When in Rome...

For the next few weeks, I'll be trouncing around Italy, so posting will be light and sporadic. I know, my life is really, REALLY hard. I'm going to do all I can to drink lots of chianti, eat unholy amounts of pasta...and even eat cheese! And I will welcome the lactose intolerance because it will be ITALIAN lactose intolerance, which is far more acceptable.

My goals while in Italy are:
1) To get my rear pinched...
2) To find George Clooney, who I hear is single again, and I'm sure recuperating at his Como estate...
3) Surviving with only 12 items of clothing for 2.5 weeks. Yes...TWELVE. That's ALL. Seriously.
4) To do a lot of art ogling, people watching and just some general sitting on a park bench and watching life go by...

I'll let you know how it goes, internet. Ciao!

Do you even know who AC/DC IS?

I’ve come to realize that I’m not going to be one of those cool adults who understands teenagers and appreciates their angst and righteous indignation at how adults totally don't get it. It’s annoying. You’re not the only one who has ever been broken-hearted or had these totally amazing and DEEP thoughts. No. And while I hate to stifle your creativity and right to self-expression, you have no wrinkles and thin thighs, so go away and stop bothering me with your AC/DC tight t-shirt (that you probably think you’re wearing with irony) and skinny jeans.

All of this because some high school snot stole my parking space and then called me “Ma’am.” I need tequila.

Pants problem

There are a few things in life about which I am certain. Not much, mind you, because I’ve been blessed with only a minimal amount of wisdom, but I can tell you with great certainty that you SHOULD recycle, hummus is the best food on earth, English grammar is annoying, none of us gets enough fiber in our diets and no man should ever question a woman’s dedication to her shoe collection. Also, wear your sunblock. Beyond that, don’t come to me for advice - I’ll probably just hand you a margarita and change the subject.

Then there’s me…there are things about ME of which I am VERY certain. For instance:

I LOVE musicians. If you can sing, I might ask you to marry me. If you can sing AND play an instrument, my pants will just come right off. RIGHT OFF. No joke. It’s a bit embarrassing. If you look like Eddie Vedder or Gavin Rossdale, then we’ll have a whole nudity situation to contend with.

This being said, I’ve had a bit of a dilemma this week.

I’ve had a long running crisis concerning my opinion on Coldplay (or “Menya” as I believe Mark D. calls them). They used to be one of my favorite bands, and then a friend of mine who is a musician himself said “No no NO. Chris Martin CANNOT sing!” Chris Martin? Not being able to sing? Hogwash…have you HEARD Yellow? Anyways, we often (after several glasses of wine) descended into ugly territory regarding this subject and finally agreed to disagree.

Then, one fateful night, I was happily watching “Austin City Limits” with Coldplay as the guest, and, well, I was shattered. Because Chris Martin could indeed, not sing. Or at least he was in very weak voice that evening. And as he gasped his way through Clocks I stared in horror at the television, my fantasies of kicking Gwyneth Paltrow in the shins and taking her place dissolving as Chris wailed pathetically through most of his high notes.

I was so sad. So sad in fact, that I had to remove Coldplay from my iPod for a while, and then call my friend and admit that he had been correct and my pants were permanently on a removal hiatus where Chris Martin was concerned.

So fast forward to last week...I was in the car and heard this amazing song come on the radio. AMAZING. I felt my top button loosening! And it was COLDPLAYS new single! Viva la Vida!

So my conundrum is, do I accept that Chris perhaps needs a little doctoring in the studio to sound good and just enjoy his music and song writing? Or do I hold onto my righteous indignation and musical law: “He who cannot sing live should leave it to those who can.”

My pants need to know.

Impressions...

1. You woke up laughing, some exquisite dream having brought you out of sleep with a smile on your face. And it was in that moment, before any words were spoken, as your happiness spilled over onto me and I placed my head on your shoulder, that I knew what perfection was.


