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.

Wherein I reference both Kate Chopin AND my ass.

So (anyone notice how I start off a lot of paragraphs/sentences with “so”? I think it’s my most overused word. I blame my mother). Anyhoo, I’ve been spending a lot of time working on this story that grew from a little teeny blog entry into a nearly 20,000 word essay. And if you want to know how long 20,000 words is, let’s just say that you can hear a small tree screeching in pain every time I print it out for review. Writers, by nature, kill a great many trees. This is something I can’t seem to get around, despite my good intentions of only printing when absolutely necessary and my tendency to utilize both sides of every sheet of paper. Don’t even get me started on how confusing that can be when you mix up the pages and go from some emotional prose into a blog entry on how awful this persons breath was in line at Starbucks. It’s like reading Kate Chopin on acid.

Regardless, this little teeny blog entry has somewhat taken over my life. A shorter version of it is to be printed in a magazine later this year (hurrah! drinks on me!) but it now has a life of its own and I find myself waking up at night thinking “Oh YES! I must add THIS!” and peppering post it notes throughout the house with ideas as they come to me. Marc often finds them stuck to his forehead, which is handy as I can sit across from him, listening to his chatter, and simultaneously be in deep thought over a particularly difficult sentence. This is marital multi-tasking at its best. “You have to go to the hospital for what now? Crap…I think this sentence has a dangling participle in it. Stupid grammar.” Don’t worry, he doesn’t listen to me either. It’s how we keep the peace.

My point being that I think I’m finally coming to the end of where I can take this thing, which is a great relief, as my head has been putting in requests for some space/time to think about other things. Like, how it’s sunny out! And how bikini season is almost upon us! And Sweet Mary and Moses – will my ass fit into said bikini? Perhaps we should think about vacationing somewhere that doesn’t involve a beach? And then a panic attack ensues and I go and eat a sandwich and watch Millionaire Matchmaker. Perhaps just focusing on my story is a better idea…for my intellectual health, if nothing else.

Shit. Now I’m all concerned about my ass.

Blaze

So I'm in the middle of some Auto Driven Angst. Deep in its treacherous jaws, in fact. It will come as a surprise to only a few of you (the rest knowing well my attachment to my car) that I've had the same car for, like, ever. Since 1993. I can't even count back that far, my degree in stupid math only taking me as far as eleventeen. It's the longest relationship I've ever had in my life, and many of my friends who see me after years apart will first say "So great to see you, you stunning thing, you!" followed by "You're STILL driving THAT?" Yes, I am. Suck on it.

It's been a good car. It's a CUTE car. It somehow looks like me. I love vintage things, things that have some sort of history, some sort of personality, and this car has soul to spare. She's seen me through graduations, through break-ups, through job successes and losses. I've spent nights pounding the steering wheel in frustration while driving around, trying to figure out my life. The back seat has seem some action - ahem - as has the front. It's a sporty ride, has stupendous rear vision, and a trunk that could easily fit a body...though I've never tried. Really. The list of Things That Drive Other People Crazy is long and vast, but I'm willing to forgive faulty electrics, a malfunctioning AC and a loud steering shaft and chalk it up to things that just make my car unique, if not blisteringly hot in the summer time. Whatever. Open your window.

But I'm now on the cusp of being willing to upgrade to a car that has a few more amenities. Namely, automatic locks, a radio that works and power steering. And airbags. I rented a car this last weekend while I was down in SoCal and was driving my friends around going "OOOOO - look at the knobs! Check out how loud I can make the stereo go! Look! I can just push this button and ALL OF THE DOORS UNLOCK!" And they looked at me quizzically, my friend Andrea finally saying, "You know, Jen, those are standard features these days." But the thought of getting rid of Blaze (yes, that's her name) makes me feel like someone is shoving broken glass into my heart. I know that seems somewhat dramatic given that she is an inanimate being, something that no amount of anthropomorphizing will bring to life, but I think it's what she represents that is hard to give up.

I bought my car from my dad. I paid my father off within a year, proudly showing up each month with my car payment, giving him a check for the remaining balance a year early so that I wouldn't have to be beholden to him. It was my first adult purchase, and tangible evidence that I could take care of myself. So when I look at my car, it's not just a mode of transportation, it's also a material reminder that somewhere along the way, I became grown up. And when I still don't feel that way, when I feel like I've failed in some catastrophic manner, I can get into my car, drive around with the three windows down that work and reconnect with the part of me that knows how to be an adult.

