Aaaaaaannnndddd..........poof.

Yup. That's it for '08. Frankly, good riddance to bad rubbish. But it remains true that time freaking flies, folks. And I have got to get my '09 shit together.

Now many people will dismiss the idea of New Year's Resolutions out of hand. "They don't work!" they will practically scream in your face. But I have to ask you, how does anything get done if one does not resolve to do it? I'm not talking about making outrageous plans - I don't plan to scale a mountain, or jump out of a plane - things that I'm not truly interested in doing in the first place. But I do plan to do some volunteer work, and incorporate more vegetables into my diet. What's so wrong with that?

Granted, my list is a little long. But why not shoot big? I'm not getting any younger. The time to do the stuff I said I'd do is soon. Now, even. So I made a list. Because what's the alternative? More of the same, slogging through, eating snack foods, wishing things were different and wondering if today is the day I see a Law & Order I haven't seen before? Perhaps I can set my sights just a little higher. Maybe, just maybe, I can treat myself as though I cared very deeply for me. That's the first item on the list, as a matter of fact. I'll let you know how it goes.

Jenny

Great, you've ruined it!

I am firmly in the 18-49 demographic. I am also a white male which means I listen to a lot of talk radio. Guilty as charged.

Years ago, before the internet, I'd be listening to a radio newscast or the host of a show and they would read a story from the "lighter side" of the news, or some tidbit of information that would be helpful to know. You'd hear a story about a cat that flew from America, stowed-away in the tire compartment of a plane to get to their owners in England... or you'd hear about a man that was hit in the head and now speaks with a French accent.

Well let me tell you the internet has ruined all of that. I get up in the morning and I read the headlines and then I listen to my radio shows and they report the same thing I just read on the internet. "Hey, after the break I'm going to tell you what you don't know about eggs." No kidding. I read that 12 hours ago. Are you just really lazy Mr. or Ms. radio personality? I know that there is a finite amount of news to go around, but I know that you're just going to Yahoo! News and picking stories.

The first person to do this was Robin on Howard Stern. "Howard, The Daily News reported yesterday that Michael Bolton and Cher..." No kidding Robin. How much $$$ are you being paid to read me yesterday's newspaper?

Arghhhh!

Just another example of how the internet has ruined everything. Including porn!

Kurt

C’mon, Enders, focus up!

I have sent exactly 79 emails as of 3:20pm this afternoon. 79 emails. That seems nuts to me. I’ve been staring at my Outlook inbox for the last hour trying to talk myself off the ledge. Too much. I haven’t been this busy since…since…well since this time last year. Yet I always manage to forget what being work-busy like this feels like. The tightness in my chest, the frustration when I see whatshisname - the “slow-talker” - pop up on the caller ID, the shock when I catch a glimpse of what I look like in the mirror, the confusion when I see five open email windows that I had opened with every intention of contacting someone for something and now I don’t know what that something was and I’m afraid I’ve totally forgotten and I’m totally SCREWED – oh, I remember what it was. I haven’t cried today, but I cried twice on Monday. I realized that flipping my co-workers “the bird” when they’re not looking releases the same amount of stress as does the crying. Need to write myself a post-it with that little helpful piece of info so I don’t forget it. Oh no, it’s whatshisname, put a smile on your voice, Enders. Here we go. Make that 83 emails. How old is that pizza? Who am I kidding? I don’t care. What am I going to write my blog about? I’m already a day late. C’mon, Enders, focus up! But someone just sent me a Zach Galifianakis video. Just finish this one thing and you can watch the video. Man, you’re like a little kid. I don’t tell you how to do your job do I, what makes you think you can tell me how to do mine? You, lady, get my middle finger. How come I’m the only one who stocks the fridge with Diet Coke when everyone drinks it? It’s hard to type from way up here on my cross. Screw it, I’m watching the Galifianakis video.

Ah, hilarious.

gretch

Even Zach uses post-its.

Sleep Foibles

It's true that I can sleep almost anywhere. Planes, trains, automobiles. Loud rock concerts in small venues. Yes, for those of you who were at Graffiti in Pittsburgh, circa 1990, and you remember a fetching young woman in the only available seat, who had been given (since she was the only one seated) responsibility for the stack of coats belonging to the members of her party, you may recall that despite the incredibly loud music, and the extremely small room, that she put her head down on said coats and fell asleep. That was me, and they were the Los Lobos, as I recall, though it wasn't the only time it happened. This was without a drop of alcohol, mind you. I like to blame the smokey air, which required the closing of my eyes in the first place. But I just know how to shut down. Or rather, I shut down whether I want to or not. Frankly, I avoid napping if I can, because I wake up like a hungry grizzly bear if it's too short, and who can say how long is enough if one is asleep?

Doctors like to ask how you're sleeping because usually it's an important factor if you are say, hypothetically speaking, regulating medications. But my sleep isn't really a consideration, because I can do it no matter what's going on.

Given a choice, I prefer my own bed, which has a within-warranty comfy mattress and a heavy duvet. I have two tempurpedic "memory foam" pillows of varying heights, and between them, a squishy pillow, so I choose according to my mood. I will often eschew all three options to sleep flat on my back, but with my face flanked closely on both sides by a pillow. (Imagine the adorable wackiness!) I sleep all over the bed, and most often have two cats for company, and manage somehow not to dislodge them. As evidenced by the above story, I have no need for these things in order to sleep, but to sleep well, to fall asleep quickly, and to wake up refreshed, I need the bed as described, along with a few other things. Ahem:

• The Sheets Must Be Orderly - for reals, I can't sleep unless they are neat. I had a memorable discussion with my husband regarding this. He'd made up the bed with fresh sheets, something he didn't do often, and I insulted him by straightening them. He thought I was criticizing him and I thought he was picking a fight so that he'd never have to put fresh sheets on the bed again. Honestly, what's so hard about doing something in the way that you know the person you say you love needs the thing to be done? Am I crazy? It's the little things, People. If you're going to throw around phrases like, "I'd do anything for you," then for the love of Pete, mean them.
  
• I Must Be Clothed - if I'm not, my dreams all end with whomever it is (librarians, nazis, what have you) rushing into my bedroom and finding me naked.
  
• I Have Specific Clothing Needs - if it's cold enough, I'll climb in with long pants and socks on, but once warm, They Must Go. My ideal is shorts and a big t-shirt, but that's only because the right pajama sets are very hard to find. I did find some recently and stocked up - they are cotton, short sleeve top and shorts sets, with a V-neck, which is vitally important. See below.
  
• Nothing Can Touch My Neck - see above. I don't know why, but if even the sheets land across my neck, there's no way. I don't wear many necklaces or turtleneck shirts for this reason, or for very long on the few occasions that I do wear them. Seriously, I feel like someone is trying to strangle me.
  
• My Toes Must Have Access to One Another - I do a toe-hook/rhythmic movement thing to put myself to sleep, which probably sounds gross but I assure you is adorable. Here's where socks are unacceptable.
  

All this aside, one of my greatest skills is waking up when necessary. I'm not a light sleeper, and indeed, my husband often turned the tv on in the bedroom when he couldn't sleep, and it didn't bother me in the least. However, a light tap from a kitteh paw, or a noise that Shouldn't Be, will get me fully awake in a matter of nanoseconds. It's like Mr. Sandman only lets in the important stuff. And in excellent news, once the issue is resolved, he helps me fall right back to sleep, no issues or problems (as long as all of the above is still true.)

So. There you have it. I don't know why.

