My version of a strategy session

Me, to a client: Dude. Your thong is totally showing. Adjust.
Client: Did you just "dude" me?
Me: I did, in fact. Don't judge. I grew up in California. It was my first word after "obnoxious tax rates."
Client: That's three words. And GOD, this thing is, like, TOTALLY up my ass. (As she went elbow deep into her pants).
Me: Nice. Classy. Let's move on.
Client: What do you think the male equivalent of an irritating thong is?
Me: I KNOW! I KNOW! An itchy sack!
Client: Oh, my god. You're totally right. Have you ever had a guy reach in to take care of that while you're teaching?
Me: SWEET MOSES, no. I don't get paid enough for that kind of nonsense.
Client: Would you fire someone for doing that?
Me: Hm, no. But I would demand that they bring in tequila for me to make up for the horror.
Client: You should totally find ways to make that happen, then. Think of what it would do for your liquor cabinet.
Me: I like the way you think. Though I don't want to be involved in making anyone itch. I think that might be grounds for a restraining order.

Why I'm self-employed. I don't think meetings in corporate land are nearly as interesting. Or productive.

Doesn't that require a prescription?

It goes without mention that Santa Barbara was a lot of fun. The weather tried to stick it to us but we persisted and wandered around dressed in everything we had packed on one day, roasted on another and then had a mild case of windburn thrown into the mix just for kicks. It remains one of my favorite places to visit for a long weekend not only because it's lovely but because some of my favorite people live there. Also, the boys seem to be prettier in that zip code. So, you know, it gives you something to look at besides the blue blue sea.

We happened to eat monstrously well all weekend. It was a bit ridiculous, in fact, how much we ate. I'm used to that kind of gastronomical exercise when I'm vacationing with my family, but I had neglected to pack my Official Eating Pants™ and so I spent many hours trying to hitch my waistband into a comfortable position. Score: Waistband-3, Jen-0.

Sabeen and Steve were celebrating their four year wedding anniversary and decided that a nice dinner was in order. Why they invited us fools along, I'll never understand, but we put on our Fancy Manners which means I promised not to swear during dinner and Marc would do his best to chew with his mouth closed. We nearly succeeded.

We were seated and given our menus without any mishaps. Our waiter, however, took quite a shining to Marc. Marc is, if nothing else, pretty. Men of a certain predisposition tend to be quite fond of him, if you catch my drift. I think it's his curiously round ass. He thinks it's his sparkling personality. Potato, poTAHto. Anyhoo, our waiter certainly found him charming and paid him every attention, fluttering over him and practically rubbing his neck at one point. I don't think Marc really noticed as he was greatly absorbed in the mammoth wine list. Because, you know, ALCOHOL.

But before we imbibed in the grape, Marc and Sabeen decided to have a cocktail. Sabeen ordered a Sidecar and Marc turned to our blushing waiter and said with complete sincerity, "I'll have a Lemon Drop please." Seriously. He was not helping himself AT ALL. I think our waiter had a teeny tiny orgasm. He clapped his hands with glee and said, "OH! That is my FAVORITE drink TOO!" He had found his soul mate, clearly. I think it was then that Marc realized the effect that he was having on the waiter as his eyes sort of bugged out and I thought he was going to yell, "I LIKE VAGINA! NOT PENIS!" but he resisted (Fancy Manners, you know) and instead climbed into my lap and stuck his tongue down my throat. It's cool. We have a license that says we can do that.

The rest of dinner went by without too much drama. Marc would grab at me each time the waiter came near which made eating difficult, but I didn't need the calories at that point. And then came dessert. Why we decided to even look at the menu is quite beyond me. But we did. And there it was, the first thing all of us saw:

DRY SACK

Now, we were all rather nonplussed by why a reference to testicles would be on the dessert menu. It stood to reason that it was some sort of after dinner drink, but really? Dry Sack? Did the sherry maker have his hands down his pants when they were naming the thing and thought, "God...my sack could really use some balm...let's try this liquid and see what happens!" And Voila! Dry sack begone! It just conjures up images of things that you don't want to think about after eating. We begged, BEGGED Marc to ask the waiter what it was knowing it would make his night (and ours). Maturity for the win! Marc refused, which was really too bad. I think it would have made a nice anniversary gift for Sabeen and Steve. Spoilsport.

