Stirring the Pot (12 page)

RECIPE FOR SUCCESS

Ingredients:

1 brand-new day

1 brand-new attitude

1 brand-new you

1 brand-new bathing suit

I’ve said earlier that some fantasizing is healthy and primes your mind for success. (And don’t forget about the way it also primes your crotch muscles to be able to have that orgasm when what he’s doing down there isn’t really working.) But when we don’t want to do the hard work that goes along with getting the dream job or finding the dream man or creating the dream life—when we’d really like those opportunities to knock on the door with the Chinese takeout or come wrapped in a blue Tiffany box and white satin bow, thank you
very much—we are in trouble. Warning: When you catch yourself feeling underappreciated, take notice. Feeling underappreciated is just a psychological cover for feeling sorry for yourself. Were you not paying attention at all during my “Reverse Psychology” lecture? Let me spell it out one more time:

If I had a dollar for every time I felt sorry for myself because something wasn’t going my way, I’d be richer than Donald Trump. (I already have better boobs than him, but richer would be nice, too. You thought I was going to go with better hair, didn’t you? Too easy a target.) What an easy way to make money that would be!

I’ve tried every feeling-sorry-for-myself approach in the book. I’ve tried keeping my self-pity to myself, and I’ve also complained loudly to my friends and loved ones. I’ve sat around on my lazy ass quietly whining, moping, and binge-eating myself into my fat pants. I’ve done it all loudly as well. I’ve vowed to be patient and think happy thoughts and wait my turn, and I’ve
also called my manager and agent begging, pleading, and crying about wanting better things to float my way.

And, of course, none of these strategies changed a damn thing. Know what did? I think it was something in the hoping-something-would-float-my-way imagery that clicked for me. This single-sentence realization finally did the trick:
If your ship doesn’t come in, swim out to it!

In other words, if the life you want doesn’t magically come to you (which it rarely does, though see Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian references,
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), you have to go out and get it. Then live the shit out of the opportunities you create for yourself!

When the float-vs.-swim-out-to-your-ship idea first dawned on me, I couldn’t wait to start making a list. There’s nothing like a list to focus your energy, and it feels so great when you accomplish something and can cross it off the list.

At the top of the page I wrote “On My Ship” and then listed all the things I wished for and wanted. I’m talking everything: a new boyfriend, a new career, more time for Evan, a new stove, smaller pants, copper plumbing, landscaping in my yard, et cetera. No matter how trivial it was, if I wanted it, I put it on my list.

Then I created a sub-list—the ship that had the things I couldn’t buy (when I had the money), the less tangible, less easily accomplished goals that I
really
wanted to try for. These were the things that would better my life, my spirit, and my well-being (the stove, copper plumbing, and the services of a gardener were obviously not on it). This was the ship I made it a priority to swim for first. Then, one by one, I found a way to go after these big wants.

Truth: Instead of waiting for someone to ask me to write my first book, I wrote one. Then I went to publishers and searched for the one whose team shared my vision of becoming a successful author.

Truth: When no one would cast me in a TV show, I wrote myself into my own story concepts and scripts, and then went to every studio and network with a smile on my face and pitched the crap out of my shows.

Truth: During a particularly dry dating spell—I just couldn’t find a man worth bonking—I asked people around me who had very high personal standards to set me up with men they thought would be good for me.

Now, not all of my books have sold gazillions, not all of my TV show ideas saw the light of day or lasted long when they did, not every blind date turned into a
boyfriend or even a roll in the hay … 
but that wasn’t the point of making the effort!

Are you following this pep talk at all? The point was, I swam out to my ship! I went after the things I wanted in my life instead of going the easier (and dicey) route of sitting back and waiting. Instead of nursing the wounds of self-pity, I put myself out there, put my ass on the line, and let myself be vulnerable to failure. Because when you’re vulnerable to failure you’re also vulnerable to success. I’m not saying it’s easy, but it’s worth it. Honest to God, swear on my awesome life: self-doubt, inaction, and indecision kill more dreams than failure ever could. I now know that I’m too smart for doubt, inaction, and indecision even on my blondest day.

One of my best characteristics is that I’m spontaneous—I can shift gears, scrap plans, and get on board with your new idea quickly. I’m more of a “Yes, let’s give that a whirl” person than a skeptical, conservative “Let’s wait and see” type. Spontaneity works for me. Being cautious and suspicious doesn’t feel like a very pleasant way to go through life, and slamming on the brakes just leaves me carsick.

Another thing I like about myself is that I don’t judge. I am more than willing to talk to and hang with seeming weirdos, the ones most people don’t even give a second look. The payoff is that I click with the most surprising and unlikely people. It’s an awesome feeling to mesh with another soul, especially when that other soul didn’t look all that promising to others. Whether that person is a friend or a lover, it’s so energizing to hum along at the same frequency. Two peas in a pod and all that. The new relationship is like a drug, and being with the other person is your fix.

