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.

Things Overheard at the Bar This Weekend

"I'm way too sober to be this wet."

"If I start screaming balls, balls, BALLS! she knows to back off."

"Tequila shortens one's idea of personal space."

"I'm sorry...I didn't hear a thing you were saying...I was thinking of blow jobs."

"Everything on this menu looks like a one way ticket to Ass Blow Town."

"It's fun, making him scream like a little girl."

We like to keep it klassy, people. And this is just a short list. An amuse-bouche, if you will - I'm keeping the rest private. You know. For blackmail purposes.

Kindness & Consideration

It sometimes worries me how quickly I can be taken in. Per usual, I will blame my mother, the woman who taught all of her children that Kindness & Consideration should be the first thought when dealing with our fellow man. My problem being that I took that to also mean Hurt No One’s Feelings and often get suckered as a result of my inability to say, “No. No, thank you.”

I had wandered into Saks the other day in search of a perfume that I had sniffed on a friend. Since burrowing my face deeply into her neck and inhaling all evening might have resulted in a restraining order and the end of our friendship, I politely asked her for the name instead. See? Kindness & Consideration! They always come into play.

Anyhoo, I was strolling through the perfume section and was suddenly assaulted by a cute, small, gay man wearing a fedora. It should be mentioned that I am helpless in the hands of cute, small, gay men. Putty. I want to put them into my large purse and carry them around all day so that they can tell me how pretty my hair is and how GIRL! your shoes are FIERCE! And then we could shop together and talk about how Vicki’s face is melting on the Real Housewives of Orange County. Simple pleasures, really.

So the cute, small, gay man, who we shall call Daniel, was sparkly and fun and jumped out from behind the counter, scaring the SHIT out of me and cried “HONEY! Where did you get that COAT?!” And, of course, in spite of the coronary I was enduring because of his enthusiasm, I told him about the coat, which was quite amazing. As were my shoes, which were next on his list of compliments. I am susceptible to flattery, it is true.

Daniel started to walk with me as I continued my meandering, whispering about the last woman he had helped who had the most wretched, pathetic, fake Louis Vuitton purse he had ever laid his blue contacts on. He was still reeling from the experience. I resisted the impulse to ask if he needed a damp rag to place across his eyes and a moment to lie down. Finally, realizing that I was, in fact, shopping, he asked, “Honey, can I help you find something?”

I told him about the perfume that I was looking for and he exclaimed, “OH SWEETHEART. You do NOT want to wear THAT. That is for OLD people,” knitting his perfectly waxed brows together. And there is nothing quite as humbling as being told by the cute, gay man, that you are somehow tragically off course in your beauty choices. Alarmed, worried that he might kick me out of Saks for having made such a catastrophic error, I tried to back pedal “Really? I had no idea!” I said, miming surprise. “Is there something else you might suggest?”

“I HAVE JUST THE THING!” he said, pulling my sleeve and leading me over to a display of perfume. “This JUST came in and it is HEAVEN. You MUST smell it!” And before I knew what was happening, he was spritzing me. Caught in a cloud of smell, I coughed as he went into his sales pitch, caressing the perfume bottle in a way I can only describe as faintly erotic. He put so much into the spiel, having obviously practiced what he was saying that I imagined him standing in front of his mirror the night prior, assessing what facial expressions would be most persuasive.

“Daniel,” I said, having pulled myself away from the brink of asphyxiation, “Do you work on commission? I’m only asking because I’ve never heard such a passionate dissertation about perfume.”

“HONEY! HOW DID YOU KNOW? Actually, we only get extra if we sell this stuff. Don’t you LOVE it?” Honestly, I didn’t know as my eyes and nose were burning due to his liberal ministrations. But it didn’t smell BAD. And he was so eager, and so cute. And his fedora had jewel things on it. And he had loved my coat. And I wanted to be Kind. And Considerate. So I said “I’ll take a bottle!” choking, somewhat, as he told me the price. But it was a designer I knew and admired, so really, I was getting something marvelous, and the bottle, having been all but French kissed by Daniel as he was expressing his love of the perfume, was quite pretty. Good things.

I walked out, happy.

What I didn’t take into account was that my body, having a complex and strange chemistry, tends to do things to perfume. Bad things. Within 15 minutes the scent started to resemble something between the grave and a unbathed whore with an undertone of feet. It was dreadful, and I was lacquered in it. And had an expensive bottle of the stuff in my bag with which to further assail my poor nose. I thought, “Well, this will never do,” and wondered if I could return it since the box was, as of yet, unopened.

But then I thought of Daniel and his delight over making his commission, having sold some of the vile stuff. And I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. His fedora would wilt, and I just couldn’t have that on my conscience. It wouldn’t be Kind or Considerate.

So the bottle went to a friend whose chemistry agreed with the perfume’s fabulousness and I’m still without the scent I had gone in there for in the first place. And I’m going to buy it. I don’t care if I DO end up smelling like a granny – I’ll go against the gays on this one. At least I won’t stink of prostitution. I should send my mother the bill.

