Boys Don't Like Funny Girls

Writing Exercise Part Two

2011-11-16T20:43:00.003-05:00

The phone vibrated in her hand just as she was gathering up her bags in the check-out lane at Target.

“Hello,” she mumbled into the receiver, awkwardly pressed against her shoulder as she walked quickly through the parking lot. Her car key hidden in her fist, in attack mode. All those silly chain emails her mother forwarded onto her, about young women being abducted in shadowy car ramps and empty Walmart lots.

She was prepared.

As if anyone would want her.

The rain was incessant, all week the sky hemorrhaged, flooding the sidewalks and pooling into small puddles on the roads. The ground was soft and slick beneath her, and she let her hair fall over her ears, covering the phone from the moisture surrounding her.

“Hello,” she repeated.

There was only static and a click. The line went dead. She flipped the phone over and checked the call history.

“Unknown,” it read.

“Whatever,” she muttered, opening the trunk of her silver Toyota Camry and loading it with her groceries. With a swift glance behind her, she slid into her car and sped off toward the freeway.

*****

The dim light from a single bulb in the dining room greeted her as she fumbled through the doorway with her bags. She dropped everything on the floor with a sigh and looked around.

“Charlie!” she yelled, and a small bundle of white fur zipped down the hallway, nearly tackling her.

“Baby boy!” she smiled and picked up the Shih Tzu, who licked her nose and wagged his tail joyously. She let the squirming puppy fall out of her arms and dance around her as she sorted through the day’s mail. Cable bill. Student loan statement. Auto insurance renewal.

Lawyer.

She suddenly felt warm, and tossed the envelopes on the counter unopened. She grabbed the leash and looked at Charlie, who stared back at her expectantly. “Wanna go outside?” she asked him.

The weather prevented a long walk . Charlie pulled and whined as his coat flattened, wet and heavy from the rain. She let him run ahead of her, back to the apartment building, and she wondered how many times she’d gone up and down those stairs in the past year.

Too much. Not enough. Probably could do with some more exercise, she thought, but her legs were still strong and muscled from her track days back in high school. It was enough, for now. Someday she would have to get back into running again.

Writing Exercise Part One

2011-11-09T20:57:00.000-05:00

The phone vibrated in her hand just as she was gathering up her bags in the check-out lane at Target.

“’Hello,” she mumbled into the receiver, awkwardly pressed against her shoulder as she walked quickly through the parking lot. Her car key hidden in her fist, in attack mode. All those silly chain emails her mother forwarded onto her, about young women being abducted in shadowy car ramps and empty Walmart lots.

She was prepared.

As if anyone would want her.

The rain was incessant, all week the sky cried and shuddered and squeezed out giant drops, flooding the sidewalks and pooling into small puddles on the roads. The ground was soft and slick beneath her, and she let her hair fall over her ears, covering the phone from the moisture surrounding her.

“Hello,” she repeated.

There was only static and a click. The line went dead. She flipped the phone over and checked the call history.

“Unknown,” it read.

...to be continued...

Spelunking

2011-07-13T19:52:00.003-04:00

Medway: How was the gyno, baby?

Me: I hate the car jack

Medway: What's wrong? What's going on?

Me: You know when you have to change a flat tire you have to use a jack to crank up the car?

Medway: Yeah? Did you get a flat tire baby?

Me: No. That is what they use at the gyno. Jam it in and crank you open with a jack. It's horrible.

Medway: NO WAY.

Me: It's awful, Matt! They crank you open like you're going to give birth to a carbureter, and they lock it it place! Then the gyno puts on goggles and goes spelunking!

Medway: OH GOD STOP! *Throws Up*

Happy Birthday, Matt

2011-06-25T15:53:00.002-04:00

My life changed on June 26, 1986.

I was five years old and on the other side of the world, my Matt finally made his appearance in the universe.

I had been waiting.

My life became infinitely better that day, because my other half was in the world.

And it would continue to get better because oceans and miles and kilometers and continents wouldn’t stop us from finding each other, and it won’t stop us from being together, because I was born for him and he was born for me, and I can’t imagine my universe without Matthew Medway in it.

I don’t know how I got so lucky to be with a man who is infinitely patient. Overwhelmingly kind. When he laughs, I laugh, and when I cry, he cries. He is the antithesis for all my faults: when I am wound up too tight, he unravels me. When I am too scattered, he pulls me back in. He calms me down when I’m upset, he listens when I talk, he laughs at my bad jokes, he defends me when I don’t know how to protect myself.

I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him, and he is with me every day, in my thoughts, in my heart, in my ear. People say that long distance relationships don’t work but I know we are stronger than that, because our physical separation is only temporary. We’ve spent our lives searching for each other and there is no way we are letting go now that we’ve been discovered.

I love you Matthew Medway, and I will always celebrate your birthday as one of the best days of my life.

Razor Renee

2010-12-20T19:39:00.004-05:00

Because I was a peculiar child, I enjoyed reading the newspaper in the evenings just before dinner, a pleasant way to unwind after a tough day of arithmetic lessons and dodging dim-witted school bullies.

I'd spread the paper over the table and lean forward on my elbows, my curious eyes pouring over the various articles and jottings. I skipped the sports section altogether, scanned the opinion pages for particularly scathing criticisms of local politicians and parking ticket nazis, and of course partook in the comic section, delighting in the snowy adventures of Calvin and Hobbes, turning my nose up to the unfunny antics of Marmaduke.

Even at a young age I knew Marmaduke was just another spot on the paper for puppies to aim in their training crates.

A column I read religiously was Ann Landers. She was the working man's Miss Manners, the no-nonsense but kindly writer doling out bits of wisdom and advice to a naive nation hungry for guidance.

"No sweetheart," she would write when Confused in Connecticut caught her husband locked in an embrace with her best friend, "your husband did not trip and fall into your girlfriend's heaving bosoms, but you can rest assured that you've found yourself a man who knows how to take out the trash. Good riddance to both of them, the dump truck can't come soon enough.*"

With fascination one night I read a letter from "Razor Renee," a woman who regularly shaved an unsightly growth of hair that sprouted on her upper lip. Until the writing of this letter, Renee had kept the stubble under wraps, not sharing with anyone her shameful secret.

"I am terrified," she wrote, "that one day I will be in a horrific accident and end up a vegetable in a hospital bed. Some time will pass and my husband will discover that I have a mustache."

With each line my eyes widened in horror. I empathized with poor Razor Renee. I could not imagine anything worse than having a mustache to shave everyday, and the idea that you could lose control of your body and have such an embarrassing secret exposed was a tragedy beyond all else.

Ann Landers seemed to be of the impression that Renee was a bit shallow in her thinking. While chastising her for being more concerned about her thick 'stache then being comatose, she also gently prodded her with a suggestion: she could let her daughter or sister in on the secret, and ask that in the event of such a tragedy, she could discreetly come in and shave the stubble when no one was around.

At the time I was properly disgusted. Edging ever so slightly closer to my teen years, I was under the impression that no secret could be more shameful then Renee's, and to invite another person in on such a dangerous, classified detail seemed ridiculous. I certainly would not share that information with anyone.

I began to re-think the sageness of the stern Ms. Landers, certainly someone, judging from her column snapshot, who was not entirely sympathetic to the importance of a well-groomed appearance.

I started reading the newspaper with less frequency and replaced that time with caking layer upon layer of Cover Girl Classic Ivory foundation on my face, rubbing a shock of pink blush on my cheeks and squinting my heavily mascara'ed eyes in the mirror, searching for that first strand of unwelcome hair on my upper lip.

Armed with tweezers and even hot wax if necessary, I would be ready.

But soon time passed, and so did Ann Landers, and with it a new crop of advice columnists plucked up on the horizon. And I began to wear less and less makeup, and I started reading the newspaper again in the evenings.

And every time I come across a story of a woman in a tragic accident, laying nearly lifelessly on a bed somewhere in a hospital, her family hovering over, watching, waiting, I think of Razor Renee.

*obviously I am paraphrasing these lines. I am so not looking through Ann Landers archives to find the exact letters.

Meeting Medway

2010-08-21T16:03:00.002-04:00

I love Medway. We’ve been together for over eight months now. I would describe our relationship as very comfortable and fun and normal. We talk every single day. We laugh, we fight, we cry, we have fun. Since Christmas, we’ve grown very close, and I can say he’s become not just my boyfriend but my best friend. We share everything, we work hard to keep our communication open, and we both try very hard to laugh at ourselves and learn from our mistakes as our relationship grows.

Two weeks ago we experienced a huge moment in our relationship. What sets us apart from other couples is the Pacific ocean and the tiny fact that we hadn’t actually met in person before.

Sure, there’s webcam, and texting, and phone calls, and Facebook, and Twitter. All wonderful resources that we’ve made a daily part of our life together, all forms of communication that allow us to know each other intimately when we are physically separated by 14,000 odd kilometers.

But the fact of the matter is, I live in the United States and Medway lives in Australia. Which is how I came to be driving down eastbound I-94 early on a humid Monday morning, headed to Detroit to meet my boyfriend for the first time.

I was nervous. I was so nervous, actually. As I drove toward the McNamara/Delta Air terminal at Detroit-Metro, my stomach was knitting my insides together and my teeth literally started chattering. There were so many ways this meeting could go. I loved Medway. I cared about him, and I cared about what he thought about me.

Of course there’s the obvious fear—I’m picking up someone I’ve only known online. What if he isn’t who he says he is? What if he’s an axe murderer (a fear of my mother’s and, to be fair, a fear of his mother’s as well, that I would be a gold digger or an axe murderer)? It was something to consider, but after several months of getting to know him, and knowing other people who knew him and vouched for him, it was a consideration I set aside and didn’t put much worry into at the time.

But--what if he didn’t like me? What if we were about to spend the 10 most uncomfortable days of our lives together? Would he take one look at me and be disappointed? Or maybe at the end of the vacation, after living together, that’s the moment he would think, “no, she’s not the girl for me.”

I was scared.

When I saw him at the airport, waiting for me outside the pick-up area, there was a knitting frenzy in my stomach. I mean there must’ve been like three or four grandmothers in there, all racing for the fluffy scarf championship (it’s so fluffy I could DIE!). He was wearing a fedora and watched me as I walked toward him, and he gave me a smile and hugged me.

The two hour drive was a nice, slow ice breaker. I could feel myself relaxing as we talked and laughed. I blushed when he slid his hand in mine and grinned at me, and by the time we got home we were very comfortable with each other.

Ten days later, when I got home from Detroit after dropping him off at the airport, I wandered around my apartment. There was his half-finished drink on the nightstand. His deodorant still on the counter in the bathroom. The DVD we’d watched the night before was on the TV stand in the living room. My dog Taz sniffed around, looking up at me, looking for his Medway. I picked up a tee-shirt of his that he’d left for me.

It still smelled like him.

I burst into tears.

I’m the type of person who always expects the worst. I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I drove into Detroit trying to prepare myself with all the ways in which our meeting would go wrong.

But it was perfect. He was perfect. It was like he’d always been here. He fit in perfectly with my friends and with my family. We lived together like we’d always lived together. We were totally in sync. He took care of me when I was sick. He helped me around the house. We shopped together. We went to dinner together, we read together, we played cards together. I made him breakfast and he made me dinner. He said he loved my pets, and I knew he was genuine. And they loved him right back. We laughed and played and talked and went out and stayed in together. He is the kindest, sweetest, funniest, most amazing guy I’ve ever known, and I’m so lucky to have him in my life.

It was as though he’d always been a part of my life, and he was always going to be a part of my life, and when he had to leave it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through, and I feel like a huge part of me is missing when he’s gone.

I knew I loved him before we met, and now I love him more than ever.

A Day Has A Hundred Pockets

2010-07-11T03:12:00.003-04:00

"Absence is like the sky, spread over everything." C.S. Lewis

When she died, I thought about her every day in the weeks and months following the accident. After the funeral, she materialized in my dreams.

I grieved.

Over the years, she stopped clinging to the minutes on my clock. I didn't think about her all the time. The thick milkshake of a sob throbbing in my throat lessened into a dull stab in my stomach every now and then.

She creeps in every once in awhile, during the most ordinary of moments. I'm out shopping and a girl saunters by, tossing her honeyed hair. “It's her,” my mind breathes, stunned out of my universe.

Driving into the country last weekend, wind whipping my hair, music blasting over the radio, the reverie fractures as I realize this is the road. Somewhere on the shoulder, on the other side of the yellow line, she slipped away.

The blue sky above me is endless. The blackened road before me is terminal.

I wonder if it hurts or if it all goes black.

Today I was washing dishes slowly and vacantly when I realized.

I know: she is dead.

She no longer exists.

Speculative Free Form

2010-05-31T23:15:00.003-04:00

I know I haven’t posted much on this blog, and I’d like to tell you that it’s because I’ve been out running with the bulls or sailing across the world as a sixteen year old (maybe the sixteen year old part is true, give or take a decade), but really it’s more of a general laziness on my part.

Actually, that’s not really true, either. I write quite often. I’ve got the most random rough drafts, saved to my hard drive, sent to my email, notebooks half-full on my kitchen table and inside my nightstand with the door that doesn’t close properly because I was too impatient to read the instruction manual when I assembled it. Napkins and sticky notes with my scrawl all over them, stuffed in my purse. My fifth grade teacher will be annoyed to learn that despite her best efforts, I still don’t write like a girl but rather a hurried pre-adolescent boy with ADHD and an inability for his hands to keep up with the thoughts spilling out of his head.

I do remember that year quite well, actually. My dad had to be to work early so we’d sit in the parking lot of the school in the dark, our breath visible like empty comic conversation clouds as we waited for the heat in the car to kick in. Dad would tap his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, worried about being late, while we all stared intently at the door. Finally a light would come on in the hallway, flickering into life, and then the principal would unlock the heavy black door, and my brother and I would both give an equally heavy sigh as we picked up our backpacks and dragged ourselves into the building.

I’d walk up the seemingly endless staircase to the top floor, my footsteps echoing in the nearly empty building. The hallways were soaked with shadows, and silent save for the sounds of teachers arriving and unlocking the doors to their classrooms.

My teacher was always there early, sitting at her desk, preparing her lessons for the day. She’d barely look up when I entered the room, and I’d take my time unraveling the scarf around my neck and hanging up my coat, with my mittens sticking out of the pockets.

I’d settle into my chair, reaching inside my desk for a pencil and opening my notebook to a fresh sheet of paper. “As long as you’re here,” my teacher would say, always a hint of disapproval in her voice, “you might as well practice your handwriting. It’s terrible, Jennifer.”

“You write like a boy.”

Every morning I would slowly copy sentences out of my science textbook. I’d stick my tongue out in concentration, trying to make “photosynthesis” prettier and bubbly against the blue lines of the notebook paper. Once the clock ticked closer to start time, and the hallway started warming up with voices, and my classmates stomped into the room in their snow boots and jackets, I’d hand in my finished product, and my teacher would glance down at it with a sigh and shake of her head.

“You need to make your letters rounder and more feminine. This is messy and masculine. Don’t you want to be feminine, Jennifer?”

That question has stayed in my head for years, as I turned in papers in high school, took notes in college, and wrote up reviews for work. Every time I hand in something to a professor or a supervisor I cringe, wondering if my writing suggests something about me, if somehow the fact that my letters are sharp and angled rather than looped and curved reflects poorly on me as a woman, as a human being. That maybe I didn’t get a promotion or a higher grade because my i’s weren’t dotted with a round circle or my j’s lacked a feminine flourish.

But mostly now I type, so this is neither here nor there. The real reason I’ve been lacking in posts lately is my indecision.

I started my blog as a form of therapy, a way to get out all the toxins that built up from years of insecurity and a bad relationship. Nobody read what I wrote anyway, so I just wrote honestly about my life, letting people into rooms I’d kept shut and locked for a very long time and needed airing out.

The thing about writing openly is that most people don’t do it very often. Most people are guarded and keep their secrets to themselves. Which is not a criticism, by any means. There are a million reasons why you would want to keep your private life as just that—private. But I went another route, and to my great surprise people started reading what I had to say.

I love writing for an audience, and I appreciate anyone who takes the time to read my writing. On the flip side, as I find out more and more people are reading my blog, I find myself feeling more and more restricted in what I can say. I don’t want to offend people. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I find myself writing something up and thinking “well what if so-and-so reads this? Will they be upset that I’m sharing this story?”

And suddenly, I can’t write anymore. I put the story or essay away, and it ends up collecting dust or bytes or whatever it is that a Word document might collect saved to a hard drive, and it never gets finished.

My hands feel a bit tied at the moment.

But I remember someone asking me once, “how do you write?” and I said simply, “you just have to be brave. You just have to write what you need to say and not worry what other people will think about it.”

I need to take my own advice.

Hopefully, there will be more to come in the next few weeks.

Waiting Room Texting

2010-05-17T20:04:00.004-04:00

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 3:29 pm

Good morning, baby. I have a doctor’s appt so if I don’t reply right away you know why. I Love you.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 3:31 pm

Oh right you’re still sleeping. Silly time zones.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 3:37 pm

Whatevs. I’m still texting you even if you’re not conscious. Consider it a rape texting of sorts. Rexting.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 3:49 pm

In the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Am sandwiched between a lady with a mullet and a lady with sideburns. Want to ask “why?”

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 3:53 pm

Is it possible to choke to death on the fumes of a man’s cologne? If so I’d better say my goodbyes. I love you.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 3:56 pm

Pretty sure my ex-sister-in-law is a nurse her. Hooray for awkwardness!

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 3:56 pm

*here*

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 3:58 pm

My socks today are awesome. They are grey with green shamrocks sprinkled all over. I’d take a pic but then ppl would know I’m weird.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:02 pm

The (sideburns) lady next to me isn’t even wearing socks. It’s too cold for sandals. What’s wrong with her? Also her big toe scares me.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:10 pm

god I hate when ppl touch my elbow. There’s an unspoken understanding about strangers touching elbows. Clearly (mullet) is in violation.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:10 pm

Seriously. Mullet Lady. Stop. Touching. My Elbow.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:11 pm

Who brushes their mullet in the morning and thinks “this is working for me?”

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:11 pm

Auuuuuuuuugh

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:13 pm

You know if I showed up 25 mins late to the doctor’s I would be handed a bill for the inconvenience as I’m shown the door. *looks at clock*

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:13 pm

Just sayin’.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:14 pm

I am Enjoying myself.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:15 pm

Lies. I might die in this waiting room, actually. Death by Delayed Doctors syndrome. It’s Very Serious. It will start when I pick up that Time magazine from 1985.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:23 pm

Is it really necessary for the receptionist to be behind bulletproof glass at the dermatologist? Is a pissed-off patient with psoriasis>

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:23 pm

>going to gun down the place? The cops will just follow his trail of dandruff and gunpowder.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:27 pm

I see the nurse coming. Please call my name. Please call my name. Pleasecallmyname. Jennyjennyjennyjennyjenny SCORE!!!!!

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:36 pm

Why do drs keep their instruments out (haha)? Am so tempted to take my blood pressure while listening to my heart. Bet I’m being watched tho.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:37 pm

Yes. Definitely being watched. Have refrained from stuffing pockets with tongue depressors.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:42

Where is the goddamn doctor? It’s hot in here. Are the walls getting closer? The walls are getting closer, baby. I know it. I see it. Am a rat in a maze. WHERE’S MY CHEESE

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:43 pm

What does Jay-Z mean when he calls Beyonce his “thoroughest girl?”

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:44 pm

I want to be your thoroughest girl.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:49 pm

Done. A 60-minute wait for a four minute visit with doctor. Billed for an hour. God Bless America.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:51 pm

Have never had a doctor stroke my hair while talking to me before. He will forever be known as Dr. Handsy the Dermatologist.

To: Medway
From: Jenny
Sent: 4:52 pm

Where’s my lollipop, damn it?

Hope

2010-04-19T18:29:00.000-04:00

An Explanation

The truth is, you really don’t want to know. What happens, that is. How it all unfolds. Because if you find out you’re going to get what you want—being inside that picture window—you won’t want it anymore. It won’t mean as much. It will be as extraordinary to you as oxygen—you only crave it when it’s no longer available to you.

If you find out that you’re not getting what you desire, you give up. You let that heaviness consume you, and close your eyes as the blackness engulfs you. You won’t fight for it. Your life that is. You simply look up and watch it all fade away as you sink further and further down the rabbit hole.

And that is what keeps you at the edge. That’s your answer. It’s simple but the most powerful tool you have.

Hope.

for him

2010-04-18T01:57:00.000-04:00

I know you are the moon
in waves I gravitate toward you
cresting flooding
riding your sweet cadence
following the sweat of your light
intoxicating sober
I worship you with the tips of my
fingers and tongue
I can taste all the words soaked into
the salt of your skin
we have a bed of sand and blanket of sky
and you stay with me until the sun blinks
and the horizon splices us back into our
separate worlds

Multiple Personality

2010-04-08T21:07:00.008-04:00

As a kid I was obsessed with twins. From the moment I saw Hayley Mills in The Parent Trap I knew I was destined to be a multiple. I was unaware at the time that it wasn't necessarily a life choice I was able to make. After all, Mom said I could be anything I wanted when I grew up. Some kids wanted to be President of the United States; I simply wanted to be an identical twin.

My fascination with twins eventually extended onto my summer reading list. By age eight my chapter book staples included the Double Trouble series, with the protagonist sisters Sandi and Randi (I can still feel the euphoria when they were later joined by identical cousin Mandi in the explosive Triple Trouble) and of course the adventures of Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield in the Sweet Valley High universe.

I absorbed every detail I could find on the topic, paying special attention to updates on my own twin cousins and studiously watching The Patty Duke Show. I would recite on demand my vast knowledge of all things twin: the difference between fraternal and identical, the meaning of "twin language," and you didn't want to get me started on mirror twins.

At night I would lay in bed and imagine myself and my sister playing the old "switcheroo" game. We'd trade places and fool everyone. I was the bookish twin naturally, so my sister would be both athletic and good at math. She'd play volleyball as me so I'd never have to take another gym class again. I'd return the favor by pretending to be her during free reading time and recess. No one would ever know, except maybe our closest friends and Memee, my faithful stuffed lamb.

It wasn't long before I began to suspect my parents were hiding a big secret from me: that I was in fact a twin. It was so obvious I'd been adopted and separated from my sister at birth. After all, my parents and my brother were obsessed with football, and I could care less about it. What more glaring evidence did I need?

Soon I came to the conclusion that there was a twist to my story: I was separated from not one but two sisters. I was a triplet! I quickly grew jealous at the thought that somewhere out there, I had two sisters who did everything together, like sharing a room and clothes and playing Barbies. I bet they did each other's hair. They probably lived near Disney World, too. Meanwhile I was stuck with my stupid little brother, Scott. He wouldn't even sit still long enough for me to paint his fingernails pink and cut his hair. I tried to tie him up until Mom caught me. How unfair was that situation?!

I likened myself to Little Orphan Annie. I'd stare out my bedroom window and sing "Maybe" off-key until my brother screamed at me to shut up.

I decided to become proactive, planning ways to trap my parents into admitting their scam. Before dinner one night I thought of how to broach the topic in conversation. "This meatloaf is really good, Mom. I bet my sisters would love it!" Dum-dum-dum! My parents would drop their forks in horror. "How did you know?" my mother would gasp as my father would cry, "What have we done? We should've kept the triplets together and sold Scott!"

"No," I decided, dragging a high chair over to the table and strapping my stuffed lamb, Memee, in it, "too obvious. Better to just drop hints first, then the bomb."

I sat down in my chair and stuck my tongue out at my brother Scott, who was already whining about not wanting to eat dinner.

"MOM!" he screeched, "Jenny just stuck her tongue out at me!"

"No I didn't," I said quickly, sticking my tongue out again, then shooting him an evil smile. Typical family dinner.

Mom grabbed plates out of the cupboard. "STOP it you two I am not in the mood tonight."

Dad sat in his chair as Mom put our plates down in front of us. "Mom," I whispered urgently, "aren't you forgetting someone?" I nodded at my Memee, sitting patiently in her high chair. "It hurts her feelings when you forget about her."

Mom let out a big sigh. "Right." She put a small plate in front of Memee, which I promptly filled with meatloaf and peas, and began feeding her. (I was a weird kid, OK).

I decided to stick with my original plan. "This meatloaf is really good, Mom." I paused, then announced dramatically, "I bet my sisters would love it." I looked smugly at my parents, waiting for the shock and forks to drop.

Dad continued eating. Mom pushed Scott's plate closer to him and replied, "I'm glad your Memee likes it. Scott, I'm not kidding, you'd better finish your dinner."

"No," I said sternly, causing both of my parents to look up in surprise. "I know, OK? I'm a triplet and you guys adopted me and my sisters go to Disney World every. single. day. Without me!"

"Jenny," Mom sighed again, "You were not adopted. You look just like your father! And you are not a triplet either, believe me, I would know."

She had my attention. "How do I know for sure? Am I twin at least?"

Mom replied, "No, it was just you. You can look at your birth certificate if you'd like. And why do you want sisters? You have a perfectly good brother right here." She looked at Dad and continued, "I just wish you two would be best friends. Why can't you just get along?"

Scott and I exchanged mutual glares across the table.

Later that night, before bedtime, I found my birth certificate and was devastated to find the word "single" checked in the space that indicated multiples.

The next morning I went to school with determination on my face and a picture of myself in my pocket. I spent the morning contemplating my situation. Should I admit defeat and walk away, alone, single, sisterless in this world? No! I grabbed the picture and tapped the shoulder of the boy in front of me, Evan.

"Evan," I whispered, handing him the picture. "See this girl here? Her name's Jessica. We're identical cousins. She's the wild one. She's French and has diabetes (I was also fascinated with France and diabetes, checking out several books on the topics at the library. But that's a story for another time).

"Oh, OK," Evan replied pleasantly, handing back the picture and turning his attention back to the teacher.

At recess I showed my friend Sara the picture. "This is my identical cousin Jessica. She lives in France and has to give herself insulin shots. She's the prettier one." I started my self-deprecation at an early age. Even my imaginary identical cousin was prettier than me.

I still wasn't satisfied, however. What about my switcheroos?

The following weekend, I went downstairs to find out what Scott and his friend Petey* were doing. The basement at our house was a kid's paradise. My parents finished the space, putting up paneling on the walls and carpet on the floor. They pretty much gave the whole downstairs to my brother and me. There was a TV with a Nintendo hooked up, a couch with a pull-out bed for slumber parties. We had a full-size chalkboard and books, toys, my treasured dollhouse, Barbie dolls, a box full of play clothes and even a finished bathroom downstairs, not to mention lots of empty spaces for running around and playing indoor sock baseball games.

I sat on the stairs and spied on Scott and Petey, who were playing Mike Tyson's Punch-Out on the Nintendo. "I wanna play," I announced. Without removing his eyes from the TV, Scott replied, "You can't, stupid head. Leave us alone." His hands moved expertly on the controller.

"It's my game, too," I said quietly, not sure if I wanted to start a fight or let it go. Petey, sweet kid that he was, looked at me and gave an apologetic shrug. "Maybe Jenny can play next," he said to Scott.

"No. Go away Sissy."

"You can't make me." I glanced at Petey again. "Is your sister home?" Petey's sister and I were friends.

"She can't go out until she cleans her room. Mom said," he replied.

"Oh, I said, resting my head against the stair railing. "Hey Petey, wanna know a secret?"

"Yes!" Petey dropped his controller and turned to me. I had his full attention.

I hesitated for a moment. "Not many people know this, but I'm a triplet."

"Shut up Jenny! Don't listen to her Petey. She's lying."

"Am not." I said smugly. "Mom and Dad just don't think you're old enough to know yet."

"You're a lying liar you stupid dweeb butt. Leave us alone or I'll tell Mom on you."

"Fine, don't believe me, Poopface." I smiled warmly at Petey. "Do you want to meet my sisters? They're upstairs."

"They're here right now?" Petey was fascinated.

"Yeah, but we can't all be down here at the same time. Mom doesn't want anyone to know they're here. So my sisters will just have to come down one at a time to meet you, OK?"

"They're not really there, Petey." I detected the faintest flicker of doubt in my brother's voice.

"You'll see," I said kindly to him. "Isn't it cool you have three sisters?"

I could barely hear his "not really" reply as I thundered up the stairs.

I shut the door to my bedroom and threw open my closet. I grabbed a pair of shorts, a White Sox tee-shirt with Bo Jackson on the front, and put on a pair of cleats. I pulled my hair back in a high ponytail, and looked at myself in the mirror. "Perfect," I thought.

I came downstairs. "Hi you must be Petey and Scott!" I said brightly. "I'm Jessica, Jenny's triplet sister. I'm the athletic one." I was secretly glad I didn't choose rhyming names. Because that would just be ridiculous.

Petey was enthralled. "Nice to meet you!" he said enthusiastically.

"That's just stupid Jenny wearing different clothes."

"Oh yeah?" I shot back. "I'm good at soccer, so how could I be Jenny?" This clear logic silenced my brother. "Anyway," I continued, "Jenny told me all about you so you'd better watch it. You're gonna wish you were nicer to Jenny once you get to know me."

"Well Petey," I said, turning my attention to him, "It's time to pull another old switcheroo over Mom. You'll meet my sister Jean soon. I think you'll really like her."