Jenny

The Greatest Christmas Present Ever

The best present for Christmas I ever received was a reel to reel tape recorder. My parents got it at Sears. It ran on two "C" batteries which were good for a only a short time and that was it.

I only wanted the tape recorder because they self-destructed on Mission: Impossible. I got some other great presents like the Strange Change Machine, a radio, microscope, trainset, electric race set, etc. My parents always came through.

Thank goodness I don't have any kids because there is no way I am buying a kid an iPod so they can blow their ears out. There's no way my kid would be getting a video game console. My kid (and their name, boy or girl would be Lee, and that is short for nothing) would get a library card and a reading lamp. Merry Christmas.

Sure I'd give them a bike, or clothes, but no crazy stuff like pierced ears... or a pony.

And you know what, I wouldn't be giving them reel to reel tape recorders either.

Kurt

Petition for facebook to add friend categories

Here's a rough list.

• High School friend, I think
• High School, hardly ever spoke to me and look at her now
  
• High School - hated this one, not to be trusted
• College friend
• College person
• College - I think we passed in the quad a few times
• Coworker
• Facebook friend whore - we never met
• OK, I don't remember him/her, but I don't want to hurt his/her feelings
• Drunken mistake
• Uch, that weekend will haunt me forever
• Friend of a friend, this is a ridiculous exercise

I'm just spitballing. Let me know if you have any other categories for the petition.

Your friend, obviously,

Jenny

94.7 The Wave

I don’t get why people can’t bring themselves to give “the wave” when I let them pull into traffic ahead of me. What the eff? It’s not like I wasn’t paying attention and chick in the silver Toyota snuck in without me noticing. I slowed down, smiled and gave her a little “its okay, come on out” hand gesture. But I received no wave in return. “So I’m here to serve you lady? You think you’re alone on the planet and that you are owed this spot in front of me? Nice haircut by the way. Who do you think you are, Linda Lavin? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

I feel like we’re on the edge, we’re going to be overrun. The a-holes are slowly but surely taking over in numbers. I blame Jeremy Piven and the show Entourage. I work at HBO and I don’t feel bad at all saying it’s crap show because it’s a show full of crap. Crappity crap crap…crap. Piven’s character Ari Gold is a high-powered, high-strung agent who yells, curses, lies, and manipulates to get what he wants. And he always gets what he wants. I’ve noticed that the number of rude phone calls has increased substantially in the last couple years, and I have to think it’s because the jerks out there feel this is the way to get things done. News flash – if you call me and ask for something that falls within my job description I’m going to do it for you, because it’s…my…job. You don’t have to yell at me, or threaten to call my boss or insult my intelligence. Sure, you’ll get what you want if you do those things, but you also would have gotten what you want if you would have said “please” and “thank you.” I used to get angry when I would get these phone calls, but now I’m just disappointed. It’s a blanket disappointment in the human race. And it all starts with pulling into traffic and not giving the wave. When in doubt, wave. Just do it. Just wave. Someone somewhere will appreciate it and will go home and tell his kids that there is still a glimmer of human decency out there.

On a happier note, the holidays are almost here. Let’s try not to murder any more retail workers, k, people?

(manic waving)
Gretch

You are so adorable, Linda. That lady in the Toyota wishes she was as cute as you.

Deflectors say it's Christmas Time

We are all on a giant starship heading towards the holidays. No matter how hard Mr. Scott has the warp drive in reverse, "...contact in twelve seconds."

Sensors tell me there are going to be a lot of parties and holiday shows to attend. The landing party will be only myself in the Honda Civic Shuttle. Phaser One, not Phaser Two , a Tri-Corder, and of course a communicator (cellphone) will be issued.

I'm ready for whatever the inhabitants of Planet Holiday have in store for me and the rest of the crew.

I mean, I have the holiday enjoyment of 430 crew members to think of!

If my time on the planet surface goes well, I can recommend shore leave.

I'll give you my report later.

"Kurt out"

Kate Potter is Narrating My Life

For those of you with FitTV, I can wholeheartedly recommend Kate Potter’s Namaste Yoga. They are easily digestible bits of good breathing and stretching, and occasionally some wide-eyed, incredulous staring at the TV while three beautiful women with perfect bodies bend in ways my mind and/or body has yet to accept is possible. I mean, given the current state of my belly, achieving the perfectly flat back as I touch my forehead to my knees just isn’t going to happen. But I’m reminded to stop judging myself. It’s a great series, really, the half hour goes by fast, the warm up and cool down are both doable, and she’s ok with you “returning to center” whatever that is, to wait out the stuff you can’t do yet.

Trouble is, now after I do a session, and try to go on about my life, I keep hearing Kate Potter's voiceover….

Now let us get the broom, and sweep this floor, which is a mess. That’s it. Remember to breathe as you collect the cat hair and bits of food with the dustpan and brush. Drop the collected debris in the garbage, and now return the broom to center.

We will now empty the drain board. Let’s put this pot away. Turn to the cupboard, and on the exhale, we’ll put this pot under the stove. That’s right. Good.

Removing the colander, note that there is pasta dried on it from last night’s macaroni and cheese. Without judgment, return it to the sink and move on.

The coffee machine has beeped. Reach up and get the mug with the two cats on it that says “cancer sucks”. Prepare to get the milk.

And so on. At first I thought it would make me crazy, but folks, it actually lends a level of importance to everything I do. Try it. I’m not kidding.

Just remember to breathe.

Namaste,
Jenny

A break-up story

Peter’s post got me waxing nostalgic (wait, that’s not really a phrase is it?) and reminds me of my favorite survey that circulated back when people were still on Myspace. It was a survey of “firsts” – first kiss, first date, first grade teacher, first broken bone. Missing from the list was “first breakup.” No one’s asking, but here’s mine.

My college boyfriend broke up with me because I wouldn’t pop a zit on his back. Okay, number one reason was because I was emotionally suffocating him, but a close second would be that I refused to pop a zit on his back. I don’t remember him having backne, as I recall his skin was just fine. But there was a time during our lengthy month and a half relationship when he asked me to pop something and I flat-out refused. I’m the type of gal who likes to leave a little mystery in a relationship, or so I’d learn as this was really my first boyfriend and therefore also my first experience with such an intimate request. I remember walking into his dorm room, seeing him sitting there shirtless with a girl bent over him. This girl shall remain nameless for no other reason that I can’t remember her name. But it was something bland, much like her personality. She’d been sniffing around the guy who would become my first ex-boyfriend all spring quarter and I’m sure she was more than happy to meet the challenge of his back zit. It was the beginning of the end really. Not long thereafter he stopped by Haggett Hall to tell me I was moving too fast (in his defense, I did bring up marriage after only a few weeks…like only a 19 year-old girl or a crazy person would be able to do with complete sincerity) and that he wasn’t ready for the kind of commitment I was asking for (apparently he was just looking for an aesthetician). I listened politely and without protest. Then I nicely asked him to leave as I had to get ready for a play I was planning on attending with a couple girlfriends. I cried quietly on Claudia’s shoulder the entire length of the Seattle Rep’s production of Waiting for Godot. I got home and called my mom, she put a pot of coffee on and let me cry some more. For the next three days I ate only oranges and caught up on all my reading and writing assignments, cleaned my room and got a tattoo. I got custody of most of our mutual friends, even moved in with two of his roommates the next year. He got braces and joined a fraternity and we were friendly whenever we ran into each other, which ended up being fairly often as he started dating a friend of a friend (a sweet girl who, quite frankly, could have done way better). As far as breakups go, I guess it was pretty easy. And to this day I have yet to pop a pimple on someone else’s body.

