The Year of Yesby Maria Dahvana Headley
Like many young people everywhere, playwright Maria Headley had had her fill of terrible dates. Discouraged and looking for love, she decided the time had come for her to eliminate her own (clearly not adequately discriminating) taste from the equation. Instead -- as she vowed to her roommates one frustrated
A funny, poignant memoir recounting a year of saying yes
Like many young people everywhere, playwright Maria Headley had had her fill of terrible dates. Discouraged and looking for love, she decided the time had come for her to eliminate her own (clearly not adequately discriminating) taste from the equation. Instead -- as she vowed to her roommates one frustrated morning -- she would date every person who asked her out for an entire year, regardless of circumstances. It would be her Year of Yes.
Leaving her judgment and predispositions at the door, our heroine ventured into a world suddenly brimming with opportunity and found herself saying yes to:
- The Microsoft Millionaire who still lived with his mom.
- An actor she had previously sworn off as gay.
- And finally the significantly older man, divorced with kids, who she never would have looked at twice before the Year of Yes -- and to whom she is now happily married.
Hilariously funny and ultimately inspirational, The Year of Yes will appeal to every person who has turned down a date for the wrong reason.
- Hachette Books
- Publication date:
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- Product dimensions:
- 5.20(w) x 10.86(h) x 0.67(d)
- Age Range:
- 18 Years
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THE YEAR OF YESa memoir
By Maria Dahvana Headley
HYPERIONCopyright © 2006 Maria Dahvana Headley
All right reserved.
Chapter OneA DAY IN THE LIFE OF A NAYSAYER IN WHICH OUR HEROINE DECIDES TO START SAYING YES ...
That woman speaks eighteen languages, and can't say "no" in any of them.
IMAGINE FOR A MOMENT THAT YOU ARE YOUNG, FEMALE, AND APPALLINGLY, POSSIBLY UNATTRACTIVELY, WELL READ. You grew up in a small town in Idaho, but now you live in New York City, the most exciting and romantic place in the country, and feasibly in the world. According to the literature you're choosing to apply to your current situation (you've carefully forgotten that you ever read Last Exit to Brooklyn), you are supposed to be wearing sequins to breakfast and getting your hand kissed by a heterosexual version of Cole Porter. Incandescently intelligent men are supposed to be toasting you with Dom Perignon. Instead, you're sharing a cockroach-ridden outer-borough apartment with two roommates and one dysfunctional cat. You're spending your evenings sitting on your kitchen floor, drinking poisonous red jug wine, and quoting Sartre. Hell is not only other people, it is you, too. You're not getting laid, because even if you were meeting something other than substandard men, you don't have a bedroom to call your own. And instead ofthe smoldering, soul-baring, Abelard-to-Heloise-sans-castration solicitations you rightfully deserve, you're getting stupefying lines like: "I'm listening to NPR. Do you want to come over and make out?"
That would be a direct quote.
Let me back up. Seven A.M. on February 14th, and I was lying on my lumpy mattress, alone again. The noises of NYC had ceased to metamorphose into the hopeful bird trills and tender love songs I'd imagined when I'd first arrived, a year before, and instead sounded like what they were: garbage trucks, honking horns, and the occasional cockroach scuttle. Granted, my last doomed relationship had been significantly more crow than canary, and more Nirvana than Sinatra. Still, it was Valentine's Day, and I was considering a backslide. It didn't matter that ceasing communication with my most recent disaster, Martyrman, an actor twice my age and half my maturity, had unquestionably been the right decision. It didn't matter how many times I told myself that I was the brainwashed victim of propaganda created by sugar lobbyists in order to engender mass consumption of chocolate. Waking up on February 14th without someone to love was depressing.
I was becoming convinced that I was going to be lonely for the rest of my life. It wasn't that I wasn't meeting men. I was. It was just that they all drove me crazy. I was not a member of a modern-day Algonquin Round Table, populated with the pretty, witty, and wise, as I'd moved to New York envisioning I'd be. Instead, I was a denizen of something more along the lines of the Holiday Inn Card Table, populated with the zitty, twitty, and morally compromised. I wasn't yet to the point of Dorothy Parker's infamous quote-"Ducking for apples. Change one letter and it's the story of my life."-but that was only because I didn't have time to approach my own bed, let alone anyone else's. The main problem of living in the city that never slept was that neither did I.
