What To Do When We Don’t Know What To Do. Warning: F-bombs.
Yes, my vagina is fine, thank you for asking. A little lonely perhaps, but isn’t everyone?
I decided to write this blog sober (but not somber) because I’m in a coffee shop, and the baristas don’t take well to drunkards stumbling around asking patrons will you type this blog for me, (hehe) I’m having a hard time seeing the screen should we write about free the nipples or (hiccough, hehe)… hey, lady, wait come back …
What? You don’t believe that happened? Well, fine you’re right. But speaking of boozy, there goes a home-lacking man with a veritable townhouse of possessions attached to a bicycle. I’m not being prejudice here; I had the privilege of whiffing him the other day as he bumbled by.
What can I say? Sometimes my mind wanders. Maybe it’s an after-effect to the ‘schrooms I did for the first time everrr back home a few months ago. (Uh, if any authorities are reading this, I’m referring to chanterelles.)
Side note: Holy shit do ‘chanterelles’ ever make me laugh! Gut-busting guffaws trailing down to oxygen-deprived squeaks. Tears were streaming, I tell yah. I’ll def definitely do that again. And then we’ll see what they say at the coffee shop! Ha!
Cut to scene: Anna in a U.S. jail. (Would I get my green card? Just checking. I mean just kidding!)
I’d say don’t tell my mom about the ‘schroom episode, but that’s the first person I told: Hey, Mom, I love God’s bounty! Guess what I did today? (hehe)… Yeah, this part actually happened. Love you, Momma!
I contemplated, albeit briefly, becoming a druggy. I was jobless and living with my family after all. Isn’t that where druggies end up? I mean, I was half-way there, right? But then I thought about what a waste it would be of all the cosmetic procedures I’ve done (see my memoir).
Look, there’s nothing wrong with being homeless (in fact, there’s a whole culture club of home-declining rebels here in Venice Beach, and in certain circles, it’s even cool—minimalism is all the rage), but it’s really not a good idea to choose to become a drug addict. There’s just no way around it. There are simply no positives. And once you’re in, it’s bloody difficult to get out. This is my observation, anyway.
So, I decided not to become a drug addict. But one decision doesn’t necessarily lead to the next. I’m no longer wallowing in self-pity and derision and indecision, but I am wondering what the heck do I do next?
Writing is a tough gig! I wrote 60+ essays for elephantjournal.com, and the pay didn’t cover my coffee house costs! My memoir sales have a long way to go before breaking even on editing and other publishing costs. And your donations for this blog—thank you!—don’t quite cover its existence either. But this is an act of love, so never you mind! You sharing these blogs is as much appreciated as any chocolate you send me! (However, chocolate is appreciated, see Help Anna page: #10.)
Would I have to prostitute my writing? I can’t really prostitute my body. I’m getting kind of old for that—44 next month. Plus, I have a narrow bite. I’m pretty sure incisor chaffing isn’t requested often. One must consider such limitations! Plus, ewwww. (The Johns not the BJs.) I could go lesbo, but I’m pretty sure they don’t pony up the dough to buy cookie. I’d need to turn to drugs to turn tricks and here we are again.
Next, I decided to come to Hollywood to take acting lessons! There’s no more stable and sure-sighted plan that I could think of! Okay, really I was thinking of real estate coaching, but stage training via Toastmasters is so not my cup-of-tea—too regimented! Too Tetley! I’m an espresso kind of gal.
The fact that I’ve been here almost two months, haven’t signed up for a single class, don’t reside anywhere near the Hollywood area and am fucking terrified of public speaking is but a slight blip in the plan!
The truth is that I’m grasping and anxious to find a new career. (Again? Still?) I prostituted myself long enough in real estate sales and burned all manner of bridges amongst the local ‘land pimps’ when I over-shared a few industry insights in my dang memoir—which, I totally don’t regret, Mr. McFarty! (Industry acquaintance who called me out on the real estate TMI.)
Maybe I’ll buy a coffee-slash-chocolate shop and write bitter broker blogs!
Playboy! I’ll write dirty little ditties for girlie mags!
As a loyal feminist, (sideways glance) I really owe it to us ladies to infiltrate enemy lines! One doesn’t effect change preaching to the choir, after all. Reality check: I’ll submit articles on the effectiveness of red lipstick and the pros of blow jobs. Damn it, I fail again … (raised eyebrow) Or do I …?