Thanks, Joe

Gretch

Going home?

It's kind of odd when your parents no longer live where you grew up. All through college and until I was around 35, my parents lived in a house where I had spent most or all of my life. Then, out of the blue, they moved. And not just to a new house, or a different school district, or even a new town or city. They moved into an entirely new state/demographic/tax structure/political clime. So while most adults who visit their parents, when you say without thinking "oh you're going home?" and they snottily reply "no, I'm going to see my parents, then I'll go home" - well, I really mean it. This isn't my home or anywhere near my home. It has a lot of stuff from my home - most notably, my parents - but it's not home.

And my home isn't home either! There's no one there left - no family at all, no best friends from childhood or their parents. No Fitchett's Dairy. No Juliet Theater. No South Hills Mall. No recognizable high school even!

So. Tomorrow I'm heading home. I will probably see some folks who I dig, but I will probably not kiss any pigs. I hope they take me as I am. Strung out on Tryptophan and another woman. California, I'm coming...home.

Peter

2Do's

I am to be abandoned in 12 hours. My two roommates, delightful people, are going out of town visiting which means I will be here alone to feed the kitties and to eat leftovers from Thanksgiving. We had a 22 pound turkey at our house for four people. 22 pounds because it only cost $7, how could you go wrong? We didn't. The cooking roommate did a great job all by herself and the cleaning roommates cleaned. But they are leaving tomorrow and I'll be here with a 'fridge full of food and two bags of rolls.

I can tell you what is going to happen tomorrow. I am going to eat two bags of rolls. I have rarely met a carbohydrate that I didn't like. I will also eat a lot of cranberry sauce and turkey and probably finish off the unopened bottle of Muscat in the 'fridge too. That will be my breakfast on Saturday.

I have no where to go this weekend and no one to see so it's going to be me all alone this weekend and a high-speed internet connection looking at old Avengers clips on YouTube! Oh, I might go out and see a movie, or take advantage of some sales, but besides the run I want to do tomorrow I am in the house.

I'll shower but I won't shave. I'll eat, but I won't clean. I'll do laundry but I won't fold.

This is my kind of Thanksgiving. I've got football on Sunday, and nothing of consequence to do.

Actually there is a ton of stuff I should do and I hope to get it all done. Kind of like getting a jump start on that term paper rather than waiting until the last minute.

So actually, I'll get up at 6:30am and get that run in, start some laundry, finish my workout, and get on with "my stuff to do".

Oh yeah, and eat some rolls.

Kurt

Hey, Hi, Yeah

Yes, I'm doing my Wednesday post on Thursday, and yes, it's Thanksgiving. That means that either a) I'm totally lame, or 2) I am the only one in this house in New York who is on west coast time. Truth to tell, traveling exhausts me, and so does a large family gathering, so really, 2 is bogus. I should be asleep. I just couldn't think of a second thing. The house is dark but for my lights here in the breezeway, and a wee kitteh is attacking my hands and feet, at intervals. She is unbelievably cute, perhaps two pounds of gray tabby gorgeous, and there's nothing she doesn't think is a game set down here on earth for her. My luggage, these many charger cords, a shoe, a lego, a bottle cap, you name it.

So, if you can't think of anything to be thankful for, just say "kittens." I'm telling you, this kind of cute could cure the worlds ills. And the world has so many ills. I'm not saying, "hey, Mumbai, sorry for the recent troubles, have a cat." This advice is for the regular person...the one who has so much of everything, it's obscene. The ones who have never really suffered from anything but bad personal decisions, and yet won't think of bringing home a stray dog, and can't find a thing good to say about their mother on Thanksgiving. But just you wait till that first Thanksgiving they have after their mother dies. Then it's all going to be about how abandoned they feel and how the stuffing will never be the same.

I guess we can blame this on the triptaphan - but in a world that's going to hell in a handbasket, I'm thankful. I'm thankful for my dear good friends, for the fact that the world is still here, for kittens. I'm even thankful for a holiday that makes you think about what you're thankful for. Which is where I end up on the whole question of whether or not we should celebrate on a day that, let's face it, did not bode well for the Indians. I get all that, believe me, but I don't think we're clinking our glasses to the Pilgrims anymore. It's about gathering around a table with people who matter and making sure they know it. It's about the harvest, People, and really appreciating what's what.

So if you're, say, still on the plane, once it's parked at the gate, and you call your ride, and after a short conversation with said chauffeur, have to complain non-stop to your boyfriend for 10 minutes (and maybe more) till they open the g.d. hatch - about that person and their attitude toward you on the phone, and how they should know by now to check a g.d. flight before they leave for the airport, then maybe, just maybe, you should be making other plans for next year. And maybe, if you can promise to do it right, maybe you should get a kitteh.

With thanks,
Jenny

To the Stars of Twilight

Kristen and Robert,

I’m…sorry, are we…bothering you? These millions of screaming fans are so annoying, huh? The instant wealth and popularity and job security (at least for the next couple years) must totally be the lamest. Is this interview too taxing? Because the way you’re slouching with one leg slung over the arm of the comfy chair we provided, massaging your temples and squinting I can’t help but think you must have a horrible migraine or perhaps you’re hungover from a night of underage binge drinking. I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that you’re really suffering from a misplaced and overactive superiority complex that, when combined with your run of the mill teenage angst, makes for a nasty and omnipresent scowl. Right? That’s it, am I right? In the immortal words of Jonathan Schmock as the Chez Quis Maitre D’ in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, “I weep for the future.”

My mother wouldn’t let me so much as shuffle in my flip-flops, let alone allow me leave the house with legwarmers on my arms, not having showered in days. Perhaps you were left at the steps of the Stella Adler Actors Conservatory when you were babies so you don’t have parents telling you to adjust your attitude. But you have publicists and they have to know that you look like a couple of jerks. And I mean that in the nicest way possible as I thought you more than held your own in Panic Room, little Kristen, and Robert, what’s not to like about you in Harry Potter?

Am I jealous? Sure, no doubt about it. Do I wish I had been a rich, gorgeous teen actor? Uh, it was only my life’s dream up until a couple years ago when I realized, to my disbelief, that I was 30 and twice the size of any starlet in the LA area. Am I a “hater” in general? Yep, you got me, and you probably don’t want to get me started on Tropic Thunder. But I’m not wildly off-base, am I? You kids should be a little more polite and animated. I don’t care if you’re “shy,” you’re an actor so act like you’re interested and interesting. Take a page out of Steve Carell’s handbook and show up to interviews humble and giggling and wide-eyed and appreciative and the world will love you for it. Plus, it’s your job, so just do it. At least you don’t have to work at movie theater or Spencer’s Gifts or McDonalds like the rest of us had to as teenagers.

If there is any justice in the universe, when you are in your mid-30s you are going to look back on this time of your life and be horrified by your behavior. You’ll dry heave at random intervals throughout the day due to the embarrassment you’ll feel when you remember how you’d throw your “sexy look” at any camera within range. You’ll consider taking out ads in Variety and The Report to apologize for coming off like you were God’s gift to acting. You’ll agree to appear in a mockumentary about sexy teen actors all grown up and you will be charming and funny because you will realize how ridiculous you once were.

In the meantime, comb your fucking hair, sit up straight and smile, goddamn it!

with love,

Gretchen

Oh, and I really do look forward to seeing your movie, I'll just have to wait until I can get it from netflix. I can’t bring myself to see it in the theaters because the whole idea makes me feel uncomfortable and old.

Confession

This came out more creepy than I intended.--Kurt

Abandoning my post...

Again.

