The "Wheel World" - Las Vegas

Do people really think they’re invisible once they get behind the wheel of an automobile? I really want to know the answer to this question. Here's why...coming home from work tonight, I observed some mighty bizarre behavior, and thought it prudent to make a couple of observations about people’s car-etiquette.

Let me preface this story by saying that I live in Las Vegas, and “what happens here…” is supposed to stay here. But I am certain this goes on worldwide.

I pulled up next to a rather attractive woman at a stoplight, driving a late-model Lexus SC, and she was holding her hand, palm side up, in front of her mouth. At first, I thought she was yawning, but as the hand stayed in the same position for about 15 or 20 seconds, and her lips were only slightly parted, I realized that she was smelling her own breath. Checking herself out for bad breath. The jury (of one) was apparently having a rough time coming to a verdict. I am DYING to know just what that decision was.

A couple of stoplights later, there was a middle-aged man in a convertible and I SWEAR he had a finger inserted in his left ear UP TO HIS WRIST. So furiously was he digging, I was convinced he must have been searching for intelligent life somewhere in there. (It didn't look too promising).

I got to the last stoplight before entering the freeway tunnel and a young woman in a Prius lifted her left arm and SNIFFED HER ARMPIT. Yep, doing the pit check before reaching her destination, which was probably a clandestine assignation of some sort. I hope, for the sake of the party on the other end of her journey, the odor emanating from that particular part of her body was a pleasant or at least neutral one. However, I thought to myself, if she's questioning the scent of her armpits...she might have other, more pungent issues to address. Eww.

Then, once I got on the freeway itself, I passed a Toyota Camry carrying two men. The passenger was pulling his T-shirt over his head. I assume he was changing clothes, but the possible outcomes of that particular scenario are many and varied.

The thing is, we get into our automobiles, and become completely oblivious to those around us. For safety reasons, we certainly can't install curtains or blinds on the windows. So we do breath checks, pit checks, ear digs, change clothes, and we do all of this, and more, as though our cars offer us complete invisibility from the outside world.

Umm, they DON'T. So beware...others traveling next to you just might be watching...and writing...about you.

Assess your life . . . and you shall be free!

It's Assessment Time: Time to take a look at where I am in my evolution. Feeling pretty good overall...but let's do a little inventory--taking, shall we?

JOB: Excellent. Solution: If it ain't broke, as they say…What's not to love about a job which involves learning on a daily basis, interaction with (sometimes) stimulating people from several different areas of the entertainment world, and an outlet for my seemingly endless mind-vault of absolutely useless, prior to this gig, fountain of pop-culture knowledge and other assorted trivia. I still work quite a bit as a musician. My voice-over business is going well. So, when it comes to making a living, I would say I'm fortunate in that area. But I still reserve the right to bitch about it, to no-one in particular. No-one really gives a shit about your personal hell, they're living their own, and are normally quite happy to cluck and nod sympathetically while silently wondering what the fuck they're going to do in order to climb out of their own personal quagmires. That's OK...it's human nature...

HOME: Cold. Solution: Re-decorate, re-paint, warm it up considerably. When we first moved into this house, it was painted off-white everywhere. We re-painted it even whiter, because that's what my then-husband wanted. White, with the slightest hint of purple, which only made the home colder. It was completely devoid of anything remotely resembling an inviting place in which to live and love. The decor, I'm afraid, was "early Inuit igloo." So I bought furniture. Some beautiful stuff, lots of wood and leather, a great Karastan rug for the family room, and I ripped up the carpet in the small bedroom and put in a hardwood floor. Then, on to the paint. I picked out some warm browns, creams, and in one room, a beautiful dark sage green. Accented some of the features around the fireplace, and some of the archways throughout the house. Big difference. Some of the stark, Arctic white remains in a couple of the bathrooms and in the laundry room, but that will be repainted and Beth-ized in the not-too-distant future, when money is a bit less of a problem. I have so much I want to do with this house. I am finally making it mine.

