I can't whistle.
It is (one of) my secret shame(s).
My dad can whistle any tune in two part harmony. My mom can do that really loud finger whistle thing that can be heard for three square miles. My brother, who used to be similarly afflicted with a lack of whistling ability actually sat down and TAUGHT himself to whistle and is now on his way to pro status. I can't produce anything except this pathetic, anemic, "mostly just sounds like breathing through a small hole" type sound. It is truly a sad sound to behold. I am convinced it has something to do with my remarkably small, and strongly attached tongue (see, I do have more than one secret shame).
Then came the miracle.
The other day, on my way home from the vet's office, I was waiting in the right hand turn lane for the road that leads to my house and I was attempting to do to the "sexy girl" wolf whistle (Why? I don't know). It was my usual pathetic display until the light turned green, and something truly incredible happened. I could whistle. Strong and clear and exactly the right notes. My lips were curled with perfection. Just the right amount of moisture and dryness. The right amount of pucker. (This sounds a little gross, but it is all true). This magical confluence of whistling talents lasted exactly 90 seconds. Just long enough for me to turn on Hwy 51, wait at another red light, and turn onto Fullwood Ln. And just as quickly as it came... it was gone again. I turned into our neighborhood, and with one last gasp, my whistling prowess died in the wind, and all I was left with was the sad sound of soundless, tuneless, talentless oxygen being forced through my lips. But in those 90 seconds I experienced a thrill unlike any other. I mastered the sexy whistle and quickly moved on to other songs I had always wished I could whistle, like "Happy Birthday", "My Girl" and (inexplicably) "Achy Breaky Heart". It was pure magic.
Of course, since that day, I have been whistling in the car non-stop, trying to recreate those perfect circumstances and rediscover my "sweet spot". All I have achieved is the subsequent chapping and cramping of my lips, and the permanent lodging of "Achy Breaky Heart" in my brain.
Perhaps this year I will ask Santa to bring me the ability to whistle. He still owes me from Christmas 1987 when I asked him to bring me magical powers in a glowling Glenda the Good Witch-type orb that I would somehow absorb inside myself and thus be imbued with said powers. All I got was as sparkly purple scooter and a white tutu with pink rosettes sewn on the skirt, which obviously was not that shabby of a runner up prize, but still.
Happy Holidays kiddos. Give thanks for those you love... and, if you've got it, the ability to whistle whenever the whim strikes you. For that is truly a beautiful thing.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Monday, November 05, 2007
Guilt Tripping
Well, nothing will inspire a girl to blog better than feeling guilty about not blogging.
My dear friend and anglophile Sarah actually had time to leave the blogging community (officially, for job-related reasons) and come back, meanwhile I, who have not officially abandoned the blogosphere at all, haven't posted since before last Christmas. That is just flat out humiliating. Especially when you consider the fact that since last December I managed to get myself engaged, and I have been planning a wedding.... ripe territory just begging to be blogged.
So, here I am. Atoning for my sins and hoping that you will be so kind as to welcome me back. I will try to make it worth your while.
Since I am blogging in earnest to win back your respect as a reader, I might as well air some random thoughts I have been having recently:
Have you noticed how many inanimate objects can TALK to you these days? Before it just used to be creepy dolls (helloooo Teddy Ruxpin), but now, just about everything can talk to you. Having a car that sharpens its tone to inform you that you have made a wrong turn is scary enough, but recently I have noticed that it is more than just my GPS that can be gabby. My blackberry will occasionally outburst from my purse "Give Verbal Command!" It wants me to talk back to it... that is a line I am not willing to cross. I never have. I saw iRobot. I know how this ends. The only exception I have been forced to make is the automated phone systems that actually hear and understand your voice and react accordingly. I recently renewed my health insurance coverage without speaking to a single human. I had a 45 minute conversation with a computer program that was answering my questions flawlessly. I had a solid case of the heebie jeebies for at least two hours afterward, but I'll be damned if it wasn't one of the most efficiently customer service experiences I've ever had. But perhaps even more disturbing than the fact that all these objects and machines can talk and apparently comprehend my voice as well is the fact that they speak with increasingly more human voices. I remember the days of ancient PC programs that would awkwardly stutter out whatever syllables that you typed into it. That was all good, clean, robot fun. But a few months ago, an elevator in Washington D.C. announced to me that I had reached the 12th floor and I swear, hand to heaven, "she" said it like a woman in the mist of romantic ecstasy. "I am imagining things," I told myself as I made my way to the room. A few hours later, I took the same elevator back to the ground floor. "You have reached the L-ahh-bee", she purred. I blushed. The guy beside me giggled. Something about this whole thing is decidedly not okay.
I used to make fun of "crazy cat ladies". I used that hackneyed nickname as a punch line just like everyone else does. But I have recently come to realize that there is a VERY fine line between "Crazy Cat Lady" and.... me. I have two cats. I just had one, but I decided he was lonely so I adopted him a friend. I stalked these two new buddies incessantly, hiding behind doorways with a camera, just waiting for that moment when they would finally curl up on the bed together for a snuggle and I could capture the incredible cuteness on film. And capture it I did. I now have more duo-kitten cuddle photos than I will ever admit to... and I still feel compelled to take more. I have given both of my cats full names. First, middle and last. All of which are imbued with great meaning. Additionally, I have furthered their identities by composing for each of them an entirely unique "Theme Song" which I will sometimes perform whenever I feel that they are doing something (drinking water, batting at a balled up sock) that I think would benefit from a bit of a jaunty soundtrack. I may have also sent emails to other peoples pets and written them from the perspective of one of my cats. They are both good writers. Sawyer is the more sarcastic of the two. Marty is charmingly innocent, but unknowingly wise. SEE LISTEN TO ME!!!! You know that thin, thin, thin line I was talking about between me and Crazy Cat Lady???? I think I crossed it a while back but I have been mentally moving the line in my own mind... justifying my behavior in comparison to what I think is totally unacceptable crazy cat lady behavior. "Well," I think, "At least I don't wear clothes covered in cat hair without realizing it." Days later I discover that a the lampshades on both of my bedside tables have a thin coating of black hairs. The lampshades. That neither cat has ever been near. Do you understand what this means? This means that the hair is IN THE AIR. It is just there. Floating around. I officially hate myself. But not my babies. No. Mr. Sawyer Gobias Meowsky and Mr. Martin Neville Meowsky are totally innocent. Please make sure someone takes care of them when the men in white coats come to take me away to the sad little land where they send all the other Crazy Cat Ladies.
Alright. I have blogged long enough. I now need to go change clothes (preferably into something hair-free) and head out to a meeting. If this blog could talk, it would say "Thank you for reading." (God, please tell me this blog can't talk. I don't think I could handle it.)
My dear friend and anglophile Sarah actually had time to leave the blogging community (officially, for job-related reasons) and come back, meanwhile I, who have not officially abandoned the blogosphere at all, haven't posted since before last Christmas. That is just flat out humiliating. Especially when you consider the fact that since last December I managed to get myself engaged, and I have been planning a wedding.... ripe territory just begging to be blogged.
So, here I am. Atoning for my sins and hoping that you will be so kind as to welcome me back. I will try to make it worth your while.
Since I am blogging in earnest to win back your respect as a reader, I might as well air some random thoughts I have been having recently:
Have you noticed how many inanimate objects can TALK to you these days? Before it just used to be creepy dolls (helloooo Teddy Ruxpin), but now, just about everything can talk to you. Having a car that sharpens its tone to inform you that you have made a wrong turn is scary enough, but recently I have noticed that it is more than just my GPS that can be gabby. My blackberry will occasionally outburst from my purse "Give Verbal Command!" It wants me to talk back to it... that is a line I am not willing to cross. I never have. I saw iRobot. I know how this ends. The only exception I have been forced to make is the automated phone systems that actually hear and understand your voice and react accordingly. I recently renewed my health insurance coverage without speaking to a single human. I had a 45 minute conversation with a computer program that was answering my questions flawlessly. I had a solid case of the heebie jeebies for at least two hours afterward, but I'll be damned if it wasn't one of the most efficiently customer service experiences I've ever had. But perhaps even more disturbing than the fact that all these objects and machines can talk and apparently comprehend my voice as well is the fact that they speak with increasingly more human voices. I remember the days of ancient PC programs that would awkwardly stutter out whatever syllables that you typed into it. That was all good, clean, robot fun. But a few months ago, an elevator in Washington D.C. announced to me that I had reached the 12th floor and I swear, hand to heaven, "she" said it like a woman in the mist of romantic ecstasy. "I am imagining things," I told myself as I made my way to the room. A few hours later, I took the same elevator back to the ground floor. "You have reached the L-ahh-bee", she purred. I blushed. The guy beside me giggled. Something about this whole thing is decidedly not okay.
I used to make fun of "crazy cat ladies". I used that hackneyed nickname as a punch line just like everyone else does. But I have recently come to realize that there is a VERY fine line between "Crazy Cat Lady" and.... me. I have two cats. I just had one, but I decided he was lonely so I adopted him a friend. I stalked these two new buddies incessantly, hiding behind doorways with a camera, just waiting for that moment when they would finally curl up on the bed together for a snuggle and I could capture the incredible cuteness on film. And capture it I did. I now have more duo-kitten cuddle photos than I will ever admit to... and I still feel compelled to take more. I have given both of my cats full names. First, middle and last. All of which are imbued with great meaning. Additionally, I have furthered their identities by composing for each of them an entirely unique "Theme Song" which I will sometimes perform whenever I feel that they are doing something (drinking water, batting at a balled up sock) that I think would benefit from a bit of a jaunty soundtrack. I may have also sent emails to other peoples pets and written them from the perspective of one of my cats. They are both good writers. Sawyer is the more sarcastic of the two. Marty is charmingly innocent, but unknowingly wise. SEE LISTEN TO ME!!!! You know that thin, thin, thin line I was talking about between me and Crazy Cat Lady???? I think I crossed it a while back but I have been mentally moving the line in my own mind... justifying my behavior in comparison to what I think is totally unacceptable crazy cat lady behavior. "Well," I think, "At least I don't wear clothes covered in cat hair without realizing it." Days later I discover that a the lampshades on both of my bedside tables have a thin coating of black hairs. The lampshades. That neither cat has ever been near. Do you understand what this means? This means that the hair is IN THE AIR. It is just there. Floating around. I officially hate myself. But not my babies. No. Mr. Sawyer Gobias Meowsky and Mr. Martin Neville Meowsky are totally innocent. Please make sure someone takes care of them when the men in white coats come to take me away to the sad little land where they send all the other Crazy Cat Ladies.
Alright. I have blogged long enough. I now need to go change clothes (preferably into something hair-free) and head out to a meeting. If this blog could talk, it would say "Thank you for reading." (God, please tell me this blog can't talk. I don't think I could handle it.)
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Maternal Instinct
Well folks, it's official.
I am becoming my mother.
As any CBS family sitcom or Cathy comic strip will tell you, this is a fate that eventually befalls all women. And, like most things in life, it has it's upsides and its downsides. Since my mother will likely read this (she is very supportive of me as a writer), I will start with the not-so-good stuff and work my way up.
Thus, I present to you...
The Downsides
1) I buy lemons for no discernable reason.
Until recently, I only had the desire to buy a lemon about once a year. Usually to have on hand for Coronas, and even then it would sit in the crisper until it got soft and (on rare occasions) fuzzy. Now I find myself gathering up near-bushels of those tart little suckers without so much as an inkling as to what their purpose will be. This is not a habit one randomly aquires, it is something that has to be learned. I learned it from the woman who practically has an entire fridge reserved for "you just never know" citrus fruits.
2) I have found actual uses for the copious amounts of lemons I buy.
About a week ago I sauted fresh green beans with lemon-pepper herbs (which I also bought for no discernible reason) and squeezed a fresh lemon over top of them.
A few days after that I put half a lemon down the disposal to freshen its odor.
Then, I may or may not have filled a hurricane vase with lemons as a kicky centerpiece.
3) My gift wrapping this year has a "theme".
Apparently I have very strong feelings about wrapping paper. This year I find myself utterly devoted to a sort of quasi-DYI theme of simple brown and red paper with sponge painted holly stamps and big, ivory cardstock tags. Now, given I haven't actually executed any of this yet. But today I did spend several hundred dollars at target buying the paper. I also bought bulk floral stems to fashion myself a tree topper. Also, while we are on the subject of inexplicable domesticity, my former hatred of Rachel Ray has morphed into what can only be described as begrudging respect and tentative acceptance. Just let that thought "hang out" for a quick minute.
