A Modern Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, there was a single gal about town who was as fabulous as the feminist movement said she should be. She was well-read, well-rounded, and perhaps a wee bit too well fed. She cared about her mind and pooh-poohed vainglorious pursuits like waxing and Pilate's. She blithely moved through her life firm in the knowledge that there would be "plenty of time for boys later" and that "it'll happen when you least expect it." Until one day, the single gal found herself midway between 36 and 37 surrounded by boys who had turned into men and no expectations about any of them. At which point, she re-signed with eHarmony to her annoyance.

What the single gal figured was, if she joined a dating web site and kept her expectations as low as humanly possible, she was bound to get a date or two out of the experiment and -- at the very least -- stop feeling like a dateless, unattractive freak. Maybe, just maybe, she would start feeling a little confident about her abilities to attract a member of the opposite sex. Except, of course, as certain attractive men closed her out while other not as desirable men started communication, Single Gal came to the startlingly realization that in her heart of hearts, she was an uncompromising romantic. That somehow, she had bought lock, stock, and barrel into the fantasy that if she was her very best person possible, a handsome, well-read, well-rounded man who believed in egalitarian partnerships with fabulous women would see her from across the room and would be charmed by the silly way she tossed her hair when she laughed and choose her...conveniently forgetting, of course, that she did not toss her hair when she laughed. Hair tossing aside, this was a very unfortunate realization for the single gal.

"Sleeping Beauty. Waiting for the prince to wake her with a kiss," The Good Fairy, Andie, commented during a brunch when Single Gal brought up her romantic disillusionment. The analogy was so accurate that the single gal was acutely embarrassed. It was true. Growing up, she was a fairy tale fiend. Her teen years were filled with romance novels. She still, in her mid-30s -- preferred Meg Ryan romantic comedies -- You've Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, French Kiss -- to any other kind of movie available. Movies where Fate brought the soul mates together in a happily ever after kiss! (And all with virtually no work on the woman's side!) To quote Meg in When Harry Met Sally, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" At the median age of 36.5-years old, Single Gal came to the gross conclusion that she still held the romantic notions of an 8 year old. (*ouch!*) It was a bitter pill, and one she didn't want to swallow. Life was so hard in all the other areas, couldn't she get a break in just this one? Didn't everyone always tell Single Gal how fantastic she was and that eventually she was going to end up with the very best of men because, well, she deserved it?! And yet, all the evidence was to the contrary. When she really started to break down the relationships of the women around her, she started to see a pattern. There were a lot of women out there who did the choosing. Her two married sisters, and twice married mother, for instance. Four out of five girlfriends easily. All of them had chosen the guy and got him! What was that about? And why didn't any one write a fairy tale or Meg Ryan movie about that?!

"Think about it," The Good Fairy continued, "if you do the choosing, then you get to decide your own fate. Men are flattered by a woman's attention. So even though they might not necessarily choose you, their ego is stroked if you choose them. So at the end of the day, you get the guy you want instead of having to take whatever comes your way."

The Good Fairy was right, of course, and appealed to Single Gal's ridiculously over-developed sense of self. So Single Gal went right home and logged back onto eHarmony ready to be a kick-ass princess of her own modern fairy tale. And after about twenty minutes, she logged back out feeling disappointed, underwhelmed, and depressed. Because suddenly, she wanted better princes to choose from.

The moral of the story is: kick ass princesses are more picky than sleeping beauties.

Magic, Miracles, and Luck

If I had a million dollars, (if I had a million dollars!)
I'd buy you a house. (I would buy you a house!)

Oh, excuse me! You caught me singing in the blogger. I was just thinking about the Barenaked Ladies song, If I Had a Million Dollars. They were willing to buy a lot of things with a million dollars, but I think they were tragically overestimating how far that million would go. (Because I'll tell you right now, my love alone would cost more than a million. Have you seen the lead singer of Barenaked Ladies? No? Here's his mug shot.) I've been thinking about money a lot lately, mostly because I haven't any. No raise this year, and no freelance writing assignment either. Man. It's hard out here for a, um, well, single gal with steady employment. I have no reason to complain really, so I won't, especially since everyone I know has this same kind of cruddy feeling. "Be happy you're employed," they say. "I am, I am!" I reply, hands waving in surrender. But still. Can't help but to feel slightly crappy and fatigued with the whole recession thing. I wonder how people got through the Great Depression. Years and years of feeling like this. Must've sucked. I mean, it does suck! So... (this is a tangent that's not going anywhere, just so you know. Anyway...)