I fear the man who drinks water and remembers what the rest of us said last night. - Anonymous

Some possible captions for the photo at left:
1) Friday Night...
2) We only finished 2 out of 3 bottles! That shows restraint!
3) We only finished 2 out of 3 bottles! We don't have a drinking problem!
4) Why some people were face deep in closely inspecting their toilets prior to bed.
5) Why some people passed out slept in their clothes until 4am.
6) Reason why we thought a dance off in the middle of a crowded bar was a good idea.
7) Why did we leave the house when the bottle at the far left is clearly full?
8) Best consumed in shot form with fancy salt. And limes! Many limes!
9) Warning: too much might make you feel as though someone has shit in your mouth the following morning.
10) Best solution for hang over is to fill neck of beer bottle with same tequila and drink sit very very still. Preferably in hot tub.

It's true. There was a wide berth of tequila consumption. I had a civilized amount which led to me being quite perky and nimble the next morning while everyone sat around in various states of disrepair, their brains bleeding out of their ears, threatening to bludgeon me if I spoke loudly or suggested any activity that didn't involve lying down. Pussies.

More details later. I'm busy cleaning off the glitter from all of the naked girls*. That crap gets everywhere.

*See previous post.

To Santa Barbara we go!

Sweet Moses, people, it's been a week. I think you'll agree - if you live here, at least - that this heat has been a stabby, raging bitch. Not that I don't yearn for summer, because I do. But 93 degrees? When it was, like, 50 degrees last week? Can't we have a gradual climb in temperature that won't cause searing pain to my palms from the steering wheel of my car and extreme bloat due to water retention? Also, my deodorant wasn't prepared to have to work this hard, this soon.

So we're escaping to Santa Barbara this weekend. Andrea and Brit are moving out of their house and going on the Great Adventure of 2009, which means that Andrea is going to trot around Europe for the summer and Brit is moving back to LA. This is highly inconvenient for me, since they are my crash pad in SB, and for that I will not forgive them for at least five minutes. Really, they should have thought to ask me first, but you know, these youths. Only thinking of themselves. Anyhoo, they are having a giant party to celebrate their move. The kind wherein most people will be in danger of throwing up all over themselves by about 7pm. Also, I've heard that there will be about 200 almost completely naked girls (except for conveniently placed glitter) there. These bishes know how to roll. I'll get back to you with photos.

Regardless, Brit is creeping steadily up onto 30. I missed her 29th birthday a few weeks ago, an error I blame entirely on the new Facebook since the birthdays are now listed WAY at the bottom under some obscure heading. I knew it was coming up and then through some other avenue discovered that I had missed it entirely. Unacceptable, Facebook. A pox upon your new layout!

Anyhoo, Brit falls under the category of "People That You Should Know...and if you do not, your life is quite possibly not worth living." Bold, I know, but so is Brit. I was thinking, the other week, of the post I wanted to write FOR her birthday, but then I realized that a lot of my stories about her included mass quantities of alcohol and dialogue that is largely unprintable, but makes me laugh every time I think back on it. So what I'll say is merely that B, you are one of the biggest gifts, people-wise, that has come into my life in the past five years. And that I cannot see cute gay boys without thinking of you assaulting them and how if anyone could get them to switch teams, you might be it. And how you should really give LA a heads up that you're moving back, because I'm not sure that city is ready for you. Happy Belated Birthday, love. I can't wait to see you this weekend.

So more later, once we've recovered and returned home. And yes, I was serious about the 200 naked girls.

In case anyone wonders where I get my penchant for efficiency from.

Me: Whew! I'm just back from a run...I cut it short because of this insane heat.
Mom: Child! What would possess you to run in such beastly weather? (I assume this was said as she adjusted her pince-nez and took a sip of Earl Grey)
Me: Well, I can't afford liposuction, and I'd like for my butt not to start heading south towards my knees.
Mom: Don't say "butt". Say "bottom". It's more civilized. Couldn't you just wear a girdle and forgo the running?
Me: I think the girdle would be more uncomfortable than the run.
Mom: Depends on the girdle. Why are we talking about this? Let's change the subject.
Me: Want to hear a conversation that I overhead about transvestites the other day?
Mom: No, that's uncouth. Let's talk about how much fun it was to irritate your father by wearing my new flip flops the other day. I do so love doing that!
Me: Irritating Dad or wearing flip flops?
Mom: Both! It's wonderful, being able to do two things at once!

They are also masters at makeup application! Take note!

Exchange overheard at Target between a mother and her 7ish year old son.