I'm sure there are some of you who are rolling their eyes thinking, "Jesus, it's a CAR." But I'll bet if you think about it, there is something in your life that you hold on to quite tightly, if only because it reminds you of a part of yourself that is easily lost in the chaotic quagmire that life can sometimes be. I have a friend who owns a suit that ceased to fit her long ago but got her a few kick ass jobs when she was in her 20's - for her it represents a time in her life that wherein her ambition was allowed to run free as it's now been housed by motherhood. Another of my friends will never let go of an old boyfriends gross sweatshirt because that time in her life taught her how to let go in love, and though the boy is long gone, the lessons have served her well throughout the years. And so, while my car might not be something I can stash away in a closet, it's dear to me, and I'm allowed to be emotional about the thought of letting it go.

I'm not quite there yet, but sometime this year, Blaze will be given a proper burial. Or at least I will hand her off to someone who has the time and money to put into her what she needs to keep running for many more years. And I know, each time I see a little red BMW floating down the freeway, my heart will weep a wee bit. But I suppose that's part of being an adult too, not letting material things define you. Though let it be known, I think it's much easier to build character when you have such a cute little car to zip around in. Sigh.

Too soon! Too soon!

As has been documented, I have mad love for Tina Fey. If ever she has a job opening for someone to fetch her coffee and administer back rubs, I will be first in line in the hopes that some of her wit and talent will rub off on me. So, as one might assume, I never miss an episode of 30 Rock (I also have an odd crush on Alec Baldwin). It has filled a deep, deep void in my life left by Arrested Development, a show whose end had me weeping, rending my garments and questioning my will to live. If you haven’t seen last weeks episode of 30 Rock, I highly recommend that you download it as there are about 15 seconds of some of the funniest TV I have ever seen wherein Liz Lemon’s love interest finds her on the toilet. And it’s their first date. I have saved the show on my Tivo and shall watch that scene daily until the appeal wears off, which I assume will be right around the turn of the century.

But it got me thinking about my first dates and how none of them have been so hilariously catastrophic. I went to a highly religious and conservative college, so if you danced with a boy at a frat party, it was assumed that you were going to be picking out your wedding china posthaste. Additionally, you spent so much time asking for forgiveness of the Baby Jesus for any over-the-sweater action that you might have taken a part in, that between seeking redemption for hooking up and covertly making out in the arboretum, there wasn’t much time to go to dinner and movie. I had my share of boyfriends, three who stand out in any detail, one who I fell deeply in love with (and for those of you who went to college with me, it’s not who you think), but most of the time, you were surrounded by other people, and when you WERE finally, blissfully alone, well, I won’t kiss and tell. (I did get busted by the police once for “heavy petting” by the lake with one of the guys – at least that’s how the officer described it when he called us in. Let’s just say I didn’t get into a back seat again for years for fear of a flashlight shining in on me during a delicate moment.)

I did have a first date my freshman year with a guy who decided, during a lull in the conversation to share that he had webbed feet. I think my reaction was “Oh, does that make you swim faster?” which was not the right thing to say as he wasn't fluent in sarcasm. Instead, he took it as an invitation to show me his toes. At the restaurant. While we were eating. I think it was at a Pizza Hut, so really, it wasn't as though there were white tablecloths involved, but STILL. Ew. And then there was the guy who invited me out to what I hadn’t known was going to be a fancy dinner party in San Francisco. When I started to engage his friends in conversation, he told me, “I just brought you here to be quiet and look pretty.” Needless to say, I told him exactly where he could go, gathered up my things and found a cab back home. Mercifully, these are the worst I can think of, for which I should thank the good Lord in heaven. No, I tend to make an ass out of myself either in front of complete strangers – which is comforting because I will likely never see them again - or people who love me who go, “Meh…that’s just Jen. She falls down a lot. Have you seen her underwear yet? No? Give it time.”

But if any of you have good first date stories, I’d love to hear them. Come on! I’m on a deadline and need distraction! Plus, it’s really a holiday of sorts, so you poor sods who are stuck in the office need something fun to do. I’ll do a tequila shot with whoever submits the story that makes me laugh the hardest. Either that or I'm going to have to watch 30 Rock over and over and over...you don't want that on your conscience, do you?

Your word for today is Synesthesia

So, I received not one, not two, but ELEVEN different emails from friends who were all, “What’s wrong with you that you see people in color? Did your mother drop you on your head when you were a child?” Answers: How much time do you have?, and No, she did not. Or she’s just been lying to me about that scar on the top of my skull and my tendency to veer left when I walk.

