jennsylvania

Grab a Pen, I'm Giving Advice

First - since the bulk of the emails I've received from my last post are of the "No, seriously, this time it's not you who is the asshole," variety, I'm opening up comments.  Do not make me regret it. 

Speaking of mail, I've gotten a ton of notes lately from people in their early 20's seeking advice on how to get away from their oppressive corporate jobs and do something fun, meaningful, creative, and, of course, lucrative. 

Kids?  Here's my advice for you. 

PAY YOUR FUCKING DUES. 

Don't get me wrong, I understand how awful it feels being at the bottom of the corporate totem pole.  Going from the college world of sleeping 'til 2:00 PM and wearing pajamas to class to waking your ass up at 5:30 AM to get on the train to catch the bus to then catch the second bus (because you're too broke to cab it) to then walk six blocks in uncomfortable shoes in order to get to a soul-sucking job where they talk to you like you're a slowpoke is no one's idea of a good time. 

Not only does every shit alphabetizing and stapling project land in your in-box, but you're the one most likely to be volunteered to clean hairy food out of the shared refrigerator.  It's you who has to take over the reception desk for Margie, the union employee who makes twice what you do, when she has a doctor's appointment.  No one listens to your ideas and if you dare to complain, the old-timers will cock their eyebrows and tell you, "Kid, you don't know how easy you have it," before launching into an esoteric, protracted tale having something to do with Life Before the Fax Machine.  (Which is bullshit because at least they used to get to have cocktails at lunch.)  ('Cause it's barely considered work if you get to be drunk while you're doing it.)  (Plus, they could smoke at their desks without it being considered a hate crime.)

Doing an entry level job is a lot like the hazing you receive as a pledge, except your superiors don't even do beer bongs with you afterward.  But here's the thing - you HAVE to go through this in order to figure out where you want to be next.  The mere fact you're asking me how to extricate yourselves from this situation tells me you have not suffered enough. 

Trust me, when you reach your breaking point, your next move will be crystal clear.  And maybe that will be off the corporate ladder.  Maybe it will be up.  Maybe it will be around.  But no one's going to know how you should proceed but you.

(Related story?  Fletch had his existential, angst-y, I-can't-stand-corporate-America moment about eleven years ago and he quit his entry level position administering employee benefits, opting to work as a bartender/bouncer.  Sure, he got to sleep 'til 2:00 PM again but he also had to wrestle both homeless guys who were peeing on the plate glass window of the bar and his bosses who were not only coked out of their minds but also heavily armed.  Two months into his tenure, the idea of health insurance, paid vacation, and wearing a tie to work were a lot less offensive.)

* * * * *

Anyway, I'm really, really going back to my edits now.  'Til I'm done (or sufficiently angry again) please visit Jess Riley's blog.  I'm reading an advance copy of her novel Riding with Larry Resnick coming out next summer and have to say there's something terribly, magnificently wrong with this girl.  I apologize for getting you psyched for a book that won't be out for another year, but she may well be my new favorite writer.  Also, the word you WILL steal from her is "shittacular."  (Please remember to give proper credit.)

Finally, since some of your notes specifically asked for recommendations, check out the following stuff I completely dig and in no way am being compensated for:

Monogram Marketplace - They sell the cutest Preppy t-shirts to ever exist.  Skulls, crossbones, and monograms?  Oh, HELL YES.

Philip B. - Ridiculously expensive beauty products I purchased solely because they were on the super-slash-extra-biggie markdown table at Ulta 3.  Am in serious trouble when I run out of all the sale priced bottles of White Truffle Oil shampoo I grabbed.  A black tar heroin addiction would be cheaper, yet the draw of soft, shiny, non-flammable colored hair is strong.  Also, the Nordic Wood product is like washing yourself with Christmas.  I'd give it two big holiday thumbs up except I'm driving myself crazy by inadvertently singing Norwegian Wood in the shower every time I use it, so it only gets one and a half thumbs.

Shoes, Betches - Not sure if the leopard style is only available online, but that's where I ordered mine.  They are 10,000 times cuter in 3D and fairly comfortable, too.  Be sure to page through Target's selection of heeled Mary Janes.  They aren't a perfect Manolo knock-off, but they are $535 cheaper and that has to count for something.

Back to work now... for ALL of us. 

P.S.  Twenty-somethings?  Keep at it and the uncomfortable shoes you're wearing to work could be the Manolos.

P.P.S.  I just found these!  You could pay $630 more for the little bow on the Manolo version.  And if you have this kind of cash to throw around, perhaps you'd also like to help me pay off one of my lower-balance credit cards.

