The silver lining

I'm just back from getting my hair cut...which is exciting only because I went in with the intent of chopping it all off. I go through this every year, which makes me think it's some sort of seasonal disorder, but it's still on my head, people, in all of its long glory, so no need to panic.

I love my stylist. She is a super sarcastic, funny, spitfire of a woman. She was telling me about her recent vacation to Alaska with her mother and all of her siblings...it was the kind of vacation in which many of her descriptions started with "We were SO HUNG OVER but we went bear watching and managed not to get eaten or maimed. But I threw up in the bear viewing hut on the tour guides galosh." Sweet.

Her mother came in near the end with photos of the vacation, and my stylist handed them to me as she looked through them...which is awkward, isn't it? When you don't know anyone in the photos but are expected to "ooo" and "aaah" over them and ask leading questions that you don't care to know the answer to?

But then she passed me a photo and goes "These are my three brothers." And there he was...the boy who asked me to senior prom who I said yes to but then had to cancel on because my parents decided that prom was the devils party and a boy might GRAZE MY BOOB with his hand ON PURPOSE. Or KISS ME. Ergo, I had to go through the humiliation of saying, a week before the prom "You know, I can't go. My parents are trying to turn me into a social pariah and are succeeding. Can I borrow your math notes?"

It was ugly. He ended up going with some other girl, and I stayed home, crying, for about a month, plotting my parents ugly and painful demise. My mom, meanwhile, told me that I should pray for contentment and perhaps listen to some soothing hymns. I got over it (and started listening to punk music, go figure), but seeing that photo brought back such a rush of memory; I felt my face turn bright red.

My stylist looked at me and said "Are you OK? I know it's hot out, but you're totally flushed!" I just laughed it off and handed her back the photo, deciding not to reveal that I had caused her brother some serious irritation 15 years ago. Especially since I'd like my haircuts NOT to resemble something that was backed over by a lawn mower. Let's keep that hair even, shall we?

It's just as well. The dress I had planned on wearing that night was pretty hideous, so besides avoiding having my boobs groped, I'm spared the historical documentation of my poor fashion tastes. See? There's an upside to everything.

Dream academy

Should I be concerned? I had a dream last night that I was waxing Dave Grohl's chest. This didn't come to me until later today when I was listening to Skin & Bones at top volume and had this sudden flash from my subconscious. While he's long been on my own personal "list" - if you catch my drift - I'm amazed as to why my brain, while on hiatus from actually having to think, came up with such a scenario. I mean, Dave singing to me while I'm being fed grapes by Brad Pitt and having my feet massaged by Eddie Vedder makes more sense, you know? THAT I could get on board with...

This? Not so much.

Here's to getting nothing done...bliss.

I had a long list of what I had hoped to get done while away this weekend, but not much of it came to fruition. Let's see...things I DID accomplish:

1) Watched the entire first season of Mad Men (this takes dedication, people. ONE WHOLE SEASON. IN FOUR DAYS. My eyes are bleeding).
2) Got a massage.
3) Bought new underwear.
4) Drank wine...and tequila!
5) Only put on pants once!
6) Stayed in pajamas well past breakfast.

Things I did NOT accomplish:
1) Assigned writing.
2) Bear sighting.

So...6-to-2...I'm pretty happy with that ratio! Kylie didn't get anything done (i.e. catching her chipmunk) so I'm trying not to rub it in her face that I was more on the ball than she was. Besides, she's pretty pissed that we're home now and she has to make do with the backyard rather than the magnificent field that she had to cavort in all weekend...see:

We have failed her as parents by forcing her to live in suburbia when clearly she is meant to wander and roam. Marc pointed out, though, that by living with us she gets steak in her dog food at regular intervals, plus three dog beds in a two bedroom house and what amounts to a pretty nice pension for not having worked a day in her life. So she can just stop with the whining already.

A way with words

Mark D.: God, my ribs are killing me.
Marc S.: Dude, what did you do?
Mark D.: I went over a tree root while biking and went DOWN. My ribs are totally bruised.
Marc S.: Yes, but how is your vagina?

If you are seeking sympathy, just pass right by our house. We're not selling any...although we're happy to scoff at you. THAT, we're very good at.

I wonder if there is a bear call I could work on...seriously...where are they?

