Found in an old journal...

Sometimes, I allow myself to think about you, and that day. You and I were walking down the street after breakfast - you had just told me about the latest girl you had kicked out of your bed. We stopped, waiting for traffic to pass, and you unexpectedly took my face in your hands and said “But these women? They will never be you.” It was so out of context for both the conversation and my version of you that my vision narrowed for a moment and I felt the blood rush out of my head as you stood, waiting for me to react. The light turned. You backed away and started to cross the street, talking of something else, walking ahead of me while I gathered up my dizzy self. For days I could feel your hands and see the bright flecks of green in your eyes and that one piece of hair that you could never get to lie flat poking out of your part.

I would replay it as I lay in bed next to S, not seeing anything with my open eyes, wondering only what you had meant. I had given up any hope of you years ago and was precariously, cautiously happy with S. And now I felt off balance, even while lying down. Your voice drowned out the sound of his breathing and I fell asleep to the melody of “they will never be you, they will never be you, they will never be you”.

Years later, I woke from a dream, thinking of you and the possibility that moment held had I been brave enough to grasp it and not let you carry the conversation on to something more benign. I thought “I will indulge for only a second…only until S comes back to bed.” Closing my eyes, I could already feel the pressure of your palms against my cheeks, and I sank deeply into what might have been.

Because I care

Dear Driver of the White Mercedes that I inadvertently cut off on 280N last Thursday,

Please accept my deepest apologies for having scared you shitless when I swerved into your lane the other night. I was air drumming to Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again, and there is a part in the middle that requires both hands. While I understand your surprise, was it really necessary to honk AND give me the finger? It would seem that one or the other would have conveyed your displeasure sufficiently.

Best,
Jen

P.S. Stuffed animals in your back window? Really? Super creepy.

Wherein I use the word asshat...which totally needs more airplay.

I came home yesterday and decided that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sounded like a good idea for lunch. Because, pray tell, when ISN’T it? So I made my sandwich and went to plop down on the couch in front of the TV for a wee bit of rest before starting my afternoon activities. And guess what my precious Tivo box had recorded for me? The Victoria’s! Secret! Fashion! Show!

And so I thought to myself “I need new bras...Shall I eat while watching scantily clad women? I think that sounds splendid!” I hit play.

And, OH MY GOD! That bitch, Victoria, TOTALLY ruined my lunch.

Did you know that they found some praying mantis type model things with huge boobs and hair and paraded them around in their unmentionables for an hour? Sweet Jesus! It’s as if those marketing asshats over at CBS were sitting around a table and thinking “WHAT can we air that will make all women hate their thighs and SIMULTANEOUSLY give all men an erection? Anyone? Any ideas? You over there….yes…women?…half naked?...sashaying to music?...making sexy eyes at the camera? GENIUS! We’ll do it…and you get a $100k raise!”

Does anyone else see how unfair this is? Why isn’t there a show, annually, wherein Hugh Jackman, Brad Pitt and George Clooney strut around in their boxers while vacuuming and scrubbing toilets, all while saying witty things and looking into the camera proclaiming “MEN DON’T MIND CELLULITE!” Why isn’t there a women's version of this televised monstrosity? Am I right?

Instead, we get to watch Heidi Klum, who, after three children possesses a stomach that most women will never have post-partum without the help of surgery. She smiles into the camera, winks, and trots off, her tiny, pert, bottom going “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” seemingly immune to the effects of gravity. And then we see someone by the name of Marisa Miller who, while getting ready backstage, bestows this pearl of wisdom: “To calm my nerves before catwalking, I have a donut! Hahahaha!” And then she takes a big chomp out of one. I wanted to throw my sandwich at the TV because you know, YOU KNOW, she has been living on, like, AIR to get that body. And perhaps one shrimp.

(Side bar…she is TOTALLY hot and I covet her boobs. COVET!)

Anyhoo, I spent the better part of an hour cursing the TV, angrily eating my sandwich and hoping that one of the models would trip or fall. Because I'm nice like that. And not at all envious. Let's just say Kylie is getting an extra long walk today and now I can't look at the cookies I made over the weekend without guilt washing over me like a tidal wave and my ass spreading twofold. Fuckers.