Help

Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need someone, help.

Don't you love a good Beatles' song? I have a compilation album that Apple Records put out. It has all my favorites. Here Comes the Sun. Let It Be. Paperback Writer. And a few that I just skip over on the iPod, and I'll skip over here, too. But the one that always come back to haunt me is Help!. Love Help!. Probably because it mirrors my own life.

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.

I don't recall what I was like as a small child. I do recall wanting to do things for myself. But that's neither here nor there. Somewhere along the line, I learned to do for myself. That with enough information I could figure out how to get something done without "bothering" anyone. Self-sufficiency (as well as quiet) was prized in my home. I lived in a multi-generational house whose motto seemed to be: Don't bother me, kid. So, I became self sufficient and pretty good at doing for myself. I also became wary and silent, but that's a blog for another day. By my teen years, I knew that I could do anything that I put my mind to. Adults seemed to be completely clueless. And whenever they offered me help, I almost bit their head off. I mean, what were they insinuating? That I couldn't do it myself? That I wasn't smart enough to figure it? Trust me, bub, I've got it all figured out! (I was a very angry teen.) Plus, whenever I had to ask for help, I felt embarrassed. Like I really wasn't smart enough to figure it out. And I felt like I had to guard that secret with everything I had because people might try to exploit me. (Really, I don't know where some of these convictions came from.)

I got through my teen years feeling pretty competent and confident which was a blessing and a curse all rolled into one. I had reinforced certain cynical and self protective ideas that probably shouldn't have been reinforced. However, I had also given myself the mental material I needed to make flying leaps of blind faith because I knew I could handle whatever might happen. So, six of one, half dozen of the other, you know? Help, however, wasn't in the equation. This seemed to be one of the charitable ideas I left behind after I learned how to tie my sneakers. I didn't "need" anyone. I could do it on my own. I would do it on my own. Which is silly really; nobody knows everything. And no one can do everything by him or her self. And as time went by, I suffered for the algebraic formula of Help = Weakness. What I've learned, the very hardest way, is that by shutting everyone out, not allowing them in when you need them the very most, is lonely! And makes life harder! At absolute worst, it can be down right isolating.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being round.
Help me, get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me?

Accepting help isn't weakness but an acknowledgement that the whole is stronger than a single component. My biggest obstacle now, at the ripe ol' age of thirty-umm... is learning how to ask for help without feeling foolish and incompetent. Without putting a label on it or thinking that it means something that it doesn't. Recently, I've had what can only be called A Divine Test. These "tests", which I believe come to test us to see if we've learned anything about the human experience, come up on occasion, and I usually fail them. This time, however, I might have passed. (With a C, but I'll take it.) You see, my 1998 Jetta finally got to a place where it needed to be retired. And I did what I normally do in a financial crisis. I panicked. Bad. I ran out to Carmax and bought a very cute, very "ME" 2006 red VW Beetle. But. The car had issues. Electrical and mechanical. And after three weeks of waiting for Rome to canonize someone as the patron saint of used cars in order to miraculously heal my Beetle's transmission, I finally gave up and convinced Carmax to take the car back. In the meantime, of course, I received a TON of advice which I promptly started to file in "No" and "Yes" piles for reasons I've stated before. (See, advice) But I knew there was one particular person who could really help. So, I broke down and emailed him.

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
My independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before.

And guess what? He helped. A lot. He also lectured me. He said that if I contacted him in the beginning, "we" could have avoided the whole Beetle disaster. (Like I said, C.) But I'll say this: At the end of the day, I felt relief at handing over this problem to someone more capable than I. It didn't mean that I was incapable. I just needed a little help.

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.