My big event of the day, so far, has been taking Kylie for a walk. She hasn't caught her chipmunk and I haven't seen a bear, but I've not put on pants all day, so those are good odds. And it's a promising evening considering we cracked the wine at 3pm and will be moving on to my sweet, sweet mistress, tequila, as soon as I get the appetizers out and rolling. People, everyone needs friends who have house in the mountains because suddenly all of ones stresses seem very small and the only concern is SWEET GOD DO WE HAVE ENOUGH BEER TO GET THROUGH THE DAY? Even my deadline seems like a faraway concern...I have forts to build with my friends daughter, which is infinitely more important. And interesting. Have you ever tried fort building when three glasses of wine deep? I'm like freaking Gaudi!

So here's to hoping that some day, we'll have our own mountain retreat. You'll all be invited. But you'll have to leave you pants at the door. It's how we roll.

Pants optional

The mood has been elevated, people. Because THIS is what I get to look at as I sit on the porch with a glass of wine at the end of the day. I'd let you punch me in the face for being bratty yesterday, but it would upset my cocktail:

In other news, my new goals for the long weekend are to sleep in past 10am, watch the first season of Mad Men and see a bear. Also, I'd like to not have to put on pants, but since we're in mixed company, I'll refrain.

Random rant

Internet! How is your day going? Mine, you ask? Very well, mostly because I'm getting out of this pit of a Bay Area today...yes, I'm on the bitter-bus-party-of-one for no particular reason! Know that if you, say, stand too close to me in line, cut me off in traffic or try to start a friendly conversation, I might seriously cut you. I'm in a mood, people. It will pass.

I'm off to the Eastern Sierras to breathe in fresh air, hang with friends, let my dog run free and perhaps make a dent in some of the writing I was supposed to have done a week ago. Perhaps this will be the trip wherein Kylie finally catches the chipmunk that lives under the great boulder outside of the bedroom in which we sleep. I'm sure that she just wants to add it to her dossier of kills, since she doesn't have "1-chipmunk" on her list, but I have this visual of her making friends with it and walking into the cabin, chipmunk in tow and say "Mom? Can we keep her?" to which I'll have to say no, because I don't think she's ready for the responsibility of a pet - when she starts picking up her own poop, we can talk. And then she'll get upset and wail "MOOOOMMMMM you never give me ANNNNYTHING!" to which I'll remind her that I've spent the past six years doing such things as feeding her regularly, walking her daily, letting her sneak up on the bed when she's not supposed to and not beating her senseless when she pukes on the carpet and then she'll think for a moment with a furrowed brow before replying, "Oh yeah, that...well how about we just raise my allowance?"

Kids.

Is it just me...

...or is it freaking ridiculous that TRAMPOLINE is considered an Olympic event?? I go from watching Michael Phelps swim his ass off to this girl going "Boing! Boing! Boing!" on an apparatus that most athletes use as training for other, more impressive sports. At least shoot some flaming arrows at her or something...you know, MAKE it perilous. Give us something we could actually get behind.

I mean, we might as well add in "Dishwasher Loading" and be done with it. Incidentally, I would totally take home the gold. I kick ass at making everything fit. Take THAT, Phelps.

About my future husband

It was pointed out to me last night that I tend to humiliate myself in a very public way on a regular basis (Hi Marc G.! Erin! Rod!). So true. But I see it as a public service of sorts. Just think of the things you have learned from reading this blog! Get enough fiber! Don't annoy me! And for the love of the sweet Baby Jesus always wear underwear.

So in that spirit, I give you this, a journal entry dated May 29, 1992. My junior year of high school, a few months after my boyfriend unceremoniously dumped me for the head cheerleader who was sluttier and probably DIDN'T wear underwear. I had just turned 16 and was in the throes of my first broken heart. I haven't laughed this hard at myself in a while:

"I've been thinking a lot about M lately. I miss him. I wonder, sometimes, why we were so 'violently' attracted to each other. Violent in that it was just so intense, so fast - not abusive violence, diary. He was, after all, my first love, my first everything. I wonder if I was his, or if that skank, H, will erase me from his memory. I hope he thinks of me while they are having sex. It would serve him right.

The chemistry is still there. He called me his future wife in class the other day and I still catch him staring at me. I do my best to ignore him, but it's so hard. Darci pointed out that we would still be together if he could have kept his shorts on. I hope all of this restraint pays off somehow, diary. What I mean is there had better be an equally hot guy for me out there since I turned down M's advances and have remained chaste."