Anyhoo, the color thing. It’s called Synesthesia and I discovered through the world of Facebook that my niece has it too! Neat! Genetic anomalies unite! It’s attributed to only a tiny portion of the population, but I think more people have it and just don’t talk about it. Not because we feel like freaks but because it is so normal for us to see things the way that we do that it doesn’t occur to us as being different.

I have three manifestations. The first, that I referred to yesterday, is that I see people in color. Not all people, only some. Those that I come into direct contact with tend to become important to me in some fashion, but in any crowd, I will see several people that have an aura about them. Men tend to exhibit cooler colors and women warmer ones, but it’s not always a hard rule. When I was little, it happened with greater frequency. If I looked out over, say, a restaurant, most people would just be a wash of color. Now, as an adult, I’ll perhaps only see someone in color a few times a week. Does it freak me out? Nope. But if I meet someone and they are letting off a hue, I take note. Like I said yesterday, what will often happen is that by the third time I come into contact with the person, the aura has faded and I can see their features clearly.

The second thing is that I see color along with music. Higher notes are bright colors and lower ones are dark, usually deep reds and purples. Violins and cellos are always gold. The colors just flash across my vision – basically every concert I go to is my own version of a safe acid trip - I totally get Pink Floyd! This is the primary reason that I don’t like loud, screamy music. It stresses me out to no end because it’s overly stimulating in both an auditory and visual way. If the TV and stereo are on simultaneously (and this happened ALL OF THE TIME in college) I have to leave the room as I feel like my head will explode. It’s too much. If ever you need to extract information from me, put on heavy metal and strap me down. I’ll have no defense.

The third thing, and I’m going to borrow from my niece here, is the way I see the calendar – it’s a 3D picture of an oval. December and January have a gap between them and are at the bottom of the oval, while June, July and August are the topmost curve. It’s just how it shows up in my head.

A lot of people who have Synesthesia also have right/left confusion, which I definitely suffer from. If you’re ever in the car with me, for the LOVE OF PETE just point which way I’m supposed to go - if you say “GO LEFT!” I will go right, almost automatically.

So there you go. Ways in which I am weird, #496. But hey, I’ll bet my days are prettier than yours. Suck on THAT.

Ruminations:

Why, though I despise their music, do I know all of the words to Nickelbacks songs?

Is Lindsay just faking it with Samantha? And is anyone else sort of skeeved out by the length of her extensions?

Who thought jumpsuits ought to make a revival? Can we castrate him? Because I’m sure it was a man. No woman would ever think to bring back something that makes a bathroom break such a monumental task. And SWEET GOD! The danger of camel toe! Just, no.

Why do I continue to watch the Real Housewives even though I'm sure my IQ has dropped dramatically as a result?

I never get sick of listening to Eddie Vedder. He could sing the telephone book and, if Hugh Jackman were to call me up for dinner, I would shriek, “EDDIE IS SINGING A-through-N TONIGHT. I CANNOT BE BOTHERED!” Though I would first lick his bicep...we can't have Hugh upset, after all.

I’ve decided that I need to use the colon more in my writing. Unfortunately, it didn’t work for this sentence.

Is there anything better than the section of US magazine called “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” followed by pictures of them with zits and picking up their dogs’ poop? Plus, there is a colon in that headline!

I had the world’s WORST manicure on Saturday (first world problem, I KNOW). But I only realized the extent of my OCD after this event as I could do nothing but focus on the hideousness of my fingernails for the rest of the day and, in fact, almost needed a paper bag to breathe into until I could finally take the polish off on Sunday.

My toes looked great, though.

I must look like a person with loose boundaries, as people say the most inappropriate things to me all of the time. For instance, a new client came in the other day and said “Please don’t work me out in a way that will make my butt look like yours…you know…round.” GOD. Let’s hope my brain doesn’t become like hers via osmosis…you know…stupid. Whore.

Yesterday, I bought dark chocolate chipotle covered almonds. Verdict: awesome. Jeans: now tight from ingestion of many almonds. (Did you know that Microsoft Word doesn’t recognize the word chipotle?) (How can that be? It’s a west coast company, which means that almost everyone who works there probably eats Mexican food at least twice a week.) (Perhaps Bill Gates has an aversion to spicy food?)

I’m in danger of SCRATCHING OUT MY EYEBALLS if I have to see Spencer and Heidi doing one of those damned “Oh! You caught us grocery shopping! How convenient that Heidi is wearing a slutty dress and Spencer has some elaborate, douche-like facial hair!” photo ops. It makes me re-think my stance on plastic surgery as I’m often compared to her, looks-wise. In face. Not boobs.

