A tale of a woman. Well. Barely a woman.

I don't know how it was when my mother was growing up in the 80s, or when my grandmother was growing up in the 50s, but I have a sneaky suspicion that even though women's civil liberties are far more advanced in the 21st century, it's hard out there for a lady today.  I don't know why God hates us so much*.  I use "us" loosely.  You can barely call me a woman.  I have the parts, but with all of the tricks of the trade these days, I'm already tired of learning.  No, I'm not inept.  Just lazy.

*I recognize God probably has nothing to do with this, but considering man exists because of Shim, and we're supposedly mirror images, I can point the finger.  I believe Shim knows me well, and therefore, is expecting me to.

I've just returned from a weekend in Vegas, where my friends and I celebrated a major chapter of life, one of my loveliest girlfriends turned 30.  The group needed to remind her how fabulous she is.  Note: some women cannot wait to be in their 30s (me!!!!!) and others run away from it.  Something about eggs and marriage and parasites growing inside your uterus and finding the one and mini yous running around driving you insane and partners who supposedly love you unconditionally but you haven't lost your pregnancy weight yet so they encourage you by getting you a 24 hr fitness membership*.

*I'm seriously hoping my 30 looks the exact opposite.

For now, let's harp on the difficulties of womanhood.  It's best if you start at the beginning: the moment you and your girlfriends decide you're going out, to a club, to grope with strangers, to drink the night away, and mayhaps, to end on a happy note of discovering Vegas has been hiding all of the Sonics*!

*Sonic is gross.

Fade in:

Chyron: Night 1

INT.  PALMS HOTEL - EARLY EVENING

Four young women frolic in their Palms hotel room, chatting and snacking on Doritos and champagne, while the remnants of past patrons slowly escape their mindgrapes.  The night is young and trouble is soon to be had.

Carmen plays music on her iPhone Pandora.  She's grateful for the free app, and even more grateful she's just received a one year Pandora membership for her birthday last month.  They can listen to the Justin Timberlake station, no problem!

They all decide that even though three of them drove five hours and one flew, none of them need to shower.  That's how they roll.  Prockter, the host of the weekend,  checks her image.

Prockter: I'm good*.

*It's already an unfair advantage because she is a, naturally beautiful, and b, in a relationship.

Elise opts to change her clothes.  She puts on a striped number and calls it a day.

Elise: I'm okay in this, right*?

*It's already an unfair advantage because she is a, a California dream, and b, in a relationship.

The three girls stare at Elise, glaring a no duh.

Elizabeth is wearing leggings and rechecks a fourth time to make sure the leggings fit her 0% body fat figure appropriately.

Elizabeth: I'm 30*.

Prockter, Elise, Carmen (simultaneously and unplanned): Woo hoooooooo!!!!!!

*It's already an unfair advantage because she's exactly 3 years older than Carmen, and where Carmen looks 36 months pregnant, Elizabeth has the abs of an Olympian.  And, she's in a relationship.

Prockter: We ready to go!?

Carmen: Oh, I kinda need to put my face on*.

*Relationship status: single.

INT.  PINK TACO - LATER

The ladies sip on margaritas, snack on chips and guacamole.  They've ordered and literally five minutes later, the food comes out.  Carmen is concerned, but takes one for the team because she has her Tums handy.

Prockter (to Carmen): You're getting married tonight!

Carmen takes a bite of her cold ass steak burrito and ponders.  She knows her mother would kill her, but how fun.  Meet someone in an hour, fall in love (probably not), and get married?  Sign her up.  She attempts to take another bite, but realizes though she dined on the most unsavory Mexican food, her plate is clean.  And her belt is tight.

INT. PALMS HOTEL - LATER

Prockter: Let's go dancing.

Elizabeth: We can dance tomorrow.  Let's do the jacuzzi*.

*Evidence she's not a frequent clubber.

Prockter: It's 10.  The pool is for sure closed.

Carmen secretly hopes it's not.  She's already taken 2 Tums.  Dancing is probably not a good idea.  They check with the front desk.  The pool closed at 5.  They're all baffled.

INT. PALMS HOTEL - BAR - CONTINUOUS

In lieu of a club, they decide to take advantage of the free $40 drink card the hotel provided.  They nestle in a booth.

