If video killed the radio star then Hollywood killed the healthy relationship. It wasn’t Col Mustard in the study with the candle stick. It was Cameron Crowe in the movie theater with John Cusack. Seriously, every woman who was between the age of five and thirty-five during the late 80’s to early 90’s will forever be haunted (and taunted) by the elusive perfection of true love depicted in Say Anything. As a requiem for the perfect relationship that (thanks to the monster success of the almighty chick flick) we will never have, I give you a list of the top ten Hollywood boyfriends who have forever ruined it for all the regular guys.
#10 “Tripp” (Matthew McConaughey), Failure to Launch
Granted, the cowardly way Tripp uses living with the parents as a means of breaking up with women once they give him the dreaded “look” seemingly makes him all too disappointingly real to belong on this list. However, he has several other too-dreamy-to-be-true traits that definitely qualify him for silver unicorn status. If a man who looks like Matthew McConaughey lives at home in his thirties, it’s most likely because he’s a lazy pothead who’d rather blow his Joe’s Crab Shack paycheck on “Canadian Supergrass” than get his ass off his parents couch and get a real job. Even if the reason that he’s shacking up with mom and dad isn’t a drug or alcohol addiction, I can guarantee it’s NOT because he’s just too scared to get close to a woman again after the love of his life tragically died years ago. Also, in real life ultra good-looking dudes like Matthew M and Bradley Cooper don’t fret about their romantic relationships while they are mountain bike riding and playing basketball. In what alternate Mountain Dew meets Kotex commercial universe does this kind of stuff really happen? And how do I get there?
#9 “Jonathan Trager” (John Cusack) Serendipity
In his first appearance on this list, Mr. Cusack plays an ESPN producer haunted by a mysterious and enchanting encounter he had with a gorgeous British woman (Kate Beckinsale) eight years earlier. Armed with only his memories and the woman’s totally common first name (Sarah), Jonathan sets out on a cross-country adventure to reunite with his long-lost love. Randomly, this all occurs just days before his wedding to another woman. What man do you know who would even be thinking about some girl he spent one (sex free) night with after eight years? Let alone be willing to jeopardize his engagement, deal with the most annoying Bloomingdales employee who ever lived, and fly across the country to find some woman who for all he knows could be dead. Or having sex with some ugly blonde guy right in front of an open window when Jonathan decides to show up unannounced at Sarah’s San Francisco home (luckily for Jonathan, this woman turns out to be Sarah’s sister). The fact that Jon boy leaves his fiancée at the altar does give him some street cred, but in real life Sarah and Jonathan both would have moved on, fell in love with and gotten married to other people. Although I suppose there is the remote possibility they could have divorced their spouses, reconnected via Facebook and lived happily ever after. No Eugene Levy required.
#8 “Jamie Bennett” (Colin Firth) Love Actually
Everything about this man is straight out of a Jane Austen novel, right down to his charming, perfectly posh name. I suppose it is fitting since Colin Firth is the quintessential Mr. Darcy, a role he played to perfection in both Pride and Prejudice and Bridget Jones’s Diary. When Jamie retreats to a far-away villa to recover from the heartbreak and humiliation of discovering his live-in girlfriend has been sleeping with his brother behind his back, his awkward bumbling with his shy Portuguese housekeeper is adorably believable. What is not believable however, is the fact that after spending a mere few weeks with said housekeeper, Jamie returns to London to learn Portuguese and then catches a red eye flight to her village on Christmas Eve to propose. Revenge sex with the hot maid or even an attempt a long-distance relationship I could get on board with, but proposing marriage to a woman when they barely speak the same language? That’s just a divorce waiting to happen and as patently ridiculous as the idea that that homely British sandwich salesman would be able to pull off a foursome with Shannon Elizabeth, Elisha Cuthbert and Denise Richards. Even women from Milwaukee aren’t that desperate.
#7 “Julian Mercer” (Keanu Reeves) Something’s Gotta Give
Okay, so I know “cougars” have been like the hot thing the past few years, but there is a difference between the April-August nuptials Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore and the May-December relationship between Dr. Julian and famed playwright Erica Barry that goes down in this movie. Don’t get me wrong, Diane Keaton looks amazing and she should get an award for avoiding the frightening plastic surgery pitfalls that some her much younger celebrity sisters have fallen prey to. I’m just saying, anyone old enough to be an age-appropriate match for Jack Nicholson is probably just a bit too past her prime to be schtuping Keanu Reeves. As much as I’d like to applaud the character for flipping the Hef/Baby Bunny paradigm on its outdated noggin, I just can’t buy it. No way would a hot young doctor like Julian be hot for Grandma. Maybe if he had an Oedipus complex the size of Erica’s big ass Hamptons house, but that does not appear to be the case here. Plus Julian apparently forgives Erica not once, but twice for blowing him off for a crusty old senior who suffered a heart attack while attempting to have sex with her half his age daughter. Yes, we can handle the truth, but this movie is not telling it.
#6 “Graham” (Jude Law) The Holiday
Let me begin by admitting that I absolutely detest Jude Law and firmly believe that the movie Alfie was secretly a bio pic about his tumultuous relationship with Sienna Miller. The point? Any character that makes Jude Law even remotely likeable has got fairy dust sprinkled all over him. Graham is not only a successful editor, loving brother, and devoted father, but somehow manages to be completely sweet and sentimental without coming of like a total pussy, which is quite a feat for a man who tears up more frequently than a pre-menopausal woman with a raging case of PMS. I’ve dated a few cries in my time, and never was it even one-sixteenth as adorable as Grahams’s weepy goodness. Particularly when said crying was done over a brown bag wrapped bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. The moral of the story? No man who is not getting regular estrogen injections in preparation for a sex change operation would shed a fraction of the tears that Graham lets flow. And if a man in real life did cry that much it would never, never, ever be hot, sexy, cute or acceptable. Kudos to Jude, but stop spreading the lies!
