Letting Go of the List

How many of you have THE LIST? You know, that carefully crafted, painstakingly detailed overview of the necessary elements required in the dream man you don't have just yet, but hope to one day, the absence of whom is a daily reminder of the happiness that is pending (and will remain so) until he magically knocks on your proverbial door with at least 9 out of 10 boxes marked CHECK??? Don't be ashamed. For I had it too.

I made it about 4 years ago after a nasty and painful break up with my last serious boyfriend, a much younger man who when not surfing and getting stoned, spent his days in perpetual dreamland, skirting all sense of responsibility while simultaneously finding new ways to languish in mediocrity on our couch. He was nice, and generally good to me, but had one more move than a dead man. He was, in short, dead weight.

After finally wising up, and growing up, I got the hell out, pressed reset, and decided to carve out a future so big and bright, shades wouldn't cover the eclipse-size, storybook relationship I was conjuring up in my head. It's natural to come out of an experience that swings so much one way, the only reasonable response is to come out swinging completely in the other direction. Which is exactly what I did. Hence, THE LIST. Let it be said, I am aware that I over think, that I can analyze the life out of things at the best of times. But when hitting rock bottom in something as important as one's love life, well... I was about to start an all out smear campaign against anyone or anything that resembled my ex-boyfriend. My next man, I proposed, would be powerful, wealthy, alpha, in charge, older (pass the salt and pepper please), the guy who owned the room, any room with his presence and his pocketbook. Together we would over achieve, and become the quintessential power couple. This of course when not being promoted in our respective careers and buying property in many of our favorite global destinations, raising money for important causes not to mention a little family in our eco castle - one likely to adorn the cover of Dwell or Wallpaper Magazine.

What a plan, I marveled, each time I shared THE LIST with friends and family. I learned my lesson, boy. Never again will I fall for Peter Pan. And I didn't. Over the next 3 years, I dated a variety of Alpha's - successful attorneys, hedge fund heavy weights, a successful photographer who paid for his LA home in cash. They all looked good in suits, they all had big careers and they all bored me to death. Well, shit! What the hell was I supposed to do now?

About a year ago, I decided to act on a whim that took me miles off course from THE LIST - namely a sordid and hot affair with a much younger man at my office. It lasted only a few months, but it was more fun than I had had with any of THE LIST guys combined. Then along came an even younger guy - a holiday romance - that had my blood pumping, and my heart racing in ways the ones who were great on paper couldn't elicit to save their lives. Not even close. It was fun, it was sexy, it was LIVING. But in my usual form, I started over analyzing the loveliness the universe brought me in the form of these two fledgling 20-somethings. Why? Neither of these guys looked anything like THE LIST, so what the hell was I doing wasting my time having all this fun? And man were they fun...

As soon as I let myself go just a little, off I'd go with the mental check list of what they lacked, and all the subsequent ways they couldn't possibly be worth my time, for how could I build lives with guys who were just getting started in their careers and still had roommates? I couldn't get past the fact that neither of these zygotes had any of the line items from THE LIST. That fact alone messed with me, and I found myself making demands that neither were remotely capable of, demands that if they conceded, would turn them into exactly the kind of man I was convinced I wanted. They resented me for asking, and I resented them for not being able to step up to the plate.

My friends asked why it was I just couldn't enjoy them for what they were until THE LIST guy came along? To me, this felt like a colossal waste of time. Why expend energy on something that isn't destined to last longer than the dairy products in my fridge? I'd rather leave myself open for the real thing. And so for the next 8 months, I went virtually dateless, blaming the general hardships of co-mingling in the notoriously difficult dating pool of LA as the culprit for the spinster life that seemed destined to stay, not realizing THE LIST was the thing in my way, not Hollywood. What I would come to realize later is that geography may not have been the cause for my woes, but it would be the cure...