Prockter (to Carmen): We need to find you a husband.  You're getting married.

A random, friendly-looking guy turns toward the booth.

Random: Mind if I hang out with you guys?  My friends are gambling.

Prockter, Elizabeth, Elise, Carmen (hesitantly): Sure.

Carmen checks him out.  People are tricksters these days.  Killers and rapists posing as friendly-looking loner guys in Vegas bars.  It happens.  More than people know.  Watch CSI.  She remembers she's a lady.  She's supposed to see if she's attracted to him.  Check him out.  Not SVU him.

Without hesitation ---

Prockter (to Random): You're marrying Carmen.  Oh my gosh, a wedding is happening.  Tonight!

A few drinks and an hour later ---

Random: I planted an avocado tree.

Even Carmen is impressed.  All four girls pet him.  He's a keeper.  By this time, his friends have joined the fun.  It's officially Vegas, these guys are apart of a bachelor party.  Though they're already celebrating an upcoming union, Prockter has managed to get them equally excited about Carmen and Random's Vegas wedding.

Random 2 (He says he's from the class of 2009 and instantly Carmen and Elizabeth start laughing.  Then crying.  Until he confirms that he means from the University of Notre Dame class of 2009.  Whew.  Elizabeth is still 30.):  I will pay for the marriage license and I'll get a tattoo!!!

It becomes more clear everyone is on board for this impromptu marriage excluding Carmen.  Random 1 has a girlfriend at home and Carmen needs to take her belt off.  She breathes a sigh of relief when the guys decide to go to a club and celebrate the bachelor's (the real one) last days of singledom.

Carmen sneakily removes her belt and puts it into her purse.  Prockter and Elise ask for Tums.  It's Carmen's instant gratification.  Gratification escapes when the guys return, wanting the group to join them in a night chalk full of alcohol and dancing. 

Hours later....

Surprisingly, Random 1 & 2, plus their friends, showed the girls a good time.  They parted ways around 3 in the morning, Vegas style, and while Carmen and Random 1 never married, she will always think fondly of him and his avocado tree.

Chyron: Night 2

INT.  PALMS HOTEL - EARLY EVENING

The girls opt to shower this evening considering they sunbathed for nearly the whole day, and tonight is fancy night.  Which means full face.  And heels.

Carmen puts on a dress she hasn't worn in a year and realizes the year has been unkind to her ass and her hips and her thighs.

Carmen: Do I look inappropriate?  I have another dress.

Elizabeth: No!  As long as you feel good.

Prockter: You look fab!

She feels better, but her insides tell her she should change or she'll regret it later.  The dress comes with a belt.  She doesn't change.  She'll accept regret. 

INT.  ARIA - JULIAN SERRANO - NIGHT

Picture ready, the girls dine on fancy tapas and sangria.  Eight plates later ---

Prockter: Is anyone else still hungry?

Carmen: Is it weird that I'm starving!?

Five more plates later ---

Elizabeth: This really has been a special weekend for me.  I cannot thank you enough.

Elise (to Carmen): You gonna eat that?

Carmen hands her the rest of the ahi tuna tempura as she snags the rest of the ceviche. 

INT.  COSMOPOLITAN - MARQUEE CLUB - LATER

After $80, the girls are escorted to an elevator with five million other people.  After Carmen mentally gripes about the $20 cover charge, she's reminded why she doesn't go out.  They charge for breathing.  She soon realizes if some kind of emergency transpired, a human stampede would surely kill them. 

Also, two hours in heels, and she already wants to cut her feet off.

Thankfully, the Marquee is gihugic.  Carmen finds relief in a white carriage of sorts.  Basically, she can sit the night away as she watches her ladies mingle and be fabulous.  They're enjoying the moment, especially Elizabeth and that's what's really important, while Carmen wonders ---

Carmen (whispers): Did I set my DVR for the House marathon?

Hours pass.  People comment Carmen should smile more.  Indeed, she was doing just that.  Because she had a seat that she did not have to pay for and was people watching.  That's the kind of fun she could sign up for, in heels.  If she were in flats, she'd probably be on top of the bar dancing to "Single Ladies."  Probably not, but she'd be dancing.  Nevertheless, she enjoyed watching women limp around because certainly at 1 in the morning, their pinkie toes were screaming for relief.  And as she nonchalantly removed her dress belt, her hand grazed her legs.

