Stirring the Pot (9 page)

Look, it’d be the pot calling the kettle black for sure if I were to suggest that we shouldn’t speak our minds. I make my living stating my opinion on national TV; I certainly enjoy the freedom of speech. But had no one told this kid to not say out loud everything that crossed his mind? That telling a woman she looks old is really, really impolite?

You’d think I’d have a thicker skin, but I’d had a crap day and something about that offhand and unkind remark just unhinged me. I could see the
Star
headline: “Jenny McCarthy Loses It Buying a Case of Two-Buck Chuck.” I couldn’t risk tears in public (a hazard of a publicly lived life), so I left the wine and the pretzels and ran from the store. I must have looked a little out of my mind, waving my hand around and
desperately jabbing the button on my keys to try to make the lock chirp that would remind me where I’d parked my car.

The parking lot was crowded, and I could see the telltale glimmer of recognition in more than a few pairs of eyes.
If there is any God at all
, I thought,
they too will think I’m Jennie Garth, and she and her aging will become the cocktail party gossip this weekend instead of the behavior being attributed to me!

My car wasn’t cooperating—no chirp chirp. I hadn’t had a good cry in so long that I couldn’t be sure how big the tsunami would be if I unleashed it. So I panicked. I ran down the street, wild-eyed, looking for a place I could hide.

I knew there was a park a couple of blocks away and sprinted toward it. This involved crossing a major street and therefore a good number of supportive messages yelled to me out the windows of air-conditioned cars and over squealing brakes. This was Los Angeles, after all, and Angelenos are known for their patience and kindness behind the wheel.

Gasping for breath, I got to the park and looked around for a secluded bench. Bad luck. This being Los Angeles, every bench or patch of grass was already occupied by homeless people stroking mangy cats and/or arguing with imaginary friends. I couldn’t hang on
one second more. So I let it rip. Right there in the open. I burst into tears and shook my fists at the sky. I walked back and forth listing all the reasons why my life sucked, in between new bouts of wailing.

One benchwarmer who wore a rope for a belt, one red mitten, and a toothless grin yelled, “Keep going, sister. You tell ’em. You tell ’em good.” It was the most supportive thing I had heard all week. Which only made me cry harder.

Because I’ve since bothered to look into it, I now know that I was just about to experience a physiological phenomenon not unlike having an orgasm. Crying, it turns out, releases endorphins, which will ultimately make you feel better. Exhausted, too, but a peaceful, satisfied exhaustion, like after a productive roll in the sheets.

And that’s what happened. After a few minutes of bone-rattling sobbing, the waterworks slowed down to a trickle. I paced a little more and wiped my snot with my sleeve. I calmed down. I felt just a little bit refreshed. The drama passed, and I regained a little bit of perspective. Old to the little prick at Trader Joe’s probably meant twenty-five, I reminded myself. And I’d bet that actresses older than me get that kind of double take, too, and maybe someone tells them they couldn’t be Jenny McCarthy because they are just too
old to be me. I’ll bet Suzanne Somers gets that sometimes, and she’s the poster woman for aging gracefully and happily and sexily. I saw a little ray of sunshine push through my cloudy mood.

My friend with the red mitten saw it, too. She called out to me, “That’s better, girl. You tell ’em good. I think you should have won that dance thing on the TV for sure.”

The Jennie Garth mistake again. “You’re confusing me with someone else,” I started to say proudly. But then I thought,
Screw it. At least she didn’t think I was Jimmy Carter!

When you really do need to wallow in your sorrows and self-pity just a little longer, put on a pair of stretchy pants, mix up a batch of my Pity Party Mix, and indulge.

PITY PARTY MIX

Ingredients:

2 cups Bugles

2 cups White Cheddar Cheez-Its

2 cups Glutino Pretzels

2 cups Cap’n Crunch with or without Crunch Berries (ladies’ choice)

2 cups popcorn

2 cups Lucky Charms

2 bags white chocolate chips or white almond bark

Directions:

Toss the first six ingredients together. Melt white chocolate chips or almond bark and toss the dry ingredients in it until coated. If you can stand to, spread the mix on wax paper to allow the chocolate to harden. Then chow down. If you can’t wait for the chocolate to harden, periodically wipe your hands on those awesome stretch pants. If there is any left over (unlikely), store in an airtight container until your next meltdown.

They say that good thoughts do more than just distract you from bad things—they can also attract good things.

And we’re told—even from a very young age—that compassion toward others breeds kindness in return. That whole Golden Rule thing, you know?

Any and every guru worth his or her salt would argue that satisfaction in life comes from enjoying the present moment for what it is, not dwelling on the past, fixating on the future, or fretting over what others have that you do not.

Scientists even point out that optimism makes new neural pathways in your brain! (I read
Psychology Today
when I’m waiting at the gyno, too, you know.)

