Ode to the Gay Man

Something has recently occurred to me. I realize it's taken me a long time to get here, but now that the conclusion has finally arrived, I'm oddly comfortable with it. The truth about life in Hollywood is that at least 65% of the men I meet are gay. But they're not gay like, "Ohh... duh, of course he's gay," they're gay like, "Holy fucking shit. I've never tried to convert one before, but now I think I want to." I'm not joking, these are some gorgeous men.

I was at an event last week and I met a slue of great and interesting people. Amongst that group, I met a whole ton of supremely attractive men, all very kind and sweet, all untouchably gay. Great sense of fashion, fitted jeans, well groomed hair, loving smiles and boyfriends. Not even the small hint of bisexuality. Not the smallest shred of a possibility. It was torture. 

But this is the way of life in West Hollywood and beyond. Devastatingly attractive men who can only be your best friend. And they make amazing friends. They call you to come take a walk to the red carpet of the Oscars, they ask you how your interviews go, they promise you that you'll both be successful in the year 2010. They even steal clothes for you because they know that you like men's clothes better than women's. They're the best. 

I have to say, if I were a gay man orbiting planet Hollywood, I would be in heaven. It's a mecca for the attractive and same-sex minded. I think that constant taunting of what's off-limits is what has turned me into a romantic-less person. The last sad truth of Hollywood is that I haven't had a romantic impulse since arriving here. It's probably because I spend all of my time flirting with hot gay men.

To Conquer the World...Without Pants

It's not that I don't HAVE pants. I have a lot of pants. I mean, a lot. I have jeans, stretch pants, leggings, black pants and once upon a time I had khakis. I have an entire drawer dedicated solely to what is worn below the waist--and no, not undies, I have a separate drawer for those--but STILL, I refuse to wear them around the house. Not the undies, the pants. I can't do it. I prefer to walk around with just my oversized shirt on, and marvel at the fact that I'm entirely alone in this house about 20 hours a day, and that warrants the complete baring of my legs and the corners of my ass.

But it's getting a little weird. I sit on the couch all day, working on my computer which really means I'm working on my life. I sit and search for employment, for apartments and for puppies. (It's true. I'm more than fixated on getting a dog. I'm completely obsessed.) I sit on this couch, look for the saving graces of life, and do it all without pants on. But then 7 pm rolls around. I barely notice the time because let's be honest, what is time to the unemployed? My brother comes home from work and doesn't really notice that I'm not wearing pants (because I'm sitting in a lay-z-boy) and just goes about his business as though everything is normal. Then I get up to do something and I have to put out that little disclaimer: "Sorry, I'm not wearing any pants." Which to me, is not creepy. I don't think it's a cause for concern. I'm wearing everything else, so to me, it's just like a bathing suit. 

Well yesterday, this exact scene transpired and after I stated my situation, he looked at me and said, "Oh, so it's one of those days." And I wanted to share with him that I'm trying to make every single day one of those days. I'm bored! If It makes me happy to prance around the house with tights, tall socks and a sweatshirt on, then by god I'm going to do it. I look like a dancer, and although I do have the inclination to try and learn the dance to "Single Ladies," the odds of me actually doing so are slim. 

It's making me really happy though. Truly. I stand out on our second story balcony and sip my coffee, not wearing a shred of pants. But no one knows that... so the joke's on them. HAHA you think I'm fully clothed, but I'm not! You see, in this day'n age, it's important to keep society guessing. It goes along with: HAHA, my hair's pulled back so it's plausible that I showered and just haven't done my hair yet, but really I haven't and I probably won't! HAHA the soup stain on my sweater looks like it could be from today, but really it's from last week! Keep them the fuck guessing.

