jennsylvania

Much Ado About A Suit (Or, Social Media, UR Doin It Wrong)

If I genuinely like something, I tell everyone. 

If I don't like something, I also tell everyone. 

Of course, in the age of social media, "tell everyone" translates to "post on Twitter and Facebook." 

Seems like lately whenever I get mad, companies offer me special privileges in the hope of my removing my negative commentary. 

Ironically, this also makes me mad.

When I express my displeasure with a service or a product, I'm not trolling for coupons or discounts (or a merchandise-based bribe) in exchange for shutting up.  I'm not trying to bully companies into giving me something I didn't pay for or haven't earned. 

When I bitch about my Dyson on Twitter, I don't want some free, random vacuum shipped to me by a PR flack in a week; I want the one I paid full price for to suck up this hairy mess right now.  I want the ability to express my momentary righteous indignation.   Sometimes I don't want a solution, I just want to be heard.

I also want to connect with others who've had similar experiences to verify that I'm not being an enormous brat.  For example, when American Airlines cancelled my Gold medallion status, I lost my shit about it over Twitter.  You'd have thought they shot my dog.  I was livid that I couldn't buy it back and fuming over a customer service rep I thought was rude.  

What made me feel better was finding out that the airline consistently applies their policies to everyone.  I didn't get what I wanted, yet they didn't lose my business, either.  The airline acted fairly and I have to respect that.    

I don't seek out reasons to post negative comments about what I buy; frankly, I don't have that kind of time.  If I use social media to complain, it's because said item or service failed to function/didn't possess the properties I paid for/wasn't delivered as promised in the first place, and not because I have my hand out. 

I'm bothered when I get comments saying, "You'd never post this if you didn't have an audience."  But that's not true.  I'd not hesitate to post my opinion if no one read my work.  Often, just getting it out is enough.  Yet the fact is, people do read me.  And if by offering a forum where other consumers can be heard, too, then where's the downside? 

What aggravates me is that companies should try to keep me happy not because I have a degree of social media resonance, but because I'm a loyal customer. 

I should be valued not because an audience subscribes to my feeds, but because out of all the businesses struggling to make it in this economy, I've chosen to give that specific company my hard-earned dollars.  

Recently, I had a small issue with an organization I've been buying from for more than 25 years.  (By the way, a quick word of advice for other retailers out there?  If I call your corporate 800 number, please note that I will absolutely go batshit, bug-fuck, ham-sandwich crazy if the customer service person interrupts and speaks over me while I'm trying to explain my situation.)  With one poorly handled phone call about a couple of bathing suits, my concern went from a minor annoyance to THE WORST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO ME. 

Okay, not really, but for about ten minutes, that was my perception.  And that's all the time it took to post a couple of angry status updates. 

In that ten minutes, this retailer managed to ruin a relationship that lasted a quarter of a century.  They lost my business for life.

When I took my problem to the internet, I found out I wasn't alone in my displeasure.  Many others had experienced the exact same thing.  I learned I wasn't being a brat; rather, I wasn't being appreciated for my patronage and that was bullshit. 

During SwimsuitGate 2011, someone on Facebook admonished me, saying that I was going to be responsible for hundreds of people losing their jobs and that I should grow up. 

Let's break this down, shall we?

I should shut up/grow up because the company didn't:

A) fulfill its promise to ship via my desired method.  I waived the free swimsuit shipping promo, instead choosing to pay $19 extra to insure that I'd receive my item from UPS and not the postal service.  However, the company used the postal service anyway, which resulted in my not receiving said suits because I'm pretty sure my postman drinks.  (That's really another story.)  The service rep argued that UPS indeed handled my order, except for having the postal service do the final leg of delivery.  To me, this is the crucial bit, since according to tracking, UPS was successful in getting my package to the post office where it promptly disappeared.  It's like saying the Titanic was really watertight until it sank.  Then the CSR fed me some line about "gas prices" but for $19 to ship two pounds of bathing suits less than one hundred and fifty miles, gas prices are not my problem. 

B) train the staff members to have the common sense to SHUT THEIR DAMN PIEHOLES while I registered a legitimate complaint about not receiving my items despite having paid a premium to do so.     

C) empower employees to assume ownership of problems and attempt to find a way to make me happy.  If they'd only said, "Listen, let us take your number.  We'll look into this and see what we can do," they'd have not only kept my business, but I'd have told everyone about the positive experience.  Instead, the supervisor rattled off a bunch of shipping numbers so that I could spend my day calling around to track the missing items when it wasn't me who lost them in the first place.  Oh, honey... no.

D) invest in their infrastructure.  When I called, the first customer service rep couldn't look up my order specifics because her "system had been down all day."  I guar-goddamn-tee you ten million IT salespeople have been to this company to sell system redundancy solutions specifically so this would never happen.  That a Fortune 100 company's solution was to tell me "you'll have to call when our systems are back up" is unacceptable.

I had no choice but to declare shenanigans.

Did I go straight from passive to aggressive on this call?

You betcha.

Did I get so shouty that the dog hid under my desk? 

Yep. 

Did I only reach a supervisor with system access once I threatened to post the entire interaction on a social media site? 

Uh huh. 

Am I proud of how I handled this? 

Not so much.

Eventually during the course of the call, I told them to cancel my order and only then did they come up with a solution, but it was too little, too late. 

Over the next few days, I received half a dozen calls from the head of the customer service department.  While I appreciate the attempt to address my anger, I suspect these efforts were more of the let's-stem-the-social-media-damage and less of the oh-shit-Jen's-been-shopping-here-since-she-got-her-first-credit-card-and-now-she's-upset variety. 

And that's not cool. 

