Ventures Moving On

I spent one Sunday a few weeks ago reading this blog from the beginning.  I laughed, I cringed, I felt pride in some of my pieces, and also-a little annoyed at my self-involved 22 year old self.  Someone get that girl some self control!  Some self-respect!  Some water!

This blog was a place where I chronicled my adventures, and I love it.  But I feel a little bit older, hoping to get a little wiser, and felt the need for a fresh start away from blog posts about giving a booty call a concussion accidentally one night in college (though, lets be real, I'll likely post that again because its awesome).  I wanted to write about something real in my life as it is now.

So I did, and now I have 40 blog posts queued up and ready to go.

If you want to come with me, my new blog is about my effort to live for a year in moderation (say what!?), if not and you enjoy ready about my idiocy-well good riddance (kidding, I'm still going to be Jenna)

Hope to see you soon over at Gray ceful Moderation.

http://graycefulmoderation.blogspot.com

Whomp Whomp

I spent the majority of my Thursday holed up in a conference room troubleshooting my day away with my Work Bro and another colleague who was under the impression that dealing with Shipping companies was akin to the Manhattan Project by the level of attention (and Mickey Mouse Club like enthusiasm) he was giving to each and every detail.  Work Bro and I were doing a lot of eye-rolling at one another.  

It was about at exciting as watching paint dry, and when I was still there at 9 o'clock at night I was starting to question my pursuit of the almighty dollar.  Particularly when I shifted in my seat and my beloved (read:  old) jeans split open across the ass.  

The past month and a half has left me a bit concerned about my life and the choices I'm making.  There are some weird things happening with close friends.  I haven't seen my sister in weeks.  A horrific bout with the flu.  Big Tex burning to the ground the weekend I was going to go to the Texas State Fair.  A couple of fainting spells.  Madonna canceling her show after I'd been looking forward to it for a year.  A Broken toe.  And now my most favorite jeans just giving up on me?  

No.  It's just a phase.

Then last night I hustled over to the Whole Foods to buy wine for a housewarming party in the suburbs (shudders from fear).  On my way out I looked over to admire a pumpkin, and promptly tripped and fell flat on my face.  For the second time in a week, shattering my iPhone and my pride in one "fell" swoop.

God is trying to tell me something.

Hall-o-feet

During his exit interview as my boyfriend, I was informed by Chris that I have this deal-breaker of a habit of cracking my joints-particulalry in my feet.   Allegedly during an episode of Game of Thrones I cracked my toes/ankles/hip/back no less than 47 times.  About once per minute.  Granted this was not a scientific study and was done when our relationship was on its last legs and the habits of the other were close to riot ensuing so I assume there is bias for exaggeration.  

In any instance, in my ruthless pursuit of perfection this criticism did draw my attention for a few days, not because I cared about the annoyance of the "clack/clack/clack" and the Water Torture effect it had had on Chris but because of my own longstanding fear of Eastern European feet.  The Polish women in my family have feet so hideous when they do happen to run across an Asian pedicurist their feet are mistaken for hooves.  

I made plans to go see a Podiatrist.  Then I got busy with product launches and fighting the laundry monster that was threatening to take over a portion of my apartment.  The appointment was neglected.  

Halloween was this weekend.  My Austin BFF was at another Halloween event, so I ventured out on my own with some friends I hadn't seen in awhile.  

The night was magical.  There was flirting!  There were inside jokes! There was a goddamn marching band in the bar! Shots!  There was dancing!  There were drinks with plastic sharks!    There was more dancing!

At the end of the night I found myself on a couch that wasn't mine with some new girlfriends.  For me there is nothing quite like sobering up in a foreign apartment to promptly bring me back to reality.  I slunk out of the apartment and congratulated myself on not passing out somewhere-and promptly tripped and fell over a curb face first in my 4 inch glittery heels.  It caused quite the sensation on the street.  

After laying on the sidewalk for a few minutes I got myself up and home.

Six hours later I woke up in my Rainbow Brite costume-covered in blood (Spooky).  In the sober light of day it was evident I had torn the hell outtah my legs, and one of my toes was black.  

My fear of Polish feet brought me to the doctor today.  The toe is broken.  And those creaking feet?  Full of arthritis from my years on pointe shoes.  

I'm not as young as I used to be...but at least I make it home.

 

Would you rather?