MIND: Pretty good, considering. But still need to figure out and take responsibility for my part in the dissolution of the marriage. Solution: Counseling, with on-again, off-again therapist, Marta. She was the therapist whose help I sought out after I made the decision to cut the cord on my marriage. She's great…and BONUS! A sex therapist, to boot. I have no problem with sex. Love it, actually. Except for the glaringly obvious fact that up until after my divorce, I wasn't really getting any, nor had I for quite some time. And, as either a symptom or a consequence, there hadn't been any real intimacy between us for several years. By the time I got up the guts to ask for what I wanted and needed, I was so numbed by his disinterest, I no longer cared to participate in the relationship. Probably seems cold, but it's the truth, ugly as it may be.

HEALTH: I'm pretty fit, but can always improve my condition. Solution: Stop doing stuff that's bad for me. I'm not perfect, never have been, probably never will be. Don't have time to obsess. I still smoke 3 or 4 cigarettes a day. More if I'm out drinking wine with friends in a smoky bar. I hate it, and it will be a habit that is ejected from my life soon. I drink moderately, don't do drugs. I've been working for quite a while with a personal trainer, and I have always watched what I eat. I'm doing what the fashion magazines say not to...in that I'm over 35 and still proudly wear a bikini. I hardly ever get sick.

Never utter those words, out loud or on paper. Because, once you do, the following spectacle is the kind of thing that happens…

DATING: I had a music gig at the Orleans showroom a couple of months ago, the same night I came down with an absolutely miserable bout of the flu/bronchitis/consumption/whatever, for the first time in a few years--and I accidentally met a guy. He was on a cell phone, dressed in a tux, cute, maybe around 50, and obviously was going to the show we were playing--which, by the way, was the WORST show EVER. When someone weaves the Theme from "Exodus" with "Hava Nagila", it's pretty much a "vanity show" for someone who obviously had the "disposable income" to hire a huge orchestra. The only thing that made it the least bit tolerable for me was doing shots from the bottle of tequila one of the singers featured in the program benevolently brought "for the band"....God bless her...I don't normally like tequila, but when your throat is on fire, tequila makes you forget the pain. Come to think of it, it pretty much made the Hava Nagila/Exodus medley tolerable…enjoyable, even.

As I said before, I am not a sickly person. Colds, flu, what have you-don't normally attack me. But here I was, in all my red-nosed splendor, eyes at half-mast, an ache for every joint in my body…and a few extra, just in case I might momentarily forget I was sick.

Despite this decidedly unattractive countenance, for some reason, this man zeroed in on me (what a BABE, he was no doubt thinking…..) disconnected his call and decided to gravitate towards me as I was getting ready to go in to the backstage area. Mind you, this is an area built by the Orleans Hotel/Casino to replicate as closely as possible the "feel" of New Orleans. Which, loosely translated, means "lots of wrought iron bars." Also, "distinct smell of pee." So, he was looking down on me (and on my cleavage, of which he had a stellar view), began talking to me, asking questions, and seemed like a very pleasant man, which was something I definitely wasn't in the mood for. I just wanted to do the damned gig and get the Christ out of there. But he wouldn't shut up. And he really was very nice, I couldn't just walk away. SO I stayed, for a bit, until it was comfortable to extricate myself. I tried to make conversation, but it really didn't matter, this guy was holding up both ends of it. In making small talk, the guy said, ironically but without knowing it, "Isn't it just great that you are going to work tonight....doing what you love to do....and at least you didn't have to get up at 5AM and do rounds at the hospital, like I did." Feeling more feverish by the moment, I snapped. Ready to fight. (So NOT like me). I retorted, not very kindly, "Oh, yeah? I've been up since 2:30 AM getting ready for a fucking morning radio show. I'm sick as a dog, and this particular music job is only slightly better than factory work." I thought that would put him off. Even if he was attractive, I wondered, "How discerning can this man be if he's coming to THIS concert? He kept up with the talking, mostly about inane day-to-day business, as I plotted my escape to the confines of the Green Room. For the moment, behind those wrought-iron bars by the backstage door at the Orleans, I was a captive audience. Seemingly, and obtusely, both literally AND figuratively. So I discovered that this guy (says he) used to be a DJ in Los Angeles, before he became a psychologist. PSYCHOLOGIST. I filed away that little tidbit about him for future reference. He asked me for my card, which I gave him, but not before asking him for his name, twice. Frank. Paul. No. Fred something. Huh? I was so out of it, nothing registered. But I figured I'd never hear from him again, so, I thought, "what the hell."