Two weeks after I cancelled the transaction, a box containing my original order arrived.  I'm not sure how or why the suits got here, but they did.  The thing is, I really like what I'd selected, but I hope they last a while, because I'm never ordering from that company again.

That's not to say all retailers are "doing it wrong."  Companies who've consistently gotten it right for me are Zappos, Sephora, ProFlowers/Shari's Berries, eBay, Amazon, and L.L. Bean.  I have to mention L.L. Bean in particular because they used social media to very nicely talk me down from last winter's snit over the 10" shearling lined waterproof boots I wanted.  They explained how each pair was hand-sewn and even though said boots were in high demand, if they rushed them, the quality might suffer and they're not about to put their name on junk just to make a quick buck. 

Well played, L.L. Bean.  Well played. 

As I needed boots then and there, I had to order from Zappos.  But given Bean's response, I'm going to make sure to place my order early this year because I'd be crazy not to want such lovingly-crafted, water-tight footwear. 

I guess what I'm trying to say to retailers is this - we don't want it free.  We want it right.  No matter who we are. 

Remember... we are your customers, hear us roar.

Or, you know, read about it on Facebook.

Your call.

 

Your Opinion, Let Me Share It

So...

You all have some thoughts on the new cover.  A lot of thoughts.  For those of you who like it... cool!  Thank you!  

For those who don't, I get it.  I mean, I completely get it because your arguments were my arguments six months ago.  Why a photo?  It won't match the other covers on the shelf.  And why THAT photo?  It looks so YA.  People will think it's a book for kids.  And why hardcover?  I hate hardcover!  You can't take hardcover in the bath!

However, I'm now on board with everything because I've been privy to what went on behind the scenes.  And maybe those of you who don't dig it will hate it less if I walk you through the thought processes. 

The original intent was to do a graphic cover like the other books.  The art department worked for months trying to come up with an iconic image that would represent the contents.  They tried polos and socks and skirts and a ton of other plaid stuff and none of them looked right.  Since these are the exact same people who came up with my first three covers, I trusted them when they said they were struggling to create the right graphic and that maybe we should consider photography.  

Around this time the decision was made to publish this book in hardcover, even though it sold as a trade paperback.  I fought the change.  

Hard.  

I mean, every time bad economic news came out, I forwarded this info to my "people" arguing that the economy was in the shitter and that even I wouldn't pay an extra five bucks for my book.

But honestly?  Cost wasn't really my issue.  The truth is I was worried that what I'd written wasn't good enough to be published in hardcover.  I kept fighting, yet I made no headway.  

Finally it dawned on me that my publisher wasn't going to have a change of heart about the issue, so it was up to me to provide the kind of content that was worthy of its hardcover.  That's why I've been in such a lather about this particular book and this particular deadline.  (FYI?  Having a sinking house in the middle of all of this DID NOT HELP MATTERS.)  

I had to get the book to the point where I thought it was worthy, so not only did I write the entire thing, but then I tore it apart and rewrote it.  Twice.  And finally after months of work, I got it to the point where I believe it's worthy.  (Maybe this book wasn't as physically demanding as Such a Pretty Fat, but I guarantee you it was more mentally challenging.)

At last, I had the content I wanted... but there was still the issue of the cover.  I've been reminding myself that I hated the last cover, too, and yet it's been my most successful book to date.  

I guess the bottom line is that I have an awful lot of smart people behind me and their only job it is to sell books.  They keep telling me they love the cover.  And they've yet to let me down so I'm going to continue to defer to their judgment, despite my initial reservations.

Also?  I got a package from my editor on Friday.  She sent me the first batch of the paper book jackets that go over the hardcover.  When they fell out of the envelope, I gasped - not because I hated them, but because they were so much better than what I'd seen on my computer screen.

So maybe the argyle socks aren't officially plaid... but in the context of the actual paper cover, they sure are pretty.

Eat, Sleep, Pick Fights

My schedule for the last week and a half:

Eat, sleep, swim. 

Eat, sleep, write. 

Eat, sleep, write, watch Olympics. 

Eat, sleep, watch Olympics.

My productivity has dropped since opening ceremonies... like, a lot.  Sure, I've been attempting to churn out this book, but I keep finding myself lapsing into diatribes about how real sixteen year olds aren't missing baby teeth and how more sports should be performed on trampolines and what an excellent word "Velodrome" is (sounds like a futuristic breath mint, yes?) and why Speedos aren't the devil after all.

As part of my all-Olympic, all-the-time regimen, I was watching the interview with Michael Phelps last night and he brought up a point that made me shout, "He just ripped off my Women's Health article!"  Then it occurred to me he's been a world-class athlete for years and years, and not just since reading my story in the July/August issue.  And then I remembered they cut out that piece of advice, anyway.

(Brief aside for those who saw the interview: how cute is it that he's breaking records and winning medals but is still still compelled to check out his Facebook page?)

(Another brief aside: yes, I'm going to start a Facebook page again if/when I ever finish my deadline.) 

If you missed the interview because you were busy having a life (or possibly writing what someone has already paid you for in anticipation of your actually finishing it) and not just camping out in front of Olympic coverage all day, then you didn't see where Michael said he's not swimming against himself.  Rather, he always performs his best to show the nay-sayers they don't know what they're talking about.  He mentioned how Michael Jordan would manufacture an issue before games so he wasn't just playing, he was playing to beat whomever slighted him.  This is exactly the point I made in my article:

Finding a nemesis:  I finally learned to play to my greatest strength - a competitive nature.  Now any time I'm engaged in an activity, I quietly target one unsuspecting gym patron and watch to see whatever he or she is doing.  If my nemesis lifts seventy pounds, I try for eighty.  Should he walk on an incline of five percent, I try for seven.  If she rides the bike for forty minutes, I will do forty-five and I celebrate every time I beat her even though she has no clue we've been competing.  Childish?  Maybe.  Effective?  Absolutely.