I really, REALLY hate the word gourd. I hate the sound of it, the way it looks. I even just shuddered typing it. It's my Thing. You know...the one Thing we all have that is weird. Of course, mine is more of a list, but who's counting?

Let’s see…dum de do…nothing else really to report today, so carry on, internet. I’ve been slowly catching up on my sleep and returning to a normal state of being, which means I’m not wandering around with my underwear on top of my pants or anything humiliating like that. I did go to work in my bedroom slippers the other day, though. Thankfully, I work barefoot, so the strange stares were minimal. But, you know, suck it. My feet were happy.

P.S. Happy birthday Anna! I hope my brother takes you out properly tonight and buys you many shiny things. Or just lots of drinks. Sometimes that MAKES things look shiny, which is just as good.

Because everyone else is doing it

The Lucky Paw 2008 Quickie List:

Best movies I’ve seen this year: In Bruges and Iron Man

Movies I’m ashamed to say I enjoyed: Transporter I & II. What can I say? JASON STATHAM WAS SHIRTLESS.

Worst movie I’ve seen this year: Wanted

Best book I read this year: Tough call between Disgrace and The Collected Stories of Amy Hempel

Worst Book I read this year: Big Sur by Jack Kerouac. What a blow hard.

Best Music I bought this year: Ra Ra Riot, Kings of Leon, Bloc Party, The Stills, The Walkmen

Songs that never failed to make me happy: Just Dance by Lady GaGa, Elevator by Flo Rida, Revelry by Kings of Leon, Signs by Bloc Party, Face to Face by Daft Punk, Oh, La by Ra Ra Riot

Best Concert I went to this year: Eddie Vedder, acoustic. Amazing. Yes, Rod, he was better than Madonna.

Worst months this year: August/September

Best month this year: June

Biggest, girl crushes this year: Gwyneth Paltrow! I know! I can’t help it! She was so cute in Iron Man! And Tina Fey, who I’m determined to be when I grow up.

Best kiss I’ve received this year: The year ain’t over

Favorite memory of this year: Taking Maren, a friend’s daughter, on walks through the Boboli Gardens in Florence. There is nothing so spectacular as seeing things through the eyes of a child.

I managed to keep all of the resolutions I made this year: Meaning I haven’t robbed any banks, inflicted bodily injury on people who irritated me or woken up in a tequila laden stupor. This is called growth. I’m maturing, people! Hell hath frozen over. I still need to work on my fear of large groups of women, capri pants and my desire to kick people in the loins who always have to work into conversation that they went to an Ivy League school.

In 2009, I’ll work on keeping my nails manicured, my closet organized and eyebrows evenly drawn in. I’ll also try to be less bossy. I’m already exhausted.

Happy Holidays everyone. See you in ought-nine.

Plus/Minus

My thought is, if you have to sit down and write up a pro/con list about someone, doesn't that sort of already answer your question as to whether or not they should be in your life?

When it's good to be fake

So it would appear that the holidays are truly upon us, or, as I like to call it, the season wherein we all flirt with poverty to praise the Baby Jesus. I’m constantly asked what I want for Christmas, but since Obama is about to take office and I just bought some sweet new boots, I’m really out of suggestions. How about the Nobel for literature? That would be nice and also easy to wrap.

I struggle annually with whether or not to buy a tree. My parents were anti-tree. They also didn’t let us believe in Santa Claus, so draw whatever conclusions you would like. It might explain my apathy in general towards the season, though I do hold a tender spot in my heart for spiked egg-nog. Shocking, I know.

But back to the tree. I was drinking the café au lait that my manservant delivered to the foot of my bed this morning and pondering what to do about Christmas foliage. Being of the eco-sort, I’ve never loved the ritual of bringing in a tree only to watch it slowly die over the course of the month (see above: parents, anti-tree). But on the other hand, I like the idea of making one’s house festive for the season (see: adoration of shiny things). I also LOVE stringing lights. LOVE it. I cannot explain this, as it’s everyone’s least favorite job, but I will gladly come over and do it for you.

Last year, I solved this dilemma by purchasing two small, living trees with the intent of, keeping them alive! And then using them again next year! And they will become our family trees! Alas, I didn’t take into account the fact that I’m unable to keep anything that is supposed to grow, thriving (see: why I do not have children). Seriously. I have killed cactus. Cacti? It’s embarrassing, but also something I have accepted about myself. Unaccountably, I have two plants that my mother gave me that have survived two years of wanton neglect, interspersed by frantic watering when I remember that they are there. Everything flourishes under my mothers care, and I belive the plants live in fear of her coming over and berating them for not living up to her standards. Grow! She says. And things do. She is scary.

