Kizzmet

Fantasy Land

Perfect life. Where ARE you???

According to the time line I laid out for myself, I should be married by now. I should be practicing entertainment law, while my full-time help has dinner (tofu steak and seaweed salad) waiting for my husband and I every perfect evening. Baby number two should be on his or her way. Because at this point, Baby number one is already almost 3 years old! Can you believe it! I know! Time goes by so fast.

According to this time line, my husband and I own a cozy home in Culver City. We have dogs. We have organic tomatoes. We have dreams of buying a mini-ranch in Ojai or a cabin in Big Bear, so that our baby and a half can grow up building tree houses.

We see my parents once every 2 months. Our Friday evening jaunts up to the Bay Area are welcome getaways from the smog lined streets of Los Angeles. We listen to NPR, and occasionally rock out, while our dogs and child are nestled safely in the back seat, peering out the windows of our Land Rover. Ocean rolls alongside as we make our way up the 101. We’re together. Happy. Healthy. Rich in the things that matter. Still young. Still in love with possibility.

This is just one version of my perfect life.

There’s also the one in which I’m a best selling novelist, paid to dream up sizzling summer reads. There’s the one wherein I’m a famous blogger, traveling all over the world to write about love, life, and adventure. There’s the adventure show spin off, where I host my own show based on that blog. There’s the movie deal. The development deal. The active wear line.

There’s also a simpler “perfect life”, but just as appealing, I ASSURE YOU… in this one I’m married to a very wealthy man, who made his fortune in some dorky field like programming and appreciates my quirky, sometimes flippant nature. He supports my blogging, my horseback riding, my animal rescue… as long as I’m running our household smoothly. And being the best Mom I can possibly be, of course.

I’m almost 29. My perfect life hasn’t shown up yet. And I’m beginning to wonder if it ever will.

Being single: A Choice?

 Imagine being surround by beautiful, smart, and sexy single women all day. From the tall German retired model, who’s now a 6 figure earning partner, to the petite early forties blond, to the curvaceous salsa dancing Latina, to the willowy yoga instructor, to the rustic outdoorsy Tomboy, to the brainy hipster; they’re everywhere here. HERE being the sunshine drenched office suites of my current employer.  HERE being what seems to be a haven for some of the West Coast’s most intriguing, inspiring, and interesting SINGLE women. 

A New York Times study of census data from 2005 claims that 51 percent of American women now live alone without a spouse, and most of them by choice. The report, which appeared in the paper January 16, 2005 claims the number of single women has increased from 49 percent just five years ago and from only 35 percent in 1950.

Several factors, including women waiting longer to marry, staying single, getting divorced and living alone longer after their spouses pass away, led to the increase, the paper reported. The New York Times paints this picture: it’s all in the women’s hands; that they waived away, with the flit of a manicured nail, coupledom and children and love for freedom and self made fortune or even just plain solitude.

But is it really HER choice? Or are quality men just extremely hard to find?

“[Combined] with the fact that married couples became a minority of all American households for the first time, the trend could ultimately shape a range of social and workplace policies, including the ways the government and employers distribute benefits,” The Times article concludes.

With few examples of thriving and healthy heterosexual relationships in my work environment, the place where I spend most of my time, I’m wondering if I should reframe my perspective on how life is best lived. However, how do I reshape a ideology that has been formed by 28 years of social conditioning, media exposure, and what feels like an instinctual need? This need, one that tells me that the most meaningful thing I’ll do in life is share mine with a male partner, is one not easily quieted or satisfied.

The Times article referenced “workplace policies” changing. At one point, before I was hired on full time by my current employer, this haven for single woman of all shapes and sizes, I was considering registering as a domestic partner with my roommate, just to get health insurance. While this policy was not created with only women in mind, it is clear that it was devised to give those who choose not to or CANNOT marry, a gay couple for example, options with which to protect their loved ones. Being single, then at 27, and considering forming a “domestic partnership” with my roommate, just to cash in on her benefits, was downright depressing.

I WANT a fun loving, fit, sexy, and well educated husband. My singledom seems more complicated then just a “choice.” With potential mates everywhere, I, like the other woman out there, don’t want to settle.

Fit? Fun loving? Sexy? Perhaps. But educated? Ladies, we might have to lower our standards.

According to a 2005 USA Today article posted on their website: “There are more men than women ages 18-24 in the USA — 15 million vs. 14.2 million, according to a Census Bureau estimate last year. But nationally, the male/female ratio on campus today is 43/57, a reversal from the late 1960s and well beyond the nearly even splits of the mid-1970s.”