I've been thinking about playing the lottery again. I've decided that one dollar isn't enough to win, but that five dollars is too much to lose, so I've settled on three dollars. I think I can spare three dollars a week to buy lottery tickets. The way I figure it, even if I don't win, I'm still helping the state of California and the good Lord knows the state needs something. I encourage Bill Gates, Barbra Streisand and all other multi-millionaires/billionaires living in the Golden State to do the same. Play $20, maybe $50 a pop. If you win, give the proceeds to charity. Your state needs you! Of course, what I really want is to win myself. I don't even want to win big. Just big enough. In fact, big enough to invest wisely and not feel threatened, but not enough that it becomes national news and my family finds out. I would like to win, um, maybe, ten million (after taxes). Ten million would be nice. I could pay off my debt, buy my new favorite car (in red!), buy spontaneous gifts for my favorite little human beings, and go on any and all vacations as they arise. Doesn't that sound lovely?

My newest problem (isn't there always a new one?) is that I've recently realized that I have held a steady belief in magic and miracles my whole life and with all the crushingly bad news about the state of the economy, the rise of unemployment, the anti-abortion amendment in the health care reform bill, the Fort Hood murders, Glenn Beck's book jacket, -- just about everything in the news, really! -- I'm beginning to think there is no magic or miracles to be had. This knowledge is depressing me in ways that I couldn't have even expected. I seem to have lost hope for something good to happen mainly because everyone else is screaming about how bad it is and will continue to get if we don't hand power over to Sarah Palin now! OK, well, maybe that last part is a bit hysterical, but you know what I mean. My therapist, however, thinks that this death of miracles and magic might be good for me as it means that I will work from a place of reality. He seems to have forgotten that the reason I've opted for magic and miracles is because I've had just a little too much reality in my life prior to age eighteen. If I didn't believe that miracles and magic could happen, I'd probably be dead of a drug overdose by now and not living in L.A. following a fantastical dream. As if to bribe a child away from its pacifier, my therapist offered me "luck" instead of my m&ms. That's right: luck. I'd rather stick with magic and miracles.

I don't know what's going to happen, not in the world or even my own psyche. I suppose I'm just hoping for a little hope right now, no matter what form it takes. New employment. A well-paying freelance gig. Something that makes me feel like tomorrow is going to be a little easier than today. Like winning the lottery for example. Which, coincidentally, could be considered either very lucky or magical and miraculous. I'll leave it up to you to decide...after it happens.

Little Dresses for Little Girls

You might have noticed recently that I'm a little ga-ga over my nieces. I am seriously in love. And considering that Christmas is coming up, I'm already plotting to buy their love in return. Hey, I'm 3,000 miles away. I've gotta come up with something to make me memorable. "Who are you again? Oh! The woman who sent the American Girl dolls?! I love you!" I was just in GAP looking for a wrap sweater and maybe some detailed or appliqued tee shirts and never made it past BabyGAP and their dress selection. Did you know the Stella McCartney has new line for GAPKids? Oh, yes, she does. Some little boy needs that band jacket. Hello, Sgt. Pepper! Anyway... I love being an auntie. All the dress up and none of the spit up. Although, I have to say that my sister needs to start posting more pictures of Abigail. My brother and his wife are ridiculously good about posting photos of the twins on Facebook, and I think my sister needs to take a lesson. Ahem.

These babies, of course, are making me think about my own procreation. I think I've been in denial for a long time about my chances. And maybe even about my age. (Umm, OK, definitely about my age.) I keep thinking that once I've got my act together I can get married and then have some kids. Because that would be the adult and responsible thing to do. But I'm really beginning to think that I'll never have it together. (And quite frankly, who really ever does?) So, should I not get married and have my own little princess to dress in a fabulous Stella McCartney tutu? No! Should I be looking for a Baby Daddy to seduce with my feminine charms and get cracking? Yes! Am I? Erm... OK, so the Baby Daddy part is still a wee little hurdle to get over. But I'm working on the issue. (No, I really am this time; I mean it!) In the meantime, I will be ogling small Callahan children from a far and patiently bidding my time until Christmas when I can get my hands on them. And, if by chance after Christmas I go off the grid, it's because I've stolen one of the twins. Probably this one...