So tie-tie. And I have a cold. Plus there are dishes to do, and knitting orders to complete, and well....yes, TV to watch. I have to round up the cats, and give Louise her insulin, and make coffee for the morning, and brush and floss, and put the laundry away. And it's past midnight. I have to make my list for tomorrow, which includes grocery shopping and the post office, and the pet store. And lets face it, the dishes I didn't do last night and the laundry I didn't fold. Because I'd not doing either of those tonight.

Oh, and a blog post. I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to be talking about what I'm doing. But there you have it. Next week is Thanksgiving, so I'm hoping that engenders more thoughtful post-prose, for both our sakes.

xoxo

Jenny

I just need five more minutes...

I have a problem with the snooze button, you guys. I snoozed for an hour and twenty minutes this morning. Okay, it was only an hour but when the alarm went off I reset it for a half hour later and then proceeded to snooze for nearly an hour when it went off again. I learned the hard way that the snooze function turns off at an hour after the initial alarm sounds because who in their right mind would snooze for over an hour? That’s easy, I would. And this is pretty much the way I’ve been operating for…well, I can’t even remember how long.

And how do I manage this incredible feat morning after morning after morning after morning without disturbing a slumbering Eric next to me? Because I’m sneaky, that’s how. I use the alarm on my cell phone. When it goes off at 6:40am, I reach down and retrieve it (it’s always in the same place so I don’t even have to open my eyes) and silence it with a quick double click of the volume meter. I then stick it under my pillow, my thumb placed on the snooze so that when it goes off at five minute increments I can press the button within a split second of the Jack-Dance theme music starting. And so it goes for an hour, the entire time completely harmless cell phone microwaves travel through my pillow and into my brain making me stronger and smarter and ready to start the day.

One would think that having a sleep interrupted every five minutes would leave a person tired, listless and frustrated. Nah, I’m not usually tired, listless and frustrated until after I get to work but that’s just because I love my job so much.

So what to do? Do I try and break the pattern or do I stick with what makes me happy because it doesn’t seem to have a negative impact? Why mess with it, right? I’ve always been a good sleeper, its one of my strengths and I take an odd sense of pride in being able to fall asleep anywhere at anytime. The snooze is part of me and I don’t want to give it up. It’s my “thing.” I totally have a “thing.” Sweet.

Snooze,

Gretch

Kind of Mother F*@(#$!@% Beer!

In the Burbank Non-International Airport, or "Bob Hope" there's a number of seating areas in between gates. They have no specific gate affiliation, and they're seldom crowded, but the luxury comes at the price of some worries - will I be able to hear them call my flight? How long before departure do they really start boarding? If I pick up all my crap and walk down there to the gate to check, will I lose my awesome, outlet-adjacent seat here in no-man's land? It is so prime!

And no-man's land is sponsored! It's hard to choose between a Las Vegas endorsement and the Budweiser scholarship - today I went with Anheuser Busch, and I think they were pleased that I elected them the King of Beers.

Peter

In the Spirit

I'm really into Christmas this year. I've already seen the decorations in the mall and just today I was at the fancy outdoor mall which is in preparation for their big holiday celebration on Saturday night. If I drank coffee I would go to Starbucks and get a drink in a holiday cup and watch the tree lighting ceremony.

Just the other day I was driving through Griffith Park and they are putting up their holiday lights which are fun to see too. I have even bought some presents already too.

But I don't want to talk about that right now. Right now I'd like to talk to you about something a little more serious: Erectile Dysfunction. I want to book one of those commercials, be it Viagra or Cialis. I want to be in an erectile dysfunction commercial where I run a heavy crane and I can't get the crane to pick up a car or something huge like an aircraft carrier and I go home and my wife is in bed and I put my hand on her shoulder and she turns away from me and turns out the light. The next morning I take 'the little blue pill' and suddenly the sun is shining brightly and my crane is picking up really heavy stuff like volcanos. I go home with my flannel shirt on and my wife, standing there gets immediately turned on and we go upstairs to the bedroom, and you know, do it.

We could do a whole series of commercials where I'm like Johnny Viagra Seed, prancing around the country planting pills in the hands of men instead of apple seeds in the ground. I'd go to strip clubs, coffee houses, anywhere men are that would need my "help". Everywhere I went (I'd be flying in a giant rocket at least the size of a Saturn V) there would be tweeting birds, happy squirrels, and a jester playing a lute heralding my arrival.

That. That is my Christmas wish for myself.

Kurt

Stymied

Seriously, until this week I've been telling myself what a wonderful lesson I'm learning with this weekly blog assignment. "See?" I would say to myself. "Blogs aren't evil after all. Here you are, doing your assignment, and learning how easy it is to come up with something to write about."

Well, my hubris birds are coming back to roost, waxy wings adroop. I got nuthin.'

Sure, technically, I've posted. And I'm not above clinging to that.

Humbly,

Jenny

IT'S GONE!

It’s gone, it’s GONE you guys!

Calm down, Gretchen. Take a deep breath and tell us what happened.

The abandoned car in the parking garage – the maroon two-door sedan with Missouri plates, covered in a half inch of dust – it’s gone!

Okay, it’s going to be okay. Just sit down. Can we get you a cup of coffee?

I don’t want your goddamned coffee! I want to find out what happened to the abandoned car!

Why don’t you just take a moment to calm down and tell us what happened.

What happened is that I pulled into the same parking spot I’ve parked in for over three years and my neighbor, the abandoned car, was GONE. Vanished. Just like its owner. Poof, into thin air. Why today? Why now? What made November 11, 2008 different than any other day in the years since that car has been parked there? Is this the change that Barack promised? Chances are, chances are, it was simply towed away…but what if it wasn’t? What if the owner returned from the past to retrieve the car and I wasn’t there to see it? What if he appeared just outside the elevator bay, four and a half years to the day since he accidentally tripped into that worm hole and was transported back to 1953? Four and a half years later the owner reappeared and reached into his pocket to find the key he’d carried with him every day in case today was the day he was going to be sent back. He shielded his eyes from the cloud of dust that erupted as he opened the door to the maroon sedan with Missouri plates. He slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition and was surprised when the car purred to life without so much as a hiccup. Smiling, he pulled out of the spot and up the two levels to present day Santa Monica. And I wasn’t there to see it!

But, Gretchen, you said yourself that chances are it was simply towed away, finally.

Sure. Sure, it was probably towed away. Fine. It’s just that, it was…

What?

It’s just that that car was one of my favorite things. And now it’s gone. It’s gone.

You really are a drama queen, Gretch.

Wow.

Can I interest you in that coffee now?

Yeah, I guess. (sigh)

I Got A Rock

Anyone who knows me knows that I love Halloween. And for those of you who don’t know me, I LOVE HALLOWEEN! I love it so much in fact, that for a great many years I’ve been purporting to be an “actor” just so that I would consistently have excuses to dress up. And thank god I’m not really pursuing an acting career, as my wardrobe of costumes would be the only evidence of such! That is, as opposed to actual stuff on a resumé. Ha. Haha.

Anyway, back to Halloween. I didn’t literally get a rock, which is unfortunate because that would imply that I got as far as throwing a sheet over myself and actually leaving the house. I didn’t leave the house. And that’s unfortunate because the costume I was working on was way better than Guy Wearing Sheet. And the thing about that is, I was struggling this year to come up with the perfect costume, which for me, is familiar enough that everyone will recognize it, but obscure enough that no one else will have thought of it. I was flirting with the idea of being Joe The Plumber, but dressing as Super Mario with a “J” on my hat instead of an “M.” The “J” being for “Joe,” you see... I know, I wasn’t crazy about that one either. But then, while shopping at a Spirit Halloween Store, I was haunted by the ghost of inspiration. With less than a week to go, I decided to put together a costume that I’d been wanting to do for a while. (Yes, I know I’ve been withholding the specifics of said costume, but with a whole year to go, I can’t be expected to tell you now. Granted, it’s questionable whether I will hold up my end of this blog until next Halloween given that I already haven’t posted in over a month, but sorry folks, that’s how I roll.)

