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.

In Xanasphere, did Kubla Blog a stately pleasure Post decree

As I sat at the train station, blogging and strung out from the road - and several giant bowls of the finest opium - a vision came to me. A vision of unparalleled blogfection - a post so magnificent that any who gazed upon it would transcend. And as word traversed the giant orb upon which we live, people would come from all points to read - no matter how unread was their email client and news aggregator. All who answered its siren's call would know immediately that once they too drank from the waters of this blog post, they would know all there was to know, never again feel pain, live forever in perfect joy and harmony. Economists would read the post and right all financial woes. Politicians, once knowing the post, would end all strife, woe, and war. Enlightened artists would merely gaze upon the subject line, drop to their knees, and immediately commence to create art so beautiful and magnificent that every being that beheld it would weep for days for happiness, knowing they had been touched by a hand that had touched the face of this blog post.

But just at the precise moment when my hands descended upon the keyboard to forever change everything, some douchebag tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to watch his bags while he went to the can. Jesus! Just take them in there with you! What the Hell???

And I turned back to begin again, but like the 6:43 to Tallahassee, the vision was gone.

Now is the time. I need to get to a Halloween Superstore. The universe is indeed telling me that my window of opportunity will close unless I get to the nearest Halloween Superstore... and buy an Abraham Lincoln outfit. I don't have to buy the most expensive one in the store, I am sure a costume made of acetate, and able to be stored in a plastic Vons's bag is fine and exactly what I need.

Due to my schedule this year, and other factors, I have had five auditions this year. Four of them have been for commercials. One of those four commercial auditions was a voice-over and although I did get called back, I did not receive the job. The other three auditions have been for commercials where I was expected to be... Abraham Lincoln.

What are you trying to tell me Universe?

I go to these auditions and there are men there in the full Abe Lincoln get-up... the beard, glasses sometimes, long black coat, hat, etc., you get the idea. These guys all look like Abe Lincoln. I don't. I even asked a casting director if he had any advice on what to do in this situation and all he said was, "They're going to hire a guy that looks like Abe Lincoln. You're not going to get the job. Just do the best you can." And I do.

The thing about these auditions is that some of these guys get it wrong. When they say they want Abe Lincoln, they want the Abe on the $5 bill, and that is the Abe costume that I think the universe is telling me to buy. But on occasion you'll see a guy there as Black Hawk War Abe Lincoln. Black Hawk War guy has on a tri-corner hat, a tan, tan for God's sake mid-thigh jacket, and a powder horn over his shoulder, and a flintlock. Dude, was your rail splitter outfit at ye olde cleaners?

A friend of mine suggested that instead of my normal picture I hand the casting director a 5 dollar bill, or a penny taped to my resume.

It's an election year and surely that is why there is an upswing in Abe showing up in commercials, but I still don't know if the universe is telling me something or just messing with me. 'Cause if the universe is messing with me, I shall have my revenge.

I'll get back to you on that, but in the meantime I'm going to check out the Halloween Store before it closes.

Wednesday's Child is Full of Woe

I forgot to call my nephew on his birthday yesterday. OK, he's three (and ONE DAY) but that doesn't mitigate the seriousness of this transgression. I'm drenched in shame. Awash in regret. And there is nothing to be done now except assign blame.

First, my actual excuses.

• I am not working currently, and so all my days feel like Saturdays. It's true. I don't know what the date is, and when I do, it doesn't seem to mean anything.
• I ordered his present on Saturday, and I think my brain thought it was done with its responsibilities. Yes, I ordered it too late to arrive on time, what's your point?
• I was recently widowed, will that work here? I'm trying it everywhere.
  

Now, my sisters and I routinely wonder about whether or not our father will remember our birthdays, let alone those of his grandchildren, and I'm sorry that neither of my sisters saw fit to save me from joining his particular club. The boy's mother, sure, can be forgiven. It's a delicate thing, isn't it, to call one that one is sure forgot another's birthday. Mustn't jump the gun. But this should be about the children. The child deserves better. Why, at the tender age of three, must he learn that his Titi Jenny is a complete and total loser? Never mind that it's true. Couldn't the village band together this once and preserve his innocence for just a little longer? My other sister, my nephew's Titi Elena, is gratifyingly taking on much of the blame. I accept that, though it doesn't help with the totality of my anguish over this. It's like putting a cherry on a shit sundae. I appreciate the gesture, but it still tastes like shit.

I now must Implement a Plan. One that ensures (ENSURES, I say!) that this sort of thing never happens again. I'm saved only by wee James' age and the hope that I live long enough to make up for this somehow. I'm sorry it had to be him, but I've hit my rock bottom. I will purchase a birthday calendar that I can hang here by the desk, and will sign up for those computerized reminder services that I've eschewed until now. This I swear: NO BIRTHDAY SHALL PASS WITHOUT A TIMELY GREETING FROM TITI JENNY, EARLY ON THE DAY IN QUESTION.