I ran back upstairs, careful to take two steps at a time. I went back into my room and pulled what I thought was my most sophisticated outfit out of the closet--a totally eighties, flared, black-and-white polka dot dress. I put lace leggings on and raided my ballerina jewelry box, covering my neck and arms with plastic pink beaded jewelry I won at an arcade. I put on my ballet slippers and put my hair down. Then I snuck into the bathroom and put on my mom's frosty pink lipstick, completing the look with hot pink blush and blue eyeshadow.

I sashayed down the stairs, swinging my hips back and forth like Betty Boop. "Heyyy," I said softly, "You must be Petey. I've heard soooo much about you!" I batted my eyelashes and giggled. Petey smiled at me. My brother went back to fighting the fat guy on Mike Tyson's Punch Out.

"I'm Jean," I informed Petey, "I like to go shopping and I even babysit sometimes."

"Hi Jean," Petey said, and not knowing what else to do with myself, I exclaimed, "Oh my! It's getting late! I'd better get upstairs before Mom finds out about the switcheroo!"

I ran upstairs, changed back into my clothes, washed off my makeup and walked back downstairs. "Hi guys," I said, "Did you like my sisters?" I gave a high, weak laugh. "They're crazy, aren't they? We look soooo much alike."

"You guys do look alike!" Petey bobbed his head enthusiastically. "We should all hang out! Have they met my sister yet?"

I'd had enough of this game. "Petey I have to tell you something," I said apologetically, "I'm not really a triplet. That was just me changing my clothes and pretending to be Jessica and Jean."

"Duh." Scott chimed in the background.

I turned back to Petey. "Sorry to psych you out."

Sweetie Petey replied, "It's OK. I kinda already knew. But that was a fun game."

*Names have been changed to protect Petey

Love is Blind

2010-03-31T15:25:00.012-04:00

I never used to be that type of girl. You know, the kind who checks her boyfriend’s phone history, signs in on his Facebook page, scans bank statements looking for suspicious purchases? No, that was not me.

With Jason, I never questioned his motives or his intentions. If he said he was going out to a friend’s house for the night, I believed him. If he said that girl is just a friend going through a hard time and needed his shoulder to cry on, I trusted him. I had no reason to think otherwise.

Until three weeks before I left him.

Things hadn’t been right with us for awhile. I really believed though, that we were going through a rough patch in our marriage and we’d work through it. I knew we had issues, some of them enormous, like Jason’s taste for alcohol and ability to make a cigarette run to the corner store last for three days.

But we were in counseling, and I could see glimmers of the old Jason returning. For every ten awful things he said or did, there would be one good day, usually a Sunday, where we’d go out for breakfast and have an Actual Conversation, give or take a few long pauses that seemed to fill the metastasizing uneasiness in my belly, leaving no room for the buttered toast and eggs I’d been pushing around on my plate for the course of the meal.

But then the check would arrive, and once his debit card cleared—his paychecks were disappearing and balancing our bank accounts had become something of a Whack-a-Mole game, with me scrambling to catch the cash before it receded into a mysterious hole—I would exhale my relief, and he would smile at me, sort of, a cig hanging out the corner of his mouth, and he’d say, “Let’s go find us a house, Mrs. J.”

We’d spend the afternoon cruising around neighborhoods, looking for Open Houses, neither of us confirming aloud what we both already knew deep inside: there would never be a home for us.

The realtors were always the same, giving us the once over, pasting a plastic smile on their masks. He or she would say, “Newlyweds! How wonderful! This is a perfect starter home for a growing family.”

We would smile back, and Jason would slip his arm around me, easily as though it was something he did all the time, rather than something he used to do long ago, and he’d say, “we’re hoping to try for a baby next year.” I would beam back at him, the way a doting wife would to her husband, and nod my head in agreement, my stomach fluttering nervously, my heart capsizing in my chest.

We’d wander around the house, and even with his hand in mine I could feel us dying. But then I would pause for a breath, collecting myself, pregnant only with the worries I pushed down into my belly. I became a politician’s wife: deny, deny, deny.

Hope bubbled over despite the dark flutterings in my body, and I let go of his hand, bouncing from room to room, finding the spark in every corner. “Look, look Jason!” I would wave to him, standing by a window, gazing out into the yard. “Over here!” I’d exclaim, excited. “We can knock out this kitchen wall and it’ll just flow right into the family room. Think of how much more light there’d be in here!”

I’d bound up the stairs, stopping suddenly at the small room on the left. There is always a small room on the left.

“Jason,” I’d breathe, “this could be an office…or…a baby’s room.” I’d say this quietly, reverently even, as though our baby was dead instead of never born.

“Maybe,” he'd reply, brushing against me as he turned and walked back down the stairs.

It was on one of these kinds of Sundays, after we’d gone home and he’d showered and left for work, that my trust took a final gasp of air and faded away.

I sorted through our bills, trying to make sense of it all, figuring out how to stretch my paycheck over everything since his had started disappearing with little explanation months earlier.

“I don’t know where it goes, honey,” he’d say, “Cigarettes. Booze. I buy drinks for the boys at the bar. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I had a lot of extras this week. I didn’t hear you complaining when I took you to the movies on Friday.”

“You make more than I do. Are you trying to make me feel bad? I work really hard for you. Give me a break.”

“Shut the fuck up already. All you ever fucking do is nag. And you wonder why I don’t ever want to fucking come home anymore.”

I came across one bill, one in particular that made my insides wring and writhe with worry. It was a credit card Jason had taken out a few months earlier without my knowledge. He’d maxed it out and I didn’t know anything about it until we received a warning notice for nonpayment. He shrugged it off when I questioned him. “You’re the one who says we’re broke,” he said, “how else are we going to pay to repair our cars?”

I grabbed the phone and dialed the number on the back of the notice. I followed the prompts, punching in the card number, and waited a few minutes until a service person answered on the line. “Hi,” I said, “I’m trying to figure out how much is owed on this card? It doesn’t say on the bill, at least not that I can see. It just says how much we need to pay by the end of the month. I want to make a payment if possible.”

The voice on the other end was flat, lifeless. “That information is only available to the cardholder, miss.”

“Oh no, you don’t understand. He’s my husband. I can give you his social security number and date of birth if you need it.”

“We don’t have you on record, miss. We can only give this information to the cardholder.”

“Alright,” I closed my eyes, frustrated. “Thanks anyway. I guess.”

I ended the call and sighed, staring down at the notice. That’s when I saw the “online bill pay” feature advertised on it. I snatched the paper off the table and ran upstairs to the office, tapping my fingers impatiently on the computer desk as the internet squeaked to life.

I went to the website and quickly set up an account for Jason. I clicked “finish” with an air of satisfaction, waiting for the information I needed to pop up.

Instead, the screen flashed. “An email has been sent to you to confirm your account.”

With a roll of my eyes and a frustrated groan, I tabbed over and signed into my husband’s email account.

There, in his inbox, nestled between the credit card account confirmation and a chain letter forwarded from my father-in-law, was an email. The subject line read: “Welcome Jason to Singles.com.”

I opened it.

Fine, judge me. Jason gave me his password. Until this moment I was under the impression that he rarely if ever went online. We used his email address as our default for everything—setting up online bill pay accounts or for contact lists made by bloodthirsty, web-savvy realtors looking for the kill after an Open House showing. I only signed into his account for these reasons, and he knew it. I didn’t believe before that there was ever a reason for me to need or want to check his email for any other intention.

It was a confirmation email. It gave a number to go along with his username. I clicked on the link to the site and entered the required information. Then, without the fanfare or rousing soundtrack you’d think would accompany such a large moment in my life, my husband’s dating profile appeared.

He had a list of likes and dislikes I quickly scanned over until I read his additional comments at the bottom. “Willing to drive 50-100 miles for a meeting spot. “

And then,

“Be discreet. I’m married.”

I’ve never actually been punched in the stomach but I’m pretty sure this is how it would feel. Just a painful blow that pulls your belly back into your spine, every muscle tensing up, the air leaving your body like a deflating balloon after a kid’s birthday party.

And then, the anger.

I picked up the phone and stomped in our bedroom—well his bedroom, I’d been sleeping on an air mattress in the living room for the last six weeks-- and dialed the number of the restaurant where Jason worked.

“Thanks for calling Friendly’s, this is Shellie, how can I help you?”

“Hi. May I speak to Jason, please?”

“The manager?” Her tone grew cold.

“Yes, please.”

“Who is this?”

“I’m his wife. “ I paced the room, catching glimpses of myself in front of the mirrored closet doors. My eyes were narrowed and I kept clenching my free hand into a ball.

“Well he’s not available.”

“I need to talk to him now, please. It’s an emergency.”

“Why? What do you need to tell him?” Shellie had a snotty voice, I thought.

“That’s really none of your business.”

“Well I need to be able to tell him something.”

“Tell him it’s an emergency. Like I said before.”

She sighed into the receiver. “Fine.”

“Oh, and Shellie, was it?”

“What?”

“Just so you know, I had your job for eight years at this place. And I wouldn’t have dreamed of talking to my boss’s wife the way you just talked to me. I will be sure to tell Jason how pleasant you are on the phone.”

“You do that.” I heard the phone clink against the countertop, and her muffled voice say, “Hey, Jay, your wife’s on the phone.”

There was a groan in the background. A definite groan. I tensed up again, focused on my mission. He picked up .

“What’s up.”

“Jason,” I could feel it bubbling inside of me, boiling, toiling, how does that go? With the witches? Macbeth.

Double, double, toil and trouble.

“Jason,” I started again, stammering, “I…found something. A dating…how could…be discreet you’re married?!”

He sighed. “So? It’s just a dating site. That’s all. I don’t know why you always have to make such a fucking big deal out of everything. You’re a drama queen.”

I ballsed up. “It is a big deal, Jason! To me it is a very big deal!”

My bottom lip started to quiver. “It’s cheating, Jason.” My voice wavered, and I started to cry.

“It’s not cheating. I didn’t go forward with anything.”

“Just setting it up is cheating. The intent was there.”

“I didn’t do anything so it’s not cheating.” He sighed again. “Anyway, I have to go. We’ll talk later.”

“Are you even coming home tonight? When’s later?”

“No, I probably won’t come home tonight. If I do it will be late. You know I always go out with my friends on Sunday nights.”

“You go out with your friends every fucking night.”

“I don’t have time for this. Goodbye.”

I threw down the phone on the bed, furious. I slammed open the closet doors in the bedroom, startling the cat, secretly hoping the mirrors would just shatter to the ground, seven—well double that, fourteen—years of bad luck at my feet, I could just sweep it up and dump it outside, or dump it in Jason’s car as a bad luck charm for his date or dates or whatever they are.

I yanked his clothes off the hangers, tossing them everywhere, on the floor, the bed, on top of the dresser. Then I started going through each and every pocket, searching, searching for something, some kind of damning evidence, some sort of clue that would confirm everything that was suddenly clicking into place for me.

I didn’t find anything but that didn’t stop me. I opened drawers, dumping everything out, flipping through books, cabinets, storage bins. Nothing was left unturned in my wake.

I thundered down the stairs, leaving the second floor in utter chaos. I grabbed the phone and clicked on the caller id function, scrolling through the phone.

Shellie. Shellie. Shellie. Shellie. All Shellie, a million times Shellie, with my work phone number scattered in here and there.

I remember asking weeks earlier, “Who’s Shellie? Why does she keep calling here?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s this guy at work I hang out with. That’s his girlfriend is all. Their phone’s listed in her name. I hardly know her.”

And then another time I commented, “Wow I’ve never known guys who talk so much on the phone! That Shellie name is on our id twelve times today!”

Jason shrugged. “Oh she’s having problems with her boyfriend. She just needs someone to listen to her.”

I’d rubbed his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re so sweet,” I’d said.

My energy was gone. Deflated, I gently put the phone down on the charger and went back upstairs. I stood in the hallway, looking at the destruction in the bedroom and office. Clothes, files, papers littered everywhere. Drawers pulled out of the dresser. The floor was covered. Pants stacked haphazardly on top of the television set, where I’d tossed them after cutting holes in each and every pocket of each and every pair Jason owned.

I sank to the floor and cried. I’d become the girl I’d never wanted to be, the one without trust, the one who let her paranoia get the best of her. But it wasn’t paranoia, was it? I trusted him with everything, handed him my life, gave him our life, and he let it drop, let it shatter like it was some kind of bad luck he needed to escape. How will I ever get that back?

************************ Two Years Later**************************

He’s gone but worse, so is my trust. Before I’d split I’d found letters, love letters, to Shellie, saying the same things he used to say to me, using the same pet names he used to use for me. Which I promptly copied several times over, and put in various safe places, and I sweetly informed him that I was leaving, and taking with me anything I want, and if he protested we could continue our conversation in court, with all the letters for the judge to read.

He didn’t protest.

What I’m left with is a bunch of DVDs, a whiny dog and a bitchy cat, and an overall sense that everything pretty much any man says to me is a bold-faced lie. Even if I don’t want it to be.

Especially if I don’t want it to be.

“She’s just a friend.” Oh is she now, I think, you must be in love with her, tell me, love, are you really going out with a group of friends tonight? I know you’re going back to her place or she’ll come to yours and you’ll have sex all night, stopping only to laugh at how pitiful and pathetic I am for believing you were actually out with friends.

“I’m going out for awhile, I’ll be home later.” No you won’t, you’ll go to a party and meet a random girl, or meet up with a girl you’re already seeing (see above) and stay out for the entire night, or the entire weekend. Later you’ll just shrug and say “she was drunk and I was drunk and it just happened…”.

Just a couple of triggers to plod my paranoia along in the most unhealthy way.

I know it’s toxic to a relationship, not being able to trust, and I don’t know how to make it stop. I want to make it stop. I never want to be that girl again, facing the chaos of a room she destroyed, searching for evidence of an affair. I want to be able to smile and say, “Ok, go out, have fun,” and settle back on the couch with a book, trusting and confident that he’ll come back when he says, and he will be faithful. Not because I have proof that he’s faithful—or lack proof otherwise--but simply because I trust that he is faithful.

Back when I was working at the restaurant, every Saturday a group of students from the local School for the Blind would come in to eat. There was a large group of them, usually ranging from 20-40 students along with their teachers and some volunteers.

They always came in around four in the afternoon, so once the clock hit 3:45 I would pull out the tattered Braille menus we kept in a dusty cupboard. They were stained paper menus with no protective covering, several years old and no doubt out of date. I would take a soft rag, damp with a disinfectant cleanser, and very gently scrub around the raised parchment, little dots that my hands would run over absently, wondering how to read it, curious about another world at my fingertips.

Saturday afternoons were usually quiet at the restaurant, so I’d take the menus in the back room, pushing tables together, unwrapping the rolled silverware at each place setting for ease of use.

I could always hear them come in, even from the back of the house. They talked loudly, and their canes would bang against the glass doors in the lobby. I’d hurry back up to the front, hook my arm up with the nearest waiting student, and in line behind the teachers and volunteers, we’d walk to the tables, a long slow walk, with the student tapping their cane in front of them, and me whispering, “ a little to your right, hold on there’s someone coming out of the galley with a tray, ok now, let’s go, turn a little to your left.”

They were different looking, and people stared. A lot of them dressed oddly. Some of them smelled. Many wore dark, thick sunglasses, the kind you might see a grandmother wear. Quite a few of them didn’t wear glasses.

They all had varying degrees of vision. Some were legally blind, and the world was nothing but a blur of color and shapes. Their eyes would tend to roll about in their sockets, unable to focus, unable to find just one clear spot.

Others could see now but were practicing for when they lost their vision completely, wearing blinders and tapping the floor awkwardly with their canes.

And then there were those who were completely sightless, their eyes still, always staring ahead into darkness.

It’s eye-opening to walk with someone who’s different, to experience how the world sees them. Even if they can’t see the world back.

On our walk down the aisle to the back room, people at other tables would shift uncomfortably in their seats. Look down at their plates, pushing broccoli around with their fork or they would suddenly have a thirst to quench, grabbing their Pepsi and gulping it down until we’re out of their sight.

Some stared outright, curiously, but not unkindly. These people were usually children, who stared unapologetically until one of their parents would tug on their shirts and whisper something in their ears, and you’d hear a “but why, Mommy? Why can’t they see?”

And yet there were others who glared, who looked at us in disgust, as though the very presence of a blind person all but ruined their evening. Some would shake their heads and throw down their napkins, pushing their plates away. Some would signal for the bill and stand up, not ready to spend one more second in the company of a sightless human being.

What always struck me most about the blind students was their bravery. Although the weekly dining out was a sponsored event for them, quite a few of them still insisted on paying for their own meals. I could hear them coming, at the end of their dinner, the clank of canes against booths as they walked down the aisle, the surprised gasp coming from other guests as the students would accidentally walk into tables. They wanted to walk themselves without help. They wanted to pay for themselves.

The bills weren’t in Braille. I would read to them how much their totals were, and they’d reach into their wallets, fumbling around, fingering the bills until they pulled out a five or a ten or a twenty.

They were all independent, and yet could not be independent unless they trusted other people. They trusted that someone would be waiting by the door to help them to their seats. They trusted that someone would correct them when they tried to walk back up front themselves and were about to walk in front of a server holding a tray. They trusted that I would give them the correct total on their bills, and that I would give them the correct change back. Even though they knew there was always a risk that someone would watch them fall or take advantage of them, they still went out. They still lived their lives. They still trusted.

So much trust, in order to be independent.

Who knew the blind could teach me how to see?

Just Because!

2010-03-08T19:52:00.002-05:00

I love him and we're all vomiting rainbows!

Alright I'll Whore My Brother Out...and Steve Jobs

2010-03-04T17:26:00.000-05:00

My brother now writes for The Huffington Post!

Apple loves Children (as Employees)

High School Musical 3

2010-03-01T21:29:00.002-05:00

Being at the older end of the Millennials Generation and having not yet achieved parenting status, I had successfully managed to escape the new heights of pop culture hysteria also known as the High School Musical franchise.

Until now.

It all began with a simple e-mail message sent by my very own bff, K, who makes her living as a nanny to S, a young pre-"tween."

K wrote, "I told S I'd take her and a friend out for her birthday, and she wants to see High School Musical 3. Wanna come with us?"

I stared thoughtfully at the computer screen, watching the arrow hover over the "reply" button. High School Musical 3. Is this going too far? It's true, I've seen my share of Hannah Montana marathons on the Disney Channel. There may be a Hillary Duff song or two on my iPod. In our time K and I were quite the boy band aficionados.

But lately, I felt I'd matured. I saw the Jonas Brothers perform on a late night entertainment show and felt this marked the end of my boy band days. I mean they look like kids to me now. When I liked the New Kids on the Block and the Backstreet Boys, the members were always older than me, and I'd dream about our weddings as I flipped through a Tiger Beat magazine. Now seeing the youthful Jonas Brothers I just feel the urge to yell at them to get off my lawn and get a goddamn haircut.

On the other hand, I'm a whore for all things musical, and I love spending time with K. Why not?! I replied with a confident "YES, please!" and scribbled High School Musical 3 on my calendar.

When the big day arrived, I marched up to the ticket booth and said, "One for HSM3, please.' I swear I saw a smirk spread across the face of the clerk as he handed me my ticket. I felt that familiar wave of shame and euphoria rush over me, the same way it did when K and I saw Justin Timberlake, strapped in a harness, fly over the stage singing Christopher Cross's "Sailing" at an N*Sync concert.

Armed with movie essentials--popcorn, candy and soda pop--we settled into our seats, surrounded by giggling groups of teenage girls around us.

"Girls," K announced, leaning toward young S and her friend B, "Jenny's never seen the first two High School Musicals. What do you think she should know before the movie starts?"

Both girls snapped to attention, eyes wide, sitting at the edge of their seats. "See, there's this girl Gabriella, and she loves this guy Troy.."

"..Troy is like, the coolest guy at school, he plays basketball and stars in the high school musical and stuff..."

"...and then Taylor, she always gets what she wants in the end...."

"...an Sharpay, she's like the richest girl in school and she's always trying to break up Troy and Gabriella..."

I turned to K and mouthed, "Sharpay?" K rolled her eyes and smiled.

"...yeah Sharpay is the girl from The Suite Life of Zack and Cody except she's nice and poor in that show and she's rich and mean in this one..."

"Oh!" I said brightly. "I know that show!" I whispered to K, "So is this pre-nose job Ashley Tisdale?"

"Post, I think," K whispered back, giggling. "And hey, thanks for coming tonight. I know it's just a kids show, but..."

"Hey, don't worry about it," I replied, "It's fun, actually. I used to like to watch the Olsen twins movies, but the last one I went to was just me and some old men sitting by themselves in the theater. It was kind of weird."

The screen lit up with a shot of Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston chasing a dog on the beach for the soon-to-be-released Marley and Me. "Auggh," I whispered to K, "another movie about a poor puppy dying I bet."

"Would you look at the balls on that dog? They're huge! Just flapping in the wind while he runs," K muttered, fascinated.

"Hey," I said, "I was at the video store the other day and there's a movie out called Bible School Musical. I thought it was a satire but it turns out it's an alternative to the 'raunchier' HSM franchise."

"Well," K replied thoughtfully, "Home-schooled kids need to be represented, too, I guess."

A few more adorable puppy movie previews later, the room darkened and the show began. The lead character Troy, played by the superbly light-on-his-toes Zac Efron, appeared in the shot, and the theater crackled with excited gasps from the crowd. Troy immediately goes into song, showing us possibly the gayest and most fabulous basketball game ever on the screen.

You could hear people in the theater singing along. Young S and B sat perched on their seats, eyes glued on the screen, their lips moving silently along with Troy and the school basketball team. K covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. She may have been laughing or weeping, I'm not sure which. I leaned over and whispered, "Oh my god. This is so lame." I paused.

"I wonder if this song is on iTunes."

K wiped the tears from her eyes and said, "It is kinda catchy, isn't it?"

After Troy leads the basketball team to the state championship, he and Gabriella climb up to his childhood treehouse and reminisce. "Awwww..." is the collective reaction of the audience. Here we learn that although Troy has a basketball scholarship to his father's alma mater, and he totally, like, dude, loves basketball in the manliest of ways, he's also feeling theater, and now he just doesn't know what to do.

"What a whiner," K muttered, "Why doesn't he just play basketball and major in theater? Problem solved, movie over." I snickered, glancing around the theater. No one hears us over the music numbers.

Gabriella looks at Troy lovingly and tells him, "I have some decisions to make, too."

"Yes but the abortion clinic has closed for the night," I whispered. K giggled.

Later in the movie Troy takes off his shirt to put on his basketball jersey. I nearly choked on my popcorn as the room filled with blood-curdling shrieks and catcalls.

"OH MY GOD ZAC I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU!"

K and I burst into giggles. The girls around us were jumping and screaming and crying like we were at a concert.

"This is fun!" I smiled at S and B, who were looking at their older, teenaged fellow HSM fanatics in awe.

The audience participation continued for the rest of the movie, with girls randomly shrieking whenever Zac Efron appeared on screen. When Troy and Gabriella dance and sing in the rain, the girls behind us cheer, and K is compelled to whisper, "I bet Gabriella's not the only one all wet right now."

During a head-scratching moment in which Troy and his bff dance in a scrap yard dressed inexplicably in tight flannel shirts with bandanas tied Laverne and Shirley style around their heads, K turns to me and says, "Umm...I think they're doing Flashdance."

"I know, right? They're like ripping off every single musical!" I exclaimed, "Let's see, they've done Flashdance, Footloose--"

"Grease!" K chimed in, "And Mary Poppins and--"

"Chicago," I offered, "Everything Bob Fosse, really."

We watched Gabriella, wearing pedal-pushers and a summery white shirt, dance with Troy outdoors. K and I turned to each other. "Dirty Dancing!" we exclaimed in unison.

The movie continued and wrapped up, with Troy and Gabriella reunited and feelin' so good, Sharpay put in her place and set for the future HSM franchise, and Troy deciding that he can play basketball and major in theater at UC-Berkeley, of course.

"So," K asked as the lights came on. "What did you guys think?"

Young S and B gave enthusiastic replies, as I shrugged and said, "it was OK." I paused.

"Wonder when it comes out on DVD?"

My Funny Valentine

2010-02-13T13:28:00.008-05:00

Lucky you were born that far away so
we could both make fun of distance
Lucky that I love a foreign land for
the lucky fact of your existence
-Shakira

I think it’s very apropos that I met Medway in the nerdiest of ways: via webcam at a party hosted by a mutual online friend on the other side of the world.

I don’t remember much from that experience beyond being an almost drunken sort of tired. I’d gotten up at 4 AM to speak with people at 7 PM over in Brisbane, Australia. At some point after chatting with JB and the rest of the ‘Burger gang, Nat brought over Medway to say hello.

I knew of Medway though I hadn’t really interacted with him before. We spoke briefly and what I recall most from our short conversation was my reaction to him when he smiled.“Oh, you’re adorable!” I’d told him, as his grin widened, “look at those dimples!”

I went on with the rest of my day, over-caffeinating myself at work and then, hyper and unable to sleep, I stayed up too late online, reading Nat and JB’s reviews of the night. Medway had made some sort of comment over on JB’s blog, and I responded, and it quickly spiraled out into a playful flirting session that resulted in me giving him my email address and telling him to contact me.

I really didn’t think much of it at the time. I knew he was cute and fun but he was also younger than me and we were separated by continents and an ocean. I just knew I really enjoyed talking with him and wanted to keep the conversation going.

We quickly connected on every available social networking outlet—email, Facebook, Twitter. All while still flirting shamelessly over at John Birmingham’s Cheeseburger Gothic.
Soon we made our way over to Skype, and the second time I saw him on webcam I knew I was in a lot of trouble. There was no arrow or anything: Cupid full on bitch-slapped me.

It had been a very long time since I’d crushed that hard on anyone before. He was absolutely gorgeous to me. He had dark, kind of tousled hair and the most beautiful brown eyes I’ve ever seen. When he smiled his whole face lit up, and the corners of his eyes crinkled downward, almost touching his dimples and if I’d been there in person I would’ve embarrassed myself, reaching out without thought and touching that spot of skin where the two lines almost met.

That’s when I knew I loved him.

When he laughed it was the most joyful sound and I wanted to hear it over and over again, and I knew then it would always be my goal to make him laugh as much as possible.

In the past eight—nearly nine—weeks, we have clocked in hours and hours of time, texting frequently, and having epic, marathon chatting sessions on Skype. Our current record is over 10 hours consecutively.

What do we talk about? Everything and nothing. He writes stories for me, and I write stories for him. We’re writing a story together.

I love his accent. I love the way he says my name. I love all the idiosyncrasies that come along with speaking the same yet different language.

And yet, we have our own world. When we talk, our accents fall away. It’s not an American girl talking to an Australian boy. It’s Jenny and Medway talking, and somehow the Pacific has drained and the continents have merged and we could be just a room away, talking to one another. We’ve created our own universe, with our own language, our own rules, our own jokes.

What can I say about Medway? What can I not say about him? He’s kind. He’s funny. He’s clever. He’s independent. He is selfless. He will drop anything to help any of his friends, without ever expecting something in return.

He has all sorts of hobbies and takes absolute delight in them, without arrogance, without airs.

What I love most about him is that he is so completely, distinctly Medway. He’s genuine. He never tries to be anyone but himself. He sees life in such an interesting way. His perspective is utterly his, and every day I want to see the world through his eyes, more and more.

He’s patient with me. Though we’re six—NO, five and three quarters!-years apart in age, he is the more mature of the two of us. He’s thoughtful and insightful, and I don’t see him as younger, I see him as an equal.

I told him, only half-jokingly, when we first started talking that I was damaged goods. And he said, and has continued to say, “I want to help you piece yourself back together.”

I’m afraid of falling down the rabbit hole. I get sad and I’m afraid of falling and never finding steady ground again. He tells me, “keep going, I’ll pull you up out of the rabbit hole.”

“You Give Me The Kind of Feeling People Write Novels About”
-unknown

What has Medway done for me? He wakes me up with a smile every day. He makes me laugh. He can sense—telepathetic!—when I’m sad or need to talk. Just this week I was in a bad mood, and he spent his whole day texting me and emailing me, trying to cheer me up, listening to my whining and complaints. I didn't find out until much later that he was having an absolutely terrible day himself. He set aside his own problems to attend to mine.

He is an amazing, generous man.

He’s creative, and writes me the most beautiful messages and stories. He knows me so well.

He’s made me brave. He makes me want to write. And not just write anything—he makes me want to be bold and write about things that I’ve been scared of writing, face things I’ve been scared of facing, because I know he’s standing behind me and won’t let me fall. He makes me want to go out and actually live my life, and experience things I’ve been too afraid to experience before.

I don’t know where life will take us. I do know I want to be with him, and I will fight for him, and cry with him, and laugh with him, and cheer him on and hold him up when he needs it. And I know him well enough that he would do--and does--the same for me. And the distance is a challenge but we’ll make it work. And if for some reason we can’t make it work—and I really hope that’s not the case—I want to say to him:

Thank you. I know we were raised on the Disney fairy tale notion that the prince is supposed to sweep in and save the princess and we’ll all live Happily Ever After. And I know from experience that this is not true, not at all, that we can only really save ourselves. But what you have done is sweep into my life and wake me up from a long, sad sleep, and I will always love you for that, and you make me want to keep going, and I want to keep going with you. It’s like I’ve been stumbling around in the dark and you’ve come in and flicked a light on for me.

I know I’m lucky to have you in my life, and I’m grateful for every bad moment I’ve ever had because in its own way it’s led me to you.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Meds. I love you.