Look at her in that beret! *Sigh!*

The Lob

I'm tired of my hair. Long is nice and all, but it's a bit blah. The only thing I like about my hair right now is that I can put it up into a relatively nice bun. But that's kinda blah, too. I spoke to my stylist about this back in September and she suggested that I check into a "lob." That's a long bob. (Yeah. We both agree it's a stupid name for a haircut, too.) So, I checked it out. I kinda like Nicole Ritchie's lob.

But, Nicole and I don't have similar hair. I'm pretty sure there is a lot of processing and straightening that goes on there, which adds to her volume.

I think I can get the Lauren Conrad look.

But that kinda looks like the haircut I have right now, just three inches shorter.

I'm pretty sure Heidi Klum and I have similar hair, but it feels less lob and more bob on Heidi.

The only thing I know for certain -- and which I'm terrified of -- is that I don't want Gwen Paltrow's lob. It looks stringy and unfortunate.

What to do, what to do?! (Seriously, what am I going to do?)

Abigail!

My newest little niece with her grandmother (better known to me as Mom). Sigh. I'm so happy!

A Little Mascara

This morning, after my shower and two minutes before I walked out the door, I took a moment to brush some mascara onto my eyelashes. I do this every day. My eyelashes are a light brown (or dark blonde!) and usually when I skip the process people comment on how tired I look. A little make-up goes a long way, so I make the sacrifice.

I have a very complicated relationship with make-up. I've got all sorts of thoughts about it. Some of it good, some of it, umm, not. I don't know why I've made make-up into an "issue." My mother wears it. And her mother wore it. My sister wears it. It's not like it wasn't around the house or anyone told me I shouldn't wear it because bunnies have been blinded by liquid eyeliner. It could, of course, come from those Catholic school years when we weren't able to wear any make-up at all except for Chapstick, and even then plain Chapstick over Cherry Chapstick because Cherry Chapstick was red and might rouge your lips a bit. (You're wondering if that last bits true. I'll leave it up to you to decide. But let me just qualify that I had nuns in my school.) By the time I stumbled into high school, I wasn't too sure about the make-up thing. I tried it, of course, after eight years of being told I couldn't, but the novelty quickly waned. I had acne, you see, and make-up seemed to exacerbate the situation especially as I was trying to cover it up. It felt so obvious that that was what I was doing. It wasn't awful acne, but I was a girl and any pimple was one pimple too many, so, instead, I opted out of the make-up wars and let the other girls with smoother skin give it a go. I kept thinking, "later."

When the acne finally cleared up in my twenties, I had become a wash-and-go kind of girl. I would literally wake up 30 minutes before I had to be anywhere, shower for twenty, dress and, well, here's where the mascara came in because I had to put some make-up on by now, didn't I? Then dash out the door with my hair wet. I kept a full face of make-up for special occasions. The problem was, when special occasions arose, I never felt comfortable applying the barely used Cover Girl products I kept stashed in a drawer. I knew how to apply make-up; I read enough "girly magazines" to know the proper techniques and colors for my coloring. However, it always felt "too much." Or "caked on." I didn't want to look "like a clown" (my mother's words). So I usually put on very little with the hopes that it would look natural only to get to wherever I was going to see that my friends applied a lot more and looked very good for their efforts. I assured myself, however, that when I "needed" make-up (IE, when I was "old" and ergo "unattractive"), I would do better...then.

I have to admit that I was very lucky during this time. Whenever I mentioned that I didn't wear make-up, girls would give me a literal double take and then try to get in closer for a look at my pores. Whenever I posed for WD magazine (they were infamous for using their editorial staff as models), the design editor would compliment me by saying, "I barely had to photoshop you at all." Who needed make-up? Youth was its own reward! Unfortunately, youth fades, and I woke up one morning around the age of thirty and realized that I had a sunspot on my cheek. Reality started to seep in. But, I refused to give in. I didn't need make-up. "Not yet," I kept telling myself.