Works nicely in many aspects of life, not just athletics.

When I went through my archived documents to find this, I ran across an opinion piece I did for Forbes.com last year.  (A reporter queried me and wanted to know if I had any thoughts about a life-coaching organization called Becoming Alpha.  Not surprisingly, I did.)  They only used a piece of what I wrote, but I'm reprinting the whole thing here because it remains one of my favorite things I've ever written:

I'm naturally quizzical of an enterprise with an admission price of $10,000, particularly when that enterprise involves Life Coaching, an industry lacking any sort of regulatory standard.  I'm even more wary when said enterprise claims the ability to teach people to become Alpha Males (and Females.)  And I'm downright suspicious when the company offers no credentials about its instructors on the website, its main marketing tool. 

Seems like if their whole business model involves using coaches to affect results, they might want to mention why they're qualified.

Unless, of course, they're full of shit.

Enter BecomeAlpha, a “high-level life/business coaching for individuals and businesspeople interested in learning ways to legitimately and significantly increase their business's profitability, their salary at their company, or their ability to climb the proverbial corporate ladder.”  Essentially these mysterious coaches teach people how to tap into their inner Alpha Male which, ostensibly, will lead them to ultimate success, profitability, and hot and cold running Brazilian supermodels twenty-four hours a day.  (OK, I may have made that last part up, but it's certainly implied in the press release.)

BecomeAlpha claims to be a hard-core, Marine-style boot camp for individuals who are tired of complacency and mediocrity.  They say the only way to become an Alpha is to do something about it, rather than doing nothing, which... OK, sure.  That makes sense.  Doing stuff beats not doing stuff.  For example, the guy who made piles of money by inventing the knit beer can cap sat around and emptied a lot of Miller High Lifes first.  His fortune only came when he said, “Hey, what if I added some yarn?”

BecomeAlpha instructs students on tapping into their uber-selves through a variety of workshops and conference calls.  Among other classes, they teach sessions on hypnosis.  Funny, but when my father discussed his Marine boot camp experience, he talked a lot about the 26-mile road marches on Parris Island, but never mentioned the hypnotherapy.  (To be fair, maybe Big Daddy missed Hypnosis Day because he was busy fighting a war with the North Koreans.)  BecomeAlpha also provides coursework on Intimacy and Seduction, crucial in any boardroom situation, don't you think?  (Ten bucks says they advise you pull your spouse's hair during the act of love, which may be sexy the first time, but will likely land you a spot on the couch with the dog if you try it twice.)

My issue with this particular business is their assertion you can't achieve success (and supermodels) until you're an Alpha and you can't become an Alpha until they teach you confidence.  The rub is that confidence can't be taught – it can only be achieved, say, by climbing a mountain or perhaps putting $10,000 towards an MBA program.  Although I do agree confidence is important, it's not the only part of the success equation.  Have all the bravado you'd like, but it's for naught if you can't back up what's coming out of your blow-hole.  Being competent in your profession is key and this isn't something you can learn in a classroom full of strangers from dozens of different industries.  Again, if you need to drop ten-large to hear you should be reading trade journals, becoming an Alpha is the least of your problems. 

Being an Alpha and being successful are not mutually exclusive.  Just look at Bill Gates – no one can say he's an Alpha, yet he seems to have done nicely for himself anyway.  Plus, definitions of success vary wildly from person to person.  For some it might be leading the pack financially, but for many that might entail the freedom to leave the office at 4:30 in order to make it their child's T-ball practice.

The bottom line is I don't believe it's possible to change who you are at your core, and if you could, it would be through intensive personal self-discovery and achievement, rather than being coached in a classroom full of people who are precisely as willing as you to part with $10,000 USD.      

On their popular television show, Penn and Teller summed up Life Coaching best in one word – bullshit. 

And I couldn't agree more.   

 

I'm going to amend this now by saying if you want to Become Alpha?  Swim faster.

I'm Digging It

Busy writing day today, but quickly I wanted to share a list of things I am digging.

First, Paul W. in Australia created this cover for men who want to read my book on the bus without underpants.  (Without the underpants on the cover, I mean.  Not personally sans pants.)

(click to embiggen)

Seriously, is this not THE AWESOME?

* * *

I am currently also digging:

Jess Riley's Driving Sideways.  I read it last fall in order to give a cover quote, but I'm re-reading it now and still can't get over how good it is.

* * *

And speaking of sparkly sandals, these jelly shoes (I know!) have captured my heart.

(They're way more shiny in real life.)

* * *

I'm always excited when a grocery store-type brand comes out with something salon-quality.

My current manicure (in Orange You Cute?) went on more smoothly and has outlasted anything I've used previously by Essie and OPI.

* * *

Sloane Crosley, author of I Was Told There'd Be Cake.

Yes, I've already explained how much I liked her book.  But I didn't know how charming she was until I watched her listen politely when my husband trapped her for twenty minutes, sharing his suspicions of a pending zombie war.  The best part?  When he asked if she were a member of the NRA, she sweetly replied, "Oh, no.  We're Jews." 

* * *

What I'm not digging:

Having fans drive in from all over the Midwest and then not be able to get into our session due to space constraints.  (You guys who couldn't get in - I'm so sorry!  We were led to believe there was a contingency plan in place.)

* * *

The Biblical weather causing me to go 0/15 in terms of my hair looking good at events.