This year, I decided to do some research regarding fake trees. YES. FAKE. I know, I know…my house won’t smell like Christmas! And it’s not the same blah blah BLAH. But guess what? I don’t have to water the damn thing or vacuum up dropping needles or eventually deal with hauling it out to the curb where all of the other dead trees end up after New Years. I am a SCROOGE, whatever (see: things I know to be true). Anyhoo, after trotting through several stores yesterday, I found a DARLING one. So cute. It’s a wee bit Charlie Brown’ish, but in a good way, so tonight, I will deck the halls, or at least my living room, and be happy in the knowledge that when New Years comes around, I can just put this puppy in a bag and haul it out next year for round #2 (see: German Efficiency™).

I am a vessel of holiday cheer, ‘tis true.

If you don't have anything amusing to say, shut up

So have you noticed? That I totally fell off of the wagon this week? That my daily blogging went to hell in a hand basket? Even though I only had a week to go, the pressure of getting something posted every morning finally wore me out. You know what I found? That if I’m forced to write something, it will most likely be shit. I can’t tell you how many times I was over here, clawing my face off, trying to come up with something to post. “How can I make a story about folding my laundry amusing?” or “Should I tell everyone how I’ve been beset with a terrible bout of sciatica this week? How I’ve been falling to the floor, clutching my leg and yelling ‘MY ASS, OH, MY ASS!’?” So you see my predicament - my life is simply not interesting enough to document every 24 hours. I was literally drowning in bad content and so decided, in the spirit of the holidays, to just stop and spare you all my humiliation. Plus, there was no cash prize at the end, or diamonds, or a pony. And what's the point without a pony?

NaBloPoMo was an interesting concept, but I think there is enough crap on the internet without my adding to it. For those of you who stuck with me, you are champs and will reap your reward in heaven - or at least, that’s what my mom always told me when I would endure something boring or painful that had no immediate benefit. We’ll just take her word for it, and if you’d like, I’ll treat you to a glass of wine and we can rejoice in my decision not to flood your brain with my inane made-upperies.

In other news, I am beginning an immediate fast after what was a fierce bout of grappling with a turkey. The turkey won. So did a few bottles of wine, for which I’ll blame my mother, since she “over ordered” on this last wine shipment and we had to “help her” consume the excess or else there would be no room in her wine cellar. And we are, if nothing else, a group who does not shirk from our familial duties. And so, while we are all paddling around in the sloppy hell of withdrawal from both food an alcohol, I bid you all a good weekend. Posting will resume, per usual, on Monday. If I feel like it.

I think the video would sell like hot cakes

I had a boyfriend, once, who started off the day by saying, “You want to hear about the dream I had last night? I dreamed that we were at a bar and you started making out with that girl we met the other day. Isn’t that weird? It was sort of hot. Have you ever done that before? Or, would you, if the opportunity came up? Hahaha…just kidding...but would you?”

He became an ex, shortly after.

I thought of this the other morning, because I woke up after a very vivid dream wherein I was training Tim Daly and he said he would pay me extra if I taught him in the nude. When I refused, he then asked if I would kiss a woman who was standing nearby. I again said no, and he told me I was a prude and walked out of the studio. I ran after him hollering “BUT TIM DALY I LOVE YOU.” Which I don’t, even though I was a fan of Wings and think he’s the one redeeming character on Private Practice. Does anyone else think that Kate Walsh looks perpetually constipated? And her eyebrows totally freak me out. I’m right on the verge of breaking up with that show…

Sorry, tangent.

Anyhoo, it was odd, and it made me wonder if the crab rolls I had last night had something extra in them, causing me to dream about old celebrity crushes who were verbally abusive if their girl on girl requests were denied. Strange. But it got me thinking that naked Pilates might, as of yet, be an untapped market. I’m always coming up with ideas that would make my mother proud. Though it should be noted that I took the moral high ground, even while asleep. Yay, ME! One more day of avoiding that lightening bolt!

Mortified and aghast

I received so many emails regarding my post about Barack Obama and his socialistic leanings. Or, rather, his lack thereof. One of the more consistent reactions was “Wow, I didn’t know and hadn’t really done the research on this.” I’m paraphrasing, there, but I’m aghast by how many people - bright, intelligent people - will cling onto whatever line their party picks out and see it as Biblical truth.