#5 “Matt Sullivan” (Josh Hartnett) 40 Days and 40 Nights
This character is every ex-girlfriend’s fantasy come to life. Bitch or nice girl, when a guy breaks-up with us (or vice-versa) we all secretly hope he spends the rest of his days moping, crying and pining over us. Even if he doesn’t initially miss us, we hold out hope that when he gets the slutting it up out of his system and tries to settle down with a real girl, he’ll realize, Joanie Mitchell-style, that “you don’t know what you got till it’s gone”. But by the time he has this revelation, it will be too late and we will laugh over his desperate voicemails with our hot new investment-banker boyfriends. Muhahahahaha! Matt Sullivan delivers all this and more. He is completely smitten with his girlfriend and when she inexplicably dumps him, he can’t even bring himself to delete the 8,000 pictures and videos he keeps of her on his computer. He is basically a girl, in a cute boy’s body. Also, he somehow manages to give Shannon Sossamon an orgasm using only his breath and a flower petal. If that’s not a prime example of pure Hollywood fiction, I don’t know what is.
#4 “Andrew Hennings” (Patrick Dempsey) Sweet Home Alabama
Despite the fact that he plays a politician, Patrick Dempsey is at his “McDreamy” best in this movie. Andrew does throw one semi-justified temper tantrum upon learning that Reese Witherspoon’s character, Melanie, has been lying to him about her true identity (and the fact that she is still legally hitched to her hot but redneck first husband). However, he takes her literally leaving him AT the altar with one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple people-eater level grace and aplomb and even lets Mel punch his mother in the face (it’s richly deserved, but still). In other words, yeah, right. The man also proposes by going to Tiffany’s after-hours and telling his fiancée to “pick one”. “Prince Charming” has officially been replaced. No need to dream about a tights-wearing equestrian when Andrew Hennings is on the loose.
#3 “Ben Wrightman” (Jimmy Fallon) Fever Pitch
Red Sox obsession notwithstanding, Ben Wrightman is pretty much the perfect man. From holding back Lindsay (Drew Barrymore)’s hair while she vomits from food poisoning on their first date, to describing her little quirks as “so cute they make me want to kill myself”, to showing up at Lindsay’s door with a Red Sox onesie for a “player to be named later” post-breakup, Ben is the stuff of which relationship dreams are made. Ben does exhibit a few moments of asshatness, but more than makes up for it by going into a coma of depression when Lindsay breaks up with him and for his willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice and sell his Red Sox season tickets (worth more than $100,000) all for the love of Lindsay. Swing batta batta swooooon!
#2 “Jake Ryan” (Michael Schoeffling ) Sixteen Candles
Jake Ryan’s Tiger Beat perfection set the gold-standard of male perfection for an entire generation. He had the hot name, the sexy hair, and the fashion savvy to make 80’s prep look undeniably good. Not to mention he was a teenage boy willing to ditch his sexy, but vapid girlfriend for Molly Ringwald’s virginal Samantha Baker. Jake was so sprung on Sam he forged through her senile grandparents, an incoherent discussion with a drunk Long Duck Dong, and even let geeky sycophant Anthony Michael Hall drive his dad’s Bentley, all in order to get the girl. Did I mention he shows up at Sam’s sister’s wedding in his red Porsche to sweep her off her feet and wish her a sweet sixteenth birthday complete with cake on a glass top table when even her own family forgot? No wonder real boys stopped trying to compete in 1984. Thanks a lot, John Hughes!
#1 “Lloyd Dobler” (John Cusack) Say Anything
Take one part lovesick/heartbroken John Cusack, one part Cameron Crowe’s directorial brilliance, mix with Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes”, shake well and the ultimate boyfriend myth is made. Lloyd’s unintentional cool, sweet vulnerability and underdog charm granted him instant access into the Make Believe Boyfriend Hall of Fame. Bogie’s “here’s lookin’ at you, kid” has nothing on Lloyd’s despondent “I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen”. And his boom box serenade of Diane Court is romance personified. The only thing about this movie more fictitious than the character of Lloyd Dobler was the fact that Diane(played by Ione Skye)’s response to Lloyd’s grand gesture was rolling over in bed and ignoring him, instead of running downstairs, tackling Lloyd and shagging him right there on the front lawn like any normal girl would. What’s wrong with you D. Court? Perhaps Lloyd’s aspiration to become a professional kickboxer in 1989 wasn’t exactly the most stable career path, but he was willing to give it up to go to England with Diane so she could follow her dreams. A guy confident enough with himself to be OK his girlfriend being “successful” one? Hahahahaha. Plus he gets 5,000 bonus points for being able to pull off a trench coat without looking like a flasher, a deranged psycho, or Inspector Gadget.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Fear and Loathing in Long Beach
Last night my mom, my sister Shannon, and I embarked on a mini-road trip to Long Beach to visit my other sister, Erin. It began as a perfectly pleasant evening in LBC. My family along with my sister’s roommate headed down to 2nd Street to get our grub on at a little Greek joint (which, incidentally, has the best Greek food on the planet, well maybe not better than in Greece, but by far the best Greek eats in Southern California). It was bumpin’, so we had to wait at the bar for a few minutes before being seated. I can’t be expected to be sitting at a bar and not order a drink, so Shannon & I got wine recommendations from the bartender while everyone else was led to a nearby table. As I sipped my Sauvignon Blanc while waiting to pay the bill, I spied an extremely attractive waiter towards the back of the restaurant. Now mind you, my definition of “extremely attractive” tends to differ from the average So Cal bimbette. Buffed and waxed Hollywood pretty boys do nothing for me. I like guys who are different and interesting looking and currently believe Evan Lysacek to be the absolute pinnacle of male physical perfection. But the type of gorgeousness possessed by Le Lysacek is rarely seen just walking down the street and I also dig on averagely cute boys (i.e. “beer commercial” guys), which would be a fair description of this waiter.
