Carbon Dating : Part 1

Ditched by Dr. Right: And Other Distress Signals from the Edge of Polite Society
by Elizabeth Warner

In witty slice-of-life vignettes and laugh-out-loud cultural riffs, Elizabeth Warner shares her divinely demented view of the world. Raised by a mild-mannered psychiatrist father and a slightly off-kilter mother, Warner opted out of the life that awaited the youth of WASP heaven (aka Philadelphia's Main Line)-that is, to be "typically weaned, whelped, and privately schooled, whereupon you move on to the roost-and-spawn phase."

Yet no matter how far afield she ventures-to New York to become a master junk-mail marketer or to L.A. to do a little acting-Warner can't help but feel that sometimes she's getting nowhere fast on "some kind of Protestant monorail to doom."

Whether she's spelling out the invisible word "help" on a guy's shoulder blades during unfulfilling sex, getting out of jury duty by smearing herself with soy sauce, or convincing her mother that the words "career girl" are not her death knell, Warner proves that sometimes it doesn't matter where you go in life-just as long as you've got a killer punch line.

Chapter 1

This is a true story.

When you grow up in the Protestant blood clot that is suburban Philadelphia, there's very much a plan at work. One is typically weaned, whelped, and privately schooled, whereupon you move on to the roost-and-spawn phase, with the occasional rinse & repeat. And that's that. The plan is proven, it's time-honored, it's genetically appropriate. Curiously, however, it neither applied to nor worked for me.

In my case, the best-laid plans of mice and men are best left to mice and men.

As the youngest of seven (the next child being seven years older), I grew up in a family that remains astonished I can button a garment and walk upright at the same time. Nor will this change. Were I to develop a fun, easy, at-home way to split the atom, or stem the tide of Parkinson's disease, they'd still say, Oh, the little one? She doesn't do too much. But she has nice hair.

They're pretty sure I put the I in inertia.

My mother, a pathologically elegant woman whom we'll call the Widow Warner, has maybe four big concerns. The Four Horsemen of her Anglican Apocalypse are

1. post-Soviet Communist domination;
2. my marital status;
3. osteoporosis; and
4. the network cancellation of JAG.

On the day I announced that I was considering a departure from Manhattan, in order to try a Year Abroad in Los Angeles, nobody really knew what to do. Although everyone certainly had something to say. (The Year Abroad actually turned into several, but that's another story.)

Plus, my proposed relocation seemed even more implausible given that until recently I had regarded Southern California as a kind of backyard to the Antichrist. It was New York's slower, spoiled, thicker, and more slothful sibling (and I'd never even seen Canada).

Mother was shocked. Then worried. Then horrified. And finally, what on earth am I going to tell people bewildered. For one thing, she has always viewed California as a kind of lost, vestigial Spanish colony. And two, she's long felt that human interaction, fiscal negotiating, and air travel are not the kinds of things her youngest should try to tackle unsupervised. I reminded my family that they had all seen my initial move to New York - where one's entire net worth would no doubt be forcibly removed either at gunpoint or at Barney's - as yet another testament to my immaturity. Apparently nobody could recall ever saying anything of the sort. I was sure this and other observations had naturally been relegated to that emotional cedar closet that every youngest child has, which is always chockablock full of accusations, observations, pronouncements, and edicts elder siblings will eternally deny ever having made.

Additionally, we all well remembered that our own great-aunt (a noted ambassador, playwright, and significant backer of causes that seemed uncomfortably Aryan to me) had always said, "California? You can't get a Goddamned thing fixed in Southern California when you want to. And when do they always tell you it'll be ready? Mañana. Mañana. Everything's mañana." My siblings and I had ignored what may have been her senility, her cultural imperialism, or her genuine racism.

Of course, the Year Abroad idea would simmer codependently for a long while. In the time it might take to (a) groom and promote a boy band, (b) triple the U.S. national debt, or (c) run out the lease on a Jetta, I would acquire some small degree of penny-wisdom. I would fall hopelessly in love with a bright, grumpy, whinging journalist. With whom I was smitten, and who was funny, like you read about. We would be charitably referred to as the Jew and the Shrew. I would spend my twenties stumbling haplessly through the greatest city on earth. I would become wildly proficient at a job that was as heady and rewarding as it was toxic. I would disappoint and embarrass most of my family. All this before I could summon the capacity to awkwardly stare doubt, familial roadblocks, and nonrefundable airfares in the face. And even begin to consider boarding the last Leap of Faith train to the coast.

Nor would any of this have transpired had it not been for the swiftly agonizing departure of one Dr. Right. Here's what happened.

Everything began one Ides-riddled March. When I had the world by the tail. Or at least by a hind leg. I was a Senior Promotional Copywriter at Time Inc.'s Consumer Marketing Group. This is the in-house advertising agency responsible for the promotion of some twelve magazines to the general public. I authored persuasive marketing copy to readers and consumers. The goal was to bring in new magazine subscribers and keep them on board for the rest of their lives. I was most definitely part of the plan. And thus far, it was working. I was going to live snappily ever after. I had a superb office with several windows and an enormous hexagonal coffee table, largely because I could. I authored million-dollar sweepstakes. My job was to lure unsuspecting Middle Americans into purchasing magazines they didn't want, wouldn't like, and probably couldn't read, all with the promise that they'd love the sneaker phone we'd also send them the instant we got their check or money order. With really tangible results. If we did our job well enough, which I almost accidentally did, we could whip Middle Americans into such a buying frenzy that they'd eat their young if they thought there was an AM/FM clock radio in the deal.

Copyright © 2005 by Elizabeth Warner.

About the Author

Elizabeth Warner is a writer and actress whose one-woman show, The Wandering Eye, premiered at HBO's Aspen Comedy Festival. She has read her work on NPR and written for several network game shows, and particularly keen viewers can spot her in a few films. Elizabeth lives in Los Angeles but, no fool, maintains a home in New York as well.