The Parts Department

  Photo courtesy of Kat.  I will never, ever ask her what that long pokey thing is for.

I had never given much thought to plastic surgery before moving to Orange County.  An old friend of mine was married to a plastic surgeon, and she always talked about how she could tell when someone had work done.  I thought she was crazy.  How could anyone know?  But once I got here I understood.  Its like I had been studying genuine dollar bills my whole life, and suddenly I was surrounded by counterfeits—some subtle, some glaring.  We used to laugh about it amongst our tribe, how we were probably the only natural women left in all of OC.  How many holiday cards have we received of parents and kids, in matching outfits (jeans with white top my favorite) down by the beach in Corona del Mar, with the “serious” photo and the “crazy” photo?  You know what I’m talking about.  In one, the family is all smiles, and in the other, they are straining to contort their faces into silly shapes, in some effort (I’m assuming) to show a sense of humor or playfulness—and mom looks exactly the same in both.  And we all heard about the episode of Real Housewives of Orange County wherein the film crew went with one Housewife to her Megachurch, and she was dubbed “Jesus Jugs” for reasons I need not explain.  Women in Orange County are obsessed with image and appearances, which for someone like me (who couldn’t be glamorous for more than five minutes if an entire Hollywood film costume/hair/makeup department got its hands on me) can be very isolating.  I am the misfit, over here in the corner, the one with (gasp!) laugh lines, (prepare yourself for it…) crows feet, and (take a long, relaxing deep breath here or maybe pre-dial 911) that wrinkle between my eyebrows that sometimes shows up when I’m perplexed. Totally shocking, I know.  

                                 Not the Housewife's Jesus Jugs

We’ve all seen how women tend to scrutinize one another.  You can watch them checking each other out—the outfit, the shoes, the jewelry—some blatantly, and some with curious side glances.  I’m dying to know what they’re thinking.  For many, life is a game of comparisons, of body, style, wrinkles, shoes.  Some women I’ve met are the polar opposite—all natural, athletic, outdoorsy, and maybe (maybe) even democrats (seriously, don’t hold your breath on this one)—but instead of appearances the comparisons seem to be about how healthy they are.  With this crowd its all about being vegan, gluten-free, and taking their enlarged breasts to Bali on yoga retreats.  Somewhere in the middle is my tribe.

A former coworker of mine took a side job—admirable, considering how much she was already working—because (I assumed and had heard) her home was facing foreclosure and she had a few young kids.  What I found out later is the money was used for breast enlargement and a tummy tuck.  The house foreclosed.  And yes, the giant diamond cocktail ring stayed on her finger.  How is it possible to sacrifice family household security for the sake of appearances?  I cannot connect with this reasoning at all.

One of the stranger trends I’m finding amongst women I meet is fake hair.  Wigs, extensions, clip-on pieces…I’ve seen it all.  I actually tasted it all one night too, when a woman standing next to me at the bar of a restaurant dramatically flung her hair over her shoulder for attention, and it flew right into my mouth as I was talking.  It was nasty and disgusting, and she didn’t even notice my attempts to untangle her hair from my face!  What else does her fake hair touch without her knowledge?  (I’m actually having a minor panic attack right now, remembering the Friends episode when Phoebe revealed she caught hepatitis from a pimp spitting in her mouth.)  In my search for a new tribe, I’ve had a few acquaintances with extensions.  It is initially a bit confusing.  The first time I encountered it, I thought wow, Jen got a haircut and took off eight inches—how bold and fresh!  In hindsight my mistake was in complementing her hair, rather than her haircut, because she could have explained it and saved me from the shock of seeing those eight inches right back where they started three days later.  Off and on these extensions come—off for a casual afternoon luncheon, but always on for cocktails and dinner.  Do men care about this at all?  I myself am baffled.

One of my first business dinners in OC was at Fleming’s Steakhouse.  After the presentation and dinner, in those final networking moments before racing home to be done with the day, I was actually offered botox by someone with a family connection.  I wasn’t sure if I should feel flattered or offended.  (Am I being invited into an inner circle, or am I some wrinkly hot mess you can’t stand to look at during a business meeting?)  Thankfully in that moment I was so shocked by his casual offer my face actually froze, which seemed to disarm him a bit while I pondered how to politely decline.

