Twitterings

Things I would Twitter if I were tweeting:

*I love screener season! I have a hook-up who has a hook-up and I'm getting hooked-up! This weekend, "It's Complicated" and "The Lovely Bones." Love. It.

*I just ate two (Okay, three) Italian cookies from an authentic Italian bakery in Rhode Island overnighted to us from an Italian-American short story writer who miraculously got his unpublished short story optioned by us. (Okay, it was four.)

*I seem to be a match to every frakking guy on the eHarmony web site which I find funny considering I have such a hard time dating in the real world. I'm compatible to all, attractive to none. Yeah, I don't feel too badly about that...

*My cousin in Colorado and the one in Japan flew in to Connecticut today for the holiday. (I fly in next Wednesday.) And we will all be at our grandmother's house on Christmas. All we need is a piano and Judy Garland singing "I'll be Home for Christmas" and we can be a reality TV special.

*I've been asked to be a godmother again. And again. This year it's my niece Abby. Next year it will be my niece Cara. Regardless that God has ignored my pleas to meet the man who will father my own progeny, I'm now responsible for the souls of four small children. There's an irony in this that I haven't missed.

*We optioned the Jamie Lee Curtis piece. Betty White is attached. Is it bizarre that I'm more excited to meet Betty White than Jamie Lee?

*I just saw James Marsden at Lala's Argentine Grill. He was sitting by himself, obviously waiting for someone. A gorgeous man like that should never be alone. That's just a crying shame.

*Regardless that I'm contemptuous of the "Avatar" marketing scheme and the over-the-top reviews, not to mention worried about the impact a $400-million movie is going to make on the film industry or ticket prices if this thing succeeds in becoming the next level of movie-making, I'm going to see it anyway. And in 3-D. Probably at the IMAX. I have no morals.

*I saw Brittany Snow at CVS on Monday. She walks funny. Maybe it was just the heels.

*I keep thinking I'm done Christmas shopping then I remember someone I forgot. I need to start making enemies...

The Scared Skeptic

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of EAT, PRAY, LOVE (Oprah sanctioned and soon to be a movie starring Julia Roberts) has a new book due out called COMMITTED: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage. As a bonafide Single, this kind of irritated me, and I'll tell you why: Because Gilbert was married. She is a divorcee. In fact, a few people who have read EAT, PRAY, LOVE have voiced dismay at how cavalierly she threw off her marriage at the opening of that book and went on a journey of self-discovery that ended with her in the arms of another man (portrayed by Javier Bardem in the film). Not to give anything away -- that isn't in any book review -- COMMITTED is about how Gilbert decides to give marriage another go despite the fact that she equated marriage to a jail term. In EPL, Gilbert sermonized that religion got a little overly definitive about the terms of marriage. This does not sound skeptical to me. This sounds like disillusionment, like a person who didn't like the definition of marriage. Who, perhaps, believes in the power of Romantic Love, but found it difficult to sustain in a man-made institution. And despite that she might still believe in Romantic Love and continues to disagree with the Western definition of marriage, she got married again anyway. (Actually, she does it to secure a visa for her Brazilian lover, which sounds a lot more pragmatic and ethically questionable, but I digress). My point here is that the subtitle is provocative, but misleading. She doesn't make peace with the establishment of marriage as much as she makes a practical decision to circumvent the law, as the only way to continue conjugal visits with her preferred sexual partner was to marry him. COMMITTED is the exploration of different kinds of marriage from different cultures around the world. In other words, she's rationalizing and on the look out for the definition that best suits her predicament. (Which, if you think about it, if you opened up the definition of marriage, more people might go down the aisle.)

Right before Thanksgiving, I was offered a freelance writing assignment to write a book for the Valentine's Day market. As I've written three books for that hallowed holiday, the idea left me cold and annoyed. I don't think I've ever celebrated Valentine's Day and yet my romantic nature makes me a go-to gal for Valentine's drivel. But, whatever. I passed on the project and volunteered the name of another writer friend of mine who is currently between gigs and was looking to break into the gift book market. The publisher contacted this friend, and she IMed me this morning that she took it. As this friend has recently broken up with a boyfriend, I didn't know if she was in the right frame of mind for the assignment, but she told me that she's looking forward with hope. To which I say, "good for you," with skepticism in my heart. Because, dear reader, I am a skeptic against marriage.

Quite frankly, I think my generation -- the children of the so-called Me Generation -- are the real skeptics here. Mostly because our bohemian progenitors totally bought into the ideology that "if it's good for me, it's good for the kid." Which I will admit is probably correct if, say, Daddy beats Mommy or Mommy cooks meth in the spaghetti pot. But I think there's a lot of people who get married because they believe in Disney's version of love and then get jaded and angry that marriage is a ton of work and requires a level of commitment that sometimes supersedes your own personal needs. They look to marriage to fill that void inside themselves and if their partner is not up to filling the void then it's OK to look outside the marriage to figure it out. Whether that's another lover or a sojourn to Italy, India, and Bali, then you know, it's all good because it's good for me. To which I say, "No." Marriage comes with a definition and, yes, it comes from the church, and if you're not ready for that, don't do it.

As far as this Singleton can tell, marriage is a lot of work. It requires subverting your anger, frustration, and annoyance. It is constant compromise. It's a lot of bickering, negotiating, managing, and re-negotiating. It's finding space for yourself while trying to stay present enough so that your partner doesn't feel ignored. Its trying to find a perfect balance between needs and wants. Its about getting up in the morning and going through the routine no matter how boring it gets, hoping for those little moments of grace. I mean, my god, who wants to sign up for that?

