jennsylvania

I Never Do This (Except for Jolene)

My friend Jolene just tagged me for a meme.  I rarely participate in these things, but I'm making an exception for my girl.  (Also, this is a cheap 'n easy way to tell a few tales from my weekend without having to do much work.)

So here goes...

1.  Link back to the person who tagged you.

2.  Post these rules on your blog.

3.  Share six unimportant things about yourself.

4.  Tag six random people at the end of your entry.

* * * Six Unimportant Things about Jen * * *

1.  Fletch and I are the dumbest smart people we know.  For example, we've been having router troubles, so we spent HOURS dissecting the whole seven-layer OSI model and running complicated diagnostics and pinging servers all over the world to figure out what was going on with our at-home network.  At no point did it ever occur to us the problem could be the cat sleeping on top of the router in the cabinet.

2.  I have a "thing" for banana flavor. As a plain piece of fruit, I can take it or leave it.  I tend to eat them more for the convenience/portability factor rather than any great and abiding love.  However, the second you add sugar, cream, or alcohol, the banana takes on MAGICAL qualities, such as in the case of Cafe Selmarie's Bananas Foster pancakes with the caramel-toffee-rum glaze that I inhaled yesterday.  (Related note: while we were waiting to be seated for brunch Fletch was so excited to be out of the house for once that he couldn't modulate his inside-voice.  Everything he said came out as though he were announcing it, which was fine when he was noting exactly how many people were wearing NorthFace jackets, but less so when he proclaimed, "There sure are a lot of lesbians in here!"  Me.  Floor.  Open.  Die.)

3.  I'm actually able to turn the other cheek once in a while.  Let's take this morning, for example.  The construction crew next door began work at 5:30 AM - with hammers and everything - two and a half hours earlier than what is legal.  I didn't call the police to report a code violation, figuring whomever is swinging a hammer at 5:30 AM isn't doing it because he wants to.  The crew has got to be on deadline and that's something I can respect, so I put in earplugs and went back to sleep.  (The fact that Adrienne Shelley, my favorite screenwriter, was murdered by the loud contractor she complained about may have factored into this decision.)

4.  Despite the ability described in #3, I'm still really, delightfully, and creatively vindictive.  Case in point, some 20 year old emo kid just put a bunch of captions on my photos on MySpace calling me fat.  Um, hi?  Yeah, I know I'm fat; I've seen myself naked.  I've also written an entire book about having a positive body image so I'm not exactly crying into my coffee (with heavy cream!) right now.  The vindictiveness comes in because I read this girl's profile and she's all about ending world hunger and promoting peace, both lovely sentiments.  Yet as a direct result of her asshole-ery, I'm going to make donations to both the NRA and the McCain campaign from my hey-I'm-fat-book money in her honor.  Nice job, Justine from Portland.  Because of you, there will be more armed Republicans on the street.  Oh, the irony - it burns!  It burns!

5.  Every night before bed I read in a tub scented with either lemongrass, eucalyptus, rosemary, or tea tree oils.  And I'm deeply in love with Burt's Bees Therapeutic Bath Crystals because it combines almost all those scents.  (This one is kind of anti-climactic, isn't it?  No fighting, no armed Republicans, no clueless emo kids.  Sorry.  Will try harder on the next one.)

6.  I don't understand everyone's recent fascination with bacon.  I mean, yeah, bacon is good.  Meaty.  Smoky.  Crunchy.  (Or chewy, depending on your preference.)  Bacon is always a nice compliment to dish.  However, bacon is not and will never be the new cupcake.  Go on the Atkins Diet for a week and then tell me if you're still so goddamned excited about it.

OK, that's it.  Illuminating, yes?  Now I'm tagging the following people:

Kristabella - Fine, she has a cat named Bacon, but I believe she's always been a fan and isn't one of you bacon-come-latelys.

Manic Mommy - Despite her penchant for floor-candy, I'm interested to hear what she has to say.

Jess - She's likely freaking the fuck out over her upcoming book launch and would probably dig a quick distraction.

Martha - Because she hardly ever posts anymore and that is a damn shame.

Fussypants - She's adorable and always writes something uplifting, thus she can compensate for all my vitriol.

SnarkyMommy - You'll want to check out her shirts, and she'll make up for all my right-wing-edness.

The rest of you can consider yourselves on the hook for leaving one random/unimportant fact about yourselves in the comments section.  So have at it. 