This morning, during my two minute check-the-face timeout, right before dashing out the door to work, I looked at my skin. I've got another sun spot, one that I've been monitoring for awhile now. I've got two raised moles instead of the one that seemed glamorous back when I was twenty-five. There's a blotchiness to my skin tone that I never had before. I've come to the conclusion that I'm old...er. Sigh. No one is asking to take my picture any more. And if they do, there will be photoshopping, I assure you. And while I'm not wearing make-up daily, I do use the concealer stick with a light powder and some rougue on the weekends. Just to give me the kind of skin I used to have naturally. As for the heavy make-up? I still don't like it. Recently, a friend of mine -- a professional make-up artist, mind you -- "dolled [me] up" before a night on the town. I felt awkward and unnatural. And then I felt bad because she wanted that reality make-over "Wow! I never knew I could look like this!" response, and I didn't give it to her. I just couldn't. I've been made-up before (weddings comes to mind, that one afternoon at Sephora when I got wrangled into a chair thinking I would get the reality show feeling). I just don't feel like myself. I feel like, well, like I'm putting on a mask. Or, worse, warrior paint going into battle. And maybe that is the real issue of make-up for me. I've never wanted to be perceived as a fake or a fraud or a phony. I'm very big on exposing myself, warts and all, to every person who bumps into me. "This is me. Deal with it." I realize this is slightly confrontational (the word "femi-nazi" comes to mind), but the jokes about women not being confident enough to be seen without their make-up make me cringe. (Mary Kay, who never let her husband or children see her without make-up, makes me sad. Did she not like herself as God made her that she felt she had to cover up her own natural beauty? Or was that just a really committed way to selling the product? I never understood.) I mean, the beauty business is not a billion dollar industry because they make women feel good about themselves. Advertising firms are paid very good money to make women feel less-than so that they go out and buy the product to feel good-enough. That is, until the next new thing hits the market. "You thought Lash Blast was good? Wait until you see vibrating mascara! It will change your world!" To which I say, "Really? Puh-leeze."

I may never reach an age where I feel I "need" make-up. Though, I do think I'm getting closer to the age where I might start to apply at least some concealer and a light powder on a daily basis just to tame the blotchiness a bit (maybe. I mean forty is coming). At the same time, however, I'm still not to a place where I enjoy putting on a face full of make-up to make the most of my looks. My eyes could look a little bigger, a little bluer. My lips probably could stand to be a bit plumper. But it all feels one step closer to Plasticsville. I just can't seem to wrap my head around it quite yet. And maybe I don't have to. Not because I'm above such things, but because I'm coming to a place where I can accept that some women enjoy playing with make-up, and some don't. It doesn't make one less -- or more -- of a woman one way or the other. It's not a political statement. Or a statement about one's self image. Make-up is supposed to be about feeling good about yourself. So however much you use shouldn't be up to the beauty industry's standard of beauty but about how beautiful you feel when you use their product. For me, a little mascara seems to do the trick pretty well.

Workhorse

Back when I was 18, I was the Dunkin' Donuts girl. I poured coffee for harried New Englanders eager to get a caffeine jolt late in the day. I did that dirty little job, five until midnight, five days a week for five years. I was a regular ol' workhorse. I know that because my boss, Bill, described me this way to his best friend, Mark. I'll never forget standing in the bakery when he said it. "Jessica is a workhorse." Not, "Jessica is a loyal and valued worker." Not, "I trust Jessica completely." No. "Jessica is a workhorse." And he said it with a smirk. Mark smiled. (Mark, it should be disclosed, is my second cousin. If he did more than smile, I would have punched him in the gut and tattled to our grandmother.) Considering I was a teenager who was self conscious about her weight, the last thing I wanted was to be called was a Clydesdale, if you know what I mean. In my over-active imagination, my co-workers were flirty, frisky fillies, while I was the beaten down dray horse plowing the field.

Let me be frank, before that day, I actually took pride in the fact that I got the job done and did it well. But after the workhorse moniker, I wanted to quit. Seriously. I hated Bill at that moment, and, as you can tell, I'm still bitter about it eighteen years later. However, I was a workhorse, and regardless that my efforts were being mocked, I couldn't stop being one. Capable was what I was. And capable, I would continue to be.

