Happy Birthday!

A quick shout out to my brother, who today, enters the hallowed ground of that fabulous decade, the 30's. Welcome! The bills get bigger and responsibilities more heady, but there is nothing quite so nice as hitting one's stride, and finally, REALLY knowing oneself. Enjoy today and I can't wait to celebrate with you this weekend.

Sister #3

p.s. You'll have to thank me for not posting an embarrassing picture of you here, later. Flowers will do just fine. Or something shiny.

Be prepared

I'm one of those women who normally doesn't leave the house without applying at least a LITTLE bit of makeup. Mostly because I look like this without it. Also, because you never know when you'll be ambushed by the crew of What Not to Wear or run into Christian Bale.

But a few weeks ago, we were in the midst of a heat wave and looking hot was secondary to remaining cool...makeup wasn't a priority. But walking Kylie was. I figured I wouldn't run into anyone I knew in the middle of the day in Mountain View, seeing as most normal folk are at work. So I donned a pair of huge sunglasses, checked myself once in the mirror, noticed that my hair resembled something closer to a straw bale on top of my head but decided to just fuck it and go.

And so we walked. Or rather huffed and panted, as it was REALLY warm out. The amount of sweat I was creating was rather astonishing, so I tried to hurry Kylie along so that we could get back home and I could shower.

She finally, after sniffing what seemed like each and every leaf, found a place to do her business...she finished pooping and I, of course, bent down to pick it up. Which is when I heard a male voice say "Jen? Is that YOU?"

And I turned to see my VERY HOT old high school boyfriend with his VERY HOT current girlfriend standing next to him. Sweet god. The humiliation was something I just don't have the words for. I think a lot of women have this hope that if/when they run into the first boy that broke their heart that they will look beyond wonderful. That the guy will end up thinking "Hot DAMN, I screwed THAT one up for SURE!"

What they don't want is to be hot, sweaty, and carrying a bag of smelly dog crap. And also looking as though some sort of blond bird has come to roost on the top of their heads. Did I mention I had a brand new pimple on the tip of my nose? I did. And it was screaming "LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME!!!"

Needless to say, the conversation was short. I made a hasty escape, wafting dog poop as I walked off towards home. I'm sure his girlfriend was all "Who was THAT?" to which he replied "Oh, just someone I knew in high school" to which she then said "Well, does she ever SHOWER?"

I almost wished I had said something like "Let's get a drink some time!" because then I would have had the opportunity to redeem myself. Instead, he now has ample relief in having broken up with me years ago...which he did because I wouldn't put out. Now he's just happy he didn't end up with someone who bears a passing resemblance to the swamp thing.

I blame my mother who didn't let me join the Brownies/Girl Scouts, thinking any club would turn me into a Socialist. Isn't one of their mandates "be freaking prepared"? The things I would have learned...

Panties? What Panties?

So, I saw something unusual the other day while out, walking Kylie. I don't often see odd things in Mountain View...it's the kind of city that is politically liberal but personally conservative, so while almost all windows hold some sort of Obama paraphernalia, the sidewalks most likely are filled with young mothers toting around children, wearing Crocs and minimal makeup. A boob job is as rare as a Sasquatch sighting in these parts. We're an earthy lot.

It was Sunday afternoon, and I was walking down a long, residential street. Ahead, there was a woman wielding a pickax that she was hammering into the earth with some conviction. I was impressed with her determination, but also somewhat perplexed as she looked to be wearing VERY short shorts...I mean, there was some fanny involved. Now, I don't have the best eyesight and was sure I was mistaken, so clearly, going in for a closer look was going to be the right thing to do. Research!

I was about a block away, when it became clear that they were not shorts, but a SKIRT. It looked like the bottom half of a Catholic girls school uniform, the kind you would buy in an adult shop, if you catch my drift. As she went on with her pickax'ing, each down-stroke would cause her skirt to flip up and reveal what appeared to be her very bare ass.

Surely, not. Because, who, in their right mind, pickaxes in a SKIRT with no UNDERPANTS?

But it's true, people. She chose that moment, as I was almost directly behind her, to bend over and pull at the roots she was trying to dis-lodge. Not only did I get a clear view of her rear, but I was also blessed with a eyeful of her uterus. Because how, tell me, HOW, can you not look?