From time to time I forget how good I have it-great friends, a quirky yet wonderful family, a healthy body, an appreciation of fitness, the cutest cat you've ever seen-and I choose to dwell on what I don't have.  The two most common items dwelled on are a job that can and does envelop my time and sanity and the lack of a significant other in my world.  This is totally lame, and frequently the Universe gives me a kick in the pants to remind me so.  ("Hey Blondie!  Suck it up and do something to change it or trust in the timing.")

Back in August I endeavored to put myself "out there" and foray into the (often terrifying) world of online dating.  I chose EHarm in the hopes that the higher price point would weed out some of the more obvious riffraff.  My heart wasn't in it, my head kept going back to another guy, and after going out on a date with someone that was easily 20 years my senior whose profile photo could only be described as a highlight from a decade ago I forgot about my profile and carried on my merry way playing with B and enjoying Austin.  After meeting someone I liked a lot and blowing it I decided it was time to go back out there (where exactly is 'out there' anyway?).  I had a date set up within a matter of hours of deciding I wanted one.

Out of my apartment I sashayed.  Blonde hair pulled up in a pony tail, power boots on, an experiment with red lipstick going unexpectedly well.  Into the bar I bounced and sat down next to the Interweb's offering.  I was pleased to see that he didn't seem to be lying about his age, something I considered to be a real win.  The Winning Streak very promptly ended.

After he eyed me up and down and we exchanged the general online dating questions, (Come here often?  What do you do to support yourself?  Are you living in your parents basement?  You don't enjoy the ritual slaughter of animals in your off hours, right?)  I couldn't shake the feeling that in real life that the guy was swarmy and reminded me of some colleagues that make my skin crawl.   With a twinkle in his eyes he asked me what my biggest sin was.  (I'm a good girl.  I'm boring.  I pay my bills on time and aside from occasionally hitting the booze too hard with BFF B and dropping a few too may F-bombs I do nothing to call attention of conservatives or local law enforcement). This was not the answer he wanted, and looked me dead in the eye to tell me that his sin "was lust" (gags).

After almost choking on my drink at the over the top ness, he asked me if I wanted to play "Would you rather?"  I didn't, and I told him so.  In fact I went as far as to say that it was a stupid game that I haven't played for almost 7 years-the last time I set foot in a Frat house.  He insisted, and asked "Would you rather have a slut for a daughter or a gay son?"  I glared at him before responding, "Stupid question.  If I had a daughter she would have had a good upbringing and a healthy sense of self worth and wouldn't feel the need to trade her body for male attention, and frankly you asking if a son being gay like its a negative choice or a bad thing to happen to a parent offends me."

He gave me that swarmy Salesy chuckle and said he admired my spirit, then asked if I ever pictured myself having an orgasm with him.  I really did choke on my drink at that point, reached into my bag, pulled out a 10, and left.

On the walk back home, recollecting that at least my experiment with red lipstick had gone well if nothing else, I played 'Would you rather' with myself one more time.

Would I rather spend time with someone who I know isn't worth it simply to avoid being lonely or would I rather thrill in who I am, who my friends are, and the fabulous life I do have.  Answer's obvious-which is why its such a stupid game.

The Pity Party

While under the influence of a rather hideous stomach virus while horribly dehydrated I threw myself a pity party.  It was easy given that I couldn't stand long enough to shower so my blonde was looking dingy, my head hurt, email was piling up, and my sheets after 5 days of sweating through them had taken on an odor of dying and citrus from the orange juice I may have either spilt or vomited up the day before.  It was the perfect venue for a round of raging self pity.

The Thoughts that Showed up to the Party:

"My work is literally making me sick with stress."

"Nobody likes me, no one has checked on me in the past hour." (Self pitying self forgot about the 2 visits from friends bringing me liquids, dozens of texts from my three amigos at work, calls from my Dad/Sister/Austin BFF)

"No one would care if I die, except you Ari" (pats head of loyal pussy cat)

"Even my body hates me."

"Oooo!  I've lost 14 pounds!!  Too bad I'll never be well enough to wear the size 2 out in public.  What a waste of this aesthetically pleasing consequence of not eating for 5 days."

"I die."

"Damnit, if I die who would take care of Ari and give him the spoiled rotten existence he has come to deserve and expect?  Fuck.  I can't even die in peace."

"Ari, stop bitching at me.  There is plenty of food in your bowl so you can avoid eating my face if something does happen."

"I die."

"Not even watching 4 hours of the Food Network is cheering me up."

"Oh my God.  I'm never going to have sex again."

"Why am I watching Fox news?  Fuck.  The end really is near."

It was pretty clear that Self needed some company, so I texted my Man half a thousand or so miles away with the root of my sadness, aside from the fact that my body was turning on me.  Comforting words washed away the mean ones from my mind and I slept soundly for the first time in days.  When I woke up, I smiled.

