jennsylvania

Sunday Mourning

So...

Yes.

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

Hi, Angie,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk soon,

Jen

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

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

HI9 FOR LATER!

;PVER ;;;V ;LOOVE.
KEM

KEM
NEM
HEH

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

pIER !

PIER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blah.

Cause, Meet Effect, Effect, Meet Shovel

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Greek Tragedy!!!

While digging through some old boxes in the basement today I ran across a yellowed, fragile, vaguely moldy document titled Jen's Manual for a Stellar Rush (Be a Shining Star!!!)  I wrote this guidebook almost twenty years ago and probably haven't looked at it since.  I put this together back when I was my sorority's rush chairman.  My intention was to create a central source of hints and tips to help navigate my sorority sisters through the tricky waters of THE BESTEST RUSH EVAH!!!  (ed. For you non-Greeks, rush is a membership drive.) 

I recall being SO damn proud of all the effort I'd put into the booklet, going so far as to call it my first masterpiece.

Um, yeah.

I immediately forgot what I'd been searching for and I sat down to read, laughing the entire way through.  The yellowed pages hold such a noxious mix of self importance and the lack of self awareness, I can't not share the highlights, if for no reason other than to revisit my first true love... the exclamation point.

Feel free to laugh and mock at what's below - 'tis not undeserved.  Here we go:

On Attitude

I want all of you to ENJOY rush, not DREAD it!!!  Please keep in mind that I appreciate any and all suggestions.  (ed. I guarantee you this was a lie.)  What I will NOT tolerate is negativity about rush.  I don't want to hear complaints that "we never did it that way before."  We are going to be BREAKING NEW GROUND (ed. !!!) with this rush and I expect everyone to have a positive attitude about it.  (ed. Or I will GIVE you a positive attitude about it.)  Change can be good.  Also?  Please stop calling me Hitler!!!

On Entertainment

You WILL know all of the words to all of the songs!!!  There is no excuse NOT to know the words.  When you are singing, you are representing your SPIRIT in Pi Beta Phi!!!  Not knowing the words makes us look BAD and is INEXCUSABLE!!!  All of the songs are at the back of this packet, so feel free to practice them in the shower.  We will also be singing them at the workshops so you WILL know the tunes!!!  (ed. Beatings will continue until morale improves.)

On Grooming

Please pay special attention to your grooming.  Ideally, I would like to see everyone in AT LEAST blush, mascara, and lipstick!!!  Obviously we don't want to present ourselves as something we are not, BUT we do want to make a good impression.  Use of these basic cosmetics will make it look like we care about ourselves and that we care about looking nice for the rushees.  This is not an outrageous request and I don't want to hear a lot of flack about it!!!  (ed. And they didn't complain... at least not to my face.)

On Conversation

No matter how good our skits, songs, decor, and food are, the rushees will remember WHAT we said the most!!!  We need to make every word count because we are on a limited time budget.  So, you need to make your conversation work for you.  But don't oversell Pi Phi!!!  Not every girl will make it into Pi Beta Phi (ed.  The horror!!!) so we don't want to make them die for something they won't be able to have.  (ed. We'll save that for a Tori Spelling movie on Lifetime.)

On Fun Questions to Ask Rushees

After asking the requisite "What's your major?" and "Where did you go to high school?" you may find yourself at a loss for words with your rushee.  (This is not good!!!)  (ed. I like how I had to note that this wasn't good, as though my sisters might not realize big lapses in conversation were awkward.)  Hence, I have come up with a number of questions you may want to ask.  These questions will keep you comfortably chatting 'til the cows come home.  (Hey!  Keep the Delta Gammas out of it!!!)  (ed. Hey!  Way to perpetuate negative stereotypes about catty sorority girls!!!)

- Why did you decide to rush?

- Is college what you expected?

- Had any trouble finding parking? (ed. Way to get a scintillating conversation started!)

- Do you have any pets?

- What ever happened to Kiefer and Julia?  (ed. This is only notable because it highlights my decades-long pretend love affair with Mr. Sutherland.)

- What is your fave flavor of cream?  (ed. Not favorite.  FAVE.  Duh.)

- Ever been to Paris? 

- Where do you work?

- Are your parents cool?

- If you could only get one TV show (because you were stuck on some island) (ed. Because, yeah, that's going to happen.) what would it be and why?

- Do you like Paula Abdul?

- What do you think about stirrup pants?

- If someone were to pay you $10,000 would you pose nude for Playboy?  Even if your parents would never find out?

- How old were you when you found out there was not Santa Claus?

- If you had to be some type of fruit, what would it be?  (ed. Really?  With this attention to biting and incisive interview questions, I have no idea why I'm not already a host on The View.)

- Do you consider tomatoes to be a fruit?  (ed. The answer is NO because you would not put tomatoes on a fruit salad.)

- If you could pick your own name, what would it be?

- Do you ski?  Alpine, Nordic, or water?  (ed. Pretentious much?)

- What's your fave season?  (ed. Ah, the weather.  The last bastion of the truly boring, completely banal conversation.)

- What is your dream car?

- Do you have any siblings?

- More specifically, cute, 21 to 25 year old, with a good personality AND a gold AMEX, just dying to date a Pi Phi brothers?  (ed.  Obviously I was ALL ABOUT the sisterhood and was in no way, shape, or form in it to meet boys.)

- And when may I meet him?  (ed. Oh, wait.)

- Do you like corn chowder?  (ed.  Sadly, not a double entendre.  I'd just discovered this kind of soup and was a bit obsessive about it.)

- Do you like Fresca?  (ed. Seriously, this is getting painful.)

- If Jason Priestly were to walk into this room right now, what would you do?

- What about Richard Grieco?  Richard Gere?  Dan Quayle?  (ed. I'd probably ask Richard Grieco for a Fresca.)

- How do they get those ships in those little bottles?

- If you could eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?  Pez, cherry flavor, right?  (ed. I guess someone saw Stand by Me, yes?)

- What's the dumbest thing you ever bought?

- What are your hobbies?

- (ed. And now, the big closer, the one question that could potentially affect a rushee's entire future within the sorority, thus her college career and possibly even life beyond that!!!) How do you eat your Oreos?  (ed.  SHAMEFUL.)

* * *

The great irony here is I always thought it was my sorority sisters who were the assholes when they used to call me Hitler. 

Also?  They only elected me rush chair for one semester.  Suddenly, this makes a lot more sense.

Eat, Pray, Sho- Oh, Forget It

THE BIT ABOUT THE CAR

Yeah, I'll admit it.  I kind of lost steam between writing the first post about Eat, Pray, Love and now.  I had plans to document my whole finding-myself-in-my-underpants-in-front-of-a-perfect-stranger story yesterday morning.  Instead, real life intervened. 

I said goodbye to Fletch and made my way upstairs to get dressed so I could work.  But before I got a chance to sit down at the computer, something caught my eye.  I looked past the garage and noticed chunks of snow and ice flying... almost as if having been hurled.  I heard the rev of an engine, over and over, growing more insistent.  And, despite the room's triple-paned glass, I heard obscenities. 

Clearly. 

Oh, so many obscenities. 

Four letter words filled the air in capital letters, with exclamation points, like one of the fight scenes from Batman, the Adam West era.

Our alley had claimed another victim. 

I threw a fleece on over my flannel nightgown, stepped into my woolly Crocs, grabbed my coat, and headed outside where Fletch was in a state of what can only be described as "bitchpanic." 