(But be cool, 'cause I have my checkbook ready...)

OK, OK, Uncle

Fine. 

I can admit it. 

I may have been wrong about the jean jacket.

Thinking back to the mid-80's, I loved, loved, loved my trim-fit Levi's jean jacket.  It completed what was my favorite outfit for the longest time - a thick white cotton t-shirt, Italian-restaurant table cloth red-and white checked Esprit shorts (size 8, bitches), a red fringed sash, pristine Keds with squashy white aerobics socks, a red bucket Liz Claiborne purse worn messenger-bag style, and the biggest hair you ever saw.  What made the jacket even better was the big U2 I painted on the back in the EXACT same pattern/color as the band's name on the Unforgettable Fire album.

I miss that jacket.

I miss the smug self-satisfaction of size 8.

(I don't miss the bear-claw bangs, though.)

Anyway, I'm thus opening my mind and heart to the possibility of wearing a jean jacket again and thought I should make that point public.

(Yes, I am procrastinating the real work I need to do - how did you know?)

Besides, how freaking cute would a little tailored denim jacket be with this purse?

No, I don't own this bag. 

(And I never will if I don't stop procrastinating and do my work.)

Wednesdays with Stacey

Setting:  Stacey's house, last night during our weekly Top Chef/Project Runway/Whatever Bravo Tells Us to Watch get-together.  I'm panicking about the idea of spending three weeks on book tour and she's trying to help me find practical solutions so I don't get so wigged out. 

Stacey:  What about luggage?  Do you have good luggage?

Me:  Not really.

Stacey:  Get a TravelPro bag.  I've got the Platinum series and it was worth every dime.

Me:  Yeah, but...

Stacey:  Too expensive?

Me:  No, it's just that I saw these really cute bags in a catalog and they're flowered and striped and all the colors in them would match my polo shirts.

Stacey: (blinks and stares)

Me:  Wait, real road warriors don't worry about matching their shirts to their bags, do they?

Stacey:  Um, no.  But what catalog was it?

Me:  I'm sort of embarrassed to tell you.  When I got it I didn't look at the cover.  As I was thumbing through it and I looked at the furniture and linens and stuff, I was all, 'This stuff is SO the real me!'   

(pause) 

Turns out it was a Pottery Barn TEEN catalog. 

(pause) 

Meaning I have the design aesthetic of a twelve year old girl.

Stacey:  (nodding) From the suburbs.

(conversation continues, I obsess more)

Stacey:  ... and I try not to sleep on the plane because that will wreak havoc later when I try to go to bed in the hotel.

Me:  Oh, no.  I can never sleep.  I have to be awake and using my mind-power to keep the plane in the air.

Stacey:  (pause)  Oh.  Yes.  Of course.  Another good idea is to not drink on the plane because you're already going to be dehydrated and flying will just make it worse and that will mess with your sleeping, too.

Me:  No, no, I have to drink or I get too nervous.

Stacey:  I see.  And the drinking doesn't interfere with your, um, mind-power?

Me:  Nope.  I steer the plane better drunk.

(conversation continues, I obsess more)

Stacey:  What are you going to be wearing to your events?

Me:  Hopefully it will be warm and I can wear my standard summer uniform of black or khaki shorts and a pastel polo shirt.  But what do I do if it's cold?

Stacey:  Maybe you could bring a little trench?

Me:  But if I wore a trench over shorts, I'd look like a flasher.

Stacey:  Bring some Capri's to wear.

Me:  But I want to wear my shorts so everyone can see that I have nice calf muscles.

Stacey:  (sigh)  Um, fine, then why don't you pack a cute jean jacket?

Me:  OK... but I'd have to go back to 1985 to get it.  Bah! BAH HA HA HA HA!

Stacey:  (tight lipped)  Right.  Then how about-

Me:  BAH HA HA HA!  1985!  HA!

Stacey:  Maybe you could-

Me:  HA!  JEAN JACKET!  GET IT?  NO ONE'S WORN ONE SINCE 1985!  GET IT?  HA HA HA!!

Stacey:  (gives my brilliant humor a small nod and then tries to continue, unsuccessfully)  So-

Me:  HA!  HAA!!  1985!  I'D BETTER PACK MY TRAVELPRO TIME MACHINE!  HA!!

(finally composing myself five minutes later) 

Me:  Oh, wait.  This is why no one ever wants to help me with anything, isn't it?