But then I had the sad and somewhat horrifying relation that somehow over the last few years, I’ve completely forgotten how to flirt. Don’t get me wrong, if a guy bounces the ball in my court, I’ll hit it back with the skill of a Wimbledon champion. Zero-love! It’s initiating the flirting that gives me the trouble. As much as I loathe, detest, despise, and curse the bullshit manifesto knows as He’s Just Not That Into You, I do think it’s anthem that if a guy is into you, he’ll definitely make it known has made many women (including myself) gun-shy about making any sort of first move. Thanks for setting us back to the Victorian Age, Greg Beherendt. Plus there is just something about being aggressive with a man that just seems inherently “cougarish” and I’m just not ready to go there yet. Check back with me when I’m forty, I may have changed my mind.
So anyway, I spent the bulk of the dinner with quick glances around the crowded restaurant, hoping to catch the waiter’s eye. No such luck. Not even a periphery acknowledgment. Really? Damn. I’m no model, but I’m not homely, nor am I invisible as evidenced by the one man whose eye I did manage to catch. Who is this international man of mystery, you ask? A wealthy Greek shipping heir? Hahahahahahaha. No. The approximately sixty-two year old guitar player sitting behind my mom whose lips were packing more meat than my plate of beef soulvlakia and who also bore a disturbing resemblance to my deceased great grandmother. That’s who thinks I’m sexy. With my thirty-second birthday fast approaching, this is not good news.
I’m gonna need a drink. Opa!
But then I had the sad and somewhat horrifying relation that somehow over the last few years, I’ve completely forgotten how to flirt. Don’t get me wrong, if a guy bounces the ball in my court, I’ll hit it back with the skill of a Wimbledon champion. Zero-love! It’s initiating the flirting that gives me the trouble. As much as I loathe, detest, despise, and curse the bullshit manifesto knows as He’s Just Not That Into You, I do think it’s anthem that if a guy is into you, he’ll definitely make it known has made many women (including myself) gun-shy about making any sort of first move. Thanks for setting us back to the Victorian Age, Greg Beherendt. Plus there is just something about being aggressive with a man that just seems inherently “cougarish” and I’m just not ready to go there yet. Check back with me when I’m forty, I may have changed my mind.
So anyway, I spent the bulk of the dinner with quick glances around the crowded restaurant, hoping to catch the waiter’s eye. No such luck. Not even a periphery acknowledgment. Really? Damn. I’m no model, but I’m not homely, nor am I invisible as evidenced by the one man whose eye I did manage to catch. Who is this international man of mystery, you ask? A wealthy Greek shipping heir? Hahahahahahaha. No. The approximately sixty-two year old guitar player sitting behind my mom whose lips were packing more meat than my plate of beef soulvlakia and who also bore a disturbing resemblance to my deceased great grandmother. That’s who thinks I’m sexy. With my thirty-second birthday fast approaching, this is not good news.
I’m gonna need a drink. Opa!
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
So My Gyno Looks Like Jason Statham…
It’s not like I spend a ton of time at the gynecologist. I’m not currently, nor have I ever been pregnant, so it’s basically just the standard visit for my annual checkup and then I spend the rest of the year in stirrup and paper gown-free bliss. I wasn’t even good about that for the better part of my 20’s. After my very first pap (I REFUSE to even mention the second half of that procedure’s totally gag-inducing name) at age nineteen left me with a UTI from the very bowels of hell, I decided that was an experience I could live without for a few years. Then a few more years passed. By the time I was a responsible thirty-year-old, I decided it was time to get “back in the saddle”. But times had changed. Apparently snagging an appointment with a good gynecologist is harder than booking a blow-dry at the Warren Tricomi salon. Most of the ones I had been referred to by friends were not accepting new patients, so I finally just decided to go through the Facey Women’s Center where I was able to make an appointment with a great nurse practitioner. Which worked out fine for the past couple of years until I got the dreaded phone call that my pap had rendered abnormal results.
The follow-up appointment required evaluation by an actual MD, so I was randomly assigned to a gynecologist in the same building. I had no idea if said doctor was even a man or a woman, which really freaked me out. I’ve always preferred to see a woman “women’s doctor” not only because they are packing and thus familiar with the same “equipment” but also because I have an irrational belief that all male gynecologists look like old Republican dudes and really, who wants Bob Bennett all up in their business? Not I. A coffee date discussion with a childhood girlfriend before the appointment revealed that the doctor I was scheduled to see was indeed a man. Oh noes! Now I was doubly nervous. Finally the date of my appointment rolled around. After waiting for half an hour in the waiting room and an additional twenty (horrifyingly naked save for the paper towel sarong I was desperately trying to cover my ass with) minutes in the exam room, the doctor was in. And holy shit, he was REALLY attractive. Tall, handsome, and rugged. He really did look like Jason Statham but with slightly kinder features. He also happened to be hilarious, charming, and act like the overprotective father I had always sort of secretly wished for.