New York. New job, new city, new friends, new everything. The only remnants of my old life in Cali were my furniture, clothing, and of course THE LIST. The latter was still firmly ensconced in my belief system as the bullet point by bullet point way to a better life. Convinced I would meet THE LIST guy here - after all, this city is the holy grail for successful men from a myriad of industries, not just entertainment - my friends and I made it our almost regular mission to seek out hot spots where power players mingled, putting on cute dresses and perching ourselves just so, purposely thrusting ourselves amongst the male elite. Energized and eager to explore New York, going out on a regular basis with my girlfriends seemed the perfect remedy to not only meet THE LIST guy, but to leave the crappy memories of Hollywood players and bad boys in the dust.

And so I went on a slew of dates with a new group of alphas from all walks of life - a former professional soccer player turned high end jeweler, a wall street magnate, a partner in a Park Avenue mergers and acquisitions firm, and a famous chef with a stable of restaurants and cook books to his credit. Thing was, they all added up to one big yawn. Not to mention all this constant perching in dull places to keep the dating quotient high was more work than I had energy for. One night, while at an infamous Wall Street hangout where financial types were known to ravage burgers and women with equal aplomb, I found myself more entrenched by the tennis match on the tv, than at the table of suits in the corner. Seems this plan was quickly running it's course and still no sight of my power player. What now?

If THE LIST wasn't going to happen, perhaps I should focus my energies on my new job, making a lovely home for myself, and having fun with my friends instead of forcing the universe to find the needle in haystack when it came to my dating life. As I presented my new outlook to my friends, I was surprised to hear that they had always thought my list was ridiculous and were simply waiting for me to make that realization myself. They had hinted that perhaps I should give it up and just stay open. Which is exactly what I did. Then it happened.

I let go. Before I knew it men started coming in fast and furious. They were all fabulous and cool and smart and hot. They pursued, showed up, were attentive, often romantic, and totally and completely in to me. They all had one thing in common. They were much younger than me. But now it didn't feel wrong. It felt good. And right. I found myself going out more, and trying new things, a sense of newfound adventure that had somehow, over time, slipped away from my once very adventurous soul. Maybe it was LA that did this. Who can say for sure. But the more I thought about it, the more I became certain that it had to do with being so bogged down by a fabricated, self-induced idea of what my life SHOULD look like, I missed actually LIVING it. These younger men were reminding me of what I had been missing, just by virtue of their energy, and lack of agendas in their own lives. They didn't seem to question everything and "take life's temperature" at every moment like I did, virtually sucking the essence out of the gifts I kept missing simply because they didn't resemble what I thought my life should look like.

I started thinking about why the older guys and even men my own age I had dated bored me to tears. And why, as soon as I surrendered this love plan of mine did all these beautiful baby boys start arriving seemingly non-stop? I'm dubious that there is a definitive reason for things such as this but here's what I do know. I've never had more fun, felt more sexy (not to mention the sex itself), powerful, feminine and alive as I have in the last 2 months since I replaced THE LIST with simply following the good feelings that accompanied each lover as he showed up. And from that came the realization that not every dalliance has to lead to something long term or forever or love or commitment. These guys were present, and available, and fun, and engaging, intelligent, vibrant human beings who just wanted to spend time with me. Pure and simple, no agenda.

So that's where I am now. Juggling lots of lovely guys, enjoying each one, and not getting too focused or consumed by any of them. What's amazing is that at exactly the point that feels like it might happen, another one comes along to grab my attention. I can say with confidence I won't be marrying any of them. But I don't care. And that's a first. They feel good and so should life. Maybe I'll still end up with THE LIST guy in the end, but if I do, he'll show up when I least expect it. Because I'm not looking anymore. And I don't CARE. Man that feels good.

I'm Back

Hi all:

I've been away, settling into this crazy new life in NYC. So much has changed. A detailed posting to come. Can't wait to share with all of you my recent revelations...

A Short Article on Why It's Great to Age

http://holykaw.alltop.com/be-glad-youre-getting-older?tu2=1

A Great Article from the London Times on Aging

Losing the beauty of an older woman - Are we so used to airbrushed celebrity glamour that we can no longer see the beauty of an older woman?