Long Time Gone

2010-02-09T06:14:00.001-05:00

I like that song. Not much of a country fan but I do like the Dixie Chicks.

Anyway I know I've been behind on my blog.

I have still been writing, just nothing to post here yet. I've written some stories for Medway, and have been getting together some ideas for a collaboration with a couple of different people and so on.

I do have a story I'm working on now that will be up by the end of the week at the latest.

I started writing it months ago, but it's a difficult piece for me to write personally and I shelved it. Then the other night I had a really vivid dream, and it was about the story, and I woke knowing it was time to dust off again.

So I spent most of last night working on it, and I plan on spending a chunk of tonight working on it, though once Lost comes on TV all bets are off.

Other than that, I desperately need to do some spring cleaning in my apartment. I need to get rid of a lot of junk I've been holding on to for far too long.

I wish it would stop snowing. We had another snowstorm last night that is supposd to continue right on into the weekend, and I feel weary just thinking about it.

What's Going On With Me

2010-01-25T06:33:00.004-05:00

What's going on with me:

Click here.

Oops I Did It Again

2010-01-05T03:00:00.001-05:00

I'm an idiot.

Last night I went out with Scott, Amanda and The Tedly. We went to the bar then decided to see a movie.

Since we all drove separately, we each left the parking lot one by one, heading toward the theater.

I put my iPod (yes thankfully it still works after I accidentally left it in my car the other day and it literally froze) on shuffle and Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time" played through the speakers.

I slowed to a stop at a red light when, out of the corner of my eye, a car pulled up next to me. Assuming it was Ted, I turned up the volume and blasted the music. I turned to face him, made the "rock and roll" sign, then made an extremely rude gesture involving two fingers in a V shape and my tongue.

Of course, the man in the car next to me was not Ted.

For a moment, we stared at each other in horror. Then a slow grin spread across the man's face, and he made the same gesture and started headbanging to Britney.

I was mortified. Worse yet, the light was still red so I had to sit there staring straight ahead, too embarrassed to look the guy in the eyes. But then light turned green and I pressed my foot down on the accelerator, and the laughter bubbled up my throat and escaped out of my mouth in a gasp that turned into full on hysterics.

Later down the road, I slowed to a stop at another red light, and my iPod shuffled to Britney's "Oops I Did It Again" (I have Too Much Britney on my music lists, apparently). A car slid up next to me, and I hoped beyond hope that it would be the same guy, as this would be a fitting cap to a humilitating story.

No such luck. Different guy.

(Not So) Wonderful Tonight

2010-01-03T01:24:00.001-05:00

Reposted from last year

It's time to go home now and I've got an aching head
So I give her the car keys and she helps me to bed
And then I tell her, as I turn out the light,
I say, "My darling, you were wonderful tonight.
Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight."
Eric Clapton, "Wonderful Tonight"

I recently finished reading Eric Clapton's autobiography, simply titled Clapton, and it awoke all kinds of mixed feelings inside me, especially the song "Wonderful Tonight."

I've always loved "Wonderful," with its quiet, sweet sound . It's a pretty song and when I close my eyes I picture all kinds of dark blue shadows, images of a beautiful woman, with long blonde hair, being admired by her lover as they get ready for a party.

The last verse of the song has always bothered me, however. I suppose one could surmise that the singer--Clapton himself or just a narrator--simply had a headache and she took him home and helped him to bed. I never could see it that way, though. I always pictured him drunk, stumbling out of the party, her arm around his waist as she firmly leads him to the car. I get the feeling this is something she does on a fairly regular basis, and they've developed a routine: he lays in bed, slurring his "my darling, you were wonderful tonight" as she struggles to pull off his shoes and put a blanket over him.

After finishing Clapton's book, I realize that unfortunately my interpretation of the song was fairly accurate. He painted a brutally honest picture of himself as both a heroin addict and later, an alcoholic. Now with over 20 years sobriety under his belt, he is able to better understand how he let his addictions rule his life, and he acknowledged that his drug abuse and alcoholism deeply affected and sometimes destroyed the people he loved around him.

This was a difficult read for me. His descriptions of life as an alcoholic hit me hard and I recognized a lot of his behaviors--hiding bottles and bottles of liquor from his wife, denying he had a problem, trying to convince himself and everyone around him that he didn't need to quit completely, he could handle one or two a day, sleeping all day, disappearing on benders for days at a time--I recognized this all too well, because for several years I lived with an addict.

When cleaning I'd discover dozens--dozens!--of empty bottles hidden around the apartment. He would drink at work. He would go into work drunk. He came home drunk. He reeked of liquor, all the time. He'd claim he never really got drunk because he was never hungover. But you have to take a respite from drinking in order to experience the hangover, and that was something he rarely if ever did. Some days he slurred his words so much you couldn't decipher what he was saying, but he'd still claim to be sober.

Regarding the demise of his own marriage, Clapton wrote "however much I might have thought I loved Pattie at the time, the truth is that the only thing that I couldn't live without was alcohol. This really made my need or ability to commit to anything, even marriage, pretty inconsequential."

I've found this to also be true within my relationship. I asked. I begged. I ultimated. I finally determined, one night last year, that I would never win with him. The love of his life was, is and will continue to be booze. I believe even the other women, the drugs, the gambling--they don't even compete with the Almighty Vodka.

Clapton continued, "I had never learned to look honestly at myself. In fact, in order to protect my drinking, it was important not to do that.." He then went on to explain that when you're an alcoholic, you always see yourself as the victim. An alcoholic will never take responsibility for his or her actions. It's only when they take an honest look in the mirror that they begin the journey from alcoholic to recovering alcoholic.

For years, I labeled myself as an "enabler." As he informed me whenever we argued about his drinking, I was the one that drove him to it. "You believe in me too much," he explained, "It's too much pressure." Sometimes I was told, "You've never had tragedy in your life. You couldn't understand." Other times I was informed, "I don't drink too much. You just don't drink enough. You're too uptight."

I don't know why I stayed as long as I did. I haven't talked about it much because in all honestly, I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed I couldn't stop him, ashamed I couldn't keep it under control. I felt like a failure. No one else's husband or boyfriend was like that--it must be me. I'm ashamed I stayed as long as I did, because I never wanted to be that kind of person.

I always thought I would be above that kind of situation--you know, when you watch a show where a woman's getting abused and you think, "That would never happen to me. I would never allow it."

Well, I did. It's just harder to realize you've become that woman when you're in the middle of it.

No one made me stay. I don't ever recall a gun pointing to my head, nor do I recall putting a bottle in his hand, and yet somehow we both blamed me.

I actually told myself, "Well he's not a mean drunk." As a matter of fact, he reminded me very much of the singer in "Wonderful Tonight." Somehow in the time we were together I was forced into the caretaker position, and he grew to resent me for it.

And looking back, he was a mean drunk. Just not in the way I usually would picture a mean drunk. He was never violent with me. I'd like to think if he had been, I would've packed up and left immediately. He was more of a neglectful and inconsiderate alcoholic. When he forgot my birthday I called a friend crying, explaining "He didn't remember it was my birthday." That's when he walked in the room and said, "I knew it was your birthday. I just didn't want to get you anything."

When I left for work one morning I put on a new shirt I'd just gotten, a rare occasion as he no longer contributed his paychecks to our household expenses, and when I asked how it looked on me he replied, "Honestly? You don't look good at all." Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.

When I went on a business trip for a week, I called him the day I was coming back home, upset that he never called me while I was gone. He said, "I'm sorry, I just didn't really miss you."

I don't know why I stayed as long as I did. I suppose I became so consumed in trying to juggle work, school and keeping him sober, I somehow let go of myself.

I know I wasn't lost completely. As it was so beautifully put in the book Eat Pray Love, I too found a moment of strength in myself and let go:
"Never forget that once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you recognized yourself as a friend."

Clapton's story affected me profoundly. When I talk with people I downplay the role alcohol played in the collapse of my marriage, because I was ashamed. Because even now, alone in my room at night, I blame myself. And I'm so tired of blaming myself.

Alcoholism is a disease. Regardless, it is not my fault, or his parents' fault, or life or circumstance or work that puts that bottle in his hand. It's ultimately his choice, and there is nothing I could or can say or do to change that. He is and will continue to be an alcoholic until he can look at himself honestly and take responsibility for himself.

I've thought about this for awhile now and decided to go ahead and post it. While this is his addiction, it affected me profoundly in all aspects of my life. It's my story too and I choose to share it. Maybe someday he'll read this and it will make him see. Maybe by freeing myself it will save his life too.

But that's his choice, not mine.

Customer Service

2009-12-19T23:12:00.002-05:00

Earlier in the week I decided to stop into a local deli for a cup of soup. The place can get very busy during the lunch hour, so I was pleasantly surprised when I walked in and found the place nearly empty, with no wait in line.

I took a moment at the door to stomp the snow off my boots and remove my gloves and scarf. The room was warm and cozy, filled with that comforting scent that only homemade bread can produce, and I closed my eyes and breathed in the heady air. When I opened my eyes, I saw a short, raven-haired cashier waving at me from the counter.

“Hey you!” She greeted me warmly, “So great to see you!”

I glanced over my shoulder. I’ve never seen this girl in my life. She obviously must be talking to someone else standing behind me.

“How are you? How’ve you been? Anything new?” She smiled at me. Expectantly.

Oh my god. She is talking to me. She must recognize me from somewhere—but where? School? An old job? “Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered under my breath, as I smiled back at her.

“Hey…you,” I said hesitantly, but cheerfully, “How are you?”

“Great!” She replied, “Keeping busy, you know…the usual.”

“Right!” I nodded enthusiastically, trying to catch a glimpse of her nametag. Did that say Jane? Or Janelle? Crap. Do I know a Jane? “Well yeah of course, I mean, I bet you’re really busy with the, you know, the…usual.”

“Ohmigosh, you don’t even know. It’s been crazy!” She glanced toward the kitchen. “Well,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I’d tell you about it, but they’ll get on my ass if I’m too chatty here, you know? I’ll tell you all about it later. Do you know what you want to order?”

“Oh, sure,” I said, relieved, “Um…can I have a cup of French Onion soup with a baguette, please?”

“No problemo, chica,” Jane (Janelle?) said as I handed her the money. She placed the cup of soup at the end of the counter and said, “Have a great day, sweetie! Good to see you!”

“You too!” I replied as she turned to chat with a co-worker. I closed my purse and reached over to grab the soup when I realized I didn’t get the baguette I’d ordered.

“Um, excuse me,” I said to Jane (Janelle?), who was having an animated conversation with another girl behind the counter. Jane turned and looked at me, clearly irritated.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I smiled, “but I didn’t get the baguette with my soup.” Jane stared at me. Feeling slightly silly, I held up the cup of soup. “Remember? I ordered the French Onion with the baguette?”

“Do you have a receipt?” Jane asked coldly.

Taken aback, I said, “Well, yes, I think so. I think it’s in my purse.” I opened my purse and started rummaging through it. “Do you need the receipt? I mean, don’t you remember—I just ordered it like, 20 seconds ago.”

“Well I wait on a lot of people in my job, I can’t expect to remember every order that comes through,” Jane snapped.

I paused. “Oh—um, okay.” I handed the receipt over to her, and turned to look around me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s just that, you know, you just waited on me and no one else has been in here since then.”

“Well I don’t remember taking your order at all, I think you have me confused with Kelly.” She pointed to a tall, blonde girl back in the kitchen. “And anyway I need the receipt, ‘cause for all I know you’re just trying to get something you didn’t pay for.”

She handed me back the receipt, and filled a Styrofoam cup with Coke from the fountain. “Here’s your Sprite,” she said, placing the cup on the counter.

“Excuse me,” I said, feeling more baffled than angry, “I didn’t order a drink. I ordered a baguette. And I paid for it, too!” I held up the receipt. “According to this receipt, I ordered a French Onion soup and a baguette at 12:28 PM from a cashier named Jane. Are you Jane? Is this some kind of joke?” I looked around the room, expecting some kind of Punk’d moment involving a tool-ish TV host and a hidden camera.

Jane gave a heavy sigh and rolled her eyes. “Here’s your baguette,” she said, handing me the bread. “Have a great day.” She then folded her arms and strolled back to the kitchen as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

I slowly put my scarf and gloves back on, and stepped back outside in the snowstorm, half-expecting to find myself in a hot summer day.

Tiger's Wood and Double Standards

2009-12-14T22:02:00.006-05:00

I have to say, when the rumors started swirling around that Tiger Woods' wife Elin took a golf club to her dearly beloved's Escalade after a fight over his many extracurricular activities, I laughed. And I laughed hard.

Because I understand how it feels, that moment you learn your husband has been unfaithful.

A few days after my husband and I split, I was upstairs in the computer room of our townhouse we still shared, packing some of my things. Long story short, I found a love letter my husband had written to a girl named Shellie--yes, a Shellie, with an "ie" in her name for god's sake.

I was standing when I found it, and by the end of the note, after he'd professed his love for her (he never knew love until he met her) and talked about the night they spent together (naked, passionate, holding each other, talking til the sun came up), I was on the floor, sitting cross-legged, my heart pounding, my hands shaking so hard I was inadvertently fanning myself with the paper.

I was surprised. Not shocked--it was something I'd suspected for awhile--but still, I suppose there was a part of me that believed he'd been faithful, and now I had actual proof that he wasn't.

I didn't cry. I didn't think "why her?" or more importantly, the question that kept me up for weeks and months after--"why not me?"

No. I was angry. As a matter of fact I was furious.

If he'd been home at the time there surely would have been a confrontation. If he'd been home at the time I might've slapped him across the face.

But he wasn't home. He was never home if I was there.

So instead I called my mom. And then I called my best friend. And I went to her house and she opened her arms and hugged me and I cried and cried and cried.

And then, I took the letter and made lots and lots and lots of copies. And I got everything I wanted in the divorce.

A few days after I found the letter, I called my husband to let him know I would be at the house to get some more of my stuff.

When I pulled onto our street, I could see my husband's car was gone. But another car, a shiny, cherry red one was parked in the driveway. In my spot.

I had to park on the road. When I walked inside it was clear that I'd interrupted their date. The dining room table was set for two, and half-eaten steak dinner was on both plates. A candle had recently been extinguished.

My DVD copy of Love Actually, the one he always refused to watch with me, was pulled out and sitting on the coffee table, waiting patiently for use.

He made dinner for her. They ate at my table. She was going to sit on my couch in my house and watch my movie.

With my husband.

As I hauled boxes through the yard, down the road to my car--it would've been so much easier if I could've parked in the driveway, in my spot, by my side door--my anger peaked to an infuriating high, and I ran over to her car, my keys in hand, ready to carve "SLUT" on the side of her driver's side door.

I didn't do it.

I wanted to do it, more than anything, and if I was standing outside of myself, watching someone else feel what I was feeling, see what I was seeing, I would've said, "yeah, go on and fkn do it, if it makes you feel better."

But deep down I knew it wouldn't make me feel any better, not at all, not in the least. It wouldn't solve anything and I knew that someday I wanted to look back and be proud of the way I handled myself in an awful situation, and I don't think I would've been proud of defacing someone else's car, even if she was a goddamn homewrecking Shellie with an "ie."

So watching the Tiger Woods debacle unfold on television, with the whole world watching, I felt for his poor gorgeous wife.

Of course she has every right to bash in the car with a golf club if her husband was stepping out with other women. Of course she should be able to slap him across the face, the sting vibrating off her hand, the hurt leaving her body temporarily.

...right?

But, what if the roles had been reversed? Would it be alright for Tiger to show physical violence and anger if he found his wife was cheating on him?

Why is it somehow more acceptable, or understandable, or maybe the better question is why are people more sympathetic toward a wronged wife who lashes out physically, violently at her husband, whereas if he did the same, it would be abusive, intolerable behavior?

Freestylin'

2009-12-06T22:43:00.003-05:00

Back in school we used to have to do these writing exercises, freeforming or freewriting or freestyling, whatever you want to call it, anyway the teacher would give you ten or fifteen or twenty minutes to just write whatever was in your head. And I never really liked the assignment all that much, I didn’t find it all that inspiring and frankly I was embarrassed at the actual thoughts floating around in my head. Because you know it’s not like I’m solving algorithms or pondering World Peace or any of that kind of stuff. No I’m more likely considering cutting bangs or wondering how much weight I can lose before so-and-so’s wedding, so I can show up looking all fabulous in some sexy-but-classy outfit I have yet to figure out how to afford, and every girl who’s ever been bitchy to me in my life—oh that’s right little Susie Sheridon I’m looking at you—will be there, will somehow be related to or friends with the bride or groom, and they’ll be looking at me enviously, wanting my svelte body or my thick hair or my smile, which I flash both brilliantly and modestly. Oh yes. And the men there will all be single and gorgeous and the smartest, funniest, charming-est one will pick me—yes, me!—for a dance when the lights dim and the music softens.

That’s when the loopy crazy hijinks kicks in, like some kind of British romantic comedy, where everyone sputters and smiles and says nothing while saying everything really loudly, and Hugh Grant or Colin Firth or some fumbling but charming Englishman named Darcy comes in and after a few missteps and almost-but-not-quites, the girl gets the boy of her dreams.

But I’m already bored with this, and since I’m freewriting I can change topic without much segue.

When I was younger and liked boys all you had was the telephone. He either called or he didn’t. And if your mom was on the phone you died a little inside, because what if he was trying to call and couldn’t get through? I’d pace in front of my mom, who would be sort of leaning up against the wall, one hand twirling the tightly coiled cord while her elbow was propped up against the kitchen counter. She’d laugh and gossip and talk with her sister or her mother or one of her girlfriends for what seemed like hours—agonizing!—and I’d tap my foot on the linoleum floor or drum my fingers on the kitchen table, giving her pointed looks until finally she’d cup her hand over the receiver and say “You’d better watch that attitude young lady or you won’t be able to use this phone for a week!” and I’d stomp off to my room and slam the door shut and throw myself on my bed sobbing, because everything was so unfair, I mean my life was nearly over, my social life—as a matter of fact the course of my entire existence—was on the line and all my mom could do was talk about today’s episode of The Donahue Show with her sister. Didn’t she know, didn’t she understand that if The Boy couldn’t reach me, he might call Susie Sheridon instead, out of sheer boredom or desperation of course—who would think that pock-faced pug-nosed little snot would be worthy of The Boy’s time, really—and then that’s it. He’ll fall under some Bitch spell she concocted and they’ll get married and I will live my life as a sad matronly librarian ala Donna Reed’s alternate persona in It’s a Wonderful Life. Which is such a depressing movie, because she loved him so much and he really wasn’t all that into her, Jimmy Stewart was kind of a selfish ass in that film I thought. I mean even after he’s back home and picks up his daughter it’s still like, “oh these people like me and frankly without them I’d probably be dead so I guess they’re worthy of my attention now.”

But anyway my point being that back then you just had to wait it out on the telephone. And before call-waiting and caller id you could still at the very least convince yourself that he actually was trying to call you—even if he wasn’t, you could reassure yourself of that while you were lying in bed awake at night, staring at the cottage-cheese-y build up on your ceiling and wondering what the appeal is really, of having that ugly rough texture on your wall or ceiling.

But now, a boy has so many ways to reject you. And there are so many outlets to check. You have landline phones with conferencing and call waiting and caller id. You have cell phones with voicemail and texting. He could contact you on Facebook or Myspace—but really, who uses Myspace anymore? I would be a little concerned about dating a boy who is behind the times enough to still use his Myspace page as his prime social network—or he could read your blog or better yet, write about you in his blog or he could follow you on Twitter.

So basically he has a million different ways to contact you and if you find yourself wired up until the wee hours, with your cell phone and laptop plugged in—and you keep checking your email and updating your Facebook status to let everyone know that you’re home and available—then basically you are being rejected in a million different ways and that’s really depressing and makes me wish I was 12 years old again, pacing in front of my mother who is talking to her best friend about Oprah and her yo-yo dieting issues.

But nobody wants to read about this. That’s why I need to brush up on my stance on solving the World Hunger crisis and freewrite about that instead. This is why I hate freewriting.

slice of life

2009-12-05T22:42:00.002-05:00

hanging at the bus stop
henry with his mind gone and
I’ve lost my pen
minutes lost while moments gather
we watch and wait
for time that will never come

I tap my feet while
henry clicks his tongue
he’s mad and I’m mad
disappearing in the recesses
outside the bustle of traffic

a preoccupied pre-paid frenzy
a ritual of lives littered
on a busy september road

henry and I hear
cell phones ringing within
the lonely crowd’s shuffle
no one really listens
to their call

a lover for Zephyr

2009-12-02T06:56:00.002-05:00

she exists in echoes
tinged in monotone hues
ensconced in darkness

the missiled moon stabs
light into her being and suddenly
she is inflamed

a force majeure

bright, voracious, wrecked
she peppers the earth, grounding
heady words, glossing windy
rhythms, fermenting solid songs

for Zephyr

an eddy of words,
a rhapsody, swirling and absorbing
suddenly employ into a climatic gust

then the flame flickers

out

the darkness
swallows the moon and fades into dawn
she ebbs back into the echoes, artless

great big nothing

2009-12-01T22:05:00.000-05:00

this song soaked in my brain
packed its bags and headed south
big bright lights and all that jazz
tired of this great big nothing
in my mind

dazzled and bemused
I’ve been wondering and wandering
wandering and pondering
this great big nothing
in my mind

there’s no scheduled rhythm
no room for annotated space
just shaping stretching searing
this great big nothing
in my mind

I wish I could write away the worries
wish my smile could pay the bills
it’d be nice to just dance away
this great big nothing
in my mind

Deidre

2009-11-29T01:30:00.001-05:00

*an edited version of a poem I wrote at age 18*

Deidre tucks her religion in a corner
collecting dust with her childhood toys
she uses it only
at her convenience

Deidre has messy hair and
nervously-bitten fingernails but
her eyebrows are always perfect
waxed half-moons

Deidre says sex is only dirty
if you don't shower afterwards
and smoking is only bad
if you're addicted

We are both eighteen but
Deidre says I need to catch up
she rubs her swelling belly and
exhales a cloud of grey, swirling smoke

Surfacing

2009-11-22T23:32:00.001-05:00

It just happened.

I didn't mean for anything to come of it. Believe me, I wasn't actively searching. There were no plans to ruin a perfectly fine Sunday afternoon.

But there we were, in the car, the freeway stretched before us, the curves of the land hugging the gravel surface, crackling under the tires.

We talked.

We talked about everything inconsequential: clothes, dates, cooking.

I joked about something, and she laughed. I glanced at her as she smiled, her head tilting back slightly against the leather seat.

I saw it, briefly. The faint squeeze of crow's feet surrounding her eyes. The push of skin back around her mouth.

We are aging, and it's strange to see. I can close my eyes and remember her 16th birthday, the way the wind hit our hair as we drove around town in her new car.

It could've been yesterday, or months ago, or 10 years ago. And here we are, driving around, wind lacing our hair and nothing and everything has changed.

But let's set that aside for another day.

I am paused in this moment, pregnant in her smile. I know her enough. I know her so well that the faintest force of muscle moves me, unsettles me, unhinges something inside.

She is unhappy.

I smile and nod as she continues, talking and absently fiddling with the radio. I bite my lip and worry.

There is something that happens to people who have lost. I don't understand it although it's very nearly tangible. A flat taste in a sad meal. A shiver in a warm touch. A faint force of smile in a pleasant conversation.

She is on the verge; of what exactly, I am unaware. Her fingertips tap slightly, impatiently on the wheel. She laughs nervously at the edge of sentences and her eyes flicker just before she blinks, as though everything that once was natural is now a voluntary force of will.

I have a question for her, and it is simple enough in theory. The words are solid in my mouth, and my tongue flicks over them, softening the edges.

"Are you happy?"

She turned to me, surprised, and directed her eyes back on the road.

"What do you mean?" she laughs: a dry, choked song.

"Are you happy?"

She glanced over at me, eyebrows furrowed. "What are you talking about?" she scoffs. I wait, and the silence is a grey smog seeping through the vehicle.

"I mean, that's kind of out of nowhere but yeah, you know, I'm happy." She shrugged then reached over me to open the glove compartment. Her elbow brushed against my knee. "Gum?" she offered, unwrapping one for herself.

"No." I replied.

I took a deep breath. She crumpled the foil and tossed it out the window, then turned the music up loud. We both stared ahead, the road suddenly flat and empty, the sky a dull, pale imitation blue.

I reached over and put my hand on hers. She pulled away, startled, but then relaxed. I let my fingers envelope hers.

When I squeezed her hand tears dropped from her eyes.

The sun fell and we drove on for miles. At the last exit she pulled off the freeway and let go of my hand.

"No," she whispered, barely breathing, "I'm not happy."

"Not at all."

November/Movember Update

2009-11-15T01:02:00.002-05:00

My laptop is back! Finally!

I'm catching up on my writing and should hopefully have some stuff up soon. Thanks for your patience!

In the meantime you can check out my 'stache (and everyone else's) over at The Magnum P.I. Allstars blog.

-Jennicki

An Update

2009-11-03T19:14:00.001-05:00

Hi everyone,

I just got word back on my laptop. The hard drive is damaged and the keyboard needs to be replaced. Total cost will range from $300-$350.

*cringe*

I am hating myself right now. That is one hard glass of water for me to swallow.

They had to order my keyboard, so the earliest I could get it back is Friday. More than likely it will be next week.

*groan*

Anyway, I do have an old desktop, so I do check in from time to time on Twitter and Facebook.

I am able to read other blogs, but I can only comment on Wordpress blogs.

For some reason my desktop will not let me access anything Google-related, especially Blogger. It keeps saying my cookies have been disabled, but when I follow the directions exactly to enable them, nothing happens.

So that's why I haven't commented in my blog or anyone else's Blogspot page (I'm at my parents' right now, mooching off of their food and computer that functions fully).

I hope to have everything up and running next week, and hopefully I haven't lost anything in my laptop.

Hope all is well.

Jen

Pardon the Interruption

2009-10-25T17:43:00.001-04:00

Today started as a pretty laid back Sunday. I got all my chores done, cleaned the apartment, and had settled back on my new couch to watch The Talented Mr. Ripley.

On my coffee table I had my laptop set up, along with a detailed, handwritten outline and notes for a short story I was working on. On the other side of my computer was a glass of water and my cell phone.

My dog Taz was stretched out on the couch, quietly chewing on his toy with his tail wagging.

It was such a relaxed, contented moment that I actually put on my Twitter page that life was feeling pretty heavenly at the moment.

And I should know better by now.

Seconds after I hit the "send" button for my tweet, Taz jumped off the couch and walked over to me, his tail wagging.

My eyes on the TV, I reached down and scratched behind his ears, then looked over and smiled at him.

He lifted his paw and swiped the glass of water on the table.

It spilled. All over my laptop. My cell phone. And my notes.

I did my best mopping the water up. I used a can of compressed air to try and dry out my keyboard, but the mouse and some of the keys are not working.

I can't get into my Windows screen to check the damage, because the nonworking keys are the ones I need to log in to my account.

My notes are a blurred mess. Not sure if I can salvage them.

The phone is working.

But the laptop...every project, every piece of writing I've been working on over the last six months is saved ONLY on that goddamn computer.

And I'm broke.

I spent a good fifteen minutes crying full-blast--I mean the heaving, sobbing, gutteral cry that you only have once every so often.

I kind of feel like the last couple of years things have been peeled away from me, one by one, and writing was all I had left. And now that everything I'm working on might be gone...I feel kind of dead inside.

So it might be awhile before I'm back on here.

As usual, when things start to look up...

FML.

Grocery Shopping

2009-10-21T23:27:00.002-04:00

I went to the store this afternoon and as I was reaching for a carton of orange juice I saw an older couple pass by me.

I recognized them. They were regulars at a restaurant I'd worked at all through high school and college.

They didn't see me, and I didn't say anything.

They'd aged in the time that passed between our last conversation. As we all do.

His hand was on the small of her back. Her shoulders were slouched, stooped. They pushed the shopping cart together.

I had a flash of them, in the restaurant. Sitting at the same booth they always liked, table 32, and he had his arm around her shoulder and she was beaming at their son.

I remember the way my heart crashed into my stomach when I heard about the car accident.

How they couldn't bear to sit at that table anymore.

It made me so profoundly sad. I put my head down, shut the cooler door, and walked away.

Roller Skating Hell

2009-10-18T23:08:00.002-04:00

Inspired by Girl Clumsy’s fantastic post on re-visiting childhood moments.

Roller skating plays an inevitable, um, role *cough* in the social infrastructure of most children’s lives. Well, at least in my childhood.

Weekend events often included trips to the local skating rink, for birthday parties, holiday bashes and end-of-the-school year gatherings.

Born a natural non-athlete, I loathed roller skating and whenever a party invitation arrived in the mail, my stomach dropped upon reading the location as “Roller World” or worse, the card itself was shaped like a skate. As the date neared I’d come home from school and face that skate card with the same enthusiasm as taking a math test or getting an allergy shot.

I tried to like it. I practiced. I had my own PlaySkool skates from Santa, bright red, yellow and blue colored skates that could be adjusted as my feet grew bigger. I scooted myself around in them all over the house in the summer. I was quite the champion on carpeting, specifically brown shag carpeting. But once I entered dangerous flooring—the tiled kitchen or the slick hardwood in my bedroom—I was as horizontal as Paris Hilton at a casting call.