The hope is, of course, that you will have a lifetime companion. Someone to witness your life with you. Someone you can go to the Great Wall of China with and say, "Look at that." Or ask, "Where was that little restaurant with the great gyros?" Life is lonely. A spouse makes it less lonely. And I get that. In fact, I want that. But my fear is that I won't be able to sustain it. I'm a freak, people! And because I fully acknowledge that I'm a whack-job, I used to think, for the longest time, that I had to find the perfect man to marry. Because only the perfect man would be able to put up with my quirks and foibles. And I mean that. Who is the perfect man? Well, I don't know, I haven't met him, but I certainly knew exactly what he was like. He had to be funny, of course, but not crude or raunchy or cruel. I prefer witty, word puns, and a certain dryness to humor. He had to be relaxed and comfortable in his own skin and place in the world. My need to control everything would be amusing to him, but at the same time a non-issue as he didn't care for the details himself. He couldn't have an ego or be a blowhard, but was still willing to defend me and my honor if need arose. He'd be ambitious, but not obsessed. A healthy sense of balance between work and family. He'd make money, but be completely mindless about it. My happiness was imperative to him. Generous, without a stingy bone in his body, yet not a spendthrift. He liked to travel, but also enjoyed an occasional "stay-cation." Loyal, ethical, committed, with a certain nobleness to his character. Smart and clever. A little absent-minded about the daily stuff, but remembered important occasions like my birthday and the place where we first kissed. I preferred he be from New England...and to look like Matt Damon. In fact, Matt Damon would do nicely as long as he fit all the other criteria, too. My perfect man was, for all intent and purpose, a Disney prince with a bland, inoffensive personality. And completely a figment of my imagination.

People are messy. They come with all sorts of pre-programmed nuttiness. And depending on their childhood, they come with a ton of emotional/mental baggage. The bright ones are slightly depressed. The dim ones can't seem to get out of their own way. By the time one hits thirty, hearts have been so brutally broken that defenses are up to orange alert. These ideal partners we conjure become the standard we set to reduce risk. And some of us (among which I count myself) specify so acutely as to what we need to have in order to settle down, we rule out our entire species. Which makes marriage a non-issue. Can't get married if you can't find the right person. And since the right person doesn't exist, well, then I don't have to worry about maintaining a marriage. And then I don't have to compromise or subvert my own desires. *Phew!*

If you want to talk about philosophical definitions of the word "skeptic," I'm sure the sub-title to Gilbert's book is correct. However, I think it would have been more appropriate to have chosen something like, "A Disillusioned Divorcee Does it Again." But that might be a recognition that Gilbert totally negated the thesis of her first book with this second. With that said, however, I would love to read a book about a scared, skeptical Singleton who actually does make peace with the standing definition of marriage. And succeeds.

The New Voice in My Head

I've had a pretty rough week. First there was the never ending bank issue. Then, yesterday afternoon, my boss pushed my button so hard I almost quit on the spot, but instead just started to cry. In front of him. In Reception. I really didn't care. Then, last night, I went out to my car after work hours, and my tire was flat. It seems I picked up a nail. And since I knew that my rear tires were balding and I needed an alignment, I knew it was going to cost me. Again. Stupid car. Like I said, rough week. Now here's the thing, usually, I would take this as permission to eat like a fiend. I would sooth myself with cake, or cookies, or potato chips, or my favorite drug of choice, Ice Cream(!). But, I didn't. I did eat a lot of carbs yesterday (a very good pasta lunch comes to mind), but I didn't binge. This, my friends, is a huge step. Further. I didn't want to binge. To which I say, "quelle surprise!" The biggest surprise I got, however, happened this morning at 5:50AM.

I see a trainer five days a week, Monday through Friday. I have been on this routine since mid-July. Lately, it's been dark and very cold every morning, and I've been doing everything in my power to keep the habit going. I tell myself, "I'm just going to lie here awake anyway; may as well go." And, "you'll feel disappointed and bad about yourself later, just get up." However, after the nail incident and three days of financial stress, I came home last night and debated whether I should just call up the trainer and tell her that I was going to skip the Thursday morning workout. My inner voice was saying things like, "I'm going to have to go to Firestone first thing in the morning to get the stupid tire thing done. I don't have time to work out." Except I knew I was rationalizing. Firestone was not going to be open at 6:15AM when I was due at the trainer's. Nor was it an issue to drop the car off on my way into work as Firestone is literally one block from my office building and my boss wouldn't care if I was twenty minutes late. So, I made the mature decision and didn't make the phone and just went to bed.

When the alarm sounded, it was dark and cold in my room and I didn't want to get up. I started to think about the lie I could tell to get out of the work out. I could call the trainer and tell her that I was going to come, but I just realized I had a flat tire and wouldn't be able to make it. Aw, shucks! And then I could sleep in. And, com'on, didn't I deserve it? I was having a rough week! Especially as I checked my checking account balance before I went to bed and noticed that the bank had charged me two more overdraft fees. I needed to stay in bed! At which point, the new, mature, rational voice that has taken up residence in my psyche spoke up.

"You can't stop your financial woes by stopping your training. What you really want to do is control the banking problem and the tire problem, but you can't. So you're trying to compensate by taking control over the one thing you can: your body. Your body and your money have nothing to do with each other. You need to compartmentalize. Your body needs to go to the trainer. Get up. Go the trainer. Take care of the money issue later." To which the whiny, inner six-year old who normally controls my every move, went, "Oh. OK." And got her not-so-big-any-more-because-of-training butt out of bed. (My whiny six-year old responds well to reason. Who knew?)

I worked out, came home, took my shower, and went off to Firestone to buy two new tires, got to the office five minutes late, called my bank and got the overdraft fees worked out (again!), and pretty much went through my day as usual. To be frank, I'm pretty proud of myself for making the right decision. And I'm even more proud of myself for finally recognizing a bad habit I've held my entire life in the moment when its about to be perpetrated. That's the hard part, isn't it? Not only to see it, but to make the opposite decision in order to counteract it. And hopefully to continue to make the right decision each time a similar situation arises. Little by little, I feel like the hardened rock of disappointment, self recrimination, and -- yes -- even self hatred is slowly coming apart inside of me. And what is emerging is a new person with a new voice. It's a very good feeling.

Cleared

Just in case you were worried about my banking snafu, it is cleared up. I talked to the bank yet again today, and the phantom check disappeared, and the bank credited me the overdraft charges, which -- you know -- was nice of them. But three days of stress can really wear a girl out.

I'm not used to stress like that any more. I do everything I can to keep stress low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low. (Why, yes, I am singing Flo Rida right now.) What I found most interesting about the process, however, was how other people responded to my need. And yes, I was needy. I splashed it all over Facebook. I told everyone at work. Some people were outraged for me. Other people commiserated. One person handed me a $10 bill to get me through the week in case I needed to eat. And another friend offered me cash -- a lot of it -- until it was settled. (Which, to that person, thank you, again! Seriously.) But most people were very hands off and faded into the distance. "Good time, Charlies" my mother would call them. Only around for when I can make them laugh. Or when they needed something from me. I seem to have a bunch of those in my life, and I'm trying hard to accept them for the Charlies they are and not judge them.