Child: "Mommy, what is a transvestite?"
Mom: "A transvestite? It's a man who wears womens clothing and generally has better legs than mommy."
Child: "What? Why does he want to wear womens clothing?"
Mom: "Well, honey. Everyone is different and I guess that's what feels right to some people."
Child: "Huh...when daddy dances around in your clothing, is HE a transvestite?"
Long pause...
Mom: "Wait, WHAT? When does he do that?"

I can imagine the conversation around the dinner table that evening was nothing short of electric. I wish I could have invited myself. I'd have brought a side dish and helped wash up.

Rebel yell

I got a head start on some melanoma this weekend. It was amazingly hot...the kind of hot where you wear big tent like dresses that allow you to NOT suck it in because the heat has sapped all the energy that usually goes into that kind of activity. Though I dispensed with my muu-muu half way through the Lords day and instead plunged myself headlong into some sun-bathing. But first! I made sure that all possible chinks in our fence were covered so as not to scare the neighbors with my bikini clad ass. Let's just say the seams are working a wee bit harder than they should have to. To the gym! Tomorrow!

Later, I'm sure, my dermatologist will scold me for such activity as she examines my moles to see how many are contorting diligently into cancer. How many more, actually, since years ago I lost one mole to the Dark Side; it had morphed into a Rebel Mole that skittered over the top of my foot yelling, "CANCER! HA!" at all the other moles who were just casually lying there, content to stay within their symmetrical, colorless boundaries.

So you see, I'm giving my dermatologist something to do. And shielding all of you from the glare of my impossibly white skin. I'm such a giver.

Skin and bones

I hadn’t seen you in a while, not since our conversation on my front stoop. I was surprised that you were there, at the party, holding onto your new lover. I watched you from across the room as you, in turn, watched her. Your hand rested on her neck in a way I had never felt you touch me and I instinctively placed my hand on my own, just there, wondering what it might be like to fall under that gaze, your eyes proclaiming me something other than skin and bones. Something you would find beautiful. You turned and caught me looking at you and smiled.

We had drawn a line ages ago. The sex was separate from our friendship, though I had realized, without warning, that I had been falling in love with you by inches. It wasn’t part of our plan, in fact it was detrimental to it. But I found myself watching you sleep after we had been together; I hoped for more than a perfunctory hug as I left in the morning; I wished that you would do more than look over my shoulder when you said goodbye, already having forgotten the feel of my naked skin whereas I would bathe in the memory of your fingers running down my stomach for days afterwards. I’d sit in my car, watching you go back inside after lazily stretching up towards the sun and say, “I do not love him,” feeling as though that perhaps by lying to myself, it would somehow become the truth.

Weeks ago, leaning over the edge of sleep, my arm draped over your torso, you whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.” You explained how the girl you had been casually dating – someone I knew about - had become something more. You were falling in love. Being with me now felt like a betrayal. I rolled away from you and stared at the ceiling. “We always knew this would eventually happen,” you said. “Please go,” I said flatly, suddenly feeling something akin to hunger pangs deep within my stomach, but you gathered me to you and said, “No. Please. Just this one more night.” The evening shadows moved across the walls and I watched them fade into dawn, cursing my weakness.

You left that morning as you always did, after making me coffee and reading the paper. I didn’t return your calls for weeks, hoping the distance would purge you from me. You came by one night unannounced and asked why I had been avoiding you, that you missed me and needed someone to talk to about your new and fragile love. “I can’t be that person for you,” I said. And then I told you everything. You squinted up at the night sky for a while, the stars shining down on you. “I wish I had known this long ago. I used to be so in love with you. But then you came up with our arrangement and I didn’t think anything between us was possible. I didn’t think you wanted it.” I leaned heavily against the door-frame and you came towards me, kissed me gently and said, “What bad timing.” I watched as you walked off of my front stoop, through my gate and into the night. You were gone.

And all I could think of was, for you I’d bleed myself dry.

I'll only have coffee with you if you lift my bag into the overhead bin.

I’d hate to disappoint any of you by making my way through an airport without incident. I’m in one so often, that by now I should have had at least one trip wherein I didn’t exit the airport and start off a conversation with, “SWEET MOSES YOU WILL NEVER GUESS WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO ME!”

But, you know, where would be the comedic relief in THAT?

I decided not to check any of my bags this week despite the fact that my roller bag was of hernia inducing heaviness. It’s made by Swiss Army which means that a bomb could go off inside of it and you would only hear a small thump if you were standing nearby. That, and the bag might move slightly. But! no harm would come to you. (This is not something you ought to mention in earshot of TSA agents. It ends in a full body cavity search.) So my bag, before anything is put into it, is heavy. And then there is always the problem of my packing going from militant on the day I leave for vacation to sloppy on the day that I pack for home. I had to have my nephew, Tim, sit on the bag to zip it shut. He looked at me and said with characteristic dryness, “Sheesh, Aunt Jen. Good thing you packed four pairs of shoes with you since you walked around barefoot all weekend. That was useful.” Indeed.