I didn't feel so alone.  Of course that may have been because Ari was actually sitting on my face, but I prefer it was because finally someone had said the exact right thing and it wasn't just "Get well soon".

The Concept of Respect

One of my earlier memories in life was with my Aunt and Cousins visiting this ridiculous 8 million dollar mansion that friends of my Aunt lived in.  My Cousins were racing around like gorillas mouths agape at the grandiosity of it all.  At the age of 7 I was sitting on a stool, legs tucked to the side, taking it all in.  The homeowner smiled and said to my Aunt, "Those two are rambunctious; but this one is lady.  She's even perched like Princess Di over there."  My little mind just burst with pride, and from that point on  I endeavored to be a lady.  To show some class, and just maybe I would live in a place like where I sat.

This has all served me very well, for one I avoided the dreaded blonde girl Spring Break fate of having been caught on camera "going wild" or gotten out of limo sans panties. And it is true that you catch more flies with honey.   But somewhere along the way I got the idea that being a lady meant keeping my mouth shut.  More and more I was noticing that politeness was pushing me into rather uncomfortable situations that bothered me for hours/days afterward.  Politely walking away from the crazed "prophet" in the street who was calling every woman that passed a raging whore (smart), stomping away with a side glare from a man at a nearby table who talked loudly about "those homosexuals" (cowardly), smiling when a friend of my mother asked what it was like to be so old and unmarried-did I feel unwanted (demoralizing).

 I was taught to always treat people with respect.  But sometimes, more frequently than I care to admit, people are idiots. Especially your elders. But old habits die hard. I carried on smiling like a fool, legs tucked to the side.

I'm not sure when the smile began to crack.  Maybe it was when someone I always treated with respect dropped the "c" bomb on me when I stood up for someone I cared about.  Maybe it was when a chauvinistic client asked if I was a "f-king dumbass", or when someone at my old job questioned how I was capable of doubling my salary, but somewhere along the line, all that politeness started funneling away into a combustion chamber and one harrowing day I found myself moseying along the produce section of the grocery store when a prepubescent teenager barreled into me with his cart.  I face planted.  He and his mother went on their way his mother giving me a sympathetic shrug on her way by.

I laid there for a second, thinking "let it go.  let it GO.  Let it...actually, NO.  Fuck that kid and Fuck his gutless mother.  How dare they not acknowledge running someone down." (Clearly, my internal language is not very ladylike.)  I bounced up, forgetting my clementines and spinach and marched right over to Cruiser and his Mother.

I bridled, "Excuse me, but how could you not stop and apologize when you knocked me over?"

Cruiser stared at me, then looked down.

His Mother snapped, "Of course he's sorry, but you got up didn't you?  He barely tapped you."

I stared, looked her straight in the eye and responded, "Shame on you."

As I walked away I heard her say to her son, "How rude, don't worry she's just a bitch."

I didn't care even one little bit that she thought I was rude.

There is a difference between being a lady and being a doormat-but there are going to be those that can't make that distinction.  I've decided that being a lady more than anything means treated people with respect, but the person I should treat with the most respect is myself.  Would I pride myself on being a jerk to others?  Nope.  But would I pride myself on staying silent while others around me made ignorant statements about myself or people I care about?  Hells to the know, and I know that for a fact. Should I let myself get run over (literally) and lie there and take it?  I most certainly should not.  

I went home and visited my Aunt not too long ago, and as we drove out to lunch we passed that ridiculous 8 million dollar mansion.  I asked what had happened to her friends that lived there all those years ago.  The wife cheated on her husband-and the husband had gone on to commit bankruptcy and was living in Federally subsidized housing in a neighborhood far from the one we were driving in.  As I sat on the passenger side, legs tucked to the side, I got to thinking about the people (things) society teaches us to respect.  Perhaps the emphasis should shift to starting from the inside out instead of starting with what is seen from the outside.

I had something to say…

I’m sure there are those that would contest this, but for me nothing breeds words faster than silence (or maybe alcohol).  On a date if the conversation slows to a lull, I will desperately do anything and everything is my power to bridge that gap (apologies to the engineer who heard about my passion for proper excel functions).  Out with friends and someone makes a notable bitchy comment suddenly I desperately need to know where everyone procured their shoes.  I hate silence.

Which is why I went quiet. 

