jennsylvania

Some Wives

Some wives send naked photos of themselves to their husbands at work.

Some wives send shots of their kids.

And some wives send pictures of their artfully crafted lunch.

Can you guess which way I lean?

 

Team Sandwich rules!

Why I Owe Fletch A Really Big TV

First, New Business:

You guys want me to do more local events?  Well, I'm doing a local event. 

What:  The Interview Show with Mark Bazer

When:  Friday, December 5th at 6:30 PM

Where:  The Hideout, 1354 West Wabansia, Chicago, IL  (773) 227-4433

Wait, Where?:  It's kind of hidden (hence the name) so check out their website for specific instructions.

What Else Do I Need to Know?:  Admission is $5 and other guests include alt-country musician Robbie Fulks, author and Sun Timescolumnist Neil Steinberg, and stand up comedian Robert Buscemi.

Will You Be Drunk?:  Probably

Will It Be Like That One Interview When Your Temporary Radio Publicist Accidentally Booked You on That Ex-Black Panther's Show and You Spent an Hour Getting Yelled at for the State of Race Relations in the United States Because You Wrote a Book Called Bitter Is the New Black?:  If so, then see answer above.

Will Fletch Be There?:  Yes, if he's speaking to me... which brings us to Old Business.

So, Jolene - one of my favorite people in the world - was in town last night to do a reading with some other authors at my favorite indie book store.  The night had a rock and roll theme and featured Jolene plus Joe Meno, Stephanie Kuehnert, and Chris Connelly. 

I was looking forward to the event because I always dig hearing Jolene read bits of her book.  What I didn't expect was to be so enamored with the other authors' work.  Seriously, you guys?  I had to buy all their stuff and now I'm conflicted over which to read first. 

Joe Meno read from his short story collection called Demons in the Spring and his description of art-school-poser Audrey was so vivid that I swear I've run into her at Kinko's before.  (I hate to advocate stalking, but you should keep checking his website for upcoming events because he doesn't read so much as he performs.)

Stephanie Kuenert excerpted part of her first chapter of I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone.  The book is YA but it's YA like Twilight is YA - sure young adults will read it, but when adults-proper read it, they'll enjoy it on a whole new level.  Again, fabulous and edgy.  

The last author up was Chris Connelly.  Those of you who don't have the musical sensibilities of a strip club DJ (e.g. myself) will recognize this name instantly from his groundbreaking work with Ministry, RevCo, and Pigface.  His book is Concrete, Bulletproof, Invisible and Fried: My Life as a Revolting Cock. 

I decided to get Chris to sign a book for Fletch because these are Fletch's all time FAVORITE bands and he loves Chris Connelly so much.  So when it was my turn to get the book signed, I recognized the gravity of the situation and I kind of got this nervous talking thing and I sort of babbled about how Fletch spends every morning with Chris at the gym and how he's kind of Fletch's idol and how his music is a big reason why Fletch has gotten so healthy lately. 

But again, I was babbling - possibly spitting - and at some point in my super-speedy diatribe I gave Chris the idea that Fletch was not listening to his music while huffing away all punk-rock by lifting heavy hunks of metal and instead that Fletch was listening to him on his iPod IN SPIN CLASS. 

Chris signed Fletch's book wishing him the best of luck and to KEEP SPINNING.   And Chris is a rock star so I didn't want to correct him and tell him, "No, no, I think I said that wrong," so now Fletch's rock idol thinks he takes SPIN CLASS and most likely walked away from our encounter wondering how the fuck one might spin to Pigface.

And then - then! - I asked to get a picture together and he sweetly obliged each of the fifteen times I demanded because the shots never actually saved because I'd filled up my BlackBerry's memory by taking too damn many photos of my new dining room table which I then inadvertently admitted out loud and then Jolene had to take the photo with her camera because I was really starting to make him nervous.  

To recap, Fletch's idol thinks:

A) He spins.

and

B) He's married to an idiot with a predilection for fast-talking and table porn.

Yeah, pretty sure I'm obligated to get Fletch the new flat-screen TV he really wants for the media room now.  Fortunately, I had the wherewithal not to mention Fletch couldn't come in the first place because of a run-in with Thanksgiving leftovers that had turned.

The good news is I don't have to buy him a surround-sound system, too.

 

Pfft.  Pearls are plenty punk rock. 

24

Twenty-four hours ago:

"Pfft.  We don't need no stinking professional!  We can install the chandelier ourselves!"