4) My driving ability is deterorating at a vastly exponetial rate.
Now, I did my fair share of complaning about driving when I lived in LA and in Chicago (see entries below for proof of that bitchery). I truly thought that my behind-the-wheel anxiety was a result of my stressful surroundings. Apprently that was a load of crap. Because here I am, back in Charlotte, North Carolina, where I rarely traverse off of three main roads, I park in my very own driveway in front of my house, and parallel parking is virtually extinct. I should be golden, right? And yet.... no. During the short six months that I have lived here I have managed to dent my hood, scrape paint off my rear bumper, back into my neighbor's SUV and narrowly escaped death pulling out of the school parking lot while my coworker screamed in terror. All of you had better hope that teleport-technolgy is on the front burner for the world's scientists, because by the time I am my mother's age I will be a bonafide public menace.
5) I am a compulsive counter-wiper.
The other day I sprayed and wiped-down my glass-top stove WHILE MY DINNER WAS STILL COOKING. Not only did I burn a paper towel onto the stove surface, I also gave my brown rice a not-so-subtle Lemon-Piney Fresh flavor. I must be stopped.
Now... lets talk about a few of
The Upsides:
1) My house looks amazing for the holidays.
Due to my mothers excellent guidence, my house is a warm, inviting, christmas wonderland filled with tasteful garland, bright red berries, expertly looped ribbons and artfully arranged pine cones. I can't help but smile everytime I walk in the front door. This is what a home is supposed to feel like.
2) I am an expert gift-giver.
This year I have hit my own personal record of gift ideas that are clever, meaningful and creative. I wouldn't even call them gifts. I would dare call them "tone-poems". My gifts have themes and auras. And I have managed to do it all without dipping into my savings account. This deserves a medal. Or a present. I'd prefer a present.
3) I have a scent.
One of my mom's greatest qualities is her smell. Actual strangers have asked her if it would be okay to lean in for a sniff. She is downright addictive. And now, after three and a half years wearing my signature scent ( Happy Heart) I can officially say that i am following in her fragrant footsteps. I can only hope that my spell is nearly half as comforting and enchanting as my mother's.
You all know me... have you noticed any other ways that I am like my mom? Feel free to share.
In the meantime, stop me if I ever try to force feed you without consent. (Just kidding Mommy).
I am becoming my mother.
As any CBS family sitcom or Cathy comic strip will tell you, this is a fate that eventually befalls all women. And, like most things in life, it has it's upsides and its downsides. Since my mother will likely read this (she is very supportive of me as a writer), I will start with the not-so-good stuff and work my way up.
Thus, I present to you...
The Downsides
1) I buy lemons for no discernable reason.
Until recently, I only had the desire to buy a lemon about once a year. Usually to have on hand for Coronas, and even then it would sit in the crisper until it got soft and (on rare occasions) fuzzy. Now I find myself gathering up near-bushels of those tart little suckers without so much as an inkling as to what their purpose will be. This is not a habit one randomly aquires, it is something that has to be learned. I learned it from the woman who practically has an entire fridge reserved for "you just never know" citrus fruits.
2) I have found actual uses for the copious amounts of lemons I buy.
About a week ago I sauted fresh green beans with lemon-pepper herbs (which I also bought for no discernible reason) and squeezed a fresh lemon over top of them.
A few days after that I put half a lemon down the disposal to freshen its odor.
Then, I may or may not have filled a hurricane vase with lemons as a kicky centerpiece.
3) My gift wrapping this year has a "theme".
Apparently I have very strong feelings about wrapping paper. This year I find myself utterly devoted to a sort of quasi-DYI theme of simple brown and red paper with sponge painted holly stamps and big, ivory cardstock tags. Now, given I haven't actually executed any of this yet. But today I did spend several hundred dollars at target buying the paper. I also bought bulk floral stems to fashion myself a tree topper. Also, while we are on the subject of inexplicable domesticity, my former hatred of Rachel Ray has morphed into what can only be described as begrudging respect and tentative acceptance. Just let that thought "hang out" for a quick minute.
4) My driving ability is deterorating at a vastly exponetial rate.
Now, I did my fair share of complaning about driving when I lived in LA and in Chicago (see entries below for proof of that bitchery). I truly thought that my behind-the-wheel anxiety was a result of my stressful surroundings. Apprently that was a load of crap. Because here I am, back in Charlotte, North Carolina, where I rarely traverse off of three main roads, I park in my very own driveway in front of my house, and parallel parking is virtually extinct. I should be golden, right? And yet.... no. During the short six months that I have lived here I have managed to dent my hood, scrape paint off my rear bumper, back into my neighbor's SUV and narrowly escaped death pulling out of the school parking lot while my coworker screamed in terror. All of you had better hope that teleport-technolgy is on the front burner for the world's scientists, because by the time I am my mother's age I will be a bonafide public menace.
5) I am a compulsive counter-wiper.
The other day I sprayed and wiped-down my glass-top stove WHILE MY DINNER WAS STILL COOKING. Not only did I burn a paper towel onto the stove surface, I also gave my brown rice a not-so-subtle Lemon-Piney Fresh flavor. I must be stopped.
Now... lets talk about a few of
The Upsides:
1) My house looks amazing for the holidays.
Due to my mothers excellent guidence, my house is a warm, inviting, christmas wonderland filled with tasteful garland, bright red berries, expertly looped ribbons and artfully arranged pine cones. I can't help but smile everytime I walk in the front door. This is what a home is supposed to feel like.
2) I am an expert gift-giver.
This year I have hit my own personal record of gift ideas that are clever, meaningful and creative. I wouldn't even call them gifts. I would dare call them "tone-poems". My gifts have themes and auras. And I have managed to do it all without dipping into my savings account. This deserves a medal. Or a present. I'd prefer a present.
3) I have a scent.
One of my mom's greatest qualities is her smell. Actual strangers have asked her if it would be okay to lean in for a sniff. She is downright addictive. And now, after three and a half years wearing my signature scent ( Happy Heart) I can officially say that i am following in her fragrant footsteps. I can only hope that my spell is nearly half as comforting and enchanting as my mother's.
You all know me... have you noticed any other ways that I am like my mom? Feel free to share.
In the meantime, stop me if I ever try to force feed you without consent. (Just kidding Mommy).
Friday, June 16, 2006
Chicago: A Retrospective
Well Chicago. ‘Twas fun while it lasted.
But if you’ll excuse me, the land of sweet tea and salty (not sweet) cornbread is calling me home. At least for now.
Here are a few final thoughts on things I will miss about this Midwestern Metropolis:
1) Our perfect apartment. Original Victorian walls and crown moldings. A huge kitchen. Hard wood floors. All for under $1200 a month.
2) Filter’s sweet potato fries. Seriously. How did I ever exist without them? I wonder if I can make them myself. It wouldn’t be the same. Like trying to make Frosty’s yourself, right Mr. Deeds?
3) The shopping. It has been ages since I actually shopped in a mall. Yes, the mall offers a degree of convienence that neighborhood boutique style shopping does not… but where is the charm I ask you? Where is the character? Where is the money I need to do any of this shopping? Where is THAT I ask you? No, seriously. Where am I going to get money. I just left a full time job. Oh god. What have I done.
4) Time Out. I will miss you. Working for Time Out fulfilled a dream I have had since I was 14 years old. I know! How cute is that! Why am I leaving again?
5) Oh right. The buses. The trains. The stink. The dirt. The angry old women and the loud screaming babies. Bring on the “rush hour” of Charlotte traffic and the wide expanses of easy to maneuver parking lots in front of every store and establishment. God help me if I never have to parallel park again.
6) The weather. Good riddance. Stupid big puffy coat. Stupid boots. Hmm actually I kinda liked the boots. And scarves, I like scarves. But you, coat that I had to actually depress the air out of in order to zip it up, you are stupid and you can stay in the closet for many winters to come.
7) How did this become a list of things I won’t miss? Let me try to get back on track: The plethora of culture. Yes, truth be known I never actually went to any art museums or movies in the park or concerts while I lived here. But I did drive by them. And heard about them on the news each morning. And just knowing that such culture is just outside your door makes you feel… superior somehow. Guess I am back to being a rube.
8) Oh sweet jesus the Sweet Potato Fries.
9) The Whole Foods, because where I am moving, there isn’t one. WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM CHARLOTTE? Winston salem managed it, why can’t you?
10) The Parks. I had big plans to get a dog and take him to the park for walks and to play fetch with a Frisbee and lay in the grass and read and have picnics. Instead I got a cat and Tivo and never left the apartment again, but I had BIG PLANS that surely I would have made good on eventually. If there was nothing on TV.
And here is a list of things I learned while I lived in Chicago:
1) I am actually not as tolerant of others as I thought. See also: screaming women, whiny babies, smelly people, rowdy school children – all listed under Chicago Transit Authority. Turns out, I have a rather short attention span for smelly, loud, annoying people. Thus, I sweetly persuaded my kind boyfriend to drive me to the train each morning to avoid waiting for the bus. Lesson number two: a well timed cutesy baby voice with the added ammunition of an adorable pouty mouth works wonders.
2) (Although technically this is lesson number three) Tivo. Is. God’s. Gift. To. Well, Me. I adore it. I worship it. I am breaking at least three commandments as a result of my relationship with Tivo. God how did I live with out it. God’s name in vain. That’s four.
3) Writers don’t make a lot of money. I guess I knew this lesson was coming, but still. It ain’t pretty. I mean, I still think that teachers and social workers and the like deserve more money than they make… but couldn’t capitalism throw a little bit more our way? We give you shit to read on the train on the way to your jobs in the big banks downtown. Isn’t that worth anything to you? No? Oh, well. Okay then.
4) I can withstand inhumane conditions. Namely, I did not cease to exist when we didn’t have heat for a week in our apartment during the coldest week of the year. Aren’t you proud? I didn’t even really complain that much. I just wore long underwear and bought an electric blanket. I am a freaking SURVIVOR. A fighter I tell you.
5) I am a god awful terrible driver and I don’t miss it a bit. I have driven a car maybe twice in 7 months and I couldn’t be happier about it (aside from the residual effect of the CTA. See Lesson #1).…. And, if I must be honest, the people of Chicago are safer on the streets as a result. There is no sense in denying it. Look out Charlotte. I’m coming back. Lucky for you, Charlotteans, the Queen City doesn’t require much in the way of parallel parking. I am crap at it.
6) I have totally outgrown college life. Although some might argue that I was never really a part of it. Maybe for a few months somewhere in between sophomore and junior year. But , I am officially over it. I went to an “Art Fair” last weekend which turned out to be nothing more than an overblown frat party. Complete with red Solo cups and– I shit you not– a Dave Matthews cover band. Standing there, choking on the smoke that was (of course) wafting from some dude wearing rainbows and a popped collar, unconsciously singing along… “Celebrate we will, ‘cause life is short but sweet for certain,” it hit me… I wanted to go home. I wanted to go home, salvage my clean hair before it wreaked of Marlboros, and watch a movie. Perhaps watch a movie in bed. I am old. F&*# it . Who cares. I’m old, I don’t want to party and I don’t care. God bless America, Good Night.
That's probably the last you'll hear from me until I move back to the lovely Carolinas!
I assure you, plenty of introspective rants based on how different I feel now versus when I was in high school will surely follow.
Tata, love ya, kisses,
Jenn
But if you’ll excuse me, the land of sweet tea and salty (not sweet) cornbread is calling me home. At least for now.
Here are a few final thoughts on things I will miss about this Midwestern Metropolis:
1) Our perfect apartment. Original Victorian walls and crown moldings. A huge kitchen. Hard wood floors. All for under $1200 a month.
2) Filter’s sweet potato fries. Seriously. How did I ever exist without them? I wonder if I can make them myself. It wouldn’t be the same. Like trying to make Frosty’s yourself, right Mr. Deeds?
3) The shopping. It has been ages since I actually shopped in a mall. Yes, the mall offers a degree of convienence that neighborhood boutique style shopping does not… but where is the charm I ask you? Where is the character? Where is the money I need to do any of this shopping? Where is THAT I ask you? No, seriously. Where am I going to get money. I just left a full time job. Oh god. What have I done.