Sure, I was busy with work.  Who isn’t?  But suddenly, I, Jenna Queen of the Good Tale, the Dinner Party Duchess did not want to be the center of attention.  I wanted to curl up with my thoughts and keep them to myself.  I didn’t want to be a joke.  I didn’t want the masses to think I was some silly blonde pining away on my corner of the web.  I really didn’t want to comments from the psycho ex.  To be honest I needed some time to be me without pausing (as my sister suspected) and thinking “Man, I’m gonna see where this go.  My blog followers will love it!”

But silence breeds words…

I was sick last week.  The flu totally put me on my ass.  I was sick for 9 days, and admitted for an afternoon of IV’s and steroids on the 7^th day.  I didn't have 8 million work demands to occupy my mind.  My friends were tired of reminding me that they had jobs and didn't have time to assure me I didn't have Ebola 12 times between 9 and 5.  I was bored, and my Facebook friends were not cooperating with interesting status updates.  For lack of anything else to do as I sat in my little hospital room watching the fluids drip into my severely dehydrated self I read old blog posts on my phone and realized that I liked what I had written.  It was good (if I do say so myself) and there was a lot on my mind.  My brain started to weave sentences together and my friends were not down to read an 800 word text (Sorry B).  I got home and pulled out my personal laptop-because I have something to say.

Diary of a Sick Person

I don’t get sick.  I have passing moments of exhaustive weakness that push me towards the barriers of health, I go to the Doctor, they medicate me, I bounce back. 

Then came some passing sniffles on Sunday.  Then a headache on Monday.  I worked from home Wednesday-decided going to a Jewish potluck was wise (always gotta make sure prayers are directed the right way), I drink, hallucinate, and all hell breaks lose.

Wake up humiliated, with bleeding ears.  Head into office.  Colleagues back slowly out of my cube.  Manager comes over and suggests I leave.  I go home.  Sleep for hours.  Wake up and relive previous nights humiliation.  Make it worse.

I really want my Mom.

Sleep some more.  Dream of Buddah giving me a hug, Ari dances in a hula skirt. 

I wake up with temperature of 102.  Continue to recreate Wednesday night humiliation.  Pass out.  May have talked to best friend B.  Its all a blur.

Wake up a few hours later to my friend the PR afficiendo, now Jewish Goddesss as she is bringing me lifesaving apple juice, soup, and gossip.  I feel amazingly better about Wednesday night debacle. 

I weigh myself, holy cow GOAL WEIGHT.  Consider trying on my “Goal” dress.  Realize that’s not a good idea because magically there are two of them.

Sleep some more.  Dream of cake. 

Wake up, really want my Mom. 

Fire up the work laptop.  Listen to voice messages of irate Sales people.  Consider that there are real benefits of dying.

Roll over.  Have amazing comforting dream of Long time friend and epic crush comforting me on lifes existing trials.  Feel warm and fuzzy.

Ari kisses my face, I consider how lucky I am to have such a loyal beastie pet.  Best Friend calls.  I consider how lucky I am to have such a loyal bestie friend.

Sleep for 12 hours.

Realize that long time friend and epic crush DID in fact comfort me and that it was not a hallucination.  Freak out about who else I may have called/texted/facebooked.  Have 20 minute freak out.  Retake temperature, 103.  Realize its more than likely my wish of being swallowed up and never having to face consequences of Sick Jenna’s dire need to communicate with EVERYONE is a real possibility.  Feel comforted by my impending death.  Sleep for 18 hours. 

Wake up to Ari and all his toys in the bed.  He is bringing them to me as an offering.  He is adorable.

I really want my Mom.

Read text message well wishes of colleagues.  Consider briefly that if I die they would miss me.  Reconsider after listening to more irate messages from Sales that the real likelihood is that they fear me dying and having to backfill my roll. 

Have moment of vindictiveness considering some colleagues having to do my job for a month. 

Vindictiveness exhausts me.  Sleep for 4 hours.

Wake up.  Consider that I haven’t eaten in 4 days.  Weigh myself, down 14 pounds.  This seems beyond the realm of possibility.  Assess my appearance.  Holy sack of hideous.  Quickly return to bed.  Sleep for 2 hours. 

Wake up.  Worry about not being pretty again; which subsequently makes me worry that there is in fact a possibility that I’ll never have sex again.  That no one would ever witness goal weight (presuming I put back on 8 pounds).  Spiral into deep depression.

Nap.

Wake up to Ari dancing around me like a nymph.  Feel nothing but love for him.  Go to Legal Zoom to price out documents leaving him to Jewish Goddess.  Get tired half way through.

Best Friend B brings me orange juice and soup, and politely doesn’t cringe at my appearance.  I drink the orange juice and ignore the soup. 

