Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

While my husband was working in Detroit last year, I was alone much of the time. He was always encouraging me to get out of the house so one night I decided to go wine tasting at Vendome, a local wine and spirits store. Since we are regulars there, I figured if there was no one to talk to at least the staff knew me. However, I brought a book just in case they were busy or I was bored.

I sat next to a man or maybe he sat next to me; I honestly don’t remember who arrived first. He looked to be in his late-thirties and he was somewhat attractive. He didn’t seem interested in chatting so I pulled my book Secret Lives of Great Artists out of my purse.

“You read at tastings?” he asked.

Missing the sarcasm (as I often do) in his tone, I explained why I brought a book and then launched into a full, enthusiastic review ending with, “If you like art at all, you absolutely must read this book!”

With a blank face he replied, “Not really and I don’t read.”

Well, I knew he had to be kidding. “Oh come on, everyone reads.”

“I. Don’t.” He challenged me to prove him wrong.

“Okay. So you don’t read books.” He nodded. I know the Millennial generation sailed through high school and even college without reading books. (Thank you Internet.) I have witnessed this phenomenon myself because I used to teach many lazy, cheating students. But this guy sitting next to me was of my generation. Hmm …

“You didn’t read a single book in school? What about high school?”

Sipping his wine, he shook his head, “Cliff notes.”

“But you still have to read cliff notes!”

“Not really.” His brow furrowed at my exasperated expression. He added, “I graduated college, too,” before turning away and asking the sommelier for another tasting.

My book and wine completely forgotten and more determined than ever, I asked, “What about newspapers? Magazines? I mean, you don’t even have to pay attention when you read the gossip ones.”

“No and no.”

Still unwilling to give up, I thought about my former students and their limited reading choices. Aha! “Comic books? Game manuals? Emails?”

Now he was looking at me as if I had drunk too much wine. Fascinated by the man who had defeated me in a contest that didn’t exist, I asked the stranger his name.

“Michael Shannon.”

“That’s an Irish name if I ever heard one.” I meant it as a compliment, but Mr. Shannon looked right through me and muttered “Hmph.”

“I mean, I like it. I would like to use it in my writing. May I?” Since he didn’t say no, I wrote his name down next to one of the many wines on my list. Mr. Shannon studied my handwriting as if I might misspell his name. He appeared interested in every stroke of the pen. Odd. I showed him his name written in all caps. “Correct?” I asked.

“Yes.” He turned away again and asked for another tasting. We sipped our wine in silence. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I was frustrated because I had lost the argument.

When the obvious epiphany hit me, I couldn’t help smiling. “Umm … Mr. Shannon. You do read.” My attempt at sarcasm resulted into glee.

His pale blue eyes sparkled in defiance. “What are you talking about? I don’t read. Ever.”

“Yes, you do. You’re reading the wine list right now.”

Well, if eyes were fists, my face would have been black and blue in addition to cuts from broken wine glasses. Instead he glanced at his name on my sheet. “Write this down. When wine tasting goes bad.”

I may not always notice sarcasm, but I know when I have pissed someone off. We stopped speaking to each other. I continued a conversation with another patron though I sensed Mr. Shannon looking at me. I avoided eye contact. Coincidentally, we closed our tabs at the same time. As we slid off the bar stools, he said, “Keep up the extreme skinniness. It works for you.”

Flustered by his abrupt comment after no verbal contact, I mustered a thank you and showed him how I had safety-pinned my jeans to keep them from falling down. (My weight had plummeted to 104 pounds and none of my pants fit anymore.) He nodded in approval and walked off. I stood there. Who is Michael Shannon? How does a man go through life without reading? And why in the world did I show him that safety pin? Ill-fitting clothes are not attractive … except to weirdos who don’t read.

After some reflection, I realized neither one of us took the other person’s compliment well. I genuinely liked his name; he genuinely liked my thinness. When I met Mr. Shannon, it never occurred to me that he might have a learning disability. Thinking back, I don’t remember him ever saying the names of the wines—only pointing to the sheet or nodding for the next pour. Though he is highly educated and has a steady job, he may not have to read in his position. I don’t know. I do know Michael Shannon is a socially awkward, sarcastic, Irish man who likes red wine and skinny women. Oh—and one more thing … he is the man who doesn’t read.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I’m going to keep Embracing my Inner Night Owl ’cause she reads every night.