By Janice Turner

When Madonna did a recent photoshoot for Louis Vuitton, the unretouched images were mischievously leaked to the press. An unflinching close-up of her face, before the airbrush artist had got to work, evokes a complex mix of feelings. Melancholy: even she who has applied her boundless wealth and energy to holding back time has sagging cheeks, an incipient wattle neck. Pity: how cruel to compare this with the “after” image, the tight, sculpted iconic face.

But finally fury: what is wrong with the strong, still-handsome face of a 51-year-old woman? No doubt Madonna has had a little “work” done here and there, but her face is still a fair reflection of her age, the accumulation of her experience, who she is. More so than the plastic fembot who appears in the campaign. Besides, middle-aged women are more able than twentysomethings to afford £700 Vuitton leather goods. Yet advertisers believe no one wants to buy a bag from an “old bag”.

Madonna has forged a career out of smashing taboos about female power and sexuality, but is not willing to take on the final challenge. To stand up, with her trademark insouciance and say: “Yeah, women age, so what. Here I am!” Instead, as Tina Fey put it in 30 Rock, she clings desperately onto youth with her “Gollum arms”.

The untouched image of Madonna would fit well into a photographic exhibition to be launched at the National Theatre, called Infinite Variety. It features images of women aged 48 to 95 and is curated by the actress Harriet Walter, who is appearing there in Thomas Middleton’s bloodsoaked drama Women Beware Women. Fittingly, her character Livia, a scheming aristocrat, reveals how the iniquitous treatment of older women is a timeless theme. In the play a 55-year-old Duke marries a 16-year-old girl promising status and wealth in exchange for sex. But when Livia offers the same deal to a lush young man, she faces public disgust. One is reminded immediately of Madonna and her 23-year-old lover Jesus Luz.

The exhibition, could not be more timely: older women broadcasters are rising up against the assumption their faces are repellent to viewers when they pass a certain age. After the sackings of Selina Scott, Anna Ford and Strictly Come Dancing judge Arlene Phillips, Country File presenter Miriam O’Reilly, 53, is suing the BBC for making her and three female colleagues of similar age redundant to be replaced by a younger woman. Meanwhile, older male colleagues kept their jobs.

In Infinite Variety we see plenty of characterful older faces, both actresses — including Vanessa Redgrave and Phyllida Law — and ordinary women, since Walter believes ageing is something “we are all in together”. But shouldn’t we be asking why women are perpetually judged by their physical appearance? Walter says she wasn’t trying to pretend wrinkles and grey hair are as sexy as youthful looks, but to break down disgust about ageing women.

“I think it is still important to broaden the range of what is beautiful,” she says. “What I am trying to put into the show is an inner light in these women, something about how they’ve lived their life. I want older women to feel happier in their skin and younger ones not to worry that the only fate ahead is the surgeon’s knife.”

Walter turns 60 this year, an age she describes as the “foothills of being properly old”. Yet with her trim, poker-backed classical actress’s frame she looks dashing on stage in her bustled red velvet dress.

“Older women complain that they can no longer turn a head,” she says. “Well, I don’t have instant beauty, but if you talked to me for half an hour you might get interested and start to see my face differently. It’s about animation, not just the texture of the skin. Now I look at people on the Tube and I think all of them are beautiful.”

Juliette Binoche once said that “actresses, ultimately, are responsible for the faces we give to women”. But now “civilian” women, as Liz Hurley calls us, have started to resent celebrities who, with their devotion to dieting and surgical procedures, have raised the bar to unattainable levels. Today it is acceptable to admit you are 50, but not to look it.

“Well,” counters Walter, “actresses like me are often not allowed to give women their faces.” She speaks of contemporaries who struggle to get any work. It is a view echoed last week by Juliet Stevenson, Gemma Jones and Lesley Manville, who accused writers of only creating parts for “nubile” women under 30. “All the executives are male,” said Stevenson. “They are chasing young skirt.”