 

 

You All Deserve a Hug

When I started reading the contest entries, I was drinking a diet iced tea.  Five hours, six iced lemon cookies, two mint patties, and one dark chocolate/creme brulee square later (not nearly as good as it sounds), I've finally finished and I've picked the winners. 

However, as it is both my obligation and right to Milk It for a moment, I want to make a couple of points first.

Not to go Miss America all over your asses, but I wish I could send you each a book for participating.  I'm blown away that between all the entries I received via MySpace, Jennsylvania, and email, not one of them was anything less than sincere and brutally honest.  If you guys haven't actually read the entries - which I'll admit I often skip on other people's blogs - I encourage you to do so.  You'll be sucked in for hours.

Also, I loved how I could identify with so many of your stories, like having my pants fall down at Target?  Totally been there.  Waxing poetic over foil-wrapped Ding Dongs?  Oh, hell yes.  Experiencing the aftermath of cabbage soup?  It's an incident I'd prefer not to recall, yet it happened anyway.  Eating donuts out of the garbage?  Technically I haven't been there, but only because the opportunity hasn't yet presented itself.  (What's funny is that I'm such the Paranoid Safety Queen and I won't even look at strangers yet one time when some random person offered me a menu with a bag of cookies stapled on the front, I inhaled them without even chewing.)  (I didn't say it was a proud moment.)

A number of you had entries that broke my heart, like Lisa H. and Boo and JP, yet you found ways to ultimately deliver an uplifting message.  I bet by sharing your stories, you all end up helping more people than you ever realized.  Some of you simply killed me with your humor, like Lindsay Selders, Kelly J., Jennifer Moore, and Gail M. by delivering lines about radioactive sandwiches and having bra cups people could live in.  You all rock.

OK, enough, I need to get to the results.  The winner on the MySpace side of the contest is Shannon who tells this story:

I am nearly 5’9" and in my eyes had struggled with weight all my life, but looking back at old pictures it wasn’t weight, but curves that I had. It wasn’t until I had three children that the true yo-yo of my weight began. Also, having bed rest my entire last pregnancy, add in the fact that I was having an elephant for a baby and my age the pounds never wanted to go away.

Almost 2 years after having my youngest, my husband joined the Marines so I decided not to look like the Stay-puffed Marshmallow Man when he returned. So between diet, exercise and stress I was the weight was down to a respectable 150. We went on to be stationed in New Orleans.

I floated within 10lbs of that weight until October 2003, when a medication I was given to combat anxiety and depression reacted badly with my body. I gained 40 lbs in water in 3 days. You couldn’t see my toes, could put on shoes it was horrible. The doctors are sure what happened but it reeked havoc on my body.

The depression of this and other factors at my life at the time caused me to stress eat. This stress/self medicating eating ballooned me up to 262lbs. I hated myself. I wouldn’t go anywhere without having a panic attack. I was lost on many levels, and all of my own doing. Plus, how can you not eat and drink in a city founded on that very thing! In late 2004, I got a job requiring a lot of walking and dropped to 245 which began to help. On to our next duty station, North Carolina.

John got transferred for training in California. I was alone with a toddler in a town with no family or friends. I stressed but this time I dropped to 215 instead of stress eating I was stress fasting (both are very bad for you). When Katrina hit I stressed to a whole new level, 206.

In December 2005, I was unjustly fired from my job in North Carolina. I didn’t deal with the rejection well, but instead turned to writing to vent instead of as many boxes of cookies. By the time May 2006 arrived and we knew for certain we were moving back to Ohio I had reached 225 and thanks to enjoying one last summer at the ocean.

I never could break the 200’s though, This would frustrate me so I would yo-yo eat. This combined with coming home to John’s family who love to cook I got up to 242. I felt defeated, so I took my self loathing internally. I would dress crappy because I felt I deserved it for being overweight.

Then in December 2007 I had a break through. While watching How to look good naked, I realized that size doesn’t matter, it is the glow from within that speaks volumes. Instead of doing plan to start dieting when the new year approached, I would give myself the best Christmas present: The permission to love myself, not diet, and to live every moment as fabulous as I could. I began wearing makeup again and getting my hair done. I started taking the time to dress nice for work and for play. I just let myself be happy on the inside and outside.

