By now I’ve realized that this woman and I have very little in common, also that we seem to have a completely different relationship to every single thing in the universe. Give you an example. She’s sitting on the bed, doing nothing, with a lap full of newspapers. So I decide to take the edge of one section and run around with it and then sit on it and shred it into tiny fragments. This breakthrough idea meets with the kind of reactionary response that has plagued all forward-thinking individuals throughout history. Galileo and Leonardo and Newt Gingrich come to mind. Of course she’s yelling “No! No! No!” like her way is the only way. Let’s all just fill our laps with papers and sit there. It’s no wonder her last two dogs had eating disorders.
And then there are the shots. Then more shots. I won’t even tell you about them. It would sicken you. But at about week sixteen the shots suddenly end and the walks begin. This is my first opportunity to build some equity in the neighborhood. I realize right off it’s a smart idea to acquire as much beachfront property as possible, what with the recession and everything. But what surprises me is the effortless way in which I am permitted to annex several impressive pieces of property, not the least of which is Johnny Carson’s tennis compound—a several-acre island parcel off a cul-de-sac about a half mile from my central residence. It takes me only about two weeks of saturation peeing to take full title.
I admit to being a little surprised that Carson didn’t put up any kind of a fight at all. On the other hand, I don’t know how much he uses the place these days. There’s mushrooms growing on the southeast corner and a dead bird just slightly west, which I have never seen him even try to roll on.
At about this point in the Barbara Bush book, there’s a big kiss-ass section with photos of Millie mingling with important government officials and celebrities. I was going to include a section like that in here, but frankly I found the whole thing pathetic. Sure, I could name-drop. I just don’t feel the need. Why should I try to make myself sound more important by telling you that last weekend at the dog park in Laurel Canyon I sniffed Julia Roberts’s big fat black dog’s butt?
No, I refuse to resort to that kind of nonsense, because I happen to believe that some things matter more than having your picture taken sitting with Secretary of State George Shultz and Her Majesty Queen Noor of Jordan. Or French president François Mitterrand and Mrs. Yasuhiro Nakasone. That’s why I have decided to close by sharing with you a part of my credo, which I hope you will value and cherish as I do.
My Credo
If you like something well enough to climb on it or kiss it, then don’t you also owe it to yourself to eat it or destroy it? Can’t you at least take the time to pick it up in your mouth and run with it as fast as you can from room to room until it drops? Or shred it into microscopic particles?
Because as we wander through this world, I think it is important not to lose sight of this amazing truth: Everything is potentially an entrée, if not also a side dish or an hors d’oeuvre. If you look at things properly, you’ll come to realize that there’s no need to wait for the dessert cart. Dessert is everywhere. Thank you.
Look Before You Eat
Only a woman under male surveillance will partake of quaint ceremonies like “dinnertime,” featuring items from the major food groups arranged on a plate and served at a table. When a woman is alone and unobserved (and by a woman I of course mean me) she’s likely to choose instead a supposedly calorie-conscious replacement for dinner: a couple of spoonfuls of yogurt at six o’clock, a few handfuls of dry shredded wheat or croutons at seven, a careful scanning of cupboards and refrigeration chambers at eight, followed by popcorn and pickle chips, wine or beers at ten, and eventually a giant saucepan full of barely heated refried beans just before bed. I haven’t calculated the overall caloric intake of this activity, but I suspect it’s probably just about double what any ordinary sane meal might provide.
Which brings me to a topic in which I, as a single woman, have achieved a certain unwilling expertise: eating out. This knowledge amounts to a short list of the particular signals that can tip you off to the inevitability of an overpriced, unsatisfying dining experience. I’m referring here to more subtle indicators than giant turquoise drinks garnished with parasols and served in ceramic whales—which actually can add a certain ironic hipness to the whole event that I find appealing. The following danger signals cannot serve in any ironic way whatsoever. Which is why I encourage you to memorize them as you would your Social Security number.
1. Signs Can Be Dangerous.
Exercise grave caution in the presence of any engraved wooden sign hanging outside the restaurant that uses words like “purveyors of” or “ye olde.” The likelihood of anyone for miles around being from Merry Olde England is pretty slight. And stay away from any place that has a cute or excessively clever name—whether it involves a fictitious lovable curmudgeonly owner (like Señor Grumbley Wumbley or Dr. Munchies) or an adjective attached to an animal (like the Happy Hamster). This goes double for signs that show a cheery cartoon drawing of the animal dressed in a sailor suit dancing the hornpipe. Any restaurant that wants you to imagine your food having a great time on shore leave only moments before death does not deserve your patronage. Also to be avoided are restaurant names that suggest the food itself has a describable personality, like the Contented Carrot or the Good-Natured Potato. Maybe it’s too obvious even to mention the n-apostrophe places, like Meat ’n’ Wheat. But be afraid. Be very afraid.