   

The Audacity of Audacity

I'm knee-deep in re-writes at the moment and I hadn't planned on blogging while I'm working because during the editing process, my focus is way more intense than the first draft stage.  (Which, you may recall, I cried so much about for most of the summer.) 

Writing is all about ideas and general concepts in the initial manuscript process.  In editing, I go line by line to make sure it's as on-point as I can get it, adding not only my own corrections and improvements but also those from my editor.  (This is where I take out all the egregious ums, OKs, reallys, and seriouslys, because, um, OK, really, seriously, sometimes I need to open a Thesaurus.) 

The upside is the editing process quite appeals to my inner perfectionist.  The downside is until I'm done and present a manuscript with proper organization and fully fleshed-out ideas, I don't get paid. 

And, um... OK?  Really?  Seriously? 

Getting paid is the whole damn point of why I write. 

Professionally, I've done contract negotiations and fetched coffee and juggled spreadsheets and sat in three-hour meetings discussing amorphous mission statements, and far and away writing is the most satisfying way I've found to cover my rent.

I love what I do and I don't mean to sound like a mercenary.  Were I so concerned about garnering a paycheck, this site would be covered in text links, graphics, and pop-ups.  As you can see, there are no ads on this page.  I don't collect marketing data from visitors, even though you guys are one hell of a demographic.  And I politely decline any gifts or free samples from vendors and businesses in exchange for a mention.  If I say I like something on here, it's because I like it.  Period.  (Don't misunderstand me - there's NOTHING wrong with making money off your blog, because, yay, capitalism!  Smoke 'em if you've got 'em.  This is simply not a choice I've made.) 

Because I feel extraordinarily fortunate to be doing this job, I've not pounced on every opportunity to generate revenue.  I'm so appreciative people enjoy my work and that's why I've paid a designer and a hosting company to provide this improved forum with no obligations to the readers.  My gratitude is why I do stuff like travel to book clubs and cover any incidental expenses such as parking.  Gratitude is why I don't require a speaking fee.  Because I'm thankful, as often as possible I donate whatever I can in terms of time, books, or cash when queried by charities. 

Sometimes people want me to send a note to a friend who's lost their job or to check out their daughter's website and I'm touched be be held in the kind of esteem where what I might offer or say matters.  I can't do everything I'm asked, but I try so damn hard, often to my own financial detriment.

And that's why my head exploded when I read this paragraph at the end of what had been a lovely, chatty, very personal email from a gal named Kelly:

"If you are successful at [writing books], I don't want much in return.  However, helping me pay off one of my lower balance credit cards would be really, really helpful as I had to move in with my nagging but loving mother."

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

I've been stewing over this for the past two days to the extent I had to stop the editing I was doing to properly address my roiling anger.   

Just so we're clear, Kelly, I'm happy to pay off your credit cards as soon as I finish taking care of the following items in my own life:

*  The $40,000 Fletch and I still owe the Department of Education for our student loans

*  The $20,000 outstanding on our car notes to get them paid in full

*  Finishing cleaning up the remaining $3000 dollars on our credit report we still owe from old collections back when we were unemployed and NOT living for free with my mother so we can can get a fucking mortgage and start building some equity instead of flushing $24,000/year down the toilet on rent

*  Oh, and maybe $50,000 for a down-payment on the as-yet mythical starter house which will probably be so far out in the western burbs it will be in Iowa and may or may not contain indoor plumbing (again, if we can even GET a mortgage, let alone one with an interest rate that isn't considered usury)

*  The $1000 on my own credit cards

*  The $2500 it will take to get my cat the oral surgery he requires so his breath stops smelling like hot garbage water

*  The hundreds and hundreds of dollars we spend monthly on silly stuff like gas, electric, insurance, groceries, dry cleaning, and all those other accouterments that go hand in hand with living indoors and wearing pants

*  And maybe, just maybe whatever cash it would take to purchase a plane ticket and pay for a hotel and some sunscreen so I can go on vacation for the first time in five years

I cannot get past the audacity of this request.  I just do not comprehend the sense of entitlement here.  You like my books, ergo I should give you a handful of money for having said so?  Are you talking about those funds Fletch and I have both worked our asses off for the past five years?  And for which we made ten billion sacrifices in order to get to a place where we have the above liabilities but aren't cowering in the dark, shaking in financial impotence at impending doom?  Is this the account from which you'd like me to cut that check?  Or should I get it from my savings account?  (Which might be rough because it only contains $7.) 

People always say, "It doesn't hurt to ask!"  But in this case, it DOES hurt to ask because Kelly's having done so makes me way less enthusiastic to honor any other request I get.