On December 27 I got on the scale at 235, took my measurements then recorded them and decided I am ok with that. If that is weight I am meant to be so be it. I wouldn’t starve myself, but I wouldn’t kill myself with junk and fast fried foods. I would love my body and show it I loved it by stopping the things that were bad for me. This included my diet coke addition, sitting down and eating a giant bowl of brownie sundae. I would hydrate myself with good things like water and vitamins. I would also not deprive myself. If I felt like a piece of chocolate I could eat it, no guilt, no beating myself up.

Which leads me to today, I am 215. Why? Because I stopped the inside hatred of myself. It was like my mind and body had been at a long and hard battle for so long by calling a peace treaty gave immeasurable (and much needed) relief to my system. I let 20lbs of hatred, 15 inches of loathing off my hips, and 8 inches off my waist of fear all go.

Do I still have bad days where I hate my body? Sure, I am human, but I deal with it directly and stop it in its tracks rather then try and mask it with a box of Twinkies. I realize that the mood like time, will pass and life will go on.

Well told, Shannon. 

For the email/website entries, I picked Elizabeth with this story:

My mom was diagnosed with cancer when I was a little girl. And since we belonged to a close knit church and community, any time she was hospitalized, we were overwhelmed with casseroles. And she was hospitalized A LOT. Over the course of several year. These friends automatically sought to please the three kids in the home, so most of the casseroles involved cheese, potato chips, cheese, mayo, and more cheese. Mmmm. I never noticed my weight because my brothers and I were involved in a lot of activities to "distract us." But the problems started when I hit puberty at 9. Suddenly, while my older brothers were trying to gain weight for wrestling, mine was sticking, even with sports and dance. Still, I don't think anyone was worried, and seriously, who is going to stop a little girl who has a dying mom from having a bowl of ice cream after dinner?

My mom died when I was 11, and if I thought we had a "friends bringing food by" problem before, this event multiplied it by 100. Friends and neighbors filled both our fridges, and implemented a plan to keep us fed for 2 months, making sure the widower with little cooking experience could keep his kids alive.

At this time, I also became a latchkey eater...I mean kid. With no one home to supervise my snacking, I'd pour a bowl of doritos, eat them all, pour another and hide it behind a pillow on my bed (those grease stains never came out by the way) so I could munch in secret while I did homework. Occasionally I'd mix it up with a bowl of ice cream, or a large candy bar. I'd decided to take a break from activities for awhile because I wasn't into it. Obviously, I realize now that was eating to mask my grief.

One day, about 4 months after my mom died, my dad looked at me and saw an eleven year old who was already wearing a B (almost C) cup, and whose pudge couldn't be explained by baby fat anymore. Since I was the youngest and the only girl, he didn't know much about raising a girl through through puberty. But he knew enough that he wanted me to be healthy and happy and he had to do something. Although people are kind of appalled at what he did now, I still am grateful for it.

He asked me to weigh myself. And when I told him how much I weighed, he told me he thought I was getting too heavy for my body type and height, and offered me $2 for every pound I lost. And in 1990 when my only income was very sporadic babysitting, that was a huge motivator. (To be honest, when he put the stakes out, my first thought was, "that's a lot of Sweet Valley High books!").

I discovered my bike again, started eating carrot sticks, and switched out my two regular sodas for one diet one. I skipped desserts, and took long post dinner walks with my dad. And it worked! I slimmed down to a weight that was appropriate. And I got to forge a much closer relationship with my dad...one that I still rely on today. I helped him lose weight too, encouraging him to cut out the sugar in his coffee and those big candy bars I used to steal from him.

My weight still fluctuates, but I attribute the healthier lifestyle that I lead to what happened in that difficult time. I give props to my dad, who although he could never fathom taking me shopping for a bra or other "girl" stuff, made a decision about/for me that helped change my life.

In fact, he still makes weight loss bets with my brothers and I. He won big for his own wedding, and we're now setting new stakes. It's $5 a pound now, but the losers have to pay the winner. I'm aiming to get at least $50 from him this time...18 years later.

Elizabeth, is it weird for me to tell you I'm proud of you?

Before I decided the winners tonight, I made a quick grocery run because Fletch has contracted my Pan Asian Death Flu.  And as I cruised the aisles shopping for soup and juice, I couldn't get Jennifer from Tempe's story out of my head.  It goes like this:

If you're looking for some quality self abuse, take the exercise class I did last night.

Innocently titled 20/20/20, this class involves 20 minutes of cardio, 20 minutes of toning and 20 minutes of core training. I figured, Hey, I can do 20 minutes of anything! And since it was held at the local park district, I stupidly assumed that it wouldn't be too bad.