Now:

"What time is the electrician coming to restore power to the front of the house?"

(A Highly Profane) Happy Birthday to Fletch

Today is Fletch's birthday and I've got lots to do to get ready for it. 

And by "lots to do," I mean work on editing my new book. 

Hey, what can I say?  We're not really "birthday people."  Now, instead of writing flowery prose about how much I love him and prattling on about how he's my soul mate and exactly why he's so full of the wow and the awesome, I'm going in a different direction.  I'm going to pay tribute to him by posting clips to some of his favorite stuff. 

If you're at work, I suggest you don't watch at full volume because apparently Fletch believes that profanity is the greatest gift of all.

Enjoy.

The Big Lebowski:

Idiocracy:

Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back:

Rushmore:

No Cure for Cancer:

Clerks:

Superbad:

Happy 40th birthday, motherfucker!

As You Wish

Lotta ground to cover here today, so prepare yourself.

OK, here we go.

RECOMMENDED READING

First, you people want book recommendations?  You got 'em.  Here's everything I've finished in the last month:

Queen of the Road is basically what would happen if you took me, gave me a modicum of maturity and a better education, and then tricked me into living on a (very nice) bus with my husband and pets for a year.  I loved this book and I love this author.  If you want a taste of what I'm talking about, check out Doreen Orion's website; it's probably the best author's site I've ever seen.  Lots of multimedia stuff and you can read parts of the book!

A hidden bonus of going on book tour is meeting bookstore owners and employees.  Such was the case at Good Great Place for Books in Oakland.  (BTW, all of you who warned me about how murder-y Oakland is?  Yeah, my biggest fear in this 'hood was being run over by a Range Rover.)  Anyway, the owner picked out The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper and promised I'd enjoy it.  She was so right.  It's a story about an author who wrote a novel trashing the town where he grew up and what happens when he finally returns to that town years later.

Whacked by Jules Asner frustrates me, but only because as soon as I finished it I wanted to send Jules a big, squealing fangirl note and there's pretty much no way to contact her.  No website, no MySpace, no Facebook, no nothing.  (My guess it's because she's married to director Steven Soderberg and probably doesn't need ten billion aspiring screenwriters and actors using her book as an excuse to get to him.)  Regardless, Whacked is kind of dark chick lit where the heroine is a stalker, but you root for her anyway.  And love you, Jules Asner!  Call me!  Don't make me continue to stalk YOU.

Allison Winn Scotch recommended Confessions of a Contractor by Richard Murphy.  (Do you read Allison's blog?  I buy everything she recommends and I've yet to be anything less than delighted.)  What's nice is this book actually explains why the fuck it took eight weeks to finish my bathroom, but more importantly, tells a solidly-crafted story about a contractor getting too involved with the lives of his clients.

The Opposite of Love by Julie Buxbaum is another AWS suggestion.  I picked it up about a month ago and didn't put it down until I was done.  It's a great novel about loss and love and finally figuring out who you are.  Spellbinding, seriously.

And now, for what I'm about to read:

Alison Pace is one of my favorite authors, so her new novel City Dog is at the top of my stack.  She excels at creating well-defined, witty characters.  City Dog is about a serious novelist who takes a segue into writing bestselling children's books -it's sure to be a treat!  Check out her Amazon blog and you can read the beginning!

Joanne Rendell is one of my MySpace buddies and her new book The Professors' Wives' Club just came out.  It's being billed as Sex and the City for the academic set, and how can that not be interesting? 

I bought Sheer Abandon by Penny Vincenzi because I opened it to a random page in the middle of the book and totally wanted to read more.  (That's my litmus test for any book, BTW.)  From what I understand it's about a baby born and abandoned in Heathrow airport and what happens when the kid grows up and wants to know who her mom is.  I totally got a Lace vibe from it and, naturally, that spoke to my 80's-Phoebe-Cates-loving heart.  ("Which one of you bitches is my mother?)

Twilight by Stephenie Meyer - this is my reward for finishing my own book.  NO ONE TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS.  I figure anything that's inspired that much Facebook flair has to be addictive.

Sometimes I buy a book just for the cover.  Check out Assisted Loving: True Tales of Double Dating with My Dad by Bob Morris.  Because 80 is the new 70.

WHAT I'M WATCHING

First, Gossip Girl.  Duh.  But I've also been totally and completely obsessed with the CBS show Swingtown. 

You guys, this is SO GOOD. 