And now, um, OK?  Really?  Seriously?  I've stated my point and I need to get back to work so I can get paid.

Because I have hot garbage water breath to fix.

Pick A or B

Today's Jen-Point Quiz goes current-events all over your asses.

Above you'll see a photo of Star Simpson.  Do you think she's:

A)  an ASSHOLE.

B)  a DUMBASS.

C)  just really misguided because girlfriend needed to get her roots done like yesterday and that's enough to cloud anyone's judgment.

D)  an innocent victim whose civil rights were violated, man, because she should totally be allowed to walk into Logan Airport wearing a shirt that looks a like a homemade bomb and also if she wants to hold some Silly Putty while wearing her fake bomb shirt - which is, like, an excellent stress reliever- then more power to her and you're just way too uptight and should stop voting Republican like RIGHT NOW because it's totally turning you into a HIGH ART NAZI and who do we have to sue around here to make sure this kind of shit doesn't impact artistic impression?

Scoring:

Give yourselves a billion points for answers A or B, ten points for answer C, and zero for answer D. 

P.S.  If you answered D, you should check out Star's other shirt which automatically yells "Fire!  Fire!" anytime she walks into a crowed theater.

P.P.S.  Is this what happens when parents stop spanking their children?

Things I Have Learned This Week

Now in convenient list form!

*  Mother Nature does not appreciate even the merest implication of fisting and will raise the temperature thirty degrees outdoors to mess with your Shark Week (for Soup) plans.

*  Proceeding with Shark Week (for Soup) anyway and using the oven will also raise the temperature thirty degrees indoors.  And what goes best with roasty vegetable soup with mini-meatballs?  Profuse sweating.

*  Miss Tyra Banks IS going to exploit your pain on national TV.  Count on that.

*  Speaking of pain, if you wrestle with the pit bull and try to drape her around your shoulders, you WILL throw out your back again and your doctor WILL laugh at you.

*  Books you think you are finished writing are apparently not finished being written.

* * * * *

Until I'm done with the editing process and can pay attention to this blog, I highly/happily recommend the following books.

From Alison Pace, author of Pug Hill (also loved!), check out Through Thick and Thin.

From Rajaa Alsanea, I found The Girls of Riyadh completely fascinating.

Finally, my favorite book I read this year, Lost and Found by Carolyn Parkhurst.

(The hardcover has parrots and maps on it and you might think it's a changes-in-attitudes-changes-in-latitudes-Buffett-book.)  (Which it isn't.)

Anyway, read, enjoy, and talk amongst yourselves.  I'll be back as soon as I'm done!

Shark Week (for Soup)

It's Shark Week at my house, except by "shark" I mean "soup."  We're getting into cooking weather so I've been thusly inspired to make more healthy soups ever since I prepared Stacey's recipe last week.

Here's what we've got on tap...

Yesterday - Stacey's Roasty Tomato Soup

Monday - Leek and Potato Soup (made with Yukon Golds to be extra buttery without adding a lot of fat)

Wednesday - Roasty Vegetable with White Bean and Sausage

Friday - Creamy Broccoli

Sunday - Escarole and Mini-Meatball with Tortellini

Unless it gets hot again, in which case Shark Week (for Soup) will be rescheduled

To get ready for Shark Week (for Soup), Fletch and I made a special trip out to the suburbs on Saturday to procure vegetables at farmer's markets.  For anyone local considering doing the same?  Don't waste your time.  Illinois farm stands don't hold a candle to those in Indiana in regard to price or quality.  We were universally disappointed by each stand we visited.  One place sold tomatoes even more expensive than what you see at Whole Foods, plus they were completely caked in dirt.  No thank you.  (At the cash register, a sign read KITTENS - $25.  Fletch grilled the cashier as to whether or not the kittens were fresh and when they were picked, which cracked up no one but me.)

Ironically, we found the most gorgeous, reasonably-priced produce at a chain grocery store.  They had peaches there the size of candle-pin bowling balls and their Roma tomatoes would make my Italian Noni cry.  Please let it be known henceforth The Fresh Market KICKS WHOLE FOOD'S ORGANICALLY-GROWN ASS and we're totally going to increase our carbon footprint by driving 45 miles to shop there. 

(By the way, Whole Foods, the next time you try to sell me beef tenderloin for $32.99/pound, those fillets had better come here and fucking cook themselves.)

(And scrub the grill afterwards.) 

(Plus, carnivores don't care if your cows are raised with high self-esteem.  A little self-loathing would likely keep that cattle nice and tender.)

(Also, you don't need to hire cashiers who can quote Proust, just ones who won't wish my untimely death when I ask for a double-bag.)