The next morning was a Wednesday. I had promised my morning show partner I would come in to work that day. But when I awoke, I was so sick I could hardly talk. I figured I could at least get through the show. And I did, but just barely. It wasn't pretty. Anyway, I went to visit my family doctor after work, was diagnosed with a bad case of bronchitis and laryngitis, and was ordered to take Thursday and Friday off. I got a phone call Thursday about 30 minutes after my show would have ended, and some guy on the other end of the line says, "Hey, babe, how are ya? This is Fred." To which I croaked, "WHO??" He said, "Fred (blah-blah)....from the other night backstage at the Orleans...the doctor. Are you OK?" Stating the obvious, I said, "No." We went through the usual pleasantries, as far as I remember, but I was under the influence of codeine-laced cough syrup, which, let me tell you, makes me feel very strange. I'm wired when I'm on it. Last time I tried to take it, I was up all night, and online, and I bought a laptop from Dell, which I proudly "built" myself. (Along with the co-pay, that cough syrup cost me $2,707.00). Ever want to get me to do something wacky, feed me codeine or morphine first. I'll do just about anything. And I won't have any memory of it. Makes me violently ill, but at least I'm not coughing then.

But I digress.

We decide during our conversation, this guy Fred or Frank (by now I am mentally labeling him as Dr. Fred) to go out at some point. He offered to help me in any way he could. And since I was so sick, gave me some free medical advice ("take some Allegra...I can get you some, if you need it"...HEY...I thought to myself. You're a PSYCHOLOGIST...you can't PRESCRIBE ANYTHING....and Allegra is an ALLERGY MEDICATION, doofus...) but he was seemingly caring. The conversation ended shortly thereafter. He put the ball squarely in my court, which is precisely where I left it, because I was far too sick to do anything with the goddamn ball but try to identify its shape, which was in itself a stretch. I still didn't get his full name. Wasn't sure I really gave a shit. So I didn't call him. A week lapsed, and my cell phone rang one day, and there was Dr. Fred..."yada yada yada...would LOVE to go out with you and explore the conversation we started at the Orleans, now that you're better...I work at the E.R. 4 days a week, 4 hours a day-you have a much busier schedule than I do, so call me when you get some time." So I did, that Friday. Not, however, before doing a little detective work.

I have many friends who are doctors here in Las Vegas. Doctors who have been in town for a LONG time. Doctors who I call whenever I get the slightest twinge of something which I know will require more than aspirin and sleep. So I asked my oldest and very best doctor friend to see what he could find out about this guy. Phil supposedly worked at a local hospital with Catholic ties. My friend could find out NOTHING about Fred. Red flag. Danger, danger, Will Robinson...But, during one of my conversations with Fred, I vaguely remembered him telling me he was an investor in one of the real estate development companies here in town. I was familiar with the company, so I decided to call a successful Realtor friend (Why is that word capitalized, by the way? I am not a Radio Personality or a Musician…) and ask if he had heard of this guy. My Realtor friend had, he told me, and none of his history involved prison...so I thought, "OK....what the hell, he seems totally harmless…" and it was better than the last guy I'd gone out with," who, as it turned out, HAD a prison record--aggravated assault and attempted murder. 5 years in D-block. (It didn't mitigate the circumstance too well when he told me he was "really popular" in prison. "Whoa! Would ya LOOK at the time! I have to be up REALLY early in the morning..." Next.....)