The story takes place in a wealthy Chicago suburb in 1976.  It's about a nice nuclear family on its way up the social ladder.  They move from their bucolic middle class neighborhood to a big house by the lake, across the street from a couple with an open marriage who suck them in to a swinger lifestyle.

Yes, all of the above sounds really cheesy and tawdry, but the writers have done an amazing job making every character complex, like the head of the swingers who secretly wishes to be a regular housewife and the old neighbor who has trouble coming to terms with her friend's family's success.  Essentially the show is a bold look at the fallout from the sexual revolution of the 60's.  And it's available on iTunes if you're interested and you may be able to see full episodes on CBS.com, free.  Watch it for no reason other than to see the role Grant Show was born to play.

WEBSITES I OBSESSIVELY CHECK

If you all aren't already reading Jenny at the Blogess then do so immediately.  Four words for you:  Angry Transvestite Lego Army.

Senior editor Josh Wolk of EW has a blog and his take on pop culture is no less than brilliant.  Enjoy!  (And the next time I hit the bookstore, I'm getting his memoir Cabin Pressure.)

BATHROOM BEFORE AND AFTERS

Here's what my house looked like for eight weeks.

This was actually taken after some of the stuff was moved to the basement.  Please note how I cannot get to my side of the bed, as well as the inch-thick drywall dust.

This is our dressing area.  Do you know how many times I worried Fletch would get up in the dark and just whiz in the available toilet? 

Why I couldn't get to my treadmill for eight weeks.

The tiling that took weeks.  Multiple weeks.

Was it worth it?

The new ceiling in the powder room (that also took this bath out of the mix for eight weeks.)

My magnificent shower.  You can't really see the detail but the little tiles are onyx and are a million different shades of beach-glass green.

You also can't see the sink detail but it's a slab of quartz with tiny slashes of sage green and brown marbling.  You also can't see where Fletch had to shove the bucket because he just discovered that the sink is leaking.  HA, HA, HA, FUCK.

FINALLY, WHAT PASSES FOR HUMOR AROUND HERE

Fletch was shaving off his goatee but insisted I get shots of him with just a mustache first.  He laughed so hard he almost wet his pants when he saw this.  I was all, "You look like a Chicago cop, what of it?"

"I haz a butt."  "I haz a butt, too."

And finally, what I like to call Nature's Own Post-It Notes

Alrighty, I'll be back when the book is done! 

(If you guys have any suggestions for good books, shows, or websites in the interim, put them in the comments.)

First Day of School, 2008

They grow up so fast, don't they?

Team Jen

"... and my heart felt like it was playing a game of Quidditch in my chest."

"What?"  He stops the car to look at me full in the face.

"You know, Quidditch.  The flying broom-soccer-dodgeball game from Harry Potter?  It's all whizzy and jumpy and bounce, bounce, bounce.  That's totally the perfect description of what a heart palpitation feels like."*

He starts driving again.  "Pfft.  Maybe if you're trying to explain it to a twelve year old."

"Right.  Because no one over the age of twelve ever bought a Harry Potter book or saw a Harry Potter movie."  I shake my head.  Seriously, have all the VH1 pop culture shows we've watched been in vain? 

He shrugs.  "I'm just saying that's an esoteric reference."

"And I'm saying you're wrong."

Internet, what say you?  If another adult mentioned Quidditch, would you catch the reference? 

(Or possibly the Snitch?)

*am healthy and fine - talking about an incident a long time ago

"You've Found A Kindred Spirit In Crap Music"*

I've been off the grid lately.  Between real vacation, accidental vacation, deadlines, and living in a house that has suddenly gone from three baths to one, the blog's gotten lost in the shuffle. 

Plus, I didn't think I had anything to write about but apparently each of the above topics could stand to be addressed, so here goes.

Part One, Real Vacation

It was, in a word, lovely  (if for no reason other than not having to share a bathroom with Fletch.  More on that in Part Four.)  Our hotel was all resort-y and they did stuff like bring personal pitchers of iced lemon water the second anyone sat down by the pool.  And the staff would come by and spritz guests with Evian water and every hour or so they'd distribute Popsicles or Dippin' Dots or frozen fruit or chilled washcloths. 

We had a giant dish of little-bitty wrapped Italian candies on the coffee table in our room.  I told Fletch that if he thought I wasn't going to turn into my grandmother and dump every last one of them into my purse before we left, he was sadly mistaken.  (Then he mentioned possibly discovering 500 $1 line-item charges on our room bill and I thought better of it.)