Okay, before you freak out, I do see that if you need a fix, you’re a junkie, and most junkies aren’t known for their good decision-making skills. Yes, I’ll admit that nine times out of ten, all that intimacy and soul connection dissipates when you drop the whole person-on-a-pedestal thing (or put your damn glasses on and see the person in better focus in the morning). And it’s true that when you’re willing to click with people as freely as I am, you sometimes make a house key for people who should probably just be passing acquaintances. (That’s not a metaphor; I make a lot of house keys and have probably single-handedly kept the local locksmith in business.)

Yes, through some really spectacularly bad decisions and character assessments, I’ve come to realize that there’s a fine line between what’s positive about being spontaneous and what’s dangerous about being impulsive, between the benefits of not judging and the idiocy of not using your head. I can admit that I cross these lines all the fucking time.

If I like your idea, I too often don’t ask the right follow-up questions. Instead I jump in with both feet without really considering your true agenda or the consequences. This is as true about getting a dramatic new haircut as it is about making a business deal. Hair grows back. But money, once it’s been flushed down
the toilet of an ill-considered venture … not so much.

Here’s one example of a pool into which I should have dipped my pinky toe instead of cannonballing. I once met a lady while standing in line at a pharmacy. We had the same shampoo in our baskets, so we got to talking. We quickly discovered that we had compatible astrological signs, so before we’d even reached the checkout, we were discussing plans to start an online horoscope company together. We had exchanged contact info before we made it to the parking lot, and let’s just say I went further down that particular toilet pipe than I should have.

Another time I met a woman at my boot camp fitness class who seemed really motivated and knowledgeable. She mentioned she was looking for work and a place to stay, so I offered her a job as a live-in personal trainer and cleaned out my guest room for her (yes, of course she got a key to my house). After the initial burst of workout energy between us wore off (which took a couple of days), she mostly read
Us Weekly
and left my couch full of potato chip crumbs. My treadmill became a handy drying rack for her hand-washables for six months. I suppose all I really lost was a little muscle tone and a guest room. On the upside, her
Us Weekly
subscription still comes to my house.

Then there was the assistant hairdresser on location during filming … he kept my orgasms flowing during a bitterly cold snap but emptied the minibar, my per diem allowance, and my wallet. I didn’t want for things to be weird, though, so I let him stay for the entire three months of production. On the upside, did I mention those orgasms? I kept warm and satisfied that winter, so that’s something.

I’m told that I’m lucky that letting the wrong person too quickly into my life hasn’t led to worse. I’ve never been stabbed (did I mention that another thing I like about myself is that I can always see the bright side of things?). But I’m guessing that my guardian angel is working overtime, and I know it’s time to give her a chance to rest.

So—drumroll, please—here’s what I’ve resolved to do this year:
^*1
I’m going to look before I leap into bed, research before I invest, and take the locksmith off speed dial. There, I did that last one already. I’m on a roll.
^*2

I see from watching Evan that it can take hours, days, or even months to master a video game. Inspired by the time and energy he puts into advancing through each level, I have an idea to devise a point system for moving a semi-stranger up the ladder of my affections. Everyone starts as a potential friend (hey, I can’t start judging now; everyone has potential!) but has to prove
trustworthiness in order to become a friend, good friend, great friend, BFF, lover, or profound love of my life. I’m not clear yet on what will qualify as trustworthiness (because my measurement of that quality hasn’t exactly been accurate in the past;
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), but I’m working on that. All I do know is that even if it means handcuffing myself to the radiator until the impulse to make keys passes, it will now take more than a similar taste in booze, shoes, or shampoo, more than a great eye for fabric, and more than a fabulous ass or abs for someone to make it into the inner circle of my heart, my home, or my vagina.

We women get some conflicting messages from the media and our culture. On one hand, we are sold products and fashions that will help us, we’re told, to look and feel younger. But then just as often we are told that really evolved souls surrender gracefully to age and let Mother Nature do her thing. They don’t fight the way their boobs, bellies, body hair, and brains are changing.

I take a middle road. I’m not fool enough to think that I can hang on to the body I had when I was twenty years old. On the other hand, I’m not cool with rogue body hair—there really is no use for hair on a woman’s chinny-chin-chin.

But let’s stop analyzing the female experience for a minute here and examine how men are getting similarly confusing messaging. On one hand, our popular male role models seem to get wiser and sexier as they get older and grayer, but on the other, we make them question their own virility with all those ads for boner
meds and testosterone replacement therapy. Since most men don’t really talk to each other about these things, I believe they need some straight talk about what to expect as they get older, and I’m just the girl for the job. Let’s get started.