OMG, right? I seriously wrote to my diary in my journals! What a DOUCHE. But a CHASTE douche, which should count for something.

Mild? No.

Why is it, that when I order a burrito, the burrito makers ALWAYS reach for the mild salsa and I have to go "NO NO NO NO...I want the HOT salsa, please!" before they defile my meal with that flavorless swill? Do they look at me and think "The blond gringa cannot handle the HEAT. Give her the salsa fresca!"

I take offense to this, as it happens without fail, each time I eat out at a burrito bar. My less fair friends get at least a pause and a raised eyebrow from the person behind the counter when it comes to salsa choice, not the automatic dive towards what amounts to some tomatoes and onions with a little cilantro thrown in. Seriously. I don't hand people from Mexico a jalapeno on sight. I expect the same respect in regards to my palate.

Heat me up, bitches.

Seriously?

I just had a harrowing time getting through security at the San Diego airport. I decided, in an effort to eke the last bits of that vacation feeling out of this long weekend, to wear my new, fuschia sun-dress home. (Yes, I look like a REALLY big flower right now. Eat my shorts.)

Naturally, one must be on alert while negotiating the security line. I had to get out my computer, take off my shoes, show any liquids, have my boarding pass on hand, all in about .02 seconds. I passed through in something of a breathless manner and then attempted to reload everything before the lady behind me shoved me out of the way to get at her stuff. I trotted about five feet to the side, barefoot, trying to find a place where I could get my shoes on. Leaning up against a column, I began to contend with my sandals, positioning myself in such a way as to not give passers by a free show.

Well, THAT didn't work.

Mid-buckle, a nice TSA agent came over with my forgotten sunglasses. Flustered, I reached for them as I was fastening my shoe, and the weight of my arm, apparently, disturbed my perilous balance.

And down I went.

And I mean DOWN. Sideways. And in such a way that my dress flew UP. Over my waist. In front of a very full security line. The TSA agent helped me up quickly, but not before I gave about five business men a clear view of my undies.

So, I'm at the gate now, the blush of my embarrassment slowly wearing off, wondering how it is that someone like me, who is so clearly NOT an exhibitionist, seems to show her drawers so often to complete strangers? I should start charging.

At least they were my black panties with the skulls on them. So while all akimbo, I at least looked like a bad-ass.

A good day

Yesterday, we went to the zoo. There is nothing quite like seeing a large gorilla yanking on his THING and then having your young niece turn to you and go "What is HE doing, Auntie Jen?" to which I replied "Look! A bee!" and then moved her towards the next exhibit.

Near the end of the day we finally made it to the giraffes. I stared at them for a long while, which was utter bliss. I want one as a pet. At least THEY don't have personal time in public, if you catch my drift. My Dad took a picture of me in front of their pen...I'm totally going to use it as my Christmas card.

Some idiotic tourist was standing next to me and said "One of those skins would make a sweet rug." It took all of my resolve NOT to kick him in the shins, but a bird pooped on his shoulder shortly after, which I considered sufficient karmic retribution. It was a good day.

Giving you the slip

My Mother has been trying to justify her packing for this trip to San Diego all day. As I mentioned before, she brought nothing but pants and then two slips, which are largely useless given she brought no skirts or dresses that would necessitate such under-things.

My sister and I have been suggesting uses for the slips...wind socks...buffers for the corner of the coffee table (since a few of us bear bruises from unplanned contact with the sharp edges)...a fetching sarong for my Father as he gets out of the pool. Dad even offered to wear them on his head as sun protection. But Mom ignored such remarks, stating that she needs only a trip to Eileen Fisher to solve the problem of the slips...she will then shop for a skirt, thereby putting the slips to use, saving them from sitting dejectedly in her suitcase all week.

"But I WANTED to shop!" she told us this morning in an attempt to justify the slips. This statement would be easier to believe if any of us three girls that sprang from her loins actually enjoyed the task of shopping. For us, it is a task to be endured. We shop solo, quickly and with a goal in mind. We all like HAVING clothes, but the hunting/gathering part is akin to getting a colonoscopy. We have faulty, female DNA, and that's that.

I suggested that perhaps we should be daring and try something other than Eileen Fisher, perhaps a designer that encouraged waistlines and used darts that would offer a shape other than BOXY. We were passing by a Banana Republic at that moment and Mom said "Do they have skirts in here?"

"Of course!" I replied, "Some pretty ones that come down to the knee!"