So I had quite a bit to negotiate once I got to the airport, what with a sweater, my purse, my computer bag and then the kitchen sink I was rolling along with me. I was hoping that I either would suddenly possess Herculean strength when lifting it into the overhead bin or I could bat my eyelashes at some kind man who would lift it up there for me. I was even willing to show cleavage if it would help! I’m kind.

But first! The security line! We all know how security is now something of a mad, sweat-inducing, deodorant-pressing situation. Between taking off one’s shoes, showing ID, getting liquids, computers and anything metal out and off, it’s a dash to the other side where you just hope you don’t hear the words, “Can you take your bag and follow me?” on the back end of the detectors.

The security line was LONG this week. I stood at the end of it by myself for a while and then felt someone come in behind me. “Felt” because he stood right up against my back. I looked around to see if someone was pushing forward, you know to say, “Back off, bishes!” but there was just this man standing RIGHT behind me without anyone behind him necessitating such an intrusion into my personal space. I looked up at him, way up, and he just looked indifferently over my head all the while taking these creepy, long breaths through his nose. He could have rested his chin on my skull from his close proximity and I thought, “What’s with the sniffing? Is he sick? Why is he all up in my personal space? What if he has some weird plague? If he does and infects me, I want the hard stuff, whatever they have in the locked up cabinets at the CDC storage facility. I want the stuff the government will hand out after the zombies give us deadly drug-resistant zombie STDs. Why did we have sex with the zombies in the first place? Bad move, that.” So I moved forward.

So did he.

We continued on like this for some distance, me shifting forward worrying about potential bacteria that was raining down on my head, him following close behind, his chest bumping into the my back. So I took a new tactic and moved to the side and shoved my suitcase into his shins. He looked down from on high with an impenetrable gaze and stayed where he was. I had room for about three feet until the rather portly woman in front of me backed up suddenly, knocking me back into the guy who didn’t move as I bounced off of his torso and again into the woman. It was like a very bad game of bumper cars. At least she offered a softer landing.

I bobbed between the two of them for the last few feet until it was my turn to throw all of my belongings into the various bins and make my way through. Problem being that I was not only sandwiched between these two spatially challenged individuals but also backed up against a wall partition which made it impossible to negotiate my computer bag, purse, behemoth roller bag AND remove my shoes. I looked up at the disease-breathing giant and said, “Excuse me, could you back OFF for a second???” He continued to look somewhere over my head and off into the distance, completely unaware of my existence.

So I did the next best thing. I turned to the side and started to take off my shoes, which meant that I had to stand directly on his right foot. I hate to admit it, but I sort of ground my heel into him for a moment, just to get the point across that PERHAPS HE COULD MOVE. Startled, he looked down at me and said, “OW!” to which I replied, “Well, if you would BACK UP I wouldn’t have to maim you in order to take my shoes off.” He just looked at me blankly and then said, “Sorry. I didn’t see you.”

SERIOUSLY? I was wearing heels, which puts me at a height of 6 feet. While he still towered over me at around 6’4, I didn’t put on my invisible suit that morning so I wasn’t sure whether he was visually impaired or just a douchebag. I rolled my eyes and went back to the task at hand.

I got through security without issue and was on the other end gathering my belongings at the end of the belt, putting my heels back on and getting my computer, et al, sorted. He came through and was doing the same next to me. I caught him giving me a sideways glance as I put my liquids back into my bag and zipped up. I could still see him staring out of my peripheral vision and finally turned to him and said, “WHAT?” He replied with this gem, “Just so you know, your perfume smells amazing. Do you have time for coffee before your flight?”

Sweet GOD. Definitely just a douchebag.

Dutch Blitz. If you don't play it, I can't know you.

So I’m back. From vacation. Home. Whee. It’s cold here. It was not cold there. I am decidedly grumpy about this, this coldness. I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and found that my toilet seat had, somewhere between 11pm and 3am, turned to a block of ice. This was surprising. Also, unpleasant. I’ve been avoiding peeing since I got home from work today because I should not have to HOVER OVER THE TOILET SEAT IN MY OWN HOME for fear that my ass will suffer from frostbite. My bladder is unhappy about this. But my ass is warm, so the bladder can just suck it.