* * *

Deadlines, I'm really not digging them.  But I've got to honor them.

* * *

So, what are you digging?

Or Maybe I Should Just Stop Doing Meth Before Bed?

Many authors are inspired by their dreams, creating interesting characters and dramatic plot points courtesy of their subconscious.  Sometimes when they're writing and they can't quite get the story to flow, they'll go to sleep and their dreams will provide crystal clarity as to exactly what should happen next. 

You know why I don't write fiction? 

Because my dreams are boring. 

Almost every night as I lay me down to sleep, I end up with dreams that are a complete rehash of my day.  If I spend the day gardening, I will tend that same green patch in my dreams.  If I'm online a lot, my dreams will feature Internet Explorer and familiar websites.  If I watch television before bed, I'll dream about Survivor.  Maybe my subconscious will add a small plot twist, like instead of Jonathan getting airlifted out three damn episodes into the Fans vs. Favorites season, Parvati will get eaten by a Bengal tiger  - oh, wait, that's a fantasy, not a dream - but that's generally about as creative as I get.

However, when I'm under a lot of stress, my subconscious will cut me a small break and not make me rehash everything that's making me anxious.  Instead, I'll have funny dreams.  And I must be all freaked out right now, because for the past few days I've woken up to the sound of my own laughter.

Here's what I can remember...

DREAM ONE - THE POWER OF CITIBANK COMPELS YOU

My brother is forcing me to be a member of the Road Rules/Real World Gauntlet cast.  I do NOT want to participate, but he makes me do it anyway because he's a jerk even in my dreams.  I keep bitching that I'm too old for this kind of stuff, but my brother says no one's as old as Big Beth and if she's still doing challenges, then I can't pull the age card.  (Anyone who watches fine, fine MTV reality programming will understand this.  The rest of you might want to skip to the second, less esoteric dream.)

There are about sixteen of us left in the Gauntlet competition and we're paired up in male/female teams of two, placed in line chronologically.  I'm matched with Jon from the LA season of The Real World and I'm pissed that not only do I have to do a stupid physical challenge, but also because Jon and I are the oldest group.  I'm still all, "I'm 40 - why am I on MTV?"

I stand in line and fidget, totally dreading my turn in the wrestling challenge.  (Which is taking place in my parents' old garage, BTW.)  I'm not afraid of getting beaten, I just that I don't want to make the effort.  I'm tired and lazy and old.  As I explain to Jon, "Wrestling is really hard work."  I whine, I moan, and I complain to the point my brother decides that I have a bad attitude not because I'm 40 and still doing reality television, but because I've been possessed by a demon.  So, he yanks me out of the competition.

We go inside and he orders me to get into bed in my old room while he consults the Yellow Pages to find a priest specializing in demon possession.  He finds one rather quickly and the priest comes over bearing a cross, holy water, and a laminated pamphlet with pricing on it.  My brother can choose between single, weekly, or monthly sessions.  He tells the priest, "She's REALLY possessed.  Let's do the six month package for $279."

Then my brother gets my purse and grabs MY credit card to pay for the priest's services. 

OK, this? 

Right here? 

Is the exact kind of dick move my brother would pull in real life.

The priest takes out a portable credit card verification machine and he tries to run my card.  But every time he attempts to punch in the numbers, the demon inside of me mixes them up.  The bank name on the card keeps changing, too.  The more the priest tries to run it, the more the numbers change 'til the point where they perpetually flip, like that big National Debt clock.  The scene gets tense and my brother and the priest grow angrier and angrier.

So there I am, strapped to the carved cherry wood twin bed of my childhood, wearing a Laura Ingalls Wilder-type nightgown while my brother and the priest shout at me to knock it off so they can run the damn card already. 

My response?

"I guess I don't like to be exercised OR exorcised."

(And that's when my laughter woke me up.)

* * *

DREAM TWO - REDUCE, REUSE, RETARD

I'm in a television studio, dressed in a lovely organic burlap suit, being interviewed on a national morning show.  I'm there because I've written a new book about saving the environment and I'm offering viewers on some handy tips. 

(I wish I'd written them down as soon as I woke up but I didn't, so here are the three I remember.)

Take Every OTHER Breath - Americans are the largest consumers of fresh air on the planet.  If our citizens would stop sucking so damn much wind and only take breaths when we feel like we're about to pass out, we could reduce our carbon dioxide emissions by 60%.

Recycle EVERYTHING - So many of us choose to cremate out pets when they pass on.  But cremation puts pollutants into the air.  So when Fluffy crosses over to The Great Beyond, why not choose taxidermy instead?  Honor her memory by keeping her around forever.  (At this point during the show, I demonstrate how to make an attractive end table out of a stuffed cat and a piece of wood and how to convert your big dog into a standing coat rack.)

Landfills Are for Suckers - We have to stop putting all our garbage in the ground because it will never decompose.  Instead, why not access Nature's Toilet?  My solution is throwing all our trash into the river because everyone knows that eventually every river feeds into the ocean.  Seventy percent of the earth is covered by water - let's use it to store our refuse so we can save our valuable landfills for public parks instead.

And then I end my interview with my book's tag line: 

"If you want to reduce your carbon footprint, stop wearing such floppy carbon shoes."

* * *

Fletch always said if he could explore my subconscious he'd need to take a flashlight... and a handgun.

Six Days, Six Words

Jesus Christ, am I weary. 

I've been ridiculously, obscenely busy for the past six days.  That's not necessarily a bad thing because I thrive under stress and I'm much better off fully occupied than having big chunks of time on my hands.  However, this website (and really, most of my career) is tangible proof that a bored Jen = a Jen who spies and picks fights and documents the results... so there's that. 