Fletch had gotten his car stuck in an eight-inch deep ice valley, formed in the perfect storm of snowing, hailing, melting, re-freezing, and non-storm-drain-cleaning-despite-having-asked-the-Alderman-twenty-times-to-please-please-please-do-something.  (To be fair, how can we expect proper neighborhood service when our Alderman is so busy sending us literature on why the Iraq war is evil? )

Unfortunately, I was the one tasked with rocking the vehicle rather than the more desirable job of steering, what with my propensity to hit the side of the garage even when the pavement is dry and clear.  Pajama-clad, I spent the next forty-five minutes throwing my weight against the trunk while the useless back tires sprayed me with a mixture of road salt, ice, and liquefied kitty litter.  (Fortunately, I was able to warm myself with the heat of Fletch's Alderman-inspired epithets.)   

Finally, he stopped swearing long enough to remember we had Roadside Assistance - a service not only included in the purchase price of the car, but also the main argument he'd used to convince me it was fine to get the rear-wheel drive model - and the nice folks at BMW quickly dispatched Sherpas bearing crullers, hot brandy, and a tow truck.   

OK, they didn't bring liquor or donuts, but they did arrive promptly and free of charge.

Point?  Instead of returning to my computer to write a post about inspiration, I changed into dry jammies and went back to bed until 11:30 AM. 

And no, I did not stick my foot up Fletch's ass.  He brought home a big box of pastry last night to apologize for being all shout-y. 

There's not much a nice eclair can't fix around here.

THE BIT ABOUT THE UNDERPANTS

What I really took away from Eat, Pray, Love was the concept of being able to unhook, unwind, and unplug, and I pledged to be better at it. 

"But, Jen," you say.  "You just told us a story about sleeping until 11:30 AM.  ON A WEEKDAY.  If you were any more unwound, you'd be dead."

Here's the deal - I'm either going one thousand miles an hour, or I'm asleep.  There's no middle ground.  Lately, I've been so busy and so stressed that I've not been able to unclench.  So, because I believe in the ELP message to slow down, I had the the bright idea to get a massage.  I thought a massage would address the whole conundrum of calming my body-mind-soul.

But somewhere along I line I forgot that I HATE massages. 

First of all, I think they hurt.  A lot.  I'm generally so tense that even a little manipulation fucking KILLS.  Second, I'd say the least relaxing thing I could do would be to take my pants off in front of a stranger, no matter how professional he or she may be.  Third, I actually thrive on stimulus bordering on chaos so lying in a dark, quiet room, hearing the sound of nothing but whale music and the occasional rippling of back fat is NOT my recipe for unclenching. 

Don't know what I mean?  Then how about I share some of my internal monologue from the massage on Saturday when I was supposed to be "clearing my mind"?

"I wish the masseuse had eucalyptus scented oil.  I hate lavender and my only other choice was lemon grass, which smells nice, but it totally makes me want Thai food.  Mmm, pad Thai... you know what else is good at a Thai place?  The stuff with the big fat noodles.  What is that called?  Tom something?  Lard Nar?  I forget but it's all brown and garlic-y and goes really well with Thai iced tea.  What the fuck is that stuff called?  I'll have to look it up when I get home.  Oh, I also like Pad See Ew.  It's funny that I like a food with "ew" in the title, but I totally do and OW, that fucking HURT and HOLY OW, that hurt even more.  You wouldn't think this tiny little masseuse would have such strong hands, but she does.  Bet she has a hell of a handshake and she would kick so much ass at a thumb-wrestling match.  OK, she's touching my shoulders and OW I don't like that AT ALL and now she's massaging my head and HEY LADY, YOUR HANDS HAVE OIL ON THEM AND I JUST WASHED MY HAIR.  Oh, great, I'm going to be a big, greasy lemon-head for the rest of the day because I am not showering again because I just showered an hour ago and I have better things to do than lather, rinse, repeat all damn day and JESUS CHRIST, you are going to pop my head clean off!  I'm paying a buck a minute for this?  OK, OK, I am not being Eat, Pray, or Love right now.  I need to clear my thoughts and relax and be in the moment but it's really hard to do when this little person is SNAPPING MY SPINAL CORD.  OW!!  And how am I supposed to relax when I'm only wearing underpants and a sheet?  I know this person is professional and sees people undressed for a living, yet THIS IS STILL REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE FOR ME IN EVERY SENSE.  You know what helps me relax?  A shirt.  Some pants.  Maybe FULL UNDERWIRE SUPPORT.  And what's the deal with this music?  It's just one long pan-flute solo?  Is it more than one guy playing?  When does he have time to take a break?  And why does it have to be all new-age-y?  Why can't they play opera?  Opera is very nice and it tells a story that maybe I could concentrate on while this little tiny person is MURDERING ME ONE HANDFUL OF BACK FAT AT A TIME.  I wonder if she'd rather work on a person who's heavier as opposed to a really skinny person?  I bet massaging them would be like gripping a baggie full of chicken bones, as opposed to me who probably feels more like a Stretch Armstrong doll.  Do they still make those?  And what'd they fill them with, anyway?  I remember how mad Donna Gordon was when I bit a tiny hole in her Stretch doll to see what he was made of and if I recall, it was some kind of green goo and MOTHER OF CHRIST, I THINK MY ARM'S DISLOCATED NOW.  You know what I like?  I like when I'm lying on the bed on my stomach reading any my cat Maggie walks on my back.  Sometimes she makes little biscuits and it's soft and sweet and DOESN'T FEEL LIKE TORTURE, FOR GOD'S SAKE WHY NOT JUST WATERBOARD ME WHILE YOU'RE AT IT?"

And it went on like that for the rest of the session.  When we got done, the masseuse told me how tense I was. 

No. Shit.

In quick, cheap, so-not-worth-it summary, the lesson I learned and the point I started to make five days/five thousand paragraphs ago was I need to be better at trying to relax. 

And yet when I say "unhook," that does not include my bra.

THE BIT THAT'S VAGUELY USEFUL

You all seem to like when I talk about books, so here's what's on my bedside table.

First, The Good Liar by my friend Laura Caldwell.  Laura got her start writing chick lit but has since broken out of the girl ghetto and transitioned into legal thrillers.  I haven't started this one yet, but I've completely connected with everything else she's done in this genre and am sure it'll be great.  (FYI, if you're local, Laura does the book club circuit.) 

Superstud by Paul Feig.  People, this is the man who created Freaks and Geeks and directed episodes of Arrested Development, The Office, and 30 Rock.  If you don't like him, I'm pretty sure we can't be friends. 

The Romance Readers' Book Club by Julie L. Cannon.  Mary Kay Andrews blurbed it and that's why I bought it.  Haven't started it yet, but hopes are high.

Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris.  Yes, for the millionth time - can you see how dog-eared it is?  He never ceases to delight.

Earthly Pleasures by Karen Neches.  I read about this book on Allison Winn Scotch's blog.  Allison has THE best taste so I knew I could trust her recommendation.  I adore this book and tore through it in less than a day.

The Girl I Wanted to Be by Sarah Grace McCandless.  I met her last year and thought she was great.  But it took me a whole year to get around to reading her stuff and now I'm kicking myself for not having done so sooner.  Also don't miss her first novel, Grosse Pointe Girl.  SO good and so real you'll think it's a memoir.

Secrets of a Shoe Addict by Beth Harbison.  Here's where I have the best job in the world - when I get to read books from my favorite authors before they're published.

