love life

Sex And The City – And Me

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When my inner Miranda comes out, asking the hard lawyer questions, being all judgy and playing the perpetual devil’s advocate – I want to kick her ass.

Seems she’s my inner cynical adult. She doesn’t believe in love or magic or happy endings.
I didn’t cast her in that role, yet, there she is – big shoulder padded business suits, short, choppy red hair and all. She snuck in there around the millennia…and stayed.
Well, what does that mean? You’ve GOT to be kidding me. What are you going to do about that? When are you going to take care of that?” she asks, with no hint of inner sweetness, just lawyerly cross examination, tinged with disdain.

My inner Judge and confidence executioner is Miranda Hobbes from Sex And The City.

While single and in my late thirties, early forties, I never missed Sex And The City.
I could totally relate to the friendship between the four girls, and the similarities between their life and mine.
New York, LA, it didn’t matter. Dating was dating; and several episodes felt so familiar, I had a sneaking suspicion that my apartment was bugged, my phone conversations were taped, and there was a mole in my circle.

The parallels were uncanny.

For about five years I spent almost every weekend either at a wedding, IN a wedding or at a bridal or baby shower, just like the girls.

I was tragically single – no kids. Shoes, dating, shopping and eating at the latest, greatest restaurants were my hobbies. I spent every dime I made until my accountants had a literal intervention with me, and made me buy a house. Like Carrie.

I may have had my sexually promiscuous moments (okay, years) but it was all to avoid true intimacy, like Samantha.

I didn’t feel so bad when Miranda fell hard for Steve and then ended it because – well – he was just a big hearted, underachieving, bartender, and not so ironically at the time I had just endured a break up with a handsome, unemployed actor – with a heart of gold.

And I too had divorced a perfectly lovely man with mother issues, just like Charlotte.

I would say, at that time, I was a composite of all the girls.

For two years I even had a Mr. Big.
He lived in New York. Tall, dark, handsome and mysterious, with the big job, the driver and the arrogant attitude. He found me interesting and a challenge; I thought he was always pulling a fast one. He and his life didn’t seem for real.

Just like Carrie’s Big, he called me kiddo or kid, which I hated, because I wasn’t a kid, it felt condescending as hell, and I was convinced he’d just forgotten my name.
So many cites, so many women.

Sometimes we were pals, sometimes we were lovers.
It was all very confusing. We’d bicker incessantly and one of us would end it about once a month. Then, after about two weeks, a first class plane ticket, an Hermes scarf or something from Tiffany’s would arrive via FedEx, or he’d call me from the airplane (which was a huge deal back then) or wish me good night with Italian church bells ringing in the background.
These romantic gestures were enough to open the lines of communication, and the next thing I knew, he’d schedule me into his life for a weekend, or I’d fly to New York for great make-up sex.
We finally stopped trying to make it something it wasn’t – a relationship; and within six months, it all just faded away.
A friend of mine who lives in New York reports that he’s still single and quite the player.

So years later, Mr. Big on SATC would make me squirm – too similar – hey, maybe my Big’s phone was bugged.

But I digress. Back to Miranda.
I caught a SATC marathon the other day, as a guilty pleasure, while I was under the weather, and Miranda was really annoying me. I always found her to be a perfectionist, a hard ass and difficult to please and… Shit – Miranda, my least favorite character, I now realize, SHE is the shitty voice inside my head.
Doesn’t that just figure? She’s a perfect fit for the embodiment of the critical me.
Makes sense since that was the role she played so well in the series.

I’m going to contact Critical Casting and see if I can change things, switch it up a bit. Miranda is someone from a life so long ago; I think I can give my inner bitch a more current persona; like lets say…Chelsea Handler?

Who personifies your inner critic? Whose the voice of your inner bitch? Is it time for an update? I’d love to hear about it in the comments below!

xox

Want A Man? Make A List!

Want A Man? Make A List!

Here is my disclaimer right up front: This is a story about a very shallow girl…me, and how a list, a good friend, and some abracadabra, helped me manifest my true love.

At the point where my story begins, it’s the year 1999 and I have known Wes for about five years. We first met at the channeling group of a mutual friend.

Let me stop right here.
Wes is drop-dead gorgeous! He is a 6’3″ tall, dark, handsome, drink of water. When I first saw him at this friend’s house, I thought to myself: Okay, Spiritual practice, now you’re talkin’, because, up until that moment it had mostly been women that showed up for these things or men who still lived with their mothers.

He and I made goo-goo eyes at each other and tried not to burst out laughing at some of the questions that were asked. I know – Not my proudest moment.

We thought EVERYTHING was hilarious.
Wes is very chill about all this spiritual stuff. He doesn’t take any of it too seriously, which I love, and we had a lot in common. We had read all the same books, had a very similar spiritual practice, had the same twisted, warped sense of humor…and both loved men.

Sad, but true.
So, I was the Grace to his Will.
We loved each other madly, with no extra benefits.

After the crash and burn of yet another one of my romantic relationships, instead of saying, “I told you so” Wes suggested going to our channel friend for a session with just the two of us. He was also newly single at the time and felt we could get some good one-on-one advice, without other people asking if their dead Aunt was speaking to them through their cat.

At this session “they” suggested we each make a list of the attributes our beloved should possess, after which we should meet and give that list to the other, for them to use as kind of “manifestation template.”

Before I go on, I want to add this little side note:
I thought it would be a good idea at the time to take all of my ex’s cards, pictures, etc. and burn them. I would then scatter the ashes to the wind, giving the Universe a smoke signal that there was now a boyfriend void to fill.

With my right shoulder cradling the phone, I took Wes outside with me, along with my box of memories and a lighter. It was about 8 p.m., cold and dark and lightly drizzling, which I thought was a good sign.
I put everything on a large stone in the middle of my wet patio and lit it up. After a couple of minutes, there was a good little fire going, and I watched our smiling faces and birthday cards filled with his once loving words, melt before my eyes. Trouble was, a significant breeze had picked up and started swirling a small tornado of embers all around me! I was screaming and trying to get away, but the lost love delivery system, disguised as burning paper, was in my hair, my face, and my mouth and burning tiny holes in my flannel nightgown. All the while, Wes laughed hysterically into my ear!

So…
We met at an Italian restaurant, and armed with a bottle of Chianti courage, we exchanged our Relationship Lists and decided to read each other’s out loud, to gain clarity.
Big mistake…Huge.

He read mine first:
Affectionate…okay
Passionate….yep
Funny….critical
Loves sex….um…
Loves my cats….he glanced up at me and winced
Loves a lot of sex….gulp
Snappy dresser…..really?
Enormously wealthy…Shallow, I warned you!
Blah, blah, blah.

Hearing them out loud was literally painful. My face was on fire with humiliation.
Wes was laughing so hard he had to hold a napkin to his mouth, tears streaming down his face.

Then it was my turn to read his list:
Concerned about the planet…okay.
Philanthropic…of course
Self confidant…uh huh
Belief in a higher power…shit!
Nurturing…I want that!
Concern for my well being…give me my F*cking list back!

My light and funny friend surprised me, his list was seriously great! It was honest and deep and full of heart.

Mine was crap. Where’s a candle? It NEEDED to catch fire!
I was lunging across the table, trying to grab my ridiculously shallow list back, but he put it in his pocket and kept it.

And then, my magical, mystical, friend manifested the perfect man for me.
In a year.

That is the actual list above…I have no pride.
Wes found it in a box during a recent move, framed it, and gave it to me for my birthday last year.

I have yet to manifest a significant other for him….have you seen his standards?!
Xox

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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