Leave Me Alone, I Hate You

The other day my sister and I were talking about sluts.

And by that, I mean we were talking about ourselves.

Oh, we’re both too functionally lazy to be truly shocking, but we’ve had our less than virtuous moments.

Don’t judge.

Unless, of course, you must:

May 9, 1985

…Tracey is such a slut. She told Derek O. that she would do “something” with him on the class trip. Jenny G. said she would too. Give me a break! Tracey is ugly and has no body at all. (better no body than too much body I guess) He will just use her. She knows it too – and likes it!! Maybe along the line she’ll develop a brain – sometimes I wonder! It’s too bad Jenny can’t think for herself and has to do whatever Tracey does. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is just jealousy talking, but I don’t feel jealous. Anyone can be slutty like them. That’s all for now…

Look, I’m glad I had the good sense at the age of 13 not to get involved in this ill-advised threesome that Tracey and Jenny were plotting. A school bus is no place to get your first STD.

But why was I so quick to condemn (and insult) these girls? Tracey was not exactly “ugly” by the way. She did have an unfortunate asymmetrical hair cut, but I blame Cyndi Lauper for that. As for Jenny -- short, cheerful and hopped up on Skittles by 8:00AM. What’s not to like?

Anyway, doing “something” could mean anything, right?

Yeah. Right. Something means something, and we all know what. (or we can at least guess)

Back then it all seemed so clear. There was a moral code. You were either a dirty whore or you weren’t. And if you were, you were. No going back. And you got what you deserved. (and obviously you deserved things like teen pregnancy, herpes and subtle, sexually-themed nicknames like “Head”) So there.

Turns out I was right about one thing. Anyone can be slutty like them. Including me.

Face it, male or female, if you’ve stayed single past the age of 25, you probably have been too.

It’s not your fault. Or maybe it is. I’m not here to wrestle your demons.

Point is, life is long. Way longer than that class trip. And life is full of bars. And bars are full of strangers. And those strangers may or may not want to make out with you. Mistakes will be made. And maybe we ought to cut the sluts (and ourselves) a break.

I realize there are so-called “rules” to dating (mostly made up by rulesy women with tidy hair-dos and pastel sweaters). To be honest, I never did much actual dating. I think I maybe went on 5 dates in over 30 years of being single. The best of them were comically bad, the rest were just awkward.

And so, you learn to improvise. You relax the moral code. Not all of your choices are proud moments. Some you regret. Some you don’t. Others you pretend to regret, even though you so don’t.

It’s not a perfect system, and it’s not for everyone…but in my case, it beat dying of boredom. (Well, sometimes anyway.)

I don’t mean to sound jaded or like a cautionary tale from the ’70s. And I certainly don’t advocate slutty behavior amongst teens – though according to the CW, teenagers today are a tribe of half-naked, insatiable perverts who basically give each other hand jobs while doing their math homework then post it on YouTube.

Anyway, I still consider myself a medically responsible yet incurable romantic. I love a love story. And just because yours doesn’t begin with “once upon a time…” doesn’t mean it can’t end happily ever after. Or happily ever after happy hour, whatever.

The casual stuff is tricky like that. There are times when it’s hard to tell if you’re actually dating, or just a couple of sluts with nothing better to do. You may even develop feelings (if you’re the sort who goes around doing things like developing feelings), and hey, there’s nothing wrong with that.

You’re human, not a whore machine.

(FYI: my sister and I made up our own version of the song Love Machine. Sing it with us: “I’m just a whore machine, and I won’t work for nobody but you…and you! And you!” And so on…)

In the interest of full disclosure, I did eventually “fall” in “love." (does it make it less nauseating if I put it in quotes?) And I even got married which I was pretty sure I’d never do -- to a guy I met at work and then accidentally made out with in a dark, smelly bar with antlers on the wall and “Slow Ride” blaring from the juke box.

It’s one of those filthy strip mall bars with chicken wing vomit in the parking lot and white Christmas lights outside even in the dead heat of July.