In the meantime, my doctor friend was asking me more and more questions about Dr. Fred. One of my friend's e-mails didn't reach me until after I had gone out on the first date last Friday night. My doctor friend finally said, "OK...he 'volunteers' and 'invests'...but does he have a job?" To which I replied, after that first date....

"No, he does not have a full-time job. Says he's 52, has 2 daughters, 22 and 29. And, he added, if he ever called either one of them and told them he had a job, and was actually working for a living, they'd laugh their asses off, because they have never known him to actually...work. To hear him talk about it, it sounds like he is pretty much independently wealthy, I think it's "old money" combined with some good investments. Nice guy, but isn't what I would consider my type. A real "talker." Big time name-dropper. He's only 9 months out of a relationship and absolutely HATES being alone. But the capper for me was...and you KNOW I am not a bigot, by any means...when I found out he's a Jehovah's Witness. He's half Italian, half Jewish, no problem, as long as I don't have to go to mass or temple. I don't belong to a religious group, yet I am very much in touch with my spiritual side, always have been. But, as I told him, I have a real problem with organized religion of ANY kind, when it's being shoved down my throat. Don't like the religious solicitations at my door. I have shut the door on more Jehovah's Witnesses and even Mormons than I care to count. But, Dr. Fred explained to me, "I really feel good when I go to those Witness meetings."

"Oh, really?" I said, "Do you think you feel better because of the oneness with a higher being you experience while you're at those meetings? Because you should be able to find that in the simple beauty of a single blade of grass. Or could it be you enjoy it because you have a need to be with a large group of people?"

(I'm not sure where I came up with that line of bullshit, but I usually can give as good as I get, and I felt I was getting quite a pantload from this man.)

Silence. He gave me the deer-in-the-headlights look, and then the soft reply, "I think it's because I need to be with people."

So I have to tell you, if I am to believe everything this man told me that particular Friday night, his father was one of the executive producers for the movie "The Graduate." Fred also claims he was one of the people who started MTV, Soul Train, was the first male flight attendant with United Airlines. From there he went to being a Chippendales dancer, turned down a job working alongside Donald Trump, IS best friends with Joe Vitarelli (the guy who played "Jelly"-the pock-marked guy in "Analyze This")--I let him go on about that one until finally I said, "Joe died last year, Fred..." (which is true, he died a year ago last February). The jig was definitely up. I can't, without putting forth more effort than I really care to at this point, prove or disprove his radio career in LA, but, at this point, it doesn't matter. I felt as if I had gone out on a date with Forrest Gump. If I believed everything this man told me, I think I would be automatically required to deduct at least 30 points from my IQ. I can't afford to lose them.

Since then, I have heard from Dr. Fred several times. And have found that he is, indeed, who he says he is with regard to the real estate holdings, and working in the ER part-time as a mental health counselor for the indigent. He is independently wealthy. But his quotient of bovine byproduct is just a little too over-the-top, even for me. I don't care how much damn money he has.

Bullshit detector: Optimal.

Prologue

I remember the first time I saw the ocean.

Actually, I smelled it before I saw it. I was seven years old, and that summer my entire family, all six of us, had noisily piled into the old Ford station wagon, pulling a pop-up camper behind us, for a two-week camping trip from Indiana to Virginia Beach to points along the East Coast. The plan was, if the four of us kids didn't kill each other or drive our parents nuts with our incessant bickering along the way, to then drive all the way up the coast to Maine, stopping along the way to camp whenever we felt like it. As the old wagon rattled and coughed and belched dark smoke behind us (Al Gore would have had a seizure at the sight of this gas-guzzling thrill ride, which probably got about 6 miles per gallon), we got closer to the shore. The breeze was blowing off the ocean, and I remember the gulls…the gulls were frolicking, flocking, teasing…it wouldn't be far now. And the magical scent of the sea grew more pungent as we got closer. The salty, moist air was as wonderful as any I'd ever smelled or felt before.

We drove over a hill, past a billboard that said, "Virginia is for Lovers." Whatever. I was seven. I didn't care much about that. Where's the ocean? Good thing I was never one of those "are we there yet" kids. I would have slapped me.

