Stirring the Pot (8 page)

Crazy-sexy, filmy lingerie is not what I’m talking about! Being transparent with someone means that you are striving for clear and honest communication. No mixed signals! If you’ve got insecurities (who doesn’t?) or have brought emotional baggage into this relationship (see “Don’t Past-Project” on
this page
), you are at least trying to own up to it. Say it with me now: does he try to do the same for you?

RECIPE FOR DISASTER: THE MIXED-SIGNAL COCKTAIL

Ingredients:

1 man who wants his woman to read his mind, isn’t saying what he means, or is bringing assumptions to a conversation that have more to do with past experiences than the reality of the present moment

1 woman who wants her man to read her mind, isn’t saying what she means, or is bringing assumptions to a conversation that have more to do with past experiences than with the reality of the present moment

1 conversation about any of the following:

• What to do this weekend. (He says: “Do you want to come to a party with me? I’m cool with it if you don’t want to, but let’s meet up afterward anyway.” You hear: “I’m not ready to bring you as my girlfriend, so I hope you don’t want to come … but I do want some booty late at night.” What he
might
have meant: “I have to go, but I think it’s going to be a sucky party. I want to save you the
hassle and I can leave early to meet you somewhere else.”)

• What you’d like for your birthday. (You say: “Really, I don’t want or need anything!” He hears: “Really, I don’t want or need anything!” What you
might
have meant: “I think it’s selfish and greedy to ask for anything, but I really hope you do something special for me!”)

• Whether he thinks the woman at the next table is attractive. (He says: “Yes, but not in
that
way and she doesn’t compare to you!” You hear: “I can’t take my eyes off her, so I will overcompensate by complimenting you.” What he
might
have meant: “I only have eyes for you. Really.”)

Directions:

Shake well and don’t expect a good outcome.

This is a fancy shrink way of saying you need to remember whom you are dealing with. This new guy is
not
the dude who hurt you badly all those years ago (or just last week). The guy who hurt you is in the past
(right?), so leave him there. The only reason to ever go back to the past is to heal it, but do that with a therapist or a good friend. The new guy is not the person to process all that with.

If the a-hole you had to ditch was a cheater, then you know firsthand how bad it feels to be cheated on, right? If you’ve never been cheated on, then let me tell you what the rest of the world knows: you shouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy. Being the cheater eats away at your soul (if you’ve got a soul at all), and if the other person has a nasty STD, the cheating could eat away at your body, too! If you want to play the field, do it honestly; make it clear you’re not interested in monogamy and let him decide for himself if he wants to stick around. Expect the same directness in return.

I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, never, never let you forget you’re a man!
Am I completely dating myself to ask if you remember that little jingle from the Enjoli perfume ad of the 1970s? Well, Google it if you don’t know it. And be prepared to laugh.

Though I can indeed bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, never, never let my man forget he’s a man … I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?

An average working day (one that doesn’t include long-distance travel, an evening event, a photo shoot, or a publisher meeting) for me begins at 5:00 a.m. and ends around 11:00 p.m. I spend a lot of time taking care of Evan—getting him ready for his day, cooking for him, and helping him with his homework. I spend a lot of time in a car getting to and from work. I spend a lot of time
at
work. And answering phone calls and emails.

Like anyone else, I pick up around the house, go to
the grocery store, sort the mail, and pay the bills. In my “free” time I blog, write an advice column, and write books. I also like to throw a love life in there, and that takes time and energy.

Some days I’m really on my game, don’t piss anyone off, take A+ care of my son, and can bring a little Playmate to my romantic relationship. Other days, not so much—I’m impatient and overextended, and I’m lucky if I can keep up with Evan’s
playdates
.

I know I shouldn’t complain. I can afford help with some of these tasks, and I usually take a car service to and from work instead of battling traffic from behind the wheel myself (but I work in New York City so I don’t really have a choice). Through my work, I get to meet a lot of smart and famous people. Sometimes the people are both of these things (but brains and fame don’t always go together). And I’ve got my health, so I’m thankful. (Health is one thing, looks are another. As I get older I have to spend an increasing amount of time trying to look younger, which sucks, but my sisters tell me I’m looking more and more like Jimmy Carter so I’ve got to do something.) But the exhaustion … it’s brutal. To reference another old ad, I swear that sometimes I just want to yell, “Calgon, take me away!” To lie back in a massive bathtub with acres of soothing, fragrant bubbles and hot, hot water and let
someone else be me
. That’s my kind of wet dream (pun intended).