"OH NO! They HAVE to come down to almost my ankle" she said in horror, imagining, I'm sure, some local boys suddenly succumbing to immoral behavior at the glimpse of her calf. "Yes, Mom, someone might have SEX if they see even a HINT of your leg!" I said in mock terror.

She smacked me across the arm, blushing at the mention of "sex" and I thought how funny it is that two people, one as conservative as my Mother and the other as laid back as my Dad came up with children who are such various combinations of the two of them. While none of us shrink as violently as she does from bedroom talk, we do have the tendency to be too open with our opinions, laugh easily at others, are fluent in sarcasm, are forgetful and are all prone to justifying our bad behavior.

At least it's nice to know we have two people we can point at and go "It's THEIR fault I'm like this!" though, I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll take the crazy bits since I'm fortunate to love those who gave them to me. I'm lucky.

To San Diego we go...again

I found my way back down to San Diego again this weekend. So I'm bracing myself for family time which will include inappropriate conversations about our colons, too much wine and an inordinate amount of laughter. I'm already in for it as I told my mother (who is also here) that my stomach was off to which she replied "Oh, I have something for that...talk to me later." She also packed three pairs of pants and two slips (but no dresses) so I think I'll take care of my own intestinal issues since clearly her head isn't working properly.

I have my pen poised eagerly over my notepad, however, to be sure that I catch everything. More later, as the family dramatics unfold.

Survival

Yesterday I found myself behind a rather interesting guy at Longs. Interesting in that he was dressed in full workout regalia and had definitely just been at the gym…between the sweat and the bulging muscles, his testosterone was in full swing. What he held in his arms, however, was in deep contrast to this picture of manhood:

1 box of wine…yes, BOX
1 box of tampons
1 box of chocolate
1 bottle of Motrin, extra strength

Clearly, he was going home to a wife or girlfriend in crisis that needed full sedation. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that most women might squeeze their spouses testicles in a not-so-nice-manner if they dared come home with boxed wine…if the painters are in town, you go for the good stuff, if you catch my drift. Women, during this special time, often suddenly possess skills, or “skillz”, that involve sharp objects or things that will induce blunt force trauma. It’s true. Beware. Spend the money on what will make her happy, because getting jacked up on Motrin and cheap wine isn’t our idea of a good time. It’s called SURVIVAL.

He left, I imagine returning home to a significant other who had recently turned into something of a homicidal maniac, and I turned to the woman who was checking me out and said:

“Well, he’s in for a real treat of an evening.”
“He comes in here like clock work, every month, and buys the same things.”
“Someone should introduce him to wine that comes in a bottle.”
“I told him that once and he said that the wine was for him…his wife drinks scotch.”

Seriously? I think he might have the bigger vagina.

Happy Birthday! (Yes, again)

Will all of you people with August birthdays just knock it off? I can’t keep up and plus this blog is going to become one large birthday card if you all don’t just settle down…what goes on in November that everyone seems to procreate?

But to my darling friend Angie, happy birthday! This next year, lets:

1. See many more concerts.
2. Drink wine at Oregano’s.
3. Argue over where to eat dinner and then end up at Zucca’s.
4. Continue to support one another in becoming better versions of ourselves.
5. Stop wondering where we went wrong.
6. Applaud one another when we get it right.
7. Find me my own gays…though I’m deeply in love with the one’s I borrow from you.
8. Start a vegan shoe line.
9. Get you on Color Splash and me on Design Inc.
10. Meet Christian Bale. Though you can have him if I can have Daniel Craig.

That ought to keep us out of trouble. Unless we start with - and just don’t deviate from - #2.

Happy Birthday!

Dear Rod,

See, I DO listen when people request that they get their very own birthday shout out on my blog.

I was thinking back to last summer when we all went to see Kathy Griffin and met prior to the show at the Basin for drinks. Remember how Tessa, Angie and I were all ogling that cute waiter?...on the sly, mind you. You walked in and said something to the tune of "SWEET JESUS, WHO IS THAT?" We tried to shush you and explain that we had spent the past half hour laying down tracks of subtle flirting and innuendo. And then he came over to bring our drinks and you, not so subtly, said "ARE YOU SINGLE? WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME JOIN US? YOU'RE REALLY CUTE!" and as he laughed and walked away, blushing, you turned to us and stage whispered "OH MY GOD HE IS SO HOT."