Scotbom: Evidence and the Lockerbie Investigation by Richard A. Marquise.  Marquise was the lead FBI investigator when Pan Am Flight 103 was bombed and this book sums up the investigation.  (What?  Am I not allowed to read educational stuff once in a while?)

Helping Me Help Myself by Beth Lisick.  Sometimes I buy books because Amazon tells me to.  Plus I heard she's really funny, so what's not to like?

Not pictured but also highly recommended:

Someday My Prince Will Come by Jerramy Fine.  Got to read an advanced copy of this last fall and to quote my own blurb, "Jerramy Fine doesn't need a prince to corner the market on charming."  Read, enjoy, repeat.

and, coming February 26th

Happy Hour of the Damned by Mark Henry.  It's the undead socialite's guide to life!  Manolos AND mayhem?  Flesh eating zombies and artfully applied sparkle powder?  Sign me up.  Mark's book is a  bloody lot of fun.

AND FINALLY, AN ABRUPT ENDING BECAUSE I WANT A SHOWER AND SOME PASTRY, NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER

Eat, Pray, Shove, Part One

Once in a while, if I'm very lucky, I'll come across a book that totally alters my perspective.  And before you ask, yes, I read all the time and yes, there are plenty of authors I flat-out adore, but it's rare when the written word has the power to change the way I think or behave.

When I read Ayn Rand's magnum opus Atlas Shrugged, it forever altered the way I looked at the relationship between industry and government. (Some of you may argue it turned me into a conservative, compassionless douchebag.)  (Some of you might not be wrong, but we're not debating that right now.) When I read Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, I developed my own concept of Utopia and Catcher in the Rye brought out the foul-mouthed cynic I never knew lived inside me.

Of course, what I read doesn't have to be Classic Literature to cause a change or prompt action. I mean, Bridget Jones's Diary made me think maybe there was a market for stories about chicks just living regular lives so I started jotting down details about my own life for use later.

This brings me to my latest inspiration, Elizabeth Gilbert's beautifully written memoir Eat, Pray, Love.

To preface, let me be real clear that I'm not abandoning my life to live in an Ashram or to study under an Indonesian healer or to eat my way across Italy, although this facet of her journey is fairly tempting.  I'm not about to embark on an around the world soul-search to discover my own connection to The Divine.  Faith is hardly a topic for a blog post, but I will say this - I don't need a miracle or a stigmata to convince me of the presence of God in my life.  I see evidence of Him every day in a million tiny ways in events as simple as watching my fat-assed German shepherd Loki try to walk backwards up the stairs because he's afraid of the cat on the landing.  (Sure, some could argue it's not God highlighting the humor in what would otherwise be a mundane existence, and counterbalancing all that makes me angry, yet that's how I've chosen to interpret Him.) 

I'm about to veer dangerously off-topic, aren't I? 

Anyway, despite not having to go to Bali to find God (because He's obviously already waiting for me in line at Target in the form of the surly cashier's misspelled neck tattoo) that doesn't mean Eat, Pray, Love wasn't powerfully motivating. 

As Gilbert moved from country to country seeking fulfillment in body, mind, and spirit, she began to notice the huge cultural differences between Americans and everyone else. She pointed out how Americans have a terrible time relaxing. We're always moving and shaking, achieving, just going and going. And even when we're at rest, e.g. perched on the couch watching Rock of Love 2, we're still texting and talking on the phone and figuring out how many calories we need to burn to make up for the unfortunate incident with the banana cream pie and worrying about work and folding laundry and mentally repainting the kitchen because, really, what were we thinking with that shade of yellow?, and so on and so on. Even when we go on vacation, we can't seem to unhook, unwind, unplug. 

Kind of sad, right?

One of Gilbert's goals in embarking on her journey was to find a way to rid herself of this trait.  She sought the ability to let go and relax enough to quiet her mind in order to experience enlightenment.  So, ten paragraphs later, I can finally make the point that Eat, Pray, Love inspired me to do the same thing. 

That is, if you substitute "find enlightenment" for "not be so tightly wound I'm going to punch the next asshole I run into right in the throat." 

And that's how I ended up wearing nothing but underpants in front of a perfect stranger.

TO BE CONTINUED

(Next up, Eat, Pray, Shove, Part Two, AKA an important reminder about why I never, ever get massages.)

And Speaking of Freaking Barbie Dolls

Setting:  My living room yesterday, on the phone with Susie Sunshine, prior to all the unpleasantness.   

 

* * *

Me:  Did you see Poppy's giving away a bunch of Barbies?   

 

Susie:  Yeah!  And the Little Debbie one looks just like me!  I even owned those pants once!  Gingham!   

    

Me:  She's got dozens and dozens of people who want them.  People with kids and people who support charities for kids with cancer and such.   

 

Susie:  Yeah, and?   

 

Me:  The thing is, I want them.   

    

Susie:  Because you totally deserve them over the children, particularly the sick ones, right?   

   

Me:  No, seriously, like, I really want them.  A lot.   

 

Susie:  You can't enter.   

 

Me:  I'm not greedy, per se.  I would be very happy with just the Little Debbie one.  And I'd totally help the cancer kids, too.   

 

Susie:  No, you are greedy.   

 

Me:  But the Little Debbie one is so freaking awesome...    

 

Susie:  No way man.   

 

Me:  But she has a hat!  And sensible shoes!  And a wee cardigan!  And an itty bitty bag-o-treats with the Little Debbie logo!   

 

Susie:  Jen, listen to me - YOU CANNOT ENTER.   

 

Me:  I know I can't enter!  What am I going to say in my comment where I put my hat in the ring?  "Please don't let the sick kids have your toys!  Give them to me to add to my Barbie collection which is a direct result of ordering a whole bunch of them off the internet when I was high on Ambien!"   

       

(long pause)       

 

Susie:  OK, as long as you're aware you can't enter.   

 

Me:  I know, I know.   

      

Susie:  Good.   

 

Me:  Besides, if I actually won, I'd just ruin the new dolls by styling them like Russian figure skaters, same as all the other ones I have.   

       

* * *   

   

But just so you know, fans-of-Poppy, if the winner wanted to trade the Little Debbie Barbie for an autographed advanced reading copy of Such a Pretty Fat, I could make that happen.   

      

* * *

And in case you thought I was kidding... who's embarrassed by my late-night e-tailing?   

   

"It's like Shark Week around here, only for shame."

   

New Year's State of the Blog Address, 2008

UPDATE:  Thank you all for thinking of my mom - she's gotten over 300 greetings so far and you guys have totally made her day!  I'm taking the link down now because I guess we have kind of overwhelmed the volunteer staff.  Thank you again!

A lot of you guys have been emailing me about what I've been up to as the site's technically been dark since last year. 

But before I get into updates, I've got a request. 

My mom's in the hospital recovering from surgery (short version is she's going to be fine, long version is when your doctor tells you to avoid certain foods for the rest of your life OR ELSE, you should maybe listen) and I found a way for people to send her a quick electronic greeting.*  She's definitely on the mend because she's getting restless, so I thought she'd get a kick out of hearing from anyone who's interested. 

*I'm hoping this hospital has some redundancy/latency built into its network and the act of you guys sending e-greeting cards doesn't cause it to crash or slow down.  I admit I'm slightly dubious because this is the same town where my 4Runner broke down back in 2002 and it took the auto repair shop almost six weeks to fix a cracked engine block.  (I sensed I was in trouble when the tow truck guy showed up and said something along the lines of, "I ain't never seen no car like that before."  Yeah, Toyotas are EXOTIC, ain't they?  Of course they charged us $1500 for a repair that would have cost $5000 up here, so it wasn't a total loss.) 