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Since this blog is the second part of a series, I recommend reading Part One—the biker, the musician, and the driver before you meet the king and the volunteer.
On Friday, January 21, the first day during my third visit to Detroit, I had the pleasure of meeting Doug and George, the oldest and perhaps most interesting men of the five cool dudes from Detroit.

Doug the Art-Deco King
I met Doug Ramsey when I stumbled upon his shop Deco Doug located in the artsy section of Royal Oak, Michigan. Although his storefront is small, Doug’s shop is full of rare and authentic treasures such as a 1920s chandelier and a 1930s cash register that he uses to conduct business. He talks fondly of each item and can tell you exactly how he acquired it. When I jokingly asked if he took things from dead people (I had just seen the film Please Give), he responded, “No. Not usually.” I immediately fell in love with his dry wit.
Somehow, we started discussing how his business had declined when one of his biggest buyers, a General Motors bigwig, had become a father and no longer had as much discretionary income. Then Doug mentioned Google. According to him, someone from the company had come into his store to take pictures and put him on Google. The whole thing seemed suspicious to me and although Doug has some computer skills, his Internet knowledge seems limited. I asked him if he had a website or had sold his items on Ebay. He has considered creating the former and has bought stuff on the latter. He looked at me possibly sensing my growing excitement. “What could I sell on Ebay?” he asked.
“Something unique. Something celebrity.” I scanned the hundreds of items turning 360 degrees trying to find the perfect thing to illustrate my point. “THAT!” I pointed to the glass cabinet.
“What?” asked Doug as he peered through the glass trying to discern which item I meant.
“That baseball. You said 1930s—right? Signed by a famous ballplayer?” He nodded. “That is an Ebay item. You need to figure out which ones are … I dunno know maybe 10 or 15 percent of your inventory. The rest would be sold on your website.”
“I need a young person like you. Someone with your enthusiasm to get me going.” I smiled and gave him my card knowing that he won’t call me. Although I can write and edit web content, I cannot design his website. Not only does he need a web designer, but he also needs a photographer. Most of all, he needs a local energetic “young” person who appreciates his store and sees its future possibilities. Doug says if I ever move to Detroit that I should stop by again. I think we would make a great team.

George the Grumpy Volunteer
I actually met George for the first time when I visited the DIA in October. George volunteers at a desk just outside of the gift shop on the main floor. His primary duty is to print copies of any artwork that a patron requests, which I find incredible since most museums don’t offer this service.
Unfortunately, I caught George at a bad time that Friday night. He was swamped with requests. When I asked for a copy of Robert Henri’s The Young Girl, George muttered that he didn’t think he would have time. “Write it down,” he said shaking his head. “Come back later.” Later? The museum was closing in ten minutes. Not wanting to deal with Grumpy George again and sidetracked by Eugene taking me to the Rivera mural, I did not go back to retrieve the print. I had forgotten about George until my most recent trip.
Once again, I went to the DIA on a Friday night because they stay open until 10pm. Having already seen the permanent collection, I focused on the Fakes, Forgeries, and Mysteries exhibition. An hour before closing, I had viewed the exhibit, drank a vodka tonic, and bought too many books. Still wanting a print that wasn’t offered as a postcard in the gift shop, I decided to see George.
Thankfully, there was no line. Once again, I requested an Henri only this time I asked for The Beach Hat. George didn’t recognize the artist; in fact, he didn’t seem that familiar with art at all. He apologized for the slow computer, but I didn’t mind because we were talking. Since he mentioned being a child during the Great Depression, George must be in his eighties. He volunteers at the museum three days per week but only weekday afternoons and/or evenings. “I used to do mornings,” he said. “But the children. They’re so loud.” I nodded and told him I used to teach.
I showed George the books I had purchased, and his eyes lit up when he saw The Detroit Institute of Arts: A Brief History. “Now that’s a good buy.” George flipped through the book showing me the original DIA building. He remembers that it became the welfare department after the DIA moved to its current location on Woodward Avenue. Turning more pages, George pointed to one of the DIA’s most famous works: Rodin’s The Thinker. George says it was originally inside when the museum moved, but then it was placed it in front of the entrance. “Can you believe that? Outside? In this weather. Humph.” That’s when I realized that George cares about art. He cares about the museum. Most importantly, he cares about Detroit. As it turns out, he likes The Beach Hat.

