jennsylvania

Oh, Look, Another Post About Channing Tatum (Or, Accidentally Setting Back The Feminist Movement Yet Again)

We’re at the dinner table last night when we see an ad for some super-explode-y, CGI-filled, alien-invading-looking movie.  Naturally (and immediately) my interest is piqued.

“Hey,” I say, “rewind what.”  (If you don’t have the television on during dinner, then please congratulate yourselves for not slogging along in the cultural morass that is my life.)  “I believe I’d like to see that film.”

Fletch rolls his eyes.  “Of course you would.”  He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully and then mentions, “I think Channing Tatum may be in that movie,” which causes me to make what can only be described as an unholy noise coupled with a mass intake of breath.

He rolls his eyes again.  “I don’t get it – how come women are allowed to ogle Channing Tatum with impunity?”

I reply, “Because my interest in him is innocent.  I don’t want to marry him.  I want to be married to you.  I don’t even want to make out with him.  Pretty much my plans for Channing Tatum include gawping and giggling.”

“Let me ask you this – what would you do if I went all Pavlovian like you do every time you hear his name?  What would you think if I was apeshit over… give me the name of some big female star today.”

“Um… Miley Cyrus?”

“Ugh.  No.  How about… Scarlett Johansson?  What if I carried on like you do?  What would happen?  Listen, I know what would happen.  You’d punch me.”

I nod.  “Most likely, yes.”

“That doesn’t strike you as bullshit, like a massive double-standard?”

I take another bite of my dinner and nod.  “It’s totally a double-standard.”

“How is that acceptable?”

Well, that is a puzzler. 

I quietly reflect for a moment while I work it all out.  I snap my fingers.  “Got it!  It’s because for every dollar a man makes, a woman typically makes seventy-seven cents.  Those twenty-three disparate cents are our justification.”

“So what you’re telling me is because of pay inequality, you’re allowed to ogle Channing Tatum as though you were a Teamster on a construction site?”

“Yep.  Those twenty-three cents allow us to say whatever we want.  That disparity is what I call the Channing Tatum Tax.”

This statement leaves him speechless, as well it should.

Now, when’s Magic Mike on again?

 

 

 

 

 

The Beanie Babies of Retirement Planning

Look what just arrived! 

I had the foresight to purchase these items at regular price the night before Hostess "Gone Galt."

In my head:

"I'm going to be rich, rich, rich!"

In my heart:

"I'm going to be fat, fat, fat!"

Fatness Shrugged.

Funny Thing, That Universe

Here I am at the ultra-fancy, how-the-hell-was-I-invited, OMG-worthy People magazine party at the Boom Boom Room in the Standard Hotel in New York on Wednesday:

The view!  The cocktails!  The celebrities!

So cool, right?

Not pictured:

Me, less than twenty four hours later, standing in the back yard with a garden hose and a bottle of medicated shampoo, scrubbing Loki's undercarriage because his swamp-ass has returned with a vengeance.

No view (save for that of his inflamed bits), no cocktails, and certainly no celebrities.

I believe the universe has an uncanny way of keeping me grounded.

Thanks, universe!

(I think.)

Revenge of the Jens (And Possibly a Winklevoss or Two)

Here's a quick reminder of what's coming up next week!

Wednesday, June 6th from 12:30 PM - 1:45 PM

Bryant Park Reading Room, 42nd St., between 5th and 6th Ave, where you will find...

JEN AND JEN, TOGETHER AGAIN!

Please join New York Times best-selling author Jennifer Weiner and me at this event!  We'll be discussing our new books, chatting with one another, and taking questions from the audience before we autograph books.  Having done an event together before, I can assure you that hilarity will ensue. 

The event is outdoors, but in case of drizzle, there will be a tent. (I imagine it will be a large tent.)

In case it's raining toads/cats/dogs, the venue will change to The General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen at 20 West 44th Street (between 5th & 6th Avenues.)

No tickets/purchases are required and the space will accommodate a crowd.  That being said, come early for prime viewing position or in case we need to move indoors.