Well, after I met my perky instructor (i.e., The Nazi) Maria, I realized how my assumptions may very well kill me.

She started us off with the cardio. Now, keep in mind, the woman standing in front of me was probably about 60 and there were people of all sizes and ages. But that didn't stop Maria from bringing her A game. Well, I THINK it was her A game, but I'm actually not clear on what happened after the first five minutes because I blacked out. The goal was to quickly get your heart rate up - but it didn't work for me because my heart instantly exploded, popped out of my body and skidded halfway across the shiny gym floor before coming to a stop in front of one of the two men in the class. Luckily, his heart had already burst out of his body as well, so he didn't mind, as he was passed out on his mat. And The Nazi DIDN'T EVEN BREAK A SWEAT. Nor did the 60-year-old. Go figure.

I finally came to when we started on the toning section of the workout. The only good thing about this part was the entertainment value. We used long rubber bands in varying colors (each color offered different tension. I selected an imaginary one, because I don't need any more tension in my life.) And The Nazi didn't tell anyone what the levels were, nor how to properly use them. So as we were going through the 10 different ways to pull a muscle, people were dropping like flies. Even better, as the 20 minutes passed, you would hear SNAP and then "Ow!" throughout the room. Turns out the bands were a little old, and that, combined with our inexperience with using them, meant that the bands were snapping mid pull and hitting people in the face. Great fun!

I must say that my favorite part was the core training section. That's probably because we got to lay down for most of it. If I could figure out a way to do cardio without getting up or getting naked, I would. It was just too bad that every part of my body was shaking from the previous 40 minutes of exertion, so my core work looked more like a seizure than the smooth fluid movements The Nazi was expecting.

After it was all over, The Nazi had the gall to suggest that we eat something when we get home "Have some trail mix, cottage cheese or some yogurt. I'm going to have some delicious salmon myself." Look lady - two people died in your class tonight - I'm going home and eating half a pie and then wash it down with a milk shake. Salmon, my ass.

And this was THE FIRST CLASS. Only nine more to go. I can't wait.

I have one extra book.  And Jennifer from Tempe is getting it because her snapping bands made me snort up and down the aisles.

Shannon, Jennifer, Elizabeth, please send me your mailing addresses and I'll get your books out tomorrow(ish.) 

And the rest of you?  Give yourselves a round of applause (or a cookie if you prefer) because you deserve it.

Tuesday Is the New Monday

Winners will be announced tomorrow as I'm not yet finished reading all the entries because I'm a terrible combination of busy and slow right now. 

Until then, peruse the cool blogs listed in my links section.  You know, the section that only took me nine months to finally populate? 

(And see?  Doesn't a one-day delay seem pretty minor when compared to nine months?  Yes, I thought so.)

Such a Pretty Contest

I'm too sick to be creative today (Pan Asian Death Flu) (or possibly just a bad cold) so I'm going right to the point.

I'm giving away two autographed advanced copies of the new book, one to Jennsylvania.com readers and one to my MySpace friends.  To be eligible to win, tell me your best (or worst) weight loss/diet tale.  Your essay can be funny, sad, poignant, motivational - really, whatever you want to write.  I don't care if a version of the story already appeared on your blog; as long as it's your original work, it's eligible. 

Rules:

1)  Use 500 words or less.  (Sorry, I don't actually have the time to read your whole manuscript.)

2)  Post your story in the comments section of Jennsylvania.com or my MySpace blog.  You may only enter in one place or the other.

3)  If you have a problem getting your comments to post (my SPAM filter tends to operate autonomously) then send me your story in the body of an email, NOT an attachment.  Emails with attachments will be deleted without being opened, but not before being mocked.

4)  You have until 1:00 PM CST on Friday to enter.  Winners will be determined by me and announced on Monday.

5)  My friend Jolene Siana is not eligible to enter because I already have a book for her and she just has to send me her most recent address because I didn't copy it off the envelope because I'm lazy sick.

6)  If you don't have a best (or worst) weight loss/diet story because you've never struggled with your weight, then your fortunate genetics and willpower are already prize enough.

7)  Void where prohibited by law, rules subject to change upon my whim, no deposit, no return, etc.

Ready, set... go! 

This Is Too Stupid Not to Post

Tell me this - who takes a FUCKING BITE out of a loaf of organic multi-grain bread at Costco and then puts it back on the shelf?