I want to thank all five dudes Marcus, Eugene, Dana, Doug, and George for giving me their time, telling me about their lives, and educating me on a variety of topics from what it means to be Jamaican to how to survive a winter in Detroit. I love how eloquently Eugene’s friend describes Detroit, “[It] is an archipelago of interesting places in an urban sea of desolation.”

I would add, “inhabited by amazing people” between the words places and in.

AWW — XoXo

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During my three visits to Detroit, where my husband has been working on the television show Detroit 1-8-7, I have encountered many friendly folks. My mother has said from the time I could speak that I never met a stranger. My ability to talk to anyone has allowed me the privilege of meeting some interesting people over the years although my habit of speaking to strangers used to annoy my sister Adrienne. Why do you talk to everybody she would ask. You don’t even know those people. However, her complaints never stopped me from chatting with salespeople, drivers, or anyone else who seemed amusing.

What Adrienne didn’t understand was if I was talking to people, I was in a “good” place. With the exception of one person, I met all of these men during my visit last month, which tells me I am letting down my guard, coming out of hibernation, and joining the world again. If I had stayed underground, I would have missed the opportunity to know them. From youngest to oldest, meet the biker, the musician, and the driver.

Marcus the Jamaican Biker
I met Marcus at the Detroit Institute of Art (DIA), one of my favorite places in Detroit. He is completing an internship at the DIA as part of his undergraduate education, which includes architecture and business classes. A first-generation American, Marcus moved from Florida to Detroit in order to attend school. He intrigued me with good looks and easygoing nature, but he also educated me on what it means to be Jamaican. For example, when I complained about the cold weather and how the heat in my rental SUV (GMC Acadia) didn’t seem to work, he said I know what you mean; I ride my bike every day.
“As in bicycle?” I asked. He nodded as if riding a bicycle in the snow was the most common thing in the world. When he made a joke about being Jamaican that I didn’t get, I asked him to explain.
“In Jamaica,” he said, “you’re expected to have four jobs by the time you’re 12. Otherwise you’re lazy. You work hard. Everyone works hard. I only have one job besides this one [internship] and school so I can’t complain about riding my bike. Besides, it’s not so bad.”
Wow. Even though I have always been a hard worker, I owned a car at Marcus’s age (approximately 20), and I would never ride a bike in the snow. Then again, I’m not Jamaican.

Eugene the Nice Musician
Of all of the cool D-dudes, Eugene is the only man I met last year, and he is the closest to my age. I went out to Tallulahs with my husband’s coworker’s girlfriend—a girl’s night-out gone wrong. I like Nadia, but I spent the first hour with her standing on my feet and nodding my head as I listened to her tell me her entire life story. To be fair, I was in my Funky Fall Blues phase. However, once we sat at the bar, Nadia turned her attention to a man, and I was off the hook, which is how I met Eugene. He happened to be standing next to me.
Eugene gives off a “Nice, harmless, well-mannered” vibe. As soon as he said hello, I knew he wasn’t going to act inappropriate. (Sometimes, a wedding ring presents a challenge to the opposite sex.) Soon, we were immersed in conversation where we discovered we had many things in common. Eugene is a teacher; he showed me the Silly Bandz on his wrist that his students had given him. I laughed as I attempted to figure out the shape of each band, and I found it charming that he wore them in public. Eugene is also a musician with his own company Telepathic 3-D Productions.
When Eugene asked me about my plans for the next day, I told him that I was going to the DIA. I was looking forward to it because I didn’t get to see it during my first visit to the city the previous month. Imagine my surprise when Eugene said, “I work there tomorrow night. I help with the Drop-In Workshops. We’re making sugar skulls for Día de Los Muertos. Day—”
I interrupted him, “Day of the Dead.”
He laughed. “Yes. Oh, of course, you know what it means. You live in Los Angeles.” I didn’t tell him how much the holiday reminds me of Adrienne. “You should come by and make a sugar skull,” he said.
Although I opted not to make a sugar skull, I did contact Eugene the next day when I arrived at the museum. I saw him and his friend Charles supervise the children in the workshop. Eugene gave me tips on specific exhibits, got me a huge discount at the gift shop, and showed me the Diego Rivera mural, which I had somehow missed. Being the perfect gentleman, he walked me to my car. Besides being a nice, polite, intelligent, Midwestern guy who owns his own home and makes a decent living, he gives tours of Detroit. If you are interested, email him and use me as a reference.