When I got home from my usual exhausting day of racing uptown and downtown between classes at NYU and my various temp jobs, all I did was crumple up on my mattress, muttering to myself and reading books that made my problems worse. The night before, for example, when the front neighbor's lullaby of sternum-thumping bass had made it clear to me that I wouldn't be sleeping, I'd picked up Prometheus Bound. Reading Aeschylus had thrown me into a waking nightmare of being stretched on a rock, my liver plucked at by rapacious turtledoves.
Somewhere nearby, someone was practicing an aria from The Ring Cycle. Whoever was singing Brunhilde was flat. Worse than that, someone small, soprano, and canine was singing harmony, sharp. My downstairs neighbor, Pierre LaValle, had started his daily apartment sanitization process. For someone with linoleum floors, the man had an unhealthy relationship with his vacuum. Add to this the revival tent set up at the end of the adjacent block, the house party two buildings down, and the fact that the back neighbor's illegal psycho rooster couldn't tell headlights from sunlight, and the night was pretty much a wash.
The opera singer switched to "what's Love Got to Do With It?" The canine backup started in on a rousing counterpoint of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." I let fury course through my veins. My sleep deprivation was partially my own fault, admittedly, but since I hadn't had a good time the night before, I was blaming it on everyone else.
I'd arrived home at 3:00 A.M., having spent the evening with a fellow New York University student. We'd eaten Korean barbeque, discussed Kierkegaard, and split the check in half, despite the fact that he'd eaten four times more than I. He'd then tried, and failed, to wheedle the traditionally clad waitress's phone number from her "perfectly symmetrical lips." At the subway, he'd given me a rubbery smooch on the cheek and told me he thought we'd really had a meeting of the minds.
I levered the window open and stuck my hungover head outside. Everything looked bleak. I felt disturbingly Steinbeckian, as though, at any moment, I might find myself begging my roommates to "tell me about the rabbits." My life was a great big fat NO. It wasn't like I didn't want to be happy. It just seemed that happiness was eluding me.
My landlady, Gamma, was standing outside in our Astroturfed courtyard, feeding a pack of feral cats a platter of shriveled hot dogs. Gamma's six-year-old granddaughters, the twins, were sharing a ketchup-covered hot dog with a notch-eared tabby. One bite to each child, one to the tomcat. Gamma was not known for her vigilance.
"Probably rain," Gamma announced.
"Probably flood," I said. Never mind the clear skies. I was embracing pessimism.
"World's ending sometime next week," Gamma informed me. Gamma liked to talk about only two things: the Apocalypse and the Weather Channel. One of the twins gave a war whoop, and pitched the rest of the hot dog at my window. It landed inches from my face and slid down the building. The twins shrieked with mirth.
"What do you think you're laughing about?" demanded Gamma, and herded them indoors. It was clear from the rear view that one of the twins had wet her pants in the excitement. This was my home. These were my neighbors, the urban equivalents of the hicks I'd been desperate to leave behind in my home state of Idaho. Give Gamma and company a little more space, and they'd have had a few rusted-out cars, some scrabbly hounds, and a stockpile of The Book of Mormon. I'd thought things would be different here. No.
"NO," I SAID, TO THE WORLD AT LARGE. "No. No. No." I thought that maybe if I chanted it enough times, all the aggravating things in my life would stumble away into oblivion. Then I'd be free to have the existence I wanted, something much more glamorous and gratifying.
The "no" was nothing new. It had, after all, been the first word I'd ever spoken. There were photos of me, posing prissily as an infant, my arms crossed over my chest, and a look of pointed fury on my face. By the time I was two, the initial no had become a string of nyets, neins, and the occasional sarcastic ha! I'd swiftly learned to read, and books had been the end of any social aptitude I might have possessed. I'd retreated from whatever unsatisfactory experience was coming my way, be it hamburgers (I was, from birth, vegetarian) or PE class (steadfast refusal to play for anyone but myself caused issues with team sports), a volume of something clenched firmly in my hand. My mother maintains that I wasn't rude, but I think about the kind of child I must have been, interspersing meows (my cats were my only real friends, and I'd developed an unfortunate nervous tic that caused me to meow in stressful situations) with the vocabulary of a seventeenth-century noblewoman, and I do not know how I survived my childhood. Time was spent in both Special Education and Gifted and Talented programs.
From a second grade report card: "Maria has a good sense of humor, but doesn't tend toward social interaction and instead just laughs to herself. She could also use some supervision when it comes to her school clothes."
I'd learned to use a sewing machine at the age of seven. Sometimes I came to school dressed in quilt fragments and safety-pinned togas.