Cut to Halloween night. I had successfully assembled all of the necessary accessories, and was well over the hump of completion. I was putting the finishing touches on my ambiguously awesome costume when disaster struck. As I was hot-glueing a patch of faux fur to the crotch of my pantyhose, my left index finger made contact with the glue. No harm done there, but I flinched and attempted to toss away the fur patch, like you do when your finger touches the hot glue on the back of it, and somehow the scalding swatch somersaulted onto the back of my hand, landing glue-side down across my fingertips. Again I flinched, like you do, and attempted to remove the hot fuzz from my left hand with my right. The following three seconds played out like a torturous gag as each time I attempted to flick it off, it would stick to the digits with which I was attempting to flick it. I hastily bound to my feet, wasting no time in spewing out shits, fucks, and every combination thereof like Exorcist puke. In the midst of my pained rampage of punching and kicking piles of clothes, bags of stuff, etcetera, I reactively tore a chunk of glue off of my middle finger which took with it a generous portion of skin. That was it. I collapsed on my couch, and overcome with painic (pain + panic), proceeded to blackout. It couldn’t have been for long though, as my unfortunate friend, Ged, who had to bear witness to this spectacle, didn’t even notice. I came to, feeling “weird,” and laid down on my bedroom floor with my hands wrapped around a bag of frozen vegetables, where I ached myself to sleep. By the by, I know that frozen peas are the recommended remedy, but mixed veggies were all I had on hand. Pun very much intended.

I awoke later that night feeling the way Linus must have felt after being stiffed by The Great Pumpkin. Halloween was over and I missed it. But considering that Linus didn’t burn the shit out of his hand, I would’ve gladly taken his experience over my own. In fact, I would’ve taken the experience of any of those Peanuts over my own. Even kissing a dog. But I’ll be back next year...with a fur-y. No pun intended.

- Mitchell

Never in a MILLION YEARS!!

This is going to be a short post this week.

I went to the cinema the other day and I saw Zack and Miri Make a Porno. There is NO WAY that a girl that hot would have anything to do with a guy that looks and acts like that!! Sure there are lots of instances of an ugly guy with a hot girl, but that is because the guy has a lot of money and can get good looking girls that balances out his looks. But in this movie and in a lot of the old CBS sitcoms where the frumpy guy has a hot wife is NOT REALITY.

I don't know what women want, but I do know they don't want a frumpy guy that can make them laugh.

Hot women don't like frumpy guys that are losers. Are you listening Hollywood!? Stop making fantasy movies about a crazy alternative universe where hot women sleep with, let alone even talk to loser guy.

Just stop it.

Kurt

The Land of Hope and Dreams

Well. I guess I should say something profound, but honestly, I'm not up to it. I, like Gretchen, am worn out. I am happy, yes. In fact, her words do reflect the feelings of this Big Hollywood member, but I don't cry as much. I think I should cry more, but that's a post for a much more serious blog.

But, it is serious, isn't it? It's rather a new feeling for us Democrats, this hopeful something, this giddy whatever. It's unfamiliar, and I'm nervous but excited about it. This is what the conservatives were trying so hard to hold on to. I can see where it would be hard to give up. But you have to share. You do.

My happiness is tempered, however. I am just so saddened by the apparent approval of Prop Hate, the constitutional amendment to define marriage in California as between a man and a woman. This way, if you ask the Mormons (who donated millions,) the world won't collapse. Our moral center (whatever that is) will remain strong. I, personally, have a marshmallow center. I don't believe in any organized religious anything, frankly, and yet I think about things like right and wrong, and good and bad. I daresay I think about these things more than a lot of the people who were giving so much money to the Yes on 8 cause. I'm trying to figure out who it hurts to treat everyone equally. I guess I bought the whole Constitution thing. Call me a cock-eyed optimist. Call me a citizen of these United States of America.

Maybe I'm the wrong person to ask. My husband and I were deeply honored in July to be asked to witness the wedding of two women we love very much, and who love each other very much. We were there. Our signatures are on the marriage certificate which is now framed and hanging on the wall in their house. You can't tell me that didn't happen, or that we didn't sign it, or that they aren't married. They got married when they did, for my husband Mark's sake. They wanted him to be a witness, and he was very ill and in the hospital. So they came to the ICU, after work on the 3rd of July, with a good friend who would officiate. And there amidst the whirring machines on the busy floor, they pledged their troth. It was just eight days before Mark died. Their ceremony was perhaps not ideal, given the hospital situation. But it was lovely. It was meaningful. And it was legally binding. I don't think this proposition undoes that, and it pisses me off that others think it does. It just makes frightened people feel better.

Maybe, given the cancer and the aforementioned death of my husband, I have a different perspective. One that goes like this: we have more important work to do. Now, yes, it's a free country, and you can run and hide, and pretend the world isn't the way the world is. You can imagine that the existence of gay people in serious relationships with one another can somehow diminish your life. But try turning your energies toward more positive pursuits. Use your time and money for good.

How about feeding the hungry? I bet you'd feel pretty good about that. Start a community garden. Involve yourself in your kid's education. Donate clothes to a shelter. Rescue a pound puppy or kitten. Teach people to read. There's just so much to be done. Look around, and fucking get something done. Something positive. Something that Jesus would do.

OK, hopefully happier, funnier things next time. I do have hope, all evidence to the contrary.

Jenny

The Election Trail of Tears

This election has worn me out. I’m so tired of crying. Seriously. More often than not they are tears of hope, love and excitement. I cried behind my huge sunglasses while waiting in line at my West Hollywood polling place this morning, moved by the turnout of my neighbors both young and old. I couldn’t help but feel so incredibly lucky to be participating in such a historic election. And the tears they did flow. I cry with pride when I hear updates from my dear friend Padma who’s been in Camp Obama these last few weeks, knocking on doors in Nevada, blogging for the Huffington Post and overall fighting the good fight. I couldn’t stop crying the day I found out my 51 year-old uncle registered to vote in Colorado. My mom called me from inside Mile High stadium in Denver back in June while Barack delivered his speech accepting the Democratic nomination. I couldn’t hear a thing, but I cried. My dad volunteered as a driver for the DNC and I cried quietly as he told me stories of the overwhelmingly positive energy and sheer numbers of those at the convention. I cried after hanging up with my mom yesterday, she’d called to let me know that my brother had voted for Barack. She was crying lots of happy tears as she told me – guess I know where I get it from.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say some tears of fear snuck their way in there. Fear and frustration and anger. There was a kid waving a “Yes on 8” sign on my way in to work this morning and I yelled “BOOOO” at him. My voice was full of such anger and derision, that I almost didn’t recognize it. Then I cried in embarrassment, because you can't fight hate with hate (even though yelling at that little homophobic a-hole felt awesome). Watching Sarah Palin at the Republican National Convention confused me so much that I couldn’t find words much less tears. But once the crazies started coming out of the woodwork to support her, I cried in sadness that there is half of this country that I don’t understand at all and with whom I’m sure I will never agree on anything. And then the tears of sadness turned to those of horror, knowing that the vote of a narrow-minded, homophobic, racist out there counts just as much as mine. And that just makes me want to drive to a trucker bar on the California/ Nevada border and pick a fist-fight with the biggest guy I can find. I’d probably cry in pain if I managed to survive that.