Upon hearing this part of the story, most of my girlfriends were utterly horrified. “How embarrassing,” they lamented. But was it really so bad? It’s not like I was trying to date the man. He happened to be married, but even if he wasn’t like I’m really going to try to go out with my freaking gyno? I think there are ethical rules that prohibit that sort of thing anyway. So what’s the big deal? It’s not like I’m showing him anything he hasn’t seen a million times and if a man that I’m not sexually involved with has to be close enough to be essentially breathing into my lady parts, isn’t it better that he be attractive? Kind of like having a cute waiter or a hot bartender, right? It adds to the experience? No? OK, guess I’m just a weirdo then. Or maybe two years of Brazilian waxes has just made me a bit less modest. I have to go back in six months for another checkup. I have the option of seeing my old nurse practitioner or my handsome new doctor. I think I’m going to stick with “Dr. Statham” not because I’m a pervert and he’s an Adonis, but rather because he truly did make me feel very comfortable and cared for as a patient. Plus in 3-5 years when I am ready to start having babies, I’ll already be in with a good OB/GYN, no waiting list required.
The follow-up appointment required evaluation by an actual MD, so I was randomly assigned to a gynecologist in the same building. I had no idea if said doctor was even a man or a woman, which really freaked me out. I’ve always preferred to see a woman “women’s doctor” not only because they are packing and thus familiar with the same “equipment” but also because I have an irrational belief that all male gynecologists look like old Republican dudes and really, who wants Bob Bennett all up in their business? Not I. A coffee date discussion with a childhood girlfriend before the appointment revealed that the doctor I was scheduled to see was indeed a man. Oh noes! Now I was doubly nervous. Finally the date of my appointment rolled around. After waiting for half an hour in the waiting room and an additional twenty (horrifyingly naked save for the paper towel sarong I was desperately trying to cover my ass with) minutes in the exam room, the doctor was in. And holy shit, he was REALLY attractive. Tall, handsome, and rugged. He really did look like Jason Statham but with slightly kinder features. He also happened to be hilarious, charming, and act like the overprotective father I had always sort of secretly wished for.
Upon hearing this part of the story, most of my girlfriends were utterly horrified. “How embarrassing,” they lamented. But was it really so bad? It’s not like I was trying to date the man. He happened to be married, but even if he wasn’t like I’m really going to try to go out with my freaking gyno? I think there are ethical rules that prohibit that sort of thing anyway. So what’s the big deal? It’s not like I’m showing him anything he hasn’t seen a million times and if a man that I’m not sexually involved with has to be close enough to be essentially breathing into my lady parts, isn’t it better that he be attractive? Kind of like having a cute waiter or a hot bartender, right? It adds to the experience? No? OK, guess I’m just a weirdo then. Or maybe two years of Brazilian waxes has just made me a bit less modest. I have to go back in six months for another checkup. I have the option of seeing my old nurse practitioner or my handsome new doctor. I think I’m going to stick with “Dr. Statham” not because I’m a pervert and he’s an Adonis, but rather because he truly did make me feel very comfortable and cared for as a patient. Plus in 3-5 years when I am ready to start having babies, I’ll already be in with a good OB/GYN, no waiting list required.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
BBL: My New BFF?
I’ve never been naturally skinny, but I’m also lucky enough not to be cursed with the kind of metabolism that causes me to gain five pounds if I get so much as a whiff of a chocolate chip cookie.
My body tends to settle around an “average” weight and I sort of have to work equally hard at getting fat or thin. What does this “hard work” entail, you ask? For getting thin, you know the answer: getting up at the buttcrack (or earlier) of dawn to exercise, staying away from pasta, beer, and my beloved jalapeno Cheetos. I don’t get crazy restrictive, but my food and wine loving self definitely has to scale it back a notch…or three. Getting fat is another story. It usually starts as the result of me going into some type of boredom-induced funk or emotional tailspin that causes me to lose my will to exercise. At first I am able to get away with the Burrito Supremes and Wendy’s Bacon Deluxes. So I get comfortable and then one day my “fat jeans” become skinny jeans.
And that’s when it’s time to break the cycle.
About a month ago, on a particularly gluttonous Sunday morning (during which I polished of an entire box of Hostess chocolate donettes) I came across an infomercial for the Brazilian Butt Lift.
That was the first time I was introduced to Leandro Carvalho, the cutest, cuddliest, most Brazilian sadist ever born. His perfectly accented promise to give me a perfect Brazilian “Bum Bum” (pronounced “Boom Boom” and as I have since learned is apparently Brazilian slang for “butt”) won me over. And he trains Victoria’s Secret models to boot? Um, where do I sign up? Not that I’m delusional enough to think that ANY exercise program could transform my 5’4” medium build frame into the Giselle-like physiques that grace the pages of Victoria’s Secret, but the infomercial also featured “before” and “after” shots of real (i.e. non-model) women with pretty impressive results, so after my next paycheck, I went online and placed my order.
I was very excited to come home a week later to find my Brazilian Butt Lift starter kit waiting on my doorstep. It came with 5 DVDs, ankle weights, resistance bands, as well as a work out program (designed to my specific butt type!) and a diet plan.
The first step? Determining my butt type of course!
Hmmm, this proved a more difficult task than I imagined.
The “too flat” solution? Designed to lift and shape? Sounds like Butt Bodybuilding for Dummies. Hell, no! I’m no J. Lo but I sure as hell don’t need to be doing exercises to add to the assorted variety of junk already in my trunk. Next!