The article also explains that, “Not only do national statistics forecast a continued decline in the percentage of males on college campuses, but the drops are seen in all races, income groups and fields of study, says policy analyst Thomas Mortenson, publisher of the influential Postsecondary Education Opportunity newsletter in Oskaloosa, Iowa.”

So where are our men going? And is their disappearance from higher education part of the reason woman “choose” to go it alone temporarily or postpone marriage all together? After all, it seems a common theme in relationship rhetoric that people of similar backgrounds educationally and socio-economically tend to marry. Perhaps the lack of educated men makes it more difficult for women to find suitable partners. A contributor to the USA Today piece, in referring to men in the education system, said: “If we create a generation of men who aren’t getting an education, that’s bad for women.”

It’s hard to picture the ex-model partner I mentioned above strolling down the aisle with a high school dropout construction worker. Opposites can attract, but the differences are usually minor. Preferring sushi to Mexican or sailing to skiing, may be arguments wherein two can agree to disagree, but it may be difficult to make a love work with one who prefers beer drinking and tailgating to international travel and wine tasting. But, I stereotype. Women and men don’t fit so easily into such boxes, education, or lack thereof aside. In my opinion, the nuances of romance and love are more complex then a “choice.”

If I asked the single women partners in my firm if they are happy to be alone I wonder what they’d say. Would they answer honestly? As evolved as women are, the drive to procreate, to love and be loved, can’t possibly have been decided away as simply as the NY Times article proports. Because for me, life is better shared with a romantic partner. So if I DO indeed have a choice, I choose LOVE. 

Sex without Alcohol?

I’ve been single now for 17 months after 2 years in back to back relationships.

I have experienced 17 months of dating, drinking, and drunk dating. I’ve tried the sobering process of match.com. I’ve met men in bars and at restaurants, on runs and horseback rides and while roller blading. There’ve been weekend getaways and happy hour and coffee and study breaks. Studs, duds, and loud thuds (i’m not kidding I fell off the bed a few months ago. It was vodka induced).

Out of all those dates and encounters, I’ve only locked lips or more in the situations in which alcohol was involved. I truly cannot think of a time wherein I was stone cold sober during a randy romp. Can’t count morning sex if you’re hungover. Sowy.

I’ve wanted to write about this for awhile, the rational me who thinks wait and see, versus the animalistic drunk me who goes for it. Instead, my lovely and brilliant friend AV Flox beat me to the punch.

Read her post here:

http://www.blogher.com/drunk-you-alcohol-disinhibits-what-cost

Track me if you can…

K saw him first. We were planning our next move, compass and map in hand, when suddenly, after wiping sweat from her brow, she froze. The fear in her eyes was like that of a trapped animal; Perhaps what shelter volunteers see in the eyes of a newly confined dog. The desperation in her voice clear, terrifyingly vibrant, a humanless snarl alerting me to danger.

Instinct drove us into the the nearest bush. I lay flat on my stomach, unfazed by a bed of rocks and pine needles. My heart pumping, palms sweating, body shaking. K’s frantic breath hot in my ear: “Do you think he sees us?” To which I hissed, “Shhh.” All you have in a situation like that is silence and patience.

It was 2 hours into the chase. With 34 to go, he and the Sidekick passed by, unaware that his Los Angeleno prey trembled in the thicket just yards away. What happens next is best saved for June 2010, when our show debuts.

The remaning details of my Mantracker experience stand together as a life changing masterpiece I’ll hang forever on my heart. The crew, the chase, the challenge, the isolation from traffic and Tinseltown…. For Mantracker, I was simply a part of Episode 1, Season 5, but for me it marked the beginning of a movement.

Once you’ve had a shot of that kind of adrenaline, how can you go back? The blissful ignorance of an ordinary life framed by picket fence dreams, is so easily replaced by the realization  that a whole wide world of adventure awaits (insert montage of quickly moving images: waterfalls, rapids, mountain peaks, snow storms, helicopter drop offs atop blustery bluffs, crowded Egyptian market places).

So, I’m taking my manicured madness into the wild. AND you should take yours to www.mantracker.ca ! Fill out an application to see if you can out grit, out witt and out run a professional Mantracker!

It just might change your life.

Keep it on your heart candy…

I love you: Words not to be uttered one drunken night a week after meeting someone. Sure, there are excuses… I was drunk, very drunk, day drinking, night drinking drunk. Sure I was stoned, or on LSD, or huffing nitrous. I was twisted up in passion like Dorothy’s house in OZ. I was struck by some rare form of non lethal Ebola from which the mouth oozes sweat nothings. My dog made me do it. Little lollie pop kids made me do it. Excuses, excuses! Silly, lame, excuses - ones completely lost on the victim of such assaultive, powerful words. You can say you love pizza or ponies or pie, but GOD HELP YOU, should you utter, “I love you” too soon to an actual person.