Kylie picked that moment to pee on a nearby bush (no pun intended) so I was forced to stand within 10 feet of this woman for a bit longer. I looked across the street, trying to divert my gaze from what looked like a bad porn come to life, and saw two young men standing directly across from our dirty gardener, clearly transfixed by the view. It should be noted that she was not, in fact, hot. She was in her mid-40's and had lived what looked to be a rough life. But I understood their fascination, because a woman, wielding a pickax in a short skirt and no underwear is not something you encounter every day.

The best part came later, though...I was telling this story over dinner and Marc's mother, who is in her early 70's, piped in with "DID YOU SEE HER SNATCH?" Awesome.

And yes, MOST UNFORTUNATELY, I did.

Rad

Marc: So is it HELLS-yeah or hells-YEAH?

Holly: It's hell-yeah...no 's'.

Me: I think if you have to ask, you're too old to use it.

Marc: No way...I'm totally bitchin'...I can throw down that shit.

Holly: Bitchin'? Are you SERIOUS? What is this...summer of 1989?

Marc: Were you even alive then?

Holly: Hell-YEAH! See, that's how you use it.

Me: Our parents would be so proud...college degrees all around and this is what we discuss.

Marc: FO'shizzle.

Holly: Please. Stop.

Remember...

Do you remember, years ago, how you flew across country because I confessed that I had been lying on the floor for two weeks listening to Lenny Kravitz and Sarah McLachlan and nursing a broken heart? You came, not only to rescue me from deeply depressing music, but to remind me that there were other important things to do in life, such as washing one's hair and standing upright. You dragged me out to North Beach that night, to a bar full of dumb, pretty boys, and demanded that I slap at least three of them on the ass before we returned home.

And I did, because you're bossier than I am. I remember that I dated one of them for about two weeks, which was all I could handle since his conversational skills didn't deviate from baseball stats, and I despise baseball. But he was so, SO pretty and a good kisser, so it was not all a waste. What was his name?

I felt better and started listening to music like Blink 182 and Stroke 9 and giving come hither looks to boys I only intended to toy with. You left after a week, my stomach hurt from the constant laughter and I didn't listen to Lenny Kravitz or Sarah McLachlan for more than two years because you had hidden my CD's so well.

I feel sorry for people who do not have someone like you as a friend.

To the person who linked to my website via the search "Will Looking at Gavin Newsom Give Me An Orgasm?"

I love you.

And please, let me know if it's that easy. Because if it is, he's totally becoming my screen saver.

Overheard

So today, I was at Peet's getting coffee because I have endured a terrible week of deadlines and insomnia and decided to break my caffeine fast. A young girl and boy, clearly in that awkward stage of liking each other but expressing it via too much arm touching and hair flipping, were sitting at the table next to me, the boy talking in hushed tones...

"You know, there is something about your aura...I don't know, my aura responds to your aura...(long pause)...it's like our auras are FRIENDS, you know?"

Which is when my coffee involuntarily came out through my nose (which isn't comfortable, by the way). I wish I had had the courage to lean over and tell him that his aura was also, in fact, cracking my aura up, but it might have wrecked the mood he was trying to create. Pure awesome. I'll bet he totally got to second base with that shit.

The least of my worries

Last night, I had a dream that I had been born without genitals. Upon waking, my first thought was "Well, THAT would be inconvenient, because then how would I pee?"

As if peeing would be what I missed the most. It took me until lunch to think "SEX! What about SEX?!"

Clearly, my lack of sleep is mucking up my priorities. Stupid insomnia.

Scrabble me up

Things overheard during a rousing game of Scrabble Friday night…yes…Scrabble. It’s how we roll. I won, by the way.

“If I’m not face down in my own vomit in half and hour, it will have been a good night.”

“Saq…you know, like ‘My saq needs washing’…isn’t that the right way to spell it?”

“What’s the plural of yeti?”

“Please, make the bleeding stop.”

“Seriously, I’m sure you travel with a ‘z’ in your pocket just so you can pull out the hard shit when you need points. Before you leave the house you’re all ‘Chapstick, keys, money and my ‘z’ in case a mad game of scrabble breaks out.’”

