'Bass Ackwards and Belly Up' and 'Footfree and Fancyloose' tell the story of four best friends who commit the ultimate suburban sin: putting off college to pursue their dreams.
Publisher's Weekly said: "Full of romance and adventure, laughter and tears, the story is a reminder that veering from the straight and narrow road doesn't always lead to a dead end."
Well. I was going to write about my What If List today, but I just got off the phone with an astrologer, and What If seems a lot less important right now than What Will Be.
According to this astrologer-- it feels weird to keep calling her astrologer, astrologer, astrologer, so I'll call her... let's see... the Twilight books are stacked on my desk, so I'll call her Stephanie. According to Stephanie, What Will Be is gonna be pretty darn great. There will be kids. (Two, probably. Didn't ask if they're adopted or tummy kids.) And a man. (One man. The One. And he's pretty cool.) And some pretty fantastic career stuff, too. And it's all coming soon, to a life near me...
If I say 'yes.'
And isn't that always the glitch. Why is it so easy to say 'yes, sure, come on in!' to the bad stuff, and so hard, agonizing, terrifying to say 'yes, no problem, get on in here' to the life-changingly-wonderful stuff? This, apparently, is my challenge. And what a challenge it is...
Because-- and this is something else Stephanie said, and holy hell is it true-- I am so often ruled by fear. (At least, in my personal life. Professionally, somewhat less so.) This fear-based existence is a universal condition, I know. Fear causes everything from wars to cancer, and still we maintain a vice-like grip on it-- because the other choice is hope.
And hope is more terrifying than Freddy Kruger on meth.
Fear will always be validated, while hope will so often be dashed. Against rocks. Jagged rocks with knives and shards of glass stickin' out. Not that I have any experience in this arena. I, of course, speak of these things purely theoretically.
Whatever you may think of astrology (I can tell you Stephanie's description of my mother was DEAD ON, and there's no way she could've known that stuff), I will be calling this particular astrologer again. Because she reminded me that the rocks with the knives and the shards and the whatnot are just part of the trip.
So, here I am, officially saying yes. To the good stuff. The bad stuff can kiss my ass.
Oh, and Stephanie also told me that I need to tell men right up front, on the first date, that I am high maintenance. Not in a prissy, getting my hair and nails done, kinda way. In a very particular, me kinda way. So, to The One, if you're out there, I'm telling you now: I'm high maintenance. Stephanie says you can handle it.
And to my future uncontrollable, highly independent kids: Can't wait to meet you.
How does fear hold you back? What do you need to say yes to?
Okay, the post about fast food/nutrition and
obesity is getting put off one more day.I’m workin’ on it, though, and it’s gonna be KILLA!Actually, it might be kinda preachy,
but it’s something I feel passionately about.Almost as passionately as I feel about….
I am a sucker for this show.It’s embarrassing, but there it is. The
most notable thing about this week’s finale, however, is that THREE MEN were prepared
to propose to Jillian.Now,
Jillian’s pretty cool.Of all the
people in the history of "The Bachelor" and "The Bachelorette," she’s the one I
would most want to hang out with.But in the span of one day (one hot
day, judging from the amount of sweating going on), two men got down on bended
knee for this woman.And if Kiptyn
hadn’t read Jillian’s face and known things weren’t going his way, he’d have
been down there, too.
Let’s do the math.Of the thirty men who started on the show, TEN PERCENT fell
in love with Jillian. (Really,
more than that fell in love with her, but only three showed up on the final
day.) TEN PERCENT were certain enough
of their feelings—after two highly irregular dating months—to propose.Statistically, that’s insane.Can you imagine if ten percent of the
guys (or girls) you met fell in love with you and wanted to marry you?Or let’s narrow the pool—what if TEN
PERCENT of the women/men you dated
for two months wanted to marry you?Not gonna happen.Thank
god, because the entire world would be incapacitated by heartbreak.(Poor Reid, my heart broke for him.If he’s the next Bachelor, I’m signing up.Not really.I mean, I’d consider it.No, totally wouldn’t.Definitely not.He’s too
young for me.Sigh.)
Now, I’m not one of those people who think these shows are staged.I
absolutely believe Jillian and Ed are totally in love, and unlike most other "Bachelor/Bachelorette" couples, they’ll probably live happily ever after.Yay, Jillian and Ed.But how do we account for Kiptyn and
Reid?And for that nice break
dancing teacher?And Jake the perfectionist
pilot (which is frankly what I want
in a pilot, thanks much)?All these men who fell for Jillian… what’s that about?
My theory?Men want women that other men want.Day one, these guys show up knowing
that they and twenty-nine other men have dropped their entire lives for the
chance to meet This One Woman.When
she’s not around, they all talk about her-- what she looks like,
what she thinks, who she’s with.(Now that I think about it, they sorta become girls.)And the more interested one guy is in
her, the more desirable she seems, and the more interested the next guy becomes,
and so on and so on.
It’s brilliant, really. And it gives me an idea…
There are a million actors in L.A.All I have to do to find the man of my dreams is hire one (a really hot one that other men admire and want to emulate) and send
him into groups of attractive, interesting men to talk about how beautiful I
am, and how smart and talented and kind and nurturing and sexy…
It’ll spread like wildfire! This could work!I’ll have three proposals by Christmas!
Gotta go, I think I have our casting
directors on speed dial….
L.A. 2009. I’m stuck in traffic on the 101 freeway, listening to Isabella
Rosselini on NPR. I’m only half
listening, because whenever I hear Isabella Rosselini, her Pan-European accent
sends me drifting back to the summer I spent in Sweden, and the cute boys, and wood
boats on the Baltic Sea.When I
tune back in to Isabella, I’m a tenth of a mile further down the 101, and she’s
talking about starfish. Apparently
starfish are one of those rare species that can reproduce asexually, which I
probably learned in grade school, but it didn’t stick.
time, it sticks.This time, it
spins me like a wind of the gale force variety.I mean, think
about it!Reproducing by yourself!If I could do that,
I wouldn't have to worry about finding a boyfriend/husband.I wouldn’t have to internet date! I wouldn't have to figure out if I want
to/can/should have a baby/adopt a baby/child on my own.I wouldn't have to stress about things
like FSH levels, or weigh my feelings on in vitro versus adoption.I wouldn’t sit around thinking, “If I were
going to do in vitro, would I pick a friend?Or go to a sperm bank?If I picked a friend, who would I pick?Who do I know who has good sperm?”And I wouldn’t have to wonder-- if adoption is the route I
choose-- which country to adopt from, or whether it’s fair to adopt internationally
when there are so many kids in foster care right here.
would just have a baby.Thus began my starfish envy.
L.A. 2009. I’m stuck in traffic on the 101 freeway, listening to Isabella Rosselini on NPR. Isabella, for some reason, mentions that starfish are one of those rare species that can reproduce asexually, and I realize that if I could do that, I wouldn't have to worry about finding a boyfriend/husband. I wouldn’t have to internet date! I wouldn't have to figure out if I want to/can/should have a baby/adopt a baby/child on my own. I wouldn't have to stress about things like FSH levels, or weigh my feelings on in vitro versus adoption.
I would just have a baby. Thus began my starfish envy.