4) Time Out. I will miss you. Working for Time Out fulfilled a dream I have had since I was 14 years old. I know! How cute is that! Why am I leaving again?
5) Oh right. The buses. The trains. The stink. The dirt. The angry old women and the loud screaming babies. Bring on the “rush hour” of Charlotte traffic and the wide expanses of easy to maneuver parking lots in front of every store and establishment. God help me if I never have to parallel park again.
6) The weather. Good riddance. Stupid big puffy coat. Stupid boots. Hmm actually I kinda liked the boots. And scarves, I like scarves. But you, coat that I had to actually depress the air out of in order to zip it up, you are stupid and you can stay in the closet for many winters to come.
7) How did this become a list of things I won’t miss? Let me try to get back on track: The plethora of culture. Yes, truth be known I never actually went to any art museums or movies in the park or concerts while I lived here. But I did drive by them. And heard about them on the news each morning. And just knowing that such culture is just outside your door makes you feel… superior somehow. Guess I am back to being a rube.
8) Oh sweet jesus the Sweet Potato Fries.
9) The Whole Foods, because where I am moving, there isn’t one. WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM CHARLOTTE? Winston salem managed it, why can’t you?
10) The Parks. I had big plans to get a dog and take him to the park for walks and to play fetch with a Frisbee and lay in the grass and read and have picnics. Instead I got a cat and Tivo and never left the apartment again, but I had BIG PLANS that surely I would have made good on eventually. If there was nothing on TV.
And here is a list of things I learned while I lived in Chicago:
1) I am actually not as tolerant of others as I thought. See also: screaming women, whiny babies, smelly people, rowdy school children – all listed under Chicago Transit Authority. Turns out, I have a rather short attention span for smelly, loud, annoying people. Thus, I sweetly persuaded my kind boyfriend to drive me to the train each morning to avoid waiting for the bus. Lesson number two: a well timed cutesy baby voice with the added ammunition of an adorable pouty mouth works wonders.
2) (Although technically this is lesson number three) Tivo. Is. God’s. Gift. To. Well, Me. I adore it. I worship it. I am breaking at least three commandments as a result of my relationship with Tivo. God how did I live with out it. God’s name in vain. That’s four.
3) Writers don’t make a lot of money. I guess I knew this lesson was coming, but still. It ain’t pretty. I mean, I still think that teachers and social workers and the like deserve more money than they make… but couldn’t capitalism throw a little bit more our way? We give you shit to read on the train on the way to your jobs in the big banks downtown. Isn’t that worth anything to you? No? Oh, well. Okay then.
4) I can withstand inhumane conditions. Namely, I did not cease to exist when we didn’t have heat for a week in our apartment during the coldest week of the year. Aren’t you proud? I didn’t even really complain that much. I just wore long underwear and bought an electric blanket. I am a freaking SURVIVOR. A fighter I tell you.
5) I am a god awful terrible driver and I don’t miss it a bit. I have driven a car maybe twice in 7 months and I couldn’t be happier about it (aside from the residual effect of the CTA. See Lesson #1).…. And, if I must be honest, the people of Chicago are safer on the streets as a result. There is no sense in denying it. Look out Charlotte. I’m coming back. Lucky for you, Charlotteans, the Queen City doesn’t require much in the way of parallel parking. I am crap at it.
6) I have totally outgrown college life. Although some might argue that I was never really a part of it. Maybe for a few months somewhere in between sophomore and junior year. But , I am officially over it. I went to an “Art Fair” last weekend which turned out to be nothing more than an overblown frat party. Complete with red Solo cups and– I shit you not– a Dave Matthews cover band. Standing there, choking on the smoke that was (of course) wafting from some dude wearing rainbows and a popped collar, unconsciously singing along… “Celebrate we will, ‘cause life is short but sweet for certain,” it hit me… I wanted to go home. I wanted to go home, salvage my clean hair before it wreaked of Marlboros, and watch a movie. Perhaps watch a movie in bed. I am old. F&*# it . Who cares. I’m old, I don’t want to party and I don’t care. God bless America, Good Night.
That's probably the last you'll hear from me until I move back to the lovely Carolinas!
I assure you, plenty of introspective rants based on how different I feel now versus when I was in high school will surely follow.
Tata, love ya, kisses,
Jenn
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
For the love of Lee Norris!!
I just have to brag on my good friend Lee here a bit. Kristin the TV writer for E! online just did this interview with the creator of One Tree Hill, and she didn't ask about any of the other characters specifically EXCEPT for the adorable Mouth McFadden. Read below to see the heaping of adoration.
K: I have to ask on behalf of the fans, when is Mouth going to get some lovin’?
M: You know, Mouth is going to be well taken care of next season.
K: So Mouth should really want the show to come back!
M: Yes! As a matter of fact, Lee knows a couple of the things I want to do with Mouth next year. Actually, I just hung up the phone with Lee, who plays Mouth, to talk to you, and he said nobody wants the show to come back more than he does! You know what’s great about that is, early on, the network wasn’t quite sure what to make of that character. You know, he wasn’t a kid on the poster and so they wondered why I spent so much time writing for that character, and one time we were on a call with the network and one of the executives said ‘We don’t understand why you’re writing for Mouth!’ and I put the phone on mute and I looked at my partner, Joe Davola, and I said ‘They don’t get it. Mouth is me.’ Like, they don’t understand that that’s who I was in school! And so Mouth gets all these great adventures, because it’s stuff that I’m like ‘What would I want to do next?’! But what’s very cool about it is, I told them at the time that he is going to be a beloved character, because he is more the every man, and there aren’t a lot of boys watching our show, but the ones that are watching are probably closer to Mouth, and it’s sort of wish fulfillment [for them]. So what has been really wonderful is that Lee Norris is a regular now and he has been accepted as a regular, and he is beloved. When we did the mall tours, there was just as much reaction to him as any other regulars on the show, if not more. I’ve been a little protective of him, but in season four, he’ll get to stretch as much as any other character on the show if not more so.
K: I have to ask on behalf of the fans, when is Mouth going to get some lovin’?
M: You know, Mouth is going to be well taken care of next season.
K: So Mouth should really want the show to come back!
M: Yes! As a matter of fact, Lee knows a couple of the things I want to do with Mouth next year. Actually, I just hung up the phone with Lee, who plays Mouth, to talk to you, and he said nobody wants the show to come back more than he does! You know what’s great about that is, early on, the network wasn’t quite sure what to make of that character. You know, he wasn’t a kid on the poster and so they wondered why I spent so much time writing for that character, and one time we were on a call with the network and one of the executives said ‘We don’t understand why you’re writing for Mouth!’ and I put the phone on mute and I looked at my partner, Joe Davola, and I said ‘They don’t get it. Mouth is me.’ Like, they don’t understand that that’s who I was in school! And so Mouth gets all these great adventures, because it’s stuff that I’m like ‘What would I want to do next?’! But what’s very cool about it is, I told them at the time that he is going to be a beloved character, because he is more the every man, and there aren’t a lot of boys watching our show, but the ones that are watching are probably closer to Mouth, and it’s sort of wish fulfillment [for them]. So what has been really wonderful is that Lee Norris is a regular now and he has been accepted as a regular, and he is beloved. When we did the mall tours, there was just as much reaction to him as any other regulars on the show, if not more. I’ve been a little protective of him, but in season four, he’ll get to stretch as much as any other character on the show if not more so.
Friday, April 28, 2006
mmmmm bop
Today, for some ungodly reason, my dear friend Joel who sits one cube over decided to rip the cellophane off of his newly recieved HANSON-LIVE album and play it for the whole office to hear. I am now having 7th grade flashbacks of the day that Mary Margaret Williford and I sat in Health class talking about the middle Hanson brother (he was the hottest) and how there was a rumor that they were moving to Charlotte and thinking of going to our school (this was totally false of course, but it caused so much pandemonium among the under 15 crowd that finally Hanson called into the local top-40 station to put the rumor to rest. It was a sad sad moment in all our lives.). I also remember that was the year that self tanner hit the market, and all of us were slightly streaky with visible splotches on our hand and around our ankles and knees. Hotness.
Anyway, here is a quick game of catch-up: I am moving back to Charlotte. My Midwestern boy-toy Joe has been hired to teach 7th grade U.S. History and Upper school Psychology and AP Psychology at Providence Day. But most importantly I have been asked to take a free trip to Belize to stay at a five-star resort and write about my experience. Try to detect the lie in the above sentences. Go ahead, try.
You totally thought it was the Belize thing right? But it isn’t. Actually there isn’t any lies up there. I guess calling Joe my “boy-toy” is kind of a lie since I would never normally use that label and I have no idea what possessed me to do so here. But that isn’t so much of a lie as it is a terribly un-classy choice of words. So I guess me asking you look for a lie turned out to be a lie. Not as fun for you though, I’m sure. But I don’t care what is fun for you. I am going to Belize, dammit.
Yes, five days and four nights at The Inn at Roberts Grove in Belize. Free airfare, free accommodations, free food, free excursions, even a free night on a private island. Best of all, I am getting paid to write about it. I have no idea how this happened. I am expecting somebody to jump out and tell me that because I am signed up to go on this trip now I have to buy a time share, or give them my first born child. Don’t get me wrong, I’d probably do it. Free trips to Belize don’t come along every day. Children are a dime a dozen, right?
Ok, let me take a moment to quell my overzealous wanderlust and tell you about the other things I mentioned up above. I am moving back to Charlotte. This is an unexpected but not unhappy development, certainly not unhappy if you were to ask my mother– who appears to be planning a ticker tape parade along with a full six weeks of preparing every meal that I have ever said I enjoyed. How did this happen? Well, long story short Joe’s patience with the miscreants of the South Side of Chicago began to wear thin a few months back. Not to say that he doesn’t like the kids. He loves them. He just never sees them. Week after week they fail to show up for their therapy sessions, rendering Joe essentially useless aside from his incredible penchant for developing organized filing systems. Joe wanted out, and he was interested in exploring other careers, like that of a college counselor.
Now, I am not sure how big my readership on this blog really is, so I don’t know what sort of experiences you all might have had with the counseling staff at your high school, but the College Counseling office at Providence Day is legendary. Not only do they get to you when you are still practically in braces, they are with you every single step of the way, reminding you to turn in applications, making phone calls on your behalf, and turning “Two summers working in the Snack Shack at the pool” into a resume entry that sounds worthy of a Nobel Prize. So naturally, I put Joe in touch with the Queen Bee of the PDS counseling hive – Phyllis Gill. She put him in touch with her cohorts in Chicago, one of whom took a serious shining to Joe and told him he should ditch his plans to sink more money into grad school and become a teacher at an independent school instead and then work his way into the counseling office over a series of a few years. Yada yada yada, a few phone calls later Joe was getting an interview at PDS. ‘ It will be good practice” I said, not wanting him to feel pressured to take a job in my hometown, so far away from his family and friends. “Yeah totally” he said, being the good-natured sort that he is. But the closer the interview got, the more the pressure grew. ….. Oh my holy lord. This is the most boring story of all time. Why on earth would you care? If you want to know the whole story, ask me. Geez, I mean are your eyes bleeding? I am so sorry. I can’t believe I just went into that degree of detail catching you up on my life. What is this, Livejournal? Am I 15? I am so sorry. Moving on.
Allow me to share a few left over thoughts I have been chewing on since my most recent tabloid binge:
Brangelina, you bore me. “We don’t talk about our relationship, we just live it.” Yeah right Angie. I am sure that Brad managed to legally adopt your children and hyphenate their last names without so much as a chit chat over a cup of coffee with you. By the way, Brad, was that entirely necessary? You say you didn’t cheat with Jolie, and your immediate post-divorce shack-up was enough for us to stop beliving that bullshit, did you really have to go the extra mile and tack your last name on to those poor children? Couldn’t you just share a room at the Chateau, galavant on the beach and get spotted “ring shopping in Beverly Hills” like a normal Hollywood couple? To encapsulate my feelings on this subject, I would like to pass on a single question to Brangie, TomKat, and the moldy pile of white trash that is Britney and Kevin:
Do what ever the hell you want- you are rich, famous, f&*#ed up, it makes sense. But why, why, WHY GOD WHY do you bring children into the equation?