2. You are my secret. I looked at you as you opened the wine, prepared the meal, talked about your day and wondered if I took up as much of your mental space as you do mine. It was only later, when my clothes were in a tangled mess on the floor, joined by yours, that you ran a finger down my spine and said “Stay” rather than “Do you think our friends know about us?” which I took as some sort of progress. But the next morning, as we ate and laughed about something only you and I laugh about, you couldn’t look at me. And I knew, then, you had crossed over your own boundary. So I wasn’t surprised when, rather than kissing me when I left, you playfully slapped my bottom and said “You were amazing last night…we’ll do it again soon.” The sun was blazing outside, against a clear blue sky, and I felt suddenly cold.


3. I woke before you did and silently dressed, kissing the spot between your shoulder blades before heading out to the living room. It wasn’t dawn yet, and I curled into myself on the couch, the hot tears coursing down my cheeks as I shoved my fist into my mouth to keep my misery from bleeding out of me. You came out later, saw my swollen face and knelt down, waking me from an exhausted sleep. “Come back to bed,” you whispered, pulling me up and into your neck where I sighed, too tired to resist even though the night before we had decided that this would be the last time for everything. What we hadn’t realized was that the pain was just beginning, and so we clung to one another, trying to memorize what was familiar and good so that we would be able to recognize it the next time around.

G-L-A-M-O-R-OUS

I (with Rod's help) discovered one of Angie's main irritations...and I'm so HAPPY about it! (Yes, that is the kind of friend I am!) I don't think she really HATES Fergie, because how can you really dislike someone who admits to pee'ing their pants on stage? I think she's more upset that Fergie has taken Josh Duhamel off of the market permanently. Heck, even I had a day of mourning over that. So those of you who know Ang, let's whistle "Glamorous" around her and see if we can get her to seize - or something neat like that! It's Friday! Time for some fun!

Me: Pour Some Sugar On Me? For REAL? I thought "G-L-A-M-O-R-OUS" was more your speed.
Angie: OMG! I effin loathe Fergie's ugly *ss!!
Me: Wow. Ok. At least she teaches you how to spell. It's educational!
Angie: Sesame Street is educational...Fergie is TRASH!
Me: You know, there is something about her that I like. I don't know what it is...for instance, I wish I looked like she did in latex leggings.
Angie: I just threw up (a lot) in my mouth.
Me: I also cannot get "NononoNOOOOOO, don't phunk with my heaaaaaart" out of my head when I hear it. Maybe I'll change my ring tune to that and then call myself a lot during dinner tomorrow just to torture you.
Angie: Why do you hate me? WHY?

My eyes are up here...

The only positive side effect of PMS, as far as I know, is ridiculously impressive cleavage. Today, I have basked in the glories of such things as…testing the elasticity of my bra!...being able to fill out a shirt!...having men be unable to make eye contact with me!

It certainly balances out the tendency towards weeping OR wanting to stab someone in the eye with a sharp pencil. Mood swings are FUN for EVERYONE!

Tomorrow, I’m sure, I will go back to being a less buxom version of myself. But, today! Today, I am (and they are) magnificent! Tell me otherwise and I will seriously cut you.

Warning...

WARNING:

If you’re going to pull up next to me in your convertible Jaguar with the top down and your SHIRT OFF blaring “Pour Some Sugar On Me”, I’m going to say “DOUCHEBAG!” – REALLY LOUDLY - as I speed off.

Because, while I'm a child of the 80's and look back on the era with happy nostalgia, I don't need to relive its campy excellence. Especially before I've had lunch. That's just rude.

"Their" or "They're" or "There"?

Dear Grammar Nazi,

Please note that I’m well aware of my deficiencies in the art of English Grammar. I, in fact, never met a sentence I wanted to conjugate and couldn’t tell you what a dangling participle is, though I hope there’s a cream for it, as it sounds itchy and uncomfortable.

I rely heavily on spell check and my editor, a job I’d be happy to bestow upon you as far as this blog is concerned, as I’m sure if my real editor looked at it, she would keel over in shock at my liberal use of slang, lack of properly placed commas and over-use of ellipses…

But more importantly, if you have further concerns as to my daily butchering of the English language, please continue to direct your comments to Angie, as she loves delivering them to me, having little else to do at work. I appreciate your concern, and will continue to ignore your commentary by regularly writing run on sentences and using punctuation incorrectly! it’s fun! and liberating! you should try it!