I left Dunkin' Donuts and became a booking officer at a local police department. (Why, yes, I did go from doughnut girl to the cop shop.) If I was mocked for my industry at the restaurant, I was exploited at the PD. The problem there was that it became evident fairly quickly that if a cop wanted a job done quickly and done right, well, he called Jessica! She's that capable, conscientious little worker bee who is eager and willing to prove herself. My need to please got me so overloaded with responsibilities --from organizing the town's Open House to helping the Warrant Squad investigate felons -- that I had a mild freak out one night due to low blood sugar. I smashed my fist into a locker in the booking room after a girl tried to hook punch me. They sent me to a therapist shortly after this. "Jessica, you need to learn how to say no. Try it. Say no." Are you kidding me? Yeah, let me get right on that. Sorry, Captain, I won't help the warrant squad. Excuse me, what's that? Oh, it's part of my 'other duties as needed'? Do I want a verbal warning in my personnel file for insubordination? Umm, no? After this incident, however, I did learn the value of telling people, "I'll get to that when I can. But if its an emergency, you can speak to my sergeant about it." They never did and amazingly things still got done.

Being a workhorse in publishing is actually admired, believe it or not. Its just that you'll never get promoted or monetarily compensated for it. No, instead, you'll get threatened; reminded -- and often -- that there are at least twenty people standing right behind you who would do it better and cheaper and for longer and you should just grateful for having the job. Right. Thanks.

If I thought things would be different in TV then I would have been wrong. But, luckily, I had no expectation. After more than a decade in the work force, I've come to the keen conclusion that I am a workhorse, and workhorses are just not valued in contemporary American society. It's more important to know someone at the top and use good adjectives in your resume than it is to actually be able to complete the job that's listed in the advertisement. Give good interview, secure the job, then do just enough to not get fired. It's a Dilbert world, people. I was reminded of this today. (Because you knew this was coming from somewhere, didn't you?)

"Jessica, can you come up front?" asked the Receptionist through the intercom.

When I arrived up front, my boss was trying to place a brad into a script while his assistant just sat at her desk. Okaaay.

"I need you to cover this. Soon. But it doesn't have to be tonight," he said. Which means, he wants me to read it tomorrow and give him coverage before he leaves work tomorrow evening. Hopefully, he won't leave early. "This guy met (my boss's boss) at the 'Irena' screening and now, come to find out, this guy knows (my boss's assistant) and is hounding her about it."

Um, let me get this right: This writer was invited to our screening -- probably through my boss's assistant -- and met my boss's boss -- probably because my boss's assistant pointed him out -- and now I've got to read his bad script -- which both my boss and my boss's boss have deemed unlikely -- because my boss's assistant is being annoyed by the writer/acquaintance's persistence. Why isn't my boss's assistant reading it? Well, because regardless that the hounding is so overwhelming that she has to complain to the boss about it, the frisky filly might not get to it...so give it to the workhorse.

I used to think that if one proved oneself capable and efficient, an employer would value that and give one greater opportunities. You know. To get promoted. To get ahead. She's good, she's capable, she has the ability to go far in this company! We value her and her work ethic! However. That's not the way it works, does it? As my therapist used to say, No. Instead, what happens is the workhorse gets all the, well, work, while the frisky filly gets the opportunities. Why? People have all sorts of answers to that question, but I personally think it comes down to respect. People don't respect the guy who shines their shoes, picks up their garbage, or does the menial job they don't want to do themselves. Like reading bad scripts. It needs to be done, obviously, just not by the sexy people. The sexy people are too busy doing other, more sexy things. (I never know what, but they are always too busy doing it to make their own copies.) And, let's be honest, one would never hook up their Arabian to a plow, would they? No. But a Clydesdale is just made for plow pulling, now isn't it? It gets the job done. It's capable, sturdy, efficient. It's a workhorse. We appreciate the job the Clydesdale does, we just don't respect him for it.

While I resisted it back when I was 18, I'm just now coming to irrefutable conclusion that I am a Clydesdale. And while the frisky fillies will fail upward to become CEOs, the best I can hope for is stay healthy and not get shot in the field.