mostly ping-ponging between work and the few highlights that made up each person’s life. Shortly after the meals arrived and we were fork-deep in assorted pastas, stuffed cannellonis, and all things parmesan, the first salvo was fired.

“You know, I like working with you all, I like talking with you all and doing things outside of work, but you know we’d be somewhere else with somebody else tonight if we all weren’t single. I know why I am – the creep – but why are you? Just curious.”

Sandra, the mid-20s brunette from creative who posed the question looked around the table, waiting for someone who’d bite. One by one the women set their silver down, lowered the wine glasses to the table and began to give it some thought. I saw brows furrow, faces change from happy to indifferent, then sad, then angry. I saw as they realized the plight of their situation and soon scowls appeared, taking the place of pretty, unlined, made-up faces. I braced.

“I’ve been single for almost a year. He broke up with me because he said he wasn’t ready to make a long-term commitment. That was after we’d been dating and sleeping together for ten months!”

Oohs and catty comments ensued from around the table.

“Mine told me that he was going to change for me. He was such a jerk, and I believed he would. But did he? Of course not! He went on being the same way until I tossed him out!”

More murmurs and the like. I shrunk further into my seat.

“Mine got me pregnant fifteen years ago, and said he was going to do the right thing and marry me but broke it off three months before the baby was due.” It was Margot. I looked over in horror as she joined in the group sharing. “He said he couldn’t be fiscally responsible to my child and me. Isn’t that what he did by up and leaving us?”

Another: “He cheated on me with a friend I introduced him to at a party two weeks earlier!”

And another: “My last one dumped me a month ago after dating for only two weeks. He said he didn’t have the time to commit to a relationship. It wouldn’t be fair.” She applied extra sneer to the word “fair.” Hers seemed a pretty sensible and forthcoming explanation to me, but I knew better than to think any logic was apparent in this Valentine’s Day bizarro-world in which I was captive.

Just when I thought the group had finished their venting and was ready to return to a happy, enjoyable meal, the other shoe dropped and my indictment was made. At first it was barely noticeable and lightning-quick. A glimmer in Dianne’s eye that I'd hoped I was mistaking for something else. But unfortunately the glint tipped her hand, revealing the synaptic connections going on deep in her brain as she connected the dots. We’re all pissed off because of what men have done to us. Men are all alike. Reed is a man. Reed is here with us. He should have to answer for what men have done to us! It’s an outrage, a sham, and somebody must be accountable!

Dianne opened her mouth to speak. Oh fuck, here it comes, I thought to myself.

“Why are guys like that, Reed? Surely you must know.” The table became quiet and the women turned their attention to me.

“Because I’m a guy, and being a guy we all think alike? All of us share the same underhanded motives?” Smooth, come out on the defensive, I thought. Not good form. So much for diplomacy.

“Are you telling me that after sitting here listening to each of our stories you can truthfully say that the motives of men are not?” Dianne countered.

“I can truthfully say that after listening to each woman’s story I think you’ve set yourselves up to fail with some real idiots. And perhaps that’s a reflection of you, to a point.”

Gasps. How dare I vilify their sisterhood, as if to suggest they were anything but wholesome and pious? I was getting sick of the stereotypes. I was getting sick of having to defend mankind against a bunch of jaded, unlucky in love women. After nearly a month of working day-in day-out in an estrogen-heavy environment, I was ready for the gloves to come off. I was ready to defend myself – not as a part of this general idea of “mankind” as women knew and reviled it, but as somebody with some good sense, a good idea of what women wanted, and most importantly, as somebody who had absolutely nothing to do with their plight.

“That’s right. Don’t you think you were a partner to blame, at least in some way? It takes two to tango, Dianne.”

Sandra spoke up with all the anger and fury of a woman scorned. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what happened. So don’t try to work any psychology on my situation.”