The “pear shape” solution? This one promises to slim and shape. I like the slim part, but I’m skeptical about the shaping. Plus I’m more board-shaped than pear shaped so I don’t think this is the answer for me.
The “too big” solution? I don’t really think anyone (besides myself) would describe my butt as too big. But the program is designed to life and slim, so this one sounds just right. Sold! (Incidentally, they also offer a “classic solution” for those like me with an indiscernible butt type. However, I was happy with the lifting and slimming promised by the “too big” solution, so that is what I decided to stick with).
Next came the REAL work, the actual exercise. I usually prefer to get up early and workout in the morning. For one, it’s cooler. There is also the added benefit of getting the exercise is done for the day freeing up my evening for any magically delicious opportunities that may arise. However, last Monday after a heinous night of heartburn, tossing and turning, I decided I really needed that extra hour of sleep and the BBL was going to have to wait until after work.
After a long and stressful day, I came home to a relatively warm and un-air-conditioned house totally not wanting to workout but determined nonetheless to take the BBL challenge. Really, how hard could it be? I’m no fitness model, but I’m hard core. And stubborn. Even if I haven’t run in months, I can always do at least three miles. In January I finished a half-marathon in 2 ½ hours without really training.
Could the BBL “Bum Bum” routine be that much harder? Not likely.
Holy shitballs!! Half way through the basic training video (not even the real routine just a quick intro that teaches you the moves) I was DRENCHED in sweat. About five minutes into the real workout I was bright red and gasping for air. My hamstring, quad. and ass muscles were screaming. But I persevered. I was not going to be defeated by this tiny Brazilian man and his insanely hard workout. Like Leandro says, I have to do the work to get the “beautiful Brazilian bum bum”. I will not “settle for less”.
So per the proscribed workout regime, I have been doing the recommended DVD workouts for the past 8 days. I definitely FEEL better. My ex-boyfriend (and current boy BFF) swore by butt looked better after only 3 workouts, but I suspected he was just trying to be supportive. After 8 workouts, I oscillate between thinking I look fabulous and noticeably thinner to thinking I look like a bulky female bodybuilder covered in a layer of poorly preserved lard. Since both observations cannot be true (unless you want to get into some seriously crazy quantum mechanics), I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m just crazy. It’s probably too soon to tell, so as my dear and awesome friend Jenette told me when we first met, I guess “the jury is still out”. I’m going to keep working at it and hopefully, in three weeks, when my birthday party rolls around, I will have given myself the ultimate gift of the perfect Brazilian butt.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Story
It all started about three-and-a-half years ago on a drizzly November morning as I sat blow-drying my hair. I’m often struck with my best ideas when performing some mundane task: washing the dishes, putting on mascara, or staring blankly at my monitor at work wondering how in the hell I spent $40,000 on a college education just to end up an Administrative Assistant.
This is not supposed to be my life.
I’m a sparkly, shiny, special star!
There HAS to be more than this, right?
Or am I eternally doomed to the lather-rinse-repeat cycle of the 8-to-5 grind? I always thought by the time I turned thirty I’d have it all; a fabulous career, a wonderful husband, and a big townhouse in a beachside community. I never imagined I’d feel the furious ticking of my biological clock counting down towards infertility like a nuclear bomb getting set to detonate. I’m not a loser, but sometimes I sure feel like one. Especially as I round the homestretch towards my thirty-second birthday. I’m wondering what exactly I have to show for my three plus decades on this planet. I guess I’d feel a bit more accomplished if I had a stellar career, a fairytale love story, or a home to call my own, but at the present moment, I’m sorely lacking all of the above. What the French, toast? What the French indeed. Wow, that was quite the tangent. You probably don’t remember RSVPing for that pity party, sorry.
One thing I have learned about our time here on Earth is you can waste your time bitching about your life or you can spend your time doing something to change it. If you’re really creative, you can even turn the bitching into the doing and that is why I have decided to write this blog. I began this entry by talking about how “it all started three-and-a-half years ago”. The “it” I was referring to before I derailed on a three-hour tour of my life, was the quest to write and successfully publish a dating advice book that would 1) provide women USEFUL information in a humorous and entertaining way 2) paint men in an honest light, but not create such piggish and masochistic caricatures as to cause the readers want to eat a pint of Hagen Daaz and then slit their wrists with a dull pink Gillette razor. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? You think you know, but you have no idea.
I’m a very title-derivative writer, so I always formulate ideas for writing projects based off the title and build the concept from there. So that fateful morning in November I was blow-drying my hair thinking about God knows what when it came to me like a divine lightning rod from the sky. Cue the celestial music…The Why Chromosome! Yes, that is it! I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with the idea but I knew it was a great title and my first instinct was to create the He’s Just Not That Into You for women who actually had a clue. I had been festering over my disappointment with that book and my resentment with its runaway success for a few years. As a die-hard fan of Sex and the City, I figured anything affiliated with a writer and consultant from one of the most successful and relatable television shows of all time had to be brilliant and hilarious. Fortunately I didn’t waste any money on the book, but borrowed a copy from a friend. Boy, what a let down. In addition to being not at all funny, the book was completely repetitive and the “groundbreaking” advice it offered was nothing revolutionary to women who had any modicum of self-esteem. OMG, you mean if I call a guy seventeen times and he doesn’t return the call it means he’s just not that into me? Shocking! I can see clearly now the rain is gone! WTF? Really? First of all I (nor any woman I know) would never call a guy more than once or twice tops without a return call. If the guy blows off the call, do you really need a book to tell you the guy wasn’t feeling it? I hope you haven’t invested any money in Goldman Sachs.
