I Know What I'm Doing (12 page)

OH, THAT’S OKAY. I HAVE A MILLION OF THEM.

I started to text back:
OH, OKAY. ROCKEFELLER!

Or was that too old of a reference? Shit. I erased what I wrote and typed,
OH, OKAY. FRESH PRINCE OF BEL-AIR!
Shit. Was that also too old of a reference? Shit. Delete. What if he thought I was just trying to tell him that his shirt was here and he’s sitting on the other end of our iPhones thinking,
Why hasn’t Jen asked me to come back over?
Maybe he needed me to take the lead. I texted back:

OH WELL, I’LL KEEP IT HERE IN CASE YOU NEED A MILLION AND ONE.

Send.

Funny. And an immediate unfunny follow-up:

IN FACT, WHETHER YOU NEED IT OR NOT YOU SHOULD COME OVER AND GET IT. I WENT HOME “SICK” FROM WORK TODAY. I NEVER SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN OUT OF BED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

He texted back. ONE HOUR LATER.

SORRY I HAVE BAND PRACTICE TONIGHT. HOW ARE YOU?

I wanted to text back . . . How am I? I’m horny! You came over with your 0 percent body fat, kept me up all night breaking my levee to Led Zeppelin, and you want to know how I am? Mortified! I’m a career woman! I write for television! I have a book deal! I’m a stand-up comic! I’m ON television.
How am I?
Horrified that I am texting a twenty-three-year-old who is giving me the same treatment he’s giving all of the other “women” on his Facebook Wall—the SILENT TREATMENT.

Band practice. Pfft. I dated guys in “bands” back when I was his age. I’m not some groupie over here. You know who has time to practice? People who don’t tour doing gigs!

I got out of bed and headed to the living room. I picked up our undrunk red wineglasses and gave them a good scrubbing—with a proper wineglass brush of course. I started thinking about how all of this texting was so beneath me. Texts are for quick communication between two people who already talk on the phone. “I’m running five minutes late!” That’s a text. You don’t text an adult woman who is in possession of a china cabinet, “How are you?” and expect her to be happy that you asked. I thought of how I felt sorry for/superior to the girls on his Facebook Wall. All of these young, attractive people home and hiding behind computers, phones, and social media. I’d had to figure out with my super-sleuth abilities that of course he was fucking other people. It’s not that I took our night together as a bond of commitment, but I thought that I at least took the number one slot for that week. I never expected to be a one-hit wonder and get kicked off of the charts in one day. I wanted to get back on Facebook and befriend every single one of those poor girls who were throwing themselves at Ryder. I wanted to write things on their Wall like “ ‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle’—Gloria Steinem.” But I realized that at their age they were all where they were supposed to be. I was the only brick that didn’t match the rest of the wall. I put my wineglasses on my specific-for-wineglasses-only drying rack and headed to my computer. I logged on to Facebook and unfriended Ryder. Then I went to my friend Margaret’s page and hit Like on a picture of her daughter with her finger up her nose. I left a comment. “Call me sometime. I’m still at the 323.”

10

I’M OKAY, YOU’RE OKAY

Sometimes we just need to be told that it’s OKAY. Here’s some random advice that I wish someone had told me so that I wouldn’t have been so self-conscious doing all of these things. It was always okay.

L
isten. Remember when you were little and you dreamed of being an adult because your stupid mom never kept sugary soda in the fridge? Remember when you were a teenager you thought to yourself,
When I get out of here, I’m going to do whatever the hell I want.
Are you doing that? If your inner teenager would be embarrassed by your adult behavior now—you’re not truly doing what you want. Okay, maybe you should take those posters off your walls. Your inner teenager is wrong about how cool they look. And besides, Poster Putty
is
bad for the paint job or wallpaper. Your mother was right about that.

It’s okay to not want monogamy for some periods of your life.