Anyway, onward and upward.

As for me, I haven't posted because the only thing I would have written was OW OW OW over and over again.  Among other assorted holiday maladies, I had the GENIUS idea to cash out the rest of my 2007 FSA by getting all my dentistry taken care of on New Years' Eve day as I was not about to let that $255 go to waste.

Again, GENIUS, right?

A bit of advice, if I may?  If you ever decide you'd like to shitcan all ten million of your silver fillings and trade them in for porcelain ones because you are vain enough to think anyone cares what the inside of your mouth looks like, keep in mind the process will HURT LIKE A BITCH and that doing them all at the same time is EXTRAORDINARILY STUPID.

Also?

NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT WHAT THE INSIDE OF YOUR MOUTH LOOKS LIKE. 

So, instead of going to any festive New Year's parties, I spent three days crying every time air hit my teeth and sucking down the Codeine Fletch had previously ferreted away from me because he figured I'd have used it recreationally.  (Strong is the force in that one.)  I have high hopes to begin chewing again this week.

What else?  Oh, yeah, I wasn't even going to address this because it kind of isn't worth it, and yet I've gotten enough email to be annoyed to the extent I have to respond.  People, I don't think New Year's resolutions are a bad thing, OK?  And if you've made resolutions, stuck to them, and found ways to improve your life, that's great!  Good on you!  The point of my post was that everywhere I'd gone that day strangers asked me about my resolutions and I thought it too personal a question to pose as a generic silence-filler.  Period.  So please cease and desist attempting to engage me in an argument about whether or not resolutions are effective and sending me detailed lists of all the things you've accomplished via resolution because I don't care, WHAT WITH YOUR RESOLUTIONS BEING NONE OF MY BUSINESS.  Aarrggh.  (And no, I didn't respond to each of these emailers suggesting they resolve to improve their reading comprehension.)  (I blame the Codeine for taking away my edge.)

Finally, the ratinmyhouse situation... two weeks ago Fletch said there was no way any rodent would still be here, what with the six hungry carnivores we keep.  He swore up and down that nothing could survive the killing fields of our house and that the second the guys caught the scent of vermin, their instincts would kick in and it would be over.  Dogs and cats would work together to circle and trap their prey, snapping and tearing and rending flesh before going all Lord of the Flies, putting the tiny rat/mouse head on a stake as a warning to any other who dared cross their paths.

Fletch sounded convincing, yet when I looked at the five furry mass murderers, all snoozing comfortably together on the guest bed, I had my doubts.  (FYI, the sixth killer was in the guest room closet, curled up on my cashmere sweaters.)  Oh, yes, he promised me again and again over the course of his Christmas vacation, that rodent was long gone, so I returned to eating my room-temperature soup and trying not to cry.

A couple of days ago, Fletch had to access a plug in his little back-porch office.  I heard him moving furniture to get to the outlet before poking his head into the kitchen to ask me, "Hey, why do you think there's a hundred pieces of dog food behind the couch?"

"Hmm," I replied.  "I guess maybe because the ratinmyhouse you promised had left?  Didn't."

The good news, and I use the term loosely, is we've definitely determined him (please, God, let it be a him) to be a mouse based on, um, what he left behind.  The bad news is he's evaded every means/person we've employed to chase/capture/kill him. 

Also, the creature in question is definitely NOT Remy from Ratatouille because he much prefers his traps loaded with plain old Wisconsin cheddar over the more nuanced flavors of artisanal Machego and smoked Gouda.  (Yet another unimportant side note?  I thought watching Ratatouille would make me less squicked out over the idea of having a ratinmyhouse and yet I swear my heart stopped beating every time I saw the vermin congregate.)

Even worse, this goddamned creature is turning me into Carl Spackler from Caddyshack as I try to get him with non-traditional means and by non-traditional means, let's just say there's been more running around the kitchen banging pot lids together than I care to mention. 

Last night I decided the reason we haven't been able to flush him out is because we don't know where he's hiding anymore... so I came up with yet another GENIUS idea.  I spread flour out in front of all the places I thought he might be, thinking he'd walk in the flour, leave little powdery footprints and I could ambush him in his home.

Again, did I mention the GENIUS part?

Here's what I learned from this little CSI: Martha Stewart exercise:

• Although they will leave a slash where their tail trails (thus confirming their continued presence) mouse-feet are too small to pick up enough flour to leave tracks.
• Cat-feet, however, are not.  Would you like a detailed account of every place each of my extraordinarily busy cats walked last night?  Because I can give it to you. 
• Stupid pit bulls named Maisy think raw flour is the most delicious treat imaginable and will lap that shit up until the combination of flour and saliva glues her jaw shut.
• Flour, particularly when having been licked to the point of adhesion, will never, ever completely come out of hardwood.  Or leather.  Or wool.

Aarrggh.

So... that's what's been happening around here.

Aren't you glad you asked?

   

Merry Forking Christmas

First, I don't know what happened to my Christmas post.  I was fooling around with some stuff on here yesterday and I think I accidentally deleted it. 

I'm not going to recreate it, but here's a summary -

Jen and Fletch think they're all fancy because of their snappy new forks.  Thusly inspired, they attempt to recreate the entire suggested menu from last year's Fine Cooking magazine.

(But first, here are their new forks.)

(And friends.) 

(Get it?  Like a FOX and Friends pun?  No?  Just me then.)

(See?  Aren't they forking gorgeous?)

(All right, no more fork puns, promise.  Am entertaining no one but own self.)

(FYI, they're embossed with bees, which is not a fork pun, and yet seems worth mentioning.)

(OK, fine, none of this would be worth mentioning except Jen and Fletch just ended a seven-year fork-finding odyssey because SOMEONE in this house - not Jen - was obsessed with finding flatware that was sharp enough to stab pasta and ended up trying out every single piece of flatware Target and IKEA had to offer, thus wasting a shitload of money and ruining a lot of perfectly lovely spaghetti dinners with excessive whining of the non-stabby-fork variety.  So when SOMEONE - not Jen - found some forks he thought he could live with at the over-priced gourmet gadget store, Jen insisted he buy a couple of sets so they'd never run out, but he had to promise to never, ever talk about flatware again or else Jen would demonstrate the new forks' superior stabbing power.)

ANYWAY, the day before Christmas, Jen gets second thoughts on cooking her portion of the menu - a chocolate caramel macadamia nut torte.  (Or tart.  Or pie.  Jen does not know the difference and therefore claims the right to use these terms interchangeably.)  Plans are made to get up early and start on pie on Christmas Day.

Jen does not anticipate being up all night on Christmas Eve with stabby stomach pains.  (BTW, guess what Jen got for Christmas?  That's right, gall stones!  Like Jesus's version of a lump of coal in her stocking.)

(Well, that's what she's diagnosed herself with according to WebMD.  Perhaps her doctor will have a different diagnosis when he sees her next week.)

Jen gets a late start on the stupid pie in the morning.  Jen quickly discovers she didn't read past the ingredients part of the recipe.  As she begins to make the crust from scratch, she realizes she does not possess things like a "pastry paddle" or a "pie weight."  Further, she's not even sure what these things are, yet fears they may be important.

Crust number one is completed.

FAIL

Crust number two is completed.

FAIL.

The internet is consulted and she finds out how to compensate for no pie weights and pastry paddle.  (FYI, dried beans, coffee filters, hands.)

SUCCESS!! 

Except she just burned off three hours of daylight/standing rib roast cooking time.