I was recently invited to Taco Tuesday at a popular cantina on the harbor.  The room was so packed the servers were practically crawling under peoples’ legs to get through the crowd.  We had apparently hit The Place To Be That Night.  Looking around the room, I started to sense something strange.  Of course the women were all in the same uniform—leggings, high heels, fur vests—hair long and straight.  But there was a familiarity I felt with everyone as my eyes moved through the crowd.  It took a few minutes to hit me.  These women all look alike.  Slender noses with a flair at the nostril, high cheekbones, pointy chins, overflowing lips…they all looked related!  They were Sisters of the Same Surgeon.  I have traveled the world, my friends.  When you go to Mongolia, people look Mongolian.  In Japan they look Japanese.  In Northern Europe people look Northern European.  In Newport Beach they look like page six of the surgery catalog. 

Does any of this matter?  In the grand scheme of things, no.  Plastic surgery doesn’t define a person, and I would never begrudge a woman for doing a little procedure here or there.  (If you birth six kids and your bellybutton hangs down to your knees, by all means feel free to clean that mess up and hop back into your bikini.  No judgment here.)   But in my deepest moments when I ponder the world—the poverty in Africa and India, wars, human rights violations, lack of access to basic human necessities—is it possible to discuss these issues with someone who spends tens of thousands of dollars to look like everyone else at Taco Tuesday?  Can you have a real connection to someone who isn’t real?

I read an article last year about how important adult facial expression is for babies.  It made me wonder whether a mom’s copious botox could actually affect an infant’s emotional development.  Perhaps we’ll know in another decade.  But I do think it affects her ability to connect with others.  Think about it: all of those reality TV shows of botoxed women crying for whatever reason…isn’t it the strangest thing ever?  Their faces are frozen!  When I watch a movie like Out of Africa and Meryl Streep’s Karen is mourning the tragic death of Robert Redford’s Denys, I mourn with her.  Why?  1) If I’m watching Out of Africa I’m probably PMS-ing, but 2) I can feel what she is feeling.  I can see her pain.  When I watch a Real Housewife “cry” on TV (also typically done while PMS-ing), I have no response at all.  Its like watching a robot make squeaky sounds.  As a species we have mastered the use of our facial muscles; they animate our stories.  They communicate frustration, joy, despair, anger, surprise.  How nice is it to sit across from someone and see her responses to what you are saying?  Compassion, understanding, even empathy can be communicated without words.  But mutual experience of all of these emotions is, in my humble opinion, blunted with the loss of that visual connection with someone.  For me, it certainly plays a part in my feeling a bit disconnected and Alone in OC.

The Outer Inner Circle

So I’m totally Alone in Orange County.  But that isn’t to say I’m Alone in Life.  I am lucky enough to have a group of friends available via phone or text most hours of the day.  These are friends I’ve collected over time, who are entirely geographically incompatible with my life, and btw how dare they not follow me wherever I go?  Because then I wouldn’t even be writing this blog!  We’d be sunbathing, painting our toenails, sipping G&Ts, and I’d be begging to have just one day off from my glamorous and meaningful social life just to sit at home with my cat watching old episodes of everything “reality” that has ever been aired on Bravo!  But since they are all so selfish, here we are.

First, there’s Rebecca.  We barely knew each other in high school (she was a senior when I was a freshman), but she went to college nearby at Berkeley (no, she isn’t a hippie, doesn’t smoke pot, and yes, is totally brilliant), so we ended up seeing each other from time to time.  When I went to college she moved to LA to teach child actor brats (my word, not hers) on set since they couldn’t go to school.  This job actually had its benefits, as she not only met all the hot (adult) actors of the time, but she could get us to the front of the line at any club in LA, which we did exactly once because we were total nerds, but still.  Very cool.  Roughly around the time I moved to Southern California for the first time, she had already been accepted to a “top 3” law school across the country, and we did a road trip together to get her moved and settled and to give me a mini-vacation in between jobs, research, and applying for another degree.  I mention this trip not because it has anything to do with my search for friends in OC, but because there were two really cute and brilliant guys in her class, and I went on dates with each of them, which was the most exciting thing I had ever done up until that summer.  So far removed am I from this time, I will actually dare to use their real names.  Matt had been a Fulbright Scholar, was multilingual, too smart for words, and had a Midwestern boyish charm I’d never encountered in California.  We talked for hours at the coffee shops, and when I left he gave me a copy of The Alchemist (in English, he pointed out, as his personal copy was in the original Portuguese), and inside was a hand written note (which is still there).  He was charming, thoughtful, and on my last day in town he gave me the sweetest kiss.  And then there was Jeremy: tall, devastatingly handsome, Princeton grad, and did I mention tall and handsome?  We played pool, and I totally won (it pays to cram a year’s worth of physics into two short summer sessions—when all you do is think about vectors, winning at pool is a snap!).  I also kissed Jeremy, and I mention this only because 1) there was a time when TWO smart, handsome men actually wanted to kiss me, and 2) it totally creeped me out.  My constitution simply despises multi-dating, and at that moment there was no way I could fathom years later I would be in the middle of a community where multi-dating is the norm, where no one wants to commit to anything other than a cup of coffee, or maybe dinner next week.  (Maybe.  I'll text you.)  But more on that later.  Rebecca eventually moved back to Northern California while I was down south, and we have been apart ever since, having to settle for rushed visits during conferences, phone calls and texts.  She is hilarious, admirable and brave.  She is one of many of my friends who have adopted, but the only one to do so while single.  She has created a home and rich, happy lives for two beautiful children who would otherwise be growing up in total neglect.  So I forgive her for not uprooting her family to follow me around.  Mostly.