I pointed the place out to my sister one night as we were driving by.

“Looks so romantic,” she said.

I hate to add to the deluge of morbid Michael Jackson remembrances...but it seems an appropriate time to confess that I too was once a Michael Jackson super fan. No one could compare to Michael in my eyes -- for at least a year anyway, which is an eternity in teenager life.

Every inch of my bedroom wall was covered with his face. (and his glove, and his chimp) I crouched on the floor in front of the television set during the Motown 25th Anniversary special screaming at his every gyration while ignoring my mother's concerns for my sanity.

I saved up my babysitting money and joined the Jacksons fan club. For my efforts I received a free 45 record with a singing hello from the family. (even Tito!)

Sometimes I secretly slept on the floor of my bedroom because I'd read somewhere that Michael liked to sleep on the floor. (his floor must have been much softer than mine) I even went as Michael to a 7th grade Halloween dance. I had to make my own bejeweled socks, they don't sell that stuff in northern Michigan. I looked pretty damn good. Much better than the year I went as an unsolved Rubik's Cube.

I also purchased the Michael Jackson barbie. His ornate red jacket and microphone are sadly now missing, but my nieces still play with that old MJ barbie today -- they just think he's a less muscled version of Ken.

In honor of the gloved one's death yesterday, below is a seriously odd yet sincere entry from 12-year old me:

June 16, 1984

There is such a beautiful intensity about Michael Jackson. He is sad looking. Like a part of him is missing. He shows on the outside all that I feel on the inside. He has good ideals. We believe in the same things. The only difference is that he follows through on his beliefs. I can only try. I hope that I can be as good a person as he appears to be. I love music. I love to perform! That is why I like people like Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie. I feel like I know them. We like the same things. Life here is so limited. I want to try new things! But I suppose I will have to wait til I get older. No one takes me seriously when I tell them that I am going to be a performer. I don't even think I do!! But I'll do my best and see what happens. Right now I am working on losing some weight. That's all today!

Wow, inside I was a tortured, effeminate pop singer. Who knew?!

Years later in the wake of accusations of child molestation and countless other creepy behaviors he displayed -- I suppose it's clear that I should have been aspiring to be a better person than Michael Jackson. And thankfully there was no American Idol back then or there would be some seriously humiliating footage floating around of me singing "Human Nature."

However I do wonder if Lionel and I still like all the same things?

Love that intense can only be fleeting.

December 12, 1984

...I can safely say that I am 100% happier with myself than I was last year. In fact, I look upon myself with a slight tinge of disappointment on how I was behaving. All I cared about was myself and Michael Jackson. I feel I have matured greatly since one year ago..."

Matured greatly? Maybe so. Maybe no.

Either way, I don't regret my former Michael Jackson obsession. Right or wrong, I almost miss the ability to naively believe someone is just that awesome. As we get older, unadulterated hero worship like that is harder to come by, even when someone is a great dancer. We become cynical, jaded. Unable and unwilling to moonwalk.

This is probably a good thing. You need to be a little jaded to make it past 13 these days. Besides, idolizing a public figure too much can lead to horrifying things. Cults. Wars. Assassinations. The Jonas Brothers.

So eventually I ditched MJ to focus my energies on boys who were more readily available, yet also completely unaware of my existence. In the end, maybe Michael Jackson was simply a talented yet bizarre and possibly dangerous perv, but he will always be my first (bizarre and possibly dangerous) love.

I love spring. More daylight hours, flowers blooming, anticipation of summer days ahead.

Spring has also long been the time of year I develop madly inappropriate crushes. Most of these love affairs existed entirely in my head.