But this is a perpetual lament from actresses. Maybe this disgust is too deep rooted and anthropolgical to overcome: attractiveness is so connected with perceived fertility, which seems why men — potent until much later — are forgiven for getting older. As Martin Amis once said “45 for women is an animal birthday”. Well, says, Walter drily “We have overcome our prejudices in other areas with our evolved intellects, so why not this one. We no longer drag women into caves by their hair, for example.”

If we stop being so repelled by ageing faces, we will bear to see them on TV, maybe then the experiences of a whole strata of the population will be told. “That is what upsets a lot of women: that my story doesn’t count. I play a small part on TV and I think “why don’t we focus on my character? She could be very interesting.” But they don’t. You’re just a function of the plot and that is very hard to swallow. And yet when you put a camera on anyone for 90 minutes, it is so intimate, you will fall in love with that person. It is just we are less likely to do that with an older woman.”

The problem is, Walter explains, women are cast in relation to men. A male detective can be anything between 40 and 55: but his wife or daughter must then fit a narrow age band. Also since drama is about conflict and responsibility it has been dominated by male figures and domains. “But now,” says Walter, “there are lots of arenas in which women are taking major decisions.”

And there is cause for optimism that film studios have realised older women will pay to see themselves on screen, will turn out in gangs to watch Mamma Mia or Sex and the City. Meanwhile, this year’s Baftas went to women playing middle-aged politicians: Rebecca Front as a minister in In the Thick of It and Julie Walters playing Mo Mowlam.

Moreover, when Harriet Walter rang her Los Angeles agent, to discuss working in American TV, joking that she’d obviously have to get a facelift first, he replied, “no longer”. Walter says: “He said it is becoming a problem shooting these faces which look so odd, they have to work out special camera angles. We were always taught at drama school that if you think something, it is reflected in your face. Surgery irons that out. You can’t do the often very minute expressions you need to do on screen. And facelifts homogenise people.

“We like to see real women’s faces on screen. Not just women but men too. I’ve never met a man who likes plastic surgery.”

Walter says she notices when friends have a little procedure. “I’m not a fascist about it. I sometimes think, oh, clever old you!”, but abhors the knife herself. It helps, she says, that she was never cast for her beauty, was accustomed as a young actress to see big parts go to more gorgeous near-contemporaries such as Greta Scacchi. And now she has crossed through from the tricky thirties and forties, when actresses are struggling to remain youthful, into the more forgiving territory of late middle age.

Indeed Walter, who has never married or had children, but lived for many years with the actor Peter Blythe until his death in 2004, has found herself a new man.

She won’t name him, but says he’s an American stage actor, a year her senior. “We met when I was doing Mary Stuart on Broadway. So he saw me looking like Elizabeth I. I said to him, ‘I may be the queen on stage but I’m not in the bedroom!’” She guffaws. They live on separate sides of the Atlantic but communicate for hours by Skype.

“The thing that younger women don’t understand,” she says, “is most of us don’t want to be younger. I am having a good time and my life is positive. I still dress well and have a sex life. What I want to say is it is not a crime or a shame to age. It is a fact. Let’s stop running away from it.” If only Madonna was so brave.

On Line Dating Deal Breakers - East Coast Style

I was hoping I would run out of items after the first, West Coast installment. But no, New York has offered up some new and dare I say, improved viral pecadillos.

(1) "Mr. Wink, Wink, Nudge, Nudge." If you cite possessing an "open mind" and seek the same in your ideal date, know that I'm on to your veiled code for "I want to have threesomes with guys and girls and do all sorts of weird stuff like pee on you." NOT - GOING - TO - HAPPEN.

(2) "Out of State Nate". My profile clearly states I am looking for someone "WITHIN 10 MILES OF NEW YORK CITY." Georgia, Florida, Texas, Arizona and (today's 'tard), San Diego do not qualify. Me with my 10th grade education should not be pointing out anything you can find in a high school text book. Like basic geography.