I cried when I saw the documentary Young @ Heart a couple weeks ago. It had nothing to do with the election but it made me cry so hard that my eyes were swollen for two days. But still, my tear ducts weren’t done.

I cry when I think about the future. The near future of a few hours from now - I imagine the networks calling the election for Barack and I crumple into a ball of relief. And the far off future when my kids will ask me what it was really like during the Bush Administration and what it felt like to have Barack come on the scene. And I will tell them of the time way back in 2004 while driving home from work I listened to the Democratic National Convention on NPR and there was this guy whose name I didn’t get but who delivered a speech full of such hope and beauty that I found myself moved to tears. And that man was Barack Obama and how I felt like I discovered a band before anybody else had heard of them. So I cry thinking about a future in which I’m telling a story about a time I cried in my past. Do you see how crazy this is becoming?

I cried the entire time I wrote this post and I think my assistant is scared.

I’m going to try and keep myself hydrated,

Gretch

*my views do not necessarily reflect those of the other Big Hollywood Big Time Big Shots. We don't talk about politics which is probably why we've remained friends all these years.

Moving Day(s)

I moved this past week, and let me tell you, it's not anything new to me. In the past four years, I have moved all or partially 4 or 5 times. Sure that first one was the worst. Emotionally unready to leave my 7+ year cloister on the second floor of a most perfect apartment, I bought a house that was not much bigger and no where near any place I knew. That one was rough. I had barely packed - without friends, I'd be living out of U-Haul truck now.

Then I moved North. In stages, and in varying degrees of readiness. I've been spread over 400 miles of I-5 for the past 20 months, as well as over the 49 square miles of SF, and the 280 to San Jose. You get used to it: the boxes, the missing glasses, the giving away of the ONE thing you need two weeks later. 5 days prior to taking my new apartment, I had unpacked boxes that had been packed some 4 years earlier. Perfect.
I have always relied on the kindness of strangers friends for my moves - and I had caused them all a lot of grief for that kindness. Unpacked kitchens, Thanksgiving traffic jams, cold pizza - the list goes on. This one would be different, organized and smooth. And for the most part it was. Materials largely ready, enough boxes, plans made - and it went according to them.

But in the middle of the smoothest move of my life, surrounded by laughing and smiling faces, I heard a snap: it was the camel's back, and that was it. I'm done. No more of this. Maybe it was because I wasn't stressed enough about the move to avoid thinking about how ridiculous it was that I'm having my friends help me move. I think I probably spent more money doing it that way than renting two dudes and a truck. I'd be much happier buying friends beers for fun than for lifting heavy things. I mean, they're my friends - why would I make them lift stuff??

Anyway. In a year or two or three, will see if my newly held conviction holds up, but for now…I'm done.

Peter

Stop it, you're blowing my mind!!

We are drinking too much water in this country. The "Big Water" lobby has been doing their job because for the last 10 years or so, we Americans have been drinking a lot.

If you walk across the street, open a letter, or vacuum the carpet someone will tell you that you better have/take a water. I'm going to the Moon, take a water. I'm breaking up with my girlfriend, have a water. I'm picking up my son's birthday cake at Baskin-Robbins, take a water.

Water, water, everywhere, and not enough to drink.

In like, the end of 1979 I saw a news magazine type show on NBC that was doing a story on Perrier. This was amazing to me. These crazy French people bottle water? And sell it!? I've never heard of such a thing. Who would do that? Water is free, why would you want to pay for it? Why don't you put some poop in a plastic bag I'll take it with me. This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen.

A couple of months later I'm at the movies watching American Gigolo. Richard Gere, who is the American Gigolo sits down at an outdoor cafe (don't get me started on how crazy that was at the time to me) and guess what? He orders a Perrier! What the? I know what that is, its water! The American Gigolo, the guy that hangs upside down while working on his Swedish phrases and gets to have sex with that gap-toothed angel Lauren Hutton (I wanted to marry her but long before I saw her in American Gigolo, if you haven't seen her in Paper Lion, uhhmmm, can't type now, biting the fleshy part of my hand) then blows my mind by asking for a lime with his Perrier! Stop it, I can't take it!! You're paying for water and you're putting lime in it? First of all, what's a lime? You are off the reservation my friend. What's next, A1 Steak Sauce on your Big Mac?

The whole point is this: I'm not suggesting we stop drinking water, but please, drink less. And for heaven's sake, don't put a lime in it!

Kurt

On Finishing Last

Being committed as I am to fairness, justice, and being nice, life can sometimes be hard. I'm a nice person, but that doesn't mean I don't know you're stepping on me. It doesn't mean I don't know that you've cut me out, flipped me off, taken advantage, or otherwise put yourself ahead of me. I assure you, I do. I make no claim to sainthood. That person, who makes like they want to turn right into traffic but then upon my go-ahead noses out to sit in front of me and hold up everyone who does follow the rules, while they wait for clear room to make their illegal and downright rude LEFT? That person? I hate that person with the fire of a thousand suns. And is there a thank-you wave? No. More often, there is a sneer of contempt. "Sucker!" they seem to sneer. "What an ass."

The problem is, it's just too easy to think that you should be rewarded for being good. Similarly, no one who is bad appears to be punished, in particular. I mean, you can console yourself with dreams of karmic retribution, or say things like "what goes around comes around," but I've been around long enough to get pretty darn cynical about the likelihood that any of us will truly get what we deserve, good or bad. The good do die young, but so do the a-holes, in equal measure. And bad things happen to all of us. So what's the point, really?

The point is, I have made a decision to conduct my life in a certain way, and while I'm tested almost daily by those have never bothered to give it a thought, I remain true. This is what I want: I want to like the person I am.

And yes, I know. I will finish last, behind all those who made the left, those smoking cigars in outside eateries, and the loud sighers on the slow-moving lines at the grocery store, who yell into their cell phones about how long it's taking.

I was recently in the parking lot of a small mall, and much to my surprise there was an available spot for me. As I traveled along, following the very clearly displayed arrows toward the spot - I was the only one on my way there; it was mine - someone pulled into the lot from the street, went against the arrows and took the spot. Just like that, my spot was gone, and my world was dimmer. I stopped behind him, in disbelief. I imagined all the things I might do to him, his car, his smirky assface. I was, simply, enraged. It was so clearly, patently my rightful spot, and he so clearly, patently didn't care. But here's the thing. I am never going to be the person who behaves that way. And so, I have to get used to getting shit on by people who do. So I breathed deep, and proceeded to the underground parking area, and except for the hit my hope for humanity took, no worse off. I haven't forgotten him, and I don't think I ever will. Again, I can't claim I am more forgiving than the next guy. I'm probably not. But. There's a pretty good chance I'm nicer.

So, see you at the end of the line.

Jenny

A blog post about Magic Eye pictures...really?

On my most recent trip to the dentist I was reminded of a nearly forgotten-about disorder I have. I don’t like my dentist. Don’t get me wrong, I used to love going to the dentist and I take caring for me teeth very seriously. But the dentist I’ve had for the last several years is…well…let’s just say his bedside manner leaves something to be desired. And the only reason I haven’t found another dentist is because I fear hurting this guy’s feelings - that’s an issue to be dealt with in another blog post. Anyhoodle, I’m sitting in the waiting room perusing through the magazines on the side table, when I find a book at the bottom of the stack. A book of Magic Eye pictures. Without hesitation I covered it up with all the Angelina Jolie magazines I could find and sat quietly with my hands in my lap.