People will tell you that being non-monogamous can’t be done. It can’t. For some people. What non-monogamy can do is offer you the wonderful relationship-sparker called “jealousy.” If your partner is allowed to see other people—maybe you won’t have that extra bag of chips. You’ll keep your gym membership and you’ll throw out that pair of underwear with the moth holes. Non-monogamy can keep relationships sexy and open and honest. And it’s also okay to date around! Just don’t join one of those swingers’ clubs or nudist colonies. Even non-monogamous people find that too much.

It’s okay to not spend holidays with your family sometimes.

Your mother cries because she thinks the turkey is too dry and that you don’t love her anymore. Your father becomes obsessed with snow plowing instead of socializing. You fly from somewhere you decided to live to go to the place you moved away from only to see old high school friends that you don’t have anything in common with anymore. You visit your extended relatives who say things to you like, “Do you see any gay people where you live? What do you do when you see two guys holding hands?” Instead, do what I did. Go visit your family on the Fourth of July. There’s a lot less drama because nothing is expected of anyone. I did this once and it ended up pouring rain all day. We flipped on the television and the Hallmark Channel had a movie marathon called Christmas in July. We built a fire in the fireplace and watched some C-list actors perform their hearts out in watered-down stories about women who ask Santa Claus for boyfriends. Without the pressure of having to buy gifts or feel merry and bright—it was the best holiday we ever spent together.

It’s okay to stop visiting your friends if their kids are loud and obnoxious.

Your friends who have toddlers can’t come to your house because it’s a pain in the ass for them—that doesn’t mean you have to make a bunch of extra effort to go to them. You never bargained for hanging out with a three-year-old on a Saturday night, so don’t get roped into it if you don’t want to. Were you ever friends with your mom’s friends? No. In the seventies, moms had their friends over during the day so that they wouldn’t have to drink alone. Friends of a mom came over to smoke a cigarette and ash in the playpen and say things like, “Tell Thomas to stop playing with my platform shoe.” My advice is just let some friendships have some breathing room. When their kids are teenagers, you can see your friends again. Just make sure to bring over extra alcohol because their teenagers have added water to Mom and Dad’s stash.

It’s okay to stay in a hotel in the same city you live in because you want to watch TV in bed.

It’s called a staycation and it feels indulgent, wrong, and like something we shouldn’t be doing while there are still starving children in the world. I don’t have a TV in my bedroom. I do this so that I get a good night’s sleep away from distractions. Yeah, I know I have an iPad, a laptop, and an iPhone in my bed but that’s just in case I have to text, write something down, or watch HBO GO in the middle of the night. Lounging in bed and watching TV is my favorite indulgence that I never do. When I don’t have time to take a real vacation, I stay at my favorite hotel, the Sunset Marquis in West Hollywood, for a night. There’s a recording studio in the basement. The room keys have pictures of Joan Jett or Morrissey. Despite its rock-star status, the place has a great get-away-from-it-all vibe. It’s quiet. Except in the late afternoon when Eurotrash toddlers make noise in the shallow end of the pool.

This is the type of vacation that may not be socially acceptable. Nobody gives you a hard time about getting a hotel room in Bora Bora. Of
course
I would need to get a hotel room in Bora Bora. I don’t live there! But people might think I don’t need to pay for
another
bed in Los Angeles since I already have a nice two-bedroom condo. I’ve often thought about the fact that if I stay in a hotel in the city in which I live, I should offer up my home to a homeless person that night. But I just think it would be so cruel asking them to leave the next day. I could just get a homeless person a room at a hotel, but I have to be honest. I have trust issues. I don’t know if said vagabond could really resist not drinking everything in the minibar. That’s a lot of charges on my credit card for incidentals. But every once in a while, staying in a hotel is a great way for me to get away from myself. And it feels okay to lie in bed watching
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
or
19 Kids and Counting
. Two reality shows about people with too many children whose first names all begin with the same letter. It’s okay to indulge once in a while. Just make a donation to UNICEF or something to balance out your karma.

It’s okay to drop your old friends from grade school.

Just because Facebook exists it doesn’t mean you have to accept Becky Stalling’s friendship request. You guys weren’t in World War II together—no matter how much Chad calling you both out on stuffing your training bras in gym class felt like the hell of battle. You and Becky have nothing to bond over anymore and you probably never did. Every girl stuffed her training bra. Go meet a new friend who understands your past but also relates to you now.