One of the highlights was getting to hang out with my friend Amy in person.  We've known each other ever since the early days of my "All About Jen" website but we've never met.  We drank vats of wine and ate seafood I've never heard of before (scorpion fish? mullet fish?) and generally had a fantastic time.  The bonus is she let me have a CD one of her friends made when they took a girls-only road trip to Sedona because she'd already burned it onto her iPod.  I listened to her CD all the way up to my accidental vacation (Part Two) and it was like unwrapping nineteen separate Easter eggs.

The CD is a perfect blend of cheese and sing-out-loud stuff.  It's called Three AGDs and a DG (the road trip participants respective sororities) and contains the following:

Gwen Stefani - The Sweet Escape

Rihanna - Pon De Replay

J Lo - Jenny from the Block

Stacey Q - Two of Hearts (remember her??)

Justin Timberlake - Sexy Back

Nelly Furtado - Promiscuous Girl

Rihanna - SOS (Rescue Me)

Coolio - Gangster's Paradise

Natasha Bedingfield - Unwritten

Fergie - Fergalicious

Britney Spears - Hit Me Baby One More Time

Beyonce - Irreplaceable

Shannon - Let the Music Play

LL Cool J - Going Back to Cali

Lisa Love - I Wonder If I Take You Home

Gwen Stefani - Hollaback Girl

Beyonce - Crazy in Love

Pink - Get the Party Started

Nelly Furtado - Say It Right

Enjoy!

*Fletch's quote when I told him what was on the play list

The first night in Vegas (after my traditional Fourth of July pool-wallow) I started getting ready to go to dinner.  I took a bath and was drying my hair when I felt a huge knot form in my throat.  While I put on my makeup and got dressed, I noticed my palms were sweating and my pulse raced.  I couldn't figure out why I was anxious until I realized I was going through all the exact same motions of being in a hotel room, getting ready for a book event.  As much as I enjoyed my tour, it was nice to just be able to put on a dress without the added pressure of having to give a speech. 

(I also recognize if it weren't for you guys, I wouldn't have been on my first vacation in six years, so THANK YOU ALL!)

* * *

Part Two, Accidental Vacation

We were only in Vegas for three days, but that's all it took to ruin me for regular life.  I'm all, "I'm hot!  Spritz me!" but no one does.  Remember those old cruise line commercials?  They featured a bunch of people wandering around their dank gray offices, drinking crappy coffee and fighting with janky mini-blinds.  The actors kept referencing their magnificent trip, saying stuff like, "I was a king and my butler knew just how I liked my tea," and "Every day my room was filled with fresh flowers."  For me?  That commercial finally makes sense.

At the moment, my life is filled with non-functional toilets in odd places and missing walls and a thick coating of drywall dust that just won't go away with vigorous dusting.  So when my friend Stacey invited me to visit her at her family's vacation place, I grabbed a beach bag and ran to my car. 

I'm on my way and I'm happily tooling along at both a safe distance from other cars and a sensible speed (nerd alert) when I notice a box fly off the pickup truck fifty yards ahead of me.  I was far enough back that it didn't come crashing through my windshield, thank God, but there was so much traffic in the right lane that I had no where to go but forward.  I ended up hitting the box which contained a very heavy piece of furniture.

You guys? 

I got into a head-on collision with an Adirondack chair.

The pickup driver and I both pulled over.  And when the driver got out of the other car, I was gearing up to yell like I've never yelled before when he introduced himself as Reverend So-and-so. 

Perhaps you all can shout at God's emissary, but I can't.  So while he went back to his car to call the police, I was stuck muttering to myself about Reverend TossyBox from the Church of the Flying Lawn Furniture.  I was already shaken up by the time I got to Stacey's house and when the biblical-type big storm hit that evening, the only rational choice was to stay over. 

Perhaps it wasn't as big a treat to her, as I mentioned, "I hit a box of chair," at least 900 times.  Also, while we were in her pool (which is on the lip of some deep woods) I got to say one of the greatest sentences of all time:

"Dude, there's a mini-frog on your neck."

* * *

Part Three, Deadlines

Deadlines still suck.  And they're keeping me from posting blogs more frequently.  But I figure I can do a bunch of half-assed blogs, or concentrate on a whole-ass book.

I choose whole-ass.