My mom tried to help. She would take me outside and after gently coaxing me onto the sidewalk (I preferred skating on the grass—it was kinder on my backside) she would grab my hands and slowly roll me down the block. I kept my arms out straight like a zombie and would bend my knees ever so slightly. I would freeze in absolute terror as my mom grasped my hands, walking backwards as I rolled. When she finally let go I would lose my balance, arms flailing at my sides as I fell forward or backward, scraping either my knees or my ass.

It wasn’t too attractive for a seventeen year old.

I kid, I kid. At seventeen I’d already tried and failed at the latest fad in transit footwear—the roller blade.

When the day of one particularly dreaded roller skating party finally arrived, I had an idea. As I got ready, pulling on my black lace leggings and adding pins to my jean jacket—my favorites were New Kids on the Block and a big, yellow smiley face that said Don’t Worry Be Happy—I went over my plan. The goal was to spend as little time on the rink as necessary. This was probably the best and only option I decided as I pulled my crimped hair into a side ponytail.

I’d follow my friends to the rental store, where we would pick out skates in our respective sizes and then sit down on a long bench and lace up. I’d take my time, slowly loosening then tightening the shoes as I gossiped and giggled with my girlfriends over our latest crushes.

Then we would skate around the carpeted party room, mingling with the new arrivals as they trickled in. This I could handle. This was slightly heaven to my hell party. With ease and considerable traction I would be able to glide around the room as the event progressed, from present opening to eating of the cake and ice cream.

My plan played out as expected, but then the inevitable, dreaded moment came and I knew there was no escape. The lights dimmed, the disco ball began its spin, and the DJ’s voice boomed from the booth.

“Who’s ready to PAR-TAY?” he announced, and all the girls around me jumped up and squealed. Someone grabbed my hand and we floated across the safety of the carpeted floor onto the dangerously smooth surface of the rink.

I was fooled at first. Holding hands in a line with my girlfriends, slowly gliding to the Bangles’ slow, sultry “Eternal Flame” I felt like I was soaring. As we circled around the first rounded edge of the rink we all belted out with Susanna Hoffs “I don’t wanna lose this feeeeeeeling…”

“Ohhhhh…..oh.”

The music stopped abruptly, and MC Hammer flooded the speakers. “LET’S GET THIS PAR-TAY STAAAAAARTED!” the DJ yelled over the bass, and my safety net broke apart, my girlfriends squealing and speeding up with the music.

“Wait for me!” I called desperately, trying to keep my balance. I slowed to a crawl, taking tiny steps forward with my right hand up against the ugly padded wall. The lights began to flicker and change color, from pink to red to green.

I was halfway to the rink’s exit. I bit my lip as Debbie Gibson’s “Electric Youth” blared and my friends lapped me once, twice, three times a loser. Everyone was going so fast around me and the lights were flashing and the DJ yelling.

I had my very first panic attack.

I pressed my body up against the padded walls, digging my fingernails in as I inched closer and closer to my destination. I could hear my friends as they passed me. “Jenny! C’mon! Are you OK?”

“I’m fine!” I yelled, my voice muffled by the padding. “This is totally awesome, haha!”

Suddenly the music stopped, and the DJ boomed “Alright you crazy kids, time to switch it up! Everyone now go in the OPPOSITE DIRECTION!!”

I clung to the wall, groaning as people cheered and turned around behind me. I was so close to the exit. I couldn’t stop now. I took another step forward.

“YOU! In the jean jacket! Yeah you missy! You’re going the wrong way!” I grimaced as I glanced up at the DJ booth. He was glaring and pointing at me.

“You have been ELIMINATED.” The rink went dark and suddenly a bright spotlight shined on me, my arms and my body pressed hard against the wall. I could hear a splatter of giggles echo across the room.

“Let’s not let Little Miss Party Pooper ruin our PAR-TAY!” The DJ bellowed, and the place erupted in cheers as “Ice Ice Baby” bounced off the speakers and the disco ball started turning and throwing light around the room again.

I continued inching my way to the exit, cursing the DJ under my breath as I went. When I finally reached the safety of the carpeted floor, I clunked over to the bench and removed my rentals, rubbing my tensed, aching feet, and vowed to never skate again.

Welcome to the New and (Hopefully) Improved Boys Don't Like Funny Girls

2009-10-12T00:31:00.004-04:00

Hello all.

I have overhauled my blog, mostly for administrative purposes.

I read quite a few books on web design, CSS and HTML, and deemed it to be waaaaay too tedious for me, so although my hope was to set up a whole new site from scratch, I ended up making use of a lot of free templates and generators compliments of the 'Net instead.

When it comes down to it, I'd rather spend my time writing then coding.

The biggest change is that I have added pages to my blog, which are accessible within the "Table of Contents" box to your right.

This page--Boys Don't Like Funny Girls--will remain the homepage and all new writings will be posted here.

For filing and archival purposes, I will also file my new posts under the appropriate page. This is the breakdown:

Essays and short stories will be filed under "Prose Before Hos."

Current events and opinions will be filed under "The Mouse Who Roared."

I will soon be posting reviews, and the book reviews will be filed under "Playing with My Lit."

Album reviews and music-related writings will be filed in "Electric Youth."

Movie and tv show commentary will be filed under "Popcorn and Previews."

Poetry will be filed under "Poesy."

Audioblogs and other media will be filed under She's Got Herself a Universe.

Again, all new posts will be posted on the homepage, Boys Don't Like Funny Girls. The pages are just there for filing and archival purposes, more for me than anything else. But you are more than welcome to visit all the pages as often as you'd like!

Any questions, suggestions or opinions are appreciated.

Thanks for your patience!

I will have new writings up very shortly!

Jen

Save a Horse, Shame a Cowboy

2009-09-07T21:21:00.002-04:00

When I was younger and slightly more dimwitted, I had a roommate to whom I'll refer as "Ronny."

Ronny enjoyed being naked. Usually quite frequently and at inappropriate times. He also liked to have sex (also quite frequently and at inappropriate times).

As naive as I was back in those days, I did have enough wits about me to not become involved with Ronny, beyond sleeping in the bedroom next door to his room. It wasn't that difficult for me, truthfully--after witnessing Ronny and his best friend cut holes in their old high school football pants, then walk around with their Uncle Woodys hanging out--well, that just killed any minute speck of attraction I may have been plundering deep in the ethos of my subconscious.

Until recently, Ronny had been sleeping with "Sheila," the girl downstairs.

Sheila and I became friends under odd circumstances. My friend "Kelly" moved into the apartment beneath Ronny and me, and asked her friend Sheila to room with her. Despite having Kelly as a mutual friend, Sheila and I had never met.

The day Sheila moved in, she came upstairs to introduce herself. And to ask if she could watch our TV, since they hadn't hooked theirs up yet. I looked up at this blonde-haired, blue-eyed Amazon woman and determined I could probably take her, if need be. You know, in case Kelly had really poor judgment in the friend department and I'd just allowed a crazy, probably hungry supermodel inside to watch Ricki Lake with me.

We settled onto the couch. About twenty minutes after the "go Ricki, go Ricki" anthem, she turned to me and asked if I could help her with something. Foolishly I first agreed, then asked what she needed.

"I just got my nipples pierced, and I need help putting the new rings in."

I didn't quite know what to say. She got up, took off her shirt and bra and walked back into my bedroom. "There's better light in here," she called to me.

For whatever reason, I got up and walked back there. She was standing there topless, holding two hoops in her hand. "I'm just scared to do it myself," she explained. She cupped her boob with her left hand. "Could you please help?"

Writing this out now, it surely sounds like a seduction scene. You’re probably thinking, "Cue the chick-a-ba-wow porn music." But that was not the vibe I got at all at the time, and I did go in and help her. And this is how Sheila and I became friends. After something like that, you just kind of bond. We were pretty much inseparable from that day on.

Unfortunately, I told Ronny all about it when he got home later that night. Not surprisingly, Ronny couldn't wait to meet Sheila. When I introduced them the next day, there was an instant attraction between them. Within days, they slept together.

Ronny, however, is a man-whore and he soon started bringing home different girls on nearly a daily basis. The best part of sex for Ronny was letting everyone know he was getting it. He'd bang his fist on our shared wall and yell, "Do you hear that? Do you hear me? Jen? Hey Jen! Listen to this!"

Yes, I heard him. We all could hear. Even Sheila, whose bedroom was right below Ronny's.

Sheila eventually got sick of this, and told Ronny it was over between them. Ronny was completely unfazed. “She’ll get over it,” he assured me, leaning in the doorway as I brushed my teeth in the bathroom. “Once you have a little Ronny you always come back for more.” He grinned at me. “Wanna give it a try, Jen?” he asked as I slammed the bathroom door in his face.

One afternoon, I was in the living room, studying for an exam. At this point, the relationship between my roommate and me was deteriorating. I couldn't stand Ronny. He was always losing his job and stealing my groceries. He never had rent on time. I was tired of coming home and finding him and his friends getting drunk and naked in the living room.

I tried to stay away from our apartment as much as possible. If I wasn't at school or work, I would be downstairs at Sheila and Kelly's place. Ronny had dropped out of school and was fired for smoking weed at his last job, so he pretty much spent his time eating Oreos and practicing pick up lines in front of the mirror.

But, on this particular day, I was stuck at the apartment until my shift started at work. Ronny walked into the living room wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and boots.

He kept wandering around, sticking his chest out, saying "Eh?" over and over again, to get my attention. When that didn't work, he simply stood in the middle of the living room, free wily and all, grinning at me until I looked up.

"That's a new look," I muttered, and tried to go back to studying my humanities text.
"You think I should show Sheila?" Ronny asked proudly.

"I don't think Sheila cares to see you," I said pointedly, "especially since Herpes kept us all up late last night." I liked to give his random one night stands names, since he didn't see the need to find out.

"I bet she does want to see me," he exclaimed, "and I bet she'll fuck me once she sees me."

"Well," I suggested, 'Why don't we make this interesting. I bet you five bucks you go downstairs and she won't want to sleep with you."

"You're on!" he said eagerly. He grinned from ear to ear, and tipped his cowboy hat to me.

"I dare you to walk downstairs like that." I grinned back at him.

"Okay!"

I stood up. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Ronny started to look a little nervous. "Will you look outside to see if anyone's in the hallway?"

"Sure," I agreed. I stepped out and looked around. "No one's there."

"Ok," he said anxiously, adjusting himself, "here I go."

He turned, and strutted out the door, bare buttocks and all. I could hear his cowboy boots clacking down the steps.

I shut the door, and locked it. Then I called Sheila.

"Don't answer the door," I told her, "Ronny's naked outside."

Within seconds, I could hear furious knocking. "Sheila! Let me in!"

Sheila giggled over the phone. "I'm watching him through the peephole!"

“Does the peephole make him look any bigger?”

Sheila burst out laughing. “Not at all!”

I heard clack, clack, clack up the stairs. The doorknob turned. Then the knocking started.

"Let me in! Jen, I'm locked out! Let me in!"

Sheila and I were hysterical now.

“Should I let him in?” I giggled.

“Give ‘em 20 seconds. That’s all he ever gave me in bed.”

We counted out loud, then I hung up and opened the door. Ronny was standing there, covering himself with the cowboy hat.

"Well that was a quickie!" I said sweetly.

"Fucking bitch!" he yelled, and ran into his room.

I never got my five bucks, but I also never saw him naked again, so it was still a win for me.

Walks of Shame

2009-08-21T00:43:00.005-04:00

1999

The sunshine filters through the blinds, stabbing me awake with its insistent light. I sigh and stretch, squinting up at the ceiling. Everything hurts. Staring at the cottage cheese textured plaster, it dawns on me: this is not my room. This is not my bed, nor my sheets, or my pillow.

The pillow kinda smells actually, of mold and smoke. Like it hasn’t been washed in weeks, months even. I wince and sit up, rubbing my temples, looking at the man next to me, unconscious. I see the rise and fall of his chest underneath the blanket. On his side the nightstand is cluttered with plastic blue cups, a half pack of cigarettes, and a McDonald’s coffee top-cum-ashtray.

I swing my feet down to the floor and stand up, walking across the room cautiously. I’m wearing his faded black Metallica t-shirt and my pink boy shorts. Scattered on the floor are empty bottles of booze, dirty piles of clothes and magazines. I tiptoe out the door and into the bathroom.

I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror. She is a new version of me, transformed from the night before. I slept with my makeup on again. The mascara has smudged around my bloodshot eyes. My lipstick has worn off—rubbed off on beer bottles, my boyfriend’s lips, and worse. My mouth is dry, and my hair has broken loose from the ponytail, strands falling around my face, sticking up from the top of my head.

It is not pretty.

I run the water, cupping it in my hands, rinsing my face, ignoring the build-up of grime along the sides of the sink. I gargle water in vain, still tasting the cold Russian vodka, the hot sting of Puerto Rican rum, in the back of my throat. I wish I had a toothbrush with me.

I walk back to the bedroom, keeping a careful rhythm with the construction crew pounding inside my skull. Shutting the door behind me quietly, I begin the search for my clothes. I locate my jeans at the bottom of the bed. My bra is discovered flung over the back of a chair. I pull on my jeans, and then climb back in the bed, putting my hand underneath the comforter, straining to the edge of the sheets to grab my t-shirt.

“Hey.” The boyfriend is awake. He stretches and groans, then reaches down to scratch himself. I zip up my jeans as he leans down to the floor, picks up a bottle of rum, and pours it into a blue cup on his nightstand. He takes a long swig, finishing with “Ah…that’s better.”

He looks at me, and smiles. “Come here you,” he says, grabbing my waist and pulling me toward him. He buries his head in my chest, and I wrinkle my nose when I smell his breath. Mine can’t be that much better, though. I wonder if I have any mint gum in my purse.

“Are we gonna do this or what?” he murmurs, his hands sliding down the back of my legs.

“Can’t,” I said, pushing him away. “I work this morning, remember?”

“I’ll be fast,” he insists, “It’s better this way. We just won’t preheat your oven.”

He grins at me, the same clumsy smile that usually melts my pants right off.

“Tempting as that sounds, I really need to go home and shower before work. No time.”

“’K.” He shrugs, grabs his pillow and turns on his side. “See you later then.”

I hook my bra up and pull on my t-shirt, tossing his Metallica top on a pile of clothes by the window. I lean over the bed to kiss him. “See you tonight?” I ask softly.

“Mmmrph. Maybe.” He buried his head in the pillow. As I close the bedroom door behind me I hear him call out, “Babe, pick me up a pack of smokes?”

***

The stairs creak and groan with each step, and I pause on the landing to make sure I didn’t wake up the boyfriend’s roommates. Satisfied with the accompanying quiet, I tiptoe downstairs into the living room where I locate my shoes, a dirtied up pink pair of running shoes, though I have never actually run in them. They are comfortable and familiar and my feet slide in easily, without any unnecessary fuss over tying the laces.

I walk into the kitchen and grab my purse. The stacks of dishes scattered over the counter and overflowing into the sink, crusted with food and sticky with fruit flies, affirm my decision to wait and grab a bite at home later. Or maybe I’ll just eat at work. Have a big, greasy hangover cheeseburger. Fuckin’ A. Yes, I think, rummaging through my purse for my keys,that is exactly what I’ll do. Totally pig out on a juicy red slab o’meat…where are my goddamn keys?

“Hey.”

I jump at the sound, a deep voice soaked in bourbon, with scratches and hints of poker nights and cigars. My keys, unearthed from the rubble residing in my handbag, free fall from my grasp as I stare, shocked, at the man standing before me. The keys crash, an unholy echo rising from the grimy linoleum floor.

What the fuck is my boss doing in my boyfriend’s kitchen?

Too stunned to recall the most basic of vocabulary, I stand frozen, wondering if this was an ugly part from a bad dream. My boss walked over to the sink and picked up a Star Wars coffee mug, dumped a chunky brown liquid from it, then filled it with water from the tap. More unsettling for me was the yellowed-white wife beater shirt he was wearing, the thin ribbing stretched out over his booze-and-bacon gut, and the faded blue checkered boxer shorts that were a little too short for my comfort.

I eye him as he reaches around me for the coffee filter on the counter. His elbow brushes airily across my breast, and lingers there.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, gaining back my composure. I shift slightly to my left, away from the wanderlust of his elbow.

He stares at me for a moment, his long gaze transitioning into a smile as my face flushed and I look down at the grime-spattered floor, uncomfortable.

“It seems we have a mutual friend,” he answered, nodding toward the closed bedroom door off the kitchen. “Your boyfriend’s roommate there. We play cards here on Thursday nights.”

He chuckles. “We all heard you having a fun night upstairs.”

“Alright,” I said sharply, bending down to pick up my keys, “I’m leaving.”

When I stood up he was closer, so close I could smell his breath, heady with cigarettes.

He leaned in, backing me up against the counter. His hands flattened palms down on the countertop, his chest pressed lightly against mine. I stiffened, terrified, the anticipation of his kiss on my mouth. Instead he went for my ear, his lips brushing against loose, escaped strands of hair from my ponytail. He whispered, “I always knew you were a dirty girl.”

He lets his hands fall down, off the edge of the counter, down the sides of my waist. He smiled as he backed away. A shudder snakes down my spine as he says, his coarse voice morphing into a businesslike tone, “Better get yourself cleaned up, sweetheart. You’re scheduled to open in an hour.”

2009

The sunshine filters through the blinds, stabbing me awake with its insistent light. I sigh and stretch, squinting up at the ceiling. Everything hurts. Staring at the cottage cheese textured plaster, it dawns on me: this is not my room. This is not my bed, nor my sheets, or my pillow.

I lower my arm toward the floor, the carpet bristling against my hand until I feel a wadded up ball of paper. Jackpot. I pick it up and carefully open it, the parchment worn and loose from repeated folding.

I read the note, even though I have read it hundreds of times, even though I memorized it days ago. I run my fingers over the raised ink on the page, tamed in lines and curves by the familiar, rushed script. A love letter from my husband.

“Happy anniversary, baby. I can’t believe it’s been two years since I first laid my eyes on your beautiful face. My heart still stops when you walk into a room. You’re my everything. My life. My heart. I never really knew love until I met you.

“Let’s go away for the weekend, babe. Let’s celebrate. Remember that B&B up at that lake? The one we stayed at for the Fourth of July last year? Let’s book a room there again. For old time’s sake.”

I crumple the note and sigh, staring up at the ceiling. I didn’t need to finish reading the rest. I knew it by heart. I mouth the words as his voice in my head continues reading the letter.

”I’ll just tell my wife I’m going fishing up north again.”

***

I found the note accidentally, a week earlier. As he was leaving for work my husband called out to me, “Babe, pick me up a pack of smokes tonight.”

I figured I might as well fill my car up at the gas station. Two birds, one fucking stone. I couldn’t find my keys, though. I looked everywhere for them. They were not buried in my purse, or sitting on the counter or even hanging from the doorknob, a familiar hiding place when all else failed. The husband’s coat, too heavy for the unseasonably warm autumn day, lay abandoned over a chair in the dining room. I reached into his pocket, fingering the cool fabric lining, when I pulled out the half-finished love letter.

His fucking secretary. The man had no imagination.

He wanted to be caught, never having the balls to look me in the eye and admit it. I let him keep the house, the furniture—I had no desire to ever sleep in our bed again, with those sheets, or that pillow—everything.

The day I left I had an overwhelming urge to do the dishes. Not because I wanted to do it, I just needed to do it. Like I would spend the rest of my nights in a drowsy, sleepless stupor, fretting over my decision to walk out with dishes still left in the sink. Perhaps it was some kind of subconscious cleansing, or simply misplaced guilt over my failure as a wife. Either way, I stayed and I scrubbed.

Out, damned spot! Out, I say!

When the last dish was rinsed I stood at the sink, drying the plate with a towel, staring out the window. Staring at an empty bed, an empty bed of grass that was meant to secure a swing set for our kids. When we moved here I’d stood in this very spot, looking out the window, imagining a boy and a girl shrieking and swinging and laughing on the swings, their stomachs full with the dinner I’d made them, the dinner that was cooked and settled right on this very plate I’m standing here drying.

Except there is no playground, no playing children, no dinner digesting in our stomachs. I gripped the plate as the rage roared up inside me, revved up like an engine that was choking and then Heimliched back into life with a tap of the accelerator.

I smashed that plate, lifting it over my head and then dropping it, like that ride at Cedar Point, the Demon Drop, I’d waited in line for nearly an hour one summer and then chickened out when it was my turn. It was a huge, caffeinated elevator, that ride—it went so high and then crashed, over and over, day after day, until winter came and the park closed for the season.

I left the pieces for him to pick up.

***

I arrived at my parents’ house with two suitcases. I move into the den, which has now been converted into a hobby room. I sleep on an air mattress, surrounded by a craft table, scrapbooking supplies, a half-finished (never finished) train set and boxes full of self-help books.

I am something between numb and dead. I get up and go to work, then come home and stare at the TV set until my eyes water and my vision blurs and I fall down a rabbit hole, night after night, dreaming of nothing and waking up in a pond of sweat.

My parents tiptoe around me. One day I return from work and all the pictures of my husband have vanished from the walls. Our wedding portrait has transformed into a framed, cross-stitched snowman, a black coal grin on his face with “Let it snow!” cheerily scripted above his head. The wedding announcement on the fridge has been covered by a magnet that says “Never never never give up.”

On my drive home the car in front of me has a bumper sticker that says “You are still alive.” Before bed that night I rummage through the scrapbooking supplies and locate a thick permanent marker. On the back of my hand I write “You are still alive,” pressing down so hard my skin seems to connect with it, moving with the angles and curves of my script.

I will spend days trying to scrub it off in the shower with a hard bar of soap and soft water. The message will brown and grey, smudge and blur, then eventually fade until I no longer need the reminder.

***

I swing my feet down to the floor and stand up, walking across the room cautiously, ignoring the crumpled love letter on the floor. As I make my way to the bathroom, the floorboards creak and groan, and I pause, making sure I don’t wake up my parents.

I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror. She is a new version of me. I haven’t worn makeup in days. My mouth is dry, and my hair has broken loose from the ponytail, strands falling around my face, sticking up from the top of my head. My eyes are bloodshot, red lines blazing and zigzagging across the whites of my eyes.

I haven’t cried once since the split.

***

It will happen in two more weeks. I will be in my office at work. I will come in early and throw myself into projects—proofreading, filing, trouble-shooting. By mid-afternoon I will resemble a manic toy dog with a blinking red battery light. I will slow, and the determined light in my eyes will dim, and I will sit at my desk, staring at my computer monitor, blinking, breathing, barely existing.

The HR representative will knock on my door. “I’m here to help you with the process of removing your husband from your health and life insurance,” she will say with an apologetic smile. I’ll nod and push the muscles of my mouth up slightly, some semblance of a smile.

She will pull up a chair and tell me to sign here, initial there, date on this line.

At this point a fireball pushes up from my stomach and stops at my throat, and I’ll choke out a sound similar to a sob. Immediately the HR rep, a woman with long brown hair and green eyes, green as the lawn at my old house, green as the grass my children would’ve—should’ve—played on if…

She will reach over and put her hand over mine. She’ll give it a reassuring squeeze.

The act will be so loving, so comforting, so sisterly that I will be startled, and in my surprise I’ll take my finger off the pause button on my heart, and the fireball will burn my throat and my eyes will water and yes, they’ll overflow, overflow and shape into tears. They’ll make shimmery tracks on my cheeks, I can feel them shimmer and it will remind me of sledding down the hill in the winter with my friends, the way the sled would leave a long, glimmering imprint in the snow.

After that, I won’t stop crying for months.

***

I wash my face and then walk back into my de facto bedroom, sliding under the blanket on the air mattress. I close my eyes and remember a hot summer afternoon, sitting in my kitchen at my house with a girlfriend. She tells me about her older sister, who married young and divorced young. She said her sister moved back in with their parents, and the sisters ended up sharing a room again.

“What was weird,” my friend had said, “is that she never wanted to talk about it. We just all pretended like nothing had happened at all, like she’d just been away to school for the last couple of years or something.

“But at night,” she continued, “she would wait until she thought we were all asleep. She’d get up and tiptoe to the bathroom. But our house—you remember that house, don’t you? The one on Victoria Lane? Anyway, that house was so old, everything made noise.

“So my sister would go to the bathroom, and turn the shower on. Crank it up full blast. I mean, full on. The pipes would make all these noises and stuff. Anyway--” she stopped talking, suddenly.

I open my eyes. I don’t need to hear her telling the story in my mind. I can see it, I can feel it, I know it in my bones.

What happens is her sister lays in bed and waits until she hears steady, even breathing and steady, even quiet in the house. She gets up and creeps to the bathroom, knowing exactly where to place her weight on each floorboard to downgrade the noise.

Once she’s in the bathroom, she sits at the edge of the tub and turns the water on high. The room fills with steam, surrounding her, forming a protective, comforting cocoon.

It is then, and only then, secure in the knowledge that she is truly alone, that she lets herself cry—a deep, guttural, lonely cry that rattles the bones of the house and awakens the hearts of everyone cushioned inside of it.

The pipes, spewing water like tears, like menstrual blood, like loss, creak and groan as she cries.

And in the next room, a girl stares quietly up at the ceiling, crying with her sister.

The Joys of Pet Ownership

2009-08-16T21:55:00.005-04:00

My dog Mika died very unexpectedly on August 17, 2008. I miss her every single day. She was the sweetest dog ever. I wrote this a year before she passed away.

I love my new place. I really do. For the first time in my life, I can girly up my home to my own satisfaction. I have a bright, cheerful yellow living room with prints of Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn and Madonna adorning the walls. I can proudly display my Legally Blonde and Clueless DVDs. I have my bible (Bridget Jones's Diary) propped up against a traditional bible in my bookcase.

The remote is absolutely mine. If I feel like plopping down on the couch to watch Lifetime's Movie of the Week, A Man Never Tells--about a husband who is ashamed to admit his wife beats him, haha--I will get no argument from anyone.

There is no one to complain about my pink bathroom with the pink butterflies on the shower curtain. No one is going to get his grubby hands on my pretty, for-decoration-purposes-only hand towels. There are no concerns about someone missing the toilet while peeing, and the seat always remains down.

My bedroom is baby blue. There is no longer "my" side of the bed. It's all my side of the bed. I can now sleep with each leg stretched across the bed, touching a corner. I tried this and I'm telling you, it's not comfortable. It is reassuring that I tried, though. One must always try new experiences.

I can fall asleep with the TV on if I want (and I do. What better way to fall asleep than listening to Conan O'Brien or Jon Stewart?) The closet is in exactly the order I want it. I can keep the blinds open from the moment I get up in the morning until right before I go to bed at night (my husband was a vampire and hated having the blinds open. He kept them closed all the time and it was always dark).

The kitchen is a pretty sage green and is generally immaculate, as it's only used for the occasional microwaving or cooling of beverages in the fridge. I have a dishwasher, which I must say, is more reliable and efficient then my last one, who often left dishes stacked for days and then cheated on me (the bitterness will fade in time, no worries).

The office is my magnum opus of femininity. It's lavendar, with soft blues, pinks and greens accenting the room. I have more Marilyn and Madonna prints in here. I have a loveseat with a comfy sage slipcover. I'm making lots of pillows to accent the colors in the room. It's the girliest room I've ever decorated.

But, there are a few downfalls to this new, single life.

I've been working lots of hours lately. Actually, I'm worked 10 days straight without time off. In some respects, this is OK, because I'm saving to be a World Traveler. This also means that I've not had any real sleep in quite awhile, and I'm starting to burn out. It would be nice to sleep in a few minutes longer in the morning, to have someone say, "I'll take the dogs out." Especially when it's raining outside.

It would be a nice break to have someone else feed and water the dogs and cat for once. It gets old to work until 6 or 7 PM, then drop mail off at the post office, then run to the grocery store, then go home and take the dogs for a walk, then tidy up, and find some free time for yourself. It's fine most of the time, and my parents help out with the dogs, especially when I have to work through the lunch hour and can't get home to let them out. But it would just be nice to have someone right there to share responsibility with you.

And laundry. God, do I miss my washer and dryer. Now, there is a single washer and dryer set that is shared by an entire building. When I come home at night, I just pray that the washer's available. It's such a pain in the ass. And, it costs money.
Not only do you have to budget laundry money, you also have to make sure you have ten or twenty bucks worth of quarters around. That's convenient.

Tonight, for example, I planned on going to bed early, maybe re-reading the sixth Harry Potter book in bed then falling asleep at a decent hour. I was just going to do a quick load of laundry, and then clean the apartment a bit.

I ended up working an hour later than the usual time. I stop at the gas station to fill up my tank, then run to the grocery store to pick up some detergent, then stop at the post office to drop off some mail. I get home, let the dogs out, then find that the washer is free (yes!). I put the laundry in the basket, and scoop up the change. I open the door, but my puppy Taz is quick and he runs out into the hallway.

"Taz!" I loudly whisper, "get back inside!" Taz wags his tail, then starts barking cheerfully at me. A neighbor hears the noise and opens the door, glances down the hall at me.

"Sorry," I apologized. "Taz! Back in NOW." Taz ignores me.

I put down the laundry basket, and start after Taz. Taz thinks it's a game and starts running in circles, then when he realizes I'm about to pick him up, he tries to escape. I chase him up and down the hall, and take him inside. "STAY," I ordered.

I pick up the laundry basket, and Taz starts to go out the door again. I balance the basket on my hip, use my foot to block Taz and and my free hand to grab his collar. "NO," I say in my meanest voice (my brother will surely let all of you know that I'm not the meanest-sounding person and no one, not even my dogs, takes me seriously), "STAY."