Carmen (whispers): Oh you are kidding.  I just shaved.

Just then, she sees a really attractive man at the bar.  She's thinking, what would she say?  How does one start conversation with a stranger without insinuating it's Vegas and clothes should be removed and one night stands should be had?  Carmen catastrophizes everything.  He's attractive enough to be uncomfortable, but when he realizes she's staring at him, he looks away, and Carmen realizes ---

Carmen: Oh, I'm not cute enough.

She secretly thanks the heavens.  It's 2 am and surely her face has melted off by now.  It's 2 am and surely she would have lost her white carriage. 

EXT.  PALMS HOTEL - EARLY MORNING

The four girls stare out into the cascading sky as the sun slowly awakens from slumber.  The dark blue hues rest while the pink shuffles its way through.  Alas, a token bright light, somewhat of saving grace at 4 in the morning.  The yellow light screaming Sonic calls out to the them.

Elise: Let's do this.

EXT.  SONIC RESTAURANT - CONTINUOUS

They're stoked.  It's open 24 hours.  And there's a call box.  It's a fun setup.  When it works.  They order second dinner or first breakfast.  Carmen snaps photos.

Carmen: Say Soniccccc!

They dine on chicken tenders and cold burgers.  Instantly, a mistake.  Carmen has her Tums though.

Prockter (to Carmen): You didn't get married.

Elise: I'll say I am thoroughly surprised at Vegas.  There were no hot guys.

Carmen: I wasn't really looking*.

*She's lying.  She's always looking.  And then, she thinks about the effort and the follow through seems like the type of labor she'd never sign up for.

Elizabeth: I had a blast.  You guys are the best!

Prockter, Elise, and Carmen look at each other.  Yeah, they know.  They're awesome.

INT.  CARMEN'S CAR - AFTERNOON

As Prockter and Elise sleep the Vegas away, Carmen drives, pondering.  Her three girlfriends are relatively like-minded, that's why they get along so swimmingly.  Yet, here she is, the lone soldier in this beast of womanhood, and she wonders, when oh when, can she stop trying so hard?  Mayhaps, to the rest of the world, she isn't trying at all.  Why didn't she just get up and talk to the attractive guy at the Marquee?  Yes, her feet hurt.  But, it was more than that.  There was a moment she talked herself out of it.  She reminded herself that her dress was too tight, borderline not a dress dress, and her dimples (so not dimples) in her ass and in the back of her legs were fighting for attention that night.  She had already put herself on the judgment block before he could even assess if she was a hot mess or not.

Carmen (whispers): Men can't possibly go through the same troubles.

It's doubtful.  And she knows it.  The sun is particularly evil on their way home.  She cranks up the AC, prompting Prockter to nestle in her seat.  She's perpetually cold.  Carmen looks back at Elise.  She's cold too.

Carmen (whispers): I cannot be the only one sweating.

Ugh.  Personal seasons.

Fade out.

Dear 27,

Don't worry.  The truth is all women are different.  Some of us look like Gisele Bundchen.  Some of us look like Sarah Palin.  Others like Halle Berry.  I liken myself to Sporty Spice.  Gender ambiguous.

Some of us can wear heels like they're Uggs.  I wear Uggs because I am without a doubt a perfectionist.  Rocking the transient style is more difficult than it looks. 

Some of us can shave everyday, no problem.  Some of us can even dry shave.  I find it to be a chore.  And I never liked chores.  For the record, I shaved last night, and as the hours passed, I literally felt the hair on my legs grow back.  Today, there's one lovely baby-soft patch on my calf.  I'm proud of my patch.

The real truth: I don't know how to be a woman.  And it's becoming more clear that we're all interviewing for one another anyway.  And in a century like this with my fellow 20-somethings, I am never going to get the job. 

And I'm okay with that.  Because here's hoping a match is made for the awkward and homely woman, such as myself, at any of the following places: at the pharmacy where I pick up my birth control, Chipotle, the freezer section of Ralphs where I'm deciding between DiGiorno and Freshetta (they use "real" ingredients), or the cleaning supplies aisle at Target. 

Sincerely,

Mostly Pilar

P.S.  Reminder.  In your next life, you've requested to come back as an Asian woman.  They look fabulous in everything.