Mia and Leah (yes, they rhyme, and yes, all of my friends either have names that rhyme or are simply named Jennifer, Jenni, Jennie, Jenny or Jen, which makes including them in my blog quite difficult) have been dear friends since the early 90s.  We met working at a camp, and shared the most wonderful summer traipsing together amongst the redwoods, drinking steamed milk at our favorite coffee shop, and singing at the beach with our friends and their guitars.  (It was Santa Cruz, so we were the least weird thing going on.)  The three of us try to get together once a year if we can, and are constantly group texting.  We offer encouragement, support, but mostly laugh at things like Mia’s daughter’s reaction to her first sex talk (“Why are you telling me this????”) or the functional plastic peeing boy statue that was a table decoration at the restaurant on Leah’s date night.  Unbeknownst to them, they give the worst possible dating advice.  They have each been married for forever, and have never lived in OC, and so don’t understand when a man asks for your number, he probably already has a girlfriend who will then find your number and start shooting you texts in the middle of the night threatening to “massacre” you (yes, that’s a quote) for hitting on her man, despite the fact that he approached you, flirted relentlessly, and obviously never mentioned her, and it doesn’t at all take a therapist to understand her anger is displaced but still….  Anyway, Mia and Leah are the best.

 Photo courtesy of Leah, who requests no copyright or anything at all to do with this photo

Kat would totally be in my tribe (she’s only 40 minutes away!), if I could see her more than once every 8-12 weeks for a quick cup of coffee.  She’s a surgeon, and not just any old surgeon, she’s a vagina surgeon.  I therefore know way more than any woman my age wants to know about vaginas and all that can go wrong down there (a lot, apparently).  She’s basically on call 24/7, and has a family, extended family, and, well, a life.  So while our time is limited and we can’t share the daily grind, we are always part of the Big Things, and she will always have my heart.  There is another just like her—a lovely friend I see five or six times a year for dinner, who is balancing a young family and commuting from South OC to LA for her job, so regular visits are simply impossible.  And two others whose texts and advice (and visits!) grace my life from time to time:  Marcus and Gayle.  Marcus is a friend of nearly 20 years who lives out of state.  Thank God he does, because he’s a psychiatrist, and trust me, the analysis is bad enough by text!  Every comment about an ex-boyfriend or some major OC drama is followed by, “Wow.  How’s that going for you?”  Considering he charges $600 for an initial evaluation, I guess I should be grateful.  He is, however, quite dear.  Smart, sensitive, intuitive, and always says the right thing at the right time.  When I lamented over the 6’5” CEO who never called (after walking all the way from his table to mine across a restaurant to introduce himself, then staying to talk at the table for like three hours, hello…), he mentioned he was on his way to acupuncture and maybe I should try it.  I asked whether I could get acupuncture inside my brain, and he gently suggested perhaps it is the 6’5” CEO who needs to be poked in the brain, not me.  (I owe him one for that.) 

Gayle I met in Rome in the 90s, and we traveled together for weeks with our giant nerdy cameras.  She lives across the country, and other than a few visits over the years, we keep in contact mostly through text.  She’s a brilliant photographer, and one of those loud east coast people (Californians know what I mean), and always has an opinion.  She also sends care packages with homemade cookies, and shares my unrelenting love of Cadbury Cream Eggs.  She will always have my back, even from far away.

I’d give anything to bring these outer circle friends closer geographically.  Attention Orange County:  this bunch is a hard act to follow.  Teetering around in your Jimmy Choos high on Xanax and alcohol and saying things like, “OMG, did I tell you I have a son?” after I’ve known you for like a year is not going to cut it here. 