March 2, 1985

I think I'm starting to like this really cute 7th grader, his name is Andy. He is really nice and funny and not too outgoing -- he's sort of the "serious" type. He sat by me on the bus to the tournament game. He is sooooo funny and cute. The other 7th graders were singing and driving us crazy! So we made all these jokes about them...There is one big flaw in my new romance - Tracey likes him too. She is such a slut jerk flirt sometimes. Just because Heather had a 7th grade guy, she has to get one. Ohhhh, that makes me so mad. Amy agrees with me about Tracey. Of course I didn't happen to mention to Amy that one of the major reasons I hate the idea that Tracey likes him is because I like him too!! I haven't told anyone (except you) and I don't plan to...unless of course Andy does like me!

p.s. - We won the game!

Crushes like this one are why I take personal exception to the industry that has evolved around the famous line "He's Just Not That Into You." What started out as a mediocre bit of dialogue in a forgettable episode of television somehow morphed into a self help book, a talk show, a big budget movie. I realize this means the writer must have tapped into some deeply shared panic that connects with the masses, but speaking solely for myself...I already knew.

I knew he wasn't that into me. Every boy, at every age, during every unrequited second of my romantic life. I knew.

The knowing manifested itself in different ways.

I spent a day helping a guy I liked move in the blistering summer heat. Afterward he thanked me, bought me lunch and commented on how much I looked like Eddie Vedder.

I knew.

After one too many pinot grigios at the company happy hour, I leaned in to my co-worker and whispered, "I feel like kissing you." He excused himself to go to the bathroom.

I knew.

I went on a date with a guy who decided half way through dinner that it would be fun to rate my personality on a scale of 1 -10. He gave me a 4.

I knew.

Even in 1985, I knew:

March 18, 1985

Remember how I said I was in love with Andy? I was wrong!! I was wrong about him in all areas. Well, maybe not all areas, the only real thing that makes me not like him is his enormous ego! He thinks he is romeo of the middle school. He needs a little humbling. I am not going to talk to him or really go out of my way to be friendly to him. Not that he will really care. Oh well, maybe things will get better, right now I feel sad -- but I'll get over it. (probably fast)

So there you go. Two weeks later, it was clear that the "romeo of the middle school" just wasn't that into me.

Two weeks. Two weeks spent walking casually by his locker, looking for him without looking. Two weeks of calling his home number and hanging up when he answered. Two weeks locked in my bedroom playing Crazy for You by Madonna and pretending to make out with him.

Two pretty damn good weeks, all things considered.

I've never forgotten how my younger sister described her feelings for the first boy she ever liked. "He gives me heart bumps," she said.

Let's face it, most of the great crushes in life won't end the way you hoped, but the imagination is one romantic place. And what's wrong with spending a little time among the possibilities and the heart bumps?

I say, embrace your unrealistic expectations. Imagine flirtation where it doesn't exist. Wonder what he's thinking, even when you kind of already know. Turn up the Madonna and become the love struck teenager inside you all over again.

Sure, in the end, he may not be that into you...but it's not all about him, is it?

You've seen the commercial, right? A dimly lit room painted an oppressive shade of beige. An obese person in a grey sweatsuit that matches their skin tone is balled up in the fetal position on the couch. Suddenly a woman's voice asks:

"Where does depression hurt?"

EVERYWHERE.

"Who does depression hurt?"

EVERYONE.

In the commercial, the sour-faced sweatsuiters eventually take meds. After that, they're smiling, playing with puppies, and wearing brightly colored blouses.

Well, ok, great...if that's what you're into.

Personally, I say, what a waste of perfectly good depression. Feel bad about yourself? Well, of course you do. And you should. Face it, you're a mess. But why suffer alone when you can use your own self loathing, envy and resentment as a weapon to bring down the happy people?

Saturday, January 5, 1985

I guess my horoscope was right, it said I was going through a stage of the blahs. If only I could find a way to pull myself out of them, maybe if I stick to my diet and get a haircut I will cheer up. There is a girl in my class named Amy. She is pretty, has boys hanging on her, etc. But I feel sorry for her. That may sound strange, but I do. I have real friends, a family who cares what I do, and a clean record. She drinks and is slutty. Me? I'm happy and secure enough to do what is right for me! So I am happy about that! More in my next entry...