“’Hoofs’ might be a word for the un-manicured feet of a woman, which is different from the hooves of a horse.”

“What am I? A frickin’ Hawaiian? All I have are vowels.”

“Give her some more tequila…it might slow her down a bit.”

"Do you think aileron has another 'e' at the beginning?"
Long pause.
"What the hell is 'aileron'? I was just happy about spelling 'bee'!"

"Do I get extra points for spelling 'crate' twice in the same game?"

The kissing game

I often try to distract my clients from their tasks at hand…meaning, I spend a lot of each hour telling funny stories, making them tell ME funny stories or just making fun of them. The point is, it helps them push through the torture of their hour with me and keeps me awake.

Today, I decided to play the Kissing Game, which does NOT involve body oil or lingerie, sorry boys. Everyone starts by describing, in detail, their first kiss. Whoever has the best story wins that round, and then we move on to the second kiss…I was teaching two friends simultaneously this morning and their stories were hilarious. One had a story of a misspent summer wherein she followed a certain rock band around and finally made out with the lead singer at a bar, only to have his girlfriend sucker punch her mid kiss. How white trash!

I was in second grade, and the boys name was Matt. We had been going steady for about three weeks, which meant that he chased me around the playground, lent me ten cents when I was short on cash for hot lunch and always picked me first for anything team oriented. He had curly brown hair and blue, blue eyes and constantly wore a pair of navy cords that eventually needed patching by winters end. We were playing tag at recess and I was taking a break underneath the slide in the corner of the playground, thinking that in my concealed position I would have a moment to myself. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there stood Matt, who, without a word, put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me in for a kiss. You know, one of those elongated, close-mouthed pecks. He then pulled back, smiled and said “YOU’RE IT!” I remember he smelled like bacon.

He kissed that slut Natalie the following week. She then informed me that he was HER boyfriend now at which I kicked her in the shins...and then was promptly sent to the principals office. The principal laughed and sent me back out to the playground, shaking his head.

What’s your story?

The good Lord replies...

The other day, I stubbed my toe...and it was one of those stubs that makes you rue the day you were born. It also gives you a free pass to swear, which I did. Marc heard me from the other room; the profanity and reply went like this:

Me: JESUS CHRIST!
Marc: Yes, my child?

If anyone needs some self-esteem, Marc would be happy to gift you with his excess.

Drive me crazy

So, I've often been accused of being an agressive driver. I prefer to think of myself as efficient, but whatever. I blame my habits on city living, genetics and the incessant voice of my father in my head, who taught me to drive, or rather screamed me through it. It sounded something like this "Don't you DARE ROLL BACKWARDS on this hill! When I was in the army they would put my WATCH behind the rear wheel on an incline and say 'DO NOT ROLL BACK'...do you want me to do that WITH YOUR NEW PURSE?" Just plain MEAN. But apparently, I learn well under hostile conditions, as I can drive any stick shift without stalling, and, indeed, will not roll back on a hill. This via sheer fear that my father will somehow find out and verbally flog me.

Anyhoo, I admittedly have the bad habit of tailgating. Often, I do this without really realizing it, but will suddenly find myself able to see the hairs on the back of the drivers neck in front of me and think "You know, I don't really need to be THIS close" and I WILL back off. Or get closer until they take the hint and move into the other lane, which is really the reaction I was hoping for in the first place.

My brother was a passenger with me the other day and we had the following conversation:

Steve: Geez sis...back off.
Me: Well, if he would just MOVE, I wouldn't have to tailgate him.
Steve: I like how you sound like dad...justifying your bad behavior.
Me: It's TRUE. If someone is practically inspecting the contents of your trunk, the polite thing to do is get into the other lane.
Steve: Or, YOU could be polite and just slow down a bit.
Me: I prefer my method.
Steve: Well, I prefer to live.
Me: You're no fun.

Though, I have to say, this conversation was playing in my head Monday as I was driving home and realized that I was a weensy bit close to the truck in front of me. So I backed off, and wouldn't you know it?! right then the ladder loosened from the truck bed and came skittering towards me at lightening speed. Using my cat-like reflexes, I had just enough time to swerve around it before it would have gone underneath my car. Perish the thought as to what might have happened had I been on his bumper when the ladder came free.