(I'm not trying to fist Mother Nature - I'd just like to get my wine and glass-bottled milk to the parking lot without breaking, OK?) 

(And, really, would installing a better ventilation system kill you?  Between the stink generated by the fish, the cheese, and your hippie patrons, I have to breathe into a handkerchief every time I shop there.)

Whatever point I originally was going to make here has long since been forgotten.

 

 

Philistine Dog

Really, Loki? 

White shoes? 

After Labor Day?

Background Cat finds you TTFW (too tacky for words.)

Changing My Email Address to JenCooksSoup

Setting:  On the couch at my friend Stacey's house, catching up before watching Top Chef.

Stacey:  What did you do for Labor Day weekend?

Me:  Fletch went to his 20th class reunion in Indiana and I stayed home and worked on my stupid book.  (Note:  Apparently I DO have people and they would like you to know I do not feel this book is stupid.)

Stacey:  I'm sorry, that had to suck.

Me:  What's worse is it was our five-year anniversary and I couldn't go with him because I was buried in work.  By the way, try to guess what he brought me for a present.  I'll start you off.  One dozen...

Stacey:  Roses? 

Me:  Nope.

Stacey:  Orchids? 

Me:  Try again.

Stacey:  Gardenias?

Me:  No.  One dozen EARS OF CORN.

Stacey:  (thoughtful pause) I hope they were at least long-stemmed.

* * * * *

OK, please no hate mail to Fletch because I bought him... nothing.  We aren't 'elaborate present' people and the 'no gifts' thing is a long anniversary tradition.  Also, at this time of year few things can compare to picked-in-Indiana-that-day produce and he brought home a ton of it because he is a fine husband.

Point?

I had a bunch of tomatoes at their peak of ripeness from his trip, so I emailed Stacey for her soon-to-be-world-famous tomato soup recipe and I cooked it today. 

Following you'll find instructions in case you'd like to make it.  You'll also find my helpful comments in italics.

STACEY'S (MAGICALLY) ROASTY TOMATO SOUP

Can be served hot or cold and can easily be turned into a million other recipes.  (Is magic soup??)

Approx 4 lbs. tomatoes - I use a mix of plum, cherry, and grape for depth of flavor, but it is essential they be fresh and ripe. (How many pounds is one square foot?  Because that's how many I have on my counter.)

1 medium sweet onion or 4 large shallots, diced (Shallot is one of my favorite words - is pretty, like Charlotte, only more exotic.  But would cause non-existent daughter to be teased on playground and children would taunt, "Your name is Onion!"  Possible good dog name, though, particularly if of stinky pit bull variety.)

2 T Herbs de Provence (Did not know this existed in our house until opened spice cabinet.  Magic cabinet?)

Olive Oil

Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 250 degrees.  (Remove stored Tupperware first.)  (Or remove melted Tupperware after.  Your choice.)

Cut tomatoes in half, toss in olive oil to coat, and arrange cut side down on oiled sheet pans.  (Debate washing cookie tin with stuff still burnt on from mid-summer's lasagna debacle.  Opt for big casserole pan.  Is close enough.)

Add onion or shallot on top of the tomatoes.  Sprinkle with the herbs and liberal salt and pepper.  Roast approx 1.5 to 2 hours until skins are loose and the flesh is soft.  (Much like own self's.) 

Peel skins off tomatoes and discard.  (Or taste skins, declare delicious, and scarf right up.)  Dump the contents of the sheet pans (casserole dish) into a large bowl, using an immersion blender.  (Call Fletch to find out what 'immersion blender' is.)  (Call Fletch back to ask if we have one.)  (We do!  Magic Fletch!)

Blend into chunky soup.  (Change out of white shirt after operating very splashy immersion blender for first time.)  Adjust seasonings.

I serve either warm or cold with a dollop of creme fraiche (fancy!) or sour cream and some chopped fresh mint for grown-ups.  Add alphabet noodles or cooked rice for kids.  (Genius!  Too bad do not have daughter Shallot to feed to.)  Stir in toasted croutons and drizzle with olive oil and Parmesan for a classic Pappa al Pomodoro.  (Am pretty sure is Italian for "father of the spaghetti.")  Add fresh basil and garlic and you have a chunky pasta sauce. (!) Add fresh oregano and it becomes pizza sauce.  (!!) Freezes beautifully, can be canned if you are ambitious (right), and lasts up to two weeks in fridge.  (I TOLD YOU IT WAS MAGIC SOUP!)

(Serve in giant tub and inhale entire delicious contents while watching Survivor on DVD, saving none for Fletch.)

(A few hours later, find out what happens after inhaling one square foot of tomatoes, including skins.)