Regards,
J

(Hi, Chuck! I’m looking DIRECTLY at you. Paul would never criticize me, thusly. I’m just sayin’…)

Stinson

Kylie thinks that all of her weekends should look like this, and I quite agree. A group of us rented a house in Stinson for the weekend, and it was just enough time to decompress and relax, though I was sad to leave Sunday.

I think I would be a better version of myself if I had a beach house…you know, I could work on building some SERIOUS character while walking barefoot on the sand…with a glass of wine. The world would really be a better place...I'm only thinking of the well-being of everyone who knows me. Truly.

Making waves...

My dad to my mom after she had spent 15 minutes berating the bartender for his political views (namely, that he’s not a Republican):

“Now, why did you have to go and pick a fight with the bartender? People know us here!”
“I don’t know…he was the closest! And my feet hurt.”
“What does that have to do with you calling him an idiot?”
“I was cranky because of my bunions…and someone needed to tell him he was stupid. It just worked out that way.”
“Well, we’ll have to bring our own wine from now on…”
“That’s fine. I don’t want a Democrat serving me anyways.”
“We live in California. It's fair to say everyone’s a Democrat.”
“Well, then I’ll tell them they’re all idiots and we’ll eat at home in peace.”

And people wonder why it is that I spend a fair amount of time with my foot in my mouth. It's called GENETICS. IT'S NOT MY FAULT.

Bossima

Today, one of my male clients was being sort of a baby about his abdominal work. So I did what I usually do when this problem crops up - I verbally abused him. Some people might call this sadistic…I call it motivating!

“SERIOUSLY? Are you going to cry like a little schoolgirl over abdominal work? Don’t be such a pussy.” At which he looked up at me (while starting in on the offending crunches) and said “God, you’re so mean. What’s wrong with you?”

I thought about that for a bit, and the only thing I could come up with is “Well, I’m half German. I blame my heritage. However, my cruelty ensures your washboard abs. So really, you should really stop whining. It’s not attractive.”

“True, but sometimes I want to hit you, just a tiny bit.”

“Which is why I work you out so hard that you can’t. See, I’m mean AND smarter than you are. So suck it!”

Later, I heard someone at the studio whisper “I just heard Jen tell someone to suck it…I wish I could do that at work!”

And I thought, you know, I’m so lucky. I’m come from a long line of fiercely bossy women and the fact that I’ve made a career out of telling people what to do brings me endless joy. I get to make statements such as “LISTEN TO EVERYTHING THAT I SAY AND BE QUIET.” And they DO! And it works! And sometimes they bring me gifts! I can’t think of many other vocations in which this type of complete obedience occurs.

I’m never going to quit…I think anything else would be a huge disappointment, not to mention a reality check. If I had someone stop me mid-thought and give me a contrary opinion, I would probably stare at them in shock and then command them to drop and give me twenty.

I wonder what sort of human resources violation that would be?

When honesty isn't the best policy...

A conversation with my client...she came in, took one look at my sickly self and said:

"Dude, are you pregnant?"
"No, just bloated. I think ate something weird and it’s not sitting well with me. I don’t feel well today."
"Holy wow. I’ve never seen anything quite like that. Have you pooped, like, this month?”
“Who are you, my mom? Thank you for making me feel so much better about myself.”
“Well, maybe you should do sit ups with me?”
“Only if you want me to throw up on your shoes.”
“If it would get rid of the bloat, I would consider it. Either that or you should wear a muu muu”
“You suck.”
“At least I don’t look like THAT.”
"Bitch."
"Whale."

Ex-ACT-ly!

I realized today, that if you REALLY listen, there are SMART THINGS to be learned from the bad pop music that I listen to. (Unapologetically, mind you.)

For instance, who can argue the wisdom of this mandate: “If you ain’t got no money, take your broke ass home!” EXACTLY. PLEASE DO.

I’M not picking up your tab, so get out of here.

Please don't judge me...