To be honest, I find Charlies exhausting as they are always looking for the party, but don't want to do the heavy lifting once real life asserts its self. However, I also used to define -- and congratulate -- myself as the "person who had it together." And, ergo, didn't "need" other people. So, whether I subconsciously filled my life with Charlies is something only my therapist knows (and he would say, "Yes"). Except when one fills one's life with energy-sucking Hoovers, it can get to be a bit much. There was a time, not too long ago, where I used to wish to drop off the face of the planet. I used to think, "I could just go out to the airport and get a one way ticket to some middle state, change my name, and just start all over again. No connections. No needy family or friends. Nothing. A whole new person with a new slate." However, I knew that if I did move to, say, Texas and changed my name to Sammy Jean, I'd still want to be in contact with my mom and sister enough to know that they were OK. Which would kinda defeat the purpose of slipping away into the night. It felt like a no-win situation. What I didn't realize then was that with each new career and each move, I was trying to do that anyway. Trying to forge a new person out of the old one. It didn't feel like it, however, since I was always looking over my shoulder. Those Charlies were quick! It's taken me a long time to recognize, that it was my own guilt and feelings of obligation that kept me tethered to my Charlies no matter where I roamed.

Lately, this wish of disappearing has shifted. And I feel, to a certain degree, freed because of it. I've done a pretty good job of distancing myself emotionally, mentally, and -- yes -- physically. I've slowly come to realize that I am my own person, and that I owe no one anything, not even my family. Because for all that my family gave me, they also took things from me, too. One shouldn't feel that one needs to spend the rest of one's life in servitude to people just because they gave one life and fed you and clothed you. Life, as they say, is a gift. You don't pay someone back for a gift. You just say thank you and move on.

This knowledge has cleared my conscience, and -- most importantly -- has given me a sense of freedom that I've never had before. There's this lightness that has taken residence somewhere beneath the mystical third eye. I can move anywhere and do anything, and all with my own name, and if I win a million dollars tomorrow, no one can say that I owe them anything. Maybe this is all obvious to most people, but for me it is enlightenment. And I feel cleared. Sorry, Charlie.

Pending

Yesterday, I logged into my account on my bank's web site to balance my checkbook from the weekend and got a great big shock. It seems the bank has cashed my rent check twice. One check, #1351, was rightfully made out and endorsed by my landlady, and had cleared by Monday morning as we share the same bank. The other check, #1321, was made out for the same amount to god-knows-who and was "pending." However, check #1321 was used waaay back in June and was made out to the gas company for $11.09. That check cleared in July and therefore should be null. Me, being me, of course, believes that this was human error. Afterall, "both" checks were made out for an odd amount (my rent is stabilized and therefore goes up in strange increments) and since the 2 is right below the 5 on the keypad, well, it just makes sense that someone's finger landed on the wrong digit. No problem to fix, correct? Well, this is the bank we're talking about, so you would be wrong. Majorly, majorly wrong. Worse, by the end of yesterday, they started to charge me overdraft penalties. That Starbucks latte just went from $4.50 t0 $39.50. Gah!

After I picked my stomach up off the floor, I calmly called the 800 number they provide for customer service and after a few automated gymnastics, I got a real person who basically told me that I had to wait 24-hours before they were able to do anything as she couldn't "see" the check and who it was made out to. Considering that check #1321 was in the system, I'm assuming she meant the one that was "cashed" on Friday, but since I'm pretty sure it's a phantom, I'm thinking she's going to be waiting for a long time for something to appear. However, being the patient saint that I am, I did as I was told and waited until this morning to log back in and to see if the check cleared. It was still pending. At which point, I gathered all the documents I needed for checks #1351 and #1321 and marched off to my local branch...where I got no satisfaction, but did get a small lecture about moving my account from Connecticut to California because they could service me better from in-state than out of state (funny, considering I called the national customer service line on Monday and they couldn't help me either, but I digress). The nice lady at my local branch did, however, open "a case" for me and I am now awaiting a phone call from my bank to clarify the matter. If it's bank error, she assured me, all monies including overdraft fees should be replaced by Friday. However, if it's fraud, the bank is going to screw me until they find out who stole the money because it could be me. (There were a couple of questions there that I did my best not to sigh heavily over and roll my eyes in blatant contempt at such amateurish interrogation tactics.) In the meantime, all my funds are frozen. That is, until I get paid next Tuesday, at which point the "overdraft" plus overdraft fees will be covered by my new paycheck. You know, the one that pays all my bills for the month? The bills that if you don't pay them by a specific time you get slapped with late fees and your credit score gets dinged? That paycheck and those bills. I have a feeling my bank is not going to intercede on my behalf with my other creditors and replace those monies. Nooo... "Bend over, sweetheart. This is going to hurt. A lot."

As I maintain that this is human error and not fraud, I have faith that this will be cleared up by Friday. Weirdly, I'm really not emotionally involved in this, and I'll tell you why. While I'm annoyed by the inconvenience, I think this is a cosmic test. You see, I've been stressing about money all year long (evidenced by a couple of earlier posts, follow the "lottery" label below). And all year long, I've been wanting to win or earn enough money to wipe out my debt completely. I've wanted to ease my way and clear my path towards something else (what else? I have no idea). So, just at the most stressful time of the year, the time when I need the most money, I lose 1/3 of my income through no fault of my own. Once again, I feel like Dian Fossey watching the gorillas, except this time, I'm watching the cosmos. What will happen? How will this right itself? I've been learning to let go. Maybe this is just one more area from which I need to pry my fingers.

Blog Topics

For the past few weeks now, I've thought of different blog topics to write about but have never got around to them. Or, more honestly, started to write them only to lose steam and discard them. What have I thought about recently? Glad you asked.