In high school, I got in massive trouble during an assembly, because I'd laughed at soon-to-be-elected Congresswoman Helen Chenoweth, who'd pleaded ignorance of her own policies. I was not the only person in opposition (Chenoweth turned out to be embarrassing even to the Republicans-in 1996, when her GOP primary opponent stripped nearly naked during a televised interview, and spent the month prior to the election in a psych ward, he still got 32 percent of the vote), but I was the only one dumb enough to think that everyone else would laugh, too. Moreover, I was, alas, sitting in the front row, wearing a ruffled orange frock and purple combat boots. When Chenoweth started crying, her cohort, Senator Larry Craig, shook his finger in my face and told me that I was a "very, very bad girl." It was a familiar theme. The only thing that kept me from being expelled was my friend Ira petitioning the principal with the suggestion that I was "a little bit retarded." My mode of existence obviously didn't work for everyone, and half the time it didn't work for me, either, but I was resigned. It was how I was made. I was a protestor. I was such a protestor that I regularly protested things that might have been good for me.
When I'd moved to New York, after high school, I'd begun to suddenly, miraculously, sort of fit in. Unfortunately, I'd said no to so many things that I wasn't sure how to say yes anymore. This was problematic, considering that what I'd thought I'd wanted had turned out to be a shifting target, and that every day, the city gave me new things to say yes to, things I'd resoundingly denied in the past. My nos had begun to tremble, particularly in the dating category. I'd tentatively started saying yes, but it had turned out that my judgment of who to bestow my yeses upon was deeply flawed. After a year in New York City, I'd dated plenty of people, but none that had even come close to whatever I thought my ideal was. That was the other problem. I was looking for something different, but I didn't know what it was.
Certainly nothing that was outside my window. Across the way, I could see my neighbors wandering around half-naked. It seemed that everyone in my neighborhood was always in a state of unappealing undress. Not only that, they were always screaming at each other, even at 7:00 in the morning.
"Please be quiet," ! whispered, not just to the neighbors, but to the whole damned city. "Please, just let me sleep." And for a moment, peace. I closed my eyes. I tucked myself back into bed.
I'd never been a person who could just let a telephone ring. I always thought that the person on the other end might be someone I'd been dying to talk to for my entire life. Say, William Shakespeare calling from beyond the grave. Never mind that this had never happened. Lately, it had been the Sears collection department, searching for another Maria Headley, who owed them $15,000. She'd apparently binged on appliances, and was even now hidden in some dank cave full of stand mixers. Even though I wasn't the right Maria, I always ended up talking to Sears for at least half an hour. I'd grown up on one of the last party lines in the known universe, and phone privileges still seemed precious to me.
"Good morning!" I trilled. It wouldn't do to have Will Shakespeare thinking I was cranky. Particularly on Valentine's Day. What if he thought I preferred Kit Marlowe? I suspected that the last good man on the planet had died 413 years before I was born, but some part of me was still waiting for Mr. Shakespeare to whisper some sweet iambic pentameter into my ear.
Alas, no. Instead, I heard the husky voice of the Director, an acquaintance from a writing workshop I'd attended the year before. The Director was in his mid-forties and divorced. He was an intelligent person, with extensive knowledge of two thousand years of theater history. There was just one problem. Sweater vests. I couldn't date a man who wore sweater vests, any more than I could date a man who was a mime. Everybody had phobias. Sweater vests threw me back, not to my charming grandpa, as they would some people, but to my skeezy high school geometry teacher, who had recently gone on trial for attempting to calculate the surface area of his female students' breasts. (My phobia of mimes was simpler: I was a playwright, and words were my business. I took miming as a personal insult, but more on that later ...)
The Director, with his sweater vests, with his husky voice, was not my first choice for someone I wanted to speak to at 7:30 in the morning. I liked him, but I didn't like him like that. We were supposed to see a play that night, and he was suggesting we meet up earlier. I said sure, but that I was still in my pajamas. He said he was really looking forward to seeing me, I said great and tried to say good-bye, and then, something went very wrong.
"I'm listening to NPR," he suddenly stammered. "Do you want to come over and make out?"
Well. I was finally going nuts. It was about time. Other people in my family were nuts. Why had I thought I'd been skipped?
"I didn't quite hear you," I said, just to make sure I was really losing it.
"I'm listening to NPR," the Director repeated. "Do you want to come over and make out?"
It wasn't a delusion. He'd offered me a radio rendezvous. Making out to Morning Edition. I had one question.