See you then, I hope!

* * *

In the interim, I shall be busy obsessing about Mark Zuckerberg.

No, not about the Facebook IPO or any of the resulting fall-out.  If you're an institutional investor and you lost your shirt here, I'm really sorry, but seriously, did you learn NOTHING from the Infospace.com debacle twelve years ago?  Remember, this is back when their shares were listed at hundreds and hundreds of dollars each?  And Fletch and I were all, "Isn't that basically an internet yellow pages and, thus, doomed to fail?"  And all the arrogant little pricks I worked with tried to tell me that I was a dumbass for wasting my disposable income on a pair of Joan & David loafers instead of investments? 

Um, boys?  I wore those loafers long after Infospace's share price dropped to $2.67.  Still have them now, in fact.

Ironically, when the dot com market crashed, all these junior masters of the universe scurried off to grad school before becoming i-bankers. (Which neatly explains the Wall Street mess.)

Regardless, that's not what's currently stuck in my craw.

I'm obsessed with the notion of Zuckerberg stiffing waiters while he's on his Italian honeymoon.  Thus far, it's happened twice and the national media has been all over the story.

To backtrack, I understand that Italian serving professionals are reasonably compensated.  They don't depend on tips to make their living.  Tipping is not the social norm, at least not with Europeans.  If the service is particularly attentive or the waiter goes out of his/her way to accommodate the diner, occasionally they will receive something extra. 

I get all of that.

Zuckerberg wasn't required to leave a tip.

And yet I can't get past the notion of a man with a current net worth of FOURTEEN BILLION dollars not parting with, say, five of them, if for no reason other than to keep the press off his increasingly beleaguered ass.  I realize the rich don't stay rich by throwing their money around, but seriously, FIVE DOLLARS IS NOT GOING TO BREAK THE BANK.

Maybe I'm bothered because it's my notion to tip everyone, to the point that I embarrass myself by doing stuff like trying to slip the dental hygienist a little something extra for keeping my teeth so white.  But I've worked in tip-dependant jobs and that changed my entire worldview.  I try to always err on the side of tipping if there's ever a question. 

Plus?  There's the whole karma factor.  For example, when I'm on book tour, I'm very lucky to have my publisher cover expenses, including tips for the guys who drive me.  Without fail, I give the guys something extra because, A) it's my nature to be generous because I've had the incredible good fortune to make a living doing what I love, B), I feel happy doing so, and, C) drivers gossip. 

I know, because I gossip with them. 

So I guess my problem is this - at a time when Zuckerberg's under so much scrutiny, I can't imagine why he wouldn't give the waiter a little something for the effort.  I'm not saying he should have tipped him a Toyota Camry, but seriously?  He couldn't part with five bucks?

What Zuckerberg fails to understand - and what I believe will be his eventual downfall - is that he's now part of a public company.  He reports to a board who are reponsible to shareholders.  Facebook isn't his personal fiefdom anymore.  Regardless of how brilliant or talented he is, he's no longer Lord God Supreme of Farmville, Mafia Wars, hackathons, timeline, et al.

His actions have consequences now. 

He's accountable in a way that he never was before.

And I guarantee the newly formed Facebook board of directors is none to happy with Zuckerberg creating additional bad press on top of the massive IPO clusterfuckery, which all started on a sour note with him not even bothering to show up in New York to ring the opening bell in person.  Dude.  Not cool.

Now, Facebook, Inc. is likely going to have to employ PR professionals to quash chatter on something that could have been entirely preventable if the man had simply been willing to part with five freaking dollars.

Even though he didn't have to.

Seriously.  Five freaking dollars.  Out of fourteen billion.

I hope that somewhere the Winklevoss brothers are sitting on the sidelines with a bucket of popcorn, enjoying the show.

And, perhaps if the Winklevosses are free on Wednesday, they'll come enjoy an afternoon with the Jens in Bryant Park.