While our society is still bumfuzzled and backwards over whether or not is unfair to bring a child into a life with two homosexual parents, our idols, our demigods of Hollywood are having children as an equivalent alternative to having their lover’s name tattooed on their ass (or in Angie’s case, probably in addition to). You want to give your flavor of the month a sign of your undying commitment? Buy her/him a goldfish. If you keep the tank clean, those things live for-fucking-ever. Is there a lack of contraception in Los Angeles? I lived there for a while and as far as I can remember, they sold condoms in every drug store, gas station and bar bathroom in the whole damn city. Perhaps Trojan is missing a golden opportunity to become a gift-bag sponsor. Next year at the Oscars just give all the winners a sampler box of the latest thrilling textured condoms and a lifetime prescription to the Nuva Ring. Either that, or the U.S. Government better start allocating a portion of our tax money to giving monetary incentives to people who want to become psychiatrists. Because assuming that America likes to mimic behavior other than the wearing of leggings and cowboy boots from their beloved celebrities, there are going to be generation upon generations of seriously disturbed children mingling amongst us. And yes, Tom Cruise, your kids will go to a psychiatrist, because I have hope that they will grow to realize that the religion you brought them into is the most amazingly horrifying load of horse shit ever spouted from the mouth of man. They will divorce you as a parent and go on to seek the most normal life possible, even if it means moving to Amish country, which compared to the Scientology Celebrity Centre, is the most normal place on earth.
WHEW.
Ok. That’s all I have to say about that.
Anyway, here is a quick game of catch-up: I am moving back to Charlotte. My Midwestern boy-toy Joe has been hired to teach 7th grade U.S. History and Upper school Psychology and AP Psychology at Providence Day. But most importantly I have been asked to take a free trip to Belize to stay at a five-star resort and write about my experience. Try to detect the lie in the above sentences. Go ahead, try.
You totally thought it was the Belize thing right? But it isn’t. Actually there isn’t any lies up there. I guess calling Joe my “boy-toy” is kind of a lie since I would never normally use that label and I have no idea what possessed me to do so here. But that isn’t so much of a lie as it is a terribly un-classy choice of words. So I guess me asking you look for a lie turned out to be a lie. Not as fun for you though, I’m sure. But I don’t care what is fun for you. I am going to Belize, dammit.
Yes, five days and four nights at The Inn at Roberts Grove in Belize. Free airfare, free accommodations, free food, free excursions, even a free night on a private island. Best of all, I am getting paid to write about it. I have no idea how this happened. I am expecting somebody to jump out and tell me that because I am signed up to go on this trip now I have to buy a time share, or give them my first born child. Don’t get me wrong, I’d probably do it. Free trips to Belize don’t come along every day. Children are a dime a dozen, right?
Ok, let me take a moment to quell my overzealous wanderlust and tell you about the other things I mentioned up above. I am moving back to Charlotte. This is an unexpected but not unhappy development, certainly not unhappy if you were to ask my mother– who appears to be planning a ticker tape parade along with a full six weeks of preparing every meal that I have ever said I enjoyed. How did this happen? Well, long story short Joe’s patience with the miscreants of the South Side of Chicago began to wear thin a few months back. Not to say that he doesn’t like the kids. He loves them. He just never sees them. Week after week they fail to show up for their therapy sessions, rendering Joe essentially useless aside from his incredible penchant for developing organized filing systems. Joe wanted out, and he was interested in exploring other careers, like that of a college counselor.
Now, I am not sure how big my readership on this blog really is, so I don’t know what sort of experiences you all might have had with the counseling staff at your high school, but the College Counseling office at Providence Day is legendary. Not only do they get to you when you are still practically in braces, they are with you every single step of the way, reminding you to turn in applications, making phone calls on your behalf, and turning “Two summers working in the Snack Shack at the pool” into a resume entry that sounds worthy of a Nobel Prize. So naturally, I put Joe in touch with the Queen Bee of the PDS counseling hive – Phyllis Gill. She put him in touch with her cohorts in Chicago, one of whom took a serious shining to Joe and told him he should ditch his plans to sink more money into grad school and become a teacher at an independent school instead and then work his way into the counseling office over a series of a few years. Yada yada yada, a few phone calls later Joe was getting an interview at PDS. ‘ It will be good practice” I said, not wanting him to feel pressured to take a job in my hometown, so far away from his family and friends. “Yeah totally” he said, being the good-natured sort that he is. But the closer the interview got, the more the pressure grew. ….. Oh my holy lord. This is the most boring story of all time. Why on earth would you care? If you want to know the whole story, ask me. Geez, I mean are your eyes bleeding? I am so sorry. I can’t believe I just went into that degree of detail catching you up on my life. What is this, Livejournal? Am I 15? I am so sorry. Moving on.
Allow me to share a few left over thoughts I have been chewing on since my most recent tabloid binge:
Brangelina, you bore me. “We don’t talk about our relationship, we just live it.” Yeah right Angie. I am sure that Brad managed to legally adopt your children and hyphenate their last names without so much as a chit chat over a cup of coffee with you. By the way, Brad, was that entirely necessary? You say you didn’t cheat with Jolie, and your immediate post-divorce shack-up was enough for us to stop beliving that bullshit, did you really have to go the extra mile and tack your last name on to those poor children? Couldn’t you just share a room at the Chateau, galavant on the beach and get spotted “ring shopping in Beverly Hills” like a normal Hollywood couple? To encapsulate my feelings on this subject, I would like to pass on a single question to Brangie, TomKat, and the moldy pile of white trash that is Britney and Kevin:
Do what ever the hell you want- you are rich, famous, f&*#ed up, it makes sense. But why, why, WHY GOD WHY do you bring children into the equation?
While our society is still bumfuzzled and backwards over whether or not is unfair to bring a child into a life with two homosexual parents, our idols, our demigods of Hollywood are having children as an equivalent alternative to having their lover’s name tattooed on their ass (or in Angie’s case, probably in addition to). You want to give your flavor of the month a sign of your undying commitment? Buy her/him a goldfish. If you keep the tank clean, those things live for-fucking-ever. Is there a lack of contraception in Los Angeles? I lived there for a while and as far as I can remember, they sold condoms in every drug store, gas station and bar bathroom in the whole damn city. Perhaps Trojan is missing a golden opportunity to become a gift-bag sponsor. Next year at the Oscars just give all the winners a sampler box of the latest thrilling textured condoms and a lifetime prescription to the Nuva Ring. Either that, or the U.S. Government better start allocating a portion of our tax money to giving monetary incentives to people who want to become psychiatrists. Because assuming that America likes to mimic behavior other than the wearing of leggings and cowboy boots from their beloved celebrities, there are going to be generation upon generations of seriously disturbed children mingling amongst us. And yes, Tom Cruise, your kids will go to a psychiatrist, because I have hope that they will grow to realize that the religion you brought them into is the most amazingly horrifying load of horse shit ever spouted from the mouth of man. They will divorce you as a parent and go on to seek the most normal life possible, even if it means moving to Amish country, which compared to the Scientology Celebrity Centre, is the most normal place on earth.
WHEW.
Ok. That’s all I have to say about that.
Friday, February 17, 2006
A lot of guys get a bad rap for being total clueless idiots when it comes to romance. But it's really not their fault. Really, it's not. How can they be expected to avoid the pitfalls of tacky romantic cliché when everywhere they look (TV, internet, magazines) they are being fed shitty ideas.
Like for example the persistence of the heart-shaped diamond pendant.
This style necklace has been out of style for at least 12 years. In fact, I am not even entirely sure it was ever in style. I know I had a fake one that I wore in the 3rd grade, but I usually wore it with a hot pink and teal wind-suit, so my taste may not have been so au currant. But lord knows they are out of style now. And yet, every jeweler on the planet had a commercial hawking their fine selection of heart-shaped diamond pendants as the perfect gift for your Valentine. Unless your Valentine lives in a trailer park or has been in a coma since 1984, this is an ill advised purchase. But how would you, the man, know that! You couldn't! Just like you couldn't know that buying a Vermont teddy bear and having it sent to your beloved's office with a sappy message strapped to his chest is more likely to get you dumped than laid. It's not your fault. The media has brainwashed you. And now that Valentines day is over, they are finding new, even more diabolical ways to infiltrate your brain and fill it with the most repugnant suggestions. Don't believe me? Check out the list of "Best ways for a man to pop the question" as provided by MSN.com:
Convince the local theater to spell out your proposal on their marquee. Phrase it like a film title: "The Love of a Lifetime, starring (insert names here)."
[Even if you were both drama majors and met while performing in a play, those words on a marquee will make the girl vomit.]
Create a Web page declaring your love and intentions. Leave your sweetie a clue with the Web address written on it -- don't say a word. After the proposal has been officially accepted (which of course it will be!), she can proudly send the page to friends and family.
[Yes, this is the technological age. But dear god. You simply cannot have any http's or .coms associated with your proposal]
Give your girlfriend a foot massage and place the ring on her little toe.
[No. No we do not involve feet. Feet and engagement rings need to be kept separate. End of story]
Want to really surprise your sweetheart? Cut out the bottom of a big box, wrap it with pretty paper and ribbon, and attach a card that says, "What's inside the box is a gift to last a lifetime." "Deliver" yourself to his or her office or front door.
[This has that classic "Oh didn't I see that on an episode of Full House" feel to it. Best to steer clear of anything that gives off a Danny Tanner vibe]
Is she a deep sleeper? Slip the ring on her finger while she's dozing and wake her with champagne and strawberries. The gesture will just seem romantic -- until she discovers a new piece of jewelry adorns her.
[This is just fucking creepy.]
Surprise her with an intricate gift basket. Pile in yummy delicacies -- the best chocolate, caviar, coffee -- but don't limit yourself to food. You could also include silk slippers, a book or CD. Hide the ring among all these wonderful presents (in its box, so it doesn't get lost in the goodies).
[ A GIFT BASKET? This is the love of your life, not the old lady next door who watched your dog and watered your plants for a week. Do you really want your fiance's last thought before you propose to be "Oooo Peppridge Farm Trail Mix." ?]
Spell your proposal out in glow-in-the-dark star stickers on your ceiling. Get into bed, turn the lights off, and wait for the inevitable gasp.
[This sounds like what Tom Hanks in Big might have done if he had stuck around as a big boy and not gone back to his child-like form. In other words, this is only ok if you sleep in a bunk bed. And if you sleep in a bunk bed, she should have dumped your ass months ago.]
Write "Will You Marry Me?" on the underside of a kite and take flight one warm, breezy afternoon.
[ Honestly, when was the last time you flew a kite. It's not that easy, dude. Don’t embarrass yourself like this. Also, don't you think she might find it a bit odd that a grown man has bought a kite and wants to go fly it? My first thought is "Oh god you have brain cancer don't you."]
Spell out your proposal with refrigerator magnets.
[This is the laziest proposal idea ever. What you were on your way to get a sandwhich and just decided that this was a good time? So you disassembled the dirty phrase you had concocted three nights ago when you were drunk so that you can get the "you" magnet and you can't find "me" magnet so you stop at "Will you marry" and then hope she will get the gist while she is grabbing for some Light Ranch?]
Take her to the local Fourth of July fireworks show, and have someone announce your proposal before your whole town.
[On the next episode of Gilmore Girls.]
Write your proposal in sunscreen on your stomach, so that your tan will "stencil in" the words. She will be so touched you've taken such an, um, interesting approach, she will accept immediately.
[Or she will "take a walk" down the beach so she can call her friend to come pick her up and get her away from your weird ass.]
Tongue-tied? Hire a plane to fly a banner with your "Marry me (insert name here)" message written on it. Take her to a wide-open space -- a beach, park, or stadium -- and simply point. When your sweetie notices what the pilot is doing, tell her that your love was heaven sent.
[Simply point? Not even a grunt? Me. Want. Marry. You. Also, if you use that "heaven sent" line… Well, you better be rehearsing for a role in a bad teen romantic comedy. And even then, you could do better.]
Propose in a different language, or lots of different languages -- starting with French, the language of love. [What? Seriously. Are you fucking kidding me.]
Buy a baby animal that she has always wanted (bunny, kitten, puppy) and loosely tie the ring around its neck. Make a commitment to the pet and each other. [Um… not gonna lie. I kinda like this one. Who can say no to a puppy?]
Thursday, December 22, 2005
These are a few of my favorite things.....