* * *

Part Four, The Bathroom Situation

A leaking shower pan has led to the utter destruction of almost every place to relieve oneself in this house.  We've lost a bunch of walls and ceilings and there's studs and plywood everywhere.  We're now down two bathrooms and I'm all, "Hey, why not take out the third, too?  I can just whiz in a pail."

In Bitter (I think) I talk about looking at apartments and telling leasing agents that we need at least two baths or else I will get divorced. 

Apparently I wasn't kidding.

Don't get me wrong; Fletch is an excellent roommate and he's quite tidy in the bathroom.  He never does stuff like leaving a sink full of whiskers and always wipes off the counter when he's done.  He's actually neater than me.  My bathroom is in no way suffering from his presence and yet I HATE having him in there because I'm ridiculously territorial.  He's none too thrilled with me, either, especially every time I suggest he'd be happier using the washroom at Target or the mop sink in the basement.

So he doesn't divorce me - or possibly beat me with one of many flanges laying around here - he's taken to staying home from work until the contractor arrives.  I'd been in charge of making Important Renovation Decisions but it turns out I don't speak Contractor and the guy doing all the work thinks I'm a dingbat when I say stuff like, "you know, those drip-ity things." 

The good news is ever since Fletch took over managing communication, the work has been going swimmingly (get it?  water pun) and I hope to have him out of my bath within the week.

* * *

Now I've sufficiently screwed around enough that I have no choice but to get back to my manuscript, thus I do not have time to come up with an ending that would have neatly tied all these unrelated topics together.  'Tis a pity. 

And because it can't be said enough:

"Dude, there's a mini-frog on your neck." 

I Prefer the Twenty-first Amendment

Our activities today included facials, brunch, poolside tanning time, and a trip to The Gun Store to fire assault rifles.

Try to guess which activities I picked.

(And yes, I totally chickened out on firing anything.)

(It's not that I don't support the second amendment. It's more that I have trouble controlling the kickback on the weedwhacker. Pretty sure I'm not ready to man an AK.)

The Correct Answer Is D

Hey, how about a little something for the laaaydiees?

So, what do you think Fletch is about to do while clad in this tool belt and hundreds of dollars of power tools? 

Is he:

A)  Adding a solarium onto the house?

B)  Installing a roof deck or possibly an entire third floor?

C)  Rehabbing the master bathroom?

D)  Placing two tiny screws in the wall to hang a curtain rod (which I totally could have done myself except he gets all stabby when he sees me try to build stuff with roofing nails and the heel of my loafer?)

And yes... I know.  I haven't posted anything for a week and the best thing I can think to put up is a photo of my husband's narrow ass?

You're welcome.

UPDATE:  So I decided I was perfectly capable of putting the curtain tie-back up myself.  I even used the big girl screwdriver. 

And it was totally fine.

Until I placed the filial finial (spellcheck doesn't correct it when you spell the wrong word the right way) on the end of it.

I may owe a certain flat-assed someone an apology.

I'm Back! (Until Tomorrow)

Setting:  The front hallway, right off the living room.  My giant suitcase is open and I'm sorting its contents into piles before I take it back upstairs to re-pack for Boston.  Fletch sits catty-corner in the living room watching me work.

Him:  What's that big stack of colored paper?

Me:  These are gift bags.  Check out some of the presents people brought to my readings!  (use Vanna White-type skills to lift and display items such as engraved bookmarks, gourmet caramels, hand-crafted mugs, Target dog, etc.) 

Him:  Wow.

Me:  I know, right?  How cool is that?  I'm just glad people actually come to these things.  Presents are totally a bonus.

Him:  (points) What kind of wine did you get?

Me:  (gestures to the bottles) These are all Chardonnay.

Him:  But I thought you only drank German wine.

Me:  No, honey.  That's you who doesn't drink Chardonnay.  I like anything white.  Plus, I'm always writing about "sweating Chardonnay" because it sounds funnier than "sweating Riesling" so I imagine that's why people chose what they did.  Also?  You should have seen all the cupcakes I got!  One girl made me Margarita flavored ones and they were about the best thing I've ever tasted.

Him:  Oh.

(long pause)

Him:  (looking thoughtful) Hey, you know what you should do?

Me:  What's that, honey?

Him:  Before you go to Boston, instead of saying you like wine and cupcakes, you should tell everyone you like bourbon and five dollar bills.

* * *

Speaking of Boston, don't forget I'll be at the Borders on 511 Boylston St. at 6:00 PM on Wednesday, June 25!

(No bourbon or five dollar bills required.)

Fact or Fiction?

