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.
Don’t Past-Project
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.
Be Faithful
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.
If you’re not ready to date again, consider getting a dog. After all …
• You can lock him in the bathroom if he humps your friends.
• You can blame your gas on him.
• You can have his balls removed legally.
• If needed, you can muzzle him.
• If you throw up, he will clean it up for you.
My Wet Dreams
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
Ten Signs You’re Getting Older
1. You reference decades-old TV ads when telling stories or giving advice (see this page).
2. Separate beds make sense to you.
3. Going to bed is your favorite part of each day.
4. You get a charley horse making love.
5. You can’t walk up two flights of stairs without needing a break.
6. You consider wrapping packs of gum as Christmas presents.
7. You watch church on TV on Sunday instead of going.
8. You have no idea what a fourteen-year-old is saying to you.
9. You will make a line of people wait while you count out exact change.
10. You can’t talk your way out of a traffic ticket.
When All Else Fails … Have an Orgasm for the Soul
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.
Look, it’d be the pot calling the kettle black for sure if I were to suggest that we shouldn’t speak our minds. I make my living stating my opinion on national TV; I certainly enjoy the freedom of speech. But had no one told this kid to not say out loud everything that crossed his mind? That telling a woman she looks old is really, really impolite?
You’d think I’d have a thicker skin, but I’d had a crap day and something about that offhand and unkind remark just unhinged me. I could see the Star headline: “Jenny McCarthy Loses It Buying a Case of Two-Buck Chuck.” I couldn’t risk tears in public (a hazard of a publicly lived life), so I left the wine and the pretzels and ran from the store. I must have looked a little out of my mind, waving my hand around and desperately jabbing the button on my keys to try to make the lock chirp that would remind me where I’d parked my car.
The parking lot was crowded, and I could see the telltale glimmer of recognition in more than a few pairs of eyes. If there is any God at all, I thought, they too will think I’m Jennie Garth, and she and her aging will become the cocktail party gossip this weekend instead of the behavior being attributed to me!
My car wasn’t cooperating—no chirp chirp. I hadn’t had a good cry in so long that I couldn’t be sure how big the tsunami would be if I unleashed it. So I panicked. I ran down the street, wild-eyed, looking for a place I could hide.
I knew there was a park a couple of blocks away and sprinted toward it. This involved crossing a major street and therefore a good number of supportive messages yelled to me out the windows of air-conditioned cars and over squealing brakes. This was Los Angeles, after all, and Angelenos are known for their patience and kindness behind the wheel.
Gasping for breath, I got to the park and looked around for a secluded bench. Bad luck. This being Los Angeles, every bench or patch of grass was already occupied by homeless people stroking mangy cats and/or arguing with imaginary friends. I couldn’t hang on one second more. So I let it rip. Right there in the open. I burst into tears and shook my fists at the sky. I walked back and forth listing all the reasons why my life sucked, in between new bouts of wailing.
One benchwarmer who wore a rope for a belt, one red mitten, and a toothless grin yelled, “Keep going, sister. You tell ’em. You tell ’em good.” It was the most supportive thing I had heard all week. Which only made me cry harder.
Because I’ve since bothered to look into it, I now know that I was just about to experience a physiological phenomenon not unlike having an orgasm. Crying, it turns out, releases endorphins, which will ultimately make you feel better. Exhausted, too, but a peaceful, satisfied exhaustion, like after a productive roll in the sheets.
And that’s what happened. After a few minutes of bone-rattling sobbing, the waterworks slowed down to a trickle. I paced a little more and wiped my snot with my sleeve. I calmed down. I felt just a little bit refreshed. The drama passed, and I regained a little bit of perspective. Old to the little prick at Trader Joe’s probably meant twenty-five, I reminded myself. And I’d bet that actresses older than me get that kind of double take, too, and maybe someone tells them they couldn’t be Jenny McCarthy because they are just too old to be me. I’ll bet Suzanne Somers gets that sometimes, and she’s the poster woman for aging gracefully and happily and sexily. I saw a little ray of sunshine push through my cloudy mood.
My friend with the red mitten saw it, too. She called out to me, “That’s better, girl. You tell ’em good. I think you should have won that dance thing on the TV for sure.”
The Jennie Garth mistake again. “You’re confusing me with someone else,” I started to say proudly. But then I thought, Screw it. At least she didn’t think I was Jimmy Carter!
When you really do need to wallow in your sorrows and self-pity just a little longer, put on a pair of stretchy pants, mix up a batch of my Pity Party Mix, and indulge.
PITY PARTY MIX
Ingredients:
2 cups Bugles
2 cups White Cheddar Cheez-Its
2 cups Glutino Pretzels
2 cups Cap’n Crunch with or without Crunch Berries (ladies’ choice)
2 cups popcorn
2 cups Lucky Charms
2 bags white chocolate chips or white almond bark
Directions:
Toss the first six ingredients together. Melt white chocolate chips or almond bark and toss the dry ingredients in it until coated. If you can stand to, spread the mix on wax paper to allow the chocolate to harden. Then chow down. If you can’t wait for the chocolate to harden, periodically wipe your hands on those awesome stretch pants. If there is any left over (unlikely), store in an airtight container until your next meltdown.
Date Night Etiquette
1. We all see the occasional Facebook posts that say “Date Night!!” Don’t be that asshole. Keep it to yourself.
2. Don’t post or tweet during date night. You are supposed to be focused on the person across the table from you, idiot.
3. Go to a family-unfriendly restaurant. If they have a kids’ menu (or if the chef is willing to serve the homemade pasta with just butter and cheese), you have failed.
4. Swear. Cuss like a sailor. Get it all out while you can. If anyone within earshot has a problem with it, throw your butter knife at them.
5. After dinner, have sex in a cheap motel or in the backseat of your car. You run the risk of getting a binky or animal crackers stuck in your crack, but who cares? You’re getting laid in a location that is not your boring bed.
6.
Don’t keep checking your phone to see if the babysitter has called. Your kids are fine. They’re probably asleep or eating candy while the babysitter is texting friends to come over and drink all your vodka. All’s well.
7. Discuss ahead of time who will talk to and pay the babysitter when you get home. The person who pulls the short straw on this should stop drinking a little early. There is nothing worse than slurring to your sitter. Driving home drunk is bad, too.
8. If your babysitter doesn’t have her own transportation, spend a little extra to arrange for her to get a cab or car service home. You certainly don’t want to drive her home in the car you’ve just bonked in.
Reverse Psychology
They say that good thoughts do more than just distract you from bad things—they can also attract good things.
And we’re told—even from a very young age—that compassion toward others breeds kindness in return. That whole Golden Rule thing, you know?
Any and every guru worth his or her salt would argue that satisfaction in life comes from enjoying the present moment for what it is, not dwelling on the past, fixating on the future, or fretting over what others have that you do not.
Scientists even point out that optimism makes new neural pathways in your brain! (I read Psychology Today when I’m waiting at the gyno, too, you know.)
Why then, with all the evidence about the power of positive thinking and the great things that can come of great behavior, are pessimism and pettiness the default temperament for so many? I mean, could there be an evolutionary benefit to negativity? OMG—I may be on to something now!
(Even if science can’t prove that particular theory, there is a whole lot of evidence that bad things happen all the time to good people, which proves the legitimacy of negative assumptions and defeatist thinking. So there.)
Stirring the Pot Page 6