Best of 2005
Ok Go "A million ways video" www.okgo.net
Dream cream www.lush.com
Since u been gone www.itunes.com
Grey's Anatomy www.abc.com
Batman Begins www.bestbuy.com
Queen Bee wallets www.buyolympia.com
Coke zero www.coke.com
Sarah Crosland's single status and hilarious blogging sarahsthoughtsonline.blogspot.com
Time Out Chicago www.timeoutchicago.com
Where does the good go (Tegan and Sara) www.itunes.com
Hide and Seek (Imogen Heap) www.itunes.com
The Colbert Report www.comedycentral.com
Sawyer Gobias Meowsky www.anticrueltysociety.com
Innuendo's sophomore album "Second Base" (coming soon) groups.wfu.edu/innuendo
Ok Go "A million ways video" www.okgo.net
Dream cream www.lush.com
Since u been gone www.itunes.com
Grey's Anatomy www.abc.com
Batman Begins www.bestbuy.com
Queen Bee wallets www.buyolympia.com
Coke zero www.coke.com
Sarah Crosland's single status and hilarious blogging sarahsthoughtsonline.blogspot.com
Time Out Chicago www.timeoutchicago.com
Where does the good go (Tegan and Sara) www.itunes.com
Hide and Seek (Imogen Heap) www.itunes.com
The Colbert Report www.comedycentral.com
Sawyer Gobias Meowsky www.anticrueltysociety.com
Innuendo's sophomore album "Second Base" (coming soon) groups.wfu.edu/innuendo
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Great Scott!
Here is a small tidbit from this morning's entertainment news cycle:
Michael J. Fox is heading Back To The Future for a fourth time-traveling movie. The actor, who suffers from Parkinson's disease, admits he's in negotiations for a final film in the series - but only if they make his character as old as he is in real life. The former Spin City star wants to take over Christopher Lloyd's eccentric scientist character, Doc, in the sequel. He tells movie website Moviehole.net, "The only way it would work would be if I played Doc. I'm 44-years-old now and I'm not interested in running around on skateboards! I think after 1, 2 and 3 we all kind of felt we had done it. And I think if they did it again now they would do it with a younger cast and just do a different realisation of it, which would be fun."
Woah. This is heavy.
Is this news:
a)The answer to 12 years of my girlish prayers
b)The most awful idea ever to be inflicted upon man kind.
I haven't decided yet.
Michael J. Fox is heading Back To The Future for a fourth time-traveling movie. The actor, who suffers from Parkinson's disease, admits he's in negotiations for a final film in the series - but only if they make his character as old as he is in real life. The former Spin City star wants to take over Christopher Lloyd's eccentric scientist character, Doc, in the sequel. He tells movie website Moviehole.net, "The only way it would work would be if I played Doc. I'm 44-years-old now and I'm not interested in running around on skateboards! I think after 1, 2 and 3 we all kind of felt we had done it. And I think if they did it again now they would do it with a younger cast and just do a different realisation of it, which would be fun."
Woah. This is heavy.
Is this news:
a)The answer to 12 years of my girlish prayers
b)The most awful idea ever to be inflicted upon man kind.
I haven't decided yet.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Click my heels three times
Sorry I have been slouching in the update department. I have been spending all of my extra mental energy day dreaming about one thing... home. Home sweet lovely home. I have never wanted to go home so much in my life. Except maybe the time that I went away to church camp for 10 days because some of my friends and the boy I had a crush on (Daniel McCullough for those of you who are keeping track) were going. At the 27th chapel service, the girl beside me broke out in hysterical tears and threw herself on the ground asking to be taken up by God's mercy. I think maybe right then, at that moment, I wanted to go home more than I do right now. But other than that, right now takes the cake. The beautiful white sparkly snow that I waxed poetic about last week has become a pile of grimy slush that stands between me and the bus every morning, leaving me no choice but to curse like a sailor and watch as my leg sinks in up to my knee. The cold blustery weather that seemed so crisp and festive is now bitter and vindictive, as it blows harshly into my eyes like an evil glacouma tester, causing them to leak, thus washing off my concealer and my eye liner, which means that by the time I make it to the office in the morning I have soggy feet, a blurry blotched face and a sour disposition. Only one thing can fix this. I need my mommy.
Of course, when I am stuck in my office counting the minutes until my American Eagle pudddle jumper takes off on Thursday Dec 22nd, I start to remember what it was like way way way back (last year) when I was still in school:
Last Year: I would have been home already.
This Year: 10 more days of suffering.
Last Year: I could stuff my laundry in the car and take it home with me.
This Year: It is f-ing time to get quarters again because I need to do laundry before I can pack.
Last Year: One Month of Beautiful Time Off.
This Year: Almost One Week of Time Off.
But then again...
Last Year: I suffered through a few exams.
This Year: I suffered through a few weeks of LOST repeats.
Last Year: I pulled an all nighter to finish a thesis on youth voter participation.
This Year: I spent a full 20 minutes writing about the rising trend of skinny jeans and the possible perils of camel toe.
Which is better, I leave you to judge that.
Now if you will excuse me, I need to come up with 70 words about super-long scarves: are they the new pashmina?
Of course, when I am stuck in my office counting the minutes until my American Eagle pudddle jumper takes off on Thursday Dec 22nd, I start to remember what it was like way way way back (last year) when I was still in school:
Last Year: I would have been home already.
This Year: 10 more days of suffering.
Last Year: I could stuff my laundry in the car and take it home with me.
This Year: It is f-ing time to get quarters again because I need to do laundry before I can pack.
Last Year: One Month of Beautiful Time Off.
This Year: Almost One Week of Time Off.
But then again...
Last Year: I suffered through a few exams.
This Year: I suffered through a few weeks of LOST repeats.
Last Year: I pulled an all nighter to finish a thesis on youth voter participation.
This Year: I spent a full 20 minutes writing about the rising trend of skinny jeans and the possible perils of camel toe.
Which is better, I leave you to judge that.
Now if you will excuse me, I need to come up with 70 words about super-long scarves: are they the new pashmina?
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
How rich can one person really be?
Ok, lets be honest, in my line of work you become a little jaded when it comes to ye ol price tag. Yes, everything in my closet is of the chain store variety (Banana Republic Sale Rack? H&M knock offs? Music to my ears), but oddly I don't even twitch an eyelash when I haul a $350 sparkly bolero jacket and a $500 pair of boots up to the counter of a snotty boutique and hand over my card. No, I am not a terrible coniving daddy's girl who is racking up millions of dollars and sky miles on her fathers credit card. I am handing over my business card. And with that, I walk out of the store with arms full of pricey designer merchandise.
Wait, before you start to hate me let me add that I have to bring back all that pricey designer merchandise a few days later and all I am left with is a byline and a loss of ciruculation in my hands and feet from having to walk around in the cold borrowing and returning stuff that I am afraid to even breathe on.
But no matter how warped my perspective on The Price You Pay for Goods and Services gets, there are always people out there trying to step it up and provide just a little bit "more" for their consumers. Their consumers who are, by the way, insanely disgustingly mind-warpingly rich. How else can you explain this: a luxury package provided to "elite customers" at the Peninsula Hotel in Chicago. Wrap your brain around this one guys and gals....
The Pen-Ultimate Peninsula Hotel Experience
Features:
Luxurious overnight accommodation for one night in the 3,600-square-foot Peninsula Suite, the most magnificent suite of all, featuring a formal living room, dining room, media room, study, 2000-square-foot private outdoor terrace with stunning views and a private Jacuzzi, master bedroom, private workout room and more
A Bentley Continental GT Coupe 2005 (to keep!) - valued at $ 169,000
Lavish welcome amenities, including the traditional aphrodisiac of oysters and champagne and five dozen red roses placed throughout the suite
Fully stocked bar
The services of a Peninsula Page as your personal valet throughout the stay
Graff beautiful cushion-cut white diamond ring for her, at over 5 carats - valued at $ 174,000
Graff platinum and invisible set white diamond square cufflinks for him, with nearly 8 carats - valued at $ 98,000
Relaxing, in-room couple's massage with special aromatherapy treatments provided by The Peninsula Spa
Choice of a five-course dinner for two in Avenues or The Lobby followed by ‘Chocolate at the Pen’ savouring an endless array of delectable chocolate desserts and an evening of dancing cheek-to-cheek to the Eric Remschneider Trio featuring vocalist Stephanie Browning
Ok, seriously, I feel fancy when they fold the end of the toilet paper into a point and provide actual glasses instead of plastic. Who are the people for whom this sort of "package" is feasible? I don't even think this would have been up Vince Vaughn's alley (the Peninsula is where he and Jen were seen straddling and smootching). Celebs dont get Bentleys from hotels. They get photographed looking at Bentleys and test driving Bentleys and sitting at Koi looking through a Bentley catalogue until Bentley calls them and asks if they would like one for free. That is the way celebs do it. So who the hell is buying this? Oh speaking of which... do you want to know how much it costs?
$400,000.
you want to know the worst part? after reading the description of the package as many times as I have and after writing this whole meandering blog... I am starting to look at that price tag and it isn't looking that bad to me. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN. I HAVE $4 IN MY PURSE RIGHT NOW AND IT IS MOSTLY IN NICKLES. I HATE THE NICKLE MORE THAN I HATE THE PENNY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY NICKLES YOU HAVE TO PUT INTO THE VENDING MACHINE TO GET SOME BAKED LAYS!
Ok. I think I am feeling better now.
Wait, before you start to hate me let me add that I have to bring back all that pricey designer merchandise a few days later and all I am left with is a byline and a loss of ciruculation in my hands and feet from having to walk around in the cold borrowing and returning stuff that I am afraid to even breathe on.
But no matter how warped my perspective on The Price You Pay for Goods and Services gets, there are always people out there trying to step it up and provide just a little bit "more" for their consumers. Their consumers who are, by the way, insanely disgustingly mind-warpingly rich. How else can you explain this: a luxury package provided to "elite customers" at the Peninsula Hotel in Chicago. Wrap your brain around this one guys and gals....
The Pen-Ultimate Peninsula Hotel Experience
Features:
Luxurious overnight accommodation for one night in the 3,600-square-foot Peninsula Suite, the most magnificent suite of all, featuring a formal living room, dining room, media room, study, 2000-square-foot private outdoor terrace with stunning views and a private Jacuzzi, master bedroom, private workout room and more
A Bentley Continental GT Coupe 2005 (to keep!) - valued at $ 169,000
Lavish welcome amenities, including the traditional aphrodisiac of oysters and champagne and five dozen red roses placed throughout the suite
Fully stocked bar
The services of a Peninsula Page as your personal valet throughout the stay
Graff beautiful cushion-cut white diamond ring for her, at over 5 carats - valued at $ 174,000
Graff platinum and invisible set white diamond square cufflinks for him, with nearly 8 carats - valued at $ 98,000
Relaxing, in-room couple's massage with special aromatherapy treatments provided by The Peninsula Spa
Choice of a five-course dinner for two in Avenues or The Lobby followed by ‘Chocolate at the Pen’ savouring an endless array of delectable chocolate desserts and an evening of dancing cheek-to-cheek to the Eric Remschneider Trio featuring vocalist Stephanie Browning
Ok, seriously, I feel fancy when they fold the end of the toilet paper into a point and provide actual glasses instead of plastic. Who are the people for whom this sort of "package" is feasible? I don't even think this would have been up Vince Vaughn's alley (the Peninsula is where he and Jen were seen straddling and smootching). Celebs dont get Bentleys from hotels. They get photographed looking at Bentleys and test driving Bentleys and sitting at Koi looking through a Bentley catalogue until Bentley calls them and asks if they would like one for free. That is the way celebs do it. So who the hell is buying this? Oh speaking of which... do you want to know how much it costs?
$400,000.
you want to know the worst part? after reading the description of the package as many times as I have and after writing this whole meandering blog... I am starting to look at that price tag and it isn't looking that bad to me. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN. I HAVE $4 IN MY PURSE RIGHT NOW AND IT IS MOSTLY IN NICKLES. I HATE THE NICKLE MORE THAN I HATE THE PENNY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY NICKLES YOU HAVE TO PUT INTO THE VENDING MACHINE TO GET SOME BAKED LAYS!
Ok. I think I am feeling better now.
Monday, December 05, 2005
It's beginning to look a lot like...