That's when my indoor-bound cat, Penny, leaps over my leg out into the hallway. Again, I have to put down the laundry basket, fight off Taz ( who then starts barking wildly when I shut the door and leave him out of the fun), and chase Penny the Cat down the hallway. I finally get back inside of my apartment, virtually unscathed, give or take a few scratch marks on my arms and I manage (barely) to get out into the hall pet-free with laundry basket in hand.

I go downstairs and to my relief, the washer is still free. I put in my clothes and reach for the detergent, when I realize that I'd left the detergent back upstairs in the apartment with the Pets from Hell. It's now decision time--I either put everything back in the laundry basket and haul it upstairs with me, risking my well-won spot with the washer, or I leave it there and hope that no one steals my underwear. That may sound weird to you, but back in my younger days, there was a problem in my apartment building with women's panties being stolen out of the laundry room. My friend Sheila had hers stolen first. And then later I worked for an apartment community, and I've found it's actually a pretty common occurance. Disturbing.

I decided to risk the panty-thieves and run upstairs. I went back up, fought off the pets, and came back down to find all of my unmentionables still intact. I add the detergent to the load, and put in the coins. Nothing happens. That's when I realized that I'd mistakenly grabbed a nickel, not a quarter. "You've got to be kidding me!" I yelled to no one in particular, and then I kicked the wall, which hurt my foot, but at this point it's better to kick the wall and break my foot then kick the only cleaning machine and break it.

I run back upstairs, grab the damn quarter, run back downstairs and start the load. Then I go back upstairs, and I start cleaning. I dusted. I vacuumed. I went back down and put the clothes in the dryer with little fanfare. I came back up and scrubbed the counters and mopped the floors. Then I decided to check my email.

I've learned to block out noise pretty well. After working in a restaurant for eight years, you have to do that in order to focus. I can block out screaming kids, loud music, and sometimes even the phone. But you know that moment when everything gets eerily quiet, and you get that chill running up your neck, and you know something is very, very wrong? That's the feeling I just got. I walked out of my office, down the hallway, into my (formerly) just cleaned living room, and this is what I found:

The blurred images are my two dogs, running away from me. They tagged-teamed me. One of them got into an entire roll of paper towels. I'd left it on the end table when I was cleaning the windows. The other one got into a box of Kleenex. I think I should be nominated for sainthood solely for not tossing my puppies out the window at that moment. I'll be St. Jenny, Patron Saint for Keepers of Naughty Pets.

I wish Mika was here to drive me crazy with Kleenex messes again.

Very Bad Things

2009-08-02T14:59:00.003-04:00

On Friday night, Amanda and I went to see the new Adam Sandler/Seth Rogan flick, Funny People.

On our way into the theater, a stampede of six men in bright yellow "Security" shirts flew past us out into the parking lot, screaming "Stop them! GET OUT OF THE CAR!"

Naturally, we stopped to gawk.

A car in the lot suddenly roared to life as the guards surrounded the vehicle. One of the men reached over and opened the driver's side door as another opened the passenger door. The driver gunned down on the accelerator, and would have driven over two of the guards in front of the car if they hadn't jumped on top of the vehicle.

The tires screeched and the car sped up with the doors still open and one of the men still on top.

I started yelling, "Oh my god. OH MY GOD" as Amanda stood there with her eyes and mouth open wide.

I am ashamed to say that at this moment, a voice in my head started to nag me, "Record this on your phone. Right now. You can put it up on YouTube later!"

I stood there, paralyzed, considering it.

Then the driver slammed on his breaks and the security guard clinging to the top of the vehicle was thrown off, his body bouncing on the pavement as the car accelerated out of the lot, narrowly missing a line of parked cars. "Oh my god he's dead," the thought appeared in my brain and wouldn't go away, "you just saw a man die."

I screamed and both Amanda and I opened our phones and dialed the police. My voice and my hands shook as I told the dispatcher, "Someone just stole a car in the lot and threw a guy off the car...I don't know if he's OK." I felt the panic rise up from my chest, lodging in my throat. "Oh my god," I repeated tearfully, panicked, watching the rest of the security guards surround the man lying on the ground, "I don't know if he's OK!"

I could hear Amanda calmly giving details to the dispatcher on her phone as the man stood up and limped over to the crowd gathered around in front of the movie theater.

The manager came over and Amanda gave him a description of the car, the driver and the partial plate number she was able to see. I asked the security guard if he was OK, and he nodded, saying, "I think so...I'm really going to feel this tomorrow though."

Then the police showed up and the manager said they'd come get us during the movie if they needed any more information. We didn't see them again after that.

The movie was very good, but we were pretty shaken up. I've never seen anything like that before in my life.

What really disturbed me is that I actually considered recording a video of it on my phone. I didn't. But just the fact that I thought it and then took a moment to consider it makes me feel very ashamed. I never thought I would be one of those people in a moment of crisis.

It makes me feel very bad about myself.

Adult Contemporary Hell

2009-07-23T23:18:00.007-04:00

Have you ever really listened to the lyrics of a pop song seeping through the speakers at your local grocery store? Heard the words percolating over the buzz of a drill vibrating against your cheek while you grip the plastic armrests of the chair at the dentist’s office?

No? Color yourselves fortunate, my friends.

I’m about to take you on a long and strange trip. A musical adventure, if you will, a journey down the road of Adult Contemporary Hell.

Let’s start with Jon Bon Jovi. We all know the legendary story of blue-collar lovers Tommy and Gina (they never back down). But did you know JBJ has a softer, poetic side to his rock anthems? Take “Bed of Roses,” for instance. He describes his epic vodka-induced hangover, accompanied by a piano:

“With an iron-clad fist/I wake up/French kiss the morning.”

Every time I hear this song, I seriously picture a quiet room, sunlight flooding over the bed, where two people sleep, their breathing even, steady. Suddenly a fist shoots up, cutting through the air, and then there’s Jon Bon himself, sitting up in bed, eyes closed, tongue flicking wildly out of his dry, cracked lips.

“French kiss the morning,” indeed.

Let’s continue our study with another toothy, Top-40 man-child. Rob Thomas has had a string of hit songs, both as a solo artist and as the lead singer for Matchbox Twenty. I’ve always found the lyrics to his music a tad bit unsettling. I don’t know if he really means to come across this way or if it’s some kind cry for help, a kind of confessional through wordplay.

You’d think someone as famous as Rob Thomas would have hordes of groupies trying to hook up with him after shows, but apparently this is not the case. In “Lonely,” he sings, “I don’t wanna be lonely no more/I don’t wanna have to pay for this/I don’t want to know the lover at my door/just another heartache on my list.”

To make things worse, he continues in another song, “I’ve got a disease/deep inside of me/makes me feel uneasy.”

Jesus, Rob. I hope you buy stock in Trojan.

And in case you were wondering about the state of his emotional well-being, he assures us in “Unwell”—“I’m not crazy/I’m just a little unwell.”

Riiiight.

Rihanna, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be a fan of using protection (no Chris Brown references here. That one’s been beaten down to the ground). In her godforsaken version of “Umbrella,” she pleads, “Baby it’s raining/come in to me/come in to me.”

But the worst lyrical offender, the most disturbing song infiltrating your Lite Rock radio marathons for decades, is titled “Young Girl” by a man named Gary Puckett. I’m just going to post the song in its entirety and let you be the judge. Never has there been a more organized anthem for pedophilia.

Young girl, get out of my mind
My love for you is way out of line
Better run girl
You're much too young girl

With all the charms of a woman
You've kept the secret of your youth
You led me to believe
You're old enough
To give me love
And now it hurts to know the truth

Young girl get out of my mind
My love for you is way out of line
Better run girl
You’re much too young girl

Beneath your perfume and make-up
You're just a baby in disguise
And though you know
That it is wrong to be
Alone with me
That come on look is in your eyes

Young girl get out of my mind
My love for you is way out of line
Better run girl
You’re much too young girl

So hurry home to your mama
I'm sure she wonders where you are
Get out of here
Before I have the time
To change my mind
'Cause I'm afraid we'll go too far

Young girl get out of my mind
My love for you is way out of line
Better run girl
You’re much too young girl

Kind of makes you want to lock your daughter in her room ‘til she’s forty.

Note: Gary Puckett and his band, according to the always-factual Wikipedia, were a headlining band for Disneyland for several years. Disturbing.

Love at First Felony

2009-07-15T21:59:00.003-04:00

I am easily entertained, and often find myself feasting on junk food of the mind, such as celebrity gossip rags, reality television and Fox News.

Recently I was sucked into a TV show on the intellectually sound E! network, called "True Hollywood Story: Rappers' Wives."

My favorite part of the show was an emotionally charged interview with DMX's wife, complete with mood lighting and dramatic theme music. She sniffed, she expertly tissue-dabbed tears from her eyes without smudging her eyeliner, and she described the most beautiful "meet-cute" set-up I've heard since Bonnie and Clyde.

(paraphrasing)"I was a kid, walking down the street, when I saw a boy run up to an old white woman and grab her purse. When he was running away with it, he slowed down and our eyes met. We had a moment. I thought to myself, 'he is my hero.'

"Years later I was at a club and I meet this guy and he remembers me, he says 'aren't you the girl I saw when I was robbing an old lady?' and I said, 'yeah that was me.'

"And I knew we were meant to be."

Hold on a second. I need to blow my nose. I assure you, it's not JB's Big Erection that has me all choked up. The story was and continues to be so beautiful--here is the second part of the interview, explaining her husband's infidelity and subsequent love child:

(paraphrasing)"I stand by him. It's hard but you know, he was raped. I know she raped him. He couldn't help it."

My second-fave interview was with the wife of another rapper who is not famous enough to even mention or frankly, remember. The wife was a former Canadian stripper. She insists that although she did have numerous one-night stands with various rappers in the Canadian area, was known as a music video dancer/whore, and a notorious gold digger, "It was the real thing."

"I love him," she sniffs, tucking her hair behind her ears, "we got married after a fantastic three days together. I knew he was the one."

The voice-over then explains that the couple separated after two months, and even though they are still technically married, they haven't spoken in years.

These love stories give me hope. They make me aspire to greater things, like being Lil John's bitch or eschewing books per encouragement from Kanye West, self-described "proud non-reader of books."

The Bloody Misadventures of Mrs. J

2009-07-06T22:38:00.005-04:00

Written 3 Years Ago

It's a well-known truth that I lack a certain attribute referred to as "common sense." My ability to remain completely oblivious in the most obvious of situations is seamlessly coordinated with my talent for tripping, dropping, bumping and crashing into anyone or anything within 300 yards of my being.

Last week, for example, I managed to pour Cheerios in a bowl, and walk a total of perhaps two feet before the bowl dropped out of my hands, completely unprompted. The bowl, naturally, breaks.

I immediately usher my curious pets out of the room, and after picking up the pieces, warn my husband to wear shoes until I sweep, in the instance that there may be some shards that I missed.

Within seconds of this warning, I walk back into the room, barefoot, and start toward a piece of the bowl I'd missed. With my eye on this shard, I somehow manage to walk right into it, slicing 3 of my un-socked, shoeless toes, and blood spewed out of me like cuss words on a Jerry Springer "baby daddy" episode.

I run to the bathroom, and already the blood is dripping onto the carpet, then the linoleum. I clean up the wound(s), but the blood hasn't clotted yet. Utilizing my superior critical thinking skills, I bypass the gauze pads in the medicine cabinet, and reach for the most obvious of solutions--a maxi pad.

I wrap the pad around the top of my foot, covering my toes. It works, sort of. The pad's absorbing the blood; however, the sticky side of it (with wings, of course) is out.

I decide I need to put a sock over the pad to keep everything in place. I yell to my husband to grab me a pair of socks, or at the very least a lone singlet from the dryer. No answer. I try again. Nothing. I peek my head out of the bathroom.

The husband's snoring on his chair in the living room. So I try for the bedroom myself, forgetting that the maxi pad on my foot is sticky-side out. Two unfortunately squooshy sounding steps later, the pad is stuck to the floor and I'm three paces ahead, a trail of blood dripping from the bathroom to the bedroom.

I finish my journey with the ever-graceful hop-on-one-leg run to the dresser, where I grab the socks, then I hop back to the bathroom, plopping down on the edge of the bathtub. Tongue sticking out slightly, I pull on a fresh pad over my foot and struggle to pull my sock over it, totally focused on my task.

Perhaps I need some duct tape.

At this moment, I hear a gasp. I look up, and the husband is standing in the bathroom doorway, staring down in horror at a bloodied maxi pad on the floor. He slowly looks up at me in complete and utter disgust (the mark of a loving husband). Our eyes lock. He clears his throat, then says, "Could you please dispose of your feminine product so I can use the restroom?"

Actually, that's my internal editing taking over. For those of you who know my husband, you know the conversation went more like this: "Can you throw out the rag so I can take a piss?"

I tried to explain, "It's not what you think!" But as I attempted to sputter out the words, I saw his eyes dart from the maxi pad, to the broken shard on the sink, then back to me duct taping my toes.

"I'll run to the store and buy some chocolate," he sighed, and shut the door behind him.

Pondering the Hot Topics

2009-06-24T22:55:00.002-04:00

I ponder a variety of pressing issues on my drive home from work, such as how to organize an efficient and effective national health care system in the U.S., economy-boosting strategies involving local businesses that will drive out the Evil that is Walmart, and Meryl Streep.

On my way home tonight, for example, it occurred to me that Meryl Streep could do anything--literally anything--and win an Academy Award. Even glued to the toilet while suffering from an unfortunate bout of explosive diarrhea, possibly contracted from a dodgy felafel consumed while visiting Australia.

Critics would weep and hail it as "intense, gripping...a dirtied-down version of the classic 'man versus toilet' struggle...[Streep] is at her most stripped down role to date. You will empathize with her character and her progression from woman scorned by her own colon to pulling herself--and her pants--up from the seat. Four out of five flushes for this gripping drama."

Behind Schedule

2009-06-22T20:28:00.002-04:00

We had a wave of nasty storms here last Friday that spawned three tornadoes (luckily not in my neighborhood--they were all about 20-40 minutes away) and I lost my power, cable and internet.

Taz and I had to temporarily move in with my parents until I got my electricity back, so that put me behind schedule with a number of chores I'd planned on doing over the weekend.

I also had some grad parties to attend Saturday, and Sunday was Father's Day so I spent it with my Dad.

I finally got my internet back Sunday evening, and today has been all about catching up with dishes and laundry and other various household projects.

I plan on getting back to my writing tomorrow evening.

I hope all of you are doing well.

Jen

Update

2009-06-15T21:52:00.003-04:00

I suck. And not in the good way.
Also not in the glittery, Twilight-y, vampire-sucky way.

I have not given up on or forgotten about my blog.

I've simply got too many projects going on at once,
adding in an occasional (OK, maybe more than occasional)
mix of laziness and writer's block.

I'm one of those annoying people who reads
several books at a time
depending on what room I'm in
or what's in my purse

I have several tabs open on my computer at all times.

It's June so there are graduation parties to attend
festivals to hit
BBQs to enjoy
bad-ass movies to screen
every weekend this month
which is nice but costs me a lot of money I don't really have

I've had stuff going on every evening during the week
so I don't get home until late
and don't want to dive into a project if I only have an hour
or so to work on it.

Those are my excuses and I'm stickin' to them.

But I really am working on my writing, albeit behind the scenes, and
I'm appalled that it's been a week since I've posted. But I don't want to put up a half-assed piece, not on purpose anyway.

Here are my goals:

1. By Friday evening I will post "First Kiss, Part Two"

2. Next week will be a new installment of "Jen's Survival Guide to Unemployment"

3. I have a Muhammad Ali story I've been working on and I'm very eager to share, hopefully within the next two weeks

4. And I've been working FOREVER on "Feminism and Walmart," which I plan to post by the end of the month.

Thank you all for being so patient with me.

So This is What You Call Life

2009-06-04T21:51:00.002-04:00

Hi everyone.

Thanks for all your feedback on "First Kiss, Part One." I am working on "First Kiss, Part Two" and hope to have it up by the end of the week.

Life has gotten in the way of writing at the moment so I'm hoping to take advantage of another house-sitting weekend to relax on the back porch, listening to my dog run around playing and pooing in someone else's backyard (yay for a whole weekend of not picking up poo!), and plunk out some words on my portable typewriter or "pretty pink laptop" if you will. A PC, ahem, not a Mac.

Work has been insanely busy. Most of the time I bury my head in the paperwork and only look up when I hear people shutting the office down. Sometimes the files teeter dangerously high on my desk and I wonder if I can just start calling my workspace "Fort Jen."

But hey, I'll take it. Gladly. It's much better than sitting around with no work to do.

Usually I'm more of a homebody during the week (the whole "but it's a school night!" sticks with me even ten years out of high school) but I've been out and about every day this particular week.

Monday I visited with a friend, an old co-worker, and we had a very nice catch-up. Tuesday I had dinner with my family--my parents, brother and his girlfriend, and my aunt--and I ended up staying over there for hours.

Wednesday my best friend went and had another baby on me, and she's beautiful and her name is Victoria and I call her lil Tori. I spent most of the evening at the hospital with friends, cuddling with Tori and secretly making plans to kidnap her, but apparently the hospital staff gets cranky when you try to walk out with someone else's baby. So oh well, maybe next time.

Along with the normal dose of boy issues--ex contacted me again (yawn), and I have a new interest (but not telling, not yet anyway, haha)--I'm just stumbling through life as usual.

That's what's been going on with me, and I hope you all are doing well. I really appreciate all the feedback on my latest story and I really hope to have the next and final installment put in this weekend. I enjoy doing it and I'm beyond thrilled that you guys have read it, so thank you!

xoxo
jen

First Kiss, Part One

2009-05-29T00:00:00.003-04:00

PROLOGUE

When I was a kid I’d daydream about my first, real kiss. After reading my dog-eared Judy Blume books I’d lay in bed, sliding my fingertips across my lips, staring at the ceiling, wondering how it feels to be kissed by a boy.

Like most pre-teen girls, I had my ideas on how it would all go down. It would be during the last slow song at a school dance, preferably with Boyz II Men on the stereo in the background, or perhaps playing Spin the Bottle at a party. My crush du jour would take his turn at the game, and the bottle would point to me, and his face would light up in a grin, and he’d lean over and…and…

I close my eyes and smile.

Regardless of how it happened, I knew there were two K-I-S-S-I-N-G approaches most desired. The first one would be sweet, natural and innocent. He’d lean in and his lips would brush mine, and we’d both pause, smile, and then press in again, a slow, tender mack.

The second desirable is inspired by all teen angst-y John Hughes movies from the 1980s. Something would happen, some kind of tragedy of epic proportion, like my crush would have to go away to football camp for six weeks.

After all kinds of adventures in which we both tried to find our way back to one another, ultimately we’d have a moment—in the pouring rain of course, can’t have a good kissing scene without being wet—and we’d run into each other’s arms.

I always imagined this moment taking place on the first day back to school after summer break. Through the throngs of chattering students making their way up the steps of the building, our eyes meet. All the activity around us dissipates. His face lights up when I smile at him. He throws his backpack down and runs to me, all slo-mo like, and I toss my Trapper Keeper on the ground just as he scoops me up and twirls me, then leans in for a long, smoldering smooch.

It doesn’t really happen that way for people.

And if it has, then I hate you.

I. BOY MEETS GIRL

I am running for my life. My small, pink Velcro-shoed feet pound the pavement of our urban school playground. On the right is the gym area, cushioned with tiny grey pebbles that leave dust on your socks and to the left is the sports section, an unused parking lot that has been converted into a soccer field and dodge ball hell.

There is no green on this playground, no grass to soften our falls, no color to fill in the monotony of muted grey tones over the recess hour.

I can hear him gaining on me. I try to pick up my pace, feeling my hair bounce lightly against my shoulders, feeling the muscles in my legs tighten and contract, but I know he will soon attack. He’s faster than me and we both know it.

I stumble over a stray pebble, and turn to see him leaping on me. “AHHHHHH!” he yells as he tackles me to the ground.

The pavement is harsh, scraping my elbows as I try to break my fall. He lands on top of me, and straddles me as I look up at him. His eyes are wild and grey, two grey pebbles that seem blurred and dusted over as my own eyes fill with tears.

“AHHHHH!” he yells, pressing his body against mine, his face nearly touching my face. “Got you!” He stood up, wiping his hands on the sides of his faded navy blue trousers.

I grab my elbow, scraped white. At the same moment blood pours out as tears drip down my cheeks. “Evan! Why are you so mean?” I cried, looking up at him. “You hurt me!”

Evan looked back down at me, his face crumbling. He wore an expression of genuine shock.

He sat down next to me, Indian style. Wiping a tear away from his eye he said, “I’m sorry, Jenny. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Looking down at the ground, he muttered.

“I like you.”

II. A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON

Evan likes Zoey, who told Kelsey who told me that she kinda likes Evan, not likes him likes him, not yet anyway, but you know, maybe.

I told Evan this as we rode our bikes to the 7-11, and his eyes bugged out so much he almost hit a tree, and I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. That’s what happens with best friends, you make each other laugh all the time.

We walk into the 7-11 and Evan opens the door so hard it slams against the glass window next to it. The college guy behind the counter looks up from his magazine and gives a halfhearted “hey you two, watch it” before going back to his reading, and Evan and I look at each other and laugh and laugh.

I get the cherry Slurpee and Evan gets the blue raspberry one. We both stick our tongues out at each other. My teeth and lips are bright sticky red and Evan has a blue smile.

We walk outside and sit on the bench in front of the store. “Hey,” Evan said, “I talked to Jason yesterday.”

“Yeah?” I said eagerly. My heart quickend and I could feel my face flushing as bright as my cherry-Slurpee’ed lips. I looked down at the ground, kicking a stray pebble on the sidewalk.

“What’d he say?”

Evan shrugged. “He likes you. He says he likes your…you know.” He nodded at my breasts, the two round, growing embarrassments I’d been covering up all semester. I folded my arms across my chest and looked away.

“I told him we were watching a movie at my house tonight and he wants to come over. To see you.” He looks at me meaningfully.

“I’ll ask Zoey to come too,” I tell him, grinning as I elbow him in the ribs.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Evan’s basement is dark, with grey shadows falling across the walls. The movie is going in the background, and every ten minutes Evan’s mom’s footsteps click against the tile upstairs in the kitchen and one of us gets up and flips the light back on, just before she stands on the staircase landing.

“How you doing kids? No hanky panky!”

We all sing “fine” in unison and listen as her clicking fades away. Then Evan switches off the light and he sits next to Zoey on the couch and down on the floor, Jason puts his arm back around me.

Evan whispers something to Zoey and she giggles, nodding her head. They stand up and he takes her hand, leading her to the back room. They close the door, leaving Jason and me alone in the dark.

Jason squeezes my shoulder and I hear his breathing quicken. My heart starts pounding and my mind buzzes anxiously. Is this it? I wonder. My first kiss?
I fret about positioning. Do I tilt my head right, or left? What if we bump heads? How long do we hold the kiss before coming up for air? What if—

Jason suddenly grabs my head with both hands and pushes his lips against mine. He opens his mouth, smearing his wet lips all over my bottom lip and chin. He presses so hard I lean back against the couch for support, and he grabs my right breast, squeezing it hard. I flinch at his roughness and gasp, and he seizes the opportunity to stick his tongue in my mouth, thrashing it around, bumping my teeth, tickling inside my cheek.

I open my eyes and concentrate on the drool that is dripping from his mouth down my chin. I am so grossed out. How long does this go on ? When will he stop? How do I—

He suddenly grabs my right hand and sticks it down his pants. I feel something, hard and moving, beneath my clenched fist. I recoil in horror, and slap him.

The smack echoes across the room. “Fucking tease,” he mutters and I get up, stomping over to the far end of the couch.

We sit on opposite sides of the couch, waiting for Evan and Zoey. I pull my knees to my chest and stare at the muted television. A few minutes float by, when suddenly out of the darkness Jason’s voice says softly, meekly, “I’m sorry, Jen. I didn’t mean to….”

The moment seemed paramount, as though the weight of a lifelong path of behaviors to tolerate from boys rested in my response. I considered telling him to fuck off. I thought about saying “it’s OK.”

Instead, I said nothing. I let it hang there: a leaf clinging to a branch on the edge of winter.

We heard the click clack of footsteps upstairs. I stood up and flipped the light on.

“You kids OK down there?”

Together, Jason and I said “fine” and she shut the door, and we listened to her footsteps fade off into the distance.

This time, we left the lights on.

III. LOVE LETTERS

The day is sticky and the classroom is electric, buzzing with excitement. The teachers just give up and let us wander around the room talking. No one can focus the day before summer vacation.

I sit on Evan’s desk and flicked his cowlick with my fingers. “Hey,” I said, “why are you so quiet?”

Evan stares down at his desk, his dark lashes covering his grey pebbled eyes. “Jen,” he whispers, “I’m not coming back next year.” He looks back up at me.

“This is my last day.”

“Shut up,” I laughed, then stopped when I saw his face crumbling.

“I’m serious,” he choked back a sob, “my parents are sending me to North next year. I’m not coming back here.”

My stomach knotted.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

There’s a picture of us taped to my bedroom mirror, taken last month on our last day of class together. My head is resting on Evan’s shoulder, and his hand curves around my waist, pulling me toward him. We are both smiling. Our eyes shimmer with tears. I framed the photo with a poem I’d written.

I glance at the image in the mirror as I pull my hair up in a ponytail. It’s hot and humid outside, and my shorts are sticking to my legs.

“Jen!” My mom calls me from the living room. “Evan’s here.”

I look out the window to see him jump off his bike before he’s even stopped completely. He throws the bike down on the grass and runs up the hill to my front doorstep.

“Ready?” he asks, and I smile at him and nod.

We ride our bikes to the movie theater. We race each other there, though we both know he’s faster than me. I pump my legs hard on the pedals, feeling my muscles tighten and contract. I close my eyes and coast down the hill, feeling the breeze through my hair. “AHHHHHH!” Evan yells joyfully, circling his bike around me.

We’re the only ones in the theater. It’s cool and dark, and I shiver. Evan puts his arm around me, and I shiver again, but it feels different somehow. I rest my head on his shoulder and he lightly strokes my arm with his hand.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two days later, I get a letter in the mail. I open the envelope and on lined paper is Evan’s shaky scrawl. I’m really scared to go to North, he wrote, I’m scared I’ll never see you again. I think we’re meant to be together. I think we’re going to get married someday.

I sit down on my bed and finish reading the letter. He told me how much he cared about me, how me he valued our friendship. He told me his fears. He poured his heart out to me.

I walk to the kitchen closet and pull out a piece of lined purple paper. Dear Evan, I write, and for the rest of the summer, we write love letters back and forth to one another.

I keep them in a box, tucked away in my bedroom closet. For years when I feel sad or lonely I pull them out and read them over and over again.

IV. 'TIL WE MEET AGAIN

I was stunned to see Evan’s phone number light up my Caller ID. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly two years.

His first couple of months at North he would ride his bike over to my house and sit on my doorstep, waiting for me to come home from school.

But then he started football, and I met a new group of friends, and gradually our letters and phone calls subsided until they disappeared completely.

“Jen!” My mom hollered from the living room. “Are you going to get the phone?”

“Got it!” I yelled, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Jenny, honey, is that you?” A woman’s voice bubbled across the line.

“Um, yes,” I responded, startled to hear Evan’s mother.

“Hi dear! I haven’t seen you around in a while!”

“Uh, yeah…I’ve been kinda busy and stuff.” I said stiffly.

“Well it’s lovely to talk with you again,” she answered pleasantly, “I actually have a favor to ask of you. Evan’s been watching his brothers this summer while I work—I just started at that new shop downtown, have you been?—but he’s starting two-a-days with his football this week and I need a sitter for an hour or so. Would you be able to watch the kids a few days this week?”

“Umm…”I stammered. “Sure, yeah, OK.”

“Wonderful! I’ll pick you up tomorrow hon!”

“See you tomorrow.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

My favorite thing about Evan’s house was the color. His mom had bold splashes of primary colors all around the house, and the best part was the kitchen. She painted it a warm, buttery yellow and when the sun shone in through the windows the whole room just lit up and glowed, like a flickering candle in the dark.

Evan’s brothers finish eating lunch, and they fumble and tackle each other on their way downstairs to watch TV.

My shoes click clack against the floor tile as I clear the table. I pause by the fridge, covered in pictures. The one that catches my eyes is the photo of Evan and me on our last day together at school. The image has started to fade in the sunlight and the edges have curled.

“Hey.”

I spin around, and find myself face to face with Evan. He’s wearing a practice jersey and carrying his cleats in his hands.

“You scared me!” I gasp, my heart pounding.

He smiles, and that’s when I notice he is no longer the skinny, awkward boy I remember. He is taller than me now, much taller in fact, and his face and shoulders have filled out. He looks like the man he is becoming.

“Sorry,” he shrugs, and reaches in the fridge for a bottle of water. He takes a long gulp, then looks at me. “How’ve you been?”

“Um…I’ve—“ I stammer, feeling suddenly self-conscious. I lean over to grab another plate off the table, and it slips out of my hand, a spectacular miss, and shatters into tiny pieces all over the tile, underneath the table.