Sometimes I wonder if people believe all the dumb things that happen to me on a daily basis. 

The thing is, I know I'm credible, but I wouldn't be surprised if others thought, "There's no way her neighbors are that bizarre.  The Target where she shops can't be as chaotic as she claims.  I doubt she really picks fights with anything that moves.  I'm sure her husband's cooking is just fine.  And what kind of ungrateful wife bitches when her spouse tries to be helpful in the kitchen, anyway?"

Were I to buy a video camera, I could handily prove most of the above.  (I haven't yet because my fear this website would turn into All Maisy Movies, All the Time.)  Anyone who's shopped at the Target on Elston could verify my tales in a second, and I defy them to not leave the store ready to take a swing at someone. 

As for Fletch and his culinary skills?  Check out the email he sent me from work yesterday, titled Need A Favor:

Please destroy anything in the refrigerator that I cooked.  I think I gave myself food poisoning with the chicken cacciatore. 

To be on the safe side, destroy anything I may have touched.  Wasn't there some sort of mythical creature that destroyed crops my touching them?  Because that's me, only with groceries.

I rest my case.

(P.S.  I was fine because I won't eat food that tastes pointy.)

Smokey, Smokey, Smokey

The last post may have given you the impression that I've been doing nothing but buying cute dresses to prepare myself for the tour. 

That's not at all true - it's just that I've purchased almost nothing but Champion t-shirts and mesh workout bottoms for the last year, so shopping for pretty stuff has been a delight.  (Especially since new shoes may or may not have been involved.) 

In case you're wondering, here's what I got:

Available from Nordstrom.com.

(I got these exact same shoes, only in taupe, available on Zappos.com.  They look really comfortable, but trust me, it's an illusion.)

This swirly-skirted dress comes in white, chocolate, or lilac.  I picked lilac because the beads are silver.  I got it at Vive La Femme on Damen Ave in Chicago, possibly the greatest store ever for items size 12 and up.  (Not local?  Buy it on Alight.com.)

I bought these shoes for my book events last year and will be pairing them with the lilac dress.

They are, hmm... what's the word I'm looking for?  Oh, yes, CRIPPLING.  They cause pain to shoot up my spine with every step I take.  Yet they completely dress up shorts and a polo shirt, so you can see my dilemma.

This one's available on LolaandGigi.com.  The weird thing is, I got this exact same dress in person at Nordstrom and the label says Jessica Howard Woman but the one online is by Donna Rico.  It's almost as though these dresses were all made in the same factory in China and someone simply slapped a different label on them depending on vendor.  But that would be impossible, right?  (I also got a boring white cardigan and black shrug to wear over these because I care not to expose my armpits in a formal setting.) 

Regardless, the impromptu fatty fashion fiesta was not the intended purpose of this post but it illustrates my point nicely.  I have 10,000 things yet to do, thus I have been procrastinating like crazy.  This aversion to finishing my tasks has led me directly to the internet.  Normally I'm a lurker - I read scads of blogs but never comment.  But since commenting is much more pleasant than say, reorganizing my closet or raking up the mountain of defrosted dog poop in the backyard, I've suddenly become prolific.

Because I should strive to be more prolific on my own website, I'm going to give you the long version of the key-losing-neighbor from a couple of days ago.  Here goes:

A bothersome family moved out of the house two doors down last month.  No surprise, I was thrilled to see them go.  They bugged me because they had a very nice, private backyard with lots of lawn furniture, but they preferred to gather up all their friends and family, sit on their front stoop in kitchen chairs, and shout to each other, leading to my never being able to watch TV with the windows open for two summers running.  (FYI, it took them weeks to clear out of their house because there's apparently a rule in this 'hood that you aren't allowed to rent a truck or hire a moving van and there's only so much furniture a 15 year old Chevy Malibu can transport in one trip.)

So, it's a Friday night and Fletch has his friend Hurricane Joel over for cigars and rye and Military TV programming.  After Joel goes, I pour Fletch into bed.  (No one survives a night out with Joel.  NO ONE.)  As I'm closing the curtains, I see two huge men park their big red car in the middle of the street.  I notice they start poking around a couple of the other cars up and down the block, including mine.  They don't actually put their hands on my vehicle, but they keep diving under it.  They're super loud and they've got their headlights shining directly on themselves.  I figure if they're car thieves, they aren't particularly good ones.