BIG NEWS! We have heat. Praise the almighty God. And the furnace guy. We have heat and it is fantastic. We also, as you can see from the pictures here, have a tree. My very first, on my own, big girl tree. The finished product of course, looks quite magical. The process by which the tree was procured.... not as magical. It was -8 degrees with the windchill yesterday. And this tree was chosen in a "close your eyes and point" sort of way from the nursery section at Home Depot. I would have taken more care in choosing the perfect tree to be my very first on my own big girl tree, but it was freaking freezing and I couldn't feel my toes. As it turned out, impending hypothermia makes me an excellent judge of trees because the one we got is perfect. We decorated it with a mix of thoughtful family ornaments and cheap thrills from Target. We also hung some jingle bell ornaments near the bottom to hopefully distract the kitten from hatching a plan to climb to the top of the tree and dive bomb off. We know our efforts might be in vain, but it is worth a shot. We might be in luck because he appears to be entirely consumed by the twine that we used to attach the tree to the top of our car. I think in his head he is a super hero. Spider man perhaps. That would explain his penchant for hooking his spidey claws into me and climbing from my ankle to my neck for no apparent reason. Perhaps I shall write him a theme song.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Jennsicle
So there I was, calmly getting dressed and putting on my makeup, batting away the persistent claws of my kitten who seems to be intrigued rather than frightened by the large hot curling iron at the end of the super fun swinging cord.
First of all, let me point out that normally this makeup and hair routine would be taking place in the bathroom where the kitten does not venture ( I think he is seriously afraid of the toliet.) But today and for the past three days I have spent as much time in the bedroom as is humanly possible. Why? Because that is where the space heater is. Once you step outside the temperature in our apartment drops, LITERALLY, 30-35 degrees. I. shit. you. not.
Last night, I came home, changed out of my work clothes and in to... wait for it.... long johns, fleece pajama bottoms, ski socks covered with knitted wool booties, a long sleeve t shirt, a fleece turtleneck, and a North Face zip up polar fleece. And that was just my "cooking dinner" outfit. Once it came time to sit on the couch with out the added benefit of the stove and oven to keep me warm, I added two blankets and a fuzzy hood to that ensemble. Considering that it is only December 1st and I have about five more months of winter ahead of me, I am thinking I am not off to the best start.
Granted, we have no heat right now. Why you ask? Oh well, we thought it was best to turn the heat off after our carbon monoxide alarm went off for the third time and started jumping up to something like 97 parts per million ( which sounds deadly, but as it turns out it would take 8 hours of that level of exposure to even give you a headache. Do you think this stopped me from writing out a "goodbye world" letter in my head before I went to bed? Not a chance. I was convinced that every time the kitten jumped off the bed it was because his body had succommed to poisoning and he was keeling over. "That didn't sound like a hop. That sounded like a thud. Check his pulse Joe check his PULSE!!!!!")
Don't worry, we are getting a new furnace. Supposedly we are getting it up and running "before the weekend". So you know, as long as the temperature doesn't keep dropping and as long as it doesn't snow or anything, I think we should be o- Wait. What's that you say? It's freaking SNOWING outside?
Yes, let me take you back to the beginning of the story, when I was removing the kitten broach from my shoulder so that I could put on mascara. Joe comes into the room and says "Is that what you are wearing?" (never wise words gentlemen). "Yeah, why?" "There is more than an inch of snow on the ground." I assume that the look on my face after that was a mix of shock, fear, dismay, and annoyance at the fact that I could now feel the draft coming from the living room as Joe didn't close the bed room door behind him when he came to deliver this news.
Now, the part that comes next, well. I think it is the most convincing evidence that I am really unprepared for the Chicago winter. I was a good girl and i changed out of my stiletto boots into my flat ones. I sacrificed my hard-earned curls and covered them with a hat, and I zipped up my puffy down jacket over my suede skirt. And then I stepped outside. And while Joe was trudging down the stairs headed towards his snow covered car, I just stood there. And then, although I am not sure anyone heard it, I squealed a little. Because you see, the first thought in my head when I saw the street covered in white was not "oh geez what a bother." or "goddammit i need to get the ice scraper" but rather it went something like this ... " Oooooo pretty!!!!!! What do you mean I have to go to work? Don't they cancel work when this happens? " Because you see, where I come from, they do. If there was an inch and a half of snow on the ground and it was still coming down, classes would be canceled, school children would be told to stay home and make snow angels, and working professionals would be glued to the 6am news waiting to see if their place of business had shut down for the day. Sigh, sometimes I just adore the south.
Anyway, you can see my cause for concern. The fact that I am still a dumbstruck 6 year old every time I see fluffy white snow means I am in for a rude RUDE awakening. I am sure it won't take long before I am cursing the snow or before I am outright indifferent toward it, but that will be a sad day for me. It's nice to know that some things, like a first snow, can still feel magical even when you are all grown up. But Chicago is about to kill that magic for me. I know he doesn't mean to. Just like my sister didnt mean to ruin the whole magic of santa claus thing for me by writing "merry christmas jennifer" on my brand new "lets play schoolhouse" blackboard on christmas morning in her very recognizible bubbly cursive. These things happen. But for today, just today, I am going to continue to think of snow as magical. Just one last time.
First of all, let me point out that normally this makeup and hair routine would be taking place in the bathroom where the kitten does not venture ( I think he is seriously afraid of the toliet.) But today and for the past three days I have spent as much time in the bedroom as is humanly possible. Why? Because that is where the space heater is. Once you step outside the temperature in our apartment drops, LITERALLY, 30-35 degrees. I. shit. you. not.
Last night, I came home, changed out of my work clothes and in to... wait for it.... long johns, fleece pajama bottoms, ski socks covered with knitted wool booties, a long sleeve t shirt, a fleece turtleneck, and a North Face zip up polar fleece. And that was just my "cooking dinner" outfit. Once it came time to sit on the couch with out the added benefit of the stove and oven to keep me warm, I added two blankets and a fuzzy hood to that ensemble. Considering that it is only December 1st and I have about five more months of winter ahead of me, I am thinking I am not off to the best start.
Granted, we have no heat right now. Why you ask? Oh well, we thought it was best to turn the heat off after our carbon monoxide alarm went off for the third time and started jumping up to something like 97 parts per million ( which sounds deadly, but as it turns out it would take 8 hours of that level of exposure to even give you a headache. Do you think this stopped me from writing out a "goodbye world" letter in my head before I went to bed? Not a chance. I was convinced that every time the kitten jumped off the bed it was because his body had succommed to poisoning and he was keeling over. "That didn't sound like a hop. That sounded like a thud. Check his pulse Joe check his PULSE!!!!!")
Don't worry, we are getting a new furnace. Supposedly we are getting it up and running "before the weekend". So you know, as long as the temperature doesn't keep dropping and as long as it doesn't snow or anything, I think we should be o- Wait. What's that you say? It's freaking SNOWING outside?
Yes, let me take you back to the beginning of the story, when I was removing the kitten broach from my shoulder so that I could put on mascara. Joe comes into the room and says "Is that what you are wearing?" (never wise words gentlemen). "Yeah, why?" "There is more than an inch of snow on the ground." I assume that the look on my face after that was a mix of shock, fear, dismay, and annoyance at the fact that I could now feel the draft coming from the living room as Joe didn't close the bed room door behind him when he came to deliver this news.
Now, the part that comes next, well. I think it is the most convincing evidence that I am really unprepared for the Chicago winter. I was a good girl and i changed out of my stiletto boots into my flat ones. I sacrificed my hard-earned curls and covered them with a hat, and I zipped up my puffy down jacket over my suede skirt. And then I stepped outside. And while Joe was trudging down the stairs headed towards his snow covered car, I just stood there. And then, although I am not sure anyone heard it, I squealed a little. Because you see, the first thought in my head when I saw the street covered in white was not "oh geez what a bother." or "goddammit i need to get the ice scraper" but rather it went something like this ... " Oooooo pretty!!!!!! What do you mean I have to go to work? Don't they cancel work when this happens? " Because you see, where I come from, they do. If there was an inch and a half of snow on the ground and it was still coming down, classes would be canceled, school children would be told to stay home and make snow angels, and working professionals would be glued to the 6am news waiting to see if their place of business had shut down for the day. Sigh, sometimes I just adore the south.
Anyway, you can see my cause for concern. The fact that I am still a dumbstruck 6 year old every time I see fluffy white snow means I am in for a rude RUDE awakening. I am sure it won't take long before I am cursing the snow or before I am outright indifferent toward it, but that will be a sad day for me. It's nice to know that some things, like a first snow, can still feel magical even when you are all grown up. But Chicago is about to kill that magic for me. I know he doesn't mean to. Just like my sister didnt mean to ruin the whole magic of santa claus thing for me by writing "merry christmas jennifer" on my brand new "lets play schoolhouse" blackboard on christmas morning in her very recognizible bubbly cursive. These things happen. But for today, just today, I am going to continue to think of snow as magical. Just one last time.
Monday, November 28, 2005
The most wonderful time of the year...
It's official.
The Christmas season has begun.
How do i know?
Because the worlds most delicious and festive product is back on the shelves.
Candy Cane Tootsie Roll Pops.
OH MY GOD how i adore these things.
The Christmas season has begun.
How do i know?
Because the worlds most delicious and festive product is back on the shelves.
Candy Cane Tootsie Roll Pops.
OH MY GOD how i adore these things.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
what. the. fuck.
Xenu, the galactic tyrant who first kidnapped certain individuals who were deemed "excess population" and loaded these individuals into space planes for transport to the site of extermination, the planet of Teegeeack (Earth). These space planes were supposedly exact copies of Douglas DC-8s except with rocket engines. He then stacked hundreds of billions of these frozen victims around Earth's volcanoes 75 million years ago before blowing them up with hydrogen bombs and brainwashing them with a "three-D, super colossal motion picture" for 36 days. The traumatized thetans subsequently clustered around human bodies, in effect acting as invisible spiritual parasites known as "body thetans" that can only be removed using advanced Scientology techniques. Xenu is allegedly imprisoned in a mountain by a force field powered by an eternal battery.
Straight from the doctrine of.... you guessed it... Scientology.
TomKat, you now disgust and disturb me even more than you did yesterday.
Straight from the doctrine of.... you guessed it... Scientology.
TomKat, you now disgust and disturb me even more than you did yesterday.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Just trying to stay awake.
In an effort to stave off the 3pm sleepies, I want to share with you a few thoughts that have been lollygagging around in the back of my head like the losers who don't leave the bar even when they turn the lights on and start turning the chairs upside down on the tables.
They are as follows:
* I will never, absolutely never be ok with the idea of Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise. It baffles me. It frightens me. It disgusts me. Every time I see a picture of them "canoodling" and kissing I feel like I should send it to the police as evidence of child molestation. The fact that they are having a child disturbs me more than the fact that Britney and Kevin had a child. Please understand what a huge thing that is for me to say. I can appreciate that they are gossip media's bread and butter but I really wish that something else would take over the headlines because honestly the thought of them makes me want to vomit.
* While we are on the subject of played out tabloid fodder, let me also say this. I don't think Brad and Angelina have been sleeping together. I know that today's revelation that she bought some sort of vibrating panties would seem to counteract this assertion, but I just feel, in my gut, that this whole situation has been misread. She made out with her brother for chrissake with no appologies, why on earth would she stay quiet about a rip roarin sex life with brad pitt out of respect to his ex wife? She wouldn't. She just. plain. wouldn't.
* Is it disturbing that i spent more on my kitten's new red carrier bag than I have spent on any sort of bag or purse for myself in the last five years? I believe it might be and I believe I do not care.
They are as follows:
* I will never, absolutely never be ok with the idea of Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise. It baffles me. It frightens me. It disgusts me. Every time I see a picture of them "canoodling" and kissing I feel like I should send it to the police as evidence of child molestation. The fact that they are having a child disturbs me more than the fact that Britney and Kevin had a child. Please understand what a huge thing that is for me to say. I can appreciate that they are gossip media's bread and butter but I really wish that something else would take over the headlines because honestly the thought of them makes me want to vomit.
* While we are on the subject of played out tabloid fodder, let me also say this. I don't think Brad and Angelina have been sleeping together. I know that today's revelation that she bought some sort of vibrating panties would seem to counteract this assertion, but I just feel, in my gut, that this whole situation has been misread. She made out with her brother for chrissake with no appologies, why on earth would she stay quiet about a rip roarin sex life with brad pitt out of respect to his ex wife? She wouldn't. She just. plain. wouldn't.
* Is it disturbing that i spent more on my kitten's new red carrier bag than I have spent on any sort of bag or purse for myself in the last five years? I believe it might be and I believe I do not care.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Alarming Trend.