So once I had my title and a basic idea of what I wanted to do it was time to find a partner for this project. I posted an ad on Craig’s List and got about 10 to 15 responses. Much like finding a marriage partner, I pretty much knew I’d found “The One” when I got my first response from, let’s call just him Band Boy for anonymity’s sake. Band Boy was charming, witty, and our writing had an instant rapport. I interviewed some others, had them submit writing samples, and of course ultimately chose Band Boy. Band Boy was living in Colorado and had a degree in Psychology. He was also (surprise!) in a band and was moving to Los Angeles after the holidays. Band Boy and I met up one time in Hermosa Beach for a brainstorming session. By that time I had decided the book would be a list of “Why” questions related to men’s behavior in dating and relationships. For each question, I would provide a “theory” from the female point of view and my partner would respond with the “answer” from the male perspective. In my desire for a truly collaborative book, I listened to his stupid ideas about having fictional vignettes interspersed between the questions to keep the book from seeming to textbook. I even seriously considered using the Band Boy’s lame ass vignettes for fear of seeming like a bitch if I shot his idea down. Fortunately, within the month Band Boy told me he was too committed to his musical career to continue to work on the book with me. I was initially disappointed but like a mutual break-up, we amicably went our separate ways and I never spoke to him again. I don’t think his band ever made it big. I wonder if he had to move back to Colorado.
A few months after losing Band Boy, I decided to regroup and try my luck again. I had completed my list of questions (a total of 40) and broken them out into five sections: Meeting/Pick-Up, Dating, Relationships, Breakups, and Sex. I posted another ad on Craig’s List as well as on a website for freelance writers. After getting jackshit from my Craig’s List post, I was about ready to give up when I checked the freelance writers site. I had a hilarious response from a quirky Canadian guy who, once again, seemed the perfect partner to compliment my writing style. Since he lived in the Great White North, we never met up by talked by phone every once in awhile and communicated by e-mail pretty regularly. At first his progress was amazing. He quickly wrote answers in response to my theories and he used hysterical metaphors that literally made me laugh out loud. And then his progress slowed…and slowed. Through our phone conversations and e-mails, I discovered he was still finishing college and worked part time harvesting the genetically-engineered corn grown by the university he attended. A friend of mine dubbed him “Corn Boy” as he shall henceforth be called here. Corn Boy also seemed to have a lot of women-related drama in his life. Finally after about nine months of working together and completing close to half of the book, Corn Boy dropped the bomb on me that he was going back to school for writing and would not be able to continue on as my partner. I guess his busy corn-picking schedule left no time for extracurricular pursuits. Needless to say, I was pissed, frustrated, and finally understood my BFF, Deeves’ inexplicable hatred for all things Canadian.
I shelved the book and decided I’d have to get published on my own and revisit The Why Chromosome after I’d made it independently and had an agent and a publisher who could pair me with a professional (i.e. non-flaky) writing partner. So I focused on other things for about six months. Then one day in the middle of the summer, I found myself quite bored at work. I started rereading the book, deleting all of Corn Boy’s sections. As I read I realized what I had was a damn good idea that could be an even better book. My inner Jiminy Cricket said “go for it”. So, praying that this third time would in fact be the proverbial charm, I decided to post a third ad on Craig’s List. This one had a twist though. A male friend of mine who had read the book-in-progress when I was partnered with Corn Boy has told me Corn Boy was “too much of a girl” and that the book was not really representative of what the average man thought. So this time, I decided I would get two partners – one Good Guy and one Bad Boy to give women a more comprehensive understanding of the collective male psyche. I whipped up the ad, using some kind of pun about a literary ménage a trios to catch potential male writing partners’ attention and within 48 hours I was overrun with responses to the ad. Most of them were applying for the Good Guy position, but I had a few lines on a Bad Boy too. In fact I had so many great responses for the Good Guy, I had to narrow it down and have a test demographic brunch with my girlfriends to pick the eventual winner (who as with the previous two partners, I had been immediately drawn to from his initial e-mail). The Bad Boy was a little tougher of a decision to make. I had two guys, both compelling writers, but both with very different styles. I ultimately had to go with the “kinder, gentler” Bad Boy as the other one’s writing was just a bit too explicit and “shock value” style for a female demographic. Think Oprah, not Howard Stern.
As it turns out, after some serious lessons learned I had found the perfect two partners. They say timing is everything and in this case it really is true. If things had worked out with Band Boy or Corn Boy the book never would have evolved to have the three perspectives, nor would I have found the awesome, talented and most importantly, RELIABLE partners I ended up with. I got my current partners, Good Guy and Bad Boy under contract by Sept. 2008 and the book was completed and ready for editing by April 2009. We put the finishing touches on the book per the editors’ comments by June 2009 and were ready to start pitching the book to agents. Then heartbreak struck again…though this time it was the personal variety. My boyfriend of six months suddenly and inexplicably ended the best relationship I had ever been in. Just when it seemed everything in my life was finally coming together, it all fell apart. “Crushed” does not begin to describe the devastation I experienced. I’m not one to completely meltdown over a breakup, but this one leveled me. I had a lot of trouble eating and sleeping and even when the tears finally stopped my friends were seriously concerned I would never get back to my pre-breakup self.
