For me as a kid, one of the best days of the year was when the American Girl catalog, square and glossy, arrived in the mail. I would sit at the desk in the “computer room” and circle every single thing I wanted even a little bit—Josephina’s party dress, a skating outfit for Samantha, Felicity’s horse—and then I would add up their cost. The first round through, mirroring my buffet strategy, I didn’t limit myself. Anything that I thought that might make my life better went on the list. When I got to the back of the magazine, I’d take out my mom’s calculator, which came in a fancy wooden box with her outdated still-married-to-my-dad initials engraved on the cover, and I’d add up everything I wanted. The total was somewhere around thirteen hundred dollars (American Girl dolls are insanely expensive). I would start over from the front, slowly eliminating items I didn’t want as much, going over and over my list until I got down to a reasonable price, which usually was zero dollars. Which is not to say that I didn’t still long for all the things I’d circled the first time. If you asked me at age eight what my dream was, it would be to be rich enough to buy everything in the American Girl catalog without thinking twice. But I didn’t care about getting the things in the catalog so much as I cared about wanting them.
Every time I flip through a magazine or shop online or look up hair inspiration, I become convinced that I’ve found something to make me seem hotter, thinner, more in touch, generally cooler. I’m always so sure that this will be the thing to change my life, if only I am allowed to purchase it. My father has the same issue. Frankly, most people who are American consumers with any level of disposable income have this issue. My dad, who owned a hockey equipment business when I was growing up, who plays hockey multiple times a week, used to have an entire room in our unfinished basement devoted to his gear. He had everything! Partially this was to try it out; hockey equipment was his business, after all. One time, though, he said to me, “I always buy new stuff with the hope that this will be the thing to make me skate faster. It’s never worked.” That’s the dream of capitalism: if you just buy this one last product, all the pieces of your life will fall into place. Yes, you need a food processer and a blender and a KitchenAid mixer in a fun color. Yes, you need retinol and vitamin C serums and peptides. You need a night cream and a day cream and a four-hundred-dollar Dyson hair dryer and place mats and decorative baskets and a Nintendo Switch and a new pair of hockey skates. With each purchase I make comes the hope of a new life—the life of the people I envy. The people whose articles get shared online more than mine, the people who have famous friends, the people who own expensive West Elm furniture, the people who sell movie scripts and vacation in Fiji.
I’m full of envy all the time, full of the feeling that people around me are doing better than I am. Part of it, as I’ve explained, is my childhood, my genes; it’s baked into my very being. Part of it also, I believe, is that I’m in an industry (and a world) where the narrative is that there are few spots in general, fewer spots for women (even fewer for other marginalized groups, and even fewer if you’re at the intersection of any of those groups), and a very short timeline in which to succeed. Everyone else’s successes feel as if they’re chipping away at yours. Every sold screenplay, every best seller, every stand-up special could have been yours.II
I’m sure that’s crass to admit. We’re supposed to say things like, “I love writing for the sake of writing and I don’t care how successful or beloved my work is.” We’re supposed to feel gracious when peers succeed. And I do feel that way a lot of the time. I feel real, actual joy when friends of mine do well. I love writing for the sake of writing and have done it unpaid and underpaid for years. But I don’t think it’s evil to want. I don’t think it ought to be shameful to cop to our own most fervent, quixotic dreams, or to our moments of pettiness.
When I first started dating my current boyfriend, one of my biggest fears was cheating. Not him, me. I was terrified that a few years down the line, when we’d become bored of each other, restless, when sex wasn’t good and conversation was worse, I’d find someone shiny and new and I’d see the possibility of a new life right there before my eyes. I was worried that my being built on desire, being forged by longing, was going to bode poorly for us. After all, I’m the kind of person who can see a new life with a bottle of vagina oil! What about when a person flirts back? How do I avoid buying into the conceit of cheating, which is: here’s a better, fresher, more exciting life! How do I, a person who feels like she missed out on youth, on adventure, conceivably walk away from that?
The answer, for me, is a mixture of self-esteem, discipline, and philosophy. I think often of Sylvia Plath and her fig tree.III Like her, I’m desperate to eat all the figs and commit to none. But, as Plath says, “I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.” If you spend your life wanting, paralyzed by the loss that comes with choice, you—ironically—don’t get things; I know that. But I also know now that getting things that you want almost always feels like a letdown, at least at first. I know now that the wanting itself is sweet, but that you don’t want it to get overripe. A whole life filled only with desire and never with fulfillment becomes bitter in its own way.