She's pretty, well-liked by boys. Of course I "feel sorry" for her. Big of me, really, considering she's a gin-soaked whore. What do I need with boys anyway? I have my clean record to keep me company. I do think my excessive use of exclamation points is a cry for help though. (!)

Two days later:

Monday, January 7, 1985

I am ashamed to say that I have found myself wanting to just haul off and hit someone. I try to find the best in everyone, but this girl is a liar, cheater, stealer, a backstabber, a flirt, etc., etc. This girl may have hooked a gorgeous 11th grader. I hope not!! For my sake and for the boy's sake!! I don't like writing bad things about people, so on to a new thing. Lately I have felt a tug at my heart very time I hear the song "Do They Know Its Christmas?" I want to help the starving children in Ethiopia in some way, but I am helpless. Maybe not, I can always send my prayers.

It's hard to balance prayer and physical violence, but I managed. Do they know its Christmas? Do the backstabbers recognize their vile backstabbing ways? The answer to both questions was likely no.

Now, to be clear, it's not that I wanted the 11th grader for myself. In retrospect, he wasn't even that good looking. He had absurdly thick black hair that gave him the appearance of a monchichi. (Monchichis are cute, but you don't exactly want to make out with one, you know?) I just didn't want this girl to have him. It's a matter of principle.

Of course, things go from bad to worse:

Tuesday, January 8, 1985

I hate to keep saying things like this, but I just have to let out my feelings before I explode!! I CAN'T STAAANNNDDD HANNAH! Ahhh, that felt good!! Notice I didn't say hate because I try not to hate anyone, even that stuck up jerk! Billy (the 11th grader I mentioned) doesn't really like her. I haven't figured out exactly what his angle is, but I know there has to be one! With a girlfriend like Carrie, he doesn't need a girl who has a zitty nose like a pig! I am working on getting to the real reason of this act, I've come up with a few ideas: 1) to make Carrie jealous, 2) for a big joke to make a fool of her, etc., etc. Anyway, it's Carrie I feel sorry for, she must want to drown Hannah right now. I don't blame her!! More in my next entry...

Oh, 13-year-old me. So naive. Searching for a conspiracy angle to life's injustices. Wishing my classmates into a watery grave.

To my credit, I could have easily put on the proverbial sweatsuit of misery, climbed under the mattress and let my "blahs" take me hostage. Instead I gathered my inner pain and hurled it at those pig nosed sons-a-bitches.

It's a skill I've honed over the years. Misery may love company, but my misery is a trained assassin hunting down those who dare laugh too loud.

I'm not saying this sort of behavior will make you feel better. It may. It may not. But at the very least, it will make other people feel slightly worse.

And sometimes that's all you need.

I don't care for money related activities. Borrowing, lending -- both horrible. I'm uncomfortable negotiating my salary, doing my taxes, even going to the bank. (I'm convinced I'll get robbed) I'm no good at games that involve money. I despise the host of Mad Money on CNBC, but who doesn't?! He needs to CALM. DOWN.

I don't even like that Pink Floyd song about money. It's creepy.

On some level, I think I blame money for my less than stellar resume. Must pay rent./Money pays rent./Jobs make money./Get a job! It's a vicious cycle...like dieting or STDs. And the jobs I've had? Yikes. I know, some people just love their jobs. They're out there right now -- all "fulfilled" by their work -- enjoying travel perks, health insurance, hot cubicle romances and the mysterious 401K. I'm just not one of them.

Don't get me wrong. I don't have room to complain. My jobs haven't exposed me to bullets or lethal carcinogens. (that I know of) Still, is it wrong to want more than that? For three decades, I've had nothing but tasks that left me to wonder...when is lunch?

And, worse yet, to have this exact conversation more times than I can count:

"How was your weekend?"

"Not long enough!"

"Don't I know it!"

It's as though the company motto is always "Let's Wish Our Lives Away in an Elevator!"

I wasn't always like this. I used to have ambition. A raw, money-driven lust that knew no bounds:

October 31, 1982

Today is Halloween but we celebrated it yesterday.