Harbor

She used to like to sleep that way, with one foot or hand always touching him, bridging the divide of the large bed, grounding her as she drifted between sleeplessness and nightmares. He found it irritating and constantly migrated away to the solace and coolness of his side of the mattress, trying to avoid her hot limbs. He did not understand nights visited by demons, strife, and the heat of her need interrupted his rest. It distressed him.

Then one day, after he had asked her to go, permanently, he realized that the bed was too large, that her presence had soothed him despite her disquiet. And, that though there were a myriad of reasons as to why he should be at peace without her troubled spirit next to him, he could not sleep and would spend most of his nights uneasy, wondering if she had found a safe harbor elsewhere.

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?

I must, I must, I must increase my you-know-what...

There was once a time where I was built like a 2x4. Straight up and down with about as many curves as Hwy 5. I remember shopping with my mother, wanting to buy a pencil skirt and her saying "Well, love, you'd need hips for that to work." Hips. Things I did not have. Nor boobs. I went to college, still possessing a boyish, athletic shape and decided that I would just have to deal with my figure, envious of my girlfriends who filled out jeans and sweaters in ways that I never would. I was the tall, gangly one. My boyfriend called me Runt and I made people laugh - the funny girl with the blond hair. I accepted this about myself.

So it was with some surprise that I realized my body had caught up with my wishes a few years ago. Things Had Been Happening under my unsuspecting nose - one day I tried on a dress and realized that my outline was more hourglass and less column like. Why I was so grossly late to blossom, I do not know. Perhaps Jesus had been buried under a black-log of prayer requests and my hopes had been lost in the shuffle of more important things, say, like, starving children and the imminent threat of WMD's.

However, leave it to my mother to put a damper on celebrating my newly acquired cleavage. I was over for dinner the other day and while eating what she called "the lovely fish stew" (the details of which I will spare you) she said "You know, I've been meaning to tell you something," a phrase which, if you know her, will stop you cold. "You should really be putting your bosoms away" she said, picking a small bone out from between your teeth. "Excuse me?" I choked, trying to swallow down a particularly large piece of fish and potato all at once. "Well, I've noticed that you've grown in certain areas, and while you look lovely, you should probably think of wearing things that are more concealing. You know. For the men." I knew where she was going with this, but since pressing my mother is like a sport to me, I pressed. "How do you mean?" I asked, innocently. "Well, you know. They can't help but look THERE. And when you have BOSOMS then that is all that they will be looking at or thinking about."

To clarify, I am no Pamela Anderson. Her massive rack is like a round house kick and a jab to the baby hole compared to what I'm packing. However, according to my mom, anything that qualifies as a feminine lump ought to be concealed under copious amounts of fabric. I answered my her by saying "But just think, mom, of the power we would have if we could harness that sexual energy!" To which she raised her eyebrows and said "Psh!" a sound that meant, quit being impertinent...and put on a turtleneck.

I washed down the remaining soup with my wine and spent the rest of the evening pulling at the neck line of my sweater in an effort not to offend my mother with my obscene decolletage. I kissed her goodnight and left, thinking on my way home about how funny it is that at nearly 33, my mother still thinks it's her duty to remind me to be Proper and live with Decorum and to not Lead Others Astray. She, it would seem, has more faith in the powers of my rack than I do. And here I am, just thrilled to finally be able to fill out a shirt without the assistance of a padded bra.

Yes. I had a rabbit that I named Darling. Suck it.

Kylie insists on her walks. She is insistent in a way that would make a Jehovah’s Witness banging on your door seem like a melody. There is a lot of pawing, and whining and pacing. You cannot go near your sneakers without her freaking the FUCK out because OH MY GOD she might get to go Elsewhere, which is definitely better than Here, this House that holds her captive.

I’ve determined, through a very scientific poll (consisting of opinions from complete strangers), that she is part Shepherd and part Aussie Cattle dog. She is of dubious pedigree, but those are the two breeds that seem to rise most to the surface. Sweet Moses, if you ever want to have a dog that just sits and wants to be pet and loved on while in front of a crackling fire, do not, DO NOT, acquire an Aussie Cattle or any variation of said dog. They are working dogs, and since I am not planning on acquiring sheep or cattle for her to herd, she needs more exercise than most people can handle. You would think her chores of clearing the dishwasher and vacuuming and peeling grapes for me to eat would wear her out, but NO. She needs an hour long walk EVERY DAY. I’ve tried explaining to her that even God took a day off to rest, but it would appear that Jesus is not, in fact, her homeboy.

We didn’t have REAL pets growing up. There was a passing relationship with two rabbits during the second grade. That era ended with one, Snowy, falling into the pool and drowning and the other, my rabbit Darling, dying, unceremoniously, by the garbage cans. My father put Darling into a lunch baggie and threw him over the fence into a dumpster, which seemed like the right thing to do but put me into paroxysms of grief over not being able to give him a proper burial. I had envisioned a headstone, some touching words and music – in retrospect, I probably felt more cheated out of the dramatics of the funeral than I was upset about Darlings dying. We determined he had suffered from a broken heart, Snowy having taken her final swim only weeks before. We constantly found litters of baby bunnies that Snowy had disemboweled, so we assumed they were lovers. Apparently Snowy didn't want to share Darling with anyone since she kept eating her young. Bitch.