I try to remind myself that most new things are like a haircut. Haircuts go like this, for me: I want, perhaps, to do something different with my hair. Eventually I start noticing other people’s hair. The cuts, the colors, the styles they’ve chosen. I start reading articles about what is popular to do right now with hair. I start gathering inspirational photos. I think on it. I imagine my life with this new hair, how people will treat me, how it will look with the clothes I wear, the style I currently have. I wait until I’m positively desperate to get a haircut. I am nervous when I finally make the appointment; I feel often like I need to get approval, permission from someone somewhere (usually my mother and four or five close friends) to make the change. I get the haircut, and for a moment in the chair I’m in such shock that I did it—I actually did it!—that I feel detached from myself. And then I get to my car and I start to worry. I go home and take pictures of myself and I nervously concede that I love it. I think. Friends and family try to bolster my opinion of the new cut. And then the next morning, I wake up and I hate it. I hate it, hate it, hate it. What have I done? Which “friends” of mine allowed—nay, encouraged—this? How have I failed so spectacularly at getting something as simple as a haircut? Yes, it will grow out, but until June of next year I’m meant to soldier on looking like this?
And then in a week it’s normal and it’s just how my hair looks and I move on.
This is what I remind myself when I think about my potential for future cheating, which I don’t actually think of much at all anymore.IV If you live like this—if you let this insatiable desire guide you—you get something you want and then, pretty soon, it’s normal and boring and you’re all itchy and dissatisfied again. I’m much better now at simultaneously wanting things and accepting that I will not get them. I’m better at knowing that getting them will not make me happy, and maybe not even happier. I’ve purchased enough shit online on a whim to know that most things aren’t as great as advertised. That once you own something, or date someone, or move somewhere, eventually life starts up again. Your life. The life you were living before. Unfortunately, wherever you go, there you are, even if you arrive with a shiny vagina.
Everyone I’ve Ever Wanted to Like Me
The guy who works at the liquor store on the corner who watches Grey’s Anatomy reruns all day and compliments my nails every time I get them done.
My brother’s new girlfriend, whom I haven’t even met.
The Apple Genius Bar employee who replaced the malfunctioning e key on my computer the first time.
Lindsey Leeker, a popular girl from my high school.
The Apple Genius Bar employee who replaced the malfunctioning e key on my computer the second time.
Actually, pretty much all t
he popular girls from my high school except for two of them who were straight-up unkind and the ones who seemed Republican.
The Apple Genius Bar employee who told me that they could no longer fix the e key on my computer and that it would take two weeks for them to replace the entire keyboard.
Every hairstylist who has ever cut or colored or even washed my hair.
My dental hygienist, whose aunt used to live in the apartment I currently live in.
Sophia Bush, especially after I once stole her coffee at the Starbucks on Melrose and Stanley because they called the name Sophia and she was very politely like, “Oh, that’s mine I think…” and I was like, “Oh, I’m Sophia.” And she had to be like, “Me too.”
Every single English teacher I ever had.
Just kidding! Every single teacher I ever had, period. Including substitutes.
My landlord, even though being a landlord is unethical.
The guy who detail-cleaned my car.
My literary agent.
My editor.
About 90 percent of the interns who have ever worked at a place where I’m employed. Sometimes you get weird vibes from the beginning and you know things aren’t going to be simpatico and those people… you just have to let go of.
I don’t want to say every coworker, because I have certainly disliked some coworkers, but in all honesty, I thought about it, and yeah, I would like for literally every coworker to have liked me. Even the ones I didn’t like. So, yeah, every coworker I’ve ever had going all the way back to Cold Stone Creamery.
The couple who own the coffee shop I go to.
The woman who own the other coffee shop I go to, who always asks me how she should get her hair done.
Every woman I follow on Twitter.
Every nonbinary or gender-nonconforming person I follow on Twitter.
A couple of the men I follow on Twitter.
The women who work at the front desk of the doctor’s office where I go to get tested for UTIs.
The hot bartender at Davey Wayne’s.
The rich couple I used to babysit for.
The children I used to babysit for whose parents are rich.
My sexist, racist, piece-of-shit ex-boss.
My other sexist, racist, piece-of-shit ex-boss.
Most of the guys I met in college, with very few exceptions.
Especially this one guy on my freshman dorm floor who ended up leaving school the next year to serve in the Korean army; I think he had a crush on me. Fucked-up that I was dating someone else at the time. Anyway, I really wanted him to like me.
Every single person I’ve ever met in a bar bathroom, especially if I talked to them, but even if I didn’t. You look great, babe! I’m your biggest fan!
Mary, the woman who used to do my nails when I was in college and didn’t drink and had nothing better to spend my money on.
The entire cast of Mamma Mia! I really think I could have fit in on set.
This cool fifty-year-old British woman I met at a wedding once who bragged about not having any cellulite (problematic) and then proceeded to lift up her dress and show me (hysterical).
Gabrielle Union, because she seems like just the best person. We haven’t met and I wouldn’t subject her to me, obviously, but if she had to meet me, I would hope she liked me.
Nora Ephron, even though she’s dead.
Trick-or-treaters who come to my house, even the ones who take handfuls and handfuls of candy, which I think is kind of selfish. But also, it’s Halloween! Go nuts!
The car mechanic I take my car to, who didn’t charge me when I towed my car to him because it was making a weird sound, which turned out to be a plastic bag wrapped around the axle.
David Spade’s personal assistant. Don’t ask.
My little siblings.