Dana the Dynamic Driver
I met Driver Dana at the end of my trip. A kind, large man with a warm smile, Driver Dana works for Thrifty car rental, and he drove me to the Detroit airport. Since only he and I were in the shuttle, I started talking to him. I told him how much I liked the name Dana for a man.
“Really?” he asked as if I wasn’t being sincere.
“Sure,” I said, “It’s just like Tracy or Kelley. Gender neutral. Cool and interesting.”
“Well, I’m actually two out of four.”
“What?” From there, he explained that he was named after his godfather Dana, but then his godfather named his son Dana. Okay, three. Then Driver Dana named his son Dana. Four.
“And you all hang out together?” I asked.
“Yep,” he smiled as he turned into the airport.
“How do you, ya know, tell each other apart when saying someone’s name?”
“Oh,” he laughed, “I’m Little Dana, and he’s Big Dana.” Somehow I knew he meant Big Dana was his godfather, but I wanted to ask if his son was Little Dana Jr. And what about Big Dana’s son, Dana? Was he Big Dana II? And why, did a man who seemed so unsure about his name choose the same one for his son who must feel lost in the sea of Danas? In that family, Dana might as well be Chris.
Driver Dana and I talked about other subjects including the dreadful demise and hopeful resurrection of Detroit. He watches Detroit 1-8-7 and he thought it was cool that my husband works on the show. He laughed about my “Detroit jacket” and my plan to stuff it in my suitcase as soon as I got inside. As we said goodbye, he added, “You tell your husband he has a sweet wife.” Will do, Little Dana.

As the first three of the five cool Detroit dudes, Marcus, Eugene, and Dana are under 50 years old and part of the Millennial or Gen X generations respectively.
During the next installment of Five Cool Dudes from Detroit: Part Two—the king and the volunteer, you will meet two older men from the Baby Boom and Silent generations who express their passion for art in different ways.

AWW — XoXo

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One of my favorite episodes of Seinfeld deals with the issues of friendship, sex, and love—otherwise known as: This, That, and The Other. The back story of the characters Jerry Seinfeld and Elaine Benes includes a romantic relationship that evolved into a friendship. However, during season two, Jerry and Elaine find themselves in an unusual situation. Neither one of them is dating anyone, nor do they have any prospects on the horizon. After watching some soft-core porn on television, Jerry and Elaine discuss whether they should have sex with no strings attached (i.e. friends with benefits). In an episode titled, “The Deal” they establish a list of rules that will keep their friendship (This) intact while they reignite their sexual relationship (That).

1. No kissing
2. No phone call the next day
3. Spending the night is optional

Of course, things don’t go according to plan—especially after Jerry offends Elaine by giving her $182 in cash for her birthday. I love this episode because it illustrates how complex relationships are and how despite the best intentions (e.g., “The Deal“) people hurt each other. I also realized I’ve experienced every combination of This, That, and The Other.

This + The Other = Friend—This combination may seem unusual at first. How many people fall in love with their friends? Well, it’s happened to me. Twice. Okay, I’ll admit the words “in love” may be too strong, but I definitely had feelings for the men, and I was attracted to them. However, my kiss compatibility theory failed me in these two cases. *
No matter how hard I tried (no pun intended), I was not sexually compatible with my friends, and I don’t know how you can fix that problem. Either you have “That” or you don’t. In one case, the friendship resumed after some time had passed, but the other man never spoke to me again.

That + The Other = Lover—This combination is far more common because many people are not friends with their spouses, partners, significant others, etc. Recently, a male friend told me how his girlfriend made a point of stating that they were not friends, “I don’t fuck my friends,” she said, “You are my lover.” She went on to say did not want to be his friend because she already had plenty of friends.
Although I don’t feel that way about my husband, I understand her point of view. My ex-boyfriend and I were never friends. I didn’t want to be his friend. I realized a few years into our relationship that I didn’t even like him. I loved him; we were together seven years and he wanted to marry me (dodged that bullet), but we were never friends.

This + That = Friend with Benefits—As Jerry and Elaine discovered, this combination is tricky. I find it’s much easier when you just have “That” otherwise known as the Fuck Buddy. Without the friendship, there really are no strings. You don’t have to know what’s going on in the person’s life. You don’t need to care. If both people know the relationship serves one purpose—sex—then it can be quite mutually satisfying. The only rule here is Don’t Be Greedy. Appreciate the “That” and don’t try to turn it into something it’s not supposed to be. If it were going to be “This” or “The Other” it would have happened already.