I realize that was truly the worst segue ever, but it was all I had. 

We two Jens hope to see you next week!

This Is Why We Don't Have A Reality Show

Experts who claim the key ingredient to a healthy marriage is “mutual respect” or “open communication” or “meeting one another’s emotional needs” are all wrong.

I mean, sure, those ingredients are important, but no more so than a mutually agreed-upon toilet seat status.  In our house, the lid stays closed.  Period.  This arrangement is largely because a closed lid keeps the dogs from helping themselves to a drink.  Of course, Maisy has figured out a work-around, but that’s not the point.  The point is that I’m all for Fletch sharing his feeeeelings, but the minute I take an unintended late night swim, his ability to express himself will be neatly eclipsed by his ability to quickly run away from me.  (Actually, having separate bathrooms will exponentially increase your odds of making it as a couple.)  (Move if you must.)  (You’ll thank me on your Golden Anniversary.)

Regardless, if I had to highlight one factor that keeps us together, it would be Google.

For example, last week we were in the car on the way to the city and we started to squabble over whether or not “ear cancer” was a real malady.  But instead of arguing about whether or not it could exist for the next hour while we navigated rush hour traffic, I looked it up, found the answer, and we quickly moved on conversationally… largely because I was right. 

Ear cancer is TOTALLY a real thing.

Which brings us to last night.

Earlier in the day, Fletch scanned the shot of us with the Second Place Monkey from this summer’s Banana Derby.  While he replaced it in the frame, we started talking.

Fletch:  I felt like I had to put this back immediately, what with it being a treasured family heirloom and all.  Kind of like the Scott Pilgrim DVD.

(Side Note: Apparently while Fletch was rectifying our bank statements for taxes, he discovered that I’ve had Scott Pilgrim Vs. the World out from Netflix for eighteen months and said membership has cost us approximately six hundred dollars.  I sort of haven’t heard the end of it since then.)  (Yet I maintain that I WILL watch this and when I do, it will have been worth it.  Michael Cera as a nebbishy ass-kicker?  Worth it at any price.)  (But I digress.)

Me:  I’m itchy every time I think about that monkey.  I had welts every place he touched.

Fletch:  I can’t believe how strong he was.  Did he hold on to you?

Me:  Not really, no.

Fletch:  I was astounded at his powerful grip.  Like, I can’t believe such a tiny creature could hold on so tightly.

Me:  I can.

Fletch:  Really?

Me:  Duh, that’s why there’s monkey grip glue.

Fletch:  No, there’s not.

Me:  Of course there is.  The Rolling Stones even wrote a song about it.

Fletch:  There’s no way that’s true.

Me: (singing) Good old monkey grip!  Monkey grip!  Good old monkey grip!

Fletch:  This is an Ambien hallucination, like when you told me you were going to build a raft out of hamburger or when you fixed yourself a caramel apple sandwich.

In the old days, this would have devolved into an argument.  But not now, thanks to Google.

Me: (grabbing my iPad) See?  Here.  Actually, I was a little off.  The song is by Bill Wyman of the Stones.  I remember because my brother had the album.  Anyway, I’m pressing Play now.

Four astounded minutes later…

Fletch:  What do you think happened?  Bill Wyman came into rehearsal one day and was all, ‘Oi, mates!  I’ve an idea for a song about monkey grips!  And we’ll make it sound ragtime-y!’  Then Mick said, ‘That sounds more like a solo project, Billy-boy.’

Me:  I’m not saying it’s a good song.  My point was that it was about monkey grip glue, ergo, I am right.

Fletch:  That song wasn’t actually about glue.

Me:  Now you’re an expert on music you never heard of four minutes ago?  How would you even know? 

Fletch:  Because I listened to the lyrics.

Me:  Oh, really, Mr. Suddenly Knows Everything About Double Entendres in Campy 1970’s Rock Songs?  What’s next?  You’re going to tell me that KISS’s song Plaster Caster wasn’t about fixing a broken arm, either?

Fletch:  Hand me your iPad.