2. Avoid Any Eating Establishment with a Visible Motif.
This means not only painted Grecian urns and fake antiquities, but lit torches, stagecoach parts, boat sections, pieces of driftwood, unattached wheels of all kinds, decorative remnants of air disasters, etc. I believe it is Newton’s Third Law that tells us it’s physically impossible for good food and fishnets full of glass balls to occupy the same space at the same time. Footnote: This particular rule applies only to places within a 100-mile radius of major metropolitan city limits. Once you have crossed that geographic barrier, it appears that decent family-style places can coexist quite nicely with out-of-season Christmas tree ornaments or preserved animal remains. Scientists are only now beginning to understand this phenomenon, so don’t expect an explanation from me. Which leads directly to my next point, and perhaps my most puzzling:
3. A Place That Looks Like a Dump Doesn’t Necessarily Serve Good Home Cooking.
All right. Having evaluated the exterior of the restaurant, it’s time to step tentatively into the interior. We still have scrutinizing to do before we allow ourselves to be seated.
4. If the Seating in the Restaurant Is Anything Other Than Tables, Chairs, or Booths, Take a Hike.
Do not allow yourself to be seated on oldtime whiskey kegs, for example, or antique barrels or colorful containers of battery acid. Rattan peacock chairs, the kind that Huey P. Newton used to like being photographed in, are no exception to the rule, especially when accompanied by wooden ceiling fans or other Casablanca-style accessories.
5. Beware Too Much Wood.
Especially when it is pitched at a forty-five-degree angle. I can hear a lot of you resisting me on this one, claiming that wood provides a nice ambience. Be that as it may, it has been my experience that too much forty-five-degree-angle wood reveals less about décor than it does about the presence of walleyed teenage chefs playing Space Invaders with frozen food packets and a microwave.
6. Beware Multiple Dining Rooms.
Especially when accompanied by signs that say PARTY AND BANQUET FACILITIES or WE WELCOME TOUR BUSES. As a rule, anything (including blackened redfish) prepared in quantities of over one hundred portions at once turns into Beefaroni.
7. Beware No Other Customers.
This may not mean that you have stumbled upon a “find.” The place has been found and then avoided by people with more sense than you will have if you stay.
8. Beware Colorful, Period-Style Uniforms.
“Olde English barmaids and wenches” are, of course,
suspect, as are “cowpokes” and “pirates.” And while the verdict’s still out on “pouty European artistes,” if you check with me in a year I will probably tell you that I always had a bad feeling about this ever-growing waitress motif.
At this point you may allow yourself to be seated, if you are not already so exhausted that you decide to give up. But do not place any sort of an order until you have carefully perused the menu for the following:
1. An Appropriate Degree of Menu-ness
By this is meant a piece of folded or laminated paper containing available meal selections and corresponding prices. The menu should not provide extra data about a historical period or culture that is supposed to trick you into thinking you are elsewhere. And it shouldn’t be written on a rowboat oar or a dressmaker’s dummy or hand-lettered on somebody’s bare chest. Open the menu and promptly leave if you observe any of the following:
2. Use of the Phrase “Our Famous” or Worse, “Our World-Famous”
As seen in “our world-famous cheesecake” or “our world-famous salad bar.” They not only never are, they can give you such serious pause for thought about the state of world fame that you can disappear into a searing depression for several weeks.
3. Repeated Use of Colorful Descriptive Words Such as “Zesty” or “Hearty”
Or colorful substitute nouns such as “grog” or “munchies” or “savories” or “victuals” or “libations.” Or poetic renamings of the bland, as in “toast medley” or “vegetarian symphony.”
4. Mixture of Cuisines That Makes No Sense
A new Mexican restaurant opened up in what I laughingly call my neighborhood. It serves quesadillas with pine nuts and goat cheese. It’s the rare kitchen staff that knows how to cook one cuisine very well, let alone CUBAN FOOD AND MANDARIN CHINESE. Remember, you’re safest where they have fewer things to screw up.
5. Any Menu That Indicates I Had Any Hand in the Food Preparations
This includes any invitation to dinner at my house. I don’t want to be too specific, but I have had warnings from the Board of Health and am one of the few private citizens whose kitchen has been closed by law.
Well, there you have it. Bon appétit. You’re on your own.
Dominatrix 101
The class description in the course catalog that I picked off the top of a pile on the floor of the frozen yogurt place asks a question that speaks to my very soul: “Do you want to learn how to make big money in a safe legal profession that will never leave you bored?” The answer is “Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!”
That is just one of the reasons why I am among the fifty or sixty women of every race, body type, and demographic sample profile who are filing into the conference room on the top floor of that hallowed institution of higher learning—the Hyatt Hotel on Sunset Strip in the heart of Hollywood. On our way to our seats we all smile and say hello to a guy in a Hawaiian shirt. In short order our teacher, a blond woman of about fifty, appears at the front of the room. Dressed in a two-piece turquoise suit with a bright yellow blouse and sporting a short sensible haircut, she is almost unrecognizable from the shiny, leathery photo that she uses to advertise her class in the Learning Annex brochure. She is “Internationally Known Dominatrix Ava Taurel” and she is here to explain to us how to “Become a Dominatrix for Fun, Love and Profit.” “Whether you want to enhance your relationships or become a professional dominatrix, this class will show you how.” I find myself scrutinizing the perfectly random group of women around me, trying to guess who is here for which motive. It is impossible to tell.