I’ve never been able to do the Magic Eye pictures. And before you say “You’re not doing it right, they’re really easy,” let me assure you that I’ve tried everything. “But Gretchen, it’s so eas–“ whoa, whoa, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but what did I just say? Read my lips…I can’t do them. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the entire world was messing with me - that it’s been some sort of elaborate practical joke and there really aren’t any imbedded images behind the kaleidoscope of colors. But the idea of millions of people playing a decades-long practical joke on just one person is too self-centered - even for me.

I’ve squinted and softened my focus and crossed my eyes – but I just don’t have whatever it takes to make the illusive 3D object appear. That is to say, I hear they’re three dimensional, but really I’ve been taking everyone’s word for it all these years. “Just relax,” I used to tell myself, “just relax into it and you’ll be able to see the dolphin/ship/flower/skull everyone claims is hidden in the painting.” Inevitably, however, I’d do the exact opposite of relaxing and panic instead. I began to convince myself that focused staring would bring on a migraine or brain aneurism. I feared that somehow my optic nerve would snap and flail about in my skull like a rope hanging untethered from a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. So I’d shut my eyes tight, ending any chance I might have had to crack the Magic Eye code.

It used to be a bigger deal, of course. I wonder how many mall kiosks around the country were devoted to framed Magic Eye art at the height of the craze. It was like everywhere I turned I was reminded of how my disorder kept me from a happiness everyone else seemed to enjoy. Even my grandparents had a Magic Eye book back in the day. It was right there on the bottom coffee table shelf, along with the Jeff Foxworthy “You Might Be A Redneck If…” books that never failed to make my grandfather light up and giggle. I can picture my cherubic brother, curled up in the recliner with Poppy Cliff, flipping through the Magic Eye book, both of them pointing out the pictures. I pretended not to care. I pretended that Danger Mouse was more interesting than any stupid 3D Magic Eye picture. I pretended that my disorder wasn’t affecting my relationships and that my grandparents could still love me and my brother equally. But it was a hard pill, even for a kid, to swallow. “Look at me, look at me, Poppy, I’m tap dancing! I’m…tap…dancing!”

Does anyone know a good dentist in West Hollywood?
Sniffle sob,

Gretch

This is supposed to be a dinosaur. I don’t get it.

Who is Victoria and what's her Secret?

Recently I have received 2 coupons for a free cotton panty at Victoria's Secret. Just today I got my Victoria's Secret 2008 Christmas catalog. Which makes me wonder if they have a Jewish version? That is not my point. First of all, the paper stock they use for this thing is heavy, and from my time in my father's printing shop, I know that is expensive. This is not the flimsy paper from your Land's End or FingerHut catalogs, this is the stuff diplomas are written on.

On the first pages inside, there a lots of pretty women in lingerie. I see the Wonder Bra is still going strong. Ooh, on pg. 17 I see you can get any 3 panties for $30. The nighty section is only two pages long sandwiched by bra and panty sets followed eventually by your more daring lingerie but not quite Frederick's of Hollywood. The rest of the catalog is filled with boring photos of women wearing coats and sweaters. For those of you keeping score at home, I like the pictures on pages 5, 9, and 13. You'll notice that those are in the front of the catalog in the lingerie section. In case you haven't figured this out... I'm a guy.

When I got home today I saw the Christmas catalog in my stack of mail, and my roommate assumed that I'd like to look at her catalog, since I'm a guy. Well, she was shocked to find out that it was sent to me. Yup. Right there on the back is my name and address, plain as day. Suck it.

I secretly love getting my Victoria's Secret catalog, and I love to know when they're having a bra event or perfume sale. But the best is when I get the cotton panty coupons. I give them to a lady friend of mine and it is completely non-sexual. I mean, I can't use it, and I don't leer at her and say, "I'd like to see you in it."

I did have a twinge today of calling them and asking to be taken off of their mailing list (I really have no idea how I got on this list), but I said to myself... embrace it. So that's what I'm going to do.

So if any of you ladies need a free cotton panty, you know where to look. Don't forget I'm a guy, and if you show me yours I'll show you mine.

Kurt

The Green Diary

I don't do the journal thing. I do still have a diary from when I was little. It’s one of those five-year ones with a lock on it, which is attached to the back of the book by what I now see is a paper tab. Not exactly Fort Knox, but it does just a good enough job. I was consumed by a fear that I would lose the key and never be able to get back in. It would never have occurred to me to tear through the tab, though, I can promise you that. I also never wrote anything in it worth locking up. My sister Elena gave it to me the Christmas I was 11, and I want to share a few thoughts from across the years.

January 2: Today was...eh. I played outside and Lisa finished her art project and I wrote a poem about cats. It was boring.
January 3: Today was the first day of school for the New Year. It was boring.
January 4: Today was BORING (ed. note: This is in capitals, with 25 exclamation points.)
January 5: Today was boring also.
January 6: BORING! I don’t have a very interesting life.

This kind of daily checking in becomes too much for me then, and I refrain from recording any diary entries until there’s something really important to say, like on the 6th of February, which was the year anniversary of our cat Pinky’s arrival at our house, and on February 11th, I got a new coat, Valentine’s day, Grandma’s birthday, and so on. On June 2nd, my teacher gave me “another trouble note.” Which is weird, I was a really good kid. But I did hate my 6th grade teacher with the fire of a thousand suns, so maybe that’s not so crazy. He was an a-hole. They must not have meant very much, because I don’t remember them, and you’ll find I can remember quite a bit. A year later, in July, my mother “yelled like crazy over paper bags”, and two days after that, “Mom said Daisy is her best daughter. We got into another fight.” Daisy was our poodle, by the by, and given to unprovoked attacks. So that was nice.

Boring! I can’t believe how often that word came up. I never use that word now - it just doesn’t enter into my life, at all. I always have big projects going, all three of us Noa girls do. My sister Lisa has a theory that we do it on purpose, so that we never feel bored. That our projects will never be finished so that we can stave off this mood that hung over us when we were kids. Like, I have my recipes and photos to organize, Christmas craft projects, a career to plan and a baby quilt to make. This way, I’m not bored, I’m just procrastinating. It feels better. There is anxiety, yes, but with boredom, it’s Despair. No?

Must dash - so many things to do.

Jenny

Gonna Go Back In Time

As I set the alarm on my phone last night, I noticed that the date was a full two days off. My immediate reaction was not “There must be some bug in my phone’s hardware and this is what I get for always going for the free phone rather than actually spending money on a better model.” It was not “I bet this has something to do with the day last week when my phone refused to receive or transmit any calls.” No, my immediate reaction was… “I wonder if I traveled through time.” When I was brushing my teeth it was Monday but just a couple minutes later it was, according to my cheap phone, Wednesday. Amazingly enough, time travel doesn’t feel any different than climbing into bed. Okay, so it’s not probable...but it’s certainly possible.

There’s an abandoned car in the parking garage of my office building. I have no idea how long it’s been there but I first noticed it about three years ago when I started parking in a different spot. It’s a maroon two-door with Missouri plates, covered in a half inch of dust and I now park next to it every morning because I like being that close to a mystery. Why would someone abandon a car? Perhaps the owner was trying to flee an abusive husband and she had to leave all traces of her previous life behind. Maybe the owner was arrested at work, thrown directly in jail and couldn’t collect his car because he was denied bail. Those are both very viable explanations, sure. But you know what I think? I think the owner stumbled into a wormhole on the way to the elevator and is now stuck in the Santa Monica of the mid 1950’s. Why not, right?