1. De-friending people on Facebook. I did this very recently and it was awful. I felt like I was sneaking around and that the de-friended acquaintances -- because that's what they are, really -- would think me a bitch. And I kept people I really didn't want to keep, but knew that they would realize that I de-friended them because these are the random people who usually comment on my wall. I also kept some people because they're my "friends" in some of the FB games I play and I want to keep my farm neighbors and Mafia close. (What?) Fingers crossed that my brothers' ex-girlfriends don't realize they've been cut lose...

2. eHarmony. I've eluded to my "dating" in the blog, but I haven't really written about the experience or how I feel about it. Mostly because I'm ambivalent. I think I've learned more about myself through this entire process than about the guys I've been matched with. I haven't gotten a "date" yet, but that's mostly because I'm dragging my feet. And I kinda don't care about it. Still, I'm doing it and trying to remain hopeful.

3. My Thanksgiving trip in Denver, Colorado. I'm usually pretty habitual about writing about my travels. Where I went, what I saw, who I was with, and what I thought. In fact, there were a few blogs that I probably shouldn't have written back when I was posting on MySpace about a couple of weddings I was in. But this time, I don't feel like I have anything to say. Colorado was interesting in so much as I didn't realize people still lived like that. It really is a different world in the middle of this country. And while I wouldn't mind visiting my aunt again, I think I saw everything I needed to see in three days. Which, I think, says a lot right there.

4. Diet, exercise, and addiction. I've spent the majority of this year working out. In the last few months, I started working on my food issues. Which were legion. While some people in my family have turned to drugs and drink for their addictions, it seems I turned to food. Food was my best friend, my partner, my drug of choice to carry me through. It sounds silly, I know. But when you're tanking down a pint of Cherry Garcia on a Friday night in front of the TV because you're too scared to get outside and make friends because you don't think you're interesting enough, or attractive enough, and you hate your self for it, what else do you call it? Let me tell you something, I know drug addicts. And I know alcoholics. Intimately. It's the same symptom, it's just a different medication. And screw anyone who has something to say about fat people, because I will identify their drug of choice with five questions and it will be drug, drink, sex, or gambling. Whatever gets you through, my friend. But don't throw stones.

5. My female family. It has recently come to my attention through a conversation with my Aunt Bev -- and then another conversation with my Aunt Liz -- that I was brought up in a matriarchy. You see, the men in my family kinda suck. They kill themselves, drink, fight, and do drugs. Oh, and cheat on their wives and girlfriends. I can tell you horror stories about my childhood that would make you think that I was brought up in the ghetto involving knives and girlfriends showing up at the front door. But I digress. Kinda. Anyway. I was brought up in the bosom of my father's family. There's my grandmother, three boys, and five girls. And every single one of the girls is kick ass in her own way. As as women are wont to do, they circled the nest. I grew up with aunts who loved and nurtured me. I'm one of those people who was brought up by a tribe. A female tribe. The problem with this is that I don't trust men as far as I can punt them, and at the end of the day, when I feel like I need to connect and re-charge, I always go back to the women. Hm. Maybe this one is a blog post afterall.

Mind Wide Open

I've decided that I'm ready for a new adventure. The only issue I have now is what adventure it will be. And while I'm normally very pro-active about choosing my own adventure, I'm kinda curious to see what the universe might bring me instead. Kinda like being a six-year old on Christmas Eve, sitting in her feetie pajamas hoping that Santa brings a Barbie, but really excited about what else might come, too. That's how I feel right now. I want to see what else will come.

In the past, I've been very risk adverse because the way to manage disappointment is to prepare, research, manipulate, control, and prepare. Oh, and prepare. Did I mention prepare? Want to move to New York? Where will I live? How much can I afford? How much will I have to make? How will I make friends? What kind of clothes will I need? What kind of job do I want? Where do I find that job? Manage, manage, manage. Prepare, prepare, prepare. And then, when opportunity knocks, well, I'm sitting there with my jacket on and my suitcase packed. I am Ready. The only problem -- and it's a small problem at that -- is that it takes all the surprise out of life. There is no room for spontaneity. No room for a pleasant detour. No room for anything actually other than a satisfying end to a well thought out endeavor. Which is nice. And boring. Did I mention boring? Because it is. It's really, really boring.

Yeah. I'm bored. That's the problem with living a carefully planned and managed life. While I have had few disappointments, I've had even fewer surprises. While I've managed to keep drama low, I've also managed to keep exhilaration equally low. I am not a naturally careful individual. I've been nurtured into being one. But, as I've said before, I'm trying to think in different ways, give up the raft, and get a pair of hiking shoes. I'm thinking about taking a risk. I'm just not quite sure how to do that. It seems awfully, umm, risky.

Recently, I received an email from a friend of mine who is currently living in Germany. She has made me an offer: Quit my job and come live with her for six months while I write my book. I would love to do this but I'm scared. How will I make money? How will I pay off my debt? In the meantime, I've put my resume into my dream company and have gotten a tepid response. Considering I've applied several times before and never got a response, tepid feels pretty terrific. And, of course, I'm thinking about dating again and actually moving towards doing it with a little help of a dating website. So what am I doing to further these prospects? Very little, except to keep my mind wide open. And to allow the universe to move something towards me, instead of pushing against it to make whatever I want happen. I'm not going to prepare, research, manipulate, control, and prepare. And manage. Did I mention manage? I'm going to allow things to happen. Naturally. Finally. And see what comes.

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.

Family Myth

"You realize that that is a book waiting to happen?" My therapist said last night.

"Yeah, I know. My family actually wants me to write it," I answered uneasily. "But I don't think they understand that they won't come off so well. Plus, it's really difficult to write it. I mean, do I go linear? Or use flashbacks to fill in the voids? And, *sigh*, I don't even know what's real! At the end of the day, it's more like a Tolstoy novel than a memoir."

I was trying to talk about my dad, but in order for my dad to be understood, I always feel like I have to go back to his dad. And in order for his dad to be understood, you've got to go back to his dad. Luckily, at that point, the stories get a little fuzzy so Great Grandpa Callahan's legacy is diluted as far as my psyche goes. The single story that does get passed down on Carleton Callahan involves a physically abusive alcoholic, a Christmas tree, and teenage sons lying in wait. If you have an alcoholic in your family, you know how that one ends. I bring these things up in therapy more as a breadcrumb trail for my therapist than an excavation of my troubled past. Except, after leaving my session last night, I started to think more about the Callahan Clan and how I feel burdened by their history. However, somewhere near UCLA, it hit me that I didn't know the Callahan history as much as I knew the family lore. The stories that have been handed down to me by an older generation. Stories that were handed down to them from people who were supposedly eye witnesses. At which point my former cop turned to my former editor and said, "Eyewitness accounts are unreliable. Where does the truth end and the fiction begin?" My former editor answered, "You can't fact check any of this. The participants are all dead. These are oral narratives."