“Crap!” I exclaimed, and I crouched down on my knees, picking up the larger pieces. Evan appears under the table and helps me.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say apologetically to him, “sorry I made such a mess of things.”

Evan freezes, and I stop, looking at him. His grey eyes are like pebbles, wild and dusty. He stares at me wordlessly.

“What?” I demand, my face flush.

He leans over then and kisses me.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Late in the Evening

2009-05-25T21:53:00.004-04:00

Lying in bed, I stretch my legs and smile dreamily up at the ceiling. God, that was fantastic. Feel like I need a cig and I don't even smoke. What a way to close out the holiday weekend.

I love Family Guy marathons.

I have been too easily distracted this weekend which is why I have no writing to produce at the moment. So I'll leave you with some Random Thoughts from the Mind of Jennicki:

Does anyone ever really eat those pickled eggs in the bar? Or drink the dust-sprinkled Jones Soda bottles on the tables, that have the expiration date scratched off?

Angels and Demons had laughably bad dialogue. Both the book and the movie.

I forgot how much I liked root beer.

I thought I saw a rat in my bedroom today. I jumped on my bed and shrieked until I realized it was a black pair of underwear that had fallen out of my laundry bag.

I've had popcorn for dinner three times last week.

My cat's daily attempts to murder me have thus far been foiled.

I've had a big goofy smile on my face all frickin' weekend.

Black Rubber Ball

2009-05-19T23:03:00.007-04:00

When there is loss, grief inevitably follows. Grief is round: a black rubber ball. It's thick and opaque and has lots of give--it bends, it folds, it sighs. It never breaks.

Grief has no definable size. You can carry it in your hands, your pockets, your heart. Or it can carry you--you can live inside of it, burrow in it, die in it.

I'm still grieving. I wish I could say I was over it. I wish I could toss it in the bin with tonight's trash. I wish it had an expiration tag.

All I can say is that I'm better than I was yesterday, and it aches somewhat less than it ached a month ago, and the shock that kept me up nights last year has eroded into a mild jolt of insomnia.

It's not an obsession over the past. It's more of an attempt at reconciliation, between what's lost and what's found. I don't mean to think about it, really. It's just when you live with someone for nearly a decade and suddenly they're gone, you find yourself constantly reminded of things, stupid things really, from your time together and everything comes back in a wave of nostalgia, some good, some bad.

It's never big things, obvious things. I can go to a wedding and be absolutely fine with it all. Happy for the bride and groom, having fun at the reception.

But then later, I'll stop at the store to buy something completely ordinary, like a bottle of shampoo, and as I walk down the aisle I'll see men's razor blades on sale and think, "I should pick some up for Justin," and then I'll remember he's gone, and there's no need to buy him razor blades, as a matter of fact I will never buy him razor blades again, and when I go home he won't be there.

And that's when that rubber ball finds me, rolling through the store, bouncing right back into my hands.

Tag. You're it.

I don't know how to get rid of the damn thing. It helps to write about it. It helps to share it. But I'm tired of the anger. I'm afraid I'll become one of those embittered, lonely women, who clutch that ball and never let go.

It's easy to tell you about the bad things he's done, to remember how awful he was at the end, how terribly he treated me. What's harder is to share the beginning and middle parts, the kind person that he once was, the man I had married.

Those stories are nearly unbearable for me to share. Those moments, not the unhappy ones, are the ones where I clutch my ball the hardest to my heart.

At the end of our relationship, he was not fair to me. He was unkind, cruel really, and he hurt me beyond measure. He cheated and lied. I can't and won't make excuses for him, but I will say that he has his issues, serious ones, and I know he will struggle with them for the rest of his life.

But it's unfair of me to share him as such a one-dimensional character. He was not always cruel. I wouldn't have married the man that I divorced.

He was funny. He made me laugh harder than anyone I've ever met. He has the most amazing laugh I've ever heard in my life. It was completely un-self-conscious: loud, joyful, childlike. It was an infectious laugh--no matter how bad the joke, how awkward the situation, if he laughed, everyone in the room laughed.

He knew how to put people at ease. He got along with everyone. He knew how to draw out people who were quiet and shy, and he could keep up with the most outgoing in a group.

There was a time when we finished each other's sentences. When we went out he always had a way to make the moment special between us. At weddings when the bride and groom were saying their vows, he'd grab my hand, look at me and smile. He was a foodie and shopping was very serious for him. At the grocery store he would be thoughtful, intense, lost in his own world, but then suddenly he'd reach over and rub my shoulder. Over the years our body language became one. We could absently know when the other one needed a touch, a smile, a laugh.

When I finished school and started working a regular eight to five job, our schedules became opposite. But we always found a way to spend each day together.

Some nights I'd go down to the restaurant and have dinner with him. He'd prepare my food himself, making everything exactly to my preference. He'd set up a quiet table in the back, and we'd talk about our day. When we finished he'd move over to my side of the table and put his arm around me, and I'd rest my head on his shoulder. At work he smelled like cigarettes and bread and BBQ sauce, and it always made me feel warm and safe.

Other nights I'd stay home, and he'd call me from work. He'd take a break when Lost was on TV, and we'd both watch it together, over the phone.

My favorite nights, though, were the ones when he worked late. I'd go to bed early and around midnight, I'd hear him come in, quietly setting his keys down by the door. There would be clattering in the kitchen, and I'd drift back off to sleep, drowsy and happy that he was home. Everything felt complete. Around one in the morning he would nudge me awake, and with him he'd have two plates of chicken or salad or steak, with some sort of steamed vegetable.

We'd go out to the living room and cuddle under a blanket. We'd eat our late dinner and he'd tell me about his day, and then I'd rest my head on his shoulder and drift off. Then he'd nudge me awake and with his hands on my shoulders, he'd lead me back to the bedroom, and tuck me back into bed.

On his nights off we'd have my brother over and we'd watch DVD marathons--Arrested Development, Lost, Curb Your Enthusiasm. We played cards a lot--sometimes with a group of people, but lots of times just the two of us, playing for hours with music on in the background.

Sometimes I'd come home and he'd surprise me by cleaning the house. He'd have music on and he'd grab my hand and twirl me around the kitchen, dancing. Sometimes he wrote me poems or when he left notes, he'd make silly drawings on them that he knew would make me laugh.

He always said "I love you" and I believe he meant it. He used to say, "I don't deserve you," I think he meant that too. I always thought he didn't believe in himself enough and couldn't see his potential, and I still believe that.

When we said our wedding vows he cried. I still believe he really felt them, even though I know he was drunk at the time and was drunk from that moment on, for the rest of our marriage, probably for the rest of his life.

He also used to say, "I never want to hurt you," and I think in his way, he meant it. I didn't understand then why he used to say it but now, looking back, I understand completely.

Sunday Night Melancholy

2009-05-17T20:16:00.002-04:00

I've always gotten along well with with men, as far as friendships go, and because of this I felt privileged to have an "in" on how they work when it comes to relationships.

It's actually backfired for me.

Just this weekend I had a long conversation with a male friend who was laughingly telling me--as he probably does with any or all of his same sex buddies-about hitting on married women, cheating on past girlfriends, and using a female friend for her "benefits" when she obviously wanted something more in return.

It bothered me.

Then I went out with some friends who planned on setting me up with a guy, who consequently spent the entire evening ignoring me (no loss there, believe me) and heavily hitting on a married woman. In front of her husband.

So at the bar I'm just sitting back watching all these girls--heavily made up, loud, likely spent hours getting ready to go out to meet a drunken guy who just wants a one night stand, wants a few hours away from his wife or girlfriend, want another number to add to his booty call text list--and I think what is the point? Why invest so much time and energy and hope into this when it seems the majority are just going to toss it back in your face, leaving you feeling more alone than you do already?

I just want to be done with it. The whole scene. I don't want to put my efforts and more importantly, my hope in situations where I'm just basically a disposable product at a convenience store for douche bags.

Pardon the Interruption

2009-05-16T17:18:00.006-04:00

I will be back to my regularly scheduled blogging later this weekend. Right now I'm recovering from last night's scotch (which smelled suspiciously like Santa when I used to sit on his lap. Disturbing in so many ways) and getting ready to meet my friends, their husbands and apparently the single guy they've scrounged up to sit next to me (love my friends, not a fan of the "spontaneous" blind date set up) at the bar.

And, my girlfriend just called to remind me to wear makeup tonight. I feel pretty, oh so pretty...

So in the meantime, while I enjoy an awkward stiff one (conversation, that is) with a guy I've never met, here are some embarrassing high school photos of me (idea compliments of Lerm, who even dressed as a gay cabana boy still manages to look gorgeous. Damn him).

I guess I'd better go put some makeup on.

Laugh it up, all you smug marrieds! You might be shaking your head right now, glad you're no longer a Singleton in the world of Blind Dates. But know this: neither of us are getting laid tonight. I know this, because I was once married, too. Marriage and single life are just one cold, shivering shower after another. Unless you're Lerm.

I'm at the far-right. Even back in high school my friends were setting me up (the guy in the pic and I didn't work out; not surprisingly he wasn't a fan our of Tom Cruise/Nicole Kidman height issue.

I don't even know what to say. The sneakers, the tapered leg jeans, the Chicago White Sox shirt...it's so wrong.

I owned 3 pair of overalls, and wore them ALL THE TIME. Sometimes I secretly still want to wear them...they were comfy! So sue me.

It's a Blog, Blog, Blog World

2009-05-11T23:03:00.004-04:00

When I was sixteen, my teacher encouraged my parents to enroll me in a writing class. My high school was small and didn’t have its own writing program, so I signed up for a course that was offered to all the area high schools—an online Creative Writing class.

At the time, an online class, especially at the secondary school level, was virtually an unexplored concept. As a matter of fact, at sixteen, I had never been on the Internet in my life. Ever.

It was different. My “classmates” were people my age, mostly from different schools. Definitely not people I would ever have met or thought I had anything in common with in other circumstances.

But here, in this little private forum, was an entirely new world. My teacher, Virginia “Ginny” Little, was unlike any teacher I’d ever had in my life. She encouraged conversation and discussion rather than testing and grading. We graded ourselves at the end of the semester, by writing a paper explaining why we felt we deserved the grade we had given ourselves.

On the surface, the class seemed easy. Too easy. All we ever did was write back and forth—someone would discuss music and lyrics, another person would bring up current events. All we had to do was participate in the discussion.

We each had our own “folder,” where we could share our stories and poetry. It was in fact my very first blog. We would be given a loosely based assignment, post it in our folder, and everyone was open to comment. We learned how to critique fairly, without being unkind.

The first year, I was intimidated. It seemed as though everyone was smarter than me, far more clever and witty and daring with their responses and writing.

But I was drawn in. Through the intimacy within our forum, the freedom we had to talk, discuss and debate as adults, and the creative energy flowing through the wires, we became friends. I found myself thinking in ways I’d never considered before—about religion, politics, the writing process, and getting a truly unique perspective on the world.

And it was the world.

Ginny had a vision, and she brought us all into her fold. She had friends all over the world, and she networked everywhere for our class, for us. We had a student from Switzerland in our class. Visiting authors from England.

And then she brought in a friend of hers as a visiting author from Australia, and he understood us and what were about. He believed in us. He talked to us frankly, he showed us how to consider other opinions—think “outside the box,” cliché as it is, it’s true—and quite often he shocked the hell out of us.

His name is Dirk Flinthart.

The next year I signed up immediately for the class. And the year after that, when we graduated from high school, a handful of us stayed on with Ginny and Dirk for the new classes coming through.

These classmates became friends, close friends—we still stay in touch, although we now live all over the world. We’ve had weddings, divorces, children, death, and sickness. We’ve shared in each other’s ups and downs and though we’ve moved on with our lives, we still have that connection.

Throughout the last decade Dirk went from being my teacher to my mentor to my very good friend. Two years ago I was at one of the lowest points of my life. My marriage was crumbling. I hated my job. I hadn’t truly written in years.

One night, when I felt desperate and alone, I wrote Dirk an email. I went on and on about how unhappy I was, and as usual Dirk responded in his thoughtful, kind and truthful way. What I remember most, however, was that he encouraged me to check out his journalspace page. This was in response to a comment I’d made about how much I missed the intimacy and sharing we all had in the Creative Writing class years ago.

I didn’t know what a blog was, really. But when I read Dirk’s journal, it all came back to me. I set up my own account. At first I was intimidated, and let it sit for quite awhile. Then one night I decided to try. At this point my marriage was all but technically over. My husband would disappear, and sometimes I didn’t see him for two or three days. I started to suffer from insomnia and I was so ashamed, I didn’t feel like I had anyone I could tell.

So I wrote. Clumsy, awkward posts. Sometimes I’d try to be funny, to cheer myself up. Other times my posts were sad. But I didn’t care, really. I cannot tell you how it felt to be writing again. It was like that song—“Since You’ve Been Gone” (fine, laugh at me. I would.)—with the lyric “I can breathe for the first time.” That’s how I felt. It was such a rush, it was such a relief, it was the first time I’d felt like me.

Everything around me was dying, but here, I started to feel alive. And go ahead and laugh, it’s cheesy, I know, but it’s true.

When I was in college I had a professor tell me to give up writing. He’d smirk every time I shared my piece in workshop. He told me I was awful, and the kiss-ass grad students would poke their heads out of his ass just long enough to nod agreeably with every word he said to me.

It was a devastating blow, and I took him at his word. I did stop writing, and decided to focus on getting married and having kids.

When I wrote on journalspace, that all began to fade away. Because I’m not writing to get into grad school. I don’t write for that professor. I don’t write for my ex, or Ginny, or even Dirk.

I write for me. I write because it’s the only time I ever truly feel alive. I write because it makes me happy, it makes me laugh, it makes me cry, it makes me think. I write because it’s a wonderful secret I carry around with me everywhere I go.

The world is unkind. People bring you down, people try to make you believe you are your job and then they yank it away from you. People tell you you’re nothing if you don’t own this or collect that. You’re meant to believe everything’s a competition and you have to keep up. And I feel that pressure, all of it, every day. As do all of you, I’m sure. But when I write, or when I think about writing, or dream about stories, or imagine ideas—everything else stops, all the anxiety starts to fade to black.

That’s why I do it. That’s why I’m here. I love to write. I love the community here. I love to learn about all of you and your lives. I love and appreciate all of the feedback I get (more than you know!), and I love to give feedback to all of you.

So thank you Ginny, for getting me on this path. And thank you Dirk, for always encouraging me and being my friend. And for introducing me to the world of blogging AND all of your mates here, now my Twitterbugs.

And thanks to all of YOU, who read and comment on my stuff regularly--that is so cool. You have no idea how much I truly appreciate it.

So, now, you're turn--why did you all start blogging, and did anyone nudge you into it?

The Holy Trinity

2009-05-09T22:51:00.005-04:00

Scott and I have revived the old podcast...

Check us out, if you dare. Or if you're bored enough.

THE HOLY TRINITY

If clicking directly on the link doesn't work, you can right-click and opt for "save as," then choose a media player for it (such as Windows Media Player, Yahoo Jukebox, etc).

Thanks for listening. We love to pimp ourselves out.

Author's Bio

2009-05-08T23:34:00.002-04:00

Like any good bibliophile I go through phases where I obsessively read a specific genre for an undetermined amount of time. Lately I’ve been devouring collections of stories—most recently The Best American Short Stories, Alfred Hitchcock’s Tales of Horror, and The O. Henry Prize Stories 2004 (my library is a little behind on the times).

Typically at the end of each collection there is a section entitled “Contributor’s Notes,” in which a brief bio of each author is given, including his or her achievements, education and profession beyond writing prize-winning short stories.

I always enjoy perusing this portion of the book, partly because it’s always interesting to me to learn a bit about a writer’s process, but mostly because it is one giant sack of douche-baggery of epic proportion.

In my experience, it appears that every prize-winning author makes a living as a professor at a private or Ivy League university. I would love to see someone ‘fess up to being a teacher at a community college or worse, Michigan State.

And is it possible that there are some talented writers out there who might not make their living at the front of the classroom, painfully lecturing about their “process” while bored students doodle on their required textbook, which happens to be the author’s self-published chapbook of intimate poetry?

If I ever ended up in the Contributor’s Notes section (undoubtedly for the as-of-yet-unpublished collection of Prizewinning Blogs for Illiterate Dummies Attempting to Impress Big Breasted Blondes), I want to be upfront with my audience. No ego-tripping bullshitting Proust-spewing bio for me! I’ll leave that to the visiting Creative Writing professor at Dartmouth, who likes tennis, Thoreau and spending cozy nights by the fire translating War and Peace by hand.

My bio would go a little something like this:

Jennifer was born in Kalamazoo. Her childhood was spent learning how to kick kidnappers in the nuts from Sister Mary Ann at Saint Augustine Elementary school. When she was not learning self-defense from a nun, Jennifer enjoyed Michigan summers by staying indoors and challenging her brother to Mike Tyson’s Punch Out on Nintendo, in which she displayed most excellent TKO skills.

Jennifer graduated from the prestigious Western Michigan University with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing and Communications, which opened the door to several career opportunities, including but not limited to waiting tables by day and hookin’ by night.

She continues to write while drunk, and hopes to someday support her caffeine addiction by opening a restaurant that serves exclusively to fellow Mountain Dew extremists.

Stupid Nail

2009-05-07T22:08:00.005-04:00

I took Taz for a walk this evening and when we got home, I went in the other room to get his food and water bowls. Taz suddenly shrieked, this awful cry, and I ran back in the living room to find him limping with his front left paw up in there air, and blood was splurting out all over the carpet. I grabbed a towel and wrapped his paw in there, and the towel soaked with blood. I sat on the floor with him, using the towel to put pressure on his paw to stop the bleeding. He was squirming and crying and I felt just terrible. I looked around the room, trying to figure out what happened, when I saw it: his nail on the floor. The whole thing had snapped off.

OW.

I called the vet and they told me to bring him in immediately. I knew it was just his nail, I knew it wasn't anything worse then that, but still, I paced around the waiting room while they bandaged him up and gave him a shot of antibiotic. When they brought him out with his tiny paw wrapped up, I cried.

The vet gave me painkillers for him, and $120 poorer we left the office.

I nearly cried when I got the bill.

Taz seems OK now. The vet said dogs can seem fine though when really, they're in a lot of pain. So I hope he's not in a lot of pain. It was painful for me, trying to give him the damn pill. Good lord he's learned my every trick, and it's gonna be a long eight days, fighting him to chew his meds.

Sigh. Not how I wanted to spend my Thursday night, but I'm glad that he's OK.

Taz with his bandaged paw:

P.S. How do you get bloodstains out of carpet?

A Hodge Podge of Miscellanea

2009-05-04T21:16:00.003-04:00

I'm pretty sure I'll be out cold in the next fifteen minutes so this might not make sense...awfully sleepy.

So my inbox when I left work on Friday was terrifying--stacks and stacks of paperwork, all with looming deadlines.

I kinda felt like vomiting when I woke up this morning, just thinking about it. I'm so afraid I won't be able to catch up. For every one folder I work on and complete, six more appear on my desk.

I felt a little better when I left today. There is a faintly visible descent in the stacks.

Corresponded with and started work on our 10 year high school reunion committee.

Also did the dishes, walked the dog, gave the dog a bath, ironed clothes, made dinner, laid out tomorrow's outfit, answered emails, and worked out.

No writing tonight. Too tired. But that's OK. Tomorrow after work I'm going to vote, go to the library and hopefully work on a short story.

My alarm is set for 5:15 AM. The plan is I'm going to work out for an hour. I'm not confident this will actually happen. I tend to give in to that bastard snooze button in the morning.

But I want to amp up my exercise routine since we've now set a date for our 10 year reunion (geez I'm old) in November and I want to wear cute black minidress.

Ok my medicine is kicking in...sleepy time.

Night all.

P.S.

To the Kalamazoo readers--don't forget to vote tomorrow. It is very important that we all vote. The millage for the public transport system and the public library is on the line.

You might not use the bus but there are thousands of people in this city who rely on the transport. You never know when you'll be down on your luck and need to use it too. Make sure you vote "yes" on the millage so people can continue to use public transport as a resource. You might grumble at the tax, but look at it this way--if people can't get to work in the morning, that's just thousands more unemployed we'll have in this already dying state. So give it up, folks.

And vote yes on the library millage. We are fortunate enough to have one of the best libraries in the country. Besides the fact that we get free books, music and movies there, we also have access to tons of resources. Legal resources for those who can't afford to seek advice, for example. Don't cheap out on the library millage.

There. I've had my say.

G'night.

The Writing Process

2009-05-03T21:26:00.005-04:00

I'm working on two short stories right now, along with a novel.

Both of the short stories are finished, completed entirely in my head, with corresponding written notes and detailed outlines. All I have to do is transcribe the words from my head to the paper. That's it! It's all there in my head...so why am I at a total loss when I sit in front of the computer?

It's so clear I can taste it, I can smell it, see everything but it all falls flat when I type it out.

Why? WHY?!

*banging head against wall*

I just want to go to bed now but I'll hate myself at work tomorrow, knowing I had all day to write today and didn't take full advantage.

But the measly 1000 words I have right now for one of the stories is just godawful. The writing is awful! It's stilted and stiff and everything is flat and I don't know why because I know exactly how I want to show it and write it in my head. I have the words! I have the story! Why does it get lost in translation when bleeding from head to hand?

Beautiful Day, Great to Be Alive

2009-05-02T17:10:00.005-04:00

It's gorgeous out today!

Which is why I've opened the windows while inside playing XBox and watching movies.

Have been v. bad with the diet. It's all junk food, all weekend.

It's fabulous.

I'm all jacked up on Mountain Dew at the moment.

Hanging out with Scott all day.

I'm catching up on my laundry all weekend. If there is the slightest piece of fabric in my apartment that is readily moveable (sorry couch) it is getting laundered today.

In the meantime, have challenged Scott to an XBox marathon. We're also going to watch a filthy comedy with Dane Cook (yes he's a tool but is funny in this film) and the love of my life since Heath passed (RIP), Alec Baldwin.

Plan to consume massive amounts of caffeine and beer.

As always, TwitterDeck will be close by. I'm a hooker for Twitter and it's sad. I even dreamed about Twitter and hooking last night. Which was kinda fun, not gonna lie.

Have a beautiful day loves!

*EDIT* My dad told my brother and me to help ourselves to the booze leftover from a recent banquet he worked. He said it was in the basement. I thought maybe there'd be a drop or two of liquor left...but have discovered the Holy Grail of Alcohol. There is rum, vodka, gin, scotch and various wines...JACKPOT. We've been drinkin' all night.*

Happy Crying Bitch

2009-04-30T21:12:00.006-04:00

I've been awfully moody lately.

Loving boys, hating boys (whatever I can't stop lovin' the boys). They get my hopes up and hurt my feelings. Or they break my heart and then inundate me with drunken text and phone messages and I end up feeling guilty and bitchy for ignoring them, but if I answer I know it will just be more painful for me.

Today on the way home a Bon Jovi song made me cry. And not for the obvious reasons.

One minute I'm so blissfully happy, then something happens--a stranger glances over at me, a leaf flutters off a tree branch, American Idol comes on--and I become enraged or utterly depressed.

I'm pretty sure this is just your average PMS.

I confirmed that this morning when my once-loose pants felt tight on me. I went straight to my scale and weighed myself.

I lost three pounds.

Also, I want chocolate. All the frickin' time.

Work is good. It's keeping me busy...I just worry a lot. I'm getting trained in a new area and there is so much to learn...and a high volume of time sensitive work, so there is so much pressure to get things done very quickly...that has been stressing me out. But I do like the work! And everyone's been really nice and helping me out as I learn.

I don't like feeling whiny and needy, and that's how I've been lately. So thanks for putting up with my mood swings for now...hopefully I'll pull myself out of this very soon.

30 Rock is on TV now. I NEED a big ass laugh...save me Alec Baldwin, you're my only hope.

LMAO...BEST 30 Rock Quote tonight:

"Have you ever been to Florida? It's a criminal population. It's America's Australia." Alec Baldwin, 30 Rock

Backhanded Compliments

2009-04-27T21:57:00.003-04:00

I've got a couple of blog posts I'm working on now, but they're not quite finished yet. Hopefully I'll have them ready to put up in the next day or two.

In the meantime I hope you all stay healthy and try not to infect yourself with the Oink flu.

Today someone remarked to me, "You colored your hair!" Then looked me up and down slowly, and walked away.

I hate when people do that. Holy passive agressive. If you don't like someone's hair, you should lie or say nothing at all.

Anyway. That's when I thought of my favorite backhanded compliment, from Alec Baldwin on the television show 30 Rock:

"I like you. You have the boldness of a much younger woman."

So, what's the best backhanded compliment you've ever given or received?

Nice Guys Finish Last..How Long Do I Have to Frickin' Wait at the Finish Line?

2009-04-26T19:56:00.004-04:00

I like to joke that I am the anti-gold digger. If he lives with his mama, is "holding out for a management position," and asks me to spot him a fiver for Mickey D's, I swoon.

Honestly though, I realize I have awful taste in men. I have a history of dating total losers. My theory has always been that I date guys...with potential. They always have potential. They just never, ever live up to it.

I don't know how to meet nice guys. I don't know where they hide.

I kind of want to give up on the whole thing.

An Epiphany, of Sorts

2009-04-25T23:01:00.012-04:00

I had an epiphany today. I'm going to marry a hot firefighter. So it's determined, so it shall be done...

I was at my friend's house today when a nasty storm hit, totally out of the blue. It was fierce! One minute we're in the kitchen talking, sitting in front of the sliding door, which is open with a heavenly breeze.

Then it got dark and just as we commented on how dark it'd become, the wind picked up and rain slammed against the house, leaving about a quarter inch of water on the kitchen floor. We ran around the house shutting windows and doors, and the wind was howling, the hail was pounding against the windows, and you could see limbs on the trees peeling off, slamming against the cars and houses. The power went off and you could hear a down power line hissing in the distance.

My friend, her daughter, another friend and myself huddled together, freaking out. My friend's husband, a fireman, walked into the room, looked outside, and very calmly said, "It's OK. You're all safe."

Then, just a couple minutes later, it stopped abruptly. The sky cleared up and when we stepped outside, trees were uprooted, completely ripped out from the ground. Large branches were scattered everywhere.

Immediately her husband's police radio started going crazy, calling for backup on downed wires and uprooted trees. Down the street a large tree had fallen through a house.

The husband went outside, picked up a chainsaw, and said, "Honey, I'm going out to help. Be back later."

It was one of the hottest things I've ever seen.

I want to marry a fireman now.

Damage from the storm:

Also today, my friend dyed my hair and cut bangs for me, which I love...she's so talented!

My new 'do.

I can FINALLY pull my hair back in a (tiny) ponytail again...I missed that!

Caught in the middle of my latest addiction--TWITTERING.(I know it looks like I'm all Zombied out and drooling, but it's actually lip gloss that make my lips look all shiny...not drool! Well maybe a little...

Taz, enjoying the weekend...he needs a haircut!

Madonna wine, my new favorite.

Weekend Update

2009-04-23T22:35:00.005-04:00

Friday night I plan to stay home and write. Til I bleed!

Saturday early afternoon I'm going to see Hannah Montana the Movie (yeah fine be disgusted with me) with my mom and a friend. I frickin' love Hannah Montana...and movie theater popcorn. NUMMERS.

Then I'm going out with some girlfriends...we're gettin' beautified...hair done...and wax...oh yes, there will be hot wax.

After that I'm going out to help my brotha celebrate the end of his semester...after that, who knows...have another friend I've been playing phone tag with, maybe we'll have a slumber party...X-Box, perhaps?...readin' and writin'...going to Mass...get my sinnin' on...in general kicking ass like a ninja.

I'm so ready for the weekend.

Here's my favorite quote of the night:

"I'm just a girl standing in front of the boy she poisoned, so another boy could go to town on her." 30 Rock

Mean People are Big Crazy Meanies

2009-04-21T20:39:00.008-04:00

Long day.

*EDIT* I decided I should probably redact this portion of my post...sorry all! But you really should check out Birmo's podcast! And hope all those who could vote for Matt last night did!

Happy Wednesday!*END EDIT*

Two awesome things to add from the day:

1. You should check out John Birmingham's podcast. LOVES the Aussie accents! And he is hilarious, esp when not quite sober.:D

2. If you watch American Idol, please vote Matt Giraud! He's a hometown boy and he's super talented and deserves to stay in the game: 1-866-436-5706

Crap Books

2009-04-19T22:43:00.003-04:00

When I was younger, I moved in with my boyfriend. It was my first real experience at playing house and I was determined to get it right. I saw myself as a domestic goddess.

Our first night together I cooked a chicken dinner that I carefully arranged on our kitchen table, covered with a linen—the cloth kind, not the vinyl!—and lots of candles.

I ran the bath and tossed in fake rose petals. I’d gotten a subscription to Good Housekeeping as I was practically a housewife now, and such details like romantic bath preparation seemed high on the list for a domestic goddess such as myself.

The boyfriend was due home from work anytime, so I slipped into a red teddy and, to play up domestic goddess look, added an apron. Which was green with a hideous paisley pattern, and it clashed horribly with the silk red lingerie. But I wasn’t bothered by such minor details.

Then I waited. The minutes ticked away slowly on the clock, and I filled the time by painting my nails and going through boxes trying to find romantic music. I finally settled on a Kenny G CD.