SO, I think that might have been enough of a message from the universe to stop tailgating...or at the very least, not behind trucks wherein the driver might have been too lazy to tie down objects that could cause sudden death. Decapitation by ladder...I can't imagine that would be a good way to go.

Interesting...

I use a service that tracks how many people come to this website on a daily basis. It also shows what searches people do to land here. Usually, it's something pretty harmless like "latex leggings" or "constipation" or (one that made me sad) "how to tell if your woman is lying to you." Poor muffin...if you suspect it, she probably IS.

Others crack me up, like "what to do about anal leakage when you pass gas", because, at the heart of it all, I think I have the maturity of a 12 year old boy.

But today...well! Today, a search that brought someone here was "where to find free dental porn."

Sweet god! When I wrote about this, I didn't think there was a market FOR dental porn...clearly, I underestimated the creativity of the depraved. What would that even LOOK like? A slutty hygienist tilting her patient back in his chair, whispering "If you don't cry during your root canal I'll let you do naughty things to me with the drill afterwards!" while she simultaneously pressed his face between her ample breasts?

Actually, that being said, it would solve any problems of oral decay; people would be lining up at the dentist. Certainly, it would squelch the issue of that profession having one of the highest suicide rates.

To whomever (whoever?) did that search, you might be on to something.

Don't tell...

...but I’ve secretly been watching Denise Richards: It’s Complicated. No, Denise, it’s not. That is a horrible misuse of that word. Physics is complicated. Fitting a pair of Christian Louboutains into your monthly budget is complicated. Because you’ve let me into your house and life, I can tell you that perhaps a better title would have been Denise Richards: Suck It, Charlie Sheen or Denise Richards: My Divorce Settlement Was Better Than Yours. But complicated? Not so much.

Also, you have horrible taste in wallpaper.

But I still think you might be fun to have a beer with.

The book and its cover

I had an hour off between clients today and so decided to head to Peet's for a break. I was waiting in line when in walked what I can only write was one of the most intimidating looking people I have ever seen. He was a tall, burly man in full motorcycle regalia, his arms covered in tattoos. He had on enough chains, earrings and what I SWEAR were brass knuckles to set off the metal detector at San Jose airport from where he was standing. Instinctively, I moved slightly away, afraid that my presence might irritate him and cause him to use whatever hidden weapon I am sure was lurking under his leather vest.

In fact, that seemed to be popular thought as everyone gave him wide berth as he ordered his drink and stood waiting for it in the pick-up line. Much to my chagrin, he decided to sit at the table next to me outside…imagine my shock when he pulled out As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner from his pocket. Surely, not.

Now, I consider myself something of a literature buff. I have a minor in English Lit and would like to think I could hold my own in a conversation about authors both past and emerging (also, my professors would be SO PROUD of my ability to use the term “SUCK IT!” in proper context). However, Faulkner has always been a weak point for me. I come away from him thinking that perhaps my life would be best spent following simpler pursuits, say, organizing my shoe closet or learning to balance a spoon on my nose. He’s hard and often when someone is rhapsodizing about their love of Faulkner, I have to resist yelling “POSER!” primarily because I think they are lying…or, more honestly, because I want to kick them in the shins for having more brain cells than I do.

Regardless, I was impressed. Awed, even. He tucked into his coffee, scone and book with great concentration while I tried to hide the fact that I was reading US Weekly (incidentally, Madonna and Guy are apparently done). I kept peeking to check his progress - never once did his eyes waver from his book…until I got up to leave, which I tried to do quietly, so as not to disturb him. But, as is my typical fashion, I knocked over my empty coffee cup, which rolled away and came to rest beside his boot, which was not only made for walking but some serious ass-kicking.

Shit.

He looked down, and then at me, and then down again. Right then I was wondering if my will was in order and if I had put enough water in Kylie's bowl that morning before I left…you know, the inane thoughts you have before dying. Timidly, I stepped over and bent down to scoop up my trash. He beat me to it, however, and handed me the cup and then SMILED. And it was a nice smile! With a gold tooth! Not a grimace, but rather a “Come join me for a chat about Faulkner…he’s a crazy bitch, no?” smile.