It’s happened to me, but the words were disguised. It’s not just the “I love you” that can send your suitor or suitee running like Britney from the Paparazzi. Anything akin to “we were meant to be” or “lets do this” uttered at anytime from day 1 to day 30 (just to be safe) is just TOO MUCH. Maybe if you’re one in a pair of barely legals, you can break some rules, but anyone 21 and up should take this advice and shut it (which makes it even more difficult since alcohol will very likely be flowing faster than fresh money to Ford).

After all, there’s so much else to talk about: global warming, Obama, celebrity gossip, and if you’re really daring, the, gasp, sorry excuse for today’s economy, double gasp. Because letting an emotionally driven, romantic dipped arrow fly too soon can literally kill any chance of a second or third date, let alone a trip to the family’s cabin next summer. Being on the receiving end of the arrow, on a first date for example, can be darn right INSULTING.

How can you allude to the notion that “we’re meant to be” when you don’t even know their middle name, or favorite color, or childhood fantasy? How can you love someone when you don’t know how they take their coffee or if they even LIKE coffee? While it’s easy to answer, “Well kizzmet smarty pants, that’s EASY, you CAN’T love someone that quickly!” Try holding your tongue next time YOU are realllllly feeeeeling it!

As mentioned it’s happened to me. A tall, handsome, and VERY funny man (yes, it crossed my mind that he may have been joking) who I met on the world wide web of dating sites, reached across the table of our first date (and around the emptied bottle of wine), grabbed my hand and said, “You are the woman of my dreams and I’d like to start naming our future children.” Ok, so he didn’t say THAT exactly, but he alluded to it in a very real way that totally turned me OFF. “But you don’t even KNOW me…” I blurted. To which he replied, “But I feel like I do and you’re just like me…” blah, blah, and BLAH. There’s no faster way to disgust a person than by imposing your idea of them on them. I felt like saying, “So you like me, because I remind you of yourself? Now that’s HOT.” Um, NOT (Yes, I was raised in the 90’s).

After consulting various male friends for their perspective on my date’s forthright marriage proposal, all of them took up for him! While they admitted he had probably messed up beyond repair, it was simply because he was really feeling it and was excited that he had found what he THOUGHT he was looking for. “Too bad,” I replied to them all, for I was already over it.

Men AND women, like a challenge. We women like to win you over with our sultry looks and come hither eyes, just as much as with our warm hearts and vivacious personalities. We like to think you’re falling for US, not some first date, first week, first impression that really, in the 365 days that equate to one year, means very little.

So, you’d think, months later, I’d have learned from my match.com date gone wrong. But when I met HIM, this time I was feeling it - electricity. I swore I was so high on life I couldn’t even say his name without smiling a wide that would’ve qualified me to be The Cheshire Cat’s understudy. Wow did I FEEL it. He made me laugh. He made me feel safe. He was cool, but sensitive. He was sexy times ten squared plus infinity. I swore this was it and unfortunately felt the need to tell him so ONE WEEK after meeting him. I said it. “I love you” escaped my lips ever so drunkenly, but ever so earnestly. It didn’t go that bad, but it certainly didn’t go well. I pawned it off on passion and vodka infused pineapple juice.

The weeks that followed were scared by that admission. I felt the need to show him that OF COURSE I didn’t LOVE him, in fact, quite the opposite… I had soooo many OTHER options. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize I was doing this while I was doing it. And looking back I think my insecure behavior as a result of my drunken blithering was more harmful than the actual words. Sigh.

So now, I’m here writing this blog instead of making Valentine’s Day plans and getting to know someone who made my heart jump double dutch barefoot on a hot playground (maybe I should see if Mr. Match.com isn’t busy come Feb. 14). AND I’ve chosen to ignore that very annoying anecdote “If it’s meant to be it will be,” because if it’s “meant to be” you better keep your mouth shut and let it do just that.

Where adventure leads…

Words follow. Big words. Small words. Words that confuse, excite, describe. Here I will let those words frame my escapades. My trips. Trials. Tangential moments wherein I’m buzzed on some  silly (OR smart) tid bit of life. An idea. A boy (sigh). A ?.

I’d like this FIRST post on Kizzmet to explode like the sky on a mushroom trip. I’d like this FIRST post to be a little peep show. Expose a little thigh. A little of the love at first sight magic that follows me everywhere. Because if you can’t tell, I’m a believer.