“That’s fine, but at the same time don’t blanket the room with generalizations like all men are bad and just because you and you and you had some bad experiences, that makes all men bad. There are some of us who actually do give a shit, who are up front with you, who can make a commitment when we’re ready for it (I stressed “ready for it” but its importance was lost on the group) and don’t string you along.

“I mean, look at you.” I singled out Patricia, the woman who had revealed her man hadn’t changed at all. “You can’t change anybody, Patricia. You can’t. People are how people are. And it’s stupid – that’s right, stupid – to think you can. So I have no sympathy. Yeah, it sucks, but I hope you learned something from it for next time. I bet you have.”

“That’s so mean to say!” said Dianne. “You can’t just say that.”

“It’s my opinion. It’s your opinion men are all to be grouped in one pile: Jerks. That’s your opinion. So this one about Patricia is mine.”

“Things would be so much better if men weren’t so caught up in trying to get into our pants!” yelled Sandra. Heads around the room nodded.

“What a fucking cop-out!” I said. “Then how’s about this one; women shouldn’t keep trying to trap us into a relationship and marriage!”

Murmurs and little side conversations began around the room. “But that’s the normal course of things,” protested one of them, “it all goes down that path.”

“It doesn’t have to,” I said as I shot my cuffs and slicked back some hair behind my ear. “If you set the terms early, and honestly, it can be whatever you want it to be. But you succumb to peer pressure, the type that says to you anything less than a relationship leading to marriage is a con job on the man’s part. That's not how it has to be.”

“But that doesn’t explain the amount of jerks who enter and exit our lives. They are out there,” said another.

“No doubt. There are as many jerks on the female side as there are on the male. I’ve seen it. I’ve dated women who are female equivalents of what you each have described. But I came here tonight to have a nice meal with co-workers, not to stand trial in judgment of this table for every guy who has slighted you, jaded you, left you feeling dejected.” I looked around the table at each one of them, ending on Margot. “Left you feeling unloved. It’s how you emerge from that and move on to the next one that shows you’ve learned something and wizened up.”

I got up from the table and buttoned my top coat button. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to cool off before I get really angry and say something that might impair our working relationships. I’m glad you invited me but I’m not going to withstand an inquisition that somehow explains away your past relationships.” I moved out from behind the table and put my hands on the back of Margot’s chair. “Let me leave you with this: Women can’t continue to complain about men until they start showing better taste in them.” I put my finger to my temple in a “think about that” motion and shuffled off to the bar. I half expected to be pummeled by garlic bread on my way out of the room.
__________________________________________________________________

“Scotch, neat,” I half-growled at the bartender before taking a deep breath and calming myself down. “Sorry,” I added.

“Bad night?” he asked.

“Let’s just say this won’t go down as my most memorable Valentine’s Day,” I replied.

The woman sitting next to where I stood was wearing earplugs that were connected to an iPod resting on the counter. She appeared to be busy, thumbing through some outdoors magazines while nursing a glass of what looked like pinot grigio. She looked alone, and the magazines and iPod combo sold the “I don’t want to be disturbed” look rather well. I got my scotch and took a deep swig, looking the woman over: Blondish-brown hair, an athletic kind of thin, the kind that knows a gym or a bicycle. Her skin was fair, slightly freckled in a couple of spots, and had a glow that wasn’t apparent in most of the Toronto denizens this deep into the winter. Where most had their facial tones blown away and killed off by the Canadian snow, hers seemed more vibrant, more radiant.

I leaned back from the bar and took a quick look down the hall at the group still around the table in the back room. They wouldn’t miss me. I was doing myself a favor by staying away from them for as long as possible. They were likely plotting their revenge as I stood there. I’d stay here at the bar and at least enjoy a few moments with my scotch.

“Excuse me,” I said, tapping the blonde on the shoulder. She began to pull off the earbuds. “I’m sorry to bother you, I can see you’re busy, but I just had to know: What are you listening to so intently on your iPod?”