Titi Jenny

Take a Look, It's in a Book...Reading Rainbow

I made my way down the crowded bus aisle and grabbed onto the back of a seat as we lurched forward into traffic. I steadied myself and looked up to see a hulking man in front of me glance up from his book. The Road by Cormac McCarthy. My eyes grew wide with excitement because I loved-loved this book. I’d torn through it; I hadn’t been able put it down. It is beautiful and painful and heartbreaking and frightening and McCarthy is a storyteller unlike any other. I was angry with myself that I’d waited over a year to take my friend Kacey’s advice to read it – a whole year. It had been a month since I’d read it but my feelings for The Road were still fresh and dewy and I immediately felt a kinship with this man reading in front of me, as if he and I had this deep connection somehow. I wanted to sidle up to him and tell him how much I loved the book and find out his thoughts on the first half. But who really wants to get stuck in a conversation with strange woman on a bus, regardless of how well intentioned and normal this strange woman may be? The answer is, of course, no one. So I just made my way past him and found a seat in the back.

I settled into my new book, but I just couldn’t focus. The incident with the man and The Road got me thinking about my relationship with books. There are many that stir up incredibly strong feelings for me; those that were read at especially important times in my life and those that made my life more important by reading them. I’d never thought about books being able to conjure the past, at least not in the same way that a certain song or smell is able to trigger the most vivid of memories. But I was wrong. Just like Iggy Pop’s “Lust For Life” sends me back to my sophomore year of college, getting ready for a house party (applying false eyelashes with rubber cement because I didn’t have any non-toxic eyelash glue), or how the smell of angel food cake transports me back to my grandmother’s brown and orange kitchen on a hot Colorado afternoon – there are some books that have the ability to take me back to specific places in my history.

I read Immortality for the first time while studying abroad in Rome. My whole life was bursting open with opportunity and possibility and I devoured the book like I devoured all the fresh pasta and cheap wine I could, with gusto. I felt like I was the first American girl to walk the streets of Trastevere, everything so new and different. And I felt like the first reader to discover Milan Kundera, so brilliant and beautiful. I gained confidence with every new day, with every new chapter. It’s hard for me to even hear the name Milan Kundera without wanting to pack a bag and head off for an adventure.

My college roommate and one time close friend, Jung, highly recommended Snow Falling on Cedars. I finished it while on the train, as we chugged along from Spain to France. Our traveling companion Matt giggled as I threw the paperback at a sleeping Jung, telling her where exactly she could stick that the sappy, manipulative piece of crap. We haven’t spoken in eight years. I can’t totally fault our differing opinions on the book in our friend break-up, but it certainly couldn’t have helped.

I started Bridget Jones’ Diary the first night I spent alone in Los Angeles. A friend of my great-aunt had begrudgingly agreed to let me stay in the apartment over her garage in Agoura Hills for a couple weeks until I got my bearings. It smelled like mothballs. The TV was off limits and my mom had just returned home to Colorado. I was completely freaked out. The book, along with my Men at Work Greatest Hits CD, helped me get through those first few days. Then Renee Zellwigger had to go and screw it up, kinda like she screws up everything.

I drank endless cups of coffee at my kitchen table, while reading Atonement and refreshing my hotmail account every five seconds to see if that boy had written me back. Reading an epic love story in the earliest stages of a relationship is pretty intimidating. I was calmed by the fact that I didn’t have a younger sister or a library.

I started Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone during my lunch break, sitting on a cold concrete bench in the shadow of the Century City Towers. It was my first temp assignment in the corporate world – my stomach was twisted in knots all day, I was scared shitless. I felt like a little kid dressed up in big girl clothes (specifically red slacks...yes, slacks), pretending to be a business lady. Reading Harry Potter certainly didn’t make me feel any more grown up. That was a horrible day, and I feel sick even thinking about it. Seven years later and I’m still here, I sure showed them…or is it the other way around? At least I ditched the red slacks.

Shout-outs also go to The Dollhouse Murders and A Wrinkle in Time and The Rainbow Goblins and Don’t Get Too Comfortable (even though it’s an audiobook it still counts).

Thanks for indulging me in my trip down memory lane,

gretch

Pros and Cons

I went to look at a place yesterday. This "place" as I call it, was actually an apartment. With a bedroom. And a stove. The rent is a little lower, and it's right next to a great friend of mine. I could walk to the bus to work, instead of driving 8 miles - so that's a positive and a cost savings as well. Plus it's way more in the heart of things, rather than in the stix, where I live now. And an awesome living room.

But it's not that much cheaper. It's still really, really far from my work. And it's way smaller than my current place. The fridge is tiny, there's no real place to eat, and who knows where this economy is heading??? I mean it's CRAZY out there, and people are panicking - cut it out by the way, you're fucking it up for all of us.

And then I make a pros and cons list. For some reason, this always makes me feel like an idiot. Writing down ones concerns on a piece of paper - or in this case, in a spreadsheet - really exposes one as a moron. Phrases like "closer to shit" and "more Rock Band"...I'm not saying those things aren't super important, but on paper, they sound really stupid.