There has been a rather disconcerting trend in my behavior lately. I quickly becoming a Capitulator. In the past few weeks I have given into a number of whims and activities that I was previously abstaining from with much success. They are enumerated below:
1) The kitten. Yes he is cute. Yes he is supremely snuggly. But why now? I have been lusting after small furry things for months, what pushed me over the edge? I went from being a completely normal person who finds baby animals to be pleasing to the eye to being a total crazed cat lady who uses her own sleeve to wipe the kitten snot off of her sick little baby's nose and lets him sleep on her head during the night. I have no idea how this happened.
2) Pizza and Scones. These are two food items that i have studiously avoided for some time now. Pizza and I went our seperate ways about 5 years ago, and my on-again, off-again love affair with Scones hasn't flared up since junior year when Sarah and I were frighteningly consistent in our trips to Starbucks. And yet, as the cold weather encroaches on the Windy City, my hibernation instincts have kicked into high gear. Suddently thin crust pizza from Lucky Zitos and cranberry scones have become acceptable meals. I am not even really concerned with the caloric implications of this, but rather it is the sheer oddity of the situation that things I have not craved nor desired in years are suddenly dancing around in my dreams like the rasinet boxes in the Consolidated Theaters animation intro. Ooooo rasinets. Crap! There goes another defense wall. But seriously what is next? Will I suddenly reverse my aversion to hot dogs that I have harbored since the age of 6 when I tricked my grandmother into feeding me microwaved hotdogs cut into little circles three meals a day while she was taking care of me while my mom was in the hospital giving birth to my brother thus causing me to associate a stomach full of processed meat with trips to the hospital? Will I suddenly forget that I had a horrible bout of food poisioning caused by bad shrimp at an Atlanta chinese restaurant which was futher compounded by a horridly strong margarita thus causing me to associate painful vomiting and fever with tequila? If you catch me doing tequila shooters between plates of hot dog bites dipped in ketchup, please stop me. I am on the road to hell and odd food fixations will be my chariot.
3) Friendster and Myspace. I am not an internet snob. While in college, I was a religious facebooker. And in the days pre-facebook (gasp! yes there was such a time) I was even an avid CampusHooker (if you aren't familiar... you are probably better off). I consider IM to be a highly legitimate form of serious communication, and in fact, I much prefer it to the phone. I met my boyfriend on a networking roommate finder website for godssake. I present all this to you so that you may understand the gravity of my stance against friendster and myspace. I have no problem with these websites, in theory. They operate under the general principles of friendship as the facebook. They contain the same opportunities for passive agressive relationship habits ( changing your staus from "in a relationship" to "single" is the biggest blow you can deal to your 10-minutes-ago-broke-up-on-IM-ex). They are fine by me. I just had no intention of joining them. Why give myself more profiles to update? Why burden myself with the challenge of having to say clever and witty things about myself on the off chance that someone who didn't like me in high school might find that page and feel ashamed for having ever said anything about me being a suck-up or a goody-two-shoes (yes, i know that phrase died in 1958, but you get the idea). It just didn't seem neccessary. But then something changed. I graduated. And in the adult world, no one is on facebook. In most cases they dont even know what it is. So, in order to "fit in" and "be cool" I had to convert to the geeky internet obsession of the elder generations.... Myspace and Friendster. You can now find me on both of those websites. My profiles are half assed and my pictures are poorly chosen. I refused to put my full effort into creating them because it just seemed to terrible that I was abondoning my principles. Although, even as I type this I am considering logging in to update and make myself sound more interesting. See how weak I am? SAVE ME PLEASE!
Those are my most recent capitulations. Prior to those offenses I also capitulated to my natural hair color, I gave in to the devil that is Tivo, I sold my soul for a pair of really high thread count sheets... really all that is left is hard drunks, cigarettes, and body piercing. Ill let you know when the white flag of surrender rears its ugly head again. As for now, stay strong. And order me a pizza.
1) The kitten. Yes he is cute. Yes he is supremely snuggly. But why now? I have been lusting after small furry things for months, what pushed me over the edge? I went from being a completely normal person who finds baby animals to be pleasing to the eye to being a total crazed cat lady who uses her own sleeve to wipe the kitten snot off of her sick little baby's nose and lets him sleep on her head during the night. I have no idea how this happened.
2) Pizza and Scones. These are two food items that i have studiously avoided for some time now. Pizza and I went our seperate ways about 5 years ago, and my on-again, off-again love affair with Scones hasn't flared up since junior year when Sarah and I were frighteningly consistent in our trips to Starbucks. And yet, as the cold weather encroaches on the Windy City, my hibernation instincts have kicked into high gear. Suddently thin crust pizza from Lucky Zitos and cranberry scones have become acceptable meals. I am not even really concerned with the caloric implications of this, but rather it is the sheer oddity of the situation that things I have not craved nor desired in years are suddenly dancing around in my dreams like the rasinet boxes in the Consolidated Theaters animation intro. Ooooo rasinets. Crap! There goes another defense wall. But seriously what is next? Will I suddenly reverse my aversion to hot dogs that I have harbored since the age of 6 when I tricked my grandmother into feeding me microwaved hotdogs cut into little circles three meals a day while she was taking care of me while my mom was in the hospital giving birth to my brother thus causing me to associate a stomach full of processed meat with trips to the hospital? Will I suddenly forget that I had a horrible bout of food poisioning caused by bad shrimp at an Atlanta chinese restaurant which was futher compounded by a horridly strong margarita thus causing me to associate painful vomiting and fever with tequila? If you catch me doing tequila shooters between plates of hot dog bites dipped in ketchup, please stop me. I am on the road to hell and odd food fixations will be my chariot.
3) Friendster and Myspace. I am not an internet snob. While in college, I was a religious facebooker. And in the days pre-facebook (gasp! yes there was such a time) I was even an avid CampusHooker (if you aren't familiar... you are probably better off). I consider IM to be a highly legitimate form of serious communication, and in fact, I much prefer it to the phone. I met my boyfriend on a networking roommate finder website for godssake. I present all this to you so that you may understand the gravity of my stance against friendster and myspace. I have no problem with these websites, in theory. They operate under the general principles of friendship as the facebook. They contain the same opportunities for passive agressive relationship habits ( changing your staus from "in a relationship" to "single" is the biggest blow you can deal to your 10-minutes-ago-broke-up-on-IM-ex). They are fine by me. I just had no intention of joining them. Why give myself more profiles to update? Why burden myself with the challenge of having to say clever and witty things about myself on the off chance that someone who didn't like me in high school might find that page and feel ashamed for having ever said anything about me being a suck-up or a goody-two-shoes (yes, i know that phrase died in 1958, but you get the idea). It just didn't seem neccessary. But then something changed. I graduated. And in the adult world, no one is on facebook. In most cases they dont even know what it is. So, in order to "fit in" and "be cool" I had to convert to the geeky internet obsession of the elder generations.... Myspace and Friendster. You can now find me on both of those websites. My profiles are half assed and my pictures are poorly chosen. I refused to put my full effort into creating them because it just seemed to terrible that I was abondoning my principles. Although, even as I type this I am considering logging in to update and make myself sound more interesting. See how weak I am? SAVE ME PLEASE!
Those are my most recent capitulations. Prior to those offenses I also capitulated to my natural hair color, I gave in to the devil that is Tivo, I sold my soul for a pair of really high thread count sheets... really all that is left is hard drunks, cigarettes, and body piercing. Ill let you know when the white flag of surrender rears its ugly head again. As for now, stay strong. And order me a pizza.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Joe and I got a kitty! His name is Sawyer Gobias Meowsky. He is 2 months old. We adopted him from the anti cruelty society of chicago. He has a bit of a cold, so excuse the sneezing. We bought him a nice soft bed but he likes to sleep in the mail basket. I have already traumatized him on day one by clipping his toenails. Hopefully he doesn't already hate me for life.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
I fully understand that the children of america, the future of our nation, are in jeopardy. The education system is screwed, teachers are underpaid, etc, etc, etc. But there is a far more disturbing problem erupting from the very building that I work in every day. You see, there is a rather large nursing school housed in our lovely building. So everyday when I step off the train, I have to wade through a sea of women in cobalt blue scrubs, all of whom tug around those back-packs on wheels. Yes the back pack on wheels trend is disturbing ( are we now too good for straps? when did that happen?), but that is not my true concern. My concern is that this gaggle of nurses in training can always be found in one of three locations: 1) Loitering outside the Dunkin' Doughnuts 2) Loitering outside the Burger King/ Mc Donalds/ Chicken joint. 3) Loitering outside the building in a large cloud of cigarette smoke. Now, I don't mean to be an elitest health nut but come on. You are training to be nurses people. Would it kill you to trade in a doughnut run for a powerwalk instead? And please, let's discuss which is worse, a pregnant woman smoking, or a medical professional smoking. This goes beyond irony my friends. This is pure insanity.
I just had to pause to put on my glasses. Which means I think I am officially getting old. Either that or I am officially becoming a member of the Cubical Community... the Dilbert World... as I have actually begun to lose my sight from staring at a computer all day. This is no fault of my job, I feel the need to point that out. It is actually the result of my addiction to several crack-like websites:
www.defamer.com
www.gofugyourself.com
www.televisionwithoutpity.com
www.fametracker.com
You take a look at those, and about a week from now, when you can pull your eye away from their riveting content, post me a message letting me know how much you love me for introducing you. Or how much you hate me and how I have ruined your professional life forever. I owe my addiction to Alice M. Walton, my partner in crime at Variety. Now you can credit your addiction to me. Welcome to the life of a gossip junkie. It's a hard life. But very rewarding.
Don't you love it when things live up to the hype? Like Batman Begins. Aside from the rather lackluster/joey in a dull suit performance by Katie Holmes, the movie was awesome. So awesome in fact that it won back millions of movie goers who had written off Batman entirely after the last, rather flawed and ridiculous venture of Batman and Robin. I, of course, was not scared off at all. I thought B&R was great. Beautiful. Riveting. But I might be biased considering that this movie came out about the same time that I was blossiming into my womanhood, and I would have devoured and loved anything in which I could see Chris O'Donnell's body encased in latex.
You know what else totally lived up to the hype? Tivo. I remember hearing about it when it first came out and thinking "Who would pay all that money just to be able to pause live tv? Pee during the commercial breaks you rich freaks." But its legend continued to grow spawning the newest techy verb since "googling". People were "tivoing" everything! I began to fantasize about what it would be like to come home from work in the afternoon and not have to wade through channels looking for something comforting to unwind my mind with only to have to settle for the episode of Full House where they go to Disney World and Stephanie feels left out again (actually one of my faves, but i thought i'd use it in this instance to make a point). And then, I did it. I succommed. I was lured in by the siren song of a free DVR with purchase and now I have joined the ranks of the Tivo elite. And my god. It is fantastic.
Oh, by the way, did I mention that I am the most attractive girl in the city of Chicago? Well I am. Or, well, actually, let me rephrase. I seem to have a level of attractiveness that is noticeable and for some reason inviting to men who have no manners and or discernable grooming routines. That's right. I am a magnet for ugly rude guys. "Hey baby, I wish you were my baby's momma." "I am gonna make you a limited time offer to take a ride on what I'm packin'" " You better have a boyfriend or I am gonna take you home with me right now." "Guuuuurrrrrl you don't know WHAT you're doin to me." All of those brilliantly romantic comments were offered to me during during various trips on the lovely CTA bus system. After years and years of wondering what it would feel like to be legitimately hit on, I am now the queen of disgusting public offers. Why can't I get a normal, if somewhat smarmy guy in an Express for Men leather motorcycle jacket to make a lame-o joke about losing his number and wanting to borrow mine? Then I could just giggle and say, "Sorry, no thanks." and walk a way with a little teasing wiggle in my hips and consider my ego pumped. But no. I get the kind of comments that make vomit rise in my throat and cause me to immediately start digging for my keys and my cell phone just in case I need to stab him in the eye with my mailbox key and start dialing 911 as I sprint down the street in my troublesome stiletto heels. I don't know where I went wrong in my karmic cycle, but I don't think I deserve to be propositioned for dirty acts more than twice a week. It's just too much for a girl to handle.
Alright. that is all the ranting and raving I have stored up for this update....
until we meet again.
