jennsylvania

What Kind of Fuckery Is This?

If you're one of the people who CAMPED OUT in front of the AT&T store yesterday to buy an iPhone, I reserve the right to point and laugh and post your photo here.

   

For fuck's sake, it's a phone. 

It's not a cure for cancer. 

It's not a ticket to see the Beatles reunion tour with newly-risen-from-the-grave original members.

It's not an opportunity to have a bucket of drinks with Vince Vaughn.

It's not even free candy.

Will someone please explain to me why people would take time off from work (because this shot was captured mid-afternoon and these people obviously have jobs) and wait in line for a stupid phone?  Does it connect you directly to Jesus?  Does it make you invisible or give you other assorted super powers?  Does it come with an automatic promotion, pay raise, or barring that, unlimited lap-dances?

Seriously, I would like to know.

P.S.  I would be even more smug right now had I not squealed yesterday when I learned I could email myself a photo with my phone...

This Is What Procrastination Looks Like

Because I have a manuscript due in six weeks, today seemed like the perfect day to organize all my digital photos.  I'm posting not only my favorites here but also stuff you'll recognize from stories in Bright Lights, Big Ass.  (I promise this photo obsession will pass soon.  Or, soon-ish.) 

Enjoy... and thank you for not calling attention to the fact that in so posting, I'm delaying airing the stink out of my house, returning hundreds of overdue emails, paying bills, bathing myself, oh, and writing another ten chapters.

First up, Maisy at eight weeks old on the day we brought her home, looking EXACTLY like she does now, only with straighter ears.

"I will own you, bitch."

Heartfelt emotion in Nowhereville, PA.  Because, really?  Hallmark is for suckers and true love comes in a spray can.

Wait, no.  True love is when you email your wife a photo of the sandwich you made while she's at her temp job because she believes you're incapable of feeding yourself.  (Note:  This is one of SEVENTEEN shots.)  (Bonus points awarded for pickle placement.)

The koi pond/Japanese garden in the enclosed courtyard at a magnificent rental home we considered a few years ago before settling on Loser House.  Had I not Googled the neighborhood sex crime database (30 repeat offenders in a two block radius, WTF?), we'd have taken it.  Judging from some of the stuff on display, we think R. Kelly owned the house.  Oh, the irony.

Tangible proof of the The Holiday Drinking Season, or Why Big Daddy Should Not Hit the Eggnog 'Til After Wrapping Presents.

Check it out - pearls, pajamas, pedicures, pasta, and pets. I'm a cliche of myself in this photo!

Remember when I wrote Rachael Ray was the devil and I described the Frankenmeatloaf Fletch cooked?  Yes.  It was real.  Be afraid because evil never dies and this meatloaf is probably still wandering up and down Racine Ave.

Not Winky.  But likely a close relation.  Not pictured?  Dogs trying to break down the door, SWAT-style.

The view of the city from Fletch's boss's boat.  (Not the night of the two-dollar incident, though.)

The shot Fletch and I staged because I thought sending "Come to My Book Signing or the Dog Gets It" invitations would be funny and not, you know, UTTERLY TERRIFYING.  (BTW, Lindsay Lohan is a big, fat copycat.)

But don't worry - Fletch is also in touch with his feminine side.  Anyone need a button sewn back on?

A party shot from back when we were DotCom Thousandaires.  (Seriously, is that not the best jacket ever?)

Finally, the cover Bitter would have had if I hadn't argued successfully that putting a six-foot tall, 110 lb. model up there didn't quite convey the idea of being laid off and getting fat.  (But if you'd like to think my legs are this thin and that my ass wouldn't expand across the entire suitcase, please feel free.)

Alright, I've got to try and accomplish something today. 

And if it's not a whole chapter, at least I hope it's a shower.

A Thousand Words

Ever been in a seminar where the speaker gives a PowerPoint presentation and he or she uses 10,000 star-wipes, fade-ins, and shotgun sound effects on the slides and you sit there and think, "I guess someone just figured how to add text effects, and, hey, welcome to 1998!" and then you snicker?

Well, someone here at the new Jennsylvania.com figured out how to incorporate photos (a HUGE pain in the ass on the old site) so the next few entries are going to be graphic heavy and that person apologizes in advance.  (And welcomes herself to 1998.)

Anyway, I assume you all know these idiots?

I took them for their annual check-up yesterday to the tune of $650. 

Let's milk it, shall we? 

SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS.

For dogs who five years after being housebroken still opt to sneak into the basement and poop rather than venture outdoors when it's too hot, cold, or damp.

For dogs who will climb over a mountain of other shoes to get to the delicious Chanel sling-backs.

For dogs who believe new rugs = toilet paper and bathroom garbage cans = buffet tables.

