jennsylvania

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.

Pasta La Vista, Baby

Setting:  The bookstore in Skokie, next to the really good supermarket which is totally worth the eleven mile ride on the expressway, even if it takes 45 minutes to go that far because no one around here knows how to fucking drive if it's not 72 degrees and sunny and how can you live in this city for more than five seconds and be SURPRISED about any weather-based occurrences?

Me:  Jesus Christ, why are you buying so many magazines?

Fletch:  Because they all pertain to my interests.

Me:  I was unaware you had that many interests.  What have you got there?

Fletch:  (shuffles through stack) Here's a Mac magazine, and a different Mac magazine, here's two home theater magazines, three new car buying guides-

Me:  Bup, bup, bup, you are NOT getting a new car or a home theater system.

Fletch:  (shrugs) I know.  But I enjoy researching what's out there.

Me:  (shudders) At this point, I'm not even sure where you end and my father begins.  What else do you have?

Fletch:  Lemme see, oh, here's the new issue of Bimmer. (the BMW enthusiast magazine, and FYI, I don't subscribe to reading materials about my car because there's no publication dedicated to seven year old Nissans that smell like dog and have dented fenders)  Finally, I've got Guns and Ammo and Guns Magazine.

Me:  Wow.  Two weapons publications?  I'm sorry, were they all out of Soldier of Fortune and the Firearms Gazette? 

Fletch:  What?  I like reading about guns.

Me:  Yeah.  Someone is SO putting you on a list with this purchase.

Fletch:  (heading towards checkout, but then stopping) I might get a new cookbook while we're here, too.

Me:  Oh, God, please no.

Fletch:  Why?

Me:  (grimacing) Are you going to make me say it?

Fletch:  Say what?

Me:  Just, please, no more cookbooks.

Fletch:  Why not?

Me:  You know why.

Fletch:  I don't know why.

Me:  Don't make me say it.

Fletch:  You're talking gibberish again.

Me:  OK, how about this?  Everyone who DIDN'T give himself food poisoning this weekend by eating his scary homemade pasta sauce, raise his hand.  (pause)  Yeah, that's what I thought.

Fletch:  Point taken.  No cookbooks.  I guess I'm ready.

Me:  Cool.  (paying, then walking to the parking lot)  Hey, you know what's ironic? 

Fletch:  Hmm?

Me:  That I'm not at all afraid of your fascination with weapons.  And yet the idea of you cooking?  Scares the pants off me.   

 

 

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

Please Phrase Your Response in the Form of a Question

UPDATE:  It's alive!  The sitting-in-rice-for-two-days trick worked! 

And now Fletch, the one who left the iPod in his pocket in the first damn place, is disappointed because he can't swap the broken 1 gig model out for the 80 gig one he wanted.  Aarrggh.

* * *

The category is Home Electronics and for five hundred, here is the clue:

Fletch's iPod

"OK, Alec, how about... what things are not machine washable?"

I'm Obligated to Title This One 'The Banana Grabber'

Setting:  By the fruit bowl in my kitchen, last week.

* * *

Monday

Me: (to myself) Ooh, the organic bananas are finally ripe. Yay!  (grabs a banana) (struggles to peel it) (fails) (struggles some more) (more fails) What the hell?  The stem won't snap.  Why can't I get this open? (shrugs, grabs knife, cuts off top, consumes) 

Tuesday

Me: (to myself)  Ooh, I should have a banana!  The one yesterday was really good. (grabs a banana) (struggles to peel it) (fails) (struggles some more) (more fails)  Weird.  Maybe the outside isn't ripe yet, 'cause the inside tastes just lovely. (shrugs, grabs knife, cuts off top, consumes)

Wednesday

Me: (to myself) Hey, you know what would be good right about now?  A banana. (grabs a banana) (struggles to peel it) (fails) (struggles some more) (more fails)  Huh, this is so strange how the stems on these refuse to budge.  Does being organic mean the skin is tougher?  I've never had to struggle with a stupid banana so hard in my damn life. (shrugs, grabs knife, cuts off top, consumes)

Thursday

Me: (to myself, eying the bowl uneasily) So, banana, what's it going to be today?  Are you going to open up nicely or are we going to have trouble? (grabs a banana) (struggles to peel it) (fails) (struggles some more) (more fails)  What the fuck is wrong with you?  Do you have some sort of bizarre self-preservation mechanism that makes you impossible to open?  GOD! (grabs knife, whacks off top of stem with a force so loud it summonses Fletch to the kitchen, begins to consume)

Fletch:  What's with all the noise?

Me: (shouting through a mouthful) It's these demon-seed organic bananas!  I hate them!  They refuse to open no matter which way you bend them!  There is something deeply wrong with them and possibly evil. 

Fletch:  Ohhh-kay... 

Me:  They're cursed or enchanted or something.  My guess is some angry banana farmer placed some voodoo on them because not using pesticide was such a pain in his ass. 

Fletch:  My guess is that they aren't cursed.

Me:  Your guess is wrong. (pledges to research subject of cursed bananas on internet as soon as breakfast is over)

Fletch:  So, um, are you going to eat the last one then? 

Me:  No, I'm not having any more cursed fruit, thank you.  But if you want it, here's a knife - there's no way you're getting to the inside without stabbing that motherfucker.  Seriously, just try opening it with your hands, I dare you.  It is frigging IMPOSSIBLE.

(Fletch grabs a banana, opens with a quick snap of his wrist, peels, and takes a bite while I stand there in stunned silence)

Me:  (sputters) But... how... when... I... I... damn it, I have had to use a knife to open those stupid bananas!  Seriously!  Every single day!

Fletch: (chewing thoughtful) Wow, then I guess you'd make a really lousy monkey.

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?