I make my mother proud on a daily basis. This evening, in fact, she was thrilled over my grasp of medical jargon as I used the word VASECTOMY at dinner (at which she punched me in the arm and said “That is NOT a lovely thing to mention!”). Just for the fun of it, I proceeded to repeat VASECTOMY at regular intervals during the meal. It’s a fun word to say! You should try it some time!

I also like to toss in things like “HOT SEX!” and “VAGINA!” and “FART!” just to throw her off. Flustering my mom is like a sport, and I’m the only player. And I always win.

For all of her quirks (and perhaps because of them) my mom is widely loved by everyone who knows her. We grew up and still live in the small hamlet of Los Altos where you can’t walk down the street without seeing someone familiar, and my mom knows EVERYONE. And if she doesn’t, she regards them with deep suspicion until she DOES. Which usually takes about five minutes – and then she gets such rich details as to the state of their colons, if they like their in-laws and if they vote Republican.

The other day, she and I were going into a new shop…the proprietor was new to Los Altos, but had passed my mothers rigorous inspection. (She not only poops regularly but also didn't like Clinton and has a mother who has been married seven times). Armed with this important information, we walked in. The woman immediately came over to greet my mother…looking over at me, she said “This must be your daughter!”

Used to my spouting off something inappropriate, my mother decided to take preemptive action. So before I could work the word “PENIS!” into the conversation she said:

“This is my daughter Jen. She’s mildly retarded. Please don’t judge me…I did my best.”

Touché, mom. Well played.

Happiness is NOT...

...having your dog barf on your foot...when you're wearing open toed sandals.

I'm so happy this week is over, I could just spit.

Things that happened before 12noon today that make me need tequila...

Hit the “off” button on my alarm rather than “snooze.” Which means my hair didn’t get done before I went to work. Sorry, clients.

Forgot to the put the mesh thingy into the french press which means that when I went to push my coffee grounds down, they FWOOSHED with great enthusiasm ALL OVER me, the counter and then floor. Neat. I then had no time to put on make up. Again, sorry, clients.

I didn’t have time to make my bed because of aforementioned alarm and coffee fiasco's. This made me grumpy.

My power steering up and died overnight in my car, meaning no amount of brute force would make the wheel TURN. Even later to work. Also, sore bicep from efforts to make the wheel go. Also, sore throat from screaming obscenities at car.

One of my clients looked up at me while on the reformer and said “Should I feel this in my vagina?” No, you should not. Or perhaps you SHOULD and show me HOW…depends on the feeling, I suppose.

Same client came in wearing WEE little bike shorts – like, I could see into her uterus. Think she confused me with a gynecological exam. Don’t need to be THAT CLOSE with ANYONE’S lady parts. Did I mention she’s well into her 60’s?

My underwear rode up my butt all morning.

I had lipstick on my teeth through one entire session and no one told me.

I finally had time to go to the bathroom near the end of my day and someone had used up the last of the toilet paper AND HAD NOT CHANGED THE ROLL.

Thank the good Lord in heaven that it’s Friday tomorrow.

When you know you're getting older...

I’m deeply suspicious of anyone who doubts the excellence of the show “Gossip Girl.” I awaited its return with a feverish anticipation that I’m sure rivaled most of the teeny boppers who share my enthusiasm for the high school drama. But who doesn’t love the deviousness of Blair’s soul? There isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t covet Serena’s hair! And Dan Humphrey! Sweet God! I just want to fold him up, put him in my pocket and take him out when I need to look at something pretty. And then there is Nate Archibald – I’m not sure he’s real, folks, because anyone THAT good looking should be put into some sort of glass case so we can just stare at him…and perhaps clone him…

But my true, TRUE love on that show is Matthew Settle who plays Rufus Humphrey, Dan’s father.

And this is how I know that I’m getting old, because I’m no longer lusting after the main characters, the beautiful little 20 year olds masquerading as high schoolers. No, my main focus is on the PARENTS. Or, at least, the one parent. Those little brats can run all over Manhattan, drinking their fancy drinks and wearing horribly misplaced couture…I just want to see Dan’s brooding, sensitive, musician father (and we know how I feel about musicians) lament over his lost love, worry about his daughter and stare at the camera in a way that makes me want to dive in, ruffle his hair and say “Do not worry, Matthew Settle! Jenny will come to her senses and you KNOW you’ll end up with Lily…in the meantime, lets make out on the sofa!”