One of the things that makes this country great is that we have freedom of thought and access to so much information. Information that covers both sides of issues. One of my concerns with this election was that the population would not do their due diligence of researching their candidate, of getting as close to the truth of the matter as possible. I voted for Obama. Many people informed me that they were voting for McCain and didn’t like Obama for several reasons. I looked up some of those reasons, found that some had no merit, and that some DID. So when I cast my vote, I felt like I was informed, I knew what I was putting my faith into, I wasn’t casting my ballot merely because it was the popular and hip thing to do. I stand by my decision and am proud that so many Americans cast their vote in his favor as well. While I might be relieved where our President-elect is concerned, I’m deeply saddened and ashamed by what happened with Prop 8.

I’m not a deeply political person. I know what I believe, but I’m not the person that can argue politics for hours. This, however, has cut me to the core. I believe it will be my generation’s civil rights issue, and I’m very committed to the side that I stand on.

When Prop 8 came up, I remember turning to Marc and saying “Why do we get to determine who gets to marry whom? Shouldn’t this just be a basic right?” Now, I know, I KNOW, people. Some of you get all up in arms about this because you think “POLYGAMY WILL BE NEXT!” Don’t you think people are intelligent enough to know where to draw the line? “THIS WILL RUIN THE INSTITUTION OF MARRIAGE!” Don’t you think us heteros have done a pretty good job of that, what with our 50% divorce rate? “THEY WANTED TO TEACH IT IN SCHOOLS!” No, they didn’t. That is what’s called a SMOKE SCREEN. And it worked! Again, DID YOU DO YOUR RESEARCH?

Prop 8, like I said, is a civil rights issue. Those of you who voted for it from a morality standpoint are marginalizing a group of people that God also loves, who He created. Your God says homosexuality is a sin? Well, mine made gays in His image and called me to do unto others as I would want them to do unto me. He also said that we don’t have to stone people anymore, or crucify them. It’s out of date and one should move with the times. If you take God out of the equation, if you look at these people as individuals who are just like you and want to marry someone they love and don't want to judge YOUR marriage, where do you really stand?

When I have a child, and if he or she is gay, I want them to live in a world where they have the same rights that I do. I want them to feel comfortable and free to love who they desire and to marry them and raise children of their own. I want a son to be able to turn to a man he loves and say “This is my husband.” Because, as those of you who are married know, it changes things when you say “I do” and pledge yourself to one another. It makes a union more serious, tangible, permanent.

I never addressed this before because I had faith that Californians, as a whole, would do the right thing. Now that they have not, I feel that I need to speak out, to encourage people to really study the issue and do what they can to support having this “yes” ruling overturned. Someone close to me, who I will not mention, said that she was going to vote “yes” on Prop 8 because “If we don’t stop it now, people are going to want to marry their dogs!” Watch out Kylie, I know plenty of dudes that think you’re the cutest thing ever. Pick a rich one who doesn't mind supporting your parents, because Mama wants to retire.

"We have religious fundamentalists too. But ours are just funny. They spend their time identifying the gay Teletubby, not blowing themselves up." - Bill Maher

(Thanks, Simon, for the quote)

Socialism? Please.

I come from a family where "Republican" was stamped onto your birth certificate and was almost as certain of a family trait as blue eyes and a tendency towards sarcasm. Being perhaps the one member who has leaned more left of the middle over past 10 years (blue is a better color on me, anyways), I'd like to think that my conservative upbringing allows me a unique view into both sides of political issues or at least tolerate listening to an opinion that I used to agree with.

But I've been vastly irritated over the past few weeks over the constant grumblings of "OBAMA IS A SOCIALIST!" My father was raised Communist, fled his country because he was black listed for speaking out against the government and raised his children with a very clear understanding as to why democracy is the ONLY WAY to live and why socialism sucks ass. So while I might plug my ears and go "LALALA!" if asked to explain the electoral college, I have a pretty deep understanding of political policies that have failed historically or are such hot issues now.

And so, because he's done the research and is a better writer than I am, I'm going to link to an article that I read recently in the New Yorker that counters this opinion about our President-elect.

Like, Socialism by Hendrik Hertzberg

Enjoy.

Wherein I mine my own suffering for content

I woke up on Friday with a low grade headache and the desire to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed until next year, cradled by goose down. It's allergy season and I've felt, all week, like calling my clients to say "I cannot come in as I'm Afflicted with a serious Malady." However, being that it's only allergies, and not something dire enough to drown in black-market narcotics, I've persisted with going to work despite the feeling that my head is barely attached. It's a good thing I can teach while only half consious. I'm a professional, people.