AND this is the sum of me. Dirty clothes, dancer garb, couch sitting and channel surfing. But here's the key to getting by: You have to find someone who's worse off than you are. People who have it in them to have close friendships, tend to reveal the particulars of their lives to one another. It's good to share. It's intimate and bond-forming to share, but it's also helpful in times of need. Due to the unearthing of personal choices and life challenges, it's generally easy to find someone who's worse off than you. Right now, at this very moment, you're assessing your own life, trying to decide if it's at least better than mine. And here's the thing: chances are that on paper it's better, but now take in account that I'm feverishly happy. Not wearing pants, not having romantic entanglings, not having a place to live thus NOT having a rent to pay... this shit is good. And here I go wanting to tie myself down with a puppy. But you see, if a puppy can fit in a bag (keeping in mind it's comfort of course!) then it can go on this wild ride with me, not without me.

Now to close, I would love to point out two really funny moments I had this week: The first was when Shannon told me that if I was really sick of the picture I took off my wall,  I would have thrown it away, not just put it away in a drawer. SO TRUE! The second was when Laura suggested that I name my dog "Fresh, 'Film Dog'  for short." Good fucking heavens I laughed over that one. Inside jokes, all of it, but still worth sharing for the purpose of immortalizing.

In Lieu of Chocolates...

There are some things in life that are not to be avoided. They are calendar dates of impending doom that no matter how hard you try to skip over, will always present themselves in one form or another. It's February 10th, so naturally, I'm not talking about a scheduled teeth cleaning, I'm talking about Valentine's Day. The most conflict-ridden "holiday" ever marketed by Hallmark (who I'm pretty sure, it's having a hell of a time in this economic climate. I have one word for you: Karma).

Now this Saturday, I will officially no longer have a home. I will have moved my bed into my brother's garage (standing upright) and I will be living out of a suitcase, relying solely on the kindness of others. I will be totally focussed on this homeless situation come Saturday night, so I'm sure that the regular onset of negative feelings will be safely at bay. But as I realize that this is hopefully not be the situation of anyone else, I will share the following in the hopes that humor trumps all.

LAST Saturday I went to the salon with my friend so that she could get her hair done. I was casually waiting for her on the couch, obsessing over the activity (or lack thereof) on my Crackberry, when the salon's make up woman came over and offered me a complementary make up session. And because I'm not in the position to refuse anything that comes for free, I accepted her kind offer and became a resident of her make up booth.

I was in her chair for maybe 3 full minutes--basically just starting the base coat of eye shadow--when all of a sudden we were talking about men. Now I realize that this is a salon, and romantic advice flies around like hair clippings, but I did not sit down with her with the object of counsel, so how things ended up that way, I still can't figure out. I told her maybe 2 vague sentences about my situations and that was apparently all she needed to psychoanalyze me.

"Yeah but you see, Meghan, it all comes back to you. All of this that you put out there, it's just all about you. You have to work on you..." You. You. You! Basically she was trying to affirm the blatantly obvious: I dug my own ditch, now I have to lie in it until I can figure out what exactly about ME made me want to dig this damn ditch in the first place. It's kinda harsh...

But I didn't want THIS. I didn't want my mascara to come with a side of self-reflection. Generally, like most people, I just want to hear that shit sucks and there's nothing you can do about it. Most people just like to hear themselves speak and work out verbally what they're feeling emotionally. It's like a sentence fragment that gets underscored with red in a Word Document. You keep right clicking to find out how to fix it, but the truth is, you might have to just rewrite the fucker. (God, that's deep...)

So in the spirit of unwarranted advice, I want to propose a set of options for Valentine's Day:

1) Don't talk to him. What the hell good is that going to do? I don't care if one or both of his parents is in the hospital and you want to contact him to wish them well... call him on Sunday. Same effect, different set of circumstances.

2) Wear black. It's tradition, don't resist. It's a fine color with lots of dramatic emphasis. 

3) Drink! Pretend that you're a vampire and a wine bottle is a succulent, vulnerable neck. Suck the life out of it! (That's a direct homage to Twilight, just so you know, which brings me to...).

4) Read Twilight! It's only the best book ever, and if you've already read it, read it again. I know that I when I pack my boxes this week, the main organizational goal will be to keep the Twilight series within reach. So if it's in a box, it'll be on the top; if it's in a bag, it'll be in its own safe compartment. Question: does Edward Cullen ever get old? (THAT'S A PUN!!)

