Coulda, Shoulda...

I am considered clever by some of my friends, but they don’t know the truth of my frequent verbal paralysis. I’ve been Ms. Tongue-Tied too often in my life.

I’ve reviewed some those pivotal moments for an anthology that I’m considering editing, tentatively called, “Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda.” None of these incidents were violent or tragic, just stunningly stupid, usually in a sexist or socially inept way — sometimes both.

Following are a few excerpts:
Cutting off their nose to spite their face: I have just passed the California Bar exam and, since I am not interested in highly paid indentured servitude, am looking for a job outside of law firms. I hear there is a new nonprofit forming to combat the often highly sexualized and violent images of women on album covers. Since I am an organizer and a theater actor/producer, as well as an ardent feminist committed to ending violence against women, I’m excited about the job prospect. I am a board of directors’ dream come true. Oh, yeah, and I’m married to one of the hottest recording engineers in the rock music industry. We have “access,” since we have close working relationships and friendships with many of the big recording stars. My phone calls with the search committee go beautifully. They are excited about me. It looks like I have the position nailed. I walk into their office and the interviewer’s face falls. What was it, I wonder? The interview ends abruptly. I later call to ask if they are considering me. Nope. I would send the wrong message when meeting with record company executives, she says. I am too pretty! This is one of the only times I’ve ever heard that phrase to describe me; how stupid that they consider it a liability.

The “Other” Woman: I am a client of a prestigious talent agency that specializes in talk and game show “personalities” — people fast on their feet with ad-libs and mindless, witty banter. A famous national game show is looking for a new host and they decide to get really creative and actually consider a (drum roll, please…) woman! In the mid-’80s this is a radical and practically unthinkable idea. But I am a “natural,” with girl-next-door good looks and the ability to be cheerfully shallow with the best of male hosts. My interview process progresses to the fourth meeting! My agent is convinced I have the job. I’m practically drooling over the very hefty salary I’ll be making. I go into the final interview and the producer has me shut the door. He looks sheepish. He says, “We think you’re fabulous. We’ve been agonizing over this decision, but we’ve decided to go with a man. The last woman we tried just didn’t work out.”

Of course, if we voted for presidents or members of Congress with “the last man we tried just didn’t work out,” we’d have no one left to do anything ever again!

VD-Day: I am 18 years old, fresh off the turnip truck from South Dakota and grateful to be in California, a state where I feel like I belong the moment I set foot here. It’s the early 1970s, a time of newly minted women’s freedom and sexual revolution. I am a theater geek and love all of it — especially acting and singing. I fall in love with the head of the drama department’s acting program, who happens to be directing a lot of the upcoming shows. He is 25 years my senior and is a recovering monk, recently released from a monastery where he’d lived for the previous 10 years. He is horny.

Our attraction is mutual and we soon became an “item.” Rather than being a classic example of someone working from a “casting couch,” he turns out to be a “casting grouch,” more concerned with his reputation than my education. He goes out of his way to not cast me in the plays, even though there are several leads I’m perfect for. So much for my growth as an actor or his mentoring abilities.

He calls and says he’s got gonorrhea and “by extension,” I probably do too. I’m hurt and terrified. This is way before instant research: I can’t simply use Google to find out if gonorrhea is deadly or merely insanity-producing.
“I’ll be right over to take you to the clinic. The county requires I make sure you get treated,” he says.

Fifteen minutes later I hear him honk outside. Classy. I guess he didn’t learn venereal disease etiquette as a monk.
I go outside. He’s borrowed a station wagon and has two other girls in the car. Girls that I know in the drama department. Girls who presumably have also swapped fluids with him and may be carrying his bacteria.
Stunned, I do not have anything to say. Instead, I dutifully get into the “clap mobile” and go to the VD clinic with them.

Oooh, the things I coulda, shoulda, woulda said if I’d been thinking straight in all of these situations!
I’ve learned since then that part of the 20-20 “hindsight” syndrome is when shocking things happen, our body releases cortisol and adrenalin, chemicals that literally render you speechless.

So much for Ms. Witty Pants. 

If you have a similar story that you’d like to contribute to the unpaid anthology, contact me at snortland.com.