But by September, I had (mostly) bounced back and we began submitting the book to several agencies in New York and Los Angeles. Bitchslap time! We categorically received either no response (rejection) or formal rejections (more rejection) from over sixty agencies. Just when I was starting to lose all hope of ever finding representation (several industry “insiders” had told us that publishers are only interested in celebrity authors for our type of book), Bad Boy sent our query letter and manuscript to an agent who had represented his friend’s father. She decided to take us on and we signed with her in November 2009. Since then, we’ve been fighting the uphill battle to get published. It’s hard when you are a miniscule fish not just in a big pond, but in an entire ocean filled with all manner of larger and ostensibly more interesting sea creatures. But I believe in our book and will not give up. We’ve gotten rejected from several publishers, though not for lack of writing ability. Most of our rejections have stated that they love the concept and the writing, but they are scared it will not sell in the crowded relationship advice genre, particularly with unknown authors. Great. So according to seasoned editors at big publishing houses I am talented enough as a writer to be published, but they just can’t do it because I’m not Kate Gosselin? I’m starting to believe all editors are secretly those scary lizardy aliens from V in disguise.
But, when life gives you lemons, turn them into limes and make a mojito!
That’s what I’m doing.
I’m told I need a platform (and not the wedge cork variety that come in pairs, I already have plenty of those). I figure if I going to bitch, moan, and complain about my current apparent inability to land a book deal, I might as well write about it on the internet. Maybe an editor will see it, maybe I can garner enough of a readership to warrant myself “print worthy” and at the very least maybe someone else will read about what I’m going through and be able to relate. If I can make one person laugh, or smile, or say “that happened to me too”, then all of this will be worth it.
This is not supposed to be my life.
I’m a sparkly, shiny, special star!
There HAS to be more than this, right?
Or am I eternally doomed to the lather-rinse-repeat cycle of the 8-to-5 grind? I always thought by the time I turned thirty I’d have it all; a fabulous career, a wonderful husband, and a big townhouse in a beachside community. I never imagined I’d feel the furious ticking of my biological clock counting down towards infertility like a nuclear bomb getting set to detonate. I’m not a loser, but sometimes I sure feel like one. Especially as I round the homestretch towards my thirty-second birthday. I’m wondering what exactly I have to show for my three plus decades on this planet. I guess I’d feel a bit more accomplished if I had a stellar career, a fairytale love story, or a home to call my own, but at the present moment, I’m sorely lacking all of the above. What the French, toast? What the French indeed. Wow, that was quite the tangent. You probably don’t remember RSVPing for that pity party, sorry.
One thing I have learned about our time here on Earth is you can waste your time bitching about your life or you can spend your time doing something to change it. If you’re really creative, you can even turn the bitching into the doing and that is why I have decided to write this blog. I began this entry by talking about how “it all started three-and-a-half years ago”. The “it” I was referring to before I derailed on a three-hour tour of my life, was the quest to write and successfully publish a dating advice book that would 1) provide women USEFUL information in a humorous and entertaining way 2) paint men in an honest light, but not create such piggish and masochistic caricatures as to cause the readers want to eat a pint of Hagen Daaz and then slit their wrists with a dull pink Gillette razor. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? You think you know, but you have no idea.
I’m a very title-derivative writer, so I always formulate ideas for writing projects based off the title and build the concept from there. So that fateful morning in November I was blow-drying my hair thinking about God knows what when it came to me like a divine lightning rod from the sky. Cue the celestial music…The Why Chromosome! Yes, that is it! I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with the idea but I knew it was a great title and my first instinct was to create the He’s Just Not That Into You for women who actually had a clue. I had been festering over my disappointment with that book and my resentment with its runaway success for a few years. As a die-hard fan of Sex and the City, I figured anything affiliated with a writer and consultant from one of the most successful and relatable television shows of all time had to be brilliant and hilarious. Fortunately I didn’t waste any money on the book, but borrowed a copy from a friend. Boy, what a let down. In addition to being not at all funny, the book was completely repetitive and the “groundbreaking” advice it offered was nothing revolutionary to women who had any modicum of self-esteem. OMG, you mean if I call a guy seventeen times and he doesn’t return the call it means he’s just not that into me? Shocking! I can see clearly now the rain is gone! WTF? Really? First of all I (nor any woman I know) would never call a guy more than once or twice tops without a return call. If the guy blows off the call, do you really need a book to tell you the guy wasn’t feeling it? I hope you haven’t invested any money in Goldman Sachs.
So once I had my title and a basic idea of what I wanted to do it was time to find a partner for this project. I posted an ad on Craig’s List and got about 10 to 15 responses. Much like finding a marriage partner, I pretty much knew I’d found “The One” when I got my first response from, let’s call just him Band Boy for anonymity’s sake. Band Boy was charming, witty, and our writing had an instant rapport. I interviewed some others, had them submit writing samples, and of course ultimately chose Band Boy. Band Boy was living in Colorado and had a degree in Psychology. He was also (surprise!) in a band and was moving to Los Angeles after the holidays. Band Boy and I met up one time in Hermosa Beach for a brainstorming session. By that time I had decided the book would be a list of “Why” questions related to men’s behavior in dating and relationships. For each question, I would provide a “theory” from the female point of view and my partner would respond with the “answer” from the male perspective. In my desire for a truly collaborative book, I listened to his stupid ideas about having fictional vignettes interspersed between the questions to keep the book from seeming to textbook. I even seriously considered using the Band Boy’s lame ass vignettes for fear of seeming like a bitch if I shot his idea down. Fortunately, within the month Band Boy told me he was too committed to his musical career to continue to work on the book with me. I was initially disappointed but like a mutual break-up, we amicably went our separate ways and I never spoke to him again. I don’t think his band ever made it big. I wonder if he had to move back to Colorado.
