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.

Dear Abby

In the beginning of August, I received an email from a friend and former colleague who currently lives in Seattle working for a book packager. This friend wanted to inform me that there was a job opening for an editor at her place of business and wanted to know if I would be interested in applying for the position.

I'm going to assume that everyone who reads this blog knows me (and if you don't know me, "why, hello there, stranger"). And as a person who knows me, you know that I'm pretty -- Brave? Reckless? Fickle? Pick your adjective of choice here -- when it comes to career change and making out-of-the-blue moves. I can get into why I am the way I am, but why bother? All that matters is that I became self-reliant a long time ago now and, so far, I haven't screwed up too badly. In fact, most of my take-a-flying-leap-of-faith-and-see-where-you-land adventures have worked out pretty well. So, when I was presented with this new opportunity, I thought about it for a day or two and thought, "Hell, why not?", updated my resume, culled together my list of books, and sent it on.

Publishing is notoriously slow. So, I didn't think too much about it when I didn't hear back from the packager for about two weeks. In the meantime, I got myself all riled up about why I wanted to leave L.A. and my job. "I hate her!" "I can't stand this!" "Why aren't there any smart men in this godforsaken city?" Blahblahblah. I got my fione Irish temper up, I did. And if anyone knows how to push my buttons but good, it's me. So, by the time the interview came up, I was ready to knock it out of Dodgers Stadium all the way to Safeco Field. In the meantime, I didn't want to tell anyone about the process because, well, quite frankly, I'd get advice. Or No Advice which is sometimes worse than generic advice as No Advice usually leads to people constantly asking what you're going to do. Whatareyougoingtodo?Whatareyougoingtodo?Whateareyougoingtodo? I DON'T KNOW! AGH! This, I've learned the hard way. And if I did need advice, I would seek out the right Dear Abby for the job.

"Give me your salary requirements," the Editorial Manager said at the end of the interview. "I just want to remind you that we're not going to be able to compete with television." "Yes," I said. "I remember. No one gets rich in publishing. It really is a labor of love." "Also, I'm just going to send you a test. I hate to call it that. It's just to see what your editing skills are. And if you could pitch me a book idea, that would be great, too." "No, problem," I answered, already thinking of a couple of topics. "And if you can get that all to me early next week, that would be helpful. When would you be able to get up here?" "Mid-September, I think."

And so began my specialty: Pre-worry (AKA panic). "*groan* What am I going to do?" "*moan* What do I want out of my life?" And, of course, "*sigh* Do I really want to do this again?" I hadn't even opened the test yet. I feel bad for the first person who called me on Friday evening. Hugh had to spend two hours listening to me dissect myself into the smallest details. If he didn't know I was a freak before that conversation, he's got a pretty good handle on it now. Then there was the conversation on Saturday morning with a girl I'll call Andy who called with a personal crisis of her own and ended up listening to me instead. Andy is very patient and missed making millions of dollars as a psychologist/life coach because, seriously, she could. Unfortunately, Andy is a very authentic person and has these things called morals. (Morality, keeping people poor for a millennia.) After Andy, I called my mother because I promised I would. See: No Advice. And after speaking to her, I realized who my Dear Abby for this To Seattle or Not to Seattle dilemma would be.

As with everyone, I have a cadre of friends who fulfill different needs in my life. For instance, I would never ask my Nuturer to give me a motivational kick in the bottom. Nor would I ask a just-holding-it-together married woman to give me dating tips. See what I'm saying? What I needed for this job was a single gal in publishing with a clear-eyed view of the career/dating/family landscape. Luckily, I had just the gal in my Rolodex. She is (A) reasonable. (B) Empathetic. (C) A Senior Editor back in NYC who I worked with during one of the most turbulent and stressful times of my life right before I hit the bricks for L.A. Let's call her Edie.

I adore Edie. Love her to pieces. She probably has no idea the esteem with which I regard her. She's just lovely. I want all good things for her. Smart, cute husband, brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, 2.5 kids who get into Stuyvesant, lots of money and her own imprint. Or, you know, whatever she wants. Anyway, I called Edie in a mild panic. As always, Edie was rational and empathetic. Truthful and tactful. We talked brass-knuckles publishing. We talked about proximity to family. We talked finances. We talked until she talked me off the ledge and I realized that I really didn't want to make another interstate career move, but to find a *gulp* husband. Crap.

Later, when I finally did open the test and look at it, everything I had surmised solidified into a fact. I sighed heavily, felt tired, and couldn't even scrap up enough vim to write a pitch letter. I was overwhelmed with the enormity of the task. It was like agreeing to go on a date with an old boyfriend. It was nice fine, but there was not spark. OK, so I hate L.A. I can't stand certain people I come into contact with on a daily basis. I'm terrified that all my friends are going to pull up stakes and leave me here alone. But as it's been put to me by other Dear Abbys, making decisions based on negative quantities does not necessarily make a positive change. Running back into the arms of publishing in a bright shiny, new city doesn't necessarily mean that I'm going to be happy or even happier.