So on this particular morning, I dragged myself into the bathroom to commence my daily ritual of eyebrow and eyelash application. Let's just say the overhead lighting was especially unforgiving as the black shadows underneath my eyes had reached such large proportions, it seemed like my face was disappearing into the sockets. Oh well, I thought as I spackled on the under eye concealer, I'll just distract people today with sparkling jokes and jazz hands! Except my clients are a bit more observant and vocal than most. All morning, I received comments of this ilk:

"You look really awful...did you sleep last night?"
"JESUS!"
"You're so pale...are you sure you should have come in today?"
"You're not going to get ME sick, are you?"

Well then, don't hold back. So sorry I showed up to work looking like an old, medieval hag. Come on and join me over by my cauldron! We'll go bobbing for Christians and heretics and cast spells on people who annoy us!

In the meantime, I'm heading back home towards the tequila and Benadryl. GOD.

Just sit there and look nice

A few weeks ago I was checking my email at the front desk and a man walked in. He looked a bit pinched, unpleasant, giving off the aura of either needing to get laid or being constipated. This, I gathered before he said anything. When he DID open his mouth, what drifted out was not exactly poetry and butterflies:

“Is there a man here I can talk to about your business? I want to hire a personal trainer.”

I started to reply, but he held up his hand to cut me off before I could get “you sexist bastard” out of my mouth.

“Now, honey, I’m sure you THINK you know what you’re talking about, and you’re really blond and cute up here at the front desk, and I’m sure they pay you well to sit here and look pretty, but I’d prefer to talk to someone about this who knows a thing or two about training. And I’m in a hurry.” Pity he didn’t have ample time, as I would have asked him to bend over so that I could shove the computer monitor up his ass. It's an Apple so it only would have improved his personality. Yes, I was hostile that day.

Then, like a gift from above, in walked my client who is also a professional athlete. We’ll call him S. S said, “excuse me” as he walked by the man who looked as though he might shit his pants, finding himself in the presence of such athletic prowess.

“Excuse me,” said our charmer, “Are you S? Man, you’re incredible!! It’s an honor to meet you!!” He almost squealed...I think he might have even had an orgasm. S, being the gracious person that he is (and used to having men fling themselves at him in admiration), shook his hand and said “Thanks man! Hey, if you’re planning on working with Jen, watch out. She's made me cry a few times and is harder than any trainer I’ve ever had. Good luck!” And he walked back to the pilates equipment. I could have kissed him.

The man stood there, mouth agape, looking first at S, then at me. “You train HIM?” he asked incredulously. I nodded my head. “Wow. Do you have any openings?” And then, in one of those rare moments of mental dexterity, I shot back with “You know, my dance card is full. That’s what I get for being blond and pretty and not so bright. Men love that.” I wanted to add in THAT, AND ALL OF THE HAND JOBS THAT I GIVE but I have to draw the line somewhere.

And they wonder why I want to install a bar at work. The 1960's called...they want their sexism back...although, it never really left, did it?

Wherein I find a happy ending through my knowledge of power tools

I had this weekend to myself, and I should have gone crazy with the freedom, participating in a wild orgy of THINGS I CANNOT DO WHILE MARC IS AROUND, such as eating onions, putting Obama signs on my parents lawn, cooking meth or watching reality TV in the nude. (I'm kidding about the Obama signs...Marc would have totally helped me with that). Instead, I cleaned out and organized a closet that has been causing my brain to spontaneously explode and shoot out of my eyes each time I opened its door.

So after several hours of intense labor involving a power tool and enough swearing to have my chances of ever entering The Pearly Gates revoked, I have an organized and gorgeous closet with shelves! And a place to hang things! And everything is level! And now each time I open that door, I experience spontaneous orgasm!

My porn collection is now complete. That picture I have of Marc cleaning the toilet? Nothing compared to how hot this closet gets me. And yes, I'll be refilling my OCD medication later this week.

Work it out, people

Gas prices are wreaking havoc on my social life. I realized this weekend that I've been basing my activities on whether or not they merit the cost of fuel.

"You know, between the cost of gas and the time it takes to get up there and back, I think I'll just sit at home and do my nails rather than hang out with my friends. If they came to ME, however..." I've actually SAID this, or some version of it.

This is not good. Clearly, the war needs to end if for no other reason than people are being denied my presence. And I'm becoming a miserly, self-important shrew.

Yeah, don't think I was going to let one of you point that out.