The Great Dane

One evening while the tribe was still together, we walked home from dinner to my house to sip champagne by the fire and girl talk.  M’s daughter Chloe was with us—she was 11 or 12 at the time.   The girls had been pushing me to start dating; I was unsure how to go about it after being married so long.  (Our first big night out after my separation was New Year’s Eve.  It was a fabulous and festive atmosphere at the restaurant, and immediately we were surrounded by new acquaintances.   A good-natured man with a kind smile approached me and casually inquired, “So, are you ladies single?”  I’m not sure what happened to my brain in that moment.  It just stopped working.  I was frozen in time, like in one of those movies where everyone freezes but the protagonist, except in my horror film, everyone kept moving while I was somehow stuck, like those people who wake up on the operating table but are still paralyzed so can’t tell the anesthesiologist to put down the newspaper and notice this awful thing and make it stop happening.  A hard thud on the back of my head snapped me from my trance, as M instructed, “Answer the man!”  I literally stumbled through my reply, “Um…these ladies are!” and somehow magically disappeared into the crowd without ever looking him in the eye.  That’s how good I was at talking to men. )  As we lounged on the couches talking and laughing, Chloe sat absorbed with my laptop by the fire, and asked in her most innocent voice, “A, when is your birthday?”  “October.”  “October what?”  I answered.  “What year?”  “What are you up to, Chloe?”  “Nothing, I’m just curious.”  And a few minutes later, “What are your favorite hobbies?  Do you like yoga, or horses?”  We grabbed the laptop and there we saw it:  my online dating profile, created by an adorable pre-teen.  At that point the girls forbade its deletion, and the computer was passed from lap to lap until all the questions were answered and the credit card info given.  It was official:  I was going to learn how to date, or else. 

So I know this blog is about my search for a tribe, but this tangent is somewhat relevant, as it was my first time going out and mingling with the masses:  strangers, men of Orange County, the best and the brightest (I was a pretty good screener).  (But before I get there, seriously, what is up with these user names?  I distinctly remember being emailed by someone named Gluttony3, and I’ve always wondered, who on earth would use that name, and is there actually a Gluttony 1 and 2?  Also, how is everyone in OC a CEO or CFO?  I grew up in Silicon Valley, land of enormous, successful corporations, where being a CEO or CFO is a huge deal.  You are the elite of the elite!  But here it seems everyone is a CEO/CFO of a small to mid-range company, or is really just self-employed and using the title to impress people.  Am I the only one who has noticed this?)  While I could fill a hundred blogs with the tales of my short-lived online dating escapades (debacles), since this is really about finding connections, I’ll save that for another time.  I haven’t gotten to The Great Dane:  the tall, warm, well-traveled, multilingual, cultured and slightly difficult to understand Danish man I met on the site.   (Did I mention he was a CFO?  Irrelevant.) I don’t remember our first date (or many, really), but he was interesting, a good cook, liked music, and gave great big bear hugs.  We spent a lot of time together over the course of about six weeks.  We went for walks, took long drives to interesting places, shared meals at casual restaurants in Laguna—he was down to earth and refreshingly straightforward.  Except he wasn’t.  Over the course of the weeks I began to wonder (remember, I hadn’t dated in a decade)…when on earth is he going to make a move?  And why isn’t he?  Is it because my boobs are real and he knows without support they might fall down to my ankles?  Am I weird/boring/flabby/wrinkly/unattractive?  Too damaged/needy/independent/strong-willed?  On and on I pondered, for weeks and weeks, until the Night of the Big Reveal of the Big Secret Thing He Had Been Hiding From Everyone For Years.  Ok, so I finally understood the lack of chemistry.  But what a great guy.

The Great Dane and I have remained in contact off and on over time (platonically, of course).  We have wished each other countless Merry Christmases, Happy New Years (always via text), and have checked in from time to time just to say hello.  I decided in my search of finding a new tribe to reach out to him again, since we have so much in common; not to date, but to see if I could renew a friendship whose basis was laid many years ago.  I find it strange he speaks to me with such enthusiasm, yet doesn’t return texts in a timely manner (or at all).  He says things like, “We should get together soon,” then doesn’t text for six months.  When we recently had coffee, the conversation was great, but I was met with a sense of emptiness.  His life feels stalled.  He hasn’t had any great loves, hobbies, or new interests.  He seems to grow more and more disconnected.  I haven’t asked, but I’m guessing he hasn’t addressed his Big Secret Thing yet, and its enough to cause him to keep everyone at arm’s length, with the exception of his warm bear hugs, which over time seem less warm and welcoming.  He isn’t alone; I’ve met others like him, on a very gradual decline toward isolation.  I’ve repeatedly extended offers of friendship (coffee, casual dinner with friends), but there is always a reason to postpone.  And while I initially thought it was me (I always do), I have come to learn it isn’t.  He is one of many who chose to stay disconnected, and reach out only when convenient, or temporarily safe.  I suppose the older we get, the more set in our ways we become, and for some, the path toward being more and more isolated seems to become so familiar, the work of moving back toward community with others eventually becomes daunting.    