This morning, I called up the interviewer and told her that I reconsidered the move and I was going to remove myself from consideration. I thanked her for her time then got off the phone and emailed the friend who informed me of the opportunity to let her know that I'm out of the running due to personal reasons.

The moral of the story is that I'm trying something new by staying in L.A. And that if I really want to make a change, it should be in regards to my personal life and not my public one. Since I've never taken a-flying-leap-of-faith-and-see-where-you-land attitude towards my love life, panic -- I mean, pre-worry -- is imminent. So, keep your phone lines open, people. You never know which Dear Abby I'll be coming to next.

Connecticut in December

I just booked my flight back to Connecticut for Christmas. I got a very good deal, so I should feel pretty self satisfied and efficient. And yet...I don't.

First, let's start with the practical. I booked through Priceline and they are flying me out of LAX -- blerg -- on Alaska Airlines ("operated by American Airlines") and flying me back on Delta. And while I got to choose my seats, I'm vaguely worried that not only am I not going to get the seat I chose, but that somehow I'm going to get bumped. Since I had to book it for December 23rd -- I have not forgotten my boss's wrath over my taking time off pre-Christmas 2008 -- and book on the larger carriers -- and not my preferred JetBlue or VirginAmerica -- I'm almost certain that this is going to be the case and I'm going to find myself alone, eating cold soup on Christmas morning (don't ask me why it's cold, it just seems more miserable and ergo more fitting).

Second, while I'm pretty certain I'm still going to be living in L.A. come December, what if something occurs and I do not? It's going to cost me more money to rearrange these flights then if I just waited a little longer.

Third, and the "biggie" of the three, I'm a little sigh'y -- is sigh'y a word? -- over the fact that I have to use what little money I have to make the yearly trek back to Connecticut and not to (A) London, (B) Rome, (C) Thailand, (D) Seattle, (E) Denver, (F) Sydney, (G) Africa, (H) Paris. All places that I have been invited to by my myriad of friends in the last five months. (And no, I'm not kidding. My friends are really this fabulous.) New invitations are being offered on a bi-monthly basis. And every time one comes up, I sigh heavily; keeping my fingers crossed that maybe I'll win the lottery. You know, the one I don't play?

I know that once Christmas comes I'm going to be very happy and excited to go to Connecticut in December (new nieces!), but for right now, all I can think about is where I'm not going. London in November. Sydney in January. Rome in February. Paris in March...

I Am Right

In my bedroom, above my computer, I have an eraser board. On this board, I make notations of things. Lists of things I might need to buy next time I'm at CVS or pack for my next trip. I'll write down phone numbers or addresses. Sometimes, I'll wake up and write down a dream. I also use it for Google research. Meaning, I'll think of a blog topic or fictional scene that might need some "reality", so I'll take down all my notations on the eraser board. Right now, the eraser board says, "Evolutionary Cognitive Neuroscience", "Facial phenotypic similarity", "fMRI", "Anthony Volk @ Brock U.", "Female Infidelity & Paternal Uncertainty", "Daly & Wilson", "Steven Platek", and "Alexandra Alvergne @ U. of Montpelier, France." Because sometimes I use the board to prove that I AM RIGHT!

Being right takes scores of time. It requires me to backtrack to just about everything I've read in a blog, book, review, article or on AOL's homepage, or seen on the History Channel or TLC, trying to piece together where I picked up a tidbit of random trivia that I found interesting enough to drop into a casual conversation only to have someone say, "That's not true. That doesn't make any sense." As if I'm making up crap on the spot to mislead a person into a state of stupidity. This, of course, drives me crazy. Why? I don't know. Maybe because I'm insecure about my education. Maybe its because Miss Teevan told me -- in front of my entire Italian I class -- that I wasn't smart enough to be a lawyer or because Sr. Bernard Joseph used to mock me -- for four school years -- whenever I made a spelling mistake or because Mr. Guarino accused me -- in front of my entire 6th grade class -- of being a cheater when I got a math test right because I had gotten so many wrong. (Teachers, ladies and gentlemen, can really fuck with a kid's sense of self.) So, for years now, I've done my best to prove to the greater world that I'm not stupid. That I'm actually smart. And I would pound you into the ground with my big brain if it took two hours on Google to retrace my every step and footnote my every argument.

Quite frankly, all this has been exhausting. And because it's exhausting, I'm trying to let it go. Afterall, Miss Teevan and Sr. Bernard Joseph are both dead, and Mr. Guarino left teaching. I have mean and evil things to say about all these people, but part of letting it go is (*grumble, grumble*) forgiveness. That last part will be harder than the Google research, I'll just admit that right now. But not as hard as giving up the habit of being right. That's a killer. This morning, as I started to compose an email argument -- with supporting links! -- to a person who refuted my factoid during our casual conversation last night, I realized that I just had to stop. First, because the email was starting to read like something from a post-grad cognitive science research paper and secondly, I wasn't going to get any vindication or even validation. All I was going to get was one of the three responses I typically get: 1) The person will say, "that still doesn't make sense." Which will make me nuts. (2) The person will say, "yeah, I got that email but it was too long to read. What did it say?" Which will make me nuts. (3) The person will say, "I don't even remember talking about that." Which will make me nuts. (Are you seeing a pattern here?) What I have never gotten is a simple, "Huh. That's interesting. I'm sorry I doubted you. You were right." And I realized mid-email that I wasn't going to get that this time around either. In fact, I'm pretty sure I would have gotten response #3. So, I deleted the email.