There were also some fish that somehow always ended up being flushed down the toilet, much to my mothers relief. She had raised four children and didn’t see why it was necessary to start all over again with a menagerie of animals that would never be able to pick up their own poop or clean up after themselves. Keenly aware of her workload, I understood her reasoning, but coveted, COVETED, a dog. I got my wish. One that requires more work than I had thought possible out of something that weighs only 45lbs and can't talk back.

I understand her misgivings, now. I think if I had children, in addition to Kylie, I would be an insufferable shrew, wearing a house-coat and curlers and yelling things like “GET YOUR OWN MAC ‘N CHEESE! BE QUIET, MY STORIES ARE ON! SOMEONE BRING MAMA A CIGARETTE!” I would give up based on the amount of Need that was being aimed my direction. But since I just have Kylie, I’m thankful that these daily marches are keeping me in some sort of shape and that I have such a lovely, albeit neurotic, dog to keep me company at all times. Plus, she makes a great martini. That took WEEKS of training.

She’s pawing at me now, her whine reaching a decibel that is beyond irritating, so off we go. There are days when I would welcome the Jehovah’s Witnesses. At least they would let me sit on my ass while they put forth their spiel and would take care of their own poop…though they probably wouldn't be as cute, or have that patch of fur between their ears that smells like heaven. Now THAT would be an awkward comparison test to ask for.

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.

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.

At least she waxes

I just put up that new photo of Kylie and realized that it gives you a clear view up her ass. Why I didn’t notice this before is beyond me…it could have had something to do with not being able to get iPhoto open and then being distracted by a chocolate turkey that I found sitting on the counter that suddenly needed my attention. Because if there is a chocolate turkey, and it is past Thanksgiving, one must attend! And also eat! Which I did, and now I have a tummy ache and a photo that portrays the dog version of a money shot. But will I change it? NO! Because iPhoto is still being cranky and now I must go and search for Tums.

So be patient, and just enjoy the rest of the picture. The pretty trees! The mountains in the background! The big, blue sky! And the knowledge that at the end of this particular hike, we were rewarded with margaritas of such strength, of such mind bending properties that I woke up in the backseat of a strange car with my underwear around my ears and “John 3:16” written in pink lipstick on my forehead. Fa la la la LA!

Anyhoo, I’ll do my best to get a different, less offensive photo up by weeks end so that you don’t have to read my blog with one finger covering my dogs butt. Because that can’t be ergonomically correct or good for your neck. Never say I don’t think of my dear readers first.

UPDATE: You'll note our fair pup is now trotting along the beach, backside safely in the shadows. You're welcome.

This website makes your booty go POW!

I spent the weekend allowing my intestines to recover from the gluttony that was Thanksgiving and losing a Scrabble game to Mike. Online, no less, because I made it my mission not to wear pants this weekend, which would, of course, prevent me from leaving the house. Oh evil waistband! How the turkey I consumed doth protest against your unyielding tightness!

But by Sunday evening, hunger returned and so I went to the fridge, which only offered a yawning abyss of emptiness and a small jar of mustard. Seeking sustenance, I hauled on some pants and left for the market. It was a quick trip – I picked up the necessary items and headed for the register. On my way, I noticed that the new In Style was out with Heidi Klum on the cover. Heidi! With her pretty hair and teeth and German-ness! She says auf widersehen, I say ausgezeichnet!

Anyhoo, I marched on to the check out line only to hear “HEY LADY HEY LADY!” being hollered behind me. I turned to see a small, Chinese man running after me, waving a piece of paper that happened to be a subscription card…you know the kind that fall all over your kitchen floor when you’re opening a new magazine? I hate those things. “YOU DROP THIS!” he said, I think making up for his accent with volume. “Thank you” I said, taking the card and putting it back into the magazine. I smiled and turned to go, but he wasn’t finished.

“YOU HAVE NICE SEAT!” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“NICE SEAT. YOU KNOW, BOTTOM!”
“What?” I was perplexed and also, without thinking, clutched at my ass.
“IT ROUND AND NICE!” at which he turned to the side and made a half circle around his own butt, making the shape of a rear whose largess I hope to never mimic. “IT GO POW!” he continued, pumping his small fist into the air.

I was at a loss. If, in fact, my booty did go pow, I wouldn’t expect an elderly Chinese man to sing its praises in the middle of the dry cereal aisle. But, you know, I’ll take what I can get. “Thanks!” I said. “I guess I’ll keep doing my squats!” He laughed, clearly not understanding what I meant and left.

But now I know what to ask when I’m trying on jeans. It’s not about your butt looking big but if it, indeed, goes POW! How much better will that make pants shopping? Am I right? You’re welcome!