I am La Femme Nikita. Sidney Bristow. Annie Walker. Fuck it, I'm Jason Bourne. True story.

I don't know why we dream and I don't know how dreams work.  So I used magic to look it up.  Abra cadabra (go with it), press enter, what?  Dreaming is an actual science?  Oneirology.  I don't even know how to pronounce that.  But, let's pretend I do and that I understand that EEGs illustrate brain activity during REM cycles.  The two hours of dreaming we do a night is quite similar to being awake.  So, I got to thinking, do we dream the dreams we dream based on the very last thought before our eyes close?  I wonder if my dream last night is an indication of what I aim to be in real life?  Not a rhetorical.  I do aim to find the answer.

If, according to the dream analysts or oneirogolists (spell check DOES NOT recognize this term, there is a red squiggly line!; I'm now afraid this research might be bogus), I dreamt that I was 5'8", slender enough to rock leather pants, and stealthy enough to disguise two shot guns, a semi-auto, and a machete (DO NOT ask me where said items were hidden; my dream me would have to kill you), does that mean I aim to be a searing, take-no-punches, I'll-cut-ya assassin?  Renegade?  Ex-CIA operative gone rogue trying to save American women from their deceptive husbands?  Hm...

Or.  Mayhaps this is what the research is really telling me, my very last thought before I closed my eyes last night was to dream big.  Here's the cliche, so prepare yourself: it's no Hollywood secret that being in entertainment is arduous.  And, as I say that out loud, I'm almost positive, every industry has a tactic or multiple tactics that ensure you absolutely work hard first before you're rewarded.  Because then, what's the point?  I mean, yes, we all want to make money, but aside from earning a paycheck, hard work gives us something else.  Success?  Accolades?  Critically-acclaimed, but low ratings (sad face)?  Sky-rocketing ratings, but an overall rejection from entertainment journalists, but 10 seasons and 2 spin-offs?  Fulfillment.  Execution.  Completion.

In the kernel of working hard for all said above, there might be a diversion.  Loss of ambition.  Loss of focus, and certainly an admission that working hard doesn't always mean you're being challenged.  Though, said admission is justified because you've more than likely contributed to society by having and raising children, and throwing out loads of money for K-college private education.  (Thank you, Mom)  See, hard work.  Tricky bastard.  Whatever its purpose, without it, there is no reward, however that reward presents itself.

So, you've worked hard.  And mayhaps, you're complacent.  Where's the fulfillment?  The execution?  The completion?  It's in the big dreams (I told you it was cliche, do not judge me).  The ones where you're kicking ass, and you're on top of the world, and you're saving lives.  And then you wake up the next day, and you've figured out the cure to cancer.  Or you realize how to help the antisocial six-year-old who frequently wets his pants in your kindergarten class.  Or you've decided healing people in the jungle is way more satisfying than private medicine.  Or you've created some rad protagonist supported by illuminating characters who jump off the page and splash the screen with all of its awesomeness.

Dear 26,

In your 20s, you're counting your pennies.  How will the rent get paid?  Oh god, when will I eat?  But, you work hard.  You're ambitious and you see the reward.  When you're 46, and you've purchased Ma's Napa Valley retirement home, and you're thinking of ground-breaking ideas of how to manage your lead actor better while simultaneously pleasing the executives, plus the rewards are nonstop, don't forget to dream big.  Don't forget that you look great in leather pants, and that you think being tall will make you look thinner, and that machetes are awesome tools for cutting through bone marrow, but...

Most importantly.  In your dreams, everything is possible.

Sincerely,

Mostly Pilar

P.S.  Reminder.  When you're 66, and living in Santa Barbara, and "managing" the realm you've created from afar, read this again.  Or someone, probably my sister, kick me in the ass!  The kids are out of college already, there's no need for complacency.  Dream big.

To Train or Not To Train

I don't know why I'm single.  It could be hereditary.  Most of the women in my family are parenting solo.  We are quite matriarchal.  Problem is, I don't have children.  So, I'm just solo. 