A few months after losing Band Boy, I decided to regroup and try my luck again. I had completed my list of questions (a total of 40) and broken them out into five sections: Meeting/Pick-Up, Dating, Relationships, Breakups, and Sex. I posted another ad on Craig’s List as well as on a website for freelance writers. After getting jackshit from my Craig’s List post, I was about ready to give up when I checked the freelance writers site. I had a hilarious response from a quirky Canadian guy who, once again, seemed the perfect partner to compliment my writing style. Since he lived in the Great White North, we never met up by talked by phone every once in awhile and communicated by e-mail pretty regularly. At first his progress was amazing. He quickly wrote answers in response to my theories and he used hysterical metaphors that literally made me laugh out loud. And then his progress slowed…and slowed. Through our phone conversations and e-mails, I discovered he was still finishing college and worked part time harvesting the genetically-engineered corn grown by the university he attended. A friend of mine dubbed him “Corn Boy” as he shall henceforth be called here. Corn Boy also seemed to have a lot of women-related drama in his life. Finally after about nine months of working together and completing close to half of the book, Corn Boy dropped the bomb on me that he was going back to school for writing and would not be able to continue on as my partner. I guess his busy corn-picking schedule left no time for extracurricular pursuits. Needless to say, I was pissed, frustrated, and finally understood my BFF, Deeves’ inexplicable hatred for all things Canadian.
I shelved the book and decided I’d have to get published on my own and revisit The Why Chromosome after I’d made it independently and had an agent and a publisher who could pair me with a professional (i.e. non-flaky) writing partner. So I focused on other things for about six months. Then one day in the middle of the summer, I found myself quite bored at work. I started rereading the book, deleting all of Corn Boy’s sections. As I read I realized what I had was a damn good idea that could be an even better book. My inner Jiminy Cricket said “go for it”. So, praying that this third time would in fact be the proverbial charm, I decided to post a third ad on Craig’s List. This one had a twist though. A male friend of mine who had read the book-in-progress when I was partnered with Corn Boy has told me Corn Boy was “too much of a girl” and that the book was not really representative of what the average man thought. So this time, I decided I would get two partners – one Good Guy and one Bad Boy to give women a more comprehensive understanding of the collective male psyche. I whipped up the ad, using some kind of pun about a literary ménage a trios to catch potential male writing partners’ attention and within 48 hours I was overrun with responses to the ad. Most of them were applying for the Good Guy position, but I had a few lines on a Bad Boy too. In fact I had so many great responses for the Good Guy, I had to narrow it down and have a test demographic brunch with my girlfriends to pick the eventual winner (who as with the previous two partners, I had been immediately drawn to from his initial e-mail). The Bad Boy was a little tougher of a decision to make. I had two guys, both compelling writers, but both with very different styles. I ultimately had to go with the “kinder, gentler” Bad Boy as the other one’s writing was just a bit too explicit and “shock value” style for a female demographic. Think Oprah, not Howard Stern.
As it turns out, after some serious lessons learned I had found the perfect two partners. They say timing is everything and in this case it really is true. If things had worked out with Band Boy or Corn Boy the book never would have evolved to have the three perspectives, nor would I have found the awesome, talented and most importantly, RELIABLE partners I ended up with. I got my current partners, Good Guy and Bad Boy under contract by Sept. 2008 and the book was completed and ready for editing by April 2009. We put the finishing touches on the book per the editors’ comments by June 2009 and were ready to start pitching the book to agents. Then heartbreak struck again…though this time it was the personal variety. My boyfriend of six months suddenly and inexplicably ended the best relationship I had ever been in. Just when it seemed everything in my life was finally coming together, it all fell apart. “Crushed” does not begin to describe the devastation I experienced. I’m not one to completely meltdown over a breakup, but this one leveled me. I had a lot of trouble eating and sleeping and even when the tears finally stopped my friends were seriously concerned I would never get back to my pre-breakup self.
But by September, I had (mostly) bounced back and we began submitting the book to several agencies in New York and Los Angeles. Bitchslap time! We categorically received either no response (rejection) or formal rejections (more rejection) from over sixty agencies. Just when I was starting to lose all hope of ever finding representation (several industry “insiders” had told us that publishers are only interested in celebrity authors for our type of book), Bad Boy sent our query letter and manuscript to an agent who had represented his friend’s father. She decided to take us on and we signed with her in November 2009. Since then, we’ve been fighting the uphill battle to get published. It’s hard when you are a miniscule fish not just in a big pond, but in an entire ocean filled with all manner of larger and ostensibly more interesting sea creatures. But I believe in our book and will not give up. We’ve gotten rejected from several publishers, though not for lack of writing ability. Most of our rejections have stated that they love the concept and the writing, but they are scared it will not sell in the crowded relationship advice genre, particularly with unknown authors. Great. So according to seasoned editors at big publishing houses I am talented enough as a writer to be published, but they just can’t do it because I’m not Kate Gosselin? I’m starting to believe all editors are secretly those scary lizardy aliens from V in disguise.
But, when life gives you lemons, turn them into limes and make a mojito!
That’s what I’m doing.
I’m told I need a platform (and not the wedge cork variety that come in pairs, I already have plenty of those). I figure if I going to bitch, moan, and complain about my current apparent inability to land a book deal, I might as well write about it on the internet. Maybe an editor will see it, maybe I can garner enough of a readership to warrant myself “print worthy” and at the very least maybe someone else will read about what I’m going through and be able to relate. If I can make one person laugh, or smile, or say “that happened to me too”, then all of this will be worth it.
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