I attempt to rally Fletch, but all he does is mumble, "Smokey smokey smokey," into his pillow before passing out again, so it's up to me to deal with the situation.  I'm trying desperately to stop going Gladys Kravitz all over everyone's asses because it would be nice if at least someone in the neighborhood didn't hate me.  In neighborly solidarity, I let the situation play out a little longer.  The guys poke around a while more and then I see the bigger of the two guys open up a Zippo and dive under my car again. 

OK, smile and wave at people on my street in an insincere attempt to be more friendly?  Yes.  Willingly allow arson?  No.  I call the police and they arrive in record time.

The police talk to the two guys for a few minutes and then drive away, leading me to assume they aren't criminals and are neighbors who have lost something.  But what?  Maybe someone dropped a stone out of her ring while shoving a plastic potted tree in the passenger seat?  Possibly a wallet fell out of the pants riding mid-thigh on the gentleman with the bass loud enough to rattle my fillings?  Obviously the missing item was valuable enough to keep up the midnight recovery effort.  However, even if they are my neighbors, they're still strangers and I'm not about to dash out in the dark and volunteer to help.   

The two guys continue to light their lighters and dive under cars.  I watch as they leave them open long enough to get hot, then flick them closed and wave their burned fingers in the air.  Sometimes they pause, dust off their knees, and scratch their heads.  Finally, one of them opens his cell phone and uses the dial light to illuminate the ground under my car. 

This little dance goes on for FOUR HOURS.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.

I am flabbergasted at their lack of problem solving skills.  As the night proceeds, I find a million different ways to locate the lost object myself. 

I drive to any one of a dozen all-night grocery stores in the vicinity and buy a flashlight. 

I knock on neighbors' doors, explain what I've lost, and ask to borrow a broom, rake, or shovel to scoop out the contents of what's below the cars.

I decide the missing object is a key, so I call a locksmith because the phone in my hand is more than just a very dim source of light. 

I call a friend to help.

I say, "Fuck it," and come back as soon as it gets light out.

At no point would I use my lighter on a McDonald's cup, only to be shocked at its sudden, violent incandescent, thus singeing off my eyebrows and setting fire to the brim of my hat.  I'd probably also forgive my friend for hitting me in the face in an attempt to douse the flames and would not let the situation devolve into a shove fest.  And were I to engage in these actions, I wouldn't blame my friend for screaming, "Fucking burn next time then!" either.

At this point I go to bed because the show can't possibly get any better.  But I have to sleep in the guest room at the back of the house because of all the I-burnt-my-eyebrows-off noise out front.  Also, Fletch smells like a bachelor party.

The following Monday I'm coming back from the gym and the two guys are on the street again, only this time they're busy moving furniture out of their car and into the old neighbors' house. 

Of course they are.

They call me over to say hello.  They're very friendly despite the fact they've only got one set of eyebrows between them.  We chat for a couple of minutes and I learn about the lost key, but I don't mention my having called the police.  I just smile and nod.  Look at me, what a good neighbor! 

Then one of them tries to sell me a box of meat out of his trunk. 

And I... I... I give up.  I excuse myself abruptly and dash into my house. 

Someday I'll live in a neighborhood where people don't set their hair on fire or try to sell me a trunk full of flank steaks. 

'Til then, I'll keep buying pretty dresses and uncomfortable shoes so I look nice when I get to meet you all and tell you the stories in person.

And What I've Been Right About? EVERYTHING ELSE

Setting:  My kitchen, doing dinner prep last Monday.

Me:  (peeling asparagus) (which makes it SO tender, be sure and try it next time) Hey, I had THE best workout today. 

Fletch:  Yeah?  What'd you do?

Me:  Well, when I walked into the gym trainers Tino and Mike greeted me by saying, "One thousand!"  So I was all, "One thousand!" back to them, figuring it was some expression I'd never heard.  Then I see Barbie and she explains we're going to do a one-thousand rep workout, meaning ten exercises one hundred times each.  And not easy exercises - I'm talking lunges and squats and stuff.

Fletch: (emptying the dishwasher) I bet that went over well with you.

Me:  Riiight.  When Barbie told me about the hundred push-ups, I was, like, "What, am I in the Army now?"

Fletch:  (shoulders still sore from three years worth of military service) You know nothing of push ups.

Me:  Whatev.  Anyway, I knew I was going to have a super-tough day so I bought an energy drink.  I expected it to have the Hot Orange Death flavor like the Ripped to the Max stuff I bought last summer, but it was good.  I mean, SO good I would drink it just to drink it.  Plus, it gave me so many strongs that not only did I complete my thousand reps, but then I burned another 1020 calories on the treadmill afterward, with running and everything!  I mean, seriously, one thousand reps AND one thousand calories?  That shit is AMAZING.