I’m not sure how long I’ll keep trying.  Its rare to find someone who shares my passion for travel, with a global perspective of politics and humanities.  But sadly for me, The Great Dane is not part of the tribe.  The search continues.

Church Search

To be honest, the search for a tribe actually started before the loss of the tribe.  Kelly and I (with V pregnant and M in San Diego) decided we needed to expand the group a bit and make some new friends.  We spent hours discussing how we might meet the right people.  We talked about trying church, volunteering, joining meet up groups.  How hard could it be?  After all, we had already found each other. 

Church seemed like a good place to start.  We made a list of every church around, starting with (of course), the one walking distance from my house.  Its website “welcome page” gave a litany of sins the church wouldn’t stand for.  We qualified for at least six of them, so immediately decided we couldn’t be episcopal.    We met a guy in a bar (yep) who invited us to his church in South County, held in what I vaguely remember to be some sort of theatre.  It certainly didn’t feel like church, the rock band (sigh) was waaaaay too loud, and Bar Guy didn’t introduce us to anyone, although he greeted everyone.  We went, and we left, without meeting a single person, telling ourselves on the way back to Newport it was too far anyway, and who wants to wear earplugs to church?  

                                                         No rock bands in Notre Dame de Paris

Next up: the Presbyterian churches.  Presbyterians are pretty educated, so we had high hopes.  We really liked the first one.  It was the closest to my house, with lots of people milling about.  No one actually welcomed us, but we went several times anyway, figuring at some point someone would have to at least acknowledge our existence.  One Sunday K couldn’t go with me, so I actually went alone (five points for bravery).  I remember this Sunday distinctly.  It was 9/11 Remembrance Day.  Unfortunately something about the church that day brought me back to my old life, and uprooted some awful and awkward divorce emotions.  I couldn’t help myself—tears streamed down my face.  I guess since it was a 9/11 service it was acceptable; lots of people were tearful that day.  People looked at me, I was mortified by my enormous public display of tears, but no one said a word to me.  To cap it off, I looked across the room and saw my ex.  In my new church.  Staring at me and all of my tears.  So, that ended rather quickly.

After debating many others (crossing off the loud rock band churches, churches with rainbows and stars on their websites, and those we imagined to be full of botox, fake boobs, and tattooed former prisoners—no offense, but we are in search of a tribe here), we ended up at Presbyterian #2.  With a gorgeous architectural sanctuary, clean and streamlined, the feel was calming and open.  The people were warm (OK, this first visit was actually the only time strangers spoke to us, but they were the sweetest old couple ever), and the church is all about welcoming everyone.  “Open arms, open hearts, open minds,” they say (or something to that effect).  Beautiful.  Unfortunately, everyone our age was married with kids.  We went week after week, hoping to feel more spiritual or purposeful, but left each week knowing there wasn’t community for us.  And worse, the pastor announced his retirement, a temporary one was brought in, and the spiritual environment we had enjoyed became flat and thoughtless.  And so we left.

One Christmas my mom, visiting from up north, begged to be taken to Megachurch#1 for the Christmas Eve service.  What could I do?  There was no time to find a doctor and beg for valium, or feign pancreatitis or adult onset diabetes, so away we went.  She absolutely loved it.  She saw Christmas Spirit all around her.  I saw TV cameras swooping overhead, and yellow and fuchsia laser beams flashing through the clouds pouring out of fog machines, in what appeared to be the set of an Old Navy commercial.  When finally the end came and it was time to sing Silent Night by candlelight (who doesn’t love that?), I drew a breath (now safe, as the “fog” had mostly dissipated by now), and looked around the room at the beautiful glow of thousands of candles.  My eye was drawn to the large windows on the side of the sanctuary, just in time to see gobs of fake plastic snow being dropped down, as if in the middle of wherever we were in OC it was actually snowing.  And just as suddenly as the candlelight moment began, it was over, quickly replaced by a rambunctious rendition of Feliz Navidad, laser beams and all, and I found myself wondering if this is really what people want out of their spiritual journeys.