Ahh, storytelling! Now, we're talking. When I was younger, I equated my love of story with my love for books. But! I also loved television and movies. And I loved a good recounting of a dramatic family vacation. I even loved gossip as long as there was a beginning, a middle, and an end. I considered all these loves separate identities. Different boyfriends, if you will. But I've recently realized that they weren't separate boyfriends, just different facets of the same boyfriend, and his name is Narrative. Now, I'm beginning to wonder if this love of narration comes from the family that enjoys telling a good story in the guise of a melodramatic family history. (Did I mention these folks are Irish? Hmm...)

Once I took the personal involvement out of the equation, I was able to hear the stories in a new way. They really were quite interesting. Like the one about my Great Grandmother Mary coming from Italy as a poor orphan, put into a Catholic convent, adopted by her much older sister, impregnanted by an Irishman then married to a widower. This is the stuff great literature! Or the very least, a good beach read! Instead of feeling burdened by these crazies, I felt excited about them. Hey, I can make some money off of these people! And suddenly, they were all forgiven. Every single one of them. Thearpy. Good for psyche. Good for the wallet.

Five Year Plan

I still haven't gotten over the fact that I live in California and not in the great Northeast. And I'm still resistant to the idea that I might always live here. I don't want to, I whine. But since I no longer know what I want, this adversity might just be a cranky-baby, knee jerk reaction. I no like California! Of course, I no liked New York, Hoboken, Manchester, Newington, or Bristol (and I knocked Seattle out of the running before even visiting). So, this might just be a reoccurring theme. And maybe -- and I'm just throwing it out there -- my issues with California are not really with California. Maybe, just maybe, my issues are a bit more internal.

I keep trying to parse out exactly what I do want out of my life, but I'm coming up empty handed at every turn. Do I want to get married? Umm, OK. But my desire to get married is more about a fear of growing old alone and never having that connection with somebody. I want a travel partner, a confidante, and a guy attractive enough to have sex with occasionally. Seriously, that's all I want out of marriage. Throw in a good conversationalist with a playful sense of humor, and I will have won the lottery. Do I want to have kids? Yeah, that'd be nice. But Lord knows why anyone truly wants a child. The reasons run from biological need to "I just want to know what it would look like." I'm somewhere in the middle. Do I want to win an Academy Award or run a business? Sigh. Shrug. Maybe. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, it doesn't. Whatever. Not the end of the world.

Let me just admit right now that this blase attitude of mine is freaking me the hell out. I've always thought of myself as a directed and ambitious person. I've spent the majority of my life with a five year life plan. My thinking was, "Get in, get it done, and see how you like it." Cop? Sure. Six years later, I was in New York publishing. Five years after that, I'm in television in Los Angeles. I should have called it the "Five Years Then Out" plan. Because I'd get bored with whatever I was doing at the end of the five years, re-evaluate, tear it up, and peel out of town once again. But that 17-year old girl who swore a blood oath that she was breaking out of her hometown and setting the world ablaze has turned into a 36-year old who can't be bothered to strike the match any more. I blame therapy. I'm no longer mad at God, or my parents, or myself, so I've lost the energy to destroy any and all who get in my way. You wanna pass me? Go right ahead. Let me know what it looks like from the top of the corporate ladder, at the end of the aisle, in the maternity ward. I'll get there when I get there. Maybe. If I don't? Eh.

So, if I don't want to live anywhere in particular, or get married, or have a kid, or own my own business/win an Oscar, what do I want? I don't know, and the question is killing me! It's as if these are the only options. Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure novels that were big in the 80s? I feel like I'm living in one of those. But I've read all the adventures and I'm kinda disappointed in the way they all end, so... why bother? I'd like something different. But I'm beginning to think there isn't anything different. I'm beginning to realize that there are just small differences in how we choose to get married, have kids, or navigate a career. The existential angst of the midlife crisis -- Is this all there is?! -- is hitting me at 36. And if I'm asking that question now (with a deep abiding fear that the answer is Yes) then I'm in trouble ten years from now. Of course, ten years is two five year plans. Or Med School. Dr. Callahan? Hmm.... Maybe. Sigh. Maybe not.

The Raft

A friend sent me this recently. It was from her Chinese philosophy class:

Suppose a man were traveling along a path. He sees a great expanse of water, with the near shore dubious and risky, the further shore secure and free from risk, but with neither a ferryboat nor a bridge going from this shore to the other. The thought would occur to him, 'What if I were to gather grass, twigs, branches, and leaves and, having bound them together to make a raft, were to cross over to safety on the other shore with the raft, making an effort with my hands and feet?' So the man gathered grass, twigs, branches,and leaves, and bound them together to make a raft. He crossed over safely to the other shore using the raft by propelling it with his hands and feet. Upon reaching the further shore, he might think, 'How useful this raft has been to me! Why don't I, having hoisted it on my head or carrying on my back, go wherever I like?' What do you think, monks: Would the man, in doing that, be doing what should be done with the raft?"

"No, lord." replied the monks.

The moral of the story is to dump the raft because there is nothing in life worth clinging to - especially the past or that rocky shore that you are leaving behind. There is also a message about the sacrifices we will have to make in the name of spiritual living and the seeking of enlightenment. Sometimes there are easier ways and we need to learn to keep things in proper perspective so we aren't swept away with the illusory attraction of suffering.

So, why am posting this and what were the friend and I talking about that would prompt this philosophical lesson? We were talking about the tools one collects to survive their childhood and how those tools can sometimes hinder us in our adult years. We hold onto the hammer and the wrench, regardless that what we might really need is a screwdriver and a saw. But instead of trading the hammer and the wrench for a screwdriver and a saw, we try to make the hammer and the wrench do the same work as a screwdriver and a saw. "If I just use this back and hack a away, then I can...goddammit! Why isn't this working?!"