For dogs who attempt to tear down the fence in a frothy-mouthed frenzy when the neighbor's dogs are out, yet cry to be guided down the stairs if there's a cat on them.

To be fair, not all the $650 spent was divided equally.  $150 went for bloodwork to determine if Maisy's got a thyroid problem because she's been gaining an average of four pounds a year and is beginning to look like a tick. 

She's fine, by the way.  It turns out she's lazy.  The vet says if we can't get her to step up her activity level, she'll have to go on prescription food.

Great. 

Maybe Maisy and I can get a family membership at Jenny Craig.

   

"Pfft.  The difference between you and me is I make this look goooood."

And I'm Not Putting My Cart Back, Either

Dear Whole Foods,   

Let's make a deal - when you stop charging $7.99/pound for Rainer cherries, I'll start bagging my own stuff when you're short-staffed.   

Until then, please expect more arm-crossed, key-jangling, toe-tapping while I wait for your better-educated-than-me cashier to first ring up and then package my overpriced fruit in plastic bags (now with 25% more earth-raping!) 

Many thanks,   

Jen

Not Dead! Only in Deep Pain!

I’m not going to apologize for not blogging recently because… dude.  The new book is due in less than two months.  Busy.  So very, very busy. 

 

Technically, I don’t actually HAVE to lose the whole 50 pounds, I’m just contractually obligated to provide 80,000-90,000 words about the process.  However, I don’t miss deadlines OR goals so I’m killing myself right now to make it happen.  I mean, damn, on top of the restrictive diet I’m working with my trainer three times a week and also doing cardio on my own.  Plus, I went to a “freemotion fitness” group class on Wednesday taught by my trainer, which A) was really fucking hard and B) was probably a mistake on my part as my trainer complimented me on keeping up and determined I’d been holding out on her in our private sessions. 

 

Shit.      

 

My trainer then laughed and said she couldn’t hear me complaining over the music, which I imagine was a pleasant change.  Frankly, I was too busy trying not to attract attention from the fit participants during the class, so I kept my mouth shut.  However, our dollar-per-minute training sessions are an entirely different story.  It’s impossible for me to not provide surly running commentary over each exercise.  (I am made for sitting and reclining, not for squatting and sprinting!)      

   

Also, there’s such pain and exertion involved, my body hijacks my brain and invents problems so she’ll take it easy on me, e.g. “These lunges just sprained my prostate, so let’s not complete the set, OK?”   

 

Sadly, I’ve cried wolf one too many times, and now unless we can see bone sticking out, she doesn’t believe me when I beg for a moment to tend to all my “injuries.” 

   

I am so going to buy her a pony when we reach my goal.   

 

That is, if she doesn’t kill me first. 

 

Anyway, until I get back to my regular posting duties, check out any of the following: 

 

My interview with Cindy at Conversations with Famous Writers 

 

Tons of great summer reading recommendations from Trashionista 

 

MamaPop’s new bookclub 

 

Finally, for the Jens and Wendy and Roberta and all the other cool ladies sitting on the east end of the table at the telephone bar after the New York signing, I FINALLY remembered the story I was going to tell you about my friend wearing her neighbors sheets!  Granted, I totally forget how it was a propos to the conversation, but here it is. 

 

Now there’s an elliptical machine with my name on it.  And if I don’t go, I fear my trainer will make my broken ankles go from fantasy to reality... 

 

(P.S.  Just found out the new book will be released in May, 2008!)

No Forget-y

A quick reminder of where I'll be while I'm offline for the next few days: 

June 6th – Reading and signing at the Rittenhouse Barnes & Noble, 1805 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, PA at 7:30 PM.   

June 7th – Reading and signing again at the Astor Place Barnes & Noble, 4 Astor Place, New York, NY at 7:00 PM. 

June 10th – Reading, signing, and “in conversation” with Stacey Ballis on the B&N Heartland Stage at Printer's Row in Chicago, IL at 11:00 AM.    

 

Also, if you live here in Chicago and want me at your bookclub, let me know.  If I'm free, I will come. 

            

Perhaps at my next club outing I won't cover self/others with the entire contents of my wine glass.   

      

(But then again, maybe I will.) 

Excess Baggage

Setting:  O’Hare airport.  I have just arrived in from New York where it was nothing but skycaps and bellmen and taxis and car services.  I haven’t laid a paw on my own suitcases in days, instead choosing to pass out five-dollar bills like Halloween candy.  Fletch pulls up to where I’m waiting and pops the trunk.   

 

Me: (waving at the car from the curb) Hello!   