WHOSE LIFE WAS THIS?
"Is it for me?" yelled my roommate Victoria, but I didn't respond. I was itemizing the things I'd said to the Director that might have caused him to think that National Public Radio turned me on. I could think of nothing. I liked public radio, of course. Who didn't? But my attraction was strictly platonic.
A TINY LITTLE EXISTENTIAL CRISIS BEGAN TO NIBBLE AT THE BACK OF MY LEFT EYEBALL. Maybe it had been there for a while, and I just hadn't noticed it. My life left little time for reflection, given that my typical day involved rising at 5:30 A.M. to write a paper I'd inevitably forgotten, flying to the subway in order to get to NYU in time to attend an 8:00 A.M. lecture, where I'd usually fall asleep, flinging myself onto the train again for five or six hours of midtown temping, then a mad dash downtown for a few more hours of classes. I'd get home, write half a play, then go out again for a rehearsal until midnight, at which point I'd return home, write some more, and fall into bed for my usual three hours of sleep. I was fried. Most of my energy was spent on surviving, and I filled in the gaps in my nights with a series of unsuccessful love affairs.
At some point, my dissatisfaction had hit critical mass, and things had started to overflow. The Director didn't really deserve my contempt. He was probably just trying to woo me in some new and intellectually stimulating way, but the result of his comment was an extreme allergic reaction. NPR? What had I done to make the Director think he could get into my pants with NPR? I knew some kinky people, but I didn't know anyone who'd spread her legs for Car Talk.
I needed coffee, I needed sleep, and I needed better judgment when it came to men. In the scant year I'd lived in New York City, I'd accumulated a sheaf of romantic failures roughly comparable in length to Remembrance of Things Past. There were entire genres of food I now had to avoid as a result of Proust's madeleine effect; memories of bad dates that I didn't want to conjure up with an errant bite of ramen noodle. Because many of my worst debacles had occurred in dives misleadingly named Emerald Garden and the Cottage, I was having to avoid cheap Chinese food, normally a collegiate staple, altogether. Not to mention art house movie theaters, the NYU library, and basically all of Bleecker Street.
Excerpted from THE YEAR OF YES by Maria Dahvana Headley Copyright © 2006 by Maria Dahvana Headley. Excerpted by permission.
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Meet the Author
Maria Dahvana Headley's work has been published in several anthologies and literary journals. Her plays have been developed at venues including the Kennedy Center and the Sundance Playlab. She lives in Seattle with her husband, playwright and screenwriter Robert Schenkkan, and her two stepkids.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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Life is what you make of it. I'm surprised by these negative reviews from people. I found myself laughing out loud to this book. This is one funny woman that I want to be friends with. If you can't handle a ballsy sometimes crass woman living life to the fullest, than maybe this isn't your book. Maybe it helps to be living in New York and living a life more like this than we'd always care to admit....but learning to laugh at ourselves and the our never-ending list of crazy new experiences. Bravo.
Before you pick up this book, you need to understand something. This book is not a silly bit of fluff that you're going to read and forget about. You will not confuse it with so many other books you've no doubt read about love where the simple but unrealistically gorgeous heroine meets her match just when she's given up on the opposite sex. It will not end with her throwing herself into his arms, sighing, 'Yes! Take me, I am nothing without you!' Though this book IS about saying yes to love, it is about saying yes first and foremost to yourself--to looking at yourself and the world through a new lense, uncorrupted by what you think love should be and instead embracing it for what it is. And what is love? It is this book-- something that will make you fall out of your seat in hysterics, will often surprise you, and sometimes make you cry-- but above all something that will fill you with the desire to go out and conquor all of your personal no's. It is a nudge on your back, pushing you forward into your own 'Year of Yes'--into a life of yes.
Since I don't see a synopsis here, I'm posting this one along with my review. The Year of Yes is the story of how one woman went in search of a new kind of love...and found a new kind of life. Frustrated with the kinds of guys she was dating, NYC writer Maria Dahvana Headley decided that the problem was her own too-critical nature. She vowed to go out with everyone who asked her for an entire year, regardless of circumstances. The book details dates such as a homeless guy who thought he was a rockstar, a crazy French millionaire, a couple of women, a 70-year-old salsa dancer named Senor Chupa, a 30-year-old virgin,a Colombian Cowboy/Handyman, a hot neighbor Player King, a couple of spoiled college boys, a reincarnated dachshund, and more. Ultimately, Maria found true love where she least expected it. If you're looking for something to get you through Valentine's Day, this book is for you. If you're looking to laugh until you cry, also for you. It's sexy, witty, and drop-dead funny, and by the end, I'm gonna admit, I was in tears. This book is the one you're going to be giving to all your girlfriends in the coming year, and probably to all your guy friends as well. Personally? I gave the galley I stole from my publishing friend, to my mom, (50-something) who's reentering the dating scene after years of singledom. She loved it.