(3) "The Chubster". If your profile photo reminds me of a sumo wrestling, pie eating champion, citing "average build" on your profile isn't going to convince me you aren't a regular at your local all-you-an-eat buffet. See, the two holes in my face allow me to VISUALLY ASSESS THINGS. By all means, write what you want. The jig is up.

(4) "I'm ready for my close up. Not." If the only profile photo you post is shot with a lens longer than a schooner, I'm guessing you have skin like Edward James Olmos, or a belly that turns corners five seconds before the rest of you does. Women are way more forgiving than men when it comes to looks, and here's a tip; if you own your lack of physical prowess, and embrace things like humor, intelligence, and chivalry, we might just overlook your weird rib cage and unruly eyebrows.

(5) "Talky McTalkerson". Hey asshole, whilst on a date, try asking me something about myself instead of rambling on like Rainman on stimulants. While it would be nice to land a fancy hedge fund manager, I'm not interested in the historical, minutae of how you structured your latest venture. I know you're trying to impress, but when I rush the waiter to bring me my third espresso in as many minutes, you might want to take the hint that I'm about to fall asleep. And I obviously don't care about my breath anymore which should further clue you in to the fact that something has gone awfully wrong - namely your mouth!

You Can Always Go Home

It's been 6 weeks to the day that I made the move from Los Angeles to NYC to start a new life, a new job, a new everything. As I settle into my stunning, peaceful West Village abode after nearly three weeks of corporate housing in possibly the busiest section of any city, anywhere - Times Square (did I mention I also work there?) - I finally have a moment to take stock of this gorgeous manifestation I have managed to call in for myself. Not even 2 months into this new adventure and I can already honestly say, what a ride it's been.

The practical, logistics of a cross country move are challenging at best. Forecasting the laborious and consuming nature of closing up a new life while simultaneously trying to carve out a new one is as predictable as my iPhone dropping calls. This includes but is not limited to managing early morning crazies at the requisite garage sale as unwanted clutter is unceremoniously cleared away, packing (and unpacking), forwarding the mail, turning things off (gas, electricity), turning them back on at the new location, selling my expensive hybrid car in a recession, and getting Time Warner to haul ass and hook up the cable/internet before I'm officially too old to have children. This in addition to finding a new place, lugging my bare necessities from my friend's house - where I stayed the first week - to corporate housing (floor 3), packing that up and moving to floor 7 (where I was told it would be much quieter - it wasn't), then hauling it all to my West Village apartment while managing a disorganized, chaotic trifecta of movers that managed to lose my nightstand, among other things, and burned a hole in my Ligne Roset sofa.

There was a time, not that long ago, when a move simply entailed the transport of a few suitcases, putting my futon on Craigs List, and notifying the post office of a change of address. One can quickly define their level of maturity by how long it takes them to pack their entire life up, save for hoarders. For now I come equipped with designer furniture, a top of the line mattress (for proper support doncha know!), real china, and lots of things that need to be wrapped in protective layering. Yes folks, I am an adult. I have the Limoge to prove it.

What I didn't predict was landing at my good friend's NY home that first night, and literally breaking down in a fit of anguished tears, suddenly tortured by the thought that I might have just made the biggest mistake of my life. I had no place to live, was about to enter the corporate world for the first time at a senior executive level, and essentially giving up a perfectly good, in fact great life in sunny So Cal. And for what? Long winters and oppressively humid summers, a daily pace so frenzied, millions of locals literally race to get out of town each Friday, just to regain their peace of mind. In fact so common is this practice, no matter what your price point, there's a place not too far away that can offer you respite from the rigors of life in New York City. Most of all was this overwhelming fear that I might not have what it takes to cut it at at my new job. It had all happened so fast I didn't have a chance to take stock. And here I was, a couple of glasses of wine in, sitting on the spare room bed at my friend's Long Island home, sobbing into my hands, wondering if I had just set myself up for epic failure.

