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