Feeling brave, I said “Thank you! How are you finding that book? Faulkner has always been difficult for me.”

And then, in what was a gorgeous Scottish accent, he replied “I did my thesis on him at University, so I like to go back and reread some of my favorites every few years. I actually used to teach a class on him at Berkeley.”

Sweet, holy, tap-dancing Jesus!

Had I not had a client waiting, I would have sat down right then and there and begged for his story. Because it’s not every day you find a literature professor moonlighting as a thug…with a tattoo of a naked woman on his forearm. She was wearing some sweet shoes, though.

Word to the wise

If you eat toast in the morning, I don't recommend doing so in the nude. You'll find crumbs all day in the most inconvenient of places.

When you're blocked...no, not like that.

There are many days when I sit down to write on this blog and think “WAIT until I tell everybody about THIS!” And then there are days, like today, where I stare at the blank screen, waiting for brilliance and wit to stop by for coffee and a chat…and they just don’t. Whether it’s the heat or a general lack of thoughts bouncing around my brain, I don’t know, but it does bring up one of the great insecurities of being a writer – the problem of being blocked (which is followed by fear of poor grammar and spelling).

And at times like this, I wish I could call my mother and ask her to bring over some fiber to get things moving…unfortunately, that doesn’t work for the brain and would have undesirable side effects. So instead, I sit and wait…file my nails…listen to music…pet Kylie...vacuum.

I carry around a notebook obsessively to write down things as I see them or as they come to me. Some of them end up here, on this blog. Others become part of whatever book I’m working on at the moment. What I find entertaining, especially on days like today, is looking back at old pages to the often cryptic entries that I’ve made. For those of you who are regular readers, you might see the beginnings of old posts. Some of them are just so random, a dollar to anyone who can make sense of them. I sure can’t! Enjoy your day...I'll be over here...cleaning house...waiting for my mojo to come home from whatever vacation it decided to take without me.

1) Mindi, orgasm, monk laughing
2) It’s the diff between a condom and a plastic bag
3) Stuck in dress at Zara, sweat to death, had to be cut out
4) Foot pump for toilets and sinks – BRILLIANT
5) Blue balls! Blue balls!
6) I wouldn’t want to be attacked with knitting needles
7) Free porn in Normandy, C&M delighted
8) We’re out of toilet paper, but we have Kleenex, so we’re ok
9) David Bromstad makes me want to be a gay man – but would it get my kitchen remodeled?
10) Monk junk

On Prayer

I used to think that my mom was a direct conduit to God. Even now, though her super powers are somewhat reduced in my adult eyes, I think she has a more direct pathway to the Divine than the average person. I remember being little and sobbing about some five year old ache, her answer to my childish problem being “Well, you should pray about it” to which I replied, “No mommy, YOU do it. Jesus listens to you better.” Perhaps seeing her prayers answered and being somewhat dubious as to my own spiritual path, I started assigning my concerns to her as I aged, figuring that God must listen to her with greater concentration because of her German accent. You just don’t mess with that.

In my adult years, I’ve embraced a different spirituality that is somewhat removed from my mothers Calvinistic Christianity. I’ll only mention that my mother lost hope for my soul years ago and once in a while, when I’m on a tirade or mentioning sex in her presence, she’ll lay her hand on my arm and say, gently “I’m praying for you” which I appreciate, because I know her daily conversations with God are fruitful and I think it keeps her sharp to have what she would call a “difficult” child. I do what I can to keep her out of the rest home.

So the other day, we were at dinner in San Francisco and Gavin Newsom walked into the restaurant. While I was struck by the greasiness of his hair (which is truly something to behold...does he not have a stylist to perhaps update that?) my mother immediately went into a stage whispered rant about how she disagrees with his politics and threatened to go over there and give him a piece of her mind. While my father frantically waved for the check, hoping to usher my mother out before a scene erupted, I reminded her that she didn’t vote in San Francisco, therefore not counting as one of his constituents, ergo he might not really give a hoot.

This stopped her for a moment. Long enough for my dad to pay and for us to start moving towards the door.