(Notice I didn't ask who doesn't think to check for FUCKING HUMAN BITE MARKS when purchasing a loaf of organic multi-grain bread at Costco.) 

(Because that would be me.)

A Thousand Splendid Showers

Setting:  Our kitchen this morning, at the asscrack of dawn.  Fletch enters the room all perky and freshly shaved and starched, whereas I'm clad in a combination of nightgown, sweatpants, and dirty hair.

Fletch:  (kisses me on the cheek)  Hey, good morning!  What are you doing out of bed?  Isn't it (looks at watch) about five hours too early for you?

Me: (blearily adding water to the coffee-maker) No.  I always get up at a reasonable time.

Fletch:  (snorts)  Uh huh.

(What?  I'm a WRITER - I keep a different schedule than most people... and sometimes that means sleeping in until 8:00.  Or 11:30.  Oh, big deal.  I'm just tired because I was probably up late working.  Or possibly catching up on the episode of Paradise Hotel I missed while I was working.  You know what?  Don't judge.) 

Me:  OK, fine, maybe it is sort of early for me.  But the dryer repair guy is supposed to come this morning and I didn't want to just roll out of bed and answer the door in a nightgown with dirty hair.  Thought I'd try taking a shower first and then I'd stay up and wait for him.

Fletch:  (smirks and pats me on the back) You're a true inspiration.  (puts a Cliff bar in his briefcase, gathers his wallet and keys)  So, did you hear the news today?

Me:  Nope.  What's up?

Fletch:  Eliot Spitzer's been busted in a prostitution scandal.

Me:  Pfft.  That happened yesterday.  Matt Drudge and FOX were wetting their pants over it all afternoon.  Old news.  Where were you?

Fletch:  Um, work?

Me:  (measuring out coffee beans) Oh, yeah.  That.  Honestly, I didn't know who he was until I saw the story on TV.  Did you?

Fletch:  I knew he was the Governor of New York.  And I knew he's been really anti-business.

Me:  (thoughtfully)  But apparently he's not anti-MONKEY-business.  Ha!  Haa!!  Haaa!!! 

(end up laughing so long/hard I hyperventilate and scare the dogs out of the kitchen and then must sit on the floor to recover)

Fletch:  (sighs deeply and shakes his head) You might be better off with less shower and more sleep.

* * *

Dryer guy gets here at 10:41 AM, causing me to roll out of bed and answer the door in a nightgown, a pair of sweatpants, and dirty hair.

I apologize for nothing.

Sunday Mourning

So...

Yes.

Apparently I sent some email last night.  Before I show you what actually went out, here's the message I was trying to communicate:

Hi, Angie,

What's happening?  Hope all is well with you!  I feel like I haven't talked to you forever because I've been so freaking busy.  And not good-busy with a lot fun chores - rather I've been caught up doing 10,000 things I don't particularly like.  Blah.

The good news is I was finally able to cut loose this evening.  My gym hosted a party at the Fulton Lounge and Fletch and I went.  BTW, did I ever mention this place before?  It's a way-too-hip-for-me bar in the West Loop with a lot of low benches, flattering lighting, supermodel cocktail servers, and the most amazing girly-foo-foo seasonal martini menu featuring flavors like pumpkin spice, Key lime, holly berry, etc.  So good!  So, so good!   

I hadn't been there for a while because I had, um, kind of gotten kicked out last time I was there.  Let me just say this - if you own a bar and choose to decorate the area by the fireplace with a bunch of encyclopedias from the '80s and you serve me fifteen banana cream pie martinis, well, then don't be surprised when it suddenly strikes me as a fine idea to tear out all the pictures of Ronald Reagan and stuff them in my purse. 

(Fletch said I also stole a bottle of cleaning supplies from there that time, but that is untrue.  I bribed the restroom attendant $10 to let me take it.  I mean, come on, in huge type the can promised that one squirt would stop the spread of HIV!  How often do you actually encouter A REAL-LIFE CAN OF COOTIE SPRAY?  I had to have it!)  (Also, there may have been an additional conflagration later that night with the cootie spray and the cab driver but the details are - rim shot! - foggy.)

So, last night passed without incident, except for when I tried to lure away the bar's pit bull/English bulldog mix mascot.  (The dog wasn't interested and the bouncer was kind of a jerk about it, if you want to know the truth.)  But we were totally leaving anyway so it was fine.

I came home, played with my own enthusiastic dogs, had one Lean Cuisine (fine, I ate three and burned my mouth, shut up) and then went to bed with a small stomach ache. But all in all, it was a great night.