 

(standing and waiting with my bags)

(waiting)

(waiting)

(waiting)

(wondering how these suitcases are going to get themselves into the trunk)

(waiting)

(examine the damage the week’s done to my manicure – coral colored polish has held up nicely) 

 

(waiting)

(waiting)

(seriously, they are HEAVY because I brought home stacks of free books – the airlines even slapped a HEAVY sticker on the bigger suitcase with a note saying whomever lifted it should bend with his knees)

(waiting)

(which is a nice thing to note because I don’t want Fletch to throw out his back hauling them into the trunk)

(waiting)

(glance at traveling outfit – black polo shirt and wheat-colored linen pants have survived well, thanks)

(waiting)

(waiting) 

 

(horns begin to honk behind us)

(waiting)

(admire shiny silver thong sandals with low stacked heel and attached pearls and baubles – so very cute!)

(waiting)

(shiny!)

(waiting)

(sparkly!)

(waiting) 

 

(more honking)

(waiting)

(honking with a side of mild profanity)

(waiting)

(airline security approaches with the directive to stop “just fucking standing there looking at your feet, lady”)

(shit!)

(grabbing heavy, heavy suitcases filled with all the books I greedily accepted and attempt to jam them in the small trunk)

(sweating, swearing, shoving)

(nail breaking, shoe scuffing, pants-smearing) 

 

Me: (finally entering the car, far worse for wear) Hey, asshole!  You made me load my bags myself!   

 

(pulling away from curb and angry security guard)   

 

Me: And they were heavy! 

 

Fletch:  Uh huh. 

 

Me: And I scuffed my shoes!

   

Fletch: (nodding and merging) Uh huh. 

 

Me: I am so not giving you five dollars. 

 

Fletch:  I’ll get over it.  Oh, and by the way?  There’s a mountain of dog shit on the back lawn with your name on it.   

   

Me: (stammering)  But… but… I'm... I'm... 

 

Fletch:  (patting my now-dirty knee and laughing)  Welcome back to reality, princess. 

 

* * * 

 

As fantastic as last week was with readings and awesome fans and TV appearances and Key Lime martinis and professional luggage management, it’s still damn good to be home.

Bright Sabbath

Setting:  Our kitchen, both of us shivering in soaking wet shirts while we organize groceries. 

 

Me:  Hey!  It's totally sunny again. 

 

Fletch:  Are you kidding me? 

 

Me:  No, take a look for yourself. 

 

Fletch: (peering out the back window at the bright blue sky) Son of a bitch!  So it only poured the exact ten minutes we were unloading the car? 

 

Me:  Apparently. 

 

Fletch: (wringing his t-shirt out over the sink)  All the rain for the entire summer just came down on us.  Even my underpants are wet.  I swear God hates me. 

 

Me:  Oh, honey.  God doesn't hate you. 

 

(a beat) 

 

Me: But he probably does think you're a pompous ass.   

Your Two Cents

Next Sunday at 11:00 AM, Stacey Ballis and I are appearing together at Printer’s Row on the main stage. We don’t have a set agenda of what we’re supposed to discuss; rather, we’re simply listed on the program as being “in conversation.”

As Stacey is one of my favorite people in the world, having a chat with her is not exactly a chore. And because of all the traveling she’s done lately to promote her trio of new books, I won’t see her again until that day. So, it’s not like she and I won’t have a zillion things to discuss. The problem I’ve had limited human interaction lately. (Fletch was in Denver for most of May.) Because of this, I’m afraid I will monopolize the conversation with any of the following topics:

• A Shear Genius post-mortem. (Note: I have not yet seen all the episodes; DO NOT tell me who won.)      
• My new trainer and how she’s EVIL because she doesn’t actually end our session right at sixty minutes like any mental health professional would and how last time I was there SIXTY-TWO minutes into our session, she pulled out a giant step and made me climb it, like, a thousand times and the only thing I could think to shout while waiting for my heart to seize up was, “You are a very bad girl!”   
• Fletch and his inability to reuse a bath towel. (That’s why towel racks exist! To dry the terrycloth between uses!)   
• Why every maid-for-hire ad I’ve looked at on Craig’s List only offers “erotic” cleaning services and how if I don’t get help mopping and taking out garbage soon, Adult Protective Service is going to become involved.   
• Homeless people who freaking stand in line to beg at the intersection of Fullerton and the Kennedy expressway. (Perhaps having a number-taking machine like in the deli section of the supermarket would cut down their wait time?)   

Yeah, no one’s coming all the way to the South Loop and paying $20 for parking for this, and that’s why I seek your help. Given the opportunity, what kind of stuff would you want to hear us discuss? The writing process? How we found agents? Fiction vs. non-fiction? What inspires us? Who we read?

Anyway, please let one of us know via email or MySpace what you want to hear. Otherwise, a whole new season of So You Think You Can Dance has begun and I have far too many unexpressed thoughts...