I'm going to head up this task force, bishes

I was driving behind a man this morning who felt that it was appropriate to throw his empty Starbucks cup out of the window, onto the roadside. Now, my opinion about Starbucks aside (HATE IT. Venti? Come ON...it's LARGE), I live in the Bay Area where being environmentally conscious is almost a religion. I’m surprised there isn’t some sort of task force that finds littering nincompoops - such as this gentleman - straps them into a chair, tapes their eyes open and forces them to watch An Inconvenient Truth until they scream for mercy or their eyes bleed or they promise to start recycling..or possibly all three. Then we’d shove them onto an ice floe with a polar bear and place bets on who would come out alive. My money would be on the bear considering the claws and teeth and sheer desperation over his habitat being melted away by the relentless sun (plus the lack of Starbucks and Gossip Girl...and polar bears are cute)…or we could just put them into a compost bin and spin them round and round with the brown matter until they promised to mend their ways.

Sorry, tangent.

How is everyone? Good? Today, I've been in love with my little life. It was the kind of day that was cool enough to walk Kylie up in the mountains midafternoon without the threat of heatstroke setting in...though I did sweat through my top which led to a rather uncomfortable moment at my local coffee shop. The guy behind me in line goes "Jesus, how did you get so sweaty?" I turned to look at him, first in disbelief that he would ask a stranger such a personal question and then secondly because he looked as though he hadn't had a brush with a piece of workout equipment in about 10 years. So before you criticize my healthy glow, maybe think about taking your treadmill out for a date...get reacquainted, like. I just made a "Psh" face at him and turned back around. Then he went "No, really, how did you? It's totally hot."

Seriously? WHY do men always pick up on me when I'm gross, sweaty and in need of a shower? I don't get it. If I'd been really brave, I would have wrapped my leg around him and said, in a breathy voice "You want to see HOT? Meet me in the bathroom in 2 minutes." But I really just wanted my iced latte. LARGE. NOT VENTI.

See how I linked those two stories, there? That's called aptitude, people. It's going to be a good week.

100 and not a wrinkle in sight! Do you botox?

Good morning internet. I'm realizing, as I write this, that this is my 100th entry on this little blog of mine. I shall light a candle on a cupcake later in celebration, and as I blow out the flame, wish for my mothers continued ignorance as to this websites existence. I'm regularly thrown out of the will, people, but I'm in her good graces right now...let's keep it that way.

Normally, I try to infuse these pages with humor in the hopes of giving you a giggle mid way through your work day, but if you'd permit me some navel gazing, I'd appreciate it. Perhaps it's symptomatic of this being my centennial entry...I'm getting old.

I was having a conversation with a friend last week who has been going through some personal trials and battling what appears to be depression. I don't often speak about my own struggles with depression as I was raised in a family where any kind of emotional weakness was verboten. You just walked it off. My friend came from a similar background and I believe finally spoke to me because she felt as though she might drown in her own misery. When I shared with her that I have been in therapy myself, on and off for years, she was simultaneously shocked and comforted, happy to note that the strong exterior I present to the outside world is a thin veneer for someone who sometimes feels as though she is barely holding her shit together.

While I never swung to any particular extreme, my mother used to comment that as a child I had made friends with my sadness and would often withdraw from social settings, not really feeling comfortable anywhere. I chalked it up to German melancholy and went about my business, hiding that there were often days when I felt as though it might be to everyone's benefit if I just stayed in bed and didn't come out into the world.

Of course, this doesn't work once you reach adulthood. I had days where paying a phone bill seemed impossible, keeping up a friendship too big of a task. The beautiful thing, however, being that I was now in charge of my own mental health and so trotted off to a doctor who said "Your head needs some help." And so to therapy I went.

And to therapy I still go. I see no shame in this. I don't feel as though I'm a weaker version of myself for asking for help when I need it. I sometimes think there should be more honesty amongst friends; perhaps if we shared our struggles more openly, we wouldn't feel so alone and as though our complexities were just a bother and something to be hidden from others. If by my bearing my own weaknesses and imperfections, I save someone some anguish, then I am happy to do so.

My friend and I concluded our conversation with her less frightened about seeking out help and without feeling like she was a failure as an adult and a wife. If you're in a place where you're afraid you're drowning in your own sadness, stress, whatever it may be, then know that there are tools to help you get to the other side of it and you shouldn't allow societies notions about therapy or medication keep you from living a better life. I think sometimes, some of us just need a little bit of help pushing whatever boulder we've been given up the proverbial hill. So get it if you need it. And if you don't, support your friends who do.

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.