Jen roasts macadamia nuts in the oven using specific cooking time according to Fine Cooking.

BURNT.  FAIL.

Jen swipes macadamia nuts out of candy dishes and roasts, shaving three minutes off Fine Cooking's suggestion.

BURNT.  FAIL.

Jen thinks now would be the perfect time to crack open something -pagne or -nog based, but doesn't because her stomach hurts.  Jen is out of macadamia nuts, so she improvises and roasts cashews.

BURNT.  FAIL.

Jen is hopping mad, particularly when Fletch suggests she simply roast the nuts on the stove where she can watch/control them. 

WHERE WERE YOU THREE SETS OF NUTS AGO, FORK-HEAD?

Walnuts are roasted to perfection.  At 5:30 PM.

Fletch stops heckling Jen's pie-ruining abilities for a moment and realizes he should have started to season the standing rib roast two hours earlier.  (HA!)

Panic ensues.

Fletch fools around with the roast while Jen attempts to make the pie's filling.  She needs to boil the butter, sugar, and corn syrup until it appears caramel colored but Jen screwed up and bought dark corn syrup and filling looks caramel colored from the very start.  Jen boils and whisks and mixture does not change color or consistency so she decides to taste it, not taking into account the fact that roiling, bubbling sugar-butter-syrup might be, you know, hot.

BURN. 

SCREAM.

FAIL.

Mixture is poured into pie-shell where it is supposed to firm up in fridge.

One hour passes.  Mixture not firm.

Two hours pass.  Mixture still not firm.

Three hours pass.  Mixture still pretty much liquid.  Roast not even at room temperature.

Four hours pass.  Jen melts chocolate to put on top of caramel-pie soup.  Jen tosses whole goddamned thing in freezer.  Roast now warm enough to register on meat thermometer.

Five hours pass.  Dinner is ready!  And it will still be Christmas for almost another whole hour!  Food consumed, stomach hurts, pie refuses to freeze, Fine Cooking is cursed repeatedly. 

Forks work out nicely, though.

Kitchen is cleaned, Maalox is guzzled, holiday programming is watched.  (Yes, TiVoed Gossip Girl is considered holiday programming because the Waldorfs and Van Der Wootsens were totally celebrating Christmas.)  Jen checks on pie and finds it's possibly even more fluid than when she threw it in the freezer a few hours ago.  A brief discussion takes place vis a vis whether pie filling could be sold as anti-freeze, but quickly dismissed as roasted walnuts would likely clog up windshield washer tubes.  Jen and Fletch go to sleep.

Jen wakes up in the morning and immediately goes down to check on stupid, stupid pie.  Despite freezing all night, it's still liquid. 

What?  Wait?  Did Jen just violate a law of physics here?

Jen decides to taste the damn thing and in true O'Henry fashion, has to use a SPOON to do so.

Jen decides that heated up, pie will make the world's best ice cream topping.

In short? 

FORK YOU AND YOUR HOLIDAY MENU, FINE COOKING MAGAZINE.

Next up, Jen and Fletch discover the only thing funnier than living next door to idiots is watching the idiots attempt to move...

 

The Glamorous, with Thanks to Fergie (Oh, the Flossy Flossy)

With over a thousand people requesting I come to their town, one might believe my ego is raging and all this attention has given me Such A Pretty Fat Head. 

This would probably be the case, were I not actually living my life. 

Not buying it?  Then how about I give you a quick snapshot of the past twelve hours of my day?  Here goes:

6:41 AM - Been asleep for about three and a half hours because stayed up late reading.  Dogs don't care because they need to go out NOW NOW NOW NUDGE NUDGE NOW NOW NOW.  Note to self: no matter how much begging, never again allow dogs taste of roasted root vegetable soup.  Dogs do not need high colonics.  (FYI, good soup in theory, BAD SOUP IN PRACTICE.)  Pull hoodie on over jammies and put on Crocs to go downstairs.

6:43 AM - As usual, pit bull has to be dragged outdoors.  Pees on welcome mat at bottom of stairs and returns indoors in less than twenty seconds.

6:47 AM - Hoodie and Crocs off, back in bed.   

7:07 AM - Fletch needs coffee.  Apparently both hands are broken and Starbucks has ceased to exist.  Pull hoodie on over jammies and put on Crocs to go downstairs to make coffee.

we flyin' first class, up in the sky

7:16 AM - Hoodie and Crocs off, back in bed.

7:26 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.

7:33 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.

7:39 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.

7:44 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.

7:45 AM - Phone rings.  Someone better be bleeding.  Pull hoodie on over jammies and put on Crocs to walk over to phone in office.  Listen to the voice mail and discover Fletch has put in requests to Service Magic.com for junk hauling and for cleaning service, using my name... which he failed to mention last night.  With his hectic red-light-running-schedule, imagine it would be easy to forget this detail.

poppin' champagne, living my life in the fast lane

7:46 AM - Hey, here's a thought - if you'd like to haul the garbage out of my basement or clean my house for a fee, maybe you shouldn't YELL at me over voice mail.  (Keeping your pants on while so doing would be a bonus.)

7:47 AM - Hoodie and Crocs off, back in bed.  Must lie on tiny sliver on the edge of the bed because stinky pit bull has repositioned herself horizontally and cannot be budged.

by the glamorous, oh the flossy flossy

7:55 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.  Start making plans to clean house/haul junk my goddamned self.

7:59 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.  Seethe.

8:08 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.  Seethe.  Get shoved further to the edge of the bed by pit bull and new addition of German shepherd and old, pushy, vaguely crazy gray tabby who wants to sleep on face but will be content just to walk all over it.

wear them gold and diamond rings, all them things don't mean a thing

8:12 AM - Phone rings.  Jump out of bed without hoodie and Crocs to answer phone.  Bark, "WHAT?" into receiver.  Is Pottery Barn, calling to schedule delivery of bed frame for tomorrow.  Apologize but don't have energy to explain why so cranky.

8:14 AM - Hang up.  Back into bed, celebrating fact tomorrow this goddamned mattress will finally be off the floor for the first time in adult life and thus may be more difficult for animals to climb on.  HA.

chaperones and limousines, shopping for expensive things

8:15 AM - Granted, am still sleeping on a mattress got for free on Craig's List, but still, happy.  Baby steps.

8:21 AM - Phone rings.  Consider smothering Fletch in his sleep with old, pushy, vaguely crazy gray cat this evening and then bed will be ALL MINE.  Turn off ringer, insert ear plugs, go back to sleep.

9:07 AM - NUDGE NUDGE NUDGE NOW NOW NOW.  Fuck it.  Will just be tired today.  Get out of bed, put on yesterday's sweats, hoodie, and Crocs and go downstairs to let dogs out again.  Stupid soup.  What kind of dogs like parsnips, anyway??  Draw drapes in living room.  Notice fresh tracks in snow right under the window, meaning people STILL walking dogs on my lawn.  And not little strip of grass that belongs to the city on other side of sidewalk - I mean REAL lawn.  Great.  Will have to set up another sting operation.

I be on the movie screens, magazines and boogie things

9:21 AM - Head down to laundry room to wash comforter.  Someone threw up a shrimp tail on it last week and am just now getting around to putting it in the washer.  Gross.

I'm not clean, I'm not pristine, I'm no queen, I'm no machine

9:33 AM - Mainline coffee and start logging all city visit requests on Excel spreadsheet.

10:05 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.  Still logging and drinking coffee. 

10:24 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.  Still logging and drinking coffee..