See, this is when I’d like to sell out (for me, it would be totally selling out) by finding a nice, rich man (oxymoron?). I could get knocked up with the idea of being a full-time, stay-at-home-and-bake-cookies-and-be-totally-involved mom. (But really get an old, ruddy, fuddy-duddy, fat, English nanny who can chef up a comfort-food storm.)
I went to a dating seminar, Get The Guy, to learn how to—you guessed it—get the guy. Always seek professional advice for new career plans!
Plus, this seminar was a double-whammy because I got to study stage presence and presentation—the coach was an impressive fireball of energy, wit, and wisdom—which bodes well with my backup (forefront? alternative!) plan of real estate coaching. Yeah, that’s it.
Okay, this particular truth is that the dating coach, Matthew Hussey (real name), is a total cutie with an adorable accent, and even though it would never work between us because (exaggeratedly disappointed sigh) he’s far too young, I also wanted to find out if he could answer the real question I came with: Why am I not attracted to any of the guys I meet1?
Well, apparently, that’s not a problem his audience has because it wasn’t in his program. However! I did have an a-ha moment. I must meet more men! But because meeting dudes—friendly, funny, fluttering, and most importantly, potty-thinking Canadian—is nearly a daily occurrence, I figure I’m already meeting enough men.
So, I’ve decided to drop the find-a-rich-spouse-be-a-mom career plan. And the coaching to a live audience thing, too. (Refer back to terrified-of-public-speaking-likely-to-puke-on-stage-and-pass-out-in-own-vomit thing.)
Plus, I can’t even do it. Procreate, that is. These eggs have a shelf life, and they’re past due! I’d end up with a kid with an elbow sprouting from his forehead or something, not that there’s anything wrong with that. If you read my memoir you also know that I already had a rich, nice man (handsome even!) and that didn’t work out. Also, children are noisy, needy little creatures2.
My Little Mom keeps telling me to trust God’s plan for me, but I’m all like, Yeah, but mom, God helps those who help themselves. I’m pretty sure that’s how it goes. I’m helping myself to a life of lazy nothingness.
And she tells me, Ask and you shall receive.
And I say, I’ve been asking for years. If He’s sending me signs, they’re not very clear. Can He please send a postcard with instructions? But under my alias so I’m not totally embarrassed when the postperson reads it. Because, for sure, someone’s going to get nosy and read a personally addressed postcard from God. Duh.
And she says, Have faith.
Oy.
When I said that I was going to make a new career out of a midlife crisis, I’d kind of expected it would be a paid career. That old phrase—don’t quit your day job—um, yeah … too late!
So now, I’m just chilling like a villain and riding my clam-crushing-lips-side-sliding 70s bicycle on the Santa Monica Boardwalk. And I’m killing it at the SM Stairs(!) and doing my 100s at the free Pilates classes at the Venice Abbott-Kinney Library with Verna and Marilyn and the likes of them. I’m eating fine chocolate, drinking high-octane coffee and poorly chosen—but potent—Pinot Noir, and flirting up a typhoon because the phrase of the day is Fuck it, why not!
What have I (re-)learned? Much ado is always about nada. I got nothing. And today, that’s perfuckitly fine.
Homework:
Keep on keeping on.
Research profitability of ladybits log hauling tour3. (Cut to scene: Anna, on stage, passed out in barf, driftwood trailing from crotch.)
1One of my particularly astute readers emailed me and called me out on not really wanting a man right now. That might be true. Or—I might be filtering through fellows to find the confident, but not blasé, man who has the guts to put up with my uncensored incontinence and other public TMI rantings! (And who has beer on his breath and hair on his belly and doesn’t ‘manscape’! So gay—which is fine if you be homo-gay but not if you want to get the gal! This one, anyway.) #politcallyincorrect #meh
2 Originally I wrote noisy little fuckers but my editor said moms would hate that and get all offended and shit, and I’m like, But my readers are mostly men (according to Google analytics), but since I don’t want to piss off the moms I changed it. You’re welcome. Also, I used to say it’s better to be pissed off than pissed on but then I went out with this one guy…
3See last blog.
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