She looked me over for a minute, taking in my appearance as I frightfully thought through all the scenarios. Is my hair okay? Is the knot in my tie out of whack? Do I have food in my teeth, maybe leftover parsley from the linguine al mare?

She smiled when she finished her once-over, and put the magazine down. “It’s Mars Volta. Know their music?”

“Yeah. They used to be At the Drive-in, right?”

“That’s right. Well, sorta right. They have a few members from that band.” She looked me over again. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“No I don’t think so. I just saw you listening to your iPod and I’m always interested in what people have tucked away on their players.” I sounded like a nerd. I needed to ease back.

She turned more fully towards me and shut off her iPod. “I’m Carolyn,” she said, smiling a sweet, innocent smile. She stuck out her hand.

“I’m Reed,” I replied, taking her hand. It was soft. Silky. Years of Bath and Body Works and Oil of Olay lotions.

“So you’re Reed and you wanted to know what’s on my iPod?” She giggled a bit, sensing how silly this all was. I was immediately drawn to the ease with which she did this.

“Yeah, but if you’re in the middle of something or expecting somebody I understand.”

She took a quick sip of her wine and set the glass down. “I was – my friend was supposed to meet me for dinner – but then she called me and said she couldn’t make it, work and such.” She flashed me a quick smile. “It’s actually a very boring story that I’m not going to tire you with. But I’m a big girl…I can eat by myself, so here I am.” She held out her arms in a “ta-da” pose momentarily, and as she lowered her arms to her sides she briefly stopped to toss her hair over her shoulder.

“So you’re dressed up all dapper tonight? What’s the occasion? Big Valentine’s date? Going to pop the question to your sweetie?”

I choked back some of my scotch as she said this, then wiped the edge of my lip. “No. Came to dinner with a group of women.” I pointed out the group in the back.

“My my, you must be some Valentine’s date if you have that many women to entertain.”

“Hardly,” I replied, “they’re all co-workers hell-bent on making me pay for reminding them of their past, failed relationships and their current loveless state.”

Carolyn laughed. “Yeah, you guys can be bastards that way.” The remark rolled off me as effortlessly as she had said it. She had a way of saying everything in a sweet way.

We talked about the music on her iPod. Much of it was good, and a lot of it I hadn’t heard before. We talked about how music played such an active part in her life. I found out Carolyn was a freelance photographer for a nature magazine and when it was just her and the wilderness, about the only thing she could count on to keep her focused was music. It was the soundtrack of her everyday life. I liked that.

By the time we had finished talking we agreed that we’d each recommend five albums the other had to listen to – albums by groups we didn’t really know or give a thought to – and then we’d reconvene in a week or so over coffee to discuss. Carolyn gave me her card and I hers.

“What area code is this?” she asked, looking my card over. I wrote the office number on the back and briefly explained the situation.

“Oh,” she added, “that explains the funny accent.” Funny accent? She returned to her ear buds and I went back to the table, eager to end my night.

When we emerged at the end of our evening Carolyn was long gone, but I was happy enough knowing I’d see her soon. She seemed everything Elizabeth was not: Happy, caring, sweet. Throw beauty out the window because that is a minimum requirement for me. They all must be beautiful. The more telling signs are always below the surface.

When we were bundled up and outside, saying our goodbyes, I saw the same women who I’d seen on the way in, still leaning against the bay window, still with cell phone in hand, but now clearing away traces of tears. Her nose and eyes were reddened. She had been crying for some time.

“No…I don’t know why he said that…no, I don’t. I don’t know. Why would he do that? Why tonight? I don’t understand…” I heard her say to the person on the other side of the phone.

That’s what truly stinks about Valentine’s Day. For all the work spent hyping up February 14th, the casualties stand out all the more painfully. As I walked by the woman shot me a cold, stern look that sat somewhere between hurt and fright, as if to say “you men, you’re all alike. Why do we let you break our hearts?

I am the Lorax, I speak for the trees.