10:39 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.  Still logging and drinking coffee.  Woo!  Am popular.

10:56 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.  Still logging and drinking coffee.  Woo!  Am really popular.

11:05 AM - Phone rings.  Ignore.  Still logging and drinking coffee.  Woo!  Am so damn popular! 

11:06 AM - Still logging.  Wait, if so popular, how come no invitations for New Year's Eve?

11:07 AM - Seriously, not one person, not one party.

11:08 AM - Granted, anyone who knows us understands we are red-light-running, canceling-plans-at-the-last-minute people and thus should not be afforded invitations.  Still logging and drinking coffee.

I still go to Taco Bell, drive through, raw as hell

11:11 AM - Get email from mother, thanking me for the spa day I got her for Christmas that came in the envelope I specifically requested she not open until Christmas, what with it being her Christmas present and all.  Arrggh.

No matter how many records I sell, after the show or after the Grammys, I like to go cool out with the family, sippin', reminiscin' on days when I had a Mustang

11: 31 AM - Phone stops ringing.  Mostly likely because every service professional in the world has ALREADY CALLED ME TODAY.

11:34 AM - Still logging.  Totally high on coffee.  Could seriously use a temp.  Perhaps Fletch can request one on ServiceMagic.com because you know what else I need?  MORE RINGING PHONES.  (Also?  More coffee.)

11:39 AM - Hungry.  Practically only thing to eat in the house is Colon Blow Chowder.  Um... no.

I'm talking champagne wishes, caviar dreams, you deserve nothing but all the finer things

12:50 PM - Still logging.  Must eat before getting ready to go to the gym.  Have a PBJ on squishy white bread, glass of milk, and an orange cut into wedges.

12:59 PM - Check on comforter.  Still shrimpy and doggy.  Re-wash. 

Lifestyles so rich and famous, Robin Leach will get jealous

1:05 PM - Friend having oral surgery today to fix a receding gum-line and can only have liquids for the next ten days.  Order her a copy of Sandra Lee's memoir, figuring will certainly turn her off food for awhile.

1:10 PM - Shower and get ready for gym.  Can't find any clean sports bras or workout pants, so rummage in laundry basket.  Apply ample quantities of perfume and Febreeze.

Takin' trips from here to Rome, half a million for the stones, so if you ain't got no money, take yo' broke ass home

2:00 PM - Have terrible workout, fueled by only peanut butter, white bread, and gallon of coffee.

3:13 PM - Wrestle with Rottie puppy at gym.  Is awesome.

3:44 PM - At UPS Store.  Struggle to carry seven packages into store while three employees in UPS shirts brush past me and into front door.  HATE.

4:43 PM - Drive about three miles in about an hour.  HATE.

4:49 PM - Pit bull picks peanut butter jar out of garbage and begins licking.

5:08 PM - Call to check on delivery status of presents had overnighted yesterday.  Talk to assclown in shipping department who tells me they will ship tonight.  Get into argument over concept of "overnight" meaning over the singular course of one night and not meaning over two or more nights.  No resolution.  SO MUCH HATE.  Also, so much licking.

5:16 PM - Talk to junk hauler who says can clean out/haul items from my basement for $150 to $300.  Because is an "environmentalist" he doesn't throw stuff in landfill or drop off at charity.  Rather will sell my garbage at flea market.  And keep the profits for himself.  Did I mention I would pay up to $300 for the privilege of him keeping/selling my stuff?  Yes.  Sign me up.

I've got problems up in here, I've got people in my ear, tellin' me these crazy things that I don't want to know.

5:27 PM - Logging.  Have four pages of cities so far.  One vote for St. Croix and two for Hawaii.  Must work on fan base in tropical locales.  BTW, ever heard a pit bull work a peanut butter jar for an hour?

5:28 PM - Like nails on a chalkboard.  Only wetter. 

5:29 PM - But not quite as offensive as sound of whining pit bull when jar taken away.

5:34 PM - Dog still licking.  Self still wincing.

5:35 PM - SLURP SLURP SLURP

I've got money in the bank, and I'd really like to thank all the fans

5:48 PM - Notice Heather in Texas left comment with tallies already in hopes to bring me to Houston.  NICE!  Not up to me to give extra credit, but if the tour decision mine, would TOTALLY pick Houston. 

5:49 PM - SLURP

5:50 PM - Courtney in Baltimore promises to give crabs if I come.  Heh.

5:56 PM - SLURP SLURP

5:59 PM - Tracey says dogs outnumber kids in Seattle.  Again, if it were up to me, SOLD.  (Unless Seattle dogs all have peanut butter jars.)

Thank you really though, 'cause I remember yesterday when I dreamt about the days when I'd rock on MTV, that'd be really dope

6:49 PM - Finish logging. 

6:50 PM - Dog not finished licking.

6:51 PM - Am suspicious peanut butter will make an unwelcome appearance. 

6:52 PM - Most likely tomorrow morning.  At 6:41 AM. 

Damn it's been a long road and the industry is cold, I'm glad my daddy tell me so, he let his daughter know if you ain't got no money, take your broke ass home

See?  Not glamorous. 

(And not flossy flossy either.)

No, Wait - It Gets Better

I realize it's not December and yet this is too ridiculous to leave dormant.

I received an email from Alyssa this evening with an apology.  She said she was sorry for causing internet drama and maybe she'd spoken out of line and blah blah blah, she's a nice person-cakes.  However, she stood behind her decision to not read my site anymore.  (Apparently  she regrets stirring up shit, yet is unwavering in her demand for a constant stream of free content.)  (And considering I have maybe two more books in me at best, I guess this means I'll have to find a way to make two dollars I'd have gotten from her elsewhere.)

Anyway, this is the part that kills me DEAD about her note - Alyssa would like me to tell all of you that she apologized because you've been saying mean things about her in the comments section of my friends-only MySpace page and it's hurting her feelings and she'd like you to stop sending negative karma her way.

On the off chance that this whole thing isn't a joke, and if it is - well fucking played, people, you got me - my mind is positively reeling right now. 

Again, let me get this straight if I can... Alyssa, a perfect stranger, decided I needed some advice on how to conduct myself as a writer/author.  But instead of simply stating her opinion, and despite having zero experience working in the publishing industry upon which to base said advice, she flat-out told me I was doing my job wrong.  She then accused me of breaking promises I never made.  She turned her note into a personal attack by bringing up the fact that I've recently gotten Botox (which I chronicled specifically for those who might be struggling with signs of aging so they'd know there's a cheap, easy, an effective tool out there to help) and that somehow by achieving a modicum of success, I have been changed as a person for the worse.  And instead of simply emailing me these thoughts in one of the half-dozen private vehicles for communication I've provided, e.g. email, Twitter messaging, MySpace messages, Facebook contacts, etc., she did so in the one public area of my webpage, ostensibly to make sure everyone saw it.

Yeah, I can't imagine why I'd have a visceral reaction, either.

Now, let's be clear on a couple of other things - there's been absolutely no "cyber-bullying" in my previous post.  I didn't impugn Alyssa's character - a courtesy she did not afford me - nor did I offer any way for readers who disagreed with her to contact her and tell her so, even though I could have easily posted her full name, email address, MySpace page, photo, etc.  (Seriously, people - how often do we have to have the IP address conversation?)  In addition, I specifically closed all comments on my Jennsylvania.com site as well as the blog portion of my MySpace page because I didn't want it to turn into a big bash-on-Alyssa party because I'm honestly not a big fan of the dogpile.