In case you're curious, in the last six days I've:

Gone to a radio station and recorded an essay slated to run on a national program. (Side note:  Am likely the only person to ever leave an NPR affiliate, get in her car, and flip on Rush Limbaugh without even an hint of irony.)

Written an article for a major magazine.

Been interviewed by a paper of record. (Not THE paper of record, but close enough for horseshoes or hand grenades.)

Answered questions for an upcoming television appearance.

Lest you think I'm too impressed with myself, please note that none of the above are sure things.  I can't confirm any of this stuff will run until I see it/hear it on the radio, internet, or newsstand. 

In the last six days, I've also:

Struggled to make the basement smell less like pee. (FAIL.)

Done ridiculous stuff to my body every day at the gym for at least two hours a shot.  (Did you know this old thing could run a mile for the very first time in its 40 years of existence?  TWICE?  I certainly didn't.)  (Nor did my cardiovascular system because hit 200 BPM.)  (What's nice is my trainer ALSO almost had a heart attack when she saw my pulse rate.)

Learned why you don't consume diet tea ordered off the internet.  (UPDATE:  Point of clarification - the TnTea described last week is still awesome.  The troublesome party is the Three Ballerinas Dieter's Tea I recently got.  Trust me, DO NOT WANT.) 

Watched the series finale of Rock of Love with WAY too many invested emotions.

Called the police on my new neighbor.  (What was I supposed to do when I saw a stranger climbing under my car with a Zippo?)  (Apparently he lost the key to his new house somewhere on the curb and was trying to find it with only the wan incandescence of a lighter.  For four hours.  So far I am unimpressed with his problem-solving skills.)

Fortunately, this is the year Fletch and I finally got our heads out of our asses and had our taxes done by a CPA so that was one less worry.  (Another side note:  I just got back from the post office and watched a man do his entire tax return from the counter over by the packing boxes.  And not the EZ form either - I'm talking the one with all the schedules and complex equations.)

Point?  Our CPA is so, so nice and when he came over Sunday, we found out it was his birthday and he laughed about never, ever getting to celebrate it on the actual day.  I felt bad not having any cake on hand (you might be surprised at how often I DO have birthday cake in the house) and I wanted to have something nice for him when he stopped by with our forms last night.  I came up with a plan and started to run out the door but realized I need to let Fletch know when I'd be back.  This is what I wrote:

Anyway, that got me thinking about this thing I've seen and heard of in a couple of places lately.  Long ago, Ernest Hemingway bet someone he could write a life's story in six words.  A fellow bar patron took that wager and ended up owing Papa a ten spot for writing:  "For sale, baby shoes, never worn." 

So this six-word cupcake note?  Sums up my life pretty damn well.  But then, right before I left for the post office today, I came up with an even better six-word-story when I realized the fruit flies in the hallway were coming from the banana I'd forgotten in my handbag:

My new six words?  "Have officially turned into my mother."

And now while I catch my breath from a very long week, tell me your story in six words.

UPDATE:  There's a whole book of six word memoirs by famous people!  Sweet!

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...)

Like a Dominos Pizza, Only More Profane

I have a spare half hour before I have to get to the gym and that's not enough time to write a cohesive blog entry with a clearly defined beginning, middle, and end. 

However, thirty minutes is PLENTY of time to throw some random shit up on this page about what's been making me smile this week.

* * *

SMILE:  The Onion's headline Kitchen Floor Conflict Intensifies as Rival Housecats Claim Same Empty Bag.

(But I just wouldn't be me if I didn't include the reverse of what's making me unhappy.)

FROWN:  This same kind of conflict taking place at 4:00 AM with my very shout-y cats.  On my face.

* * *

SMILE:  The new season of America's Next Top Model, the Hey, The CW Finally Gave Us a Budget! cycle.

FROWN:  Not understanding when the Somali model talked about having her, um, downstairs ritually mutilated and thus Googling the images.  (Seriously, that wasn't a lunar eclipse last night - it was the physical manifestation of all my screaming.)

* * *

SMILE:  Reading about how Baltimore is trying to keep the stray pet population down through the use of the "neuter scooter."   

FROWN:  That the bulk of the strays are pit bulls.

* * *

SMILE:  New books from all my favorite authors are coming out this spring/summer, e.g. Certain Girls by Jennifer Weiner, Love the One You're With by Emily Giffin, One Fifth Avenue by Candace Bushnell, Chasing Harry Winston by Lauren Weisberger, Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella, The Beach House by Jane Green, The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death by Laurie Notaro, and This Charming Man by Marian Keyes.

FROWN:  That Such a Pretty Fat will be competing against the above.

* * *

SMILE:  The fresh batch of Botox has finally kicked in and suddenly I look 30 again!

FROWN:  Now it's kind of impossible to frown OR scowl.  Instead, I must express my displeasure with a raised, clenched fist.

And... there you go.  A page full of random shit in thirty minutes or less.   

Gone!

Looks like someone's Jen Commandments Rules of Dating have been removed from MySpace.

Thanks for the head's up and I totally have your back next time, Internet.

(It's Mission Accomplished so I'm opening comments again.  No dog-piling on the underpants model, alrighty?)

It's Like Deja Vu All Over Again*

UPDATE:

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

* * *

Today's edition of OH, HELL NO news, linked to by Jezebel.com and discovered by alert reader Kim, comes to you from the lovely underpants model/Brody Jenner paramour Cora Skinner:

Please enjoy these selections from Cora Skinner's Eight Rules for Dating

2.  I am not a great listener, although I might appear to be.  Sure, I may be nodding and saying, "Mmm hmm," but usually I'm just trying to think of a way to steer the conversation back to being about me.