I tried a succession of things to sooth my woes. Subtle pleas to my girlfriends both near and far that I need talking off the ledge. Easier said then done because when you're the one who everyone defines as brave, fearless, strong, and invincible, it's hard to get them to take you seriously when you finally need actual help. Strike one. How about journaling? I am a writer after all. Surely putting it all down on paper, stream of consciousness-style, will help me reach some sort of epiphany? For an hour I scribbled furiously in my notebook, hoping I could delve deep into my sub-conscious and clear the way for the reasons behind my sudden panic attack. Turns out, I'm far more psycho than psychotherapist. These were the illegible ramblings of a mad woman. Incoherent, aimless, and wild. Strike 2. If the 3 strike rule applies in emotional emergencies, I had better hit the right chord next. On deck... Mum.

Fancy china and designer furniture aside, there is a great comfort in knowing you can always go home. While I may be 40, sometimes all one needs is to be reminded by the one person who knows you better than anyone else on the planet, that you're gonna be ok. Three clicks of my ruby slippers (or the dial of an iPhone) and I was soon on the receiving end of my mum's heartfelt diatribe that I came to this position in life because I earned it, that I have the innate skills coupled with years of hard work that have prepared me for this moment, not to mention that feeling this way is completely, and totally NORMAL. "In fact", said mum, "It would be weird if you weren't questioning such a life changing event at SOME point. It just caught up with you today, now that you are in NY, and it's all happening." Simple, succinct and grounding. All in one fell swoop. And with that I hung up the phone, put my head on the pillow, and crashed like a mo fo.

The next day, I woke up feeling refreshed, focused and ready to hit the streets of the West Village in search of a place to live. As I walked around with my broker in the 100 degree humidity, overjoyed that the heaviness had lifted, I gratefully pondered the notion once again, that one can always go home. Not only can I call home for great advice, but it suddenly occurred to me - LA isn't going anywhere. And if by some off chance I completely blow this opportunity, what's stopping me from going back and picking up where I left off? Because where I left off was pretty damn good.

Truth be told, I know I can do it. I recently heard a statistic that a large majority of highly successful people not only doubt their abilities, but actually consider themselves frauds a good deal of the time. Yes folks, everyone from Bill Gates to Bill Clinton have, at one time or another, thought the rest of the world would figure out they had no idea what they were doing. And then suddenly they knew what they were doing because they hung in there. Only to be followed by the same doubt about the next achievement they were trying to attain. And so the cyclical journey goes. It makes sense. To think you can conquer anything without questioning it just a little, even for a moment, borders on the sociopathic, doncha think?

I did question, I questioned HARD. Even though it only lasted a few hours, it made me take stock, clear out the fear, and press reset. As anyone who has a computer knows, sometimes the best thing you can do is unplug, and start up again.

Oh and in case you're wondering how I've settled in? I'm kicking ass and taking names.

You Stylish Bitch, You - French Women

Oh French women, with your effortlessly stylish ways, I love how you communicate with your scarves, and fancy trench coats. Who needs words when Karl and Isabel, Christian and Norma are on hand to speak on your behalf?


Oh ladies of France with your laissez-faire attitude towards carbs, white flour and copious amounts of wine, both red and white. How your macaroons are ingested like pretty coloured children's vitamins and nary a word about weight shall ever pass your lips. The way you spend countless hours at sidewalk cafes, divinely dining and savoring each morsel, reveling in the joy of good company and the diversity of life as it walks by your cappuccino filled, tables.




Oh French women, how your men appreciate the way you age, and find beauty in your lines and wrinkles. How could they not, for you give them no choice- your body, age and sexuality is cause for constant celebration and celebrate you do. What is your secret?

Oh American counterparts, if only we wore frilly panties and a matching bra to take out the garbage, applied lip gloss to perform the most mundane of tasks and seductively allowed a door to be held open, instead of scowling with vitriol at the very same gesture. Ladies watch your men, for it's no accident "femme fatale" is a french expression. Is there a night class we can take?

Oh French women, Je vous admire et adore la façon que vous se déplacez par le monde. Tres bien.