Three generations of McCreary/Chambers/Golden women (yeah, that's how we roll) sat across from one another.  Wine could have been involved, but the discussion of the nature of the Golden woman's life was definitely at the fore front.  Her social life.  Her solo life.  Her boudoir.  Her, that is me, fought for the last word, as we often do in this land of ladies.  Naturally, I was quite defensive.  As I should have been, I'm twenty-six years young.  Nothing about my age screams old, run of the mill, over the hill, or in danger of spinsterhood.  Or, so I thought.  Apparently, despite the multitude of men in my life (ha!), I have been deemed naive. 

Did you know that men needed training?  Like, when parents tire of changing diapers.  It's high time their toddler learn that dancing around in circles doesn't make the pee pee go back in.  That takes training.  Or, when an owner decides he's tired of investing in Resolve.  His dog must need training.  Or when a crew member at the local movie theater desires a promotion.  No more scooping popcorn, I want to work box office.  Train me. 

To train, verb.  Teach (a person or animal) a particular skill or type of behavior through practice and instruction over a period of time.  To train.

Call me naive, oh wait, that already happened.  Okay, due to my naivete, I am unable to compute this knowledge.  It could be wisdom earned through life, but considering I hail from All the Single Ladies (commence singing and signature dance), my belief is there isn't one particular person, woman, man, who can gather what makes a relationship work and what doesn't.  Yes, the mothers in my family are superbly intelligent, but I'd like to think it has shit to do with training.  "Training" or whatever that means, doesn't prevent a husband from cheating nor a father from abandoning his children.

Let's pretend for a moment that I am knowledgeable, life and all.  I open a book, and the answers are right there for my eyes only.  Here's my wisdom, my two cents.  I am solo.  Not because I don't know how to choose a guy from a basket of guys and tell him how to dress, how to please me, how to be.  I can't fathom those words coming out of my mouth.  Well, I am, in fact, a control freak, but I don't want to change you.  You, sir, whoever you are, should be congruent. 

Compatible, adjective.  (Of two things) able to exist or occur together without conflict.  Compatible.

Sir, can you stand me for a few seconds?  A few minutes?  A few days?  A few years?  Mayhaps, a lifetime?  Do you love me?  As I am?  As I breathe?  Sounds like a vow.  I do, Pilar.  I do.

Dear 26,

Studies show (studies being the palm reading you recently paid $10 for) that you, my friend, are on the right path.  Right could be wrong.  Whatever that may mean for you, you make a decision, and it is only yours.  You own it.  You live it.  You learn it.  Will said path lead to decades of solo?  Probably not.

Be prepared for mayhaps.

Sincerely,

Mostly Pilar

P.S.  Reminder.  Be at peace with yourself.  Almost always, the elders, your peers, strangers will have something else to say.  It may be profound.  But my training tells me, if it doesn't come from your gut, well then it's probably not meant for you.  Not meant for your path.  Probably, more than likely, not in your training. 

Or you're naive.  You choose.

Painfully Obvious

I don't know why I decided to be a writer.  Most would say it's genetic.  Others might say there were no other options.  I'm terrible at science, the law confuses me, and I hate children.  Right.  I could have been a prostitute.  Classy though.  Like a geisha. 

Apparently, you're supposed to be thrilled.  Like screaming from the rooftops thrilled.  Exclamation marks thrilled.  I am a writer!  I write!  Yet, here I am.  Sans rooftop, sans exclamation, sans thrill.  My head hurts.  What a process.  This writing.  And all I can think is maybe I'm not so bad with beakers.  I could learn to argue.  I do love my nephews.  

It's painfully obvious what this is.  Life.  All of its unpleasantness is seeping through my pores.  I'm griping.  Let me be.  So instead of being proactive and writing what I should be, I'm doing what the kids are doing today.  It's a dear diary.  Online journal.  It ain't Shakespeare.  Iconic characters probably won't manifest in these words.  I'm only opening the gates for public humiliation.  You know, like the kids are doing these days.  More insecurities.  It's what I've always dreamed for myself.  So here goes.

Dear 26,

Studies (not ones you've researched, but ones you made up in your mind grapes) show that this is the age of reflection, the first of many crises.  So don't fret 26, you're not alone.  Yes, you're painfully obvious.  Painfully transparent.  Maybe even painfully dull, but you're assuredly not alone.  

Hopefully.

Sincerely,

Mostly Pilar

P.S.  Reminder.  You write because you breathe.  It's not easy, but challenge fashions growth.  You've got a headache.  Take an Excedrin.  Or drink a bottle of wine.