Fletch:  Impressive!  What'd you drink?  Liquid amphetamines?

Me:  Practically.  What I had was TnTea, lemon flavor. 

Fletch:  (pauses with a clean colander in his hand)  You're kidding. 

Me:  Um, no.  Why would I kid about an energy drink?

Fletch:  (incredulous) TnTea.

Me:  Yep.

Fletch:  You realize TnTea is the supplement I used all summer.  Remember?  I kept trying to get you to taste it because I thought you'd like it and you flat-out refused.  Why?  Why would you refuse? 

Me:  Huh.  Must have thought it looked yucky.  Yet I was so very wrong.

Fletch:  (sputtering)  But!  But!  You wouldn't even take a sip.  Not one goddamned sip.

Me:  And too bad for me because it was delicious!  It gave me so much energy!  I'm actually still vibrating like a hummingbird.

Fletch:  (in a bit of a lather, if you want to know the truth)  So why would you not even TASTE it? 

Me:  (rinsing the asparagus) I dunno.

Fletch:  Even after I PROMISED you you'd like it?  We got to the point I told you I'd give you a dollar or let you take a swing at me if you didn't.

Me:  (shrugs) Beats me.  Maybe you should have been more persistent.

Fletch:  Short of pouring it down your throat, I could not have been more persistent.

Me:  Yet it's a shame I didn't try it sooner because I loved it!

Fletch:  (bangs head against cabinet)

* * *

The point of this little vignette is twofold - first, it demonstrates exactly how stubborn I am when I believe I'm right.  Second, the fact I'm such a good sport when finally proved wrong makes me all the more aggravating.  So, in the spirit of not annoying the bejesus out Fletch and others (and before my stupid opinions/actions become an issue) I'm publicly admitting I was wrong about the following:

* Purchasing an entire case of Hot Orange Death-flavored Ripped to the Max.   

* Promising I'd use our treadmill every day.  (In my defense I would have, if the basement didn't smell so much like pee.)

* Insisting we purchase TV trays (now languishing in the pee-pee basement next to the lonely, pristine treadmill) because I didn't realize I'd rather eat off a real table or the ottoman.

* Putting fancy underwear on the cover of the new book.  Apparently a number of people (who aren't me) find products from places like La Perla and Victoria's Secret and Cosabella and Agent Provocateur appealing.  Huh.  Who knew?

* The Indianapolis 500, which takes place at the end of May every year... except on a leap year and maybe I should have actually looked at the calendar rather than just calling my publicist in a huge panic about Indy hotel rooms.  (Fletch gets partial blame for this one.)

* Jean jackets.  But not Crocs.  Crocs still ROCK. 

* Two and a Half Men, which I refused to watch for five years, despite my father insisting it's the funniest show on television.  (BTW, the crush I developed on Charlie Sheen in the '80s?  Is back.  Hard.  Also?  I'm delighted to see how well Jon Cryer has aged in comparison to Andrew McCarthy, who appears to have been let out of his crypt to film Lipstick Jungle.  Oh, Duckie, Molly Ringwald would totally choose you now.)

* Organic produce and dairy.  Also?  Anything soy-based.   

* Letting the book Middlesex sit on my shelf for two years because I thought it looked dull.  (And what's more boring than Pulitzer Prize-winning novels about hermaphrodites?  Um, everything, that's what.)

* Chicken Cacciatore, which Fletch tricked me into eating by calling it "Hunter's stew," only revealing its true name/nature after I'd licked the plate clean.

* Thinking I'd be happier watching Flavor of Love 3 in high-def.  (I have one word for you - SPITTLE.  High-def Flavor Flav spittle.  Gah.)

And... I think that's everything.  Now it's your turn - what would you like to publicly admit you've been wrong about?  Pilates?  Recycling?  Finally buying pants one size up?  Rock the Cradle or any other fine, fine VH1 programming?

The comments section awaits your confessions.      

P.S.  One thousand reps followed by eighty minutes/one thousand calories in the same session?  Justine can SUCK IT.

   

A Thousand Splendid Showers

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

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

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

Fletch:  (snorts)  Uh huh.

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

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

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

Me:  Nope.  What's up?

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

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

Fletch:  Um, work?

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

I apologize for nothing.