Let’s see. I didn’t do so well with the not drinking thing, but I did behave. I didn’t, for instance, drink so much that I walked into the closet in the middle of the night, thinking it was the bathroom. No, I did not. Though someone DID and the next morning wasn’t feeling so well and relayed to us his adventures amongst the hangers and clothing while on the hunt for the potty. Next time, bring supplies, my mother said.

Those two cases of wine she sent down? Almost completely gone. There is a program for people like us. Or we should teach a program. Depends on your stance on wine consumption, I suppose.

I returned home with much less hair. My niece Heidi was looking awfully cute with a stacked bob. When asked who had sheared her thusly she pointed to my sister and so I dragged Candy upstairs and she administered the same cut on my head and now I look fabulous! and chic! and cropped! and possibly my hair is now cooler than I am, or I’m not cool enough to have this haircut – one of those. But - I’ll try. I think I’ll have to start wearing short dresses and dropping French phrases into my speech to match the hair. That will last for approximately one day, after which I’ll get very tired and retire to my room with a case of the vapors.

We spent much time playing cards. Dutch Blitz, which is a version of speed Solitaire, though played with Rook cards and an infinite amount of people. It is dizzying and fast and brings out the worst in us. Candy and I hurl insults at one another across the table while my mother tells those playing that since she gave us life, she could just as easily extinguish it if we don’t SLOW DOWN. Holly hums. Heidi mutters. Steph sits in the corner observing, yelling, I HATE THIS GAME! yet calling out help to those who need it and Anna, my brothers girlfriend (hi Anna!) who braved a weekend with the entire family and had never played Dutch Blitz before would cheerfully say “I got ZERO this round! I’m so happy I’m not in the negatives!” while Candy would moan “I ONLY GOT 50 POINTS!” Out of a possible 56. Candy always wins. She is scary fast. We need to hobble her.

Truthfully, though, I thought I would have more to report. There was so much laughter and general joy, but the stories are of the sort that someone who doesn’t speak the language of our family would just say “Meh, y’all are weird”. So I’ll spare you. I’ll tell you the story of the near assault on my person in the security line at the airport tomorrow. Because GOD FORBID I should travel without somehow making an ass out of myself in front of the TSA agents. I have my doctorate in General Foolishness. Truly.

Ruminations

I know why families were created with all their imperfections. They humanize you. They are made to make you forget yourself occasionally, so that the beautiful balance of life is not destroyed. -Anais Nin

It's Sunday night and I leave San Diego tomorrow. While there is much to tell - how could there not be after four days with my entire family? - I just have to digest it, to let this last night wash over me and sit, happy, in these last few hours with the people that I love the most.

I have friends who have siblings that they are not close to, that they see perhaps on holidays or every few years. Those kinds of relationships completely escape me. I don't judge, but I cannot, could not, survive for long swaths of time without my sisters and brother. We've often talked about living in houses that have connecting backyards. While we all live in different cities and that dream remains forever in the firmament, the idea is even more alluring now as adults since we all get along so well and never seem to have enough time with each other. Though I've seen everyone individually in regular increments over the past year, this is the first time that we've all been under one roof in a very long time and how I've missed the mayhem, the general chaos and the happiness that oozes out of everything as we eat, play and talk with one another.

I feel blessed, fortunate, lucky to have such a group of people to call my own. I'm sitting now in my nephews room. It's nearing 11pm and still the sounds of laughter crawl up the stairs and curl under the door. I'm sad to leave, wish we could stay like this in some sort of suspended animation for a few more days. It's wonderful to have these kinds of emotions, especially when I consider our family's past, its difficult history. My own relationship with my parents was scarred and mangled, something I suspected was beyond repair until it started, five years ago, to evolve into something more than hostile smoke signs that we would send up to one another from a safe distance, each of us letting the other party know how much disappointment they felt, how wounded they were. I don't know what caused the shift, but I'm thankful for it each day, even more so now when my mother stops me in the hallway and embraces me, whispering up into my ear, "I love you, my child." It stops my heart momentarily because there was a time when I yearned for that kind of affection and it didn't come. Now, it is precious.