I'm a Catholic. Let's just put that out there. I went to Catholic school. And regardless that I've sorted through a lot of the dogma to pull out the bits I like best and disregarded those that I think are a bit too man-made, I've been brainwashed to believe that suffering is for the best. That if you suffer enough, then God will reward you. You have to give and give and give, and then someday, when God has decided that you've given enough, He will just hand over your heart's desire. When I think about the Old Testament suffering that the Jews did under genocidal maniacs, and Christians did under the Romans, you can see how this might have appealed back in the day. They weren't giving as much as everything was being taken away. But when a girl is living in contemporary America, the land of plenty, suffering feels more self-inflicted than external. I feel like I'm choosing to suffer versus enduring suffering at the hands of some overlord bent on my destruction. Catholics are big on this self flagellation and extreme asceticism to reach God. We believe in it to a degree, despite that only zealots practice it. And while I don't consider myself a zealot, I've been practicing a bit of both flagellation and asceticism in the hopes of being worthy of something bigger and better. But I'm beginning to think that I need to put the cat-o-nine-tails down and slowly step away, because it ain't working.

I spent my entire childhood looking at the adults standing above me and silently thinking to myself, "Please, Jesus, don't let me make the mistakes these people have." Drug addiction, teen pregnancy, alcoholism, shot gun weddings, suffering silently in an abusive marriage, high drama divorce, et cetera, et cetera. My plan, since the age of six, was to escape to Hollywood. Why? Well, because Hollywood is the place where make-believe becomes reality. If I could dream it, it could happen in Hollywood.

I could go off on a tangent about how Hollywood is all glamour -- in the old school use of the word -- but this post isn't about how L.A. has "let me down." Afterall, it's not Hollywood's fault that I came with an unrealistic expectation of it's magical prowess. But it's about the things I did in order to be different from my family. I didn't want to be a pregnant teen, so I gained weight, wore men's clothes, and cut off my hair. I didn't want to get married and shackle myself to a man who would keep me in Connecticut, so I dated inappropriate men in my twenties. I didn't want to have a baby out of wedlock, so I stopped having sex. In fact, in my quest to "not be like them", I denied myself a lot and kept moving. But I believed that by sacrificing love and commitment, I was courting favor with the Big Guy Upstairs and that I would be rewarded for it with lots of money, some glory, maybe a little fame, and an Oscar. Not only would I be different, but I would be superior! I would be favored by God...and the Academy!

Yeah...that didn't really work out the way I hoped, and to be honest, I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I believed that this is the way the world -- and God -- worked. But these are tools that got me through childhood and to where I am today. A pretty successful human being for the most part. However, I don't need them any more. And while I'm ready to put away "childish things", now what? I've got some ideas. I know what I'd like to do or at least have next. But it feels like a great big mountain is in front of me....and I'm sitting here with a raft.

Twins

I totally stole these pictures of the twins from my brother Rick's facebook page.

The first picture is Cara while she's looking up at my brother Colby.



Doesn't it look like she's just heard something incredible?
"Gasp! Shut up! You're my father?"

The look on Chloe's face just slays me. And that tiny Mona Lisa smile? I love it!

Sigh! I can't wait to get my hands on them come Christmas...

Who's Your Daddy?

"I saw your facebook link," I said.

"Yeah?" My sister answered.

"I loved it. I loved every minute of it. Especially that part in the middle." I sighed dreamily.

"I know! I've played it three times and every time I cry. I love him. I want him to be my father!" My sister rhapsodized.

What -- or should I say, who -- were we talking about? President Obama and his speech to school children. The one where zealot parents kept their children home from school terrified that the President of the United States was going to go all The Ring and zombie'fy their children into walking, talking health care Nazis. My sister is a teacher in the south Bronx. That speech summed up everything she has to say every day in a million little ways to children who don't believe that school has anything to offer them: While it can be hard and boring, and maybe doesn't make sense now, you must stick with it. Your very life and the future of this country depends on it. Stay in school. If this is a propagandist message, my sister is in lock-step right behind the POTUS.

As an adult watching the clip, I knew that President believed every word that was coming out of his mouth. As a person who benefited from education and a former teacher himself, he was trying to impress on the impoverished and the disenfranchised to stick with it. The message of the speech was "Hang in there." But this post isn't necessarily about the speech as much as it is about what my sister's response was to it. "I want him to be my father!"

Oh, Dad. My sister and I are a couple of those kids. Two of the twenty-five million kids in the United States that grow up without their biological father in the house...or anywhere we could reach without years of family therapy and a psychologist. I usually give my mom a lot of guff in this blog, but lay off my father because my Daddy Issues are much bigger than my Mommy Issues, and would require me to delve into some pretty personal stuff about my father's past, and -- believe it or not -- I believe in his privacy. So let's just say that my father has some pretty big Daddy Issues of his own that caused him to make some really bad decisions, including "leaving the home" which is just a really pretty euphemism for "selfishly running away from your responsibilities." The fallout of this decision -- almost thirty years ago now -- continues to reverberate with my sister and me in a million different ways even to this day. One of which is an active campaign to find a father in our personal spheres and in the media.

Do not misunderstand me. We had male influences in our home. First, my mother moved us back to her father's house where she was promptly put to work feeding and cleaning up after her father and brother (my grandfather and uncle) while they went to work and put food on the table for us. However, even when my mother got a job "outside the home," she still came back to the house each evening to the second shift. And while my grandfather used to harass me about helping my mother (as he sat reading the paper), my mother used to tell me to go play or do my homework (perhaps in the hopes of sparing me early indoctrination into "women's work"). During this time period, a little TV show called the Cosby Show came on the air, and every Thursday night, I figuratively moved to Brooklyn to go live with my preferred dad, Dr. Heathcliff Huxtable. A man who not only came home every night, but joked with his children, kissed his wife, and talked and modeled the importance of personal responsibility. (She says while sighing wistfully and fluttering her eyelashes.)