8.  There will be occasions when you breathe too loudly for my liking.  Ditto on the chewing.

Funny, right? 

Yeah, that's what I thought when I wrote them.  (See Bitter Is the New Black, page 160 for a complete list of the Jen Commandments.)

However, before we go all Dick Cheney on this girl, let's give her the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe she's a nice kid and a fan and doesn't understand the legality of attributing copyrighted work.  I've pinged her on MySpace and asked her to either credit me or remove the text.

And if she doesn't, then maybe we'll have a grudge-match on pay-per-view. 

(FYI, smart money's on the fat, bitter, forty-year-old.)   

*Which is a Yogi Berra quote.  Which I mention because I don't swipe other people's words.

On Notice

I just found the Stephen Colbert "On Notice" Generator via someone's blog.  I can't remember whose exactly, which is a shame because it's a clever blog and I'd like to give it proper due.  (A drawback of using Google Reader and subscribing to every post that looks interesting is all posts are formatted the same, which is why I opt to only allow the first paragraph to be shown because if you're going to be inspired by something I wrote, then damn it, I want you to remember it came from me because I'm picky like that.)

Anyway, I thought the notice board was hysterical and I wanted to make my own but when I tried I realized I couldn't just list a single word or phrase because brevity?  Not my strong suit.  In my mind if one word = good, a hundred words = SO MUCH BETTER. 

The thing is, I'm putting Fletch on notice.  However, I don't want to just do so and leave my meaning open to interpretation because the Internet tends to jump to a whole lot of wrong conclusions, e.g. when Dooce got a new puppy a few weeks ago and ten million commenters lost their minds because they wrongly assumed the death in her family she mentioned was that of her primary (and highly photogenic) dog, Chuck.  The fact I quietly freaked out myself over the fate of Chuck is neither here nor there because at least I didn't actually post a comment about it and add to the fray.

Point is even though I'm putting Fletch on notice, the state of my marriage is just ducky, thanks. 

And now, without any more extraneous explanation, here are my who, whats, and whys of those on notice.

FLETCH - I'm happy to share any and all of the bath products I buy, but when I spend thirty four goddamed dollars on a tub of Bliss Warming Rosemary and Eucalyptus Salt Scrub and I leave it in the shower, only accessing a drop and only on special occasions and definitely only with dry hands and a salt-brush as per the instructions, count on me being very unhappy when you plunge your damp paw into it, slathering twenty-five dollars worth all over your ass and in so doing, getting water in the container, thus causing the scrubby grains to liquefy and turn to pleasantly scented, completely ineffectual blue fluid.  Granted, you offered to buy me more, and yes, I purchased it with your money in the first place.  Regardless, I want to exfoliate RIGHT NOW and I can't, hence you're on notice.

MY DOCTOR - Contrary to your belief, I do not make up maladies just so I can come to your office, pay you twenty five dollars, and spend thirty minutes in a waiting room filled with nothing but flu germs and six month old copies of ESPN magazine.  Further, if I can actually see my glands when I look in the mirror, then in my mind THIS IS A PROBLEM.  I'm pretty sure my neck should not have buttresses.  And why is it such a freaking challenge for you to pick up a prescription pad?  Why so stingy with the pills?  It's not like you're paying for them.  Here's a hint - GIVE ME DRUGS AND I WILL GO AWAY.  Also, I hate that I have to see YOU, anyway.  I love my old doctor who used to work in your office before she gave birth, which leads me to the second part of my this particular notice which is even though I think being a stay-at-home mom is about the best thing in the world you can do for your kids and totally honorable, if you provide a valuable, difficult-to-replace service to me, say as a primary care physician or colorist, then I'm going to have to ask you to sign a chastity pledge at the beginning of our business relationship because I am TIRED, TIRED, TIRED of all the talented people getting pregnant, quitting their jobs, and lavishing their skill and attention on some ungrateful BABY when I am perfectly willing to pay you Fletch's good money for the services you used to so competently render.

THE GROSS GUY BEHIND ME IN LINE AT TARGET LAST NIGHT - You were buying meat-free corn dogs, a six pack of Sam Adams, and a box of thirty-six magnum condoms.  I know WAY TOO MUCH about your weekend plans/lifestyle right now.

BRITNEY SPEARS - Can you just stay home for one night?  Please?  If you need something to do there (other than hold your children hostage) maybe you could buy a copy of Guitar Hero or something?  Seriously, I am so very tired to tuning into FOX for primary election results and instead hearing about your latest escapades.  Plus, WE ALL KNOW YOU'RE NOT BRITISH, SO PLEASE STOP TALKING WITH THAT STUPID ACCENT.  We will tolerate that shit from Madonna, but you, young lady, are no Madonna.  Also, I am burning WAY too much gray matter trying to figure out the deal with your new, married paparazzo boyfriend Adnan.  There's a part of me that wonders if he's going to go the way of the Federline, actually proving himself to be mildly decent and self-aware and, like, I wonder if maybe he's covered you for so long he actually cares about your well-being and is looking out for your best interests.  More than likely he's just going to sell some gynecologic-quality snapshots of you in the near future, but because I've been diverting so much thought to figuring it out, I no longer remember how to drive a stick-shift.  Thanks a lot.  Also?  Please stop shopping at gas stations, unless you find one that sells Guitar Hero, in which case, pick it up, take it home, and don't come out until you can play Rock You Like a Hurricane.

Ahem.

I think I'm done now.

OK, now I'm done.

Resolve THIS

Dear Everyone in the Entire Fucking Universe,

This is your last warning to stop asking me about my New Year's resolutions. 

