jennsylvania

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.)

Excellent News!

Alternative title to this post? 

Fire Your Creative Director Because the Serious Message You're Trying to Communicate Almost Caused Me to Rear-End the Bus, What With All the Laughing

"If only they'd bring back the McRib, my life would be complete."

The Audacity of Hate

Who likes hate mail?

I do, I do!

Here's an absolute gem from today's mailbag:

Dear Jennifer,

I enjoyed your first "literary effort" a great deal although the astericks (sic - I think she means quotation marks) (and possibly a different spelling) got a bit annoying, I do realize that's part of your (sic) "schtick."  Naturally, I purchased your follow up and quite frankly was instantly turned off by the Fox "News" and Sean Hannity ("Sean Insanity" as I refer to him) references.  The final nail in the coffin though, was the part where you are on the bus and pull the Ann Coulter ("Man Coulter" imho) out of your tote bag.  My limit with you particular sensibilities was reached and I didn't even bother to use the drop box at the library (as a donation.)  It went right into the garbage compacter (sic) (to make certain it was good and truly crushed and destroyed.)

I feel bad for you.  You seemed like someone cool to hang out with, fun to read, etc...

Mare

My response?

You'll be missed.  "Not."

And then I laughed myself into an asthma attack and made some waffles.

Later, after I finished breakfast, I began to really think about the contents of this note as it relates to my writing.  In Bright Lights, Big Ass, it's true, I do mention I'm conservative.  And I mention I like FOX, Sean, and Ann because I do like them.  Rush, too.  Which in no way implies I hold every single thing they say to be God's Own Truth. 

Why? 

Because I'm capable of critical thinking and drawing my own conclusions based on material presented.   And because I can read and enjoy something without having to be in complete conceptual agreement.

What gets me about Mare's email is I go to great lengths to scrub my writing of conservative commentary.  I respect my readers and I'm well aware many of them have Obama 08 stickers on the back of their cars. 

(And that's pretty cool.  It's exciting to see Americans so damn fired up about a candidate, regardless of whether or not that politician reflects my views.) 

Speaking of my views, I'm extraordinarily careful not to touch on polarizing topics such as terrorism, gun control, Social Security, etc.  Yeah, there are venues where I express my political ideology, but my books aren't one of them.  I'd rather share the stuff that unites us, like our collective fear of taking our pants off in front of medical professionals or why our grocery stores play so damn much Journey.  And, please, the most political among us have been able to set aside differing opinions and enjoy each other's company, e.g. Tip O'Neill and Ronald Reagan routinely getting together for cold drinks and story-telling even after the most bloody battles on the House floor. 

For Mare to have such a violent reaction at my opposing views is just kind of... ignorant.  Especially when she never even heard (a) what that opinion entails or (b) the thought process behind it.  That'd be like me dismissing her because she sells 3M window film (note:  please refrain from using a Google-stalkable address when sending hate mail) or loathing anyone who doesn't eat waffles.

Were I to limit my exposure to those who exclusively shared my ideals, then the only person I'd ever talk to would be my husband.  As much as I love him, I'd be missing out on knowing a lot of great people.

Mare says she feels sorry for me. 

Which... really?

Because I feel sorry for you, Mare.  I'm sorry you feel that opposing (albeit unknown) viewpoints are such an anathema.  I'm sorry your mind is so closed that you can't get past the specifics of a small fraction of the TV I watch and the books that I read.  And I'm sorry you had to burn the time and gray matter this morning to let me know exactly how offensive my (unspoken) views are.

Again, you'll be missed. 

Not.

P.S.  You realize now I'm obligated to take the two dollars I earned from your purchase to buy Ann's newest, right?

Grab a Pen, I'm Giving Advice

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

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

Kids?  Here's my advice for you. 

PAY YOUR FUCKING DUES. 

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Back to work now... for ALL of us. 

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

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