And so I ache to leave tomorrow because it is never enough. It never is. Despite our differences, our abilities to drive one another mad, our tendencies to be in each others business, there is never enough time to tell each other how much we mean to one another. How much love flows between all of us. So I'll rise tomorrow and enjoy one more sun soaked day with my family before we fly off in different directions and resume our lives. We'll all be refreshed by this time together and will call, starting conversations with, "Remember that afternoon when...?" to momentarily dip back into the memory. And while it's not the same as being able to sit across from each other, pouring yet another glass of wine, it's something. And for those of us who come from a family whose past is filled with such pain, the laughter we enjoy now, the beautiful memories that we are building up, act as a balm to those old wounds and make weekends like this even more precious.

The content I get from coffee shops is amazing.

I went into Starbucks the other day because I was feeling cranky and tired and wanted a latte. This is, most definitely, on the list of thing that I'm not allowed to have. But Christ, people, this deprivation is making me into a beastly individual, and so I figure these small rebellions, these tiny fuck you's to my body can't be ALL that bad. I mean, I've made it to 33! So let's live on the edge a wee bit! Besides, it was decaf which is about as exciting as ordering your margarita virgin. I mean, one practically has to ask, what's the point? And why would you insult tequila in such a manner? What has that sweet, sweet liquid ever done to you?

Sorry, tangent.

Anyhoo, in line was a mother with three boys. That were identical triplets. My vagina immediately started to weep. She looked as one would imagine: sleep deprived, disheveled with various stains on her shirt. The boys were probably somewhere around 10 months old, wiggling around in their vehicle, but happy, well behaved. She ordered her drink and then steered her village around to the pick up area. I followed a bit later and started making small talk with her about the kids. She commented that she hadn't really had a night of sleep since they were born and would give her husbands nuts for a nap. I wondered if he was aware that his jewels were up for auction?

Her drink came up and she started to go. I said, "Well, good luck!" and she replied, "You know, I just hope one of them turns out to be gay...otherwise, who am I going to bitch and gossip with while everyone gathers around the TV to watch sports and play video games? Fuck that shit."

Let's just say my day turned around right then. Bless.

Kilts are cute! Write that down!

So my friend Cody has a birthday today. Let's just say Cody is the only man I know who didn't grow up in Scotland who can pull off a kilt without the danger of someone killing him. This is mostly because Cody could easily snap anyone in two who dared point and laugh in his direction. We went to college together and I have a picture of him outside of my sorority house (yes, I was in one of those) proudly wearing said kilt with two attractive women flanking him...the man had moxie then and does now. His wife Erica can attest...

Regardless, happy birthday my friend! I'm glad we've been back in touch and have enjoyed watching your family grow, if even online! May your day be full of general bad-ass-ery. You should totally wear your kilt to your MMA Training just to see what happens. You know. For research.

To San Diego! Again!

Tomorrow, I’m heading down to San Diego. I’ll be attending the first gathering of my entire family since my sister moved there over a year ago. This means that 18 people will be crow barred into one house. My mother sent down two cases of wine last week in preparation – or rather, for survival – of said gathering. She is terribly bright. She knows that while we all have an enormous amount of love for one another, alcohol only makes that love grow and flourish and keeps potential manslaughter type situations at bay.

Of course, I’ll be wine free due to it being on the list of things which are STRICTLY VERBOTEN!!!, which really includes anything that might be fun in life. I suppose, if nothing else, my stark sobriety will give me ample clarity to report back as to the family’s antics, which will be many. We are a funny people, and also verbose. I should really walk around with a tape recorder all weekend so as not to miss anything.

Just as a preview, this is a portion of an email that my dad sent to all of us siblings at the end of last week to give us an update on his health. We like to share these things with one another, you see, and find it quite normal to talk about stool samples over dinner. Though, with my moms fierce and undying love of her fiber supplements, this should not come as a shock to any of you who are veteran readers of this blog. Enjoy. The CAPS and “quotes” are all intended. My father, being the expressive sort, cannot be contained, even by a font:

…ALL the "VITAL SIGNS" are very normal. Heart, Lung, Kidneys, Liver e.t.c. all fully functional [though the BRAIN test was not performed] = I am still a walking and talking specimen. For NOW; Cholesterol and High blood pressure control pills remain at the same dosage; ADDED 2 IRON pills / day as a supplement to my otherwise perfect diet (especially the liquid parts).

After our return from San Diego, Mother will join me for a DUAL COLONOSCOPY at her favored Dr.; as he is by now very familiar with "inside view" of Mothers' digestive system from H-Pylori episode…Mother - reading this over my shoulder - reminded me not to forget to mention the "POOPING Samples" I have to submit for testing…I should have stayed FULLY EMPLOYED, so I would not have time for all of this nonsense.

Dad

I asked if their dual colonoscopy counted as a date and if they would be able to hold hands during the procedure. He never answered that question. Odd.