Why then, with all the evidence about the power of positive thinking and the great things that can come of great behavior, are pessimism and pettiness the default temperament for so many? I mean, could there be an evolutionary benefit to negativity? OMG—I may be on to something now!

(Even if science can’t prove that particular theory, there is a whole lot of evidence that bad things happen all the time to good people, which proves the legitimacy of negative assumptions and defeatist thinking. So there.)

I have my own fun little theory. I believe that there is a certain magic, a powerful power, in negative thinking. So many of us “go there” because it obviously gives us something we can’t get anywhere else: the sweet, sweet comfort of denial. The kind that ostriches must get when they bury their heads in the sand. If harnessed correctly, it can take you places that optimism and positivity never could. Backward in emotional development, for instance—how cool is that? It also ages you quickly—something everyone strives for!

Let’s look at the many other advantages of negative personality traits (but be careful; these things can become addictive).

Bitterness is one of the few emotions you can actually taste in your mouth, so don’t undervalue it. It’s powerful medicine! Being bitter—whether it’s about other people’s success or their possessions or their whole
damn lucky life—is a super-duper, fast-acting, go-to defense mechanism. Bitterness helps you sleep at night, tucked in warm and cozy with the knowledge that others are not nearly as deserving as you; they obviously just slept with someone at the top.

Bitterness is an especially handy tool when you feel like ranting and raving about someone else’s entitled attitude and unearned success (which is an approach to life that’s obviously so much less self-aware than your own bitter state of mind). See reference to Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian on the next page.

The only thing faster-acting than believing that hard work and talent don’t pay off is the belief that even if they do, you deserve a shortcut around all the effort.

I had an assistant once who, just three months into the job with me (and not too much longer than that out of college), presented me with a written plan to become my business partner and start pulling in a six-figure salary, plus bonuses based on
my
work. At the time I thought this was the equivalent of speeding past the long line of cars on a highway off-ramp and then cutting in without even an embarrassed blinker at the
last minute (Jesus, that makes me mad). And I still like that analogy. But now I think this would-be executive was on to something, don’t you agree? Talk about brass balls! And initiative! I was presented with a written plan, for God’s sake.
Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian never worked so hard to work so little. (See “The Benefits of Bitterness” on
this page
.) Too bad—I fired the kid anyway.

If rehashing your past—whether it’s your hurts or your golden days—weren’t so therapeutic, there wouldn’t be therapists (or career bartenders). There is a certain emotional blissfulness in never mustering the energy to get past your past (or feeling the need to do so). If you are past-obsessive, don’t change! Don’t stop assuming that the past will repeat itself and that you are powerless to have any impact on your future. Take refuge in the past and you are protected from any future growth. Phew!

If you’re not past-obsessive, there’s still hope for you. You can skip the present and escape the now in the other direction. Focusing relentlessly on getting somewhere that is not where you are today—at the expense of present-day enjoyment—is a fantastic use of your time and your energies. Add obsessive competitiveness to the mix and you will be the neighborhood champion: you will own more than the Joneses will ever own, your holiday lights will be brighter, you’ll have more glamorous parties, and don’t even get me started on how your kids will crush everyone in the college admissions wars (whether they want to go to college or not, dammit).

The fancy shrink term for what you’re doing when you judge or criticize others is “projected identification.” In effect, this means that when you feel bad about yourself and don’t know what to do with it, you project it onto other people. If you’re lucky, you can probably get away with feeling superior without self-awareness.
(If you’re unlucky, you vaguely understand what you’re doing and see the shadow of your own faults in your criticism of others.) It’ll help keep you sharp if you practice judging harshly and often. Either way, you get so much off your chest, so keep up the good work.

Impatience is a terrific stress reliever and blood pressure reducer. I mean, time doesn’t grow on trees, and it’s not going to slow down just because the lady in line ahead of you has to count out her change (see “Ten Signs You’re Getting Older,”
this page
). Nothing feels better than loudly and frequently expressing your displeasure with everyone else’s pace. Who cares that your impatience ratchets up everyone else’s stress? Pounding on the dashboard when you’re stuck in traffic lets off
your
steam; you don’t have time to worry about your passenger’s feelings, anyway!

Some say that knowing you’re right, that everyone else is mistaken, and that God is definitely on your side is
no way to go through life. Clearly, I disagree. It’s such a liberating outlook—you can go about your business without a worry in the world. People are just jealous of your confidence, that’s all.

Do you find yourself coming up with excuses as to why it’s not your fault when the shit hits the fan? How often do you hold yourself accountable? If your answers are “hell yes” and “never ever,” then you are a major-league blamer. The benefits of this state of mind are so obvious I really don’t need to list them. Talk about blissful ignorance! Personal accountability is so overrated.