What I was most excited about, however, was the books. The boyfriend told me he loved to read, as a matter of fact he read just about all the time. This is when I knew I was in love with him. I’d never dated a guy before who was interested in literature. I envisioned us cuddled together each night on the couch, reading aloud to one another all the classics—Hemingway and Salinger for the long winter nights and in the summer, we’d stay up late discussing Tolstoy and his weird obsession with the name Ivan, which would lead to passionate arguments that we’d continue in the bedroom.

I was a silly girl. Who would think Russian lit leads to erotic nights, anyway?

I’d spent the day unpacking and organizing the books. I’d carefully picked out a few of my own, which I stacked neatly on the dinner table next to a glass of Southern Comfort, a favorite drink of the boyfriend’s. I was hoping we’d have a romantic dinner, followed by an intellectual conversation over the books—had he read any of them and if so, which were his favorites and why?

When he came home, he looked around the room. “Wow,” he said, kissing me on the forehead, “it’s really dark in here! Didn’t you call the electric company yet?” He flipped on the lights, and I blinked fast, tripping over the shoes he’d kicked off in the middle of the room.

“I got you a drink!” I said, proudly handing him the glass. “Thanks, baby!” he exclaimed, tilting his head back and finishing it with one big gulp. He burped and started laughing, “Oh my god,” he said, “What are you wearing? That’s hilarious.”

“Thanks,” I said, self-consciously removing the apron, “I was um, hoping you’d get it.”

He looked around the room. “I made dinner!” I said optimistically, “and I picked out some books I thought you’d like to read.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Do you hear that music? Where’s it coming from? It sounds like we’re in an elevator.”

“It’s probably the neighbors,” I replied, casually hitting the “pause” button on the stereo. “Anyway, why don’t you get washed up and we’ll have dinner. I ran a bath for you.”

He peeked into the bathroom. “You’re so sweet,” he said, then furrowed his brow, “there’s some kind of…floaty in the water…what is that? And the water’s pink!”

“Crap!” I exclaimed, pushing into the room for a closer look. The fake rose petals had sunk to the bottom of the tub and stained the water pink. “Um…sorry...” I said, flipping the switch to drain the water.

“It’s OK…” he said. “Where are the books? Are they unpacked yet?”

“Oh!” I said, excited, “They’re in the bookshelves! Come see!” I grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the living room.

“Awesome.” He browsed through the books, which I’d painstakingly organized by genre, then alphabetically by author’s last name. He then selected Mafia for Dummies, grabbed the entire bottle of Southern Comfort off the kitchen counter, and walked into the bathroom.

I found this disturbing for three reasons:

1. He’s drinking liquor straight from the bottle while on the toilet

2. Of all the books available, he chose Mafia for Dummies and

3. Worst of all, it appears he is a Bathroom Reader

I sat on the couch and fretted over this worrisome discovery. An hour later, the boyfriend emerged from the bathroom, the fan still going at full strength.

“That’s better!” He grinned. “I’m starving!”

Dinner was cold, so I re-heated the chicken in the microwave. The candles had flickered out ages ago, and under the harsh apartment lighting it was obvious the chicken was still frozen on the inside. “I’m sorry!” I cried as the boyfriend laughed. “It’s OK,” he assured me, “just promise you’ll leave the cooking to me from now on.”

The truth was, I was relieved we had to toss the dinner. The table was uncomfortably close to the bathroom and I wasn’t sure my gag reflex would allow me to choke any food down under the (smelly) circumstances.

I should’ve known this night would be a precursor to the rest of our time together. While it was true that the boyfriend was indeed a reader, it turns out he was solely a Bathroom Reader—every night, he would come home and head straight to the bathroom, enjoying his literature from his porcelain throne.

I was devastated. My dream of cuddling together and reading aloud from the same book would never happen. I decided to make the best of the situation, though, and learned to work around it.

When the boyfriend came home and shut the bathroom door, I would settle down with my own book at the kitchen table. Together, we would read, lost in our own worlds.

I never gave up on sharing books. Among his growing collection of “…for Dummies” that were stacked on top of the toilet tank, I would slide in some of my favorites, hoping maybe he would read The Alchemist or The Bell Jar.

It bothered me, those books in the bathroom. No matter how often I used Clorox wipes to scrub the shit out of them, they always seemed tainted to me. Even when the books rotated out of the bathroom and into the bookcase, I knew which ones were “toilet treasures.”

Once, a friend came over and asked to borrow the boyfriend’s Why Men Have Nipples.

“You don’t want that,” I said, wrinkling my nose, “it’s a crap book.”

“It’s not good? You’ve read it?” The friend asked innocently.

“Yes,” I replied, “that’s what I meant…it’s no good…it’s…crap.”

I tried to bond with the boyfriend over the books. Sometimes, I’d hear him laughing in the bathroom. I’d lean up against the door, breathing out of my mouth. “Are you reading David Sedaris?” I’d ask eagerly. “Which part do you like?”

“I just farted,” he’d announce through the door. “It was a really gross one.”

When we split up, I kept the books. I felt like I’d won, until moving day came around. Several boxes of heavy books suddenly didn’t make me feel victorious. And after I’d settled in to my new place, and organized the books just how I wanted, I found I couldn’t unpack the crap books. No matter how much I cleaned them, they were still tainted, taunting me with their shitty memories.

Candles

2009-04-19T16:01:00.003-04:00

I love candles, but it always feels like I need a special occassion to use them. To just light a few on a rainy Sunday while reading a book just seems...wrong.

I feel like I need to deserve it, that there has to some sort of romantic scenario involved before I strike the first match.

And seeing that I currently lack a boyfriend and charged batteries, it seems I am SOL.

A ShamWow of a Saturday

2009-04-19T01:09:00.005-04:00

It was absolutely gorgeous outside today, and I spent the afternoon at the park, walking my dog around the trails. Of course I managed to run into a few acquaintances and that's always an awkward moment, when you're standing around chatting while holding a bag of poo.

A cute dog is always a good conversation starter. I guess an ugly dog would be, too. Let's not discriminate. Some dogs are so butt-ugly you find them adorable.

Not my dog, but I kinda wish it was.

After the walk, I sat on a bench in the shade and split a cold bottle of water with Tazzie, and we drove off in my sweet ride with the sun roof open. I stopped to visit with my brother, who is currently working on his thesis for grad school, and dumbed him down a bit with my conversation. Taz ran around and played in the backyard.

Then it got dark and cloudy outside, so I packed up Taz and picked up a sandwich from Mancino's, which was absolutely delish.

When we got back home Taz curled up on the floor and fell asleep. Shocking. It is rare that I wear my dog out, ever. I plopped on the couch with pillow, blanket, laptop, cell phone and a Mountain Dew, and watched the movies Doubt and Little Children back to back.

Doubt is a fantastic, thought-provoking, must-see movie. Meryl Streep was an excellent nun. She scared the shit out of me and when I closed my eyes and just listened to her I could've sworn she was my old elementary school principal, Sister Mary Ann.

*Shudders*

Little Children was interesting, a little disturbing. Striving to be American Beauty with its surburban angst. I think I'm kind of biased against the movie because I recently saw a similar type film, also starring Kate Winslet, called Revolutionary Road which I felt was far superior to Little Children.

Mostly I found myself texting and website hopping during the second movie (I am far too addicted to technology).

All in all, it has been a most excellent Saturday: laid-back and breezy.

I am looking forward to going out with the Princess group on Wednesday (even if it is a work night! Crazy!) to see the movie Earth, and next Saturday is another Girls Night Out in which we plan to have our hair dyed and be all fabulous-like. Oh, and also having beers with my brother to celebrate the end of the semester with him.

As long as my friends and their children can manage to stay out of the hospital til then...it seems like every day something is going on with someone! So let's all plan on being healthy and having fun.

Hospitals are not fun.

Have had too much Mountain Dew over the past week and must plan on slowly weaning self off the caffeine. Again. Never ending cycle with me.

Also--and I don't want all of you to get jealous--but I'm getting a ShamWow. It's a gift, and I'm very, very proud.

Is anyone really surprised this guy punched a hooker in the face?

Happy weekend, all!

Sleeping Boo-ty

2009-04-09T23:27:00.003-04:00

Got an idea for a ghost story today. Had some seriously creepy images from a dream I had a few years ago, and during my break at work a story that works around the images just popped in my head. It was awesome. Love when that happens. So, I spent my two breaks today scribbling furious, barely legible notes to myself, and I just finished typing up a detailed, multi-paged outline. I cannot wait to write it. Hopefully sometime this weekend...not sure when though, it's hard to find a solid chunk of time during a holiday weekend. Have a bunch of family events plus one of my best friends is in town and need to find a time to catch up with her.

I am so, so sleepy. These anti-anxiety meds the doctor put me on make me permanently drowsy, I think.

Carrots...Next Time I'll Leave 'Em for the Easter Bunny

2009-04-06T20:13:00.004-04:00

I had a fantastic weekend!

Saturday I went to see the movie Adventureland with a friend. I really enjoyed it. It was more of a drama then a comedy, but it was still very entertaining.

Then I went to the salon and got my hair did. The best part, as always, was the scalp and neck massage the stylist gives during the shampoo. Good grief it was spectacular. You just feel your body melt and become all gooey in the chair.

With my new 'do, I got in my new car, opened the sun roof (man I love that feature) and picked up my bestie, Katie. We met our friends Shannon and Christy for dinner and chatting that stretched out over four hours.

Sunday morning I lounged around in bed, re-reading Bridget Jones's Diary and watching Wall Street with Michael Douglas and Charlie Sheen. I took Taz for a long walk and spent the afternoon cleaning the apartment and catching up on my laundry.

It was a gorgeous, fun weekend. I was NOT ready for Monday to roll around--am already looking forward to next weekend.

And yes, I know I've failed the National Poetry Month Challenge. After one day. But oh well, life happens.

I woke up this morning with a massive headache and nausea. I'm pretty sure it has more to do with the change in weather (we went from sunny, clear and in the 50s to snow and in the 20s within 24 hours) than an actual bug. But ewwww...I was snacking on carrot sticks Sunday night, and when I woke up this morning all I could taste was carrots..gross.

Anyway, I'm going to bed really early tonight...hopefully tomorrow I'll have more energy to work on some writing.

Hey everyone, at least we've gotten through Monday! :D

P.S. For all of you who are following the NCAA Basketball Championship game tonight--GO MICHIGAN STATE!!!!!!!!!!

Your Point of View On POV

2009-04-01T18:53:00.003-04:00

I'm attempting to write a novel (like 3 billion other people on the planet, always in the process of it) and I'm struggling a bit with the narrative mode.

I planned on writing it from the third person POV for the convenience--it just seems easier to me--but I've found that I'm really missing that intimacy created with a first-person perspective. I think it would be very difficult, though, to really write a story from that POV.

So I'd like your opinion: do you prefer reading stories from a first- or third-person perspective?

Your thoughts are appreciated!

Jen :D

All The Cool Kids Are Doing It...

2009-03-31T21:36:00.003-04:00

...checking out my cousin Melissa's blog, that is.

She has AWESOME tips for saving money in this economy. You definitely need to check it out and say hi!

Jen :D

Say My Name Say My Name

2009-03-29T21:23:00.004-04:00

I'm working on a novel but find myself utterly stuck on a small but significant detail: the name of the female protagonist.

I have all sorts of names that I like but just don't fit for the character. She is a Bridget Jones-y type--funny and well-meaning but tends to stumble her way through life.

I'd like her name to be cool but not trendy, maybe classic but not boring. She is an Everywoman, not a Supermodel.

Any suggestions?

Nyuk Nyuk Nooooooo!

2009-03-28T02:02:00.004-04:00

I was raised on steady diet of comedic staples such as The Three Stooges and Saturday Night Live. Some of my favorite childhood memories are of staying up late and watching Stooges marathons on TV with my parents and their friends.

So you can see why I was deeply disturbed to find out there is a Three Stooges movie in the works, with Sean Penn cast as Larry, Benicio del Toro as Moe, and Jim Carrey (who plans to gain 40 lbs) as Curly.

This is a terrible idea. Just terrible.

Now I want to watch some Stooges. The real ones, that is.

Caught Vaseline-Handed

2009-03-26T22:42:00.002-04:00

Ysambart was onto me. He got the visual to my latest adventure in shame.

Check it out!

Ysambart's blog.

Jennicki Does Soft Hands

2009-03-24T22:20:00.005-04:00

My hands have been quite dry this past winter, and last night I decided to make good on a friend's advice.

After my normal bedtime routine of washing my face, brushing my teeth and tying my bangs back ala Pebbles Flintstone (this is what you're missing, boys), I pulled back my sheets and slid into bed.

My friend swears by putting Vaseline on her hands and sleeping with gloves on to get that baby's bottom softness. I don't know why people insist on having their skin feel as soft as a baby's ass (really, who are these people? Do they just stop women with strollers on the street and ask, "Please may I feel your daughter's behind? Oh she's so smooth!"? This seems a bit off to me).

Anyway, so last night I decide to give it a whirl. I grab the Vaseline that is conveniently located atop my nightstand and pull out the vinyl gloves that are conveniently stored in the drawer.

I slather the petroleum jelly all over my hands, which are so dry it burns. It burns! My hands are now sufficiently greased like a pig on your Uncle Billy Bob's farm, and it was a bit of a challenge to put on the gloves without getting Vaseline all over my sheets. But with a squish here and a squeege there, both of the vinyl gloves were on and I was ready to sleep.

I should mention that I also have a bit of a cold at the moment, and as I was getting ready for bed I put a freshly laundered handkerchief on my pillow in case I was attacked by the Sneezing Monster that night.

So off went my light, and with my hot, greasy gloved hands at my side, I laid my head down on my pillow to fall asleep. But, after a few minutes, I was uncomfortable laying on my back.

I opened my eyes, turned on my side, put my head on the pillow and shut my eyes.

A searing pain suddenly shot through my right eye and I sat up straight in bed, my eyes blinking wildly.

My handkerchief was caught inside the lid of my eye.

Somehow I must've laid close enough on the pillow that the corner of the handkerchief was sticking up just as my eyelid closed over it.

Worse, I kept blinking and it just moved up and down with my lid.

It took me a moment to react. My eye was raw and I kept trying to grab the cloth but my hands were so clumsy with the gloves it took much longer than usual. If getting a handkerchief caught in your eye is usual.

I can only imagine what I looked like--sitting up in bed, my tattered pink Michigan State tee-shirt on, my tiny ponytail sitting straight up on my head, greasy, gloved hands yanking wildly at a handkerchief, stuck in my eyelid, moving up and down my face.

I finally yanked it out and stumbled my way to the bathroom, with splurgy-squoosh sounds being made as I pulled off the gloves and washed the Vaseline off my hands, howling as I looked at the raw, red space that used to be my fairly normal eye.

My hands have never been softer.

NEW(ER) CAR!!!

2009-03-23T20:05:00.002-04:00

I closed on the loan and drove it off the lot tonight! It's too dark out to take pictures but I'll put them up later this week!

:D

Jen's Poesy

2009-03-22T02:54:00.002-04:00

Poetry has always been my first love. I wrote my first poem in elementary school and never looked back.

I know poetry is not everyone's favorite genre, so instead of cluttering this blog when I go on my poem binges I've decided to simply start a second blog strictly for verses.

I hope you visit there! You are welcome to comment and critique. Boys Don't Like Funny Girls will still be my main spot for writing essays and personal posts (alright, more like rantings and ravings!).

Here's the link to my new poetry blog:

Jen's Poesy

Say You Don't

2009-03-21T18:13:00.001-04:00

Say You Don't

Say you don’t want me
Don’t want me
I’ll leave
Promise I’ll go but only
If I believe
Promise I’ll go but only
If I believe
Just say you don’t want me
Don’t want me
I’ll leave

The ocean still flows
Still flows
When I leave
The wind will still blow
Still blow but
I’ll breathe
The glaciers will melt
Will drip with icy ease
With all ease I will go
I’ll go if you please

Say you don’t want me
Don’t want me
I’ll leave
Promise I’ll go but only
If I believe
Promise I’ll go but only
If I believe
Just say you don’t want me
Don’t want me
I’ll leave

The wind will still blow
Still blow but
I’ll breathe

The glaciers will melt
Will drip with icy ease
With all ease I will go
I’ll go if you please

Just please
Please leave me
The memories

Night I and Night II

2009-03-21T03:03:00.000-04:00

Night I

Sleep shadows me
Failing to sync
We step around each other politely
First-week roommates avoiding
An unpleasant situation
The bed is unmade
I am tucked in
The night brews a dark mocha
Pouring over the room
With heavy lids
I stare at the ceiling
Expectantly

Night II

In the darkness, a light
The phone shivers on
the nightstand
I knew it would be you
As always, I breathe
into the receiver
“I’m alone,” you whisper,
and,
“I’m sorry”
The phone throws heat and
I shift uncomfortably
“I wish…” you start, wistfully
“You’re breaking up”
I cut you off
The phone’s light dims as
the darkness engulfs

Merci Grazie Danke Ta Arigato Thank You

2009-03-11T22:45:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, when I was planning my wedding, I happened to catch a movie with Susan Sarandon and Richard Gere called Shall We Dance. There was a line in the film that resonated with me—no, more than that, it haunted me. This quotation seemed to be the very definition of what I thought a marriage should be, and as a result I incorporated it into my wedding ceremony:

”We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness'."

After my marriage ended, I spent a lot of sleepless nights staring at my ceiling, trying to reconcile these words with my life. What if I never meet someone again? What if I live the rest of my life alone? Does my life have any significance if I don’t have someone with whom I can share these moments, the “good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things…all of it, all of the time, every day”?

Who will be my witness?

Over the course of the last year and a half, I’ve lost—my husband, my best friend. My cousin. My dog. My job. All traumatic situations that were out of my hands, beyond my control. It was easy to fall back on to a “why me?” mantra.

But then something happened, after the lowest points of my life. A lotus growing in the mud. Pieces of the sun, straining through the seemingly endless gray in the sky.

You.

All this time, I’ve been lamenting over all that I lost, while failing to truly see what I have gained. So many of you reached out to me when I needed it most. There were days where I couldn’t get out of bed, times when I didn’t know how I could possibly put one foot in front of the other.

All the while, you were there--your hand outstretched to pull me out of bed, to stand by my side when I couldn’t walk.

Perhaps you’re reading this without realizing this is piece is about you—for you. You think I must be referring to another person.

Believe me, it’s you.

Kindness spreads from the unlikeliest of places. It starts in the darkest of hours. When you have nothing left to your name, you still have kindness.

To me, kindness came in many forms and from many places. It appeared to me in emails, phone calls, text messages, invitations. It came across oceans right up to my doorstep. It came to me in person: encouraging smiles, shoulders for leaning, ears for listening.

You probably don’t know how much you mean to me. I doubt you are aware of how a simple “thinking of you” email strengthened me. You don’t know how much an hour out of your day, talking over coffee, helped me.

I am here, and I am lucky, because I have you as a friend. I wasted too much time worrying about what I have lost when my marriage ended.

You all are the witnesses to my life. My life has not gone unnoticed because you have noticed it. My life has not gone un-witnessed because you are my witnesses.

Forgive my sappiness this one time please. I just want to thank you—all of you—for listening, for your kindness, your encouragement, and your friendship.

I especially want to thank Paul Boylan and Abe Frellman, for offering their time and services in an unbelievably gracious and generous manner.

I don’t know what I have done to deserve all of this, but I thank you and I promise to pay it forward.

Love,

Jen

My Buddy Christ

2009-03-10T20:59:00.000-04:00

Recently I had a conversation with two people on the topic of vulgar language. To both protect their identities and piss them off, I'll call them Simon and Garfunkel.

"Hey," I said to them, "Did you guys know they can say the "F" word on network TV in Australia?"

"That doesn't surprise me," Garfunkel said, a solemn expression on his face, "It's an island of convicts and thieves."

I felt a rush of indignation and fascination wash over me. In my life I've heard many filthy racist slurs come out of ignorant mouths, but never have I heard a bad word directed toward the Australians.

Not even from Kiwis. (They are so polite!)

I wondered how anyone could hate an Australian. Did we not fall in love with Paul Hogan in the '80s? Did we not cry with the rest of the world when Steve Irwin died by--of all things--a sting ray to the heart? We flooded the theaters to see Heath Ledger's Joker, a performance so eloquent it was described in one headline "Ledger cements himself as legend." We even forgave Russell Crowe's anger issues because damn it, he's a fine actor. We just quietly removed the phones within arm's length of him.

Frankly, we kind of owe Australia. By way of Nicole Kidman, we sent them Tom Cruise, who brought nothing but Scientology and unnaturally white teeth into the country. In retaliation we got Kylie Minogue's "Can't Get You Out of My Head," an admittedly catchy but migraine-inducing ditty that cannot cancel out the pleasure of Olivia Newton-John's landmark contribution to the Grease soundtrack, which still gets daily airplay on the radio here.

Because I secretly believe my life should be a musical, I started to imagine how I could reply to Garfunkel's response in song. Perhaps I would click my ruby-red heels three times and sing, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" to him. In my pitch-perfect voice, I would tell him about the wonders of the land of Oz, a place so fantastic that there are parades to celebrate homosexuals and no one ever gets shot over a parking space. Oh--and women glow and men plunder.

My reverie was interrupted by Garfunkel's friend Simon, who said, "I don't know why everyone gets so up in arms over the "F" word when the Lord's name is used in vain on American TV all the time. I find that very offensive."

"Oh my god!" I exclaimed, "Are you offended when I say omg?"

"On so many levels," Simon muttered.

"Well what about 'oh my gosh'" I asked, "Is that all right to say instead?"

Both Simon and Garfunkel shook their heads. "That's just as bad," Garfunkel explained, "Everyone knows you really mean to say 'oh my--well, you know.'"

"Right," I said agreeably, "He Who Must Not Be Named." I continued, "Well, what else should you say? What about 'oh my goodness'"?

Garfunkel said, "No, that's almost worse. When you say 'goodness,' it's like admitting that you're good, and everyone knows that people aren't good, only God is. So basically when you say it you're admitting you're equal to God."

I considered this. "Wow, you've got it all figured out. You're definitely not going to hell."

Later that night I tossed and turned in bed, and not in a fun way. I just couldn't get past how silly all these rules seemed. Why would God care if you said His name in vain? I grew up Catholic. I've had all ten commandments explained to me in the appropriate crushing, guilt-ridden manner. But what I got out of it was not a list of rules on what words are acceptable to use, but just an overall "treat others with kindness and respect, and avoid harming others at all cost."

I think it all starts when you're young and told that you should view God as your father. Well I suppose that was meant to invoke fear, with the assumption that your father was a murderous, abusive, cold-blooded man.

But that wasn't my dad. My dad's a cool dude, and if I'm to see God in the same way, I assume He is also a fan of Holden Caulfield, liberal satellite radio and the Green Bay Packers.

So I always viewed God as an ally, a support system. No matter how much I sucked at sports, my dad was in the bleachers at every game, cheering me on. That's how I see God.

As for Jesus, I've always seen him as a younger, cooler friend. Maybe He's Jim Morrison. Only God and Elvis know for sure. I knew I was on the right track when I saw Kevin Smith's version of Jesus in Dogma.

Seriously, who wouldn't want to know Buddy Christ? He's awesome.

Another thing I was always taught ad nauseum in Catholic school was to always keep Jesus in your heart, and always keep Him present. Well what better way to do that then invoke His name? The other day, for example, it was my turn to go at a four-way stop and a douche bag in a Mazda with shades and frosted hair blew past the stop sign and almost hit me. I slammed on my brakes and yelled "Jesus Christ! That guy's a motherf**ker!"

Now, it could be argued I was using His name in vain. What with the Holy Trinity and all, Jesus = God = Holy Spirit even though they're all separate entities. Don't ask me to elaborate. As a woman I'm inferior and therefore not allowed to be a priest. Personally I think they do that because there just aren't enough little boys to go around, but that's not my bag anyway baby, so let's move on.

I think I said "Jesus Christ" in that moment the way I would've to a friend. I just invoked Him in my moment of need. I needed my friends, Christ included, to agree that this guy was in fact a total douche bag who most likely f**ks his mother.

I think it's important to note that in the most intimate of moments, people tend to say "Oh my god." Hospitals are filled with life and death, birth and passing, and I'm sure, the use of the Lord's name in vain.

And what about sex? At the most climatic time, do people yell "Oh my Bob!?" I think not, though Bob might disagree. No, they invoke the name of God, call Him to be present, at one of their most intimate of moments. Why is that? Should it be shameful, offensive? I think it's the highest form of respect you can give God, and I'm sure He feels the same way.

Nice People

2009-03-10T20:29:00.000-04:00

I've heard before that Jay Leno was considered one of the nicest people in Hollywood, and he proved it today.

He's bringing his stand-up show to Michigan, and will give a free performance to all the unemployed in the state, along with free parking and refreshments.

I'd love to go, but I am happy to announce that I wouldn't qualify--on Monday, March 16th, I will start my new job!

I want to thank all of you for your support. I'm going to dedicate a longer post in thanks to all of you later this week--I just want to share the news with all of you tonight!

Love,

Jen

A Quickie

2009-03-07T22:55:00.000-05:00

I heard this joke by a comedian on the radio the other day (I apologize for not catching the comedian's name), and I don't know why I found it so funny but I just laughed and laughed and laughed:

"A couple of years ago I went to a U2 concert. Bono got the crowd nice and riled up by clapping. Everyone was just clapping, clapping, clapping when Bono put the mike to his mouth and said, 'Every time we clap, a child in Africa dies.'

To which a person next to me screamed, 'STOP FUCKING CLAPPING THEN!'"

Hahaha...Bono is a tool. A massive, philanthropic tool.

Back on Track

2009-03-04T23:53:00.000-05:00

Alright. Enough's enough.

I've been feeling pretty sorry for myself and have been indulging in junk food, beer, pop, whatever the hell I feel like, for the past month. Who needs baked chicken with spinich for dinner, for example, when I'm miserable and life sucks and there is a delicious frozen pizza in my freezer? Also can't eat meat on Fridays for Lent so I'd better just have some comfort food like mac and cheese. With beer.

Jesus would want me to have beer, right? It's not like it's chocolate.

OK, the beer was actually the 64 calorie kind, and I never had more than two a week, but, still. That's more alcohol than I normally consume. It's a slippery slope. One week it's two beers, the next you're a six-pack-a-day gal, and that's just not classy.

And my exercise bike and DVDs have started to collect dust.

Soooo, tomorrow morning it's back on the wagon. Fruits, veggies, water, chicken. And daily workouts.

It sucks to get started up again but I think I'll feel better. I just feel bloated and icky right now.

For All of You Will Ferrell Haters...

2009-03-01T23:37:00.000-05:00

I don't understand why everyone's hating on Will Ferrell on Flinty's blog! Will Ferrell is hilarious! Check this out....

The Landlord from Will Ferrell

Unfortunate Celebrity Kid Names

2009-02-27T00:53:00.000-05:00

Donald Sutherland named his son Keifer. I admit to being immature, but I can't believe that I'm the only one who thinks "Qweefer" every time I hear his name. Adolescence must've been hard for young Qweefer, especially when he was rockin' this 'do:

This is unfortunate.

Next up is Jermaine Jackson. Recently I heard that he has a son named--wait for it!--Jermajesty. Jermajesty! It would be hilarious if it wasn't so tragic for the poor kid.

Determined to keep pounding (the royalty theme) in kids is Jermaine's slightly more famous brother, the eccentric and child-friendly Michael Jackson. He named his first son Prince Michael. The second son came along and, fresh out of ideas, he is christened Prince Michael II but is differentiated from his brother by the completely normal nickname Blanket.

Once upon a time, children, this man had a nose!

The always nerdy Nicholas Cage thought his son would have a chance if he named him after Superman. I bet Kal-El Cage will be super popular with the ladies!

(Not if he looks like this)

Jason Lee is a pretty cool dude, with the exception of course of his choice to bestow the name "Pilot Inspektor" to his son. Actually Pilot isn't so terrible but Inspektor is pushing it. And as if the kid won't have enough 'splainin' to do when he's older, he also will have to constantly correct people who mistakenly spell "Inspector" the right way.

Better add P.I. to your list now, Lee.

And finally, there's Frank Zappa, who I'm pretty sure just threw a dictionary against the wall, went to the open page, vomited up last night's liquor dinner, then pointed to random words to string together names for his children: Moon Unit, Ahmet, Dweezil (well maybe this is urban dictionary we're talking about), and my personal favorite, Diva Thin Muffin, which is basically the same as bestowing an eating disorder on your daughter.

It's Moon Unit, with a 'stache!

Everything's Amazing, Nobody's Happy

2009-02-26T13:16:00.001-05:00

Someone sent me this earlier today. It's a great, funny commentary on the way we live our lives, as described by comedian Louis C.K. on Conan O'Brien's late night show.

(Miss you Conan...had no idea how much you filled my nights...with laughter. Laughter!).

If I Had a Little Celebrity Black Book...

2009-02-25T23:23:00.000-05:00

Good grief, Tom Selleck is a good looking man. Why is it so many men just get better looking with age? He is HAWT.

There are some older men in my "celebrity to-do" list. This is OK, I think. I've also included Christina Hendricks and Tina Fey. And Madonna, who at age 50 is considered a two-fer.

At a glance, men who were men before I was born (and I would marry any of them):

Tom Selleck

Alec Baldwin

George Clooney

Jon Stewart

Howie Long

Of course, I don't discriminate. I love men closer to my age, too:
Seth Rogan

Jason Segel

John Krasinski

Michael Buble

Vince Vaughn

Jemaine Clement

and, retired forever at my number one spot:

Heath Ledger

Now that I look at this list, I notice one common thread--not looks, not age but funny. These are all funny people.