Then we rambled through the town of Virginia Beach…and there it was! Finally! A glimmer of blue. A sparkle here and there. Then….a beautiful white-sand beach. And boats on a big expanse of blue water! Kind of like Lake Michigan, I thought, because that had been the largest body of water I'd experienced up until then.

We parked the car, and walked out to the pier. I was taking it all in, but it hadn't really hit me yet…

I remember holding my father's hand as we walked toward the end of the pier. I looked up, and out at the horizon. And I suddenly got very dizzy. This same feeling would happen again, some 13 years later, when I first tried to fly a small plane over a field in Nebraska, looking at the artificial horizon on the control panel, then out to the REAL horizon. What terrified me in both instances was the size of the damned thing. The horizon seemed within reach, yet I'd paid just enough attention in school to know that was a destination I'd never get to, no matter how far I traveled. The enormity of what I was seeing before me, and how small and insignificant I felt comparatively just completely overwhelmed me.

So, I threw up over the edge of the pier. (My M.O. up until I was about 8 or so was to throw up at those key times in my life that I was over-stimulated, either positively or negatively. Christmas at my house, growing up, will always be associated with a bucket and large quantities of red-and-green patterned Scott Towels.) 13 years later, by the way, I also threw up in the plane.

But back to the seven-year-old Beth at the ocean. All it took to snap me out of this terrible feeling was to dive in and swim. And that's exactly what I did. My brother and I were bodysurfing by day's end. I not only conquered my fear, but began to "own" the sea, as much as any one of us can. I came to love the feel of the water on my skin, its salty buoyancy, the sunlight on my face and the sand between my toes to the point that my parents had a hell of a time getting me OUT of the water and away from the beach each day, all the way up the coast to Bar Harbour, Maine. I also conquered my fear of heights on that same vacation while at a granite quarry in Vermont (with apologies to this day to anyone who happened to be working down below the observation deck while I faced my initial queasiness). I'm still not too crazy about small planes. But I can do them, if I have to.

My point now, is this. It's years later, and I'm now standing before what seems like another enormous life-changing element of some sort. An abyss, if you will, and I'm getting a bit queasy at the sight of it. It's another "great unknown," in the form of the end of my marriage, and the beginning of a whole new life. This abyss has been there for some time; I have been aware of it, but just couldn't look up and completely face the fact that in order to grow, I needed to just dive into the middle of it, and trust that just like the seven-year-old Beth, the modern-day one would emerge, victoriously, swimming strongly towards a much better future for all concerned.

By all accounts, I already had, and still have, a wonderful life. I just happened to have a marriage that was more frightening to me than this abyss. He wasn't a bad man, far from it. But he never really "got me." That's the short version of the story.

I knew that living the rest of my life with him would be like living in some kind of demented suburban prison. And that would be a waste of not only my life, but his, too. Maybe in a sense I was holding him prisoner, as well, by not letting go. My biggest sin was the wasting of all that time. Life is so precious, and I let it go by. There's something to fear, right there.

So I finally got up the guts to do it. I spent a couple of years scraping up the money to buy him out of his half of the assets. Sad business, this dissolution of marriage. He went on with the process of finding another place to live. We divided up 15 years worth of life and its associated artifacts. Many tears were shed by both of us, but we parted friends, and actually I don't feel too much differently about him than I did when we were together.

I continued on this journey of self-discovery, and began to emerge, in my own time, and to start the process of opening myself up to new people, and, for the first time in more than 15 years, new men. Again, the frightened seven-year-old Beth would, occasionally, nag me with her little fearful voice. And from time to time, I would feel less than whole within myself, as if I had some kind of disease.

Is "singledom" a disease? How the hell do I know? It seems that in the 21st century, every twitch, sneeze, or bump is now a disease, or at least a "syndrome." So maybe I am carrying around with me an affliction. It certainly does feel at times that I have some condition that others are afraid of contracting. At other times, friends and acquaintances seem to have this highly idealized view of my life as being incredibly glamorous and very comfortable. I vacillate between being quite comfortable and, well, feeling a bit queasy. (There's that word again…) The glamorous part is there from time to time, but initially, when it occurred, it felt as if it was someone else's life.