And sometimes Google works just as well for Fletch.

Damn it.

Having no logical conclusion for this story, here we are with the Second Place Monkey.

This is what our baby would look like.

P.S. Signed bookplates are still available!

Team Edward, Team Jacob, Or Team Take Your Pants Off?

For those of you who wonder if I'll cover Eclipse, the answer is yes.

For those of you who wonder what that means, I'll refer you to the New Moon post. 

For those of you who've seen that post and still wonder why I'm doing this, well... let's just say it beats working for a living. 

So, without further delay, I give you Eclipse: The Jennsylvania Edition.

* * *

Bella and Edward:  Yay!  We're reunited!

Bella:  "Edward!  I totally love you in a non-platonic sense!  Let's celebrate our romance in an, ahem, traditional way, if you know what I mean."

Edward:  "Yes!  I'm absolutely on the same page!  Marriage it is!"

Bella:  "Argh.  Then can you please at least compliment me on my rack?"

Edward:  "Certainly.  Your rack is fantastic.  Are those two kinds of oregano I spy?"

Bella:  "Sigh.  In unrelated news, what up with the big pile of dead folk in Seattle, homie?"

Edward:  "I know, right?  Totes creepy."

Bella:  "My dad says it's the work of a..."

Bella:  "... cereal killer."

Alice, Edward, and Bella:  "Seriously?  We're just plastic action figures and even we can manage to look disgusted with your stupid pun, Jen."

Me:  "I'm sorry.  I had three Mai-tais at lunch today and it seemed funny to me."

Bella:  "Shouldn't we be getting back to my tortured love life?  We need to move this along if I'm ever getting the pants off that foppish Brit."

Me:  "I'm on it.  By the way, a bunch of brand new vampires killed all those guys."

Bella:  "Oh, I'm sorry - are YOU now Stephenie Meyer?  'Cause your checking account doesn't seem to think so.  Piss off."

Me:  "Okay, okay.  I'm going."

Edward:  "No!  I won't let you associate with the wolf-boy!"

Bella:  "Please?"

Edward:  "Nope."

Bella:  "Pretty please?"

Edward:  "No freaking way."

Bella:  "Pretty please with hemoglobin on top?"

Edward:  "My resolve is as immobile as my pants."

Me:  "So, Bella, he not only breaks into your room and watches you sleep but also wants to dictate who your friends are?  Oh, honey... run." 

Bella:  "Why are you still here?"

Me:  "Because the man's over a hundred years old and you're a minor!  It's not only unnatural, but it's also a crime.  Oh, and speaking of statutory rape, can you possibly suggest that Jacob take off his shirt?  Not for me.  For America."

Bella:  "ANYWAY..."

Bella:  "I feel naughty sneaking away and riding motorcycles in the woods with you Jake!  Perhaps this will make Edward so mad he'll try to, ahem, spank me."

Jacob:  "FYI, I'm totally still a werewolf.  My Dirty Dancing jean shorts automatically come off when I phase."

Bella:  "Noted.  But keep your pants on, dude, I only like you as a friend.  I think."

Jacob: "Yet millions of cougars around the world would disagree."

Jacob:  "Team Jacob!"

Edward:  "Team Edward!"

Bella:  "Team I-Would-Be-the-Meat-in-this-Sandwich-If-It-Weren't-for-the-Damn-PG-13-Rating!  Oh, wait, was that out loud?"

Alice:  "Um, hello?  Do you horndogs need me to Mapquest your way back to the plot of this thing?"

Me:  "I can help."

Alice:  "What are you, the Greek chorus?"

Me:  "No, but I don't need to be Euripides to see Victoria's behind everything.  Also, since apparently it's not important to keep main characters consistent throughout the movie franchise, please note that the actress who was playing Victoria has been replaced..."

Me:  "... by Betty Draper."

Victoria:  "My husband Don Draper would first nail Bella, then he'd smoke, then he'd pay her five thousand dollars to go away."  