5) Don't eat. Like option #1, what the hell good is that?  Neither a bag of lime potato chips nor a tub of hummus is going to fill that void, so just step away.

If I had a boyfriend, I would cancel our plans for Saturday night just so that I could drink a bottle of wine while reading Twilight in my all-black outfit, in a room that wasn't the kitchen, next to a phone that had been turned off. It actually just sounds like a dream come true. You see, these are things to aspire to. Not eharmony match ups and soulless men with a pension for disappointment. 

And just another side anecdote: I went to see "He's Just Not That Into You" last weekend and as I presented my ticket to the ticket taker, he covered his eyes and said, "Oh let me guess, 'He's Just Not That Into You'?" to which I replied, "He is, I swear he is," to which he countered with, "Trust me. He's not." He then ripped my ticket and I walked off with a slight tear in my eye. It was like a scene from a movie about a movie. 

Ok that's all for now.

Top 10 Most Interesting Things I've Seen on the California Freeways

Author's note: I drive in excess of 12 hours a week. This is a third of the time it took me to drive across the whole country. That means that every 3 weeks, it's like I'm back in Michigan and then back to California and etc, etc...

10) Mattresses. Hilarious. I've seen at least 3 just chillin' in the middle of the freeway. I wish I would have known this before I dropped $500 on a new one.

9) Shopping carts. Mostly they're on the side of the freeway, but the fact is that they're always chalk full of SOMETHING. Usually it's the contents of a homeless person's life. Here's the kicker though: they're always covered with some kind of tarp, suggesting weather protection, even though it never rains in California.

8) Cars. Stopped cars, I should say. Whenever people have car problems in California, they seem to believe that the best place to address the issue is in the middle lane of the freeway. I don't know how this happens, but I've truly been in at least 3 huge traffic jams that immediately clear up once I pass a car that has its emergency blinkers on, just idle in the middle of the freeway. 

7) The carpool lane. It taunts me. It's not that weird, I understand and kind of praise it's purpose, but since I'm always a single driver with no passengers, it's kind of a dick to me.

6) Litter. Someone I was driving behind the other day threw napkins, plates and eventually an entire pizza box out of the window. It was a flatbed truck. Very stereotypical polluter. I searched the bumper for a "Bush" sticker.

5) Which brings me to "Bush" stickers. I'm literally open-jawed over the fact that those are even still in existence, let alone displayed. And that has nothing to do with the fact that Obama just got inaugurated. 

4) Bells. There are a series of bell images that are etched into the median on the 101-North as you approach Hollywood. It's like a flip book in that if you drove by really quickly, the bells would look like they were swaying.

3) Speeding! The speed limit everywhere I've been is 65, but no one drives that, or even anything close to that.

2) Border patrol. I always wonder why that station is where it is, north of San Diego which is then north of Mexico (the closest So Cal neighbor). I never look into it, I just like to ponder.

1) Traffic! Oh my god, traffic. I thought it was all hype, but now I've declared it official. LA traffic is unlike anything I've ever seen. It takes me 1.5 hours to drive 30 miles in the morning. does that make ANY sense?

Thank You, Katy Perry.

Based on a vast amount of experience and a limitless bank of stories and advice collected from some of the wisest women and men, I have, on this day, declared myself a doctor of love. Not in the sleazy way that makes you say "love" like "looooooove" and then wink, but rather in an official, I'm-in-a-white-coat kind of way. And don't think to argue with this new-found title. I gave it to myself, and as far as I know, I'm the only one it matters to. 

Now because the doctor is in, my first order of business is to address an illness that seems to be sweeping the friends that I have, whom I consider near and dear to my heart. It is an odd illness in that it seems to cause symptoms in only women, yet it is an illness that grows and develops only in men. Take note: Men are only carriers. They Show NO Symptoms! Just like the other countless health-class-precautionary tales we protect ourselves against when getting involved, this is just one more thing to worry about. But the bad news is: it's impossible to protect yourself...unless some genius develops an emotional condom. 