Wake up and feel annoyed that more people aren’t posting on Facebook, don’t they know I’m bored?  I go to Mint.com and update all financial information.  Feel defeated that I finally reached the point of being able to call in to the Suze Orman show and being told by Life Coach Superstar Suze Orman, “Girlfriend! You can afford it!”  Too bad I’m going to die.

Realize this makes me epic nerd and that I really may never have sex again. 

Sleep some more. 

Eat a piece of turkey.  Throw it up. 

I may need to go to the doctor.

Fun Police and the Neighborhood Watch

After the joys of living in a trendy 300 square foot cube with hipster music students and a dilapidated building in Cambridge with portly nude hula hooping neighbors I was very judgey when searching for my ATX digs. I needed walls that were solid, a ceiling that would not collapse when it rained, non collegiate neighbors who would not think an impromptu kegger on a Tuesday was a rad idea, and most importantly no one who made Indian food on the daily given my proclivity to smell curry and turn into a cannon.

When searching for apartments my agent only asked about why I assumed my ceiling would collapse-my other queries and rabid sniffing of the air were seemingly commonplace and we found an apartment I love.

My first year was bliss.  For all extensive purposes my neighbors only stop me to say how interesting Ari is (he IS the neighborhood watch) or to politely ask me to gather their mail why they attend a retirement cruise in the Caribbean.  There is no partying, no curry, and when it rains I feel relaxed rather than my Pavlov d reaction of yesteryear of racing for cover with Ari. Things are great.

Until the refurbishing started.

 While ari had fresh entertainment from his window post as construction men scurried around for a month the noise kicked off...and then a smell.

At first I assumed paint thinner. Then my dorm flashbacks started to become more realistic-and simultaneously blurry.

It's pot. And while you may think me a naked hula-hoop hating fun police, it is beyond the realm of a good time-it's so strong I actually gag every time I set foot in my hallway-it's like being IN the pipe 16 hours a day.

I, fun police that I am, complained after a month and the construction men wandered away to other gigs and the smell prevailed.  Apparently there are complainers on all six floors-it's that strong and there is not even a hint of where it could be coming from since it's everywhere.

Ari's neighborhood watch is about to get an upgrade-the older ladies of the retirement cruise set have invited me to join their hunt to reef the neighbor out.

It's high excitement here.

A letter for Maddy: on what is beautiful

Miss Madeline,

 At the age of 3 you somehow possess more style than a lot of the women I know. I love that everyday you pick out something that feels good to you and you have very real opinions about not just what you're wearing but what the people around you are wearing too. Given that I am also a lover of clothes, I delight in your style.

But it makes me worry a bit too-this focus on the external. I was driving you to see The Nutcracker and you told me that you wanted long hair. When I asked why, your answer crushed me, "So I'll be beautiful."

How is it at 3 you already have this idea?

 What I know, and what you'll discover as you get older is that beauty is ever so much more than how you look. You will meet breathtakingly stunning people, who once you get to know them and their actions will become steadily more and more unattractive. You wont like them-not because of how they look but because of how they behave.  It's amazing when you begin to see the manifestation of a person's heart on their external skin.  Your actions to a certain extent do become your appearance.

 It works the other way too. Sometimes you may overlook someone at first, but as you get to know them, their heart, their kindness towards you it starts to show up. Their beauty becomes more and more external.  Sparkling eyes you never noticed before, a crooked tooth that is so endearing it makes you smile to remember it.  My first boyfriend noticed my freckles...and my dimples-something so small but that to him, made me beautiful.

 Your beauty, something that at 3 you are already worried about is entirely under your control. It's not defined by your jean size or eye color. And certainly not by your hair length (cause on that score little darling you are screwed with my hair). But in how you treat others-are you kind? Are you attentive? Or are you mean? Teasing? It's also in how you treat yourself. Do you follow your heart? Do you follow your own style? (you certainly do now) Do you speak kindly of yourself? Do you feel beautiful? 

That last question may be the most important. There was a time when I didn't feel beautiful. I was worried about my hair. Obsessed with my size. Fixing both didn't make me feel beautiful. But you know what did? Being kind to my friends. Having friends that in turn were kind to me. Excelling at work. Discovering that I really really really thought my hips were sexy. The more I focused on what was inside the more my outside seemed to change. I hope you always feel beautiful. And if not I hope you focus on the things that are. And if worse comes to worse call on Auntie J cause to me you are the most beautiful little girl in the whole wide world-and sometimes it helps to hear that.

 Love you!