A few of you guys found a way to post your thoughts under the general comments area of my MySpace page and apparently this is what's hurting her feelings and Alyssa wants me to make it stop.

Oh, Alyssa, Alyssa, Alyssa... here's where you learn a valuable lesson on CONSEQUENCES.  Do you really feel you have the right to come onto my private property - a place you were allowed to visit, with the caveat that you could stay if you behaved - stir up a bunch of shit, and then have the nerve to be hurt and surprised as a DIRECT RESULT OF THE ACTIONS YOU CHOSE TO TAKE? 

And do you think just because you say you're sorry that everything POOF! goes away? 

Because in my world, it doesn't. 

"I'm sorry," implies regret about something that happened accidentally when the truth is you willfully entered a public forum and maligned me. 

YOU CAUSED THIS ACTION.

YOUR ACTIONS HAVE CONSEQUENCES.

YOU CAN'T UNRING THAT BELL. 

Now people are saying mean stuff about you (again, first name only - they don't know who you are, where you work, or where you live) and you don't like it because it's sending bad karma your way. 

Again, if there's bad karma, YOU CAUSED IT.  THIS IS ENTIRELY YOUR OWN DOING.   

My readers weren't sitting around their computers wondering, "Who can we pick on?"  You started a fight - badly, I might add - and based it on false premises and now you've found fighting doesn't suit your delicate sensibilities and you want it to stop. 

But the place where you want "it" to stop is my private forum for friends.  And you wouldn't even know if this if you didn't SEEK OUT WHAT PEOPLE WERE SAYING ABOUT YOU, thus leading me to believe you knew exactly what you were doing in the first place when you decided to start trouble and therefore your sorries are false and fall on deaf ears.

How about this?  How about I'm sorry you acted like an asshole and I'm sorry you don't like the consequences that have followed your actions.

On the bright side, your ridiculous request got me to post again before December 1, so everyone's probably less mad at you now.

Pretty sure they're still laughing at you, though.

P.S.  Seriously, say you're going to stop reading me and really mean it.  I promise you you'll be happier because of it.

See You in December

From a comment I received today:

Seriously...I think this "author" thing has gone to your head. First you become successful and get book deals BECAUSE of your blog, then only update once or twice a month, THEN say your going to update everyday and don't. Are you too busy botoxing your brain out and complaining? I love reading your material...but think about your audience, and maybe try to keep them around by actually...writing....for free. It seems like you don't want to blog and only want us to go out and buy your books. Which, by the way, I'd be more than happy to do if you actually kept me interested in between them. This is one reader who's done.

-- Alyssa

Let's address this one line by line, shall we?

Seriously...I think this "author" thing has gone to your head.

Totally.  Now I wipe my ass with pages torn from books by Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Faulkner because those punk-ass chumps can't hold a candle to me and my footnotes!

First you become successful and get book deals BECAUSE of your blog...

Absolutely!  This is precisely why EVERY blogger has a book deal.  Publishers don't care if you have a unique voice or a new slant on an old story.  They could give a shit about professionalism or ability to meet deadlines.  And even when your editor says she never bought a book from a blogger before and hasn't since and that your website had zero bearing on her purchase decision, she's lying because we all know the only thing that matters is having a URL.  Duh.

...then only update once or twice a month...

Again, I call bullshit on me because everyone's aware that writing and editing books is so very easy and not at all time consuming and even after twelve hours of staring at your own words on the page (that someone already paid for and you're obligated to make as coherent as you can), the first thing you want to do when you finish isn't A) shower, or B) sleep, it's C) write more stuff because Alyssa says you have to.

...THEN say your (sic) going to update everyday and don't.

I must have been kidding when on 11/11/07 I posted the caveat, "Yes, I'm totally quitting NaBloPoMo.  I made it eleven days.  That's plenty.  I'll be back when I have something - ANYTHING - of value to say."

Are you too busy botoxing your brain out and complaining?

Apparently so.  Because I'm an author, there's no such thing as illness or a faulty wireless card or holiday prep or, you know, LIFE to get in the way of my daily blogging duties.

I love reading your material...but think about your audience, and maybe try to keep them around by actually...writing....for free. It seems like you don't want to blog and only want us to go out and buy your books.

I suck, don't I?  Every other author out there routinely provides thousands of words for free ON A WEBSITE WITHOUT ADS WHICH ACTUALLY COSTS THEM HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS PER YEAR TO MAINTAIN on a daily basis.  I need to get with the program.  Why am I so busy fucking around with a fourth book proposal when there's all this blogging to do?  

It seems like you don't want to blog and only want us to go out and buy your books.

Yep, that's why all my posts are nothing but blatant marketing pitches.  My blogs certainly aren't a way to reach out and connect with friends and family, or to thank readers for their patronage.  Also, I'll be sure and remove the links to purchase my books on the side panel since we agree they're patently offensive.

Which, by the way, I'd be more than happy to do if you actually kept me interested in between them. This is one reader who's done.

Alyssa, please send me your address so that I can return the $2 I earned if you purchased both of my books.

I mean, really?  This is America, and if $2 doesn't buy you an entire lifetime of my thoughts delivered hot and fresh on a daily basis, then truly the terrorists have won.

Jenny Appleseed

Here's the deal:

You can maintain your yard by occasionally having your trees trimmed...

or I WILL TRIM THEM FOR YOU.

Your choice.

(Neighborhood trees = 0, Jen = 3)

Jen's List

Can anyone explain to me why I was up at the ass-crack of dawn today to wait for a plumber who never showed up? 

AGAIN? 

It's like waiting for goddamn Godot around here... if Godot charged $150/hour for labor. 

Here's a partial list of service professionals who have failed to honor their appointments in the past two months.  (I'm sure there's more; I just can't remember them all.)

MISSING IN (IN)ACTION:

The tree guys

The OTHER tree guys

The third plumber

The cleaning service who was supposed to be really good

The cleaning service who was supposed to be moderately good, but cheap and efficient

The dryer repairman who technically tried to show up but we told to pound sand after he:

A)  was three hours late

B)  told us we gave him the wrong street address (even though we had an e-copy of the online request and our address was correct) (also, after being two and a half hours late, Fletch fielded the call where the guy told him our "house was missing" and I am deeply sorry not to have witnessed this interaction)

C)  said he was late because he had a flat tire

D) and couldn't call us because he needed a new cellphone battery

E)  which he had to stop and replace before getting to our house

(I can't believe he didn't tell us the dog ate his homework, too.)

Is business so great everywhere that service professionals don't need the income generated from checking our shower for leaks, trimming our trees, sucking hair out of our vents, and fixing the timer on our dryer?  WTF?  We keep briefing our landlords about the various repairs we're arranging so they can budget accordingly and they've got to think we're the biggest flakes for having NONE of them completed yet.

Anyway, am busy for the rest of the day.  Feel free to share your service professional horror stories in the comments.

Bronze and Purge

Hi, my name is Jen and I'm tanorexic.

("Hi, Jen!")

It's been thirteen days, twenty-two hours, and seven minutes since I tanned last. 

(cue the applause from the crowd gathered on their metal folding chairs)

I started tanning the summer before seventh grade.  We'd moved to Indiana from New Jersey the previous year into a house with a pool. I was much more concerned that first year with mastering the front tuck off our diving board so I never really thought about tanning when we moved in.  But by the time the Summer of '79 rolled around, I noticed how the older girls in our neighborhood would don their Hang Ten tube tops, slather up in a combination of baby oil and iodine, and bronze themselves in their lawn chairs, an open Peter Frampton album covered in aluminum foil to reflect more rays.