Are you coming down with "Lovebipolaritis"?

Symptoms:

1) At one point in the relationship (and I'm defining "relationship" as a wide range of attachments, spanning from an actual, committed relationship to just a friendship) the ball was in your court. It doesn't matter if the proverbial ball was yours because you were withholding a physical relationship, or just because he liked you more than you liked him, it just belonged to you. That was a good feeling, right?

2) Then you took the initiative to change said relationship and effectively altered it in either the slightest or most extreme way. And instantly, without you really noticing, the ball immediately moved from your court into his. But however unintentional, this was not a good move. Just like you don't give a 2 year old boy an oozy, you don't give an adult boy control in a relationship situation. Not good. A clear no-no.

3) Oh shit, that little alteration. It's made a big impact... but only on you. Suddenly your head is spinning. He's infiltrating your awake and sleep thoughts now. That kiss, the one you might not initially have wanted, or even thought anything about, is truly the only thing you now crave. You're talking about him to your friends more and more now, but these days your stories end with, "But I haven't heard from him in a while." And let's be honest, it's driving you nuts. Those causal interactions that used to matter not at all are now the single most important hinge to your sanity. That insane, mind-twisting love begins to settle in like a zit on your nose. You don't want anyone to know that it's there, but it's next to impossible to conceal.

4) But this love quickly turns to rage. "Why won't he just respond to my text?! It's so easy! Everyone texts! He was texting me last week! Why is he not texting me back now!" A pervasive amount of "?"s and "!"s litter your language. So many unanswered "Why?!"s, so much heightened sensitivity. Your phone will buzz with a text, and before you can keep yourself from wishing it was him, wanting to hang out, you read, "Great game! What was your favorite Super Bowl commercial? Love, dad." Now there's a stand-up guy. Not only does a father care enough to learn technology in order to better keep up with his texting child, he even goes the extra mile and signs the texts. Now if only generations of proceeding men could be this overly-considerate. But alas, back to the point... a confused state of mind, mixed with the irate feeling of being utterly dismissed gives you the definitive "Lovebipolarization". You love him, you really really do, but if he were within 5 feet of you, you'd definitely hit him... hard. That gray area between love and hate: it's a little place I like to call "home".

And now the symptoms are over. From here on out it's all about how you treat the disease...

If you think that getting drunk on the weekends and texting or calling your new love/hater will make you feel better, even the slightest bit, then by all means, it's your funeral (I've died to many times this way, myself). If you feel like calling him three times a day, hoping he'll pick up the phone so that you can badger him into telling you why he's suddenly a distant piece of shit, then best of luck to you--hope he answers one day soon. But the overwhelming bottom line will always remain: It's over. You can't harass him into hanging out, insult him until he feels like rising to the occasion of being a decent human being, or miraculously trick him back into the relationship you used to have--the one that had that mean man wrapped tightly around your pinky finger...ya know, the one with the broken nail. 

But that was the past, and in the wake of a harshly demolished romantic-future, you're still somehow wondering that very basic question: "Can we still be friends?" AND THIS IS WHERE THE DOCTOR STEPS IN. No. No you can't. "Friends" is not an option. It doesn't even exist. It might have started out that way--and holy hell, hindsight wishes it had stayed that way--but the emotional investment on your part and your part only, means that any prospect of a friendship (how cliche) is non-existent. So when he pushes that F word on you, do what you should have done in the first place and shut him the fuck out. The offender will remain--most likely he'll go on to torture others--but the victim--that pathetic, lifeless and broken shell--can fade into oblivion. 

It certainly isn't easy. It's a tear-jerker of an ending, but that consistent projection of hope is even sadder, more unappealing. Pay heed to the Doctor. She's bitter. But "bitter" is only one letter off from "better". Coincidence? I think not...

Just remember: emotions are scary to those with poles not holes. They can't handle them, they don't like them, they make them feel a little clammy in the places they used to show you.