Maybe I could understand your posing this question if we were actually acquainted.  But if your job is to, say, bag my groceries or make sure the check I deposit gets credited to my account, then this information is none of your goddamned business and is certainly not small-talk fodder.

The thing is, resolutions are rarely about what we already find kind of awesome about ourselves, like I resolve to continue to be a great parent, or I resolve to continue to visit my senile grandma in the nursing home three times a week or I resolve to keep adopting third world babies. 

(OK, maybe just Angelina Jolie on that last one.)

Point is, resolutions generally entail what we don't like about ourselves, as in I'm too fat or I'm disorganized or my spending is out of control.  Therefore, when you, a perfect stranger, ask me about my resolutions, you're basically requesting I lay all my flaws bare and I think it's incredibly rude and presumptive, especially when you're in no position to help me achieve whatever it is I resolve to do.

So, going forward, if you ask me what my New Year's resolutions are, I'm not going to give you the bullshit I resolve not to make any resolutions! answer.  Instead, I'm going to tell you this:

I resolve to be self-aware enough to spot potential problems within myself and to begin to work on them immediately, without a making a public announcement or waiting to start the improvements on an entirely arbitrary date.

Happy New Year, and yes, I do want my milk in a bag.

Best,

Jen

P.S.  Feel free to steal this quote when someone asks you about your resolutions. 

This Turf War Is Brought to You by the Walt Disney Corporation

There's a turf war being fought in my neighborhood between rival gangs. 

This escalation has caused both sides to step up their tagging efforts, most of which has taken place on city-owned garbage cans, which... whatever.  If these idiots want to posture over who's really in charge of the mean streets of Bucktown by marking up containers full of used coffee filters, chicken bones, and bags of soiled cat litter, then have it.  (Personally, I'd find it much more useful if they acted like proper neighborhood warlords and I'd happily pay a small protection fee if they'd force service professionals to honor their tree-trimming appointments and got pizzas to be delivered more quickly.) 

(But maybe that's just me.) 

(Yes, the tree-trimmers are three hours late today - how did you know?)

What gets me are the names of these new gangs staking claim.  Gone are the tags from fearsome sounding groups such as the Bloods and the Crips.  (Most often, I see these kids on MTV award shows and on HBO specials, leading me to believe they're off the streets due to landing development deals with CAA.)  Around here, I never see anything from chillingly-named gangs such as the Vice Lords or the Latin Kings or the Insane Gangster Satan Disciples. 

OK, really? 

Insane Gangster Satan Disciples? 

Now THAT'S a gang name!  You could not evoke a more sinister image than a bunch of crazy-ass thugs with no concept of right or wrong running around committing mayhem in the name of the devil!  They sound fucking terrifying, don't they?  That is some Judgment Night shit there, people.  Hey, Insane Gangster Satan Disciples?  Major snaps to your Creative Director. 

Anyway, this is why I have to laugh whenever I see the new tags around here.  Care to know who's duking it out in my 'hood right now? 

The Spanish Lords?

The Insane Orquestra Albany?

The Almighty Imperial Gangsters?

The Insane Deuces?

No.

The Goof Troop and The Loony Birds

Seriously, you can find more hair-raising names in a freaking Harry Potter book.  Ravenclaws?  Dementors?  Death-eaters?  Horcruxes?  Basilisks?  Come on! 

Although, to be fair maybe the Loony Birds and Goof Troopers really are all blood-thirsty and bad-ass and frightening and they chose innocuous-sounding names because of the irony factor.  And yet these names give me a real High School Musical vibe and I half expect them to work out their differences... through dance. 

(I'll keep you all posted if a Michael Jackson video breaks out on my street.)

Sweet Jen L's

We need to discuss a very important topic today and the conclusions we draw may well divide us.

"Like what, Jen?" you ask.

"Peace?"  "Politics?"  "Philosophy?"

No... today we need to talk about cupcakes.

(As a caveat, I'm not a cupcake aficionado like either of these gals.  However, I'm a fat person with a serious carbohydrate jones and I know what I like, thus I'm qualified to direct this discussion.) 

After the Whole Foods debacle, I decided to get cupcakes in lieu of a cake proper.  Since I had the time and it was my birthday, I figured I was obligated to purchase the finest cupcakes available.  I did a search on Yelp.com and fellow Chicagoans recommended Sweet Mandy B's, a twee little bakery in Lincoln Park. 

So, I set off on Mission Cupcake and drove about ten minutes from my house.  I pulled up and got to park right out front (bonus points!) and I began to enter the pastel storefront.  However, a jackass dashed in the door right before I was able to grab the knob.  This man appeared to have come directly from the movie Wall Street with his slicked-back hair, shiny suspenders, and manic energy.  While I seethed about his rudeness, he kept bounding back and forth between display cases and offering a constant stream of persiflage. 

"You know, you guys have the best cupcakes in the city.  I mean it.  Yours?  Totally primo.  And you know other bakeries are trying to do what you do?  And you know what?  They're just copying.  You guys are the original.  You guys are the best.  And you know what?  No one else does stuff like this."

I'm not sure if he was high on Bolivian marching powder or sugar, but I do know after two seconds in his presence, I wanted to kick him in the throat.  Also, dude?  They're FUCKING CUPCAKES.  Sweet Mandy B's did not INVENT cupcakes.  Cupcakes existed LONG BEFORE THIS PLACE OPENED.  For God's sake, I clearly recall bringing this exact substance to school thirty years ago because it was my birthday.  And if my mom invented the cupcake, then someone needs to cut her a check.

Anyway, Gordon Gekko bought a giant stack-o-cakes and eventually paid and got out of the way and I finally got a good look at the cupcake selection.  And can I tell you this?