This girl likes funny boys (well, men, that is).

Who are your celebrity crushes?

If I Had a Soul Mate...

2009-02-23T21:26:00.000-05:00

...it would be Jason Segel, who wrote and starred in Forgetting Sarah Marshall. The movie is semi-autobiographical. This guy just attracts awkward situations. A male version of myself. ;P I've seen this movie at least five times, and it still makes me laugh my ass off (and cry).

You should check out the clip...it's hilarious...

welcome to my sad, pathetic excuse for a life.

2009-02-19T21:05:00.000-05:00

I'm in this crap prison known as my life.

I get divorced. After being told repeatedly that I wasn't good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough, I find out my husband is seeing other women, indulging in cocaine and crystal meth, and drinking a fifth of vodka or rum a day. He was good at hiding almost all of these habits from me, which hasn't helped my "I'm smart enough...aren't I?" confidence booster.

Then, my dog dies on me. She is just a few years old, and had just been given a clean bill of health a week prior. To this day, after an autopsy and testing at the vet's office and MSU's veterinary school, no one has been able to tell me why my dog passed away.

Five days after my dog dies, I go to the doctor for a checkup and find out I have a syndrome that has all kinds of fun symptoms, like an ability to gain weight very easily and difficulty losing it, and oh--short of in vitro treatments, I can forget getting pregnant. Ever. But, as the doctor reassured me, since I'm not married, that's not even really an issue at the moment now is it?

Then, I get offered a job that sounds too good to be true. And I guess it was, because an hour after my last day at my old employer's, I got a call explaining that due to a client conflict, it would be impossible for the new employer to hire me.

And, if I don't get work in the next week or so, I can soon add "homeless" and "pet-less" to my pathetic resume.

So welcome. My life sucks, and I'm really, really tired of pretending that it doesn't.

Do These Earbuds Make My Ears Look Fat?

2009-02-14T02:39:00.000-05:00

I know it's all trendy and hip to wear earbuds these days. I don't really get the attraction. They remind me of the hearing aids my grandmother used to wear, the kind that would screech incessantly--"Grandma. Grandma! Your hearing aids! Turn them down! No, I don't want any more Kool-Aid. HEARING AIDS! HEARING AIDS!!"--driving me to distraction while Grandma seized the opportunity to cheat during our poker games.

She never let me win, God bless her.

Personally I think it's yet another marketing ploy by Apple. I mean, who wants to share earbuds? It's one thing to share your traditional, external headphones with other people, but who wants to swap ear jelly with other 'bud users? Fricking gross, dude. It's an issue of hygiene--everyone should purchase their own pair.

It's also an issue of expense. You can get those amazing, noise-cancelling headsets from Bose, which are enormous and tagged with an even heftier price. Or you're like me, stuck buying the seven dollar earbuds every few months after your cat goes into attack mode, cutting the wire like she's dismantling the atomic bomb.

The most disturbing discovery I've made, however, is the "one size fits all" attitude of Apple and all of its generic counterparts. Ears come in all shapes and sizes. Why discriminate against the husky ear?

I suppose I'll just say it: my name is Jennicki, and I have full-figured ears. It's startling to me, although I guess I should've seen it coming. I never wiggled them as a child, and I suppose the lack of exercise contributed to the problem, though I strongly believe it's genetics that played a part. Maybe it's my thyroid. I don't know.

When I started wearing the dreaded 'buds, I noticed they didn't fit very well, a little too snug in the ears. They were constantly falling out, and it's made my exercising and couch potato time very trying. I kept thinking if only my ears were thinner, if only I could just lose a few more ounces around the lobes, maybe they would fit better.

But you know what? I am so over feeling bad about my ears. Society dictates that ears should be skinny and perfectly shaped to fit the earbuds. Well I say society can shove earwax up its canal! Apple should make 'buds to accommodate all sizes, including the plus-size ear!

My ears are curvy and womanly! I bet Marilyn Monroe couldn't fit earbuds properly in her ears either. It was another era then.

No more shame over your large ears. Remember next time you're trying to put earbuds in--it's more cushion for the pushin', baby.

My Valentine's Day Massacre

2009-02-11T02:08:00.001-05:00

Every time Valentine’s Day rolls around I think of how silly everyone gets over the holiday, and I’m grateful that I get through the day without getting sucked in to the drama and anxiety of it all.

This is a self-induced lie of epic proportions, on the same level as telling myself that no one noticed the Hitler ‘stache I sported for a half day at work after putting new toner in the copier and then rubbing my nose, or reassuring everyone around me that I’m fine going dateless to a wedding and sitting at the singles table, listening to the bride’s musty great-aunt Miss Havisham go on about her fifteen cats back at the mansion.

I am an equal-opportunist when it comes to Valentine’s Day. I don’t discriminate based on relationship status. Regardless of my coupling situation, I have always found the holiday to be an anxiety-and-guilt-ridden stress fest. If you are single, for example, the day represents everything that is wrong and unlikeable about you—no one loves you, or will ever love you. And on top of that, you feel the need to make plans with your girlfriends at the very least, because if you find yourself alone that evening, you may start reading The Bell Jar or worse, submitting an audition tape for Girls with Low Self-Esteem.

It’s not much better when you’re in a committed relationship, either. Your expectations, all of them, are thrust rather unfairly on the man of your current dreams. He may be taking you out for a romantic dinner, but is it enough? Is it what you hoped for? Did he have 3,000 red roses, a poem, a song written for you using the three guitar chords he learned in college? What happened to the vanilla-scented candles? There were candles in your vision, remember? Did he propose? Oh he’d better…not. That’s so tacky and predictable, proposing on Valentine’s Day. But he’d better have a ring. A princess cut, and not from the mall, either…

…but I digress.

Everyone directs the blame on the greeting card companies (this means you, Hallmark of Terror), but I really believe it’s the pharmaceutical industry that profits from the holiday…all holidays, actually. Perhaps buying stock in Xanax is a savvy financial move right before Valentine’s Day.

It starts when you’re young. Remember the Valentine’s Day parties at school? I would hold my breath and pray when my classmates started passing out their cards. I still recall the relief I felt when I’d walk back to my seat and find red, white and pink cards scattered on my desk. For god’s sake, even Ralph Wiggum got a Valentine.

It doesn’t end there. When you get older you’re not just worried about getting any Valentines, you‘re now concerned with how much and from whom you receive this colorful booty. The number of Valentines on your desk is in direct correlation with your level of popularity at school. And beyond that, it’s also who sent you the cards (which, at the high school level transition to the “candy grams”). You value the Valentine from the coolest girl in school over the one your parents snuck in your lunch box. And of course, there is The Crush.

First and foremost, you hope The Crush sends you—and only you!—a Valentine. I recall one particular Valentine’s Day where my crush gave me a card. It was a postcard, actually. The front of it inexplicably had a Revolutionary War image, with what looked like George Washington and Co. standing around some sort of grassy knoll. The back of the card was blank, except for my crush’s name scrawled in tiny letters.

I swooned. That night the card went to bed with me. I studied the image with Boyz II Men playing in the background, wondering what romantic message my crush was conveying to me.

I never figured it out. If only I’d paid better attention in history class.

This was the start of a line of disappointing expectations I had of boys and Valentine’s Day. One year my boyfriend presented me with a gorgeous pair of amethyst earrings. In a velvet box and everything! I was beyond excited—until I learned he’d stolen them from his stepmother.

Another year I had a dozen beautiful red roses delivered to me. My new, infinitely more mature boyfriend had written on the card, “I love you,” but redacted “love” with a black marker to the point of near illegibility (I studied hard enough to make out the faint lines of the word though. That alone made me swoon) and with the flourish of an arrow pointing to the blackened word, he wrote “figure it out yourself.”

My enthusiasm for the holiday was undeterred, however. I knew once I was in a serious, adult relationship things would change for the better. I would look forward to years of romantic Valentines from the love of my life.

Instead, for seven years the holiday came and went unobserved. The one and only time my husband acknowledged the holiday was our last year together, just three months before we broke up. He came home from work, about eight hours after his shift ended, and gave me a teddy bear. I was touched at the gesture, until I found out later he bought it at a gas station after spending the night naked in bed with another girl. (“We didn’t do anything,” he insisted to me, exasperated. “You act like I cheated on you or something.”)

The truth is, as much as I tell myself and anyone who will listen that Valentine’s Day is a silly holiday that means nothing to me, I am always, always, always hoping that this year will be the one, finally, the one, that lives up to all of my romantic expectations.

And somehow I don’t think I’m alone with my wishful thinking. I don’t think I’m the only girl still chasing that silly, elusive hope—that one that makes you stop flipping channels when you come across Sleepless in Seattle on TV or makes you turn up the radio when a disgustingly cheesy Bryan Adams song plays.

I hope all of you have someone to cuddle up with on Valentine’s Day this year. Or, barring that, I wish you a good movie, a great friend and some Dove chocolates to get you through until next year.

The Sins of Kalamazoo

2009-02-09T14:38:00.000-05:00

The Sins of Kalamazoo
by Carl Sandburg

The sins of Kalamazoo are neither scarlet nor crimson.

The sins of Kalamazoo are a convict gray, a dishwater drab.

And the people who sin the sins of Kalamazoo are neither scarlet nor crimson.

They run to drabs and grays--
and some of them sing they shall be washed whiter than snow--
and some: We should worry.

Yes, Kalamazoo is a spot on the map
And the passenger trains stop there
And the factory smokestacks smoke
And the grocery stores are open Saturday nights
And the streets are free for citizens who vote
And inhabitants counted in the census.
Saturday night is the big night.
Listen with your ears on a Saturday night in Kalamazoo
And say to yourself: I hear America, I hear, what do I hear?

Main street there runs through the middle of the town
And there is a dirty postoffice
And a dirty city hall
And a dirty railroad station
And the United States flag cries, cries the Stars and Stripes to the four winds on Lincoln’s birthday and the Fourth of July.

Kalamazoo kisses a hand to something far off.

Kalamazoo calls to a long horizon, to a shivering silver angel, to a creeping mystic what-is-it.

"We’re here because we’re here," is the song of Kalamazoo.

"We don’t know where we’re going but we’re on our way," are the words.

There are hound dogs of bronze on the public square, hound dogs looking far beyond the public square.

Sweethearts there in Kalamazoo
Go to the general delivery window of the postoffice
And speak their names and ask for letters
And ask again, "Are you sure there is nothing for me?
I wish you’d look again--there must be a letter for me.

And sweethearts go to the city hall
And tell their names and say,"We want a license.
And they go to an installment house and buy a bed on time and a clock
And the children grow up asking each other, "What can we do to kill time?"
They grow up and go to the railroad station and buy tickets for Texas, Pennsylvania, Alaska.
"Kalamazoo is all right," they say. "But I want to see the world."
And when they have looked the world over they come back saying it is all like Kalamazoo.

The trains come in from the east and hoot for the crossings,
And buzz away to the peach country and Chicago to the west
Or they come from the west and shoot on to the Battle Creek breakfast bazaars
And the speedbug heavens of Detroit.

"I hear America, I hear, what do I hear?"
Said a loafer lagging along on the sidewalks of Kalamazoo,
Lagging along and asking questions, reading signs.

Oh yes, there is a town named Kalamazoo,
A spot on the map where the trains hesitate.
I saw the sign of a five and ten cent store there
And the Standard Oil Company and the International Harvester
And a graveyard and a ball grounds
And a short order counter where a man can get a stack of wheats
And a pool hall where a rounder leered confidential like and said:
"Lookin’ for a quiet game?"

The loafer lagged along and asked,
"Do you make guitars here?
Do you make boxes the singing wood winds ask to sleep in?
Do you rig up strings the singing wood winds sift over and sing low?"
The answer: "We manufacture musical instruments here."

Here I saw churches with steeples like hatpins,
Undertaking rooms with sample coffins in the show window
And signs everywhere satisfaction is guaranteed,
Shooting galleries where men kill imitation pigeons,
And there were doctors for the sick,
And lawyers for people waiting in jail,
And a dog catcher and a superintendent of streets,
And telephones, water-works, trolley cars,
And newspapers with a splatter of telegrams from sister cities of Kalamazoo the round world over.

And the loafer lagging along said:
Kalamazoo, you ain’t in a class by yourself;
I seen you before in a lot of places.
If you are nuts America is nuts.
And lagging along he said bitterly:
Before I came to Kalamazoo I was silent.
Now I am gabby, God help me, I am gabby.

Kalamazoo, both of us will do a fadeaway.
I will be carried out feet first
And time and the rain will chew you to dust
And the winds blow you away.
And an old, old mother will lay a green moss cover on my bones
And a green moss cover on the stones of your postoffice and city hall.

Best of all
I have loved your kiddies playing run-sheep-run
And cutting their initials on the ball ground fence.
They knew every time I fooled them who was fooled and how.

Best of all
I have loved the red gold smoke of your sunsets;
I have loved a moon with a ring around it
Floating over your public square;
I have loved the white dawn frost of early winter silver
And purple over your railroad tracks and lumber yards.

The wishing heart of you I loved, Kalamazoo.
I sang bye-lo, bye-lo to your dreams.
I sang bye-lo to your hopes and songs.
I wished to God there were hound dogs of bronze on your public square,
Hound dogs with bronze paws looking to a long horizon with a shivering silver angel, a creeping mystic what-is-it.

Spring Cleaning in the Dead of Winter

2009-02-07T21:44:00.000-05:00

The sun was out today and the temps hit an unseasonably warm high of 58 degrees F. I took advantage of the gorgeous weather by opening every window in my apartment, letting the place exhale all the stale winter air held hostage since November.

I took my dog for a much-needed long walk, letting him happily jump in all the piles of melting snow until every inch of him was sopping wet and covered in mud. He was so frickin' excited.

I went out to lunch with my parents and chatted with my cousin who happened to be at the same pub with friends.

When I got home, I was inspired to do some early spring cleaning. The weather certainly motivated me but beyond that, I tend to turn to excessive, obsessive cleaning when I feel I have no control over other aspects of my life.

I'm not very organized at it, however. I don't start a project, finish it and move on to the next. Instead, I start several projects and leave them undone, moving on to another until there is no room left for me to start anything else, and then I go about finishing everything up.

Example: I pushed all of my bedroom furniture to one side of my room. I then cleaned the carpet on the empty side. Instead of putting the furniture back and cleaning the carpet on the other side of the room, I simply left everything as is and moved on to the hallway closet. I took everything out of the closet, pushed it into my office, and left it there. Eventually I'll get around to putting everything back in an organized fashion in the closet.

But onto the living room! I moved all the furniture around, emptied bookshelves and the DVD shelves. I can hardly walk in my dining room right now, because it is completely cluttered with all the junk emptied out from the living room and part of the hallway closet.

Right now my apartment is a disaster area. I don't foresee my "spring cleaning" being completed tonight. Hopefully tomorrow, though.

I'd made tenative plans to have a friend over tonight, but that's not happening anymore. He called to see if we were still on and I explained the situation. He reminded me that we used to be roommates and it's no big deal. I informed him it's not really embarrassment over the mess as much as concern for his safety.

He'll just have to come over tomorrow. We're going to watch Pineapple Express--as I explained to him, "give me dignity or give me Seth--Rogan, that is." I am in love with Seth Rogan.

Well it's 10:30 and I think I'm done cleaning for the night. I'm going to make some popcorn (if I can make it to the kitchen in one piece) and watch Beerfest. I'm burning incense. It's suppposed to be vanilla-scented but c'mon, incense smells like incense no matter what you call it. Either way my apartment smells like a Catholic church right now.

I may have to sleep on the couch since there is a TV on my bed at the moment. I knew it was a matter of time before I tried to sleep with a TV.

Because I'm a giant nerd I took photos of my cleaning-in-progress.

My dining room: Ground Zero. And yes, that is a Christmas tree in the box. So I haven't put it away yet but at least it's been taken down. That's something, isn't it?

The TV area (that's David Cross's HBO Special on the Teev)

I have an addiction to "Hollywood" themed prints...I think I was meant to be a gay man.

Contrary to the image, I do not love empty shelves (or recumbent bikes).

I do love my pink laptop and Mountain Dew.

Carlos Mencia is Not Funny

2009-02-06T00:10:00.000-05:00

You'd think the whole lack-of-a-job thing would allow me plenty of time to catch up on ZZZ's but you're wrong. I'm a worrier and this somehow puts up a block when my sleep mode snaps on.

So I find myself filling my nights with books (I accidentally wrote "boobs' there for a second, which amuses me more than it should), movies, music.

I tend to read several books at once. Each night I switch it up: Certain Girls by Jennifer Weiner, The Biography of Hugh Hefner, New Moon by Stephenie Meyer, The Complete Works of Eudora Welty, and just to add some class to the mix, sTORItelling by Tori Spelling.

Last night I was up until 2:30 AM scouring the want ads online. When I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore I went to bed, where every worry that had long settled in my stomach unknotted itself and strangled the sleep right out of me.

I decided to pick up the Jennifer Weiner read, since it was light and fun. I read almost all 400 pages, thoroughly entertained and cheered until the very end, where instead of tying up loose ends with a happy ending, the protagonist's husband drops dead of a heart attack.

I bawled my eyes out and cursed myself for not choosing to read about Playboy Bunnies instead.

I finally drifted off into a restless sleep, until I awoke at 7:25 AM from a super-annoying ringing. I kept slamming my hand on my alarm clock until I finally realized it was my phone, and I answered.

It was my dentist's office. "Hello," a woman said briskly, "this is Dr. Smith's office. You were supposed to be here at 7 AM."

"Crap!" I croaked, my voice still thick with sleep. "I...there was a bear and...and...wait, what?" I could not find the words I needed to talk with her.

"Will you be able to come in?" the woman asked impatiently.

"I'm sorry," I explained, rubbing my eyes. "I lost my job...I don't have insurance." Actually I do have insurance, at least until next week, but I wasn't thinking that clearly.

"Alright," said the woman, "Well I see your appointment is to get a crown. So if you want to reschedule for later today that's fine but you'll have to pay $884 in full today."

Crown? I don't remember needing a crown. Yuck. "Well I can't pay that. It's just gonna have to wait. I'm really sorry for missing the appointment." I cursed myself. I never miss appointments.

"OK," the woman sighed and hung up.

I rolled over, buried my head in my pillow and groaned. I fell back asleep when my phone rang again at 8:30 AM.

It was my dad. He is an annoyingly chipper "morning person." "Hey Sissy! Guess what--I found a career fair you can go to this morning, at the university!"

I groaned. "Dad," I whined, "I'm so tired. I've slept for like an hour and I feel like crap. I look like crap. Also, those career fairs are all full of blonde sorority sisters carrying purses worth more than my car. I can't compete with them." And I'm really grumpy, I wanted to add.

"Well you should take every opportunity you get," my dad said. His voice was tinny against the static. My phone reception sucks. I sighed. I looked at my one and only interview outfit, which was on top of the pile in my laundry hamper. "I'm gonna have to iron the shit out of my pants," I moaned.

I hate ironing. Almost as much as I hate washing dishes or listening to Carlos Mencia.

After the horrible deed was done, I ran some errands and came home to take a quick nap. I turned on the TV for background noise and laid on the couch. Every time I started to drift off, my phone rang.

I finally abandoned any hope of sleeping, and went to a movie with a (former) co-worker. I've looked forward to seeing Revolutionary Road, and as expected Kate Winslet and Leo DiCaprio gave excellent performances. The movie was great but terrifically depressing. It follows you home and permeates your thoughts.

So, tonight while I wait for sleep to come I'll count Playboy Bunnies.

Sufficiently Shocked. And Awed.

2009-02-05T00:38:00.000-05:00

Does this look like a man who would smoke pot?

Obviously, we the world are stunned. Collectively. This explains his 12,000 calories-a-day diet. The man's got munchies.

The Super Bowl: A Pornucopia of Bad Taste

2009-02-03T21:46:00.000-05:00

I seem to have a lot of time of my hands these days and since, sadly, American Idol doesn't yet run 24 hour segments, I found myself perusing the news online late last night.

It seems that while veggie lovin' is banned (or rejected, according to the article) as Too Sexy for Super Bowl, hard core porn is more than welcome...accidentally.

I find this hilarious. My favorite part is when the audience gets full exposure of a man's, um, "long-snapper" and then it cuts back to the joyful expression on a player's face after he's scored.

Ahem.

Men with Big Sticks

2009-01-28T23:01:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I read that Hilary Duff plans to play Bonnie Parker in the upcoming remake of Bonnie and Clyde.

Since this news already had me feeling disturbed, and I was in bed and bored (not a good place to be, I assure you. I need a boyfriend, pronto. Or one with batteries, at the very least), propped up by pillows and loads of caffeine, I decided to visit my old friend Wikipedia and get schooled on Bonnie and Clyde.

For those of you who don’t know the story of Bonnie and Clyde—look it up, you lazy bastards. Google ‘em. Go ahead—and yes, it will tickle a bit. I promise.

I know you’re not actually going to look them up, so I’ll brief you on the details, with all credit due to the diligent and attentive fact-checkers at Wikipedia, who make the site a pinnacle for reliable and consistent information.

Bonnie Parker was a pretty girl who excelled in school and was known for her writing talents, namely poetry. Like most girls it all went downhill when she fell for the bad boy, in this case a very naughty man by the name of Clyde Barrow.

Clyde served a prison term for renting a car and never returning it. Since the prisoner rehabilitation resources were lacking or non-existent at the time, Clyde left his cell a free but pretty pissed off man. He decided to make it his life’s mission to stick it to the man, the “man” being cops or anyone in their proximity while the bullets were flying.

Anyway, Bonnie joined Clyde’s gang and together they embarked on a crime spree spanning the lower Midwest. The nation was gripped in the cold, bony fingers of the Depression, and through the news media the world was entertained and disgusted by the thieving, kidnapping and murders committed by the couple. This may seem a bit lame to you but please be sensitive toward the era: Prohibition was in effect, and Britney Spears was not yet around to amuse us with side show acts including, but not limited to, head shaving and beating automobiles with umbrellas.

Bonnie, Clyde and Co. were heralded in the headlines as the newest incarnation of Robin Hood. It should be noted, however, that while the Robin Hood archetype was known for stealing from the rich to give to the poor, Bonnie and Clyde gravitated toward robbing small businesses and keeping the booty for themselves (and I’m sure booty contributed to the appeal of the crime spree, given the perceived wild attraction between the couple).

The lusty, bloody joyride ended on May 23, 1934, when four allegedly crooked cops put over one hundred bullets through an automobile, killing Bonnie and Clyde.

And this my friends, is where my post actually begins.

You see, last night as I was reading about Bonnie and Clyde, I scrolled down the page and discovered an actual video clip taken just after the couple was killed. I assumed, since the year of their deaths was 1934, that I would be watching a re-enaction of the killings.

But it seems I was wrong. The video clip appears to be actual footage! In it you find the bullet-ridden vehicle, with the body of a woman that the narrator claims to be Bonnie Parker slumped over in the front seat.

I was horrified for two reasons. First of all, I was ashamed that I was so curious about it. I kept peering at Bonnie’s lifeless body, wondering as the clip went on if they were going to do a close-up.

I wondered if it’s my culture. The U.S. is known for its fascination with violence and death. We glorify these themes in movies, books, music. One could too easily describe the capitalist market in terms of violence—“we killed that sale;” “we buried that business;” “He kicked ass in the merger.” Even Roosevelt’s “speak softly and carry a big stick” quotation that somewhat defines our country has an ominous, threatening tone to it.

The media thrives on grisly murders and salacious stories of suicide, rape, abuse. Some tabloids are even built on them.

Which brings me to my second reason.

I am positively stunned that in 1934, there was an amateur videographer on the scene of the crime, zooming in on the result of the chaos of the moment—the car with the bullet holes, the body of a woman bent over in death. Was this the very first paparazzo?

I’d assumed the culture we lived in now was to blame for the glorification of violence. Certainly it has not helped any, but now I’m not so sure that the onslaught of technology and instant availability of media is fully to blame. Obviously, even 75 years ago, this fascination with the darker side of life existed. People wanted to see with their very eyes—violence. Death. Destruction.

So this curiosity—is it cultural? Or simply human nature?

Sundays

2009-01-25T23:32:00.000-05:00

I dislike Sundays. They're just the waiting room for your appointment with Monday.

Most days I kind of enjoy having my freedom.

But some days I find myself wishing I had a boyfriend.

Fretting that I'll be alone the rest of my life, broke the rest of my life, childless, friendless, sad.

That's what Sundays can do to you. They are the melanchol-iest of the melancholy.

I am dreading work tomorrow.

I am very, very tired of the cold and snow.

I don't think I remember what the sun looks like or feels like anymore. I don't remember what it's like to live in light anymore. Everything just fades from grey to black, black to grey.

I tried to take tomorrow off from work. I sensed I would need it.

But my boss said no.

The projects I'm on at work have been awful this past week. I wake up wishing the day was over already.

It's awful to live your life in cold and grey, waking with dread, sleeping without dreams, living without hope.

This is what winter does to you. It slowly sucks the life out of you.

I dislike Sundays. They're just the waiting room for your appointment with Monday.

Movie Night

2009-01-25T00:47:00.000-05:00

My brother and I never really got along when we were younger. We fought over the usual things--toys, who called shotgun in the car, dollhouses. We were competitive over grades, games and entertaining family members--I would write and tell stories, while Scott did impersonations and told jokes.

Oddly enough, it was my ex-husband who brought us together. I moved out of my parent' home and in with my then-boyfriend (who would later earn the distinction "ex-husband"), Douche.

Douche and Scott hit it off quickly, bonding over movies and Notre Dame football. Douche invited my brother and his friend Phil over to our apartment one night. Our mother was elated. "Finally," she said, "you and your brother are learning to get along with each other. Your dad and I are so happy."

And she opened her purse and handed Scott a crisp twenty-dollar bill. "Here you go," she told him, "Order some pizza. Have a good time with your sister and Douche."

We never ordered pizza. Unknowingly my mother funded my brother's underage, girly drinking habit. Scott would hand over the money to Douche, who would run to the liquor store and pick up tequila for himself and Pucker for Scott and Phil.

For years, Scott, Douche and I would have a movie night nearly every weekend, staying up all hours drinking and laughing and playing cards.

When it was revealed that Douche lived up fully to his name, it seemed our movie nights had come to an end.

But they didn't, really. Even when Scott lived out of town while going to law school, he always drove back home on the weekend and we continued our tradition of movie night without Douche.

So tonight, I stopped over to my parents' house for movie night with Scott. I brought over the DVD Hot Rod (which is actually funnier than you'd think it would be).

Scott knew I was on my way over. When I got to the house, I parked on the side of the road and grabbed my bag of laundry (hey, two birds, one stone) and hauled it up the driveway. I knocked but there was no answer. I sighed, dropped the laundry bag in the snow, and fumbled through my jacket pockets until I found the house key.

I stepped inside the house. The dogs--Jack and Buttercup--ran over to me, barking until I reached down and petted them sufficiently. I looked around the place, "Helloooo?" I said, kicking off my boots and taking off my coat. "Scooter?"

No one answered. I walked into the kitchen and started rummaging through the coupon drawer. "What do you want on the pizza? I'm going to order some in a minute."

The house was silent. I found a pizza coupon and wandered into Scott's bedroom. "Hey, what do you want on the pizza--" I looked around the room. Empty. I walked out into the hallway and peered into the computer room. "Scott? Where are you?"

I walked back out into the living room. "Scoooooter?" I sang, "Where arrre you?"

Silence.

I glanced into my parents' bedroom. I peeked onto the back porch. I flicked on the basement light and walked downstairs. "Scott? Are you on the phone? Seriously dude, where are you?"

I walked into my old bedroom. No one there. I went out into the empty family room and looked around. "Hello?"

I opened the door to the storage room. It was dark, and I flipped the light switch. "Scott?"

Huh. I stormed back up the stairs, two steps at a time. I checked his bedroom again. Maybe he left, I thought. I peeked through the front window. His car was sitting in the driveway, coated with snow and ice.

Hmmm.

I was worried now. Maybe he was on the phone and had a bad signal so he stepped outside. I'll give him a call, I thought, picking up the phone and dialing his number. What if he went in the garage to grab a pop and he slipped and fell and cracked his head open?

Anxiously, I started toward the garage door while calling his cell phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move and I turned and saw a man jump up from the staircase, yelling "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I screamed, dropping the phone and inexplicably jerking back so hard I thought I pulled my own arm out of its socket.

Scott fell to the floor laughing. The dogs barked and ran away from me, terrified. Mighty protectors, indeed.

"I scared you," Scott said, stating the obvious. "Scott, where arrrrre yoooou?" he imitated me, his voice high-pitched and comfortably feminine.

I clutched my chest, coughing. My heart was beating so fast, I thought it was going to explode. I'd screamed so hard my throat was sore and scratchy.

"You fucking asshole," I gasped. "I looked everywhere for you! I was worried about you!"

Scott wiped tears from his eyes. "I was on the phone downstairs. I heard you walking around so I hid in the storage room, in the dark."

So, thanks to my brother, I think I had about five years taken off of my life.

Note to Scott: You'd better watch it. You'll never know it's coming. I will punk your ass so hard Ashton Kutcher will feel it.

And like it.