I just had to pause to put on my glasses. Which means I think I am officially getting old. Either that or I am officially becoming a member of the Cubical Community... the Dilbert World... as I have actually begun to lose my sight from staring at a computer all day. This is no fault of my job, I feel the need to point that out. It is actually the result of my addiction to several crack-like websites:
www.defamer.com
www.gofugyourself.com
www.televisionwithoutpity.com
www.fametracker.com
You take a look at those, and about a week from now, when you can pull your eye away from their riveting content, post me a message letting me know how much you love me for introducing you. Or how much you hate me and how I have ruined your professional life forever. I owe my addiction to Alice M. Walton, my partner in crime at Variety. Now you can credit your addiction to me. Welcome to the life of a gossip junkie. It's a hard life. But very rewarding.
Don't you love it when things live up to the hype? Like Batman Begins. Aside from the rather lackluster/joey in a dull suit performance by Katie Holmes, the movie was awesome. So awesome in fact that it won back millions of movie goers who had written off Batman entirely after the last, rather flawed and ridiculous venture of Batman and Robin. I, of course, was not scared off at all. I thought B&R was great. Beautiful. Riveting. But I might be biased considering that this movie came out about the same time that I was blossiming into my womanhood, and I would have devoured and loved anything in which I could see Chris O'Donnell's body encased in latex.
You know what else totally lived up to the hype? Tivo. I remember hearing about it when it first came out and thinking "Who would pay all that money just to be able to pause live tv? Pee during the commercial breaks you rich freaks." But its legend continued to grow spawning the newest techy verb since "googling". People were "tivoing" everything! I began to fantasize about what it would be like to come home from work in the afternoon and not have to wade through channels looking for something comforting to unwind my mind with only to have to settle for the episode of Full House where they go to Disney World and Stephanie feels left out again (actually one of my faves, but i thought i'd use it in this instance to make a point). And then, I did it. I succommed. I was lured in by the siren song of a free DVR with purchase and now I have joined the ranks of the Tivo elite. And my god. It is fantastic.
Oh, by the way, did I mention that I am the most attractive girl in the city of Chicago? Well I am. Or, well, actually, let me rephrase. I seem to have a level of attractiveness that is noticeable and for some reason inviting to men who have no manners and or discernable grooming routines. That's right. I am a magnet for ugly rude guys. "Hey baby, I wish you were my baby's momma." "I am gonna make you a limited time offer to take a ride on what I'm packin'" " You better have a boyfriend or I am gonna take you home with me right now." "Guuuuurrrrrl you don't know WHAT you're doin to me." All of those brilliantly romantic comments were offered to me during during various trips on the lovely CTA bus system. After years and years of wondering what it would feel like to be legitimately hit on, I am now the queen of disgusting public offers. Why can't I get a normal, if somewhat smarmy guy in an Express for Men leather motorcycle jacket to make a lame-o joke about losing his number and wanting to borrow mine? Then I could just giggle and say, "Sorry, no thanks." and walk a way with a little teasing wiggle in my hips and consider my ego pumped. But no. I get the kind of comments that make vomit rise in my throat and cause me to immediately start digging for my keys and my cell phone just in case I need to stab him in the eye with my mailbox key and start dialing 911 as I sprint down the street in my troublesome stiletto heels. I don't know where I went wrong in my karmic cycle, but I don't think I deserve to be propositioned for dirty acts more than twice a week. It's just too much for a girl to handle.
Alright. that is all the ranting and raving I have stored up for this update....
until we meet again.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
My Kind of Town
Chicago, Illinois. My new home. I have to say, I like the pizza.
But what I like most of all is that on every single bus and train I have ever ridden in this city (and that is no small number) I always see people giving up their seats. Men giving their seats to ladies. Children giving their seats to the elderly and pregnant women. Somehow, all these commuters who seem so isolated in their little iPod universe manage to be constantly aware of the needs of the people around them. It's incredible. In fact, pretty much everything about my life in this city thus far has been incredible.
For starters, my job. Time Out London was the publication that made me want to be a writer. Now everyday when the elevator opens on the 17th floor of my building, and I see the Time Out logo glowing from inside the glass doors of the office, I get a little smile on my face. I still can't believe I am here. Somedays I feel like a fraud. Like at any moment they could discover that I really am not an expert on shopping or fashion and that my credentials are worthless and my clips lack any discernable talent and they will come and ask me to pack up my things and go. Other days I feel completely capable. I worked for this. I earned this. I hid in bathroom stalls in Los Angeles to eavesdrop on Nicolette Sheridan for this. And let's be honest. Not every moment of the job is a dream come true. Schlepping around the city in uncomfortable shoes to pick out the season's best dog costumes isn't really what I imagined I would do with my life. But nor did I ever expect that I would hear a news achor say my name. As in "We have Jenn Thompson here with us today to share the secrets of fall fashion accessories." I loved hearing my name said in the smooth rich tones of the anchors voice. Now if only I could say the same about hearing my own voice. I have both of my TV apperances tivo'd. But I haven't been able to make it through either of them. I always run out of the room screaming and covering my ears to block out the erie sound of my own words coming through the screen. It's horrifying.
But not as horrifying, apparently , as a Chicago Winter. Which, so I have heard, are practically unbearable. Considering that my idea of winter is a few days during which it drops below 32 degrees and a possible quickly-melting snow fall, I think i am in some serious trouble. I don't own what most people would refer to as "a warm coat". Nor do I really understand the concept of boots that aren't leather and high heeled. Not to mention that it was 50 degrees two mornings last week and I have whipped out the heaviest scarf I own. Of course this was also when my mother was visiting. She saw me walk up with a large purple scarf wrapped all the way up to my nose and began to cackle with laughter. I think she might have even started a pool with my relatives back in NC to see how long it takes before I call begging to come home for the weekend "just to get warm". This is not good. Not good at all. I am told that things don't get really ugly until January or February. At which point, I will have strapped myself down on the couch in our apartment, covered in threee blankets and wearing long underware under my pajamas so as to avoid high gas heating bills. How I will go to work and remain a productive human being remains to be seen. Survival is the main goal.
I think I would find the winter more bearable though, if I had a puppy. Though, I also believe that polio, the plague, and golf tournaments would all be bearable if I had a puppy. I want a puppy rilly rilly bad. However, there are a few things standing between me and puppy bliss: 1) Our apartment doesn't allow them. 2)I cannot afford one 3) I can't decide which kind I want. Obviously I am only really concerned with one of these problems. What kind do I get? Once I solve that, everything else will fall into place. At the moment I am leaning towards a toy beagle. Let me know what you think.
Joe, bless his soul, indulges my puppy lust on a regular basis. He does not call me crazy when I start talking about Gus and Sam and Wrigley ( Beagle, Brown Lab, Blond Lab) as if I actually already own them. He doesn't mind when I fall to my knees and talk in incomprehensible baby talk to a puppy belonging to an unsuspecting stranger who happened to be walking his pup on the street. He has stopped reminding me of problems 1 and 2 whenever I whine "WHYYYYYYYYyyyyyeeee can't we have one???" He is, among other things, a tolerante boy.
Granted, I know that a puppy is not a smart addition to a really nice apartment. He will chew things and pee on things and roll around on things that I would prefer he not. And, let it be said that our apartment is no shabby shelter. I am pretty sure that our sink alone costs the same as a month's rent. So yes, it would be a travesty if our darling little Gus was to chew at the corners of our custom cabinetry, or urinate on our slate tile floor, or playfully tug on my carefully chosen satin window dressings. But when I look into those little adorable puppy eyes... all would be forgiven. Except perhaps by our landlord Mark who actually built the custom cabinetry and laid the tile floors and rehabbed the bathroom and sunk thousands and thousands of dollars into a place far nicer and far bigger than anywhere I could ever afford to live ever again in my life. So, for now, my puppy lust must remain unfullfilled. Thus I as a person, remain incomplete.
Alright. I must end this post a little prematurely so that I can go out and gather up more alarm clocks for our upcoming feature on.. well alarm clocks. Adieu for now and feel free to post comments, questions, complaints.
But what I like most of all is that on every single bus and train I have ever ridden in this city (and that is no small number) I always see people giving up their seats. Men giving their seats to ladies. Children giving their seats to the elderly and pregnant women. Somehow, all these commuters who seem so isolated in their little iPod universe manage to be constantly aware of the needs of the people around them. It's incredible. In fact, pretty much everything about my life in this city thus far has been incredible.
For starters, my job. Time Out London was the publication that made me want to be a writer. Now everyday when the elevator opens on the 17th floor of my building, and I see the Time Out logo glowing from inside the glass doors of the office, I get a little smile on my face. I still can't believe I am here. Somedays I feel like a fraud. Like at any moment they could discover that I really am not an expert on shopping or fashion and that my credentials are worthless and my clips lack any discernable talent and they will come and ask me to pack up my things and go. Other days I feel completely capable. I worked for this. I earned this. I hid in bathroom stalls in Los Angeles to eavesdrop on Nicolette Sheridan for this. And let's be honest. Not every moment of the job is a dream come true. Schlepping around the city in uncomfortable shoes to pick out the season's best dog costumes isn't really what I imagined I would do with my life. But nor did I ever expect that I would hear a news achor say my name. As in "We have Jenn Thompson here with us today to share the secrets of fall fashion accessories." I loved hearing my name said in the smooth rich tones of the anchors voice. Now if only I could say the same about hearing my own voice. I have both of my TV apperances tivo'd. But I haven't been able to make it through either of them. I always run out of the room screaming and covering my ears to block out the erie sound of my own words coming through the screen. It's horrifying.
But not as horrifying, apparently , as a Chicago Winter. Which, so I have heard, are practically unbearable. Considering that my idea of winter is a few days during which it drops below 32 degrees and a possible quickly-melting snow fall, I think i am in some serious trouble. I don't own what most people would refer to as "a warm coat". Nor do I really understand the concept of boots that aren't leather and high heeled. Not to mention that it was 50 degrees two mornings last week and I have whipped out the heaviest scarf I own. Of course this was also when my mother was visiting. She saw me walk up with a large purple scarf wrapped all the way up to my nose and began to cackle with laughter. I think she might have even started a pool with my relatives back in NC to see how long it takes before I call begging to come home for the weekend "just to get warm". This is not good. Not good at all. I am told that things don't get really ugly until January or February. At which point, I will have strapped myself down on the couch in our apartment, covered in threee blankets and wearing long underware under my pajamas so as to avoid high gas heating bills. How I will go to work and remain a productive human being remains to be seen. Survival is the main goal.
I think I would find the winter more bearable though, if I had a puppy. Though, I also believe that polio, the plague, and golf tournaments would all be bearable if I had a puppy. I want a puppy rilly rilly bad. However, there are a few things standing between me and puppy bliss: 1) Our apartment doesn't allow them. 2)I cannot afford one 3) I can't decide which kind I want. Obviously I am only really concerned with one of these problems. What kind do I get? Once I solve that, everything else will fall into place. At the moment I am leaning towards a toy beagle. Let me know what you think.
Joe, bless his soul, indulges my puppy lust on a regular basis. He does not call me crazy when I start talking about Gus and Sam and Wrigley ( Beagle, Brown Lab, Blond Lab) as if I actually already own them. He doesn't mind when I fall to my knees and talk in incomprehensible baby talk to a puppy belonging to an unsuspecting stranger who happened to be walking his pup on the street. He has stopped reminding me of problems 1 and 2 whenever I whine "WHYYYYYYYYyyyyyeeee can't we have one???" He is, among other things, a tolerante boy.
Granted, I know that a puppy is not a smart addition to a really nice apartment. He will chew things and pee on things and roll around on things that I would prefer he not. And, let it be said that our apartment is no shabby shelter. I am pretty sure that our sink alone costs the same as a month's rent. So yes, it would be a travesty if our darling little Gus was to chew at the corners of our custom cabinetry, or urinate on our slate tile floor, or playfully tug on my carefully chosen satin window dressings. But when I look into those little adorable puppy eyes... all would be forgiven. Except perhaps by our landlord Mark who actually built the custom cabinetry and laid the tile floors and rehabbed the bathroom and sunk thousands and thousands of dollars into a place far nicer and far bigger than anywhere I could ever afford to live ever again in my life. So, for now, my puppy lust must remain unfullfilled. Thus I as a person, remain incomplete.
Alright. I must end this post a little prematurely so that I can go out and gather up more alarm clocks for our upcoming feature on.. well alarm clocks. Adieu for now and feel free to post comments, questions, complaints.
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