Me:  "Wrong show, sweetie."

Victoria:  "Oh, right.  My bad.  I guess I'll just raise an unholy army and off the bitch myself."

 
Bella:  "She's going to kill me before I ever get your pants off."

Edward:  "Not to worry, I'll fix everything."

Bella:  "Ooh, did you get us a room?"

Edward:  "Better - I enlisted the whole wolf pack to help us."

Bella:  "Aces."

Bella:  "If I get Lyme disease out here, you're in big trouble, mister."

Edward:  "We'll mask your scent with the wolf-boy's stink.  Victoria will never find you."

Jacob:  "Stink?  The makers of Axe Body Spray for Men beg to differ."

Edward:  "Whatevs.  Now go take Bella to a cold, cold mountaintop.  And try to keep your shirt on.  You're not stealing this movie from me, too."

Jacob:  "I promise nothing."

Jacob:  "I'll keep you warm, baby."

Bella:  "Well, since we're practically in Canada, it really wouldn't count, so..."

Edward:  "Hey!  Don't mind me!  I'll just freaking risk my afterlife while you may or may not make out with a dog!"

Victoria:  "Hey!  Edward!  Checkity-check it!  It's your reflection!  And I think I saw some hair gel behind that rooster cookie jar!"

Edward:  "The only thing I love more than gazing at my tousled locks is Bella.  Say good night, Betty.  I mean, Victoria.  Damn it, you're right, Jen - it IS confusing."

Me:  "I told you so."

Edward:  "Um, hi?  Kind of busy here."

Me:  "Right.  Have at it.  Sweep the leg, Johnny!" 

Edward:  "Victory!  And now, decapitation!"

Me:  "I paid seventy-four dollars for that doll.  Let's just say we beheaded her, alrighty?"

Edward:  "You, ma'am, are no Stephenie Meyer."

Me:  "Yeah, and yet I could write you into some really shitty fan fiction, so if you want to keep your virtue pal, you'll STFU."

Edward:  "Fine.  Are we done yet?"

Me:  "Almost."

 
Edward:  "Now there's nothing standing in the way of our wedding!!"

Bella:  "Yay."

Edward:  "You realize that means I'll take my pants off."

Bella:  "YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!OMG!!!1!!PONIES!!!ELEVENTY!!!1!!1WOOOOOOO!!!!  But wait... I wonder how Jake will feel about this?"

Edward:  "He's run away, so perhaps we'll never know..."

THE END

 

New New Moon

Setting:  Our kitchen, last night.  I'm accidentally burning the steaks while Fletch goes around opening windows to let the smoke escape.

Fletch:  So, are you ready for Friday?  You have everything together?

Me:  Yeah, I guess.  I don't really know what I have to get together, though.  I think I just need to show up, right?  Maybe get some popcorn and milk duds?

Fletch:  We'll need any new receipts you have for fourth quarter.

Me:  Why the hell would I need receipts to see the very first showing of New Moon on opening day?

Fletch:  Um, Jen... you understand we're meeting with our accountant at 11:00 on Friday, yes?  We've got two hours blocked off with him.

Me:  Wait, that's this Friday?  11/20 Friday?  New Moon Friday? 

Fletch:  Yes.

Me:  NOOOO!!!!!

* * *

So apparently I'm going to be busy being an adult on Friday instead of seeing the first showing of New Moon.  

However, if you're in the same boat, fear not for I have come up with a rather elegant solution to our dilemma.  Thus I present to you New Moon... the Jennsylvania edition.  (Beware, spoilers abound.)

* * *
The Cullen Family:  "Happy eighteenth birthday, Bella!"

Bella:  "Oh, dear - I seem to have given myself a paper cut.  Wait, everyone stop trying to kill me!  It's just a flesh wound!"

Edward:  "Well, shit."

Edward:  "I cannot be with you but I will not destroy your soul."

Bella:  "Huh?"

Edwards:  "It's over.  I'm Audi 5000."