When my mother re-married and we moved into a new home, the search for a father did not end. My stepfather, a man who came home every night and kissed his wife, was a stand-up guy, but he didn't exactly treat me like his daughter. I don't mean that in a perv'y, weird way, just in that we were strangers thrown into a house together. Blended families don't always blend well. Like a smoothie made with real fruit; there's still going to be chunks of strawberry in there that block the straw causing immense frustration or shoot into the back of your throat to unexpectedly gag you. For years, I would hide in my bedroom or in the rec room with the hopes of being ignored. It worked well. During those years, I often found my father in movies. Steve Martin in Father of the Bride comes to mind. Numerous teen exploitation films where the oblivious dad finally "sees" his daughter, and apologizes for being a Bad Dad. (Project much? Ahem.)

I finally found two -- well, fathers would be wrong, but -- father figures in my twenties. At the police department, I had two sergeants, Spence and John, who took me under their wing in non-perv'y or weird ways. Spence convinced me to enroll in Creative Writing courses at the local community college. John brought me to cool crime scenes, sent me out with his credit card to buy his wife's Valentine's Day gifts, and invited me onto the cruises he organized. (Years later, I went to a police officer's wedding, and John and his wife Debbie were there. I asked Debbie if it would be OK if I asked John to dance. Said Debbie, "Oh, for God's sake, you're practically one of his kids! Why are you even asking?!") If you've ever heard the story of why I became a cop, these two figure prominently in it. They saw that I was directionless and thought I would make an excellent cop. So, I became a cop. This seemed to make everyone happy including my Bio Dad.

(My conversation with my father, which happened accidentally when I picked up the phone at my grandmother's house, went something like this:

"Hey, I just want to tell you, I'm really proud of you, honey."

"Umm, thanks, Dad. Actually, I quit the P.D. and I'm moving to New York to work at Woman's Day magazine."

"Oh."

This is when you know God has a perverse sense of humor.)

This, of course, brings me to the differences between a father and a father figure. The convenience of a father figure is that they are not your real dad. Real dads can be screws up, jackasses, or half-wits. Father figures are the people you seek out because they share a common psychology with you. The breach between a real dad and a father figure is filled with romantic ideals, longing, and -- most importantly -- choice. Should my real dad have stayed in the home, I would probably be a completely differently person psychologically. The same can be said if my grandfather or my stepfather took an active interest in parenting me. But all these men abdicated their authority to my mother. (Hence the drubbing my mother takes in the blogs.) However, because I formed my own ideas and expectations in life, I went out and found men who already embodied those qualities. And while real dads can be embarrassing or exasperating or disappointing, father figures can be abandoned if they no longer fit the fantasy. If tomorrow, Bill Cosby goes all Howard Hughes, I can politely distance myself and seek out a new daddy stand-in. Not so when you share DNA or a house with that guy in his boxers who can belch the alphabet.

As the years have progressed, I've been honest enough with myself to admit that I prefer the father figures I've collected along the way to the dads I've been given. My father figures have taken active interests in what I'm doing, where I'm going, and what I'm going to do next. They have been encouraging, engaging, and positive. While my dads have all told me to do as they say and not as they do, my father figures have said, do as I have done; here is the pathway. Kinda like the President in his speech to the school children of America.

After all this, then, it shouldn't be any wonder that Kate and I listened transfixed to that speech. When you think about it, it was one fatherless man speaking to twenty-five million(+) fatherless children in a language we understood. In language we would like to hear from our real dads. He was encouraging, engaging, and positive. Everything a father should be. And therefore, maybe, I'll begin to lock-step right next to Kate. Just do me a favor, don't ask Malia and Sasha for the real scoop, please. I couldn't bear it if Barrack hangs around the White House in his boxers belching the alphabet.

Writing Writers

Writing is hard work. I know I make it look easy (what?), but it sooo is not. Writing takes so much more than getting an idea and putting it on paper. Actually, that's the easy part (which, quite frankly, isn't all that easy). The hard part is making it worth reading. Crafting it into something someone else is willing to plunk down money for and eat up valuable time with. Writing is so ugh and umph and grr and sigh and mmm and aha! It's like ripping a tree, roots and all, from your head and planting it on paper. Here! It's tiring and exhilarating. Writing sucks. And its satisfying. It's creation. And it's mind numbing drudgery. Writing is refuge and a whole lot of work.

I'm thinking a lot about writing these days and the writing process because I'm actually doing it again. I finished writing text for a kid's picture book and sent it to a friend/illustrator to see if she can do anything with it. I'm sick and tired of a screenplay I finished and have been tweaking for about four months now. And I've recently picked up a romance novel that I stuck in a drawer about two years ago and actually want to know how it ends. I'm working on it. We'll see. Weirdly, all around me all my writer friends seem to be writing, too. One of my friends has been tinkering with a children's book series idea that she has. Two more friends decided to take the month of August out and write separate 50,000 word novels. Another two friends were waiting to hear from their agent if their YA book was picked up by a publisher while they started on a gimmicky etiquette book. Another friend is in the process of "researching" her self-help travelogue. My brother fired up his blog again. Seems the end of summer is a good time to write.

The thing is, when a writer writes something there is an expectation. In fact, I'm a little nervous about posting this blog mentioning the kid's book, the screenplay, and the novel because inevitably people expect me to do something with my writing. And then I start hedging. "When is that kid's books coming out?" Umm, well, it wasn't a freelance assignment, it's just something I kinda just wrote, for fun, maybe. I don't know. The illustrator has it now and it's, you know, no rush, it was just for fun, kinda. "Is that screenplay finished yet?" Ah, actually, I mean, I'm done with the latest draft which is kinda, like, the first completed draft, but it's not really finished because now I've got to tweak it because, you know, I see the holes in the plotting, and, well, it's not done-done. It's sorta, kinda-done, maybe. "I can't wait to read your romance novel!" Oh, well, you know, it's going to be awhile, probably, because, it's, umm, I mean, I'm working on it. But I'm not finished. I'm about 100 pages in, I think. Maybe less. Or more. I don't know. It might be awhile yet, so...