This and That sound great in theory, but usually the friend-with-benefits relationship becomes unbalanced. I’ve experienced it once in my life, and the sex lasted for a while until I developed feelings for my friend. Like Elaine, I wanted it all: This, That, and The Other, but he didn’t see me as “girlfriend material.” Therefore, we dropped the sex and returned to being just friends. A few years later though, we found ourselves very much in the same predicament that Elaine and Jerry did—we were both single, and we missed having a regular sex life. Though it wasn’t planned per se, we shared a spectacular evening full of That. We knew the terrain and there were no big surprises. Afterward, I realized I could never let it happen again if I wanted our friendship to survive. I cared too much; I yearned for The Other. So I gave up the That to save the This.

This + That + The Other =Ideal Mate—The ultimate threesome, This, That, and The Other is what I had always hoped to find in a spouse, and I did. I like that my husband is my best friend. Forty years from now, we may not being doing That as often as we would like, and if we didn’t have the This—what the hell would we talk about? I also know no matter how much gravity attacks my body, my husband enjoys me as a friend. With benefits. Plus The Other. He stimulates me in every way possible: intellectually, physically, and emotionally. As Jerry said, “Who wouldn’t want This, That, and The Other?”

AWW — XoXo

* My college roommate and I hypothesized that sexual compatibility between a man and a woman could be determined by examining their kissing compatibility. (Not a novel theory, but we used a scientific method.) Factors included kissing techniques, touch sensitivity, heart palpitations, goose bumps, time lapses, irrational decisions, etc. Though the sample was small, we determined that 83% of the time, the kiss revealed all.

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Before I could understand why I bond more easily with men, I first had to examine male and female friendships. Nothing explains it better than this Friends the difference between men and women television clip. After seeing it, I realized despite being the first among my close high school girlfriends to lose her virginity, I hardly said anything about it. The conversation went something like this:

Girlfriends: Did it hurt?
Me: Yes.
Girlfriends: How much?
Me: A lot!

Despite our tight lips about certain subjects, I was very close to those girlfriends, but after high school, I moved to Los Angeles to attend USC, where I suddenly found myself surrounded by men. I remember thinking what Harry said to Sally about how men and women could never be friends because the sex always gets in the way. Most of the guys I met wanted to date me, and I went out with many of them. Some of those doomed romances developed into friendships, but they were not the same as my few female friendships.

Harry is right; the sexual tension never completely goes away. Even if you are not that attracted to the person, having a friend of the opposite sex brings another element to the relationship. I like having male friends (MFs, not to be confused with MILFs) because:

1. They are good for my ego. For example, one MF always greets me with “Helllooo gorgeous!”  When I admitted this truth to a different MF, he said, “That is very masculine of you.” I like the harmless flirtation because it’s safe and comfortable.
2. Men are completely honest. If I’m being irrational, illogical, or a general pain in the ass, they tell me. The candor goes both ways. I can be normal blunt self with my MFs, but I cannot be so honest with most women.
3. MFs are rarely jealous, judgmental, vindictive, gossipy, or mean, and they don’t compete with you. I didn’t even realize that some of my (now former) female friends competed with me until the men in my life pointed it out. When I think about competition, I imagine winning a board game, not beating my girlfriends at life.

When I asked my MFs about this issue, here is what they said:

• You don’t have girlfriends because girls in general don’t value loyalty. Men have friends for life; women have friends for months.
• You are entirely too blunt, too honest, and you speak your mind.
• You are like a having a guy friend, “low-maintenance.”
• We were always friends; we just didn’t talk. (A MF’s comment after a nine-year hiatus in our friendship due to a fight—guess that loyalty thing is true.)

Oscar Wilde once said, “Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.” I beg to differ. Maybe I have more MFs now because I grew up climbing trees, jumping off roofs, and begging the boys to let me play ball. Then again, I played with Barbies and took ballet lessons. However, I still remember the constant teasing and bullying in junior high; being verbally abused by my female peers hurt my self-esteem for years.

Positive female friendships are rewarding, yet complicated; they require more time, energy, and effort. Maybe I just don’t want to work that hard anymore. My MFs love me for who I am, and for that—I love you, man.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I honestly love women, but as for finding my BFF, I don’t discriminate; gender doesn’t matter.

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