                                                               Oddly, no laser beams

 Never one to give up (confession: there is a HUGE gap between Megachurches 1 and 2, I am a total quitter, but somehow becoming desperate to find new friends at this point), I finally asked an acquaintance of mine to take me to her Megachurch.  (Incidentally, I previously met a woman I thought would be a good friend—she is smart, successful, independent, witty, and also happens to attend Megachurch #2.  At one point I asked if I could join her at church.  I was having a minor but scary medical procedure and thought I could use a little support.  The service she was attending coincided with my procedure, so I asked if there was another.  There were many, actually, but she told me she was sticking with her plan and I could find the other times on the website, along with directions, etc.  Um, thanks.)  So back to attempt #2 to attend Megachurch #2.  Before I left, as I was trying to delete all of the negative thoughts and expectations about how awful it would probably be, my friend Rebecca sent a text: “How are you today my friend?”  “Going to church.”  I expected a “gasp!” or a “oh dear, what did you do now?” reply, but ever so aptly, she responded, “Hope it’s a source of peace and grace and hope.  Hugs!”  Oh, so you’re saying I need an attitude check?  Noted.  When I arrived my friend texted, “At the café, next to the lake.”  (Lake?  Is it past the candy cane forest?)  I did find her, past what appeared to be a ski chalet (the chapel) and the lake, between the café and the hamburger stand (you can’t make this up).  Thankfully another friend was with her, baby in tow, so instead of going into the strangely dark (?) sanctuary filled with thousands of people, we sat in what appeared to be a quarantine room filled with squirmy toddlers, sleeping infants and everyone with ADD, watching the service on three large screen TVs.  I’ll admit, it wasn’t as bad as I expected.  There was a visiting Presbyterian pastor with a graduate theology degree and a PhD in psychology, so he was well-spoken and engaging.  I may go back.  But whether or not there is community may take time to determine.  I met no one.   There really should be a manual:  How to Visit a Megachurch and Find The People You Want to Find, Who Are Smart and Clever and Not At All Weird, While Avoiding All the Weirdos and Creepy Old Men Who Will Undoubtedly Try to Corner You by the Hamburger Stand.  Perhaps they should label the tiered stadium sections: Super Judgmental Bible Thumpers, Fresh From the Tattoo Parlor, People Who Don’t Want to Hug Strangers, Prison Release Section, Handsome Foreigners, Those Who Think Its OK to Wear Shorts to Church, etc.  That way I’d be sure to find my people.  Maybe I’ll send the pastor a letter.  In the meantime, the church search is To Be Continued….

The Cocktail Party

A new acquaintance of mine invited me to join her at Fig & Olive with a group of women one afternoon.  “They’re great, you’ll love them!”  Perfect.  I arrived at the restaurant and was greeted by a friendly group of blondes.  They were warm, inviting, and made me feel right at home.  One of the women announced (after I had known her for like 10 minutes) she was having a big cocktail party in two weeks and I had to come.  How sweet is that?  I heard from the other women how awesome her parties are, and all about the crowd who would be in attendance.  I left feeling optimistic and super excited.  I could barely wait the two weeks.

My brain immediately began building expectations.  Educated, sophisticated, professional people!  We will sip wine and discuss the BBC International News!  We will debate social policy in Ukraine, women’s rights in India, what to do about Boko Haram, and what a rock star Angela Merkel is!  I will meet interesting new girlfriends and handsome successful men!

I actually prepared for this cocktail party.  I packed a bag for the office: LBD, heels, handbag…I even brought makeup (thank you, M!) and accessories.  At the end of the day I changed and transformed, and my late-working colleagues’ jaws dropped as I emerged in my curve-hugging Michael Kors.  I was on a mission.