How DO you do it?

Today I am extremely tired. Be it from the constant laughter over the weekend or the incessant jogging to the bathroom due to the excess fiber my mother was shoving down my throat, I’m not sure, but I really need to lie down.

There, much better.

Time with my family this weekend was glorious. (And exhausting, but mostly glorious). I have seven nieces and nephews, four of which I was able to spend time with this Friday through Monday, and it’s super fun to go from having changed their diapers at one point to be able to talk to them about more adult topics…like sex!

We have a strange relationship with sex in our family. Which is to say our parents never spoke of it and I think hoped that by their NOT mentioning it, we would never find out that it existed as an activity. When my brother finally got up the nerve to ask where babies came from (with excessive prodding from me), we were told to hush and the next day found a strategically placed book called “Where You Came From” in the playroom. The book, while I’m sure informative, was also well beyond our years intellectually. We poured over the illustrations and jargon and finally gave up, which is what I think my mom had hoped for. It was all too complicated and playing outside was more important than solving the complex issue of procreation. Plus, the detailed drawings of the reproductive organs were just creepy.

One day in high school, when I HAD figured out sex and was disgusted at the thought of my parents ever having had it, mom decided that it was time to have “the talk.” And this is how it went…

We were standing in the kitchen, making dinner. I was in charge of making the salad, and somewhere in between chopping the bell peppers and grating the carrots my mom let out this little gem:

“Jen, men like to have a lot of sex. And I mean a LOT. So be prepared.”

I remember, standing at the sink, completely traumatized, thinking “Sweet GOD, what do I do with THAT information?” followed by “PLEASE don’t let her go into greater detail because I’ll have to put my hand into the running disposal as a distraction.”

And that was it.

Still, in 32 years, that is the ONLY time she has ever said the word “sex” to me.

The second time sex was ever mentioned was years later. I had taken my mom on a mother/daughter trip to Napa. We were staying in a lovely little B&B in Calistoga. Mom was occupying the bedroom while I was on a cot in the living room. Our first morning, I went in to wake her up and found her sitting in bed, hair standing straight on end (she has the BEST bed head) and a look of complete distress on her face. I asked her what was wrong, and in a stage whisper, lest anyone should hear her she said:

“WELL, the couple overhead was VERY much in love, ALL NIGHT LONG. They had BETTER be married!”

The NERVE that people should be having sex RIGHT ABOVE HER was just all too much. I think she might have had a mimosa with breakfast that morning, just to brace herself against the memory.

And so this weekend, I brought up both stories over margaritas and my mother at first protested wildly – she would never talk of such things! But she finally admitted to both, and then added, “You know, I remember that couple now. They were LOUD. Can’t people have some decorum when they’re doing such a thing? I know - maybe he wasn’t doing it the right way!”

Which is when I cut her off from the margarita pitcher. Really.

Have you had your fiber today?

So I’ve been in San Diego this weekend celebrating my oldest sisters birthday. My parents made the trek down from the Bay Area as well, and my sides hurt from having spent most of the weekend laughing. It’s hard to describe my parents. They are both forces of nature, fiercely bright and completely insane. When my friends meet the two of them, they look at me and go “Oooooooohhhhhh…now I get it.” And then they spend the rest of the time talking to my mom and dad, who are infinitely more fascinating than I am.

They are the type of parents who like to share everything with their kids. Good wine, food, and new health trends. I always call my mom the original hippie, as she was into alternative medicine and recycling long before it was a way of life. Even now, she still comes over bearing gifts of digestive honey, books on herbal remedies and baking soda in bulk…you can use that stuff for EVERYTHING.

For instance, my mother, recently having found that her cholesterol was high, has been taking copious amounts of fiber to bring her levels down. As anyone knows who takes a fiber supplement, this causes a rather alarming cleansing effect. As in, if you’re not regular, you will be now! and with great enthusiasm! your time in the bathroom will be well spent and efficient!