I’ve seen Donnie Darko. The Director’s Cut. I guilted Albers into buying it for me. And on the third viewing it made sense. I’m not going to sit here and explain it to you because you should really see the movie. But let’s just say I traveled forward and then backward in time in the span of typing this sentence. I’m sure some mathematician would tell me I did not, in fact, travel forward and backward in time while typing. And then he would point to a bunch of numbers and squiggles on a dry-erase board to prove to me that time travel is impossible. Well I don’t understand what those numbers and squiggles mean and I also don’t understand why that mathematician is such a buzz kill. Just let me travel through time in peace, you buttface. You don’t see Will Hunting trying to rain on some time traveler’s parade, do you? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Oh…Will Hunting was a math whiz from south Boston played by Matt Damon in the Oscar winning film Good Will Hunting (I just don’t want you to be confused in case you are reading this as a time traveler from 1996).

See you yesterday,

gretch

Shibboleth

There are these - let's call them 'people' - who spend their lives gaming systems, paradigms, environments, what have you. Then they write about their great insights, tips 'n' tricks, solutions, and so on - in places such as Yahoo! Answers or Bottom Line, the Wall Street friggin' Journal, for crying out loud. Here's an example: "Book your reservations toward the start of the week - the airlines raise the prices throughout the week, then lower them Monday and Tuesday."

Huh. That's weird. Because these prices look HIGHER to me. What the F?? Don't write it if it's not true. That's just mean.

But really, it's my fault, I've been trying to make hay out of the sunshine that these consumer advisors blow out their collective asses for years, and I don't think I have ever seen a concrete example of its efficacy. But like every American, I'm looking for a magic bullet. Something along the lines of "book your Delta flight online between 2 and 4 a.m. online on the Continental site (don't use wireless!) and your flight will be FREE." Doesn't exist.

Peter

Aliens Among Us

I was a big fan of the show Third Rock From The Sun – I thought the writing was smart and tender, the performances were great and Kristen Johnston is the only actress I ever remind anyone of so I feel like I’m kind of “in” the show. And it taught me a valuable lesson, that there are most likely aliens living among us and that it will be their behavior, not their enormous heads, independently moving antennae or laser guns, that will give them away.

The guy who’s never flown before.
He waits until he is the very next in line for the metal detector to start putting his stuff in the plastic bins destined for the x-ray machine. He doesn’t make it through the metal detector because his pockets are still full of change. Yeah, dude, that needs to go in the plastic bin. Doesn’t make it through the second time either because didn’t take off his shoes. Seriously, guy? Was it the repeated yelling by the TSA agent “all shoes must go through the x-ray!” or the multiple pictographs of shoes being put into a plastic bins that you didn’t catch? Is this really your first time on an airplane? You are in your thirties, you seem to have grasped the concept of texting on your cell phone, but you’ve never been on a plane before? The reason you are so cavalier with airport security and, even more importantly, with my valuable people-watching time at the gate is because this is your first time flying? Or is the real reason that your mothership dropped you off in Southern Florida, with an iPod and designer jeans and the mission of flying cross-country, without giving you the necessary information to make it through airport security?
Alien.

The woman who's never ordered coffee.
She stares at the menu board, something she could have done while waiting in the twenty person-deep line but instead she waits until she’s in front of the only working register while the line grows and snakes behind her. “What am I going to have?” she actually has the gall to say out loud and people audibly sigh in frustration behind her. Lady, the menu board is the same in every Tullys, in every Starbucks, in every independent mom-and-pop coffee shop across the country. It’s not a complicated unit conversion - a venti is a large; a grande is a medium; a tall, I know it’s counter-intuitive, but a tall is a small, And you, lady, you are an idiot. You’re telling me this is your first time in a coffee shop? This is your first time ever ordering a coffee?
Alien.

Lance Reddick.
Have you seen the way this guy walks? He’s either the coolest man on earth or an alien trying to convince us he’s the coolest man on earth.
Alien

meep morp bleep blop,
gretch

Make it Work

Cincinnati Bengals, listen to me. You need new uniforms. You've had those sorry tiger striped disasters on for over 20 years now. They were ugly then and they're ugly now. Your team will always be a loser until you get new uniforms. Did a fourth grader design your uni's? Did they let the janitor at NFL Properties design your uni's? Black and orange are great colors, but c'mon, with tiger stripes?

If your uniform was a contestant on Project Runway, Top American Designer Michael Kors would say, "Cincinnati Bengals, your look is too matchy matchy", and Nina Garcia, Editor-at-large for Elle Magazine would say, "There is no cohesion. The pants are white, the helmet is orange with what are those tiger stripes? I don't think you thought this out. It looks very thrown together." This is where Michael would chime in and say, "... and that crotch is a disaster." I can hear Heidi Klum saying, "It looks like a mess to me. No?" A hot mess.

And what is up with the name Bengals? How many bleeping Bengal Tigers are there roaming South West Ohio? I'll tell you, none. I know you have beavers and squirrels in Ohio, why don't you change your name to something like that? Or how about changing your name to the 'Ligers', from Napoleon Dynamite?

Bengals, listen to me!!!! Get new uniforms. Start with the colors (which I said were fine), and come up with something different. I don't care if you smack a tiger decal on the side of your helmets, but no stripes. Say it with me, no stripes! Why don't you change your colors to teal and green, no wait, that's the Dolphins.

Mark my words, you will not win until you look good. When you look good, you feel good.

As Tim Gunn would say, "Make it work!"

Yo, Bra!

I was forced to go bra shopping last week, due to a limited time offer on my new Macy's card, and the fact that It Was Past Time that I do so. Now you menfolk can just move on to the next post/site/game/whatever, but it would behoove you to understand more about what makes women tick/ticked off. And nothing can do that in the same way that bra shopping can.

Now, I can't speak for A cups. This is about C+ cups. Because something happens in the upper ranges of sizing....something nefarious and cruel. I think it might be some sort of social experiment.

First, you have to find the right one - amidst all the brands, colors, sizes, wireless/underwire, push-up, minimized, padded, sheer, strap configuration, and so on. If it meets all your criteria, that's great, but it's no guarantee that your boobs won't look too smushed together or too far apart when under your clothes. So you have to take off your top and bra, put on the new one, jump up and down a little to make sure you don't get "bubble-boobs" and then put your shirt back on to see how they fare, but you'll have to pretend there isn't a huge hanging label down one side. If it's a lacy cup, or if there's a seam running across the cup, does it show through the shirt? And what if the bra has a PDNA? That's "Pre-Determined Nipple Area" for those of you just joining us. Yes, to add to the insanity, some of the designers have decided for you where your nipple goes.

If you are lucky enough to find one that fits, then you have to hang onto it like grim death. Because there's no telling where it came from in that sea of simulated silk ta-tas. Because by now, you'll be pretty dizzy and disoriented. If you find your way back to the right rack, you will be very lucky to find more of the exact kind you are holding. And if (heaven forfend) you can only find ones in different colors, then you have to try each of them on, because it makes a difference. Different fabrics, different dye lots, different sewers....all of this matters. The safest thing to do is also the most soul-crushing: try them all on now.

Oh, and they cost a fortune. If you're a size that's carried in your average lingerie department, well you'll only pay between $25 and $40 per brassiere, but if you're larger, then you're talking about online specialty stores and custom building which can cost more than $100 per.

Would it surprise you to find out that most of the bra designers are men? Not me. To make your own customers do all this - well, folks, that takes balls.