I have to admit that when I first started reading THE YEAR OF YES, I was quite disappointed and annoyed by the author's pretentiousness. In the first chapter alone, Headley "discussed Kierkegaard," "felt disturbingly Steinbeckian," and described her cat's past as "Dickensian." I felt like I should be wearing a beret and clicking my fingers to performance art in a dark, smoke-filled room. Thankfully, I stuck with the memoir and the Maria who lived in a hut with her faults finally shone through.
Now, when I say "memoir," I mean it's actually a memoir. It's not something made up like A Million Little Pieces by James Frey or crude laugh-out-loud-funny-but-seemingly-exaggerated like I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell by Tucker Max. Maria's stories and words feel real, despite their outrageous nature at times. And while she's bitter occasionally, she doesn't use this as an overall theme as Anita Liberty does in her comical How to Heal the Hurt by Hating. We follow Headley's ups and downs throughout her year of yes, her loves and heartaches, the bizarre predicaments she finds herself in, and occasionally she throws in a moment of genuine laughter.
Being a fan of Seinfeld, I appreciate that Headley didn't give names to all of her dates so much as she gave them nicknames like Wonderwoman, the Actor, the Mime, the Conductor, the Boxer, and the Designer. It was much easier to identify them, remember them, and chuckle a little bit at them.
I gave this book four stars as it was very entertaining once I got into it, but not one of the best books I've ever read. However, that doesn't mean I don't recommend it. Quite the opposite. In fact, maybe Headley's YEAR OF YES is something we can all learn from. Not just in dating, but everyday life. Don't be afraid to try new things. You might just actually like them and learn something in the process...about the "thing" you've tried or about yourself! Kudos, Maria!
This book is laugh-out-loud funny. I enjoyed the authors journey and her stories. The book isn't for those who are easily put off by tales of sexual exploits- but otherwise I recommend it highly.
I really like this book. I could relate to the writers fustration that she deals with. I found myself getting kind of anngry because of the men that she came in contact with, they were so disrespectful! But what a wonderful ending...
If you want to spend your time reading about the authors meaningless, risky, sometimes degrading sexual behavior buy this book. Does she think that putting an occasional humorous or insightful spin on her experiences will give value to writing about her 'year of yes'? If the memoir is true, as she claims, Maria Dahvana Headley has made a shallow, pitiful attempt to explain behavior that was very unkind to the people in her life and reflects very poorly on her maturity and character. I forced myself to finish the book, hoping for some redeeming quality, there was none. I wasted my time.
I picked this book up because of the interesting title, and unfortunately that's about the best thing about the book. I agree with the Library Journal, what is the point of this entire quest? It's all kind of dumb and depressing. I'm glad I read this (well, a lot of it anyway) in the Starbucks at Barnes & Noble, and didn't actually have to pay a fortune for it.
Unlike the delightful David Sedaris this novice writer is apparently trying to emulate, this book is shallow, unoriginal and ultimately leaves you with a hollow feeling ... is this what passes for literature these days? The gossipy, self-focused tone is off-putting, and the judgemental depictions of people she encounters border on cruelty. There is no wisdom, sincere self-examination or, ultimately, revelation here (and little humor, unless you consider rather mean-spirited gossip funny). Only the sad story of an immature and narcissistic young woman kissing her own image in a mirror.
I am so sick of junk literature! Don't know who the other reviewers are here, perhaps the writer's mother and agent, but I fail to see how any thinking person could actually like such a shallow rant. This book is one of those self-aggrandizing and utterly hollow 'mainstream titles' where the subtext behind every anecdote screams 'will this story make me famous and will I be able to sell the idea as an outrageous cable series ala Sex in the City?' Many of the portraits -- which we are encouraged to believe are real people, but I hope not -- have a cruel and narcissistic edge to them. One is left with such a nasty taste in one's mouth ... especially when one reads about her 'true love' ... was she really looking for a dirty Daddy figure all this time? THAT was the point? Anti-climactic and anti-romantic. Ick. I pity the real life kids who, apparently, have to deal with this self-absorbed and immature stepmother. Don't waste your money.