(Hint:  IS NOT MAGIC.)

Lazy Is Not the New Black

Setting:  My house, upstairs, three weeks ago.  I'm sprawled on the guest bed talking to Susie Sunshine and freaking out over my looming deadline.

Susie:  Oh, stop panicking.  You're always done on time. 

Me:  (sigh) I guess.

Susie:  Don't give me this 'I guess' shit.  You meet your deadlines and you know it. 

Me:  (another sigh) I guess.

Susie:  So, once you finish the book, then what?  Are you going on vacation?  Starting a fourth book?  Working on the screenplay you told me about?  What are your plans?

Me:  When I finally finish, I am going to watch SO MUCH TV! 

Susie:  (long, awkward pause)

* * * * *

If I knew how to do a screen capture (or weren't too lazy to find out) I'd post a shot of my Netflix queue which is nothing but the complete seasons of Survivor, Grey's Anatomy, Entourage, Weeds, etc. 

I know, I know.  SHAMEFUL... especially with the fall season already beginning!  I've got the new listings printed out and have highlighted everything I want to see; it's an ocean of fluorescent yellow. 

(Note to Biggest Loser fans:  OMG, Jillian's back!  "Beatings, beatings, beatings, and more beatings!"  Woo!)  (I've already mentioned the shame, yes?)

Anyway, I finished the first draft of the new book on Friday and this weekend, Fletch and I drove around looking at places we'd like to live next year as we've decided to stay in Chicago.  We found an area we love and I'd like to say we're buying a house there except they're outside our budget. 

(Note:  Also, just because we say we're going to buy a house doesn't imply any bank/mortgage broker will agree.  Thanks a bunch for the new interest rates, defaulters!)

As we strolled past all sorts of lovely, appropriate homesteads, I felt bad because we can't afford what I want.  And then it struck me like a load of granite counter tops.  I only work about three months a year because I am lazy.

Lazy = working one quarter per year.

Work = money.

More work = more money.

More money = home ownership (and probably a yard without rats.)

You guys know where this is heading, right?  (If you don't, here's a hint - it's not to the couch to watch Richard Hatch run around bare-assed nekkid.) 

So here's my question - what do you guys want to read next?  Some of you've already suggested I have children and document that experience, to which I respectfully reply I would rather live outdoors with the rats. 

Since the third book is a complete narrative like Bitter, I'm kicking around the idea of another book of humor in essay form, like Bright Lights.  I've got a bunch of stories from childhood on up and I'm considering using them in a funny prequel to Bitter.

What say you?

While you're thinking, here's something else I've been doing in my downtime:

Hey, at least I'm not watching TV.

But I'm Not Ruling Out Drunk or Medicated

So that book deadline thing I was so tied up with for the past few months?

All finished.

I'm delighted to be done but completion means I've got time to clean my own house again.  Starting this week, the only person anger-vacuuming this place will be me.  Fletch said if we wanted, we could tweak our budget in order to keep the maid service but I felt guilty enough having someone tidy up after me when I was swamped with work.  In good conscience, there's no way I could sit here reading Perez Hilton and watching a TiVo of Sunset Tan while an old Polish woman picks hair out of my drain.

Anyway, I kind of can't remember how to go about this whole "blog" thing, so I'm simply going to offer an opinion on what the rest of the free world is buzzing about right now.

This?

IS NOT FAT.

This is not close to being fat.

This is not heavy, this is not pudgy, this is not chunky. 

Nor beefy. 

Nor bovine.

Let me reiterate I am not and have never been a Britney fan.  I hate her music, I disparage her parenting abilities, and I loathe the choices she's made in her life.  (And I've never been afraid to state these opinions.)

Because I'm a bad person with a black heart, I've enjoyed her downward spiral as much as everyone else.  Possibly more.  She's been the quintessential punchline to so many of my jokes.  Brit's antics have always been fodder, whether she's shaving her head, flashing her box to photographers, or burping out stoned logic on YouTube.  And don't get me started on I believe her 17-year old, underwear-clad, pedophile-tastic cover on Rolling Stone encouraged an entire generation of little girls to dress like exotic dancers.

Yet with all the press coverage I've seen today, I find myself in the position of wanting to defend her, instead of my usual casting of the first stone. 

I guess what I'm saying is if she's what the media considers to be "fat," there's no fucking hope for the rest of us.

STILL NOT DONE, AARRGGH

My self-imposed Friday deadline has come and gone.  The book isn't finished, despite the fact I'm finished with it.

'Til I'm truly and completely done, please enjoy this podcast I did (and then promptly forgot about.)

And maybe pray for me.

P.S.  I'm not the one with the English accent.