Luckily for me, most of my friends are writers so they get it. And they know better than to ask. Because sometimes a piece could be finished without being finished. And it can be finished-finished but not ready for consumption. Or sometimes you're just finished with it but it's not finished at all. Writing is this weirdly personal push-pull. It's intimate. And it's public. You sit in a room all by yourself creating an entire universe, people it with characters who spring from the well of your subconscious. It's like being God! It's fun! I mean, it's work, but it's fun work. (Sorta. I'm thinking God would say the same thing. "It's fun, but, man, is it work!") But then, if you are to be a real god -- I mean, writer -- you're going to have to share it with someone. At which point, you get to hear how brilliant or crappy you are from people who supposedly love you and call you friend. Or daughter. Or client. If you're lucky, someone wants to give you money for your creation, and then you get to read how brilliant or crappy you are from people who are perfect strangers and have no emotional stake in you as an individual so who cares if they crush your soul, you shouldn't be writing anyway, you hack! Or maybe not. Quite frankly, it's terrifying.

But. I love it and, therefore, I'll take my lumps. No matter how lumpy I get. So, if you're a writer who is currently writing, I feel ya, buddy. Keep at it. And if you know a writer who is writing, well, just be kind and wait for it to come out in paperback before you ask to read it. It's for the best.

A Fertility God

2009 should be called "The Year of the Baby." At least this is true for me. Just about every arena of my life has included a new baby. This baby was born April 1st to my best friend from New York who now lives in California, Rebecca. (Please disregard how horrible I look in this photo and pay attention to the cuteness of Sam. Thank you.)



This baby was born to my first L.A. friend, Heather, in May.




My high school friend Gina had her second little girl around the same time. Both girls are named Lucy.



My twin nieces, Cara and Chloe, were born in August. (Cara is having surgery on her pancreas as I write, but the prognosis is good.)




My sister Kate, my cousin Josh's girlfriend, my L.A. friend Amy, and my NYC friend Anna are all due at the end of the year.

And now, my oldest friend on the books is due with her second child in February. Which will not be 2009, but since conception happened pre-2010, I'm going to count it anyway. I think I might be a fertility god...

Kadi Baby

My little sister -- who beat me down the aisle -- is now pregnant. She's due around November 13th. My mother is thrilled. She is also in uber-grammy mode putting together the baby shower. It has been decided that baby pictures of my sister and her hubby should grace the invitation, so my mother scanned a few old photos. This, of course, released a torrent of nostalgia for Mom which meant she had to promptly share them with me. I have to say, my sister was one cute baby.



The funny thing is, due to the age difference between me and Kadi, I remember my sister vividly like this. And sometimes? Sometimes I wonder at how this adorable, little baby become the beautiful, accomplished woman Kate is today. Love you, Brat.

Pretty Women

"What do you want to do?" Hugh asked.

"I don't know," I answered.

It was Saturday night and one friend was sick, another was in New York, and the third was helping her mother out of the reach of the fires that were (and are) licking the Hollywood hills, leaving me and the Aussie alone...again. Since this seems to be a regular occurance nowadays, we're becoming a bit boring. What are you doing? Nothing. What are you doing? Nothing. What do you want to do? I don't know. What do you want to do? I don't know. Hey. When did we get married? Umm...

"Have you ever seen a whore in Los Angeles?" Hugh randomly asked.

"No, I don't think I have," I replied after thinking about it for a moment. "However, I did once read that the internet has driven prostitution to sites like Craigslist and off of the streets."

And it's true, making it hard out here for a pimp.

"According to the movies -- and they're never wrong -- prostitutes are on Hollywood Boulevard," I said. So, after dinner we drove over there to find a Pretty Woman.

As we were driving up La Brea to the Hollywood intersection, Hugh pointed out a girl. "Is that a whore?"

She was a bleach blonde wearing a black lycra mini-dress and come-fuck-me boots, with a big black tattoo on her arm, crossing the street by herself. She was kinda hunched over and looked like she was looking for her next score or john or both.

"Definitely," I answered, assured in my middle-class knowledge of a ho's life. But as we turned the corner and started to head south on Hollywood, I became less assured and more horrified in a very generic way. We didn't see prostitutes, but we did saw a whole lotta hos. Or wannabe hos. Or girls who want people to think that they're hos without actually being a ho. Or girls who aren't hos but will probably sleep with you at the end of the night for the price of four Jaeger bombs. Ahem. Seriously, these girls were auditioning to be the next Girl Next Door, except they were probably too cheap to catch Hef's discerning eye. Suddenly, I began to wonder, what came first: Frederick's of Hollywood or the clientele (and if you use that link, some of FoH's dresses are actually longer and more modest than what I saw on Saturday night. I'm not kidding). I was beginning to feel out of place in my lemon yellow linen shift from the GAP and was happy to be in car and not street walking with the rest of these, umm, ladies(?).

It reminded me of a book I read a couple of years ago entitled Female Chauvinist Pig. It highlighted American culture's curve towards pornography and raunichiness. Stripper poles as exercise, Jenna Jameson selling foam replicas of her body parts, Paris Hilton's sex tape as marketing ploy, etc. In the book, the author interviewed a 12-year old girl who said -- and I'm paraphrasing here, but not too much -- that a girl needs to look like a slut, but not act like one. In other words, our power as women continues to reside in being able to excite men. I can dress like a whore, act like a whore, talk to you like a whore, even have sex with you, but you're not allowed to think of me like a whore because that is sexist. Sigh. This is equality? An important part of Ariel Levy's thesis was that women aren't even thinking about sex when they dress this way or try to emmulate Playboy bunnies cum starlets; that female sex is no longer about her physical passion or desire but about using her sexuality as a power play. You may want me, but you can't have me unless I say you can. Desire me, so I can reject you and feel better about myself. As with most buzz-worthy books, this might be a tab hyperbolic and boiling things down to their lowest common denominator. But with that said, I know plenty of women who hold contrary views about their own sexual empowerment; like a woman who will sleep with a guy that she doesn't like because she "has needs" and she's going "get [hers]," but won't sleep with a guy she does like because she doesn't want him to get the "wrong idea" about her. Umm....

Recently, a friend of mine handed me a book entitled A Return to Modesty. I haven't had the chance to read it yet. But I find it interesting that a book can be published under the guise that modesty is radical. But then again, after trolling Hollywood Boulevard with its plethora of young women dressed like they're ready to attend the AVN Awards, maybe it is.

As for Hugh and me, after about thirty minutes of this game, we went home -- separately and without having sex-- without seeing a sex worker (prostitute is sooo 20th century). But all is not lost, at least not for Hugh. He leaves for Thailand this week. They've got a red light district in Bangkok. Makes it easier to find the women who are willing to get paid for it.