NOT IMPRESSED. 

They appeared to be garden-variety cupcakes, neither large nor small.  They had the homemade look of imperfection - they were uneven, with parts of the baked cake spilling over the sides.  Strike one.  If I'm paying $2/cake, they should be perfectly uniform and I don't give a shit if it looks like they came from a commercial bakery. 

Anyway, I picked out six cakes - one lemon, one orange, one chocolate/chocolate iced, one red velvet with cream cheese frosting, one golden with chocolate icing, and one golden with pink icing.  The whole time I was making my selection, I was also being swarmed by small flying insects.  (I did ask if I could get one "without gnats" and the counter person said none of them had nuts.  Strike two.)

I paid for my cupcakes and the cashier handed me my box.  I ran the rest of my glamorous birthday errands (dropping off dry cleaning, buying dog food, mailing bills) and didn't crack open the box until I got home for I am a heroic model of self-control. Then I couldn't figure out which one I wanted, so I took bites out of the lemon, the orange, and the golden/pink.  (Perhaps I spoke a bit soon about my heroic self-control.)

Again?  NOT IMPRESSED.

Here's my problem - cupcakes should be dense, moist, and richly flavored and the frosting should be light and buttery.  Frosting is supposed to begin to melt when it touches the heat of your lips.  These cakes were dry and airy and they were covered in a thick, super-sugary confection I could use to respackle the wall next to my shower where there's water damage. 

In my opinion, cupcakes should make you ache for a glass of milk, not a toothbrush.  A good cupcake is ALL ABOUT THE CAKE.  The frosting should just be (forgive me) the icing on the cake.  Plus, the taste of these particular cakes wasn't anything I couldn't achieve with a box of Duncan Hines and some flavored extract.  (However, we are talking about cupcakes so it's not like they were bad.  They just weren't what I wanted or expected.)

So, here are my questions for today:

1)  For the local people - where should I go for cupcakes around here?

2)  For everyone else, what constitutes a good cupcake for you?  Is the light cake/heavy frosting what most people want?  Is there a variety I should seek, e.g. "You haven't lived until you tried a coconut/eggnog/Chai tea cupcake."

3)  If I wanted to buy the world's finest cupcake, where would I go?  (And are they available online?)

Discuss.

P.S.  Yes, I did consume a cupcake while writing this post.  I had the red velvet one.  It was better in terms of density and flavor, but again, nothing I couldn't achieve at home.

Because I Just Read the Media Bistro Newsletter

OK, I swear I'm not trying to stir shit up, but can anyone explain this impending writers' strike to me?  I've been reading everything I can about it and I've yet to either understand the problem or feel any compassion for the writers. 

(FYI, I'm about to spout off about this strike, yet I'm willing to alter my opinion if someone can please articulate why I should be on the writers' side.  But for now, I'd like Ronald Reagan to return from the grave and fire all their asses like so many ungrateful air traffic controllers.) 

Here's some more background on the issues, taken from an article written by Michael Cieply of the New York Times:

Two weeks ago, guild members authorized a walkout at their leaders’ discretion. Writers were not ordered to stop work immediately on Thursday, the first day a strike could be called. But the vote opened the way for what could become the entertainment industry’s first shutdown since 1988, when writers struck for five months, and Teamsters and other film workers staged a shorter strike.

This time, writers and producers are separated by differences over payments for the use of programs distributed through new media like the Internet and cellphones, and conflicting demands for a change in payments for the reuse of movies and TV shows on DVDs and elsewhere.

Wednesday’s meetings followed more than a week of jostling, during which producers and writers took steps toward agreement on issues like pension and health fund contributions, and the provision of first-class plane tickets for writer travel.

Earlier, the producers withdrew a contentious demand that residuals be paid only after they had recovered the cost of movies and programs. Writers made no matching step, leading to a standoff that persisted this week.

I'm sorry, but are there any authors and trying-to-be-writers out there LAUGHING THEIR FUCKING ASSES OFF RIGHT NOW? 

My, goodness, Guild Writers, I'm so sorry you have to travel business-class!  The horror!  Perhaps you'd rather build your career by driving three hours round trip in a six year old Nissan Xterra (that smells like dog) in order to attend a signing where four people show up, none of whom actually buy your book and all of whom brought their own manuscripts for you to critique.

And really?  Better health care and a pension?  As an author, I have health care and a pension. 

Because I married someone with insurance and I started a Roth IRA. 

Also, I don't get the whole digital download thing - I mean, aren't these guys technically working for an employer and thus have traded the rights to their work in exchange for a salary?  What am I missing here?

Speaking of salary, one of my buddies just took a meeting at a movie studio and learned the starting salary for TV writers is $200K.  To be fair, she also heard these Guild writers are treated really badly and people yell at them all time and there's no guarantee their shows will make it a full season. 

Again, WOW. 

That sounds WAY worse than temping for $12/hour or waiting tables while trying desperately to write and sell your own book.

I'd never claim there's no value to what these Hollywood writers bring to the table because that totally discounts how I make my living.  And personally, I'd like to buy ponies for everyone who came up with the brilliant dialog on Veronica Mars.  Conversely, have you seen Carpoolers?  Or are you now dead because killing yourself seemed like a more attractive option than ever watching another episode?

I'm just saying that without proper explanation I can't empathize with Guild members, especially when I know so many talented writers, professional and amateur, who'd not only kill for this kind of opportunity but would also knock that ball out of the fucking park.

Anyway, end of rant. 

So, now's your chance to either explain why I'm wrong, or... um... fly me out to Hollywood to discuss a temporary staff assignment.

(Business class is just fine.)