I asked my mom if I could have a job to do each week to earn some money. She said I could fold clothes. Now she says I can't because she doesn't think I can do it right. That shows how much she trusts me. For GOD'S SAKE! I'm 11 years old, not 5! It makes me so mad! The worst part of it is, I know I can do it. I wish she'd learn to trust me.

I'll have to try my best to find a different way to make money.

The desperation! It's a wonder I didn't become a hooker. This entry leaves me with several unanswered questions.

-- Why did we celebrate Halloween yesterday? Didn't people think we were odd knocking on their doors, demanding snacks while dressed in costume for no apparent reason?

-- Why did I need money? Did I have my eye on a stylish new training bra in the "intimates" section of the JC Penneys?

-- And was I really that bad at folding clothes?

Regardless, I've come to realize that some people have careers. Other people have jobs. Me? I have "jobettes". You don't look to get promoted at a jobette, you just look for another jobette.

Among the notable jobettes I've had over the years is a summer spent as an ice cream scooper. It left me with a freakishly large right forearm for a 15-year-old girl. Unexpected perk: I fell in love with a handsome, gay college man who waited tables in the cafe where I scooped. (I didn't know he was gay. At that point, I was still convinced I would one day marry George Michael and follow him on the next Wham! tour)

His name was Dave.

Dave was tall, blond and perfect. Well, not entirely perfect. He wore pink madras shorts. He was way too tan and always sweating out last night's hangover. I didn't mind. Dave was 19 (!) and he came from a romantic faraway place in Michigan called "Bloomfield Hills." He was willing to teach me how to drive in his very own Jeep. I still remember our long talks, the romantic things he'd say to me like: "Never do coke."

And I never did.

Years later, I moved to Los Angeles and got another whopper of a jobette. I was an assistant at a high powered talent agency for a year and 1/2, which I'm told is a really long time in assistant years. Turns out, it's not as glamorous as you might imagine (if that is the sort of thing you waste your imagination on).

The fear of missing an important phone call was overwhelming. God forbid you let it go to VOICE MAIL! You would get a verbal lashing that would break your insignificant soul. As a result, I would regularly put off going to the bathroom for the entire work day. Once, when my boss was out of town, I broke down and ran in for a quickie. When I came back, the dreaded red message light on.

"18 new messages..." the automatic ladyvoice said.

18?! How can there be 18 new messages?! I could feel the acid filling my stomach cavity.

The over-styled assistant who worked the desk next to mine was metrosexual way before Seacrest; we nicknamed him "Vanilla Weitz-Weitz, Baby" or "Nilly" for short. Nilly had seen me run into the restroom, and he took the opportunity to call my work line as many times as humanly possible in three minutes, say the word "vagina!" and then hang up. Good one! Of course, I had to listen to each and every message in order to make sure there wasn't a real business voicemail somewhere in middle of ALL those vaginas.

I miss that kid.

Yes, there have been countless jobettes, from waiting tables to coordinating television shoots with cannibals. One lateral move leading to another, and each leading me nowhere in particular.

My general jobette dissatisfaction really says more about me than it does about the duties at hand.

You see, jobettes are safe. You don't have to be that good at them because you never wanted to do them in the first place. Passed over for a promotion? Paid less than everyone else in the building? Well good! All the more reason to leave early. Jobettes are just what you do to get by until. Until! Until you do that amorphous-yet-exciting thing that you REALLY want to do. That thing that you're going to be so badass at that you will pretty much rule the world. What is it? Shhhh...keep it to yourself. Saying it out loud would only ruin the surprise triumph.

"I was her supervisor," all those nasty boss types will say, "her direct supervisor - do you believe that?!"

No.

They don't.

What to do until the "until"? Well, all I can say is: TGIF!

In the real world, friendship is more complicated.In the end, Derek didn't end up with Hadley or Jenny.

He married the homecoming queen and got shockingly fat, bald and middle aged.