“As you know, the class is for women only,” Ava begins. “This upsets a lot of men. They have threatened to sue me for sex discrimination because they all want to come to the class. Right now they are hanging around down in the lobby, panting. But before we begin, I promised this one fellow he could speak with you for just a minute.” The guy in the Hawaiian shirt steps forward. He tells us that he is a fitness trainer and a masseur and he just wants us to know that he is “available for whatever comes to mind so you can practice to be better dominatrixes.” With that he distributes business cards to any interested takers and bids us a hearty farewell.
Now class is in session for real. To warm us up, Ava has spliced together a tape montage of famous scenes in the history of movies involving female domination: Susan Sarandon tying up Tim Robbins in Bull Durham; Melanie Griffith tying up Jeff Daniels in Something Wild; Sharon Stone in just about anything.
I find myself succumbing to my old school behavior patterns: tugging at my hair, shifting in my seat, glancing at my watch. However, it is only when Ava begins a free-form Q-and-A session that I realize I’m not in Comp. Lit. anymore.
The first question comes from a cute blond girl in her early twenties wearing a baseball cap who explains that she has just gotten her first real job at a dungeon and wants to know whether or not she should buy her own equipment.
“It varies from place to place,” Ava tells her, “but before you do, make sure they have good lockers.” Good lockers. Write that down.
Next a hugely obese lady wants to know how to get started in her own business. Ava cautions her about working outside of a protected environment, then explains how it is a good idea to operate from an office that overlooks a pay phone so that you can scrutinize a potential client before you take him on. That would apply to all walks of life. Write that down too.
From there Ava is off and running on a topic she knows well—what it takes to be a good dominatrix. “A wicked imagination,” she begins. Mmmhmm. I have that. “And you must be able to give a clear command with your eyes. Sometimes they are steel. Sometimes they are caring.” Still sounds doable. “It’s very important to improvise,” she points out. Hey! I’m good at improv! For example, Ava once had a man dress up as a maid, wear jingle bells on his testicles, and walk up and down the halls of his apartment house ten times. I raise my hand. I want to know what the best adhesive is for attaching the bells. But the woman in front of me gets called on first. She says that she had the idea of making a man chew on a bone. “Very nice,” says Ava, clearly impressed. “You must develop your own uniqueness.”
My own uniqueness. Sounds promising.
Fondly Ava recalls the golden days when she had ten women with different uniquenesses working for her. “For instance, one woman might not like pain but might be very skilled at verbal abuse.” Well, I’m certainly verbal. “Then again. I remember a man who was into eating his own shit. I couldn’t work with him. I would start throwing up. But for a woman who could stand it, it was three hundred dollars for fifteen minutes.” Time to stop taking notes. Another misbegotten career right down the drain.
Now it is intermission, and not a moment too soon. All around me, networking breaks out. Gals are mingling around a table, writing down the titles on the reading list (The Correct Sadist: Step by Step How to Turn a Man into a Slave), perusing the new issue of Rubber and Rivets. (The cover story boasts, “Corsets aren’t just for discipline anymore.” Of course, I knew that.) “I’m a hypnotherapist and I teach a lot of mind games. You should give me a call,” a distinguished-looking blonde in her early forties says to a plain pear-shaped woman in her early fifties.
When class resumes again, we meet another man. This one, a fit attractive guy in his forties, was invited by Ava. He drove over three hours from San Diego to volunteer his services. “He’s a big strong man from the Navy Seals,” says Ava, who orders him to take off his shirt and jacket before she will permit him to take questions from the group. An incredibly beautiful Asian woman raises her hand to ask a question. “Why don’t you tell us about your background?” she requests. “Well, I’m from a small town in Pennsylvania,” says the Seal. His dream was always to be a Navy Seal, he tells us, “chasing bad guys all over the world.” He has many tales of manly danger. He wants us to know he has worked with explosives and high-powered weapons. He wants us to know that he has jumped out of planes and dived deep beneath the sea. He wants us to know about al
l this macho stuff so we can understand why he needs the release from stress that only wearing women’s underwear can give him. I am puzzled. Wearing women’s underwear has never helped me with stress.
I glance across the aisle from where I am sitting. The attractive black woman in the gray suit seated beside me has closed her eyes and dozed off for a second. But she is jolted back to consciousness when Mr. Navy Seal agrees to honor a request from the group to show us the red garter belt and white ladies’ nylons that he is wearing under his pants. What a picture he makes. It’s too bad the Navy Seals don’t have one for their brochure. “Yes, I like being restrained,” he admits as he lets his pants drop around his ankles. “I’m into erotic pain but I don’t like my arms to be dismantled or anything like that.”
“Just a few more questions,” says Ava, “because I want us to start using him for different things. I want the women to take turns and come up one after the other.” She lays out an assortment of whips, ropes, leashes, collars, and other dog accessories on a table nearby.
What the Dogs Have Taught Me: And Other Amazing Things I've Learned Page 6