We thought we were in the clear and were sort of bear hugging my mother as we left in the hopes that she wouldn’t get a word in edgewise before we made it outside and to relative safety. We failed. She’s only 5’3, but managed to reach around and past my 5’8 frame and holler out “I’M PRAYING ABOUT YOU!” to Mr. Newsom, whom I’m hoping didn’t hear…

…but in case he did, he should know that he is totally, TOTALLY screwed. My mom gets it DONE with the Big Guy. You see I have a suspicion even God knows she’s not worth arguing with.

Impressions No. 5...

I looked at the clouds that were moving across the sky, noting that the one directly overhead looked like a papal hat. I wondered if mentioning this might distract her from our current conversation, sort of like when warning someone that a bee has landed on their shoulder - the ensuing flapping about and screaming making previous conversation unrecoverable.

"Well?" she said, impatiently, my long pause only having served to irritate her. I pushed the thoughts of religious headgear to the side, instead focusing on how to answer her question without unfortunate side effects.

"No, he didn't kiss me. I don't know where you might have heard that." Though even as I said the words I could feel his mouth on mine and caught my hand before it moved to my lips.

He had agreed that saying nothing, denial, was the proper thing to do. No one had seen us and it was the product of too much red wine and years of inappropriate flirting. Meaningless.

She sighed, relieved, and leaned back. "I didn't think so...I mean, you two have been friends for so long, it would sort of be gross, right?" She didn't expect an answer, so I just laughed, wondering if there was something wrong with my moral compass for wanting to call her a bitch in that moment. Instead, I went back to looking at the clouds, the hat having turned into something different by now. And I thought, "If this tiny betrayal is so easy, what else am I capable of?"

Food Orgasms

So, with all of the party planning that had taken over my life last week, I suggested to Mindi that we spend some of Saturday just bumming around San Francisco before getting ready for that evenings festivities. I woo’d her with promises of lunch and shopping on Union Street in exchange for her coming with me to pick up the cupcakes for that evening’s dessert. You see, you have to pay to play. It’s how I roll.

So after fortifying ourselves with wine and lunch, we strolled through the surrounding boutiques and looked at the cute men who were out by the dozen. And in this part of town they were most certainly NOT gay, which was a great relief to Mindi who likes to know that there might be positive results to her flirting. She only stopped gawking long enough to buy some shoes that were calling her with some persistence from a shop window (and one must heed those types of summons, otherwise the shoe gods get angry and send you bunions).

After a while, we realized we needed to get serious about picking up the cupcakes and so doubled back to the bakery. I warned Mindi as we approached that she might soon be in for a religious experience, since I’m certain that if we were really a nation under God that cupcakes would be considered a food group. Mindi was skeptical, but then I shoved a Red Velvet cake into her mouth, and the orgasmic moan that escaped her lips was something to behold. She handed over the cupcake to me, being so kind as to share, and SWEET NECTAR OF THE GODS was it good. We sat there in silence for a moment, chewing and contemplating whether a constant supply of Red Velvet would merit giving up, say, sex, for a while. Not quite, but almost.

Mindi flapped her hand at me, indicating that she was ready for another bite, so I handed her over what was left and she shoved the remains into her mouth, letting out another “MMMMMMMMmmmmmmmOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” that went on for a while. At just that moment, a Buddhist monk walked by and laughed appreciatively at Mindi’s bliss over the cupcake. Had he not been swathed in robes, which made his progress down the sidewalk a bit tricky, I think he would have given her a high-five.

You see, HE understood…Buddhist approved! I’ll bet cupcakes are a food group in Tibet.

Lemon gelato is merely a palate cleanser

As one would imagine, the most popular question I've been asked over the past two weeks is "HOW WAS ITALY?" (rainy, humid, but a lot of fun) followed by "DID YOU EAT A LOT OF GELATO?" It must be obvious that yes, I DID eat a lot of gelato. A LOT. And we unfortunately have a plethora of evidence to back up that fact, because most photographs of me look something like this:



But, sweet god, it was so good...I only partially regret indulging. And my partial regret comes from the fact that my pants might be a WEE bit too tight still. But that's why God created elastic.

I'm so sexy.