The Vintage & Handmade Market
In recent months, for whatever reason, I’ve had an influx of friends seeking advice from me. They offer up their predicaments sometimes with indignant outrage, sometimes with tears, often with a blinding panic. Then they wait for me to dispense whatever insight they think it is I possess, which, hopefully, if implemented, will catapult them to the other side of their strife. Lo, the pressure. One friend in crisis is doable. But multiple friends imploding at the same time? I have to admit, I’ve come to feel a bit like Jim Jones passing around Dixie Cups of special red punch.
Why they come to me, I’m not sure exactly. Maybe it’s because they know I tried hard to wreck my marriage and wound up saving it. (I still feel sorry for putting my husband through that gauntlet only to reward him with more me. Yay!) Or maybe it’s because I’m alphabetically convenient when it comes to G-Chat. Or maybe—and this is probably closer to the truth—it’s because they know I won’t judge them even if they want to stick an eel up their ass. We’re all just trying to make ourselves feel good, after all, and if a slithering ribbon of fish up the pooper is what delivers you to your own personal Jesus, who am I to intervene?
OK, on that one, I’d probably encourage you to first test whether a dollop of Pink Lube and an inanimate object wouldn’t do the trick. See? That Jim Jones analogy is preposterous. Nothing but sensible guidance from this girl.
Always prefaced with the admonition Advice is worth what you pay for it, here’s some of what I’ve been doling out:
To my friend who’s terrified for the safety of her son as he heads to New York City with his eighth-grade class next week: Don’t worry so much! I know, I know, easy for me to say since I’m not the one sending my child 3,000 miles away with 27 other hormone-driven teens and two (probably incompetent) chaperones. But don’t you think you should be more concerned about these facts than suicide bombers? After all, what place could possibly be safer than the Big Apple at this moment? It’s surveillance central. They’ll be all over your kid if he so much as tries to spit off the Empire State Building. Of course, there is the plane ride to get him over there and nobody has time for that pesky watch list. But once he arrives, he’s golden. Why are you breathing into that paper sack?
To my friend who courageously walked away from her miserable job where she was taken advantage of, only to be taken advantage of by lawyer friends unwilling to pay a decent wage for a nanny: You need to get all Nancy Reagan on their opportunistic asses and just say no. Or remind them diplomatically that, yes, you are doing each other a favor during difficult economic times, but that doesn’t mean they can reasonably expect you to do their laundry, mop their floors and deliver one child to the pediatrician for vaccinations while making sure the other doesn’t drink toilet bowl cleaner—for $6 an hour. If they balk, you can always suggest they hire an illegal immigrant.
To my friend who verbalized for the first time a dangerous depression over a possible pending foreclosure: Um—I know when I’m out of my element. Do you think maybe you should talk to a credentialed professional? As in, today? As in, right now? Really, though, props to you for recognizing the humor that the foreclosure office, your lawyer and the therapist to whom you were just referred (thanks for taking my initial advice) are all located in the same building on Alvarado Road. This is where serendipity and bureaucracy intersect to form a flash of silver lining. You can make all your appointments without taking too much time away from work and get fit while running between the fourth and sixth floors. Plus, you’re laughing. Things are looking up.
To my friend who recently purchased a pair of white sandals and then felt a pang of buyer’s remorse: I can see why. The idea of the sandals is great: the wedge, the straps. Super cute. But the problem is with the white. White sandals are for brides and little girls. Can you exchange them for a pair in bone?
And to my friend who is single for the first time after more than 20 years and is embarking on a new relationship with a man who, unfortunately, has been misled as to his prowess in the bedroom: Sweetie, are you seriously asking me what you should do? This is a slam-dunk-a-reeno. If he doesn’t know what he’s doing and you still want to get naked and breathless with him, I’ll skip part one of my advice (shop around) and go directly to part two (get after it, woman). Show him exactly what you want, and where you want it. This is no time to be polite. You’re 40, for God’s sake. You’re peaking. You have the opportunity to define yourself like you couldn’t possibly have done when you were 20. Teach the man how to treat you proper so you can live into old age with wrinkles caused by the O-face.
Of course, reciprocation is the best part of my relationships, and I know I have resources in my time of need. When I recently asked my favorite fashionista to help me take an outfit from luau to lounge party, she saved the day without equivocation. Add a giant, chunky ring and a change of shoes, she said. Then she instructed me to steer clear of eel, unless it’s in my sushi roll.
Write to aaryn@sdcitybeat.com and editor@sdcitybeat.com.