That said, I'm writing this, sitting in my office wearing a tank top and a bikini bottom while eating Jif Extra Crunchy peanut butter with a spoon straight out of the jar. What a CATCH I am! (Hey...at least I'm using a spoon...if I hadn't just had a manicure, I might well have been using my index finger.) But it's December, the Christmas tree is up, and all things considered, I am feeling pretty damned festive.

"It must be SO exciting to be single, in your position, and living in Las Vegas!" OK, with my job(s), it really is, sometimes. I get to hobnob with some pretty interesting people, anyway, which is really fun. Other times, "fun" isn't the word I'd use to describe my life. Comfortable? Yeah, it's nice to be able to eat peanut butter right out of the jar. Especially when you don't want to go to the grocery. No-one will starve. It's nice to go a day every once in a while without showering or putting on makeup. To go to the gym or the pool and not feel as if I'm neglecting someone else in my effort to take care of myself. To emit bodily noises when no-one's around can still make me giggle. On some levels, I'm still seven-year- old Beth.

It's a really exciting new phase in my life, and am going to document it as much as I possibly can. It really has been interesting, to me, anyway, so far. Even going out on dates has been an adventure-and I can't really even call it "dating" in the conventional sense. So far, it's been "meet the guy somewhere safe, and see what happens" or "meet the guy with a group of friends, and see if we click," situations of that nature. I'm sure that will change, somewhere along the line. It's only been a few months.

And here's one of many of the "little" things I'm having to face for the first time. In anticipation of what inevitably lies ahead for me as a single woman, I'm trying to get up the courage to buy condoms. Better be prepared, right? Last time I was out in the dating world, so many years ago, condoms weren't really an issue. And my two relationships these past twenty years have been monogamous and long-term. So I glance at the brightly-colored boxes in the drug store, and am overwhelmed at the incredible variety available… "Extra-thin." "Ribbed for HER pleasure." (How thoughtful! But EMBARASSING! And do they make "ribbed for HIS pleasure" condoms? My mind is racing…I need…to…get…out…of…here…can't…breathe…) I can't make a decision on this. Hell, I can't even bring myself to ask the pharmacist. I'm sure the conversation would go something like this:

Me: "Hi, I'm buying condoms for the first time, and I'd really like your input on what kind I should get."

Pharmacist: (thinking to himself: "Must be an ex-nun, or just got out of jail….") Then-speaking loudly enough so the customers on line behind me can hear: "Well, it really depends on your particular needs…will you be using them for birth control or specifically for the avoidance of sexually-transmitted diseases….."

Me: (nervous laughter…) "I'm just kidding. Can you tell me what aisle the Bibles are in?"

So I think I will end up sending my friend Ned* (*not his real name) to get them for me. Ned is a great-looking guy, straight, but he hasn't had sex in such a long time that he has a box of condoms in his bedside drawer from 1987. Really. I'm not making this up. He even opened one up while we were on the phone the other night. It was, basically, dust. Oh my God. That could be me in ten years. And before you say, "If he's that good-looking, and he's straight, why don't you go out with Ned?" Let me just tell you-I love Ned, but it would be like sleeping with my brother.

I'll tackle that problem a little later. I don't need to rush out 'n find me a man, I think I need to date myself for a while. And I think I can safely have sex with myself without condoms. Whew.

Anyway, I made the decision to lose the fear and end a marriage. I am confident it was the right decision. And it's only been a little more than a year since that decision was made. So I need to lighten up on myself.

Meanwhile, you'll find me in the ocean, or even in my abyss, which is of course beautifully decorated now, enjoying myself immensely in a place that once frightened me beyond words…but safe in the knowledge that the fear will last just for a little while, and only as long as I allow it to.

"All swim…"