Bella:  "Just because your family tried to kill me?  Oh, please, that happens at everyone's family gatherings.  Remind me to tell you about the Swan 2006 Arbor Day Massacre.  Wait, hey, DON'T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME, MISTER!"

Edward:  ***

Bella:  "I can't believe that motherfucker just walked away from me."

Bella:  "I'm probably going to need some elastic waist pants after this.  But I'll rally.  I'll totally rally.  I am woman, hear me roar!"

Bella:  "Yeah, I kind of didn't rally."

Jacob:  "I'm going to need Kleenex, four boxes of wine, and Meg Ryan's entire body of work on DVD, stat!"

Bella:  "Hey, Jacob... have you been working out?"

Bella:  "When I play with dangerous stuff, I can hear Edward's voice in my head, almost like he's standing behind me, surrounded by an iced tea pitcher.  Hey, you know what would kick ass?  Cliff diving."

Jacob:  "Do you see that bloodsucker saving you?  No.  It's me.  I saved you."

Bella:  "Do you suddenly feel the urge to have some soup?" 

Jacob:  "No, but here's a towel."

Jacob:  "So, let's totally live happily ever after now because, seriously?  Your old boyfriend was kind of a creepy stalker."

Bella:  "Well... okay.  You wanna play Grand Theft Auto?"

Jacob:  "Absolutely!"

Bella:  "It's not really the happily ever after I'd hoped for, but I guess it's fine."

 Victoria and Laurent:  "I'm sorry, but there are still 300 pages left in this damn book.  This ain't over."

Laurent and Victoria:  "End of the road, bitch."

Jacob:  "Run, Bella, run!"

Bella:  "I can't run!  They'll totally kill you!"

Jacob:  "Pfft."

Bella:  "I won't let you die!"

Jacob:  "Seriously, it's not an issue because I'm a..."

Jacob:  "... werewolf."

Bella:  "Cool."

 
Bella:  "Hey, Alice is back!"

Alice:  "I thought you were dead."

Bella:  "Nope."

Alice:  "You do have man-hands though."

Bella:  "Speak for yourself."

Alice:  "Oh, P.S. Edward's going to try and kill himself.  We've got to head to Italy.  I'll drive."

Alice:  "How do you feel about grand theft auto?"

Bella:  "It's my favorite game."

Alice:  "Sweet."

Bella:  "Hey, is Edward still trying to kill himself?"

Alice:  "Yep, he's meeting with the Volturi right now."

Bella:  "Who?"

Alice:  "The Italians."

Edward:  "I feel such sadness, delicious, delicious sadness."

The Volturi:  "Maybe you should take your shirt off."

Meanwhile, on the road to Volturra...

Bella:  "Ohmigod, we're going to be too late!"

Alice:  "I suddenly regret stopping to buy these snappy accessories."

Bella:  "Whew!  We're here!  Let me just dash through this fountain and save Edward."

Bella:  "Hey... s'up?"

Edward:  "Nothing... I was just fixing to take off my shirt.  And die.  But now that you're here, I shall do neither."

Bella:  "Damn."

Edward:  "Listen, the Volturi want to chat before we leave."

The Volturi:  "FYI, you kind of need to kill Bella or make her a vampire.  Your choice."

Bella:  "Which choice will get him to take his shirt off faster?"

Edward:  "Woo, that's a real puzzler.  I can't live with you but I can't live without you.  Maybe we should get the hell out of here and discuss it on the plane?"

Alice:  "Shall I bring my accessories?"

Edward:  "Naturally."

Edward:  "Will you marry me?"

Bella:  "Will you take your shirt off if I say yes?"

Edward:  "If I must."

Bella:  "Done."

Alice:  "So, yeah, I guess this worked out nicely for all involved and there are absolutely no loose ends.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have a wedding to plan.  I call maid of honor!"

Jacob:  "NOOOO!!!!"

The End

(until Eclipse and Breaking Dawn)

* * *

I guess the good news for me is that technically I can write off the action figure purchases now.

So there's that.