Anyway, I was hoping if I put them into a blog, sort of stream of conscious-like, it might somehow appear less silly. Thanks for your time (which, by the way, I can control - but that's a different post).

Sick 'em

I'm in the middle of a quagmire. My bed stand is covered with Band-Aids, pills, hydrogen peroxide, remotes, and un-dealt with mail. My desk is holding about 14 bundled phone cords, the floor is covered in shoes, a vacum cleaner, empty water bottles, and news magazines. The only thing I think I'm not missing is an empty pizza box.

If you haven't guessed, I'll tell you. I've been sick. I don't know about you, but when I am sick, nothing gets done. I become a taker. I'll take whatever I need to get through the time of sickness. I know that I'll have to replace the 1/2 a chocolate cake I ate two days ago at 3am, the bag of potato chips, the umpteen bottles of water, box after box of Dreyer's Froze Fruit Bars (they must make those things with crack, and when I say crack I mean high-fructose corn syrup), Kentucky Fried Chicken, diet sodas, etc. I don't want to be this way, but a madness takes over me and I eat whatever is in sight. Now next week, when I'm feeling better I'll go to the store and replace what I ate to be sure, but this just demonstrates that when I'm sick nothing gets done.

I got bit by a Brown Recluse spider Saturday morning and it wasn't until Wednesday that I had a doctor look at it. Okay, I don't know for sure that it was a Brown Recluse but they're so sexy right now and it fits in with my sickness that I'm going to go with that. Regardless, I ended up with cellulitis which is when normal bacteria that lives on your skin, gets into the insect bite hole and Whoa, watch out. Let me just say my arm hurt like a you know what. As I was at the doctor and the nurse was taking my BP and temperature, she asked why I waited so long to come in and get my arm checked. What I wanted to tell her was, "I'm a man. And as a man, I do manly things, like push stalled cars out of the street, and wait way too long before I go to see a doctor." What I did say was, "You know, I thought it would get better, and it didn't so that's why I'm here."

But back to not getting things done. I was in the mood to get a lot of stuff done this week, really I was, but then Joe Cellulitis shows up with his fever, aches, and disorientation and when I should read a book instead all I want to do is watch Ironman, again and again. I think I will get around to getting that stuff done tomorrow, I certainly hope so as the last week has been a complete waste.

Now that I'm feeling better (not 100 per cent) I look back and say I could have put those water bottles in the recycling, but of course at the time, it was best to drink them and throw them into a pile on the floor. I know it's wrong, but I do it anyway.

I have always felt that the best thing about being sick is not when you are no longer sick. For me the best part of being sick is when you know you're getting better. When you know for sure that tomorrow you're going to feel better, and so on.

And when I clean up this quagmire, I'll feel better too.

Talking Trash

A good romance novel is like nothing else in the world, and I’m tired of hiding my shame. Anyway I’m not alone. Romance fiction is a billion dollar a year industry. Obviously, it has something.

Actually, it has everything.

A plucky heroine, for one, and luckily they are all plucky, even if they don’t know it yet. It has him falling hard, though he never thought he would. It’s the thrill she gets when she makes him laugh – it’s special because he’s taciturn. It’s flowers, dancing, mystery and adventure, and sometimes even a trip back in time. But always, a happy ending. In Gone With the Wind, he leaves. That’s not romance. I’m supposed to sit through all the death and amputations and her potatoes to God, and he doesn’t give a damn? Well, me neither, pal.

Romance is finding a way to be together even when Forces are trying to keep them apart. Like her father insisting she marry that foppish baronet to save the family fortune. Sometimes the forces are internal - her hardheaded Irish stubbornness, or maybe he feels he’s betraying Evie, although it’s been years since the car accident (or whatever.) A good misunderstanding can work romantic wonders. Then there are mail order brides, nefarious enemies, saloon fights, and marriages of convenience. Just be careful not to get too bogged down with Plot - or worse, Historical Accuracy - and you’re there. There’s something for everyone.

My friend complains. “I’m not too thin, I’m not willowy. My hair doesn’t fall in riotous curls down my back. I don’t have a tilted nose or a stubborn chin…” She’s thinking it’s unrealistic. Well, duh. Do you really want a realistic romance? Here’s how that would go:

Bill undressed Phyllis, feeling a rush of desire when he learned that the elastic on her panties was just about shot….or…Karen looked up as the bathroom door opened and Jeff emerged. He’d been in there a long, long time.

Do yourself a favor. Visit a place where you are perfectly adored just as you are. Where there are no eyebrows to pluck, no morning breath and in the end, absolutely no financial worries. Where you can tell who is good and who is evil, and by golly, you actually get your happily ever after. I mean, sure, the real world may not ever be the same for you. But that’s okay. By the end of this year alone, there will be over 2000 new romances to choose from.

Love - the kind that lasts forever,
Jenny