When I'm done with the eraser board information -- the items have been picked up at CVS, the address has been copied into my address book, the dream no longer feels relevant -- I erase the writing and wait for the next info emergency to arise. So, in this tradition, I'm going to erase the Google research on facial phenotype. Because even though no one else might know that I've proven myself, I've proven myself to me. I know that I'm right. And that's got to suffice. So, suck it, Sister B.J.! (Sigh. I'm still working on that forgiveness thing...)

When Opportunity Knocks

I was offered an opportunity. I'm not going to get into the specifics because I don't need advice right now, and I'm sure to get it if I mention exactly what the opportunity is. But let's just say that the opportunity would require a move to another state and not one I've lived in before (calm down, east coast). The offer came via email which might be the wrong way to communicate information to me because I tend to start skimming while my head gets all buzzy, and I feel like jumping out of my seat and calling my mommy. "What do I do? Whaddoido! (*moan.*)" I actually closed out of AOL and sat in denial for a few minutes, before I was able to pull out my mental police officer (I'm telling you, everyone should go through the police academy just for this skill set) and slap myself around a bit. "Calm down; slow down. Stop panicking and think."

This post is not about this particular opportunity, but the way I respond to any kind of opportunity that presents itself. I like to call it “pre-worry,” but a mental health specialist might call it “panic.” Let’s take dating, for instance. A guy asks me out. “Would you like to go out on Friday night?” My stomach sinks, and I look at him as if he just asked, “Would you like me to rip your heart from your chest?” While I would love to say, “Can I get back to you on that?”, I usually have to give an answer right away, and it always comes out sounding a bit like I’m trying to convince myself that I want to do this (which is a partial truth), and that I’m just not that into him. “Yeah, sure! That’d be great! Oh wait. This Friday? Umm, I might have to…no, it’s fine…yes!” In those spare, jibber-jabbering moments, I have to make the “right decision” because it might affect the rest of my life! (It’s all do-or-die in Callafornia.) I process as fast as I can. Risk management style. “What’s the worst that can happen?” “Do I have anything to wear?” “How fast can I lose ten pounds?” “Is he going to expect to go dutch; am I liquid?” “Do I like him? His mouth is a bit too small. Can I give birth to a child with a mouth like that?” (Don’t judge me…) The root of the problem is this: I don't like risk, and I definitely don’t like change. How is a Friday night date risky change? Oh, it is, my friend. It is.

So, if that’s how I confront a little date proposal, imagine what I would do if someone actually dropped to a knee and proposed marriage (I have, and it involves puke). Those big, life-altering opportunities can cause days of consternation for me. “What does it mean? What do I do? Is this a test?” Once I get over the existential angst, I move onto the practical. “How does this affect my career? How much money is this going to cost versus how much money it’s going to generate?” And then onto the personal, “How is this going to affect the people in my life like my roommate? How are my friends going to react? How will I meet new people where I land?” All these things have to be gone through with a fine-tooth comb. I have to parse out each and every scenario and come to all conclusions before I even take a breath. And once I’ve gotten to the place where I think, “OK, yeah, I can do this.” Everything firms up like its cement, and I just go like Usain Bolt out of the running blocks.

When I do change, I usually take my present, rip it shreds, set it on fire, and hot foot it out of town. I've noticed this about myself and fully acknowledge it. However, this response has not made me happy. See: Los Angeles. So, this time, I’m trying to use that mental cop a whole lot sooner and further into the process. This time I started to think about how I could leverage this opportunity to perhaps better my position in Los Angeles. How to use it to stay than using it as an excuse to go. That was a bit risky as it would require me to tip my hand to my employer during a tricky economy. I also started to think about what I really wanted out of my life because those wants have been changing. I’m a little tired of the gypsy lifestyle I’ve been leading and have actually been thinking about Boston. Home, but not home. And while I like the option of picking up and going, I would actually like to bring a friend or two along this time. Or go to a place where I already have friends set up. I’m also a little tired of hop scotching to different jobs to find a “safe spot” where I “can grow.” I kind of just want a job that I like, that pays me well, and allows me to have a personal life. I’d rather start growing in a relationship than at the work space. I’d rather feel safe at home than at work. Unfortunately, that opportunity hasn't presented itself yet, but here's to hoping that this opportunity -- whether I take it or leave it -- does.

So, what am I going to do about this particular opportunity that has not only knocked but rang the doorbell a couple of times and yelled that it knows I'm inside? Well, even though my modus operendi of pre-worry has already kicked into gear, I’m trying to approach it differently. This time, I’m going to open up the door. Maybe take a step or two out. Greet it and get a good look at it before deciding whether to take its arm and go for a jaunt...or slam the door in its face. This, hopefully, will be better way of dealing with it than cowering behind the door until I can figure out whether it’s wielding a machete.