Upon arrival at the exclusive venue, I was met warmly by my host and introduced to the women of the first table.  They all knew each other from the same law firm.  After a quick round of introductions my host ran off to pour me a glass of wine, and so I faced the first woman and said, “I’m sorry—that was so fast.  How do you two know each other again?  Are you an attorney?”  Long pause, bored/blank expression, dramatic slow eye blink, followed by the most slowly articulated, haughty response:  “I’m married to one.  (pause, pause, pause) My husband…is her husband’s boss.”  Well then.  “Oh, how nice.”  Armed with my giant friendly smile, I turned to the next.  Friendlier but aloof, she replied with a half smile.  I figured she was a little shy.  (Later, she apparently became quite drunk, actually passed out on the floor, was placed on a couch and just left there, with her dress about her waist, and since it was a private club no one kicked her out and those who knew her just let her be.  Someone tried to cover her, and she kept uncovering herself, and was finally left alone, snoring, drooling and in a very odd and contorted position, much like a pretzel.)  The next woman at the table was an extrovert in a gold sequin minidress.  I joined her conversation just in time to hear about her FOUR boyfriends.  As I turned toward her there was a pause and everyone looked at me; I was speechless, so just tried to make light of the awkwardness I felt.  “Wow.  Four boyfriends?  I can’t even find one.  How do you…pull that off?”  I was hoping for a light laugh, a break in the tension.  Instead, I became the recipient of a didactic diatribe on dating and men.  “No one man can meet all of your needs.  You need a minimum of three.  One is handy, one is handsome, and one is smart.  You put them all together, and you have a complete boyfriend.”  I tried to maintain my best cocktail party face, but I don’t attend many cocktail parties, so I’m not well-practiced in this area.  Plus, she was talking total crap.  She went on to point out that although it is sometimes challenging to juggle them, she is sure they are each dating four women, so there is no need to feel too much pressure about keeping it all secret.  I shuddered, trying not to picture the details of all of their arrangements.  OK, so this one isn’t going to be in the inner circle.  Thankfully, she was maladroitly interrupted by an inebriated confession of an eating disorder, accompanied by a plastic-surgeried-to-death friend passing around photos of the once-too-slender woman for everyone to see.  What do you even say to that?  Oh yes, indeed, you were anorexic!  Remarkable.

Right at that moment one of the women I had met a few weeks earlier walked by; I hugged her like she was my long lost friend from Girl Scout camp.  Unfortunately, she wasn’t exactly sober this time, and the sweet and friendly woman I remembered was nowhere to be found.  “I’m soooo happy to see you!” she slurred.  “You’re the BEST!!!”  Oh dear.  “Come, let me tell you all about the premonition I’m having about you right now!”  I steered her toward a table full of sober-appearing people in a feeble attempt to create a buffer zone.  She proceeded to insist I am the soul mate of her ex-boyfriend, that she sees herself walking me down the aisle at the wedding, and his mother is thanking her profusely.  Conversation at the table stopped, and again, all eyes were on me.  “So…in your premonition you’re walking me down the aisle at my wedding?”  (OK, the sober people chuckled at least.)  “Don’t you mock my premonitions!”  She went on and on, we were all trapped inside of what felt like a reality TV show, until someone said something along the lines of “this sounds like the Maury Povich show,” at which point she started screaming (and yes, the entire restaurant stopped to stare, which she didn’t notice, because she was drunk), “Did you say Maury Po-vich?!?  Do NOT mention his name.  He ruined my life!”  She proceeded to give a slurred account of the fateful day she was a guest on the show and was made a fool of by her family member, etc., etc.  “And the worst part is, I didn’t even look good.  They made my hair awful!”  (Really?  You go on a scandal-laced daytime talk show on which someone in your family makes a fool of you, and you're talking about your hair?)

The night wasn’t all bad; I did meet a few really sweet women who had all their wits about them, and I enjoyed the typical banter involving their babies, hobbies and jobs.  It was all a bit overshadowed by the drama, and I couldn’t wait to slip out and take off my painful high heels the second I got into the car.  I went home and slept.  And all the next day I sat in a funk.  Despite not drinking, I felt like I had a hangover.  What happened to the BBC?  How can people who are so educated be so…that?  This was the tipping point.  After a day of near-depression and mental exhaustion, lamenting yet another failed attempt at finding my tribe, my decision was made.  It was time to see it for what it is:  not a failure to find new friends, but a parade of utter ridiculousness.  And since misery loves company, here we are. 

The Beginning

Alone in Orange County

The escapades of a sweet professional’s search for her tribe, and the parade of ridiculousness that ensues

The Beginning

Everyone needs a tribe.  A close inner circle of intimate relationships in whose context life unfolds and is experienced in all its richness.  A group in which our deepest vulnerabilities can be strengthened, our humor understood, and meals can be shared, with the expectation that at some point the laughter will bring tears, or at the very least a spitting of champagne across the room.  We spend our developing years forming this tribe, and our adult years nurturing it and relishing in it.  But what happens when a tribe disperses?  When bonds of love are made or broken, jobs lost or found, lives disrupted by geographical shifts?  Can a tribe be rebuilt midlife, when everyone else is suddenly so busy with careers, changing diapers, coaching little league, or just hanging out with a tribe that doesn’t include you?  This is the journey of a professional woman in search of a new tribe.  Before we begin, however, I suppose it is best to explain how I came to be Alone in Orange County.