Sherman Jackson, my professor for Intro to Islam, who was way too brilliant to be teaching undergrads, who always wore impeccable suits with expensive sunglasses, and who knew everyone’s name—in a 150-person lecture class—the second week. God, I wanted him to like me so badly.
Any animal that I’ve ever even seen a photo of.
My neighbor whose dog attacked my dog, but she’s actually a really good dog owner and it was a total freak accident and also she’s the coolest person and she makes chairs by hand. Who can do that? Just building stuff?? At your house?
My other neighbor who is a writer and who can grow plants like you wouldn’t believe. He has this one plant that is the span of his whole kitchen. He’s very smart and kind and outdoorsy and calm. I’m trying really hard to make friends with both of them.
All my friends’ parents, especially their moms.
The vet tech who is super chill about my dog not wanting to come into the lobby, even when I am freaking out about how scared my dog is.
The theater girls who were seniors when I was a sophomore in high school; they were all great friends and hot as hell and they got the big roles and they all dated/slept with/hooked up with John Lodato. I couldn’t sing, so I just made the costumes for them.
My parents.
Jane Fonda.
The Greatest Joy on Earth Is Getting Ready to Go Out
I used to work at an improv theater, which doesn’t even break the top ten most embarrassing things about me. I want to reiterate, as I have earlier in this book, that I did not actually do improv. I liked working there, though, because I generally got along with my coworkers, and since I was uninterested in improv or sketch comedy, I felt little to no competition with the people around me, which in the entertainment industry is pretty rare.I Most of the time, when you work with and especially for people who are doing the job you want to have, you feel like total shit every minute of the day, because that could be you, but it simply is not. But I did not want to do improv, so I was safe from becoming an embittered front-desk crone.
At the improv theater job, one of my frequent tasks was training interns/giving them an orientation of sorts. I’d worked there longer than most other people at my level (shout out to flexible hours, a casual dress policy, and snacks) and I’d done pretty much every job at every part of the organization. Plus I enjoyed training people because it required talking and I love talking. I had always wanted to be a campus tour guide, and this was basically that.II
One of the interns I was tasked with training was Kelsey. Here’s what you need to know about Kelsey. She’s hot, she’s blonde, she’s an actor, and she’s from Utah. At least, that’s what I knew about Kelsey when I met her. I was immediately like, “This is not a match.” Being hot is one thing (and one which I take personally), but she was also younger than me? And, again, blonde. I felt in my bones that this was not a person who was aligned with my values, which were: being mediocre-looking and the low-level hair maintenance popular in the Midwest. I’ve watched a lot of kids’ movies and they never make the hot young lady who is trying to marry your dad a brunette, okay?? I want to be very clear that I wasn’t rude to her or anything, but I also wasn’t planning on being friends. Some interns you love, some you mostly ignore, some you give little errands to all day so that they stay away from you because they’re kind of creepy. And some make you seethe with envy.
Kelsey was new to LA, and so other, more tolerant people at my workplace were always trying to invite her to go out with them and get drinks. Mostly this was because she was hot, and not out of a great interest in actually getting to know her. (Sorry to beat this dead horse, but I’m really wanting you to get the picture here!!! She’s gorg!) Unfortunately for all my thirsty coworkers, I was—surprisingly—the present authority on Fun Times for Young Ladies in LA, which meant that I alone had good suggestions of places she should go and bars she should try. Which got me a little tangled up into hanging out with Kelsey, because she needed someone fun to go with, and while I’m not fun per se, I can be fun-adjacent. And also I wasn’t trying to sleep with her, so I wasn’t a weirdo creep.
At that time in my life, I’d recently stopped living with two girls my
own age to move in with my boyfriend, who was over thirty and therefore not a fan of loud bars. Most of my friends were either too old to want to go out and have FUN, or they lived too far away, or their vibe was more “Let’s watch a bad John Travolta movie and make fun of it,” which absolutely has its time and place. I’d also recently stopped being friends with someone who made me feel like shit constantly (hell yeah, I’m Boundaries Barbie) and another close friend had started grad school that required about seventy hours a week of work and another twenty hours of socializing with people who were also in the grad program. My best, best, best friend on earth had never lived in LA with me, but she had recently up and moved a whole lot farther away, to Ireland. In other words, I needed a new friend, and if someone wanted to get drunk at a popular bar with me, then by fuck I was going to take them up on it, even if they were blonde. And younger. And hot. So I agreed to take Kelsey out.
Accidentally, we ended up having the time of our lives. We got to the bar very early because it usually has a line after 9 p.m.; we ended up standing inside a mostly empty room, nursing glasses of white wine, which turned into talking, which eventually turned into dancing once other people eventually showed up. Any anxiety I had that I could not keep up with her socially evaporated. We were both driven and ambitious, dramatic and engaging, political and outraged. We both had no interest in speaking to men. We were perfect together. It turns out I was an ass and Kelsey was an excellent, worldly, brilliant person who just happened to be an actor and blonde and from Utah. It turns out her first impression of me was also less than stellar.III
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