I fell in love with you a little bit, right then.

Happy birthday, my friend. Can't wait to celebrate with you, live.

J.

HALF a pump

You know how there is always that one person in the line at your coffee house of choice that has the most complicated drink on EARTH? And everyone behind this person rolls their eyes and moans because we have to sit there and listen while they describe, at length, just how hot, hot, HOT they want their milk to be and did you get that they just wanted HALF a pump of the vanilla flavoring and not the kind with all of the sugar...the LOW sugar kind. And just HALF a pump. And please can they have two cups because even with the protective sleeve, it's just too hot to hold.

I wonder how many points I would be awarded for running over said person in the parking lot? It would be in the name of environmental protection...think of all of the cups that would be saved!

And yes, I know I'm going straight to hell. I have my hand basket all picked out.

Scrutiny

Me: I’m watching What Not To Wear right now and having a vision of what it would be like if mom were on this show.

My sister: Can you imagine? Clinton would be all “SHOW SOME LEG! DEFINE YOUR WAIST!” And then Stacy would say something about how “the girls” need to be in a better bra.

Me: And the mom would be all “The proper term is BOSOM, and besides, it’s not lovely to refer to those on the air.” You should have heard her at Steve’s birthday party…someone said “Boobs” and I thought she was going to hit them over the head with her practical shoe.

My sister: Was she wearing a straw hat at the time, to protect her face from the sun?

Me: No, but she did ask me if I had loose stools when I told her that I had a headache. Dad, in the meantime, was trying his best to give off the impression that he didn’t know either of us.

My sister: It positively makes her glitter to have this kind of conversation. I’m glad I’m not the only one being subjected to bowel scrutiny.

Me: How do all of our conversations go here? I mean, can’t we be a normal family and talk about football or play Monopoly?

My sister: But you always cheat at Monopoly.

Me: True. That game is just too long…cheating is my survival strategy.

My sister: That and tequila.

Me: Now you’re talking.

Ladylike

I try to spend a lot of time with my mother...if nothing else, it provides essential details on what particular quirks of hers might be manifesting themselves in my character. So, it's sort of like doing preventative research. For instance, she has taken, lately, to wearing a lot of loose, linen dresses. While they suit her, I found myself writing in my notebook "ALWAYS WEAR SOMETHING WITH A DEFINED WAIST. ALSO PRAY THAT YOU WILL NOT GET BUNIONS" as my mother, that day, poked her foot out from under her voluminous frock and said "Look! They're Prada!" And indeed, they were, though also something that you might use as a means to squelch any ideas of sex as the shoe in question was both flat, wide and somewhat unisex in design.

Recently, we were up in San Francisco, celebrating my brothers birthday with some of his friends. I had escaped to a corner to relax for a moment before diving into the social fray when my mother approached. "I heard one of your brother's friends say that horrid word...you know...that one I don't like!"

To be clear, there are a myriad of words that my mother disapproves of. She used to read all of my books in high school before I could get my hands on them and would cross out - with a Sharpie - anything she deemed inappropriate. This could be something as racy as "fuck" to as questionable as "evolution". You just never know what might set her off. So a statement like the above was dubious at best.

"Well, who said what, mom?"
"YOU know...THAT word."
"You're going to have to be more specific."
"Well, the PROPER term is BOSOM."

NOW, we were getting somewhere.

"Did someone say 'boobs', mom?"

At which point, my father walked up. He was several glasses of Absinthe deep and lit up at the mention of breasts.

"WHO'S BOOBS ARE WE TALKING ABOUT?" he said enthusiastically.

Suddenly, going home seemed like the best idea. Because I don't know that there is ever a good time to discuss boobs with one's parents. Is there?

Unique searches

Today, there were a few unique searches that brought people to my website. The first was for "North Beach" which is terribly generic. I did a Google search for that myself and my website was no where to be found up to page 25...I got bored with looking for it, but applaud whomever spent the time wading through all of those entries only to land here. My apologies, because I don't think this was very helpful.

The other search was for "Mnt Dew causes anal leakage"...and wouldn't you know it? I'm the fourth website listed! Right under poopreport.com! I feel so accomplished! And also rather worried about what the general public is consuming as there are almost daily searches with "anal leakage" in the title. WHAT ARE YOU EATING? STOP IT! HAVE SOME METAMUCIL AND STOP SHITTING YOURSELF.

There. That was my public service for the day.