I wanted to be just like them.

(take a bracing sip of my coffee and a drag off my cigarette)

I was awkward back then, all bony angles and frizzy hair with big glasses and a chipped front tooth that had yet to experience the magic of cosmetic dentistry.  But with a tan?  I was literally (and figuratively) golden. 

After I finished my chores (and caught that day's episode of The Price Is Right, of course) I'd head out to the pool and spend my day alternating between floating face down on a raft to get my back dark, and laying on a lawn chair with my straps pulled off my shoulders to even up my front.  I knew I'd made good progress when my nose blistered and my skin radiated heat through my clothes.  Having to use the Solarcaine my mom kept in the fridge next to my dad's extensive collection of spicy mustards was like a badge of honor.

(crowd nods, some feet shuffle)

I hated winter because I'd get so pale again.  And nothing was more depressing than when all the little hairs on my arms turned from blond back to black.  I'd heard that movie stars had special little lamps they could sit under in order to maintain their tans, but such extravagance was well outside the non-existent means of a teenager in Huntington, IN.  So I'd wait for summer, the only time I ever felt pretty in my tawny skin.  And mourn whenever I saw the ghosts of tan lines that never quite faded on my chest and back.

(swirl coffee dregs in cup)

There was no high as great as the feeling of kicking back in a lawn chair, rays beating down just hard enough to make sweat rise through my thin sheen of SPF 0 Hawaiian Tropic oil, Billy Joel playing softly from the transistor radio at my side.  I loved when it was so bright all I could see was white when I shut my eyes and faced the sun

(exhale, smoke curling around the low ceiling of this church basement)

My sun salutations went on through middle school and high school and during college, I did my best to arrange employment around my extensive tanning schedule.  Each year, I'd leave campus with skin the color of a pitcher of cream and I'd return an amber goddess.  My confidence was directly proportional to my amount of visible melanin, yet my time to shine was short-lived, gone by Halloween.

(drop cigarette in cup, light another and inhale deeply)

Then they invented the tanning bed and put them in every strip mall in America.  And you all know what that means.  What had been a one-season habit suddenly became a way of life.

(crowd murmurs sympathetically)

My best friend Carol - who used to freckle in the sun, the poor dear - would layer herself in PABA and lecture me about the damage I was doing to my skin.  "Jeni," she'd say, "Your skin is going to look like a handbag by the time you turn forty."  "Pfft," I'd reply.  "Who cares?  What's important is I look good NOW.  Plus, by the time I'm forty, not only will they be able to cure sun damage, I'll be able to take my flying car to the doctor's office.  And besides, I can stop any time I want."

(crowd laughs and exchanges weary, knowing looks)

But I couldn't stop.  Not only did I lay out whenever I could, I supplemented my burnished glow with year-round sessions at a salon, sometimes going every single day in a month.  And I knew I'd reached my goal in the pursuit of copper-colored perfection when the woman at the Bobbi Brown counter had to sell me foundation made for African American women.

Success.  Sweet, sunburned success.

Yet now I'm almost forty. 

(inhale deep and long, exhale twin plumes of smoke from my nostrils)

And I finally realize my skin looks like a handbag.  When I woke up two weeks ago and counted my age spots, I said to my splotchy reflection, "Never again."  I stopped tanning cold turkey and I sought redemption.

(bow head, holding onto sides of podium to steady self before continuing)

So I went to the Avanti Clinic on North Ave on bended knee, begging, "Please, help me.  There's hatching around my eyes, creases on my lips, and my forehead looks just like Gordon Ramsay's.  I have hyper pigmentation and discoloration, parentheses around my mouth, and elevens between my brows.  Fix me."  Kristi, the aesthetician, looked at me long and hard.  "It's not too late.  I can help you.  But you have to stop tanning or nothing I do will work."

"I will," I promised.  And I meant it.

("Amen," someone calls from the back row of the seats)

So I've started the long road to recovery with weekly microdermabrasion sessions and chemical peels.  The microdermabrasion crystals feel like being pelted with beach sand on a windy day and the burn of the harsh acid is strangely reminiscent of sunburns past.  The slight ache it causes is almost soothing.  Next week I meet with the neurologist to begin the process of injecting deadly toxins under the surface of my skin with a needle in order to lessen the creases, yet I'm not penitent. 

Rather, I feel this is my penance.

("Bring it home, sister," says the session's leader)

Still, I want to tan.  I want to be brown so badly I can taste it.  I find myself driving past Palm Beach Tan on Clybourn ten times a day, even though it's completely out of the way.  I have such an urge to hover around their doors, asking people, "So, did you try the Erogline 600 bed with the aromatherapy?  What did you think of the molded plastic seat?  Pretty comfortable, right?"  But I won't.  Because I can't. 

(take one final drag before tossing second butt in the cup) 

I guess I'm glad I've stopped tanning before the damage becomes more than just cosmetic.  But every day it's a struggle, hopefully though when I'm done paying for my new face, it will have been worth it.

(sigh loudly)

I'll say it once and I'll say it loud - I'm pale and I'm proud.  Thank you.  Thank you all for listening and for your support.  God bless.

(exit podium to applause and hugs as I take my seat)

And Party Ev-e-ry Day

If you read Bright Lights, Big Ass, you already know how I feel about today so I'll spare you the extended Ctrl+Alt+INSERTOMGIHATEHALLOWEENSOGODDAMNMUCH macro of the annual holiday booby trapping of the yard and the celebratory taping of garbage bags over the windows.

However, during dinner last night I began to question my extensive preparations.  "What if neighborhood children manage to penetrate our festively armed perimeter?" I asked. "It's one thing to be the mean old curmudgeons who encourage their dogs to bark when kids walk on our grass.  But what if we're forced somehow into opening the door?" 

Fletch interrupted to ask, "Why would be be forced into opening the door?"

"Well, like, what if UPS arrives to deliver my new pink track pants and when I go to sign there are a bunch of little Harry Potters standing on our steps?  We can't send them away empty-handed.  That's just shitty.  I'm not going to bark, 'No candy for you!' in a kid's face.  Even I'm not that cold.  So what do we do?  The only treat we have in the house is half an exotic bacon-chocolate bar* from Vosges.  Do we give each of the kids a bite?  Otherwise, what can we offer?"

Fletch chewed his salad and looked thoughtful for a moment.  "There's a whole case of canned San Marzano tomatoes we could pass out.  When the kids say, 'Trick or treat' we'll ask, 'Would you prefer with or without basil?'"

"That seems like a really good way to get the front of our house pelted with cans," I replied.

"But they're San Marzano," he countered.  "They're the Rolls Royce of canned tomatoes."

(The man is dead serious.  Again, this is why we aren't having children.)

"Hmm.  Maybe I'd better run to Target, just in case."

So now if any kid manages to survive the obstacle course leading to our front door and catches us before we head out for an evening of diner food and upscale furniture store window-shopping, he or she will be handsomely rewarded with a fun-size Snickers bar and the affirmation, "Well-played, Harry Potter.  Well-played."

*You might think the combination of Applewood smoked bacon, Alder smoked salt, and chocolate is sick and wrong and not of the Lord.  You would be wrong.  Here's more info if you're curious.   

* * *

Anyway, my whole point is to grudgingly wish you a Happy Halloween (if you're into that sort of thing) and also to inform you the greatest costume in the world was already worn thirty years ago.

 

"I want to Rock & Roll all night - or at least until Donny and Marie come on."