This is about sunglasses and a very hairy shop person. Just so you know.

I just need to briefly sing the praises of Nordstrom. Because today has effectively handed me my ass on a platter, and Nordstrom - oh you bastion of lovely shoes and angel like customer service! - saved the day.

I bought a Very Nice pair of sunglasses about three years ago at Nordstrom. The CAPS are intentional there, because, you see, I'm the kind of person who often sits on her sunglasses, or drops them or accidentally feeds them to the dog. Ergo, I usually have several cheap pair lying around since I'm not adult enough to own any that are priced above $12. BUT! I eventually turned 30 and thought, "Jen! You are now old enough to own a nice pair of sunglasses!" And I was! I went out, spent a startling amount of money on a very chic pair of aviators and looked smashing for the next three years. Oh, how I babied those sunglasses! I kept them in their case! I rarely put them on top of my head! I never let anyone borrow them and put them to bed each night on a pillow made of butterfly wings and wishes.

Well, two weeks ago one of the screws fell out, leaving the left lens to bob and weave at will. I was unable to get them fixed for a while due to a busy schedule, but today, I took them to the mall to see if they couldn't be fixed. I first thought - Kate Spade! Since she made them, she ought to fix them! But NO! The shopgirl looked at me blankly, snapping her gum and said something to the effect of, "Um...no" all while very industriously digging in her left ear. So I said, "Um...EW!" and headed off to Sunglasses Hut. Wherein the shopBOY was busy shoving french fries in his mouth and said, through the fries, "I wish I had that kind of screw, but I don't." Yeah, I'll bet you DO wish you had that kind of screw. Ha! Sorry. Bad joke. So he sent me to an optometrist down the way who surely would fix my ailing glasses.

Well, the woman at the shop was SURE she had the correct screw and spent a good 30 minutes digging through various drawers and baggies to prove herself right. I, in the meantime, had broken out in a fairly serious smattering of hives due to Too Much Time at the Mall, which is an awful malady, solved only by copious amounts of tequila, or, in my case, a sandwich.

So the lady was digging, I was itching, and suddenly I heard, "SHIT!" emanate from the little room she was in. Hm. She came out and said, "Well, I have good news and bad." "Bad first," I said. "Well, I found the screw that you need, but I broke the nose piece installing it." GAH! And here's the best part, people, she wouldn't do anything about it. She actually said, ACTUALLY SAID, "Look, I was doing you a favor by fixing this...it's not my fault that you have faulty sunglasses." "Funny, they haven't had a problem in THREE YEARS. Not until you touched them, actually." She said, "Not my problem," handed me the glasses and turned to another customer. YOU BROKE MY $200 SUNGLASSES YOU HIRSUTE SHREW! It's true. She was very hairy.

At that point, I had to get out of there. I was so upset and annoyed and angry that she had been so dismissive and was right on the cusp of giving her an expletive laced piece of my mind. But then! I called Marc. He had already talked me off of the ledge a few times that day and said, in his infinite wisdom, "Jen, just go to Nordstrom. You bought them there, didn't you? They will probably just hand you a new pair."

And guess what? THEY DID! The girl looked at my glasses and said "Well THAT will never do!" and handed me the newer version of my sunnies...with lovely orange accents...AND with a pretty sweet case too, might I add. So Nordstrom's saved my day! Also, I just wrote a pretty inflammatory review on yelp.com about the hairy-sunglasses-breaking-lady place, and I'm advising all of you to avoid Prospectacles at Stanford Shopping Center. You've been warned.

Hours of Colin Firth for only $9!!

Has anyone mastered the art of getting out of Target for under $100? I went there the other day with a strict list. I even STUCK to the strict list, despite there being cute purses for sale and a pair of sunglasses that didn’t make my face look as wee as a munchkin. Because, while I have an enormous noggin, my face is quite narrow, and the DIFFICULTY I HAVE in finding sunglasses is enormous. And, also boring. So! Onward!

Regardless, I stocked up on small things, like candles, and magazine holders (for those of us who hoard keep magazines for later reference) and a DVD that was on sale – Pride & Prejudice! With Colin Firth! As Liz Lemon noted in 30 Rock, that man can wear a sweater! – and some other household sundries that were needed. BASICS. Not even anything fun – though one might argue that staring at Colin Firth will provide hours of quality personal time entertainment. And INDEED IT WILL.