I had a tribe.  I also had a marriage, and in 2010 we relocated to Orange County to be closer to my husband’s family and friends.  It was the perfect arrangement.  Until I discovered the unthinkable.  Within months of settling in Newport, we separated and embarked on what was unfortunately a long and senseless battle.  But throughout it all, I had my tribe.  My girls.  They poured my wine, cried when I cried, yelled when I yelled, reminded me how much better off I’d be, and walked through every awful day with me.  Because that’s what a tribe does.  Let me tell you all about my girls.

First, there is Veronica.  We attended the same preschool, but since we were only three, our first memories of each other are from kindergarten.  I remember The Circus in particular, quite clearly in fact, but also quite incorrectly.  In my recollection I was a lion and V the ringmaster, but she swears to this day she was a tightrope walker who actually stayed home with a fever that day.  I suppose in the course of my decades-long friendship with her, I have always seen her as my leader. 

I believe it was somewhere around the age of 13 or 14 our brains one day magically enmeshed, and we became so much alike it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.  Our families used to play Pictionary together, and I distinctly remember the night V walked to the giant board and drew a single arch with her pencil.  From across the room I hollered, “Hunchback of Notre Dame!” and her father, a meticulous engineer, began his accusations of cheating.  Until she later drew someone strapped in a car with a seat belt, next to a nail (“Safety pin!”—and no, not even I understood why she didn’t just draw a safety pin), followed by what appeared to be a double arch (“Radar!”), at which point the room grew still as our parents wondered how we could be twins separated at birth when we clearly had different mothers.  We had the same clothes, the same bangs, the same crushes, the same love of animals.  We chased after lizards, made up code words, spent long days together at school, followed by long nights on the phone (saying only our totally nonsensical code words, understandably driving our parents crazy).

                                                    V's "safety pin," circa 1989

V is wickedly smart, has an evil sense of humor, knows every word to every song by The Cure, Depeche Mode and…every 80s and 90s song ever written (including The Dead Milkmen, hello).  She has interviewed Sir Richard Branson, birthed the most adorable son, and co-invented with me the BEST champagne cocktail ever.  I’m not gonna lie; it took quite a bit of taste testing to get it just right.  But we somehow managed to persevere.

Kelly bounced (literally—she’s very bouncy) into my life sometime around 2007, when I was still married, at my husband’s best friend’s wedding.  They all grew up together, so as I was standing alone at a reception of 300 people waiting for the wedding party to finish photos, she came bouncing (see?  I told you) up and introduced herself, announcing how excited she was to meet me.  I will never forget the first words out of her mouth: “I hear you’re really smart!  Yay!  I love smart girls!”  Her enthusiasm is infectious.  She is genuine, generous, opinionated, direct, and one of the few people I have never seen show any unkindness whatsoever.  There is no malice within her.  She is a woman who makes things happen.  She single-handedly planned her high school reunion without breaking a sweat.  She holds an advanced degree but is down to earth, and can hold a conversation with anyone, anywhere, about anything.  She also happens to be a magnet for young law students.  We don’t know why, but everywhere we go, one finds her and falls immediately in love.  Its actually quite remarkable.

Melissa is a more recent addition.  We had actually communicated via email regarding a research project in the past.  When we randomly met in person, her name sounded familiar, but what struck me more so than the coincidence of our previous link through research was her confidence and friendliness.  She is simply engaging.  She knows how to hold her own in the Big Boys Network, without sacrificing a molecule of her femininity.  She never loses her cool.  She cries unabashedly.  She’s practical and wise.  She taught me how to drink a martini, and forces me to the makeup counter every chance she gets.  Our friendship was built on long walks and endless conversations.  She is well-read and infinitely interesting, warm, maternal, and naughty. 

The final addition to our OC tribe came in 2011, brought to the group by Kelly.  Lana and Kelly met at a dance class and of course Lana loved Kelly immediately (I’m sure it was her bounce), and they became fast friends.  We loved our addition; Lana is beautiful, quirky (seriously, who has to use GPS to go to the same familiar places over and over?), thoughtful and sweet.

For years we had a bubble of bliss.  Not that life was always kind, mind you—we had a divorce, health scares, breakups, biopsies, family emergencies and a nervous pregnancy.  But we also had champagne, girls’ weekends, manicures, makeovers, late-night talks by the fire.  We had each other.  Until, M fell in love and moved up north; L decided to choose a dramatic exit from our drama-free group; V’s husband was transferred to the Midwest; K fell in love and moved with her boyfriend to LA.  I was left Alone in Orange County, semi-buffered by a then-boyfriend from the full weight of the geographic loss of my girls, one by one.  And then the boyfriend.  And then I was Alone.