Talk soon,

Jen

So, yeah.  That's what I meant to say.  But here's how the above comes out after a supermodel over-served me a flight of candy-coated, ice-creamy martinis:

OTT!  OPTTT!   OTYT
2@@!  TEN  M ATIKNIE!  TEN OF DELICIOUS NEEWSSS!  TEN MASTININEs111 SON GOOOND!@   MASBNY NAHYY ,MANY ,ANY ,AMY ,AMNHJY MANY MANY MATNIENS SOO COOO SCOO SOOO VERYYY COOOD!  VERYT GOODS!  DELICIOUS !  ,MYSATR MAKE THROW UPS NOW!  SPOPPP GOPOPDS!11   NOICE   DELCIOU7S!  NOW  NO 3 SOOO GOOD DELKUIOSUOD!!

HI9 FOR LATER!

;PVER ;;;V ;LOOVE.
KEM

KEM
NEM
HEH

JEN
LIKE A FRESAYH PUIE   ZSIOIOOPOOOO GOOOD SOOO GOOD PUIE!  [PIOR!  POOIE!11 PIE!! PIOR
EEE  PIE
111   ;ER,ON CREONAN PI3111  PIE
!!!~   WHBY DOB;T YOU UNDERQASTAND TGA T IATE A PIE THAT TASTED LIETE MATINIE?

pIER !

PIER

PIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I HAVE TO SPIT NOW/
PIE
1  PIE!  PIE!!1 PIE!!! OMG PIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Hey, at least I didn't make a bunch of phone calls.  (Or, wait, did I?)

What sucks is now I'm going to have to work a trip to Betty Ford into my busy schedule. 

Blah.

Who Likes to See Fat Chicks Running on a Treadmill?

If you answered, "I do, I do!" then oh boy, do I have a video you'll dig.

And yes, I work out in pearls - doesn't everyone?

(P.S. If this doesn't inspire you to buy the book - or at least lay off the donuts - then for Christ's sake people, I don't know what else I can do here.)

Don't Say I Never Do Anything for You, Boston

After all, Rebecca of Boston (and of lesser-evil.blogspot.com) just won the Unpredictable contest with the term "moxie."

Thanks to all who participated both on Jennsylvania.com and on MySpace!

(Rebecca, please email me your mailing info.)

Bringing Splendid Back

I never hear the word "splendid" anymore and that's a damn shame because it's such an evocative term.  "Splendid" is one of the best words to use in setting a mood and I have no idea why it's gone out of style. 

For example, as the ability to make polite small talk completely alludes me, I'm only going to bother to ask you how your weekend was when I actually care about your response.  So when you reply with a bullshit throw-away term like "good" or "fine," I have no clue as to the quality of your Saturday or Sunday and it bothers me. 

Does saying your weekend was "fine" mean you went out for a lovely dinner and you found three pairs of Via Spigas marked down to nothing at Nordstrom Rack and when you got home you watched Matt Damon movies on the big screen while eating a Barcelona bar?

Or was your weekend "good," which could very well imply the highlight was when you chased hipsters off your lawn with the same shovel you'd used to address Mt. Doody in the backyard hours earlier?

Who can tell?  Certainly not me. 

But if you were to reply, "Jen, my weekend was splendid!" then the movies and candy and shoes would be implied and I'd be happy for you.

Oh, splendid... splendid... where for art thou, splendid?  Did that fake sugar steal all your thunder?  Or have you been going the of the dinosaur because kids have no idea how to shorten "splendid" into LolcatTextySpeak?

Well, listen up, splendid - I'm not going to let you go quietly into that goodnight.  I pledge to help preserve your legacy in print.  I promise to use you when I write my next book. 

And you know what? 

This might be an appropriate place to mention the announcement that came out in Publisher's Weekly today:

Blogger Jen Lancaster (jennsylvania.com) has made a deal with Kara Cesare at NAL for a fourth memoir, Pretty in Plaid, via Kate Garrick at DeFiore & Co. Since 2006, Lancaster has published one book a year with NAL; the first two, Bitter Is the New Black and Bright Lights, Big Ass have almost 200,000 copies in print. Her third memoir, Such a Pretty Fat, hits stores this May. Pub date for Pretty, to be the prequel to Bitter, is summer 2009.