And my mother finds this a reason to celebrate. And feels as though we should all be having such successful bathroom visits. So much so that she’s been chasing us around all weekend with her tablets saying “DO YOU NEED SOME FIBER?” No, mom, I don’t. My father, however, has acquiesced, I think just to shut her up and regain some peace in his life. He pulled me aside yesterday and said “Do what you can to avoid the tablets. No one’s colon needs that kind of activity.” Good times.

My mother is not one to give up easily. Though she’s not in her own home, she is around her children and so feels the need to boss us all around a little bit. It’s fantastic, because we’re all old enough now to say “no” but she chooses to ignore that…completely. For instance, a conversation we had this morning. Before coffee.

“Jen…here are some fiber tablets…have them with your breakfast!”
“No thanks, mom.”
Long pause.
“Well, why not? Don’t you want to be able to poop?”
“You know, I manage to do that just fine without help…thanks.”
“Well, I doubt that. Just have some! It’s lovely!”
“Ummm, I’m fine. But thank you.”
“Well, here are two tablets, just in case you decide to have it. Do you want some orange juice to wash them down with?”
“Seriously mom, I’m o.k. without them.”
“No, you’re not. What do you know?”

I could have gone on to argue that I knew quite a bit, seeing that that's my JOB, thank you very much, but it would have been pointless, and she clearly wasn’t going to leave me in peace until I had swallowed the pills.

And so I did.

And while I haven’t been running for the bathroom with as much feverish distress as I had feared, I’m very happy to have brought empire waist shirts, as the bloat is rather astonishing.

Thank God I’m going home tomorrow.

Big, brass balls

So, most of you know that I have a thing for giraffes. I won’t spend a lot of time waxing poetic over how much I love them, how they are magnificent and beautiful and how I would have one as a pet if Mountain View zoning laws would permit it. Just think of how much money you would save on tree trimming! I could ride it to work!

Anyways, I love them.

So I was walking down the sidewalk in La Jolla this weekend and spotted a giraffe sculpture outside of an art gallery. And it was GORGEOUS. I thought to myself “That would look AMAZING in the backyard!” and so I snapped a photo, which I do when I see something I want to reference later. Observe, and tell me that it wouldn’t look stunning poking out from some shrubbery:



Charming, right?

My family was up ahead, heading down an alley towards the beach. I ran to catch up to them and as I was passing the giraffe saw something out of the corner of my eye that brought me to a dead halt. “No, it can’t be THAT?!” I thought, but it was.

I ran up ahead, grabbed Holly and said “You’ve got to see this…and more importantly, you need to cover me because I’m about to act like a 12 year old girl and take a horribly immature photograph.”

Behold:



Those, my friends, are some huge, brass balls. It brings up some questions for me. Namely, WHO PUTS REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS ON A GIRAFFE SCULPTURE? Was there a penis under there? I didn’t get a chance to check as suddenly there was a crush of people on the sidewalk and I didn’t think feeling up a giraffe was appropriate to do a) in front of an audience and b) in front of my niece. What kind of research did the artist do to get the proportions right? And most importantly, WHY?

Holly patiently stood by while I caught this on film and had my mental seizure (for which I thank you, love) and agreed that it was something you didn’t see every day. Why you would want to see it on ANY day is really my concern.

Yet I’d still buy it. Think of it as a conversation starter. Or a way to make the men in your life feel inadequate.

One of the many reasons kids rule...

I FINALLY got my hair cut today (and the cut is quite fetching, I must say). Sitting at the next station were a mother and her 6 year old daughter...she was SO CUTE I wanted to nibble on her arm (the girl...not her mother). I resisted, and instead enjoyed this little conversation she had with her mother. Keep in mind the girl was definitely using her OUTSIDE voice...as in, she was talking REALLY LOUDLY so that everyone in the salon could hear the following exchange:

"Mommy? How old were you when you started swearing?"
"Um...why do you ask?" (the mother was clearly startled).
"Well, you're REALLY good at it...you use SHIT a lot...I just wondered when I could start talking like that?"

The mom just sat there with her mouth open...and turning a pretty awesome shade of crimson.

Neat! Reason #198 to have children...they keep you humble. At least she didn't drop an F-bomb.