My point is, I endured a small heart attack when she handed me my bill and thought, “Sweet tap-dancing Moses! There’s not even anything frivolous in these two bags!” Yet there I was, having spent more than I had planned on. How does this happen? Because while Target is one of the most awesome and magical places on this Earth, it also has your 401k by the balls. Yet, back in I go! In fact, whenever I go to visit my girls in Santa Barbara, I undergo a bit of discomfort knowing that there isn’t one nearby. That should I need to buy some lip gloss, I would have to go into a REGULAR DRUG STORE to do so. Not the shiny happy aisles of Target where the lip gloss will sing you a lullaby while giving you a hand job. Seriously. It’s true. Why do you think it’s always so crowded?

Regardless, I have to find a new plan of attack, which might just be NOT GOING IN. Or modifying my list, somewhat. Or staying out of the make-up section. I’m not sure. Because I don’t want to end up out on the street with a sign that says, “Spent last penny at Target.” Although, I’m sure I’d have company. They’d have succumbed to the hand jobs as well.

Caution: By singing along to this album you might make an ass out of yourself

It was a gorgeous day yesterday...it was, in fact, HOT. So hot that I need to reconsider my stance on driving around without air conditioning as my back was starting to stick to my leather seats and I've been told that's not attractive. Whatever. You say tomato, I say you're saying it wrong.

Regardless, I had all of the windows open and was happily blaring Kanye West. I was getting on with my bad self as sometimes a girl needs to. However, you know how you have listened to something for so long that you kind of don't hear the words anymore and then suddenly, you find yourself in a situation where, not only do you HEAR the words, but you are MORTIFIED by them?

Let me explain.

Kanye, as we all know, is African American. It's my understanding that black people are allowed to call OTHER black people by the "N" word. This escapes me entirely considering what negative, historical connotations that word carries. I mean, I suppose I can compare it to sometimes calling up one of my girlfriends and saying, "What's up, bish?" But normally, that's because said friend sometimes IS a bish and would admit that if pressed. But that word doesn't carry with it the weight of slavery and discrimination and marginalization. Anyways, there is a part of this song, Flashing Lights, wherein the lyrics go thusly:

"Damn, these n****** got me, I hate these n****** more than a Nazi."

I applaud his choice of disliking the Nazi's...I mean, really, I'm half German and carry historical guilt over what that group did. My problem is that I've memorized these lyrics over time and sing them while in the car without really realizing what I'm saying.

So yesterday, with windows down and song blaring, I came to a stoplight and this stanza came on. And I found myself singing about n****** and Nazi's and looked over to see two men in the car next to me of African American descent looking at me curiously as I sang about their brethren in such uncouth terms. I was suddenly VERY aware of what had just come out of my mouth. Because while they can say that word to one another, I'm pretty sure a white girl isn't allowed to, even if she is singing along with one of their own.

Praise the good Lord in heaven, the light turned green right then...though I was several shades of red. Stupid Kanye. Lesson learned though - I should definitely get my AC fixed. See? I would totally have had the windows rolled up and been able to holler out racial slurs without fear of offending someone.

Wow! I didn't just get struck down! It's going to be a good week!

Do you remember?

Do you remember that time that we crept outside while the others laughed and shouted inside? It was a summer night and I had lost my shoes somewhere between lunch and all of the warm beers and you laughed as you covered both of us with an old blanket as we lie on our backs in the grass and looked up at the stars. It became cold and so you moved closer, our hands touching which was more than we had done yet and when you interlaced your fingers in mine I felt weightless and didn’t want to ever leave that place.

We drank wine out of juice glasses later and over the shimmering heat of the fire I caught your gaze and in your eyes were a thousand mystical things that would become familiar over time. But then I was only aware of my knees having turned to clay and tugged nervously at my hair, twirling the strands around and around with my fingers. You left our circle of friends and I followed you into the shadows where you whispered into my neck that I was all you had ever wanted and I believed you, having felt the same for longer than I cared to admit.

What I remember was how that summer became about not looking at clocks. We would fall asleep on the hot sand with my leg thrown over yours and wake up flushed with sunburn. We took cold showers in the afternoons to cool ourselves and sat on the porch swing in the dark after the sun had burnt out. You told me that you thought I was beautiful and lovely and full of secrets - all of which you wanted to know. There were no lines on our faces from worry and my greatest task was making you smile when you slipped into melancholy. I would ask why and you said sometimes you were fraught with sadness over the thought of this time being no more. Impossible, I would say. We will live here forever. I knew it was a lie but perhaps not, as you tell me it’s still your favorite place to visit when you close your eyes.