I also often wonder what it would be like to have someone else’s life. A simpler, less public one. Like, maybe, the life of a high school guidance counselor?

Seriously, that’s an advice giver’s fantasy job. You sit in your cute little office—which is decorated cheerily with a positive-affirmation-a-day desk calendar and encouraging comic strips posted on the cork bulletin board above the computer screen—and you chat with and cheer up teenagers whose biggest problem is the C+ they are getting in physics or not making the varsity cheerleading squad. (
Poor babies!
Remember when life was
that
simple?) You go to faculty meetings where you can nap without anyone noticing. Plus, the school day is over around three, so if need be, you can hit several happy hours on the way home to wash away any aggravations of the day. And summers off? Dreamy!

Wait, but what if I misdiagnose garden-variety teenage funk and miss the signs of threatened suicide? How would I say something new and convincing in every college recommendation I’m asked to write? Would all the people I meet be interesting, or would some be angry, worried, and helicoptering parents? Oh, and what about having to fend off pervy advances from the PE teacher? And all that advice giving doesn’t
leave much time for online poker. And I’d probably have to spend my summers catching up on sleep and getting up the nerve to go back to work in September (which probably ruins all of August). I wouldn’t have a car service and likely wouldn’t get to wear as many cute clothes. Okay, not the most perfect job after all. Sounds just as chaotic and stressful as my chosen path. Maybe more so. Sorry, guidance counselors of the world. Hang in there!

I once worked in this great little Polish grocery in Chicago. That’s a good job. Talk about not having to bring your work home with you. Punch in, punch lots of buttons, punch out. No stress, no mess. Behind a cash register, there is no chaos. There’s a shiny button for everything, and it makes a sound to let you know you’ve made the correct choice.

I even went to work there on acid twice. That’s the sign of a radically great job—you can do it just fine while being higher than Mount Everest.

I loved selling Lotto tickets (and booze to minors; they are always so grateful!). I loved counting change back to customers, but if I was feeling lazy, the register would do that work for me and tell me exactly how much to give back. I loved trying to figure out how best to pack someone’s groceries in the fewest number of bags without the bags getting so heavy they’d break
(so much easier than figuring out how to stuff my own body into shapewear that won’t smash my boobs).

I even liked the crabby customers. Because grocery store customers complain about the price of produce and dog food, the weather, insufficient parking spaces, traffic, and shampoo that makes their hair fall out. They don’t complain about you not having enough time for them. They never ask you to change so that you’ll be “more appealing to viewers.” They don’t expect more from you than you are already giving.

Of course, there were downsides to being a cashier. There was the fear of robbery to contend with (made more alarming on acid), shoplifters, and the dreaded bathroom mop-out every few hours. And clock punching isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be in terms of salary. I do remember that.

I guess I’ll go back to being me.

RECIPE FOR SUCCESS

Ingredients:

1 job you like well enough

At least 2 people you can lean on

1 very deep bathtub with Jacuzzi jets

Fun fantasies that remind you to be grateful for what you’ve already got

RECIPE FOR SUCCESS

Ingredients:

10 minutes to yourself

A secluded place or a soundproof room

1 box of tissues (or the hem of your dress or the sleeve of your shirt)

No access to social media

When I can’t fantasize my way out of a bad day, my preferred coping method is to clench my butt cheeks, square my shoulders, plaster a big smile on my face, and breathe deeply. Making lists to prioritize what’s on my plate can stabilize me. Chocolate-covered anything helps. So does repeating the mantra “This too shall pass.”

Which was working well enough one busy, stressful day until I found myself at Trader Joe’s getting wine
and peanut butter pretzels after work. The pimply cashier (who was no doubt busy enjoying his stress-free day; see
this page
) said, “Hey, I know you … oh no, maybe not. Forget it, you are way too old to be her.” Did that mean he thought I was me, but that my up-close face didn’t match the Jenny McCarthy he’d seen on TV? Or did it mean he thought I resembled another actress—Jennie Garth, maybe?—but that my clearly advanced age made it impossible I could be her? However you interpret the comment, it was no compliment. He’d just told me I looked old.