I've been telling people Pretty in Plaid is a memoir about being a socially awkward 'tween, privately summing it up as The Book in Which I Go David Sedaris All Over Your Asses - but the Publisher's Weekly description is nice, too...

Possibly even splendid.

Jennsylvania, effectively burying the lede since 2005.

Cause, Meet Effect, Effect, Meet Shovel

I've finally pinpointed the cause of this weekend's inflated aggression level. 

The problem stems from watching too much boxing.  First, I saw the Klitchko/Ibragimov flight from last week (give Ibragimov a step-ladder to stand on next time, please) and then I moved on to the Marquez/Vasquez match (less blood next time, please) and then I watched some cage fights in between going out front to shake my shovel at passers-by in a menacing manner. 

I suspect people like me who are already way too aggressive for their own good should not be encouraged (allowed?) to watch grown men bashing the bejesus out of each other, as it gives them ideas.

Also?  Fletch made me put my shovel back in the garage. 

It's nice to know at least one rational adult lives in this house.

(But I'm not apologizing for scolding the lady at the Fresh Market.  I guarantee that bitch will remember to use her inside voice next time...)

 

And Since When Did "Actress" = "Pundit" Anyway?

I just unearthed this little gem in an article by Peter Allen in the UK Daily Mail:

"9/11 Attacks Made Up," Says French Best Actress Oscar-Winner

Actress Marion Cotillard sparked a political row yesterday after accusing America of fabricating the 9/11 attacks.

The 32-year-old French actress, who received an Oscar last month for her performance as singer Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose, openly questioned the truth behind the terrorist atrocity in an interview broadcast on a French website.

"I think we're lied to about a number of things," Cotillard said, singling out the 2001 attacks on the World Trade Center as an example of the US making up horror stories for political ends.

Referring to the two passenger jets being flown into the Twin Towers, Cotillard said:

"We see other towers of the same kind being hit by planes. Are they burned? They [sic] was a tower, I believe it was in Spain, which burnt for 24 hours. It never collapsed. None of these towers collapsed. And there [in New York], in a few minutes, the whole thing collapsed."

She added that the towers, planned in the early Sixties, were an outdated "money-sucker" that would have cost more to modernise than to rebuild altogether, which is why they were destroyed.

She said: "It was a money-sucker because they were finished, it seems to me, by 1973, and to re-cable all that, to bring up-to-date all the technology and everything, it was a lot more expensive, that work, than destroying them."

The article goes on to mention how she's not really buying the whole idea of astronauts walking on the moon either. 

So, let's sum this up, shall we? 

According to Cotillard, our space program is a lie, which must mean the 1,400 different inventions that stemmed from the technology developed in our quest to get to the moon, e.g microwaves, kidney dialysis machines, CAT scans and MRIs, cordless power tools, modern athletic shoes, water purification systems, Tang, and my Tempurpedic mattress are all MYTHS, which really sucks if you want to go for a run, take a nap, build a shelf, or not die while waiting for a kidney transplant.      

And, because a starring role as Edith Piaf automatically fills you with the kind of structural engineering knowledge that allows you to absolutely determine cause and effect by simply hearing about a building collapse, we can rest assured the events of 9/11 were nothing more than an elaborate scheme to give the Twin Towers a much-needed makeover.

Wow.

Perhaps you'll consider these statements before you add any of Cotillard's movies to your Netflix queue?

The Jen Point Quiz, Weekend Edition

It's late in the evening and you're just about to head upstairs, take a bath, and read a bit before bed when you hear noise in the front yard. Upon drawing the curtains, you come face-to-face with a hipster who's using your lawn/the corner of your house as a urinal.

What do you do next?

A) You smile and shake your head. Ah, the capriciousness of youth!

B) You frown and shake your head. You don't like it, but you understand this kind thing happens sometimes when you live in an urban environment.

C) You call the police, knowing full well if they even bother to respond to your call, the hipster-pisser will be halfway through his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon at the neighborhood watering hole before they ever arrive.

D) You throw open the front door and scream profanities at the hipster, causing the stream of urine to soak his skinny jeans. And as he egresses at a brisk pace, you shout, "Doesn't matter if you run, motherfucker, because I know where you're going!"

E) You spend the rest of the evening standing by your open front door, shaking your garden shovel at everyone who's unfortunate enough to park on your street.

F) Answers D and E.

Scoring:

Award yourself zero points for Answers A-C, five points for Answers D-E, and ten points for Answer F.

(And give yourself one extra point if your shovel is rusty.)