I spent way too much time getting angry at a middle school friend’s Facebook post. I took it personally when Susan copied and pasted a poem to her Wall called “For All the Moms.” I shouldn’t call it a poem because that’s disrespectful to actual poets like Dr. Maya Angelou and Dr. Seuss. This unfortunate epic rhymed words like “bag” with “bag”—as in,
“To all the moms / went from selfish to selfless / when they gave birth / and decided to trade in their Prada bag / for a diaper bag.”
It continues—as it rhymes “hair” with “hair”:
“Your sacrifice is important / although it may go unappreciated / but be proud that you gave up styling your hair / for not having time to wash your hair.”

Susan couldn’t just let the composition stand alone. She wrote underneath it, “To all the moms. Enjoy! And don’t let the women without children make you feel badly for not keeping up with the Joneses!” I spent days reading this post to people. “I mean, listen to her. First of all, if I was a mother or were a mother or however the fuck you say it, I would still have a designer bag. And I bet Prada is the only brand name she knows. Prada doesn’t even really make a purse that’s great for a working woman. Marc by Marc Jacobs would make more sense.
And
she doesn’t have time to wash her hair? What about at night when the kids are asleep? She can go to bed with wet hair and wake up with some great waves. I do it all the time. But I guess I’m just a materialistic bully who makes moms feel like they’re inadequate because they don’t get manicures! And by the way, does she even know what my life is like? No. She doesn’t. She only
thinks
she does. That’s why she asked me to get her niece a job on a set in Hollywood. Her niece lives in Massachusetts and has zero production experience! And she thinks I can just make a call and get this little shit a job? There are so many other little shits who at least are making the effort to
live
in Hollywood before trying to get a job in Hollywood.”

My friends only had to stare at me for me to realize I was spinning for no reason. Maybe the post was aimed at me. Maybe it wasn’t. I mean, of course it was but I’m just trying to sound rational. Anyway, in the middle of the night, while Susan was probably getting no sleep because she’s a martyr, I mean mother, I simply unfollowed her. I did frantically text a few friends asking if Facebook sends some kind of notification when you’re being unfollowed by your godless friend in Los Angeles. And guess what? So far, it’s gone unnoticed. Or maybe she did notice and didn’t care. More importantly, I realized, I don’t care. I don’t actively hate this girl. I just really couldn’t see another post about moms or pictures of throw pillows that say “Live Laugh Love.”

What I’m worried about is that I’m not likeable. Why do I need to be liked by people whom I don’t like? I like me, which should be enough. But I have to be honest, sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough. I’m kind of an asshole sometimes. But I’m going to stick by my side. That’s how selfless
I
am.

It’s okay to call yourself “spiritual but not religious.”

Spirituality saved my life. I’m not an addict, but I sat in on various twelve-step meetings and found the stories so inspiring. After I started meditating daily on the serenity prayer, I got out of my own way. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,
indeed.
Also my religion is Don’t Compare and Despair. You want the life someone else has? That’s because you can only see their outside and you’re comparing it with your inside.

It’s okay to talk honestly about sex.

If you don’t have anyone in your life to talk about sex with, I’ll talk about it with you. I think that when some people get into a relationship they become protective of their sex lives. They see sex as a sacred bond between two people. It IS. But there should be freedom to talk about your sacred bondy sex with your friends. Some people in their thirties—when they are still looking hot and flexible (they can still put their legs behind their head
and
plan a trip on a moment’s notice without having to parcel out seven days of medication)—settle down with one person to ensure that they have someone to grow old with. Other people sleep around or date or keep their options (ahem, legs) open. Both are valid lifestyles. But both types of people can feel pressure to lie about how fulfilling their sex lives are. Lots of married people don’t tell their single friends about the sex slumps they’re in for fear of being seen as unhappy or boring. Most single women aren’t afraid to admit that a guy didn’t call them back but lots of single women are too afraid to say, “I think he didn’t call me back because my vagina is weird-looking.”