jennaventures

An Ari-ism: The Home Doldrums

2011-12-12T23:04:00.000-05:00

Being on crutches is akin to being at home when the power isout…you keep thinking of all the awesome things you could be doing-microwavinga peep, flushing the toilet, catching up on 8 hours of DVR’d “Barefoot Contessa”-butyou can’t because the power’s out. Whileon crutches I fantasized about long runs, going to the grocery store andnavigating the aisles with ease, and in general, just leaving the apartment.

Instead, I laid on my bed, my couch, or my floor with onlyAri for company.

During the first few days of my confinement Ari clearlythought I was cramping his style and was realizing all the awesome things hecould be doing…if only I wasn’t there to stop him…

Like:

Having “personal time” with his beloved’s delicates:

Eating an entire bag of cat food:

Dressing up in provocative costumes (or this may be what happens when your owner can't leave the house):

After a long period of confinement though your desire to doanything fun is replaced by the overwhelming need to do nothing except watch the bubblesgo by and smother those who are accessible.

And then,once the bubbles and company is gone, you are left to yourself staring into space to consider your own mortality.

Needless to say Ari and I are glad I finally got theblessing to lose the crutches…and we can both go back to our usual activities.

Air in the Tires

2011-12-11T18:56:00.001-05:00

As frequent blog readers know, Momma Jenn is all kinds of “Cra-Cra”. I used to feel the usual shame and mortificationtypical of a teenager about my Mum’s sexual statements and want to pournitrogen in my ears, now I’ve taken in delighting in them so I can win in agame my siblings and I play of “I should be more messed up than you”…and I canpost on the ol’ blog.

Since the start of Fiscal Year 2012 at the “Dream Job” Ihave fallen into a hole. A hole wherefriends and family only know I survive based on random bitching Facebook status’s. I’m working a lot. But I still find time to connect with theparental unit on my commute home from work if I leave after putting a measly 12hour day.

Big Bill answered on Tuesday and listened sympathetically tomy diatribe about the hideous results of being competent and perked up when Imentioned that I didn’t even have time to fix my tire pressure. Big Bill, sensing he was needed, launchedinto a 20 minute play by play on how to check my tire pressure, places in Austin I could go to fixit, and all the things that could cause my sinking tires. I, being a girl, lost interest and proceededto give a sequence of “Uh-ha’s” that could be considered signs oflistening.

My Mom couldn’t be bothered to fake it. Impatient for her turn to talk to me, shechimed in from another phone and announced (clearly delighted with how grossshe was going to be), “Jenna, you shouldn’t be worrying about this, after all,you have a boyfriend who I presume you are having sex with and performingfavors for-hasn’t he heard of quid pro quo?

Both Big Bill and I started screaming, I couldn’t cover myears cause I was driving.

But maybe she has a point.

Control

2011-11-24T12:52:00.001-05:00

Control

Oddly enough, when my doctor told me that they would have to“go in” I felt relieved. My hip has beennagging at me persistently since March, and with one statement I wasvalidated. The pain I was feeling wasnot in my head, I was not a wimp.

My relief stopped when my surgeon began to describe atlength what he was going to do. I wantedto slam my hands over my ears and yell, “lalalalala-just do it”, but somethingabout, “we are going to make two incisions, shave off pieces of your bone, andsew the tear together,” has a way of permeating my “la’s”, but the part thatbothered me the most, is that I was going to be under.

For about two weeks I stewed on the idea of being “out” andcompletely and totally out of control and coming to hours later with no ideawhat had happened to my body. The fact that this is what bothered me the mostspeaks volumes about my control freak tendencies.

My sister drove me to the hospital before the sun came up,and joined me in the room and a posse of nurses prepped me for surgery. I was nervous, and when the anesthesiologistcame in to dope me up I went into a tirade about my concerns. He put something into my IV and I wentdrunk-it was like throwing back 6 shots drunk. Then I was out.

I woke up with massive bandages surrounding my hip andwaist. I had no clue what went down and what was under my bandages. I was vaguely bothered, but I wanted threethings: to see my sister, to get out ofthere, and to eat guacamole.

I got wheeled to her car and loaded up. My sister asked me what I wanted to eat, Idemanded guacamole. She assumed I wasdrunk. I probably still was.

She accommodated my request and made me a massive bowl ofguacamole once home, and I ate the whole thing, even swished my fingers aroundthe rim to get every last bit of it. AndI was happy. I drugged out, full ofguac, and happy.

It wasn’t until now, thinking about it, that I realize whatscared me the most about the surgery wasn’t the procedure itself, it was beingout of control, and that once I let go of it, I was able to see what I reallywanted. Which apparently in thatinstance was guacamole, but I’m curious about what else I would want if I gavemyself permission to let go and want it.

Strength

2011-11-02T06:00:00.000-04:00

On numerous occasions I may have quietly mentioned (alright, have a bitch fest to whatever hapless friend or family member accidently calls me on my commute home) about the demands of my new job. When I left my old job I seemed to be under the delusion that despite getting a 50% pay bump I would only be required to give an extra 10-15% of effort. Ha!

I am working harder than I have ever worked in my life. There was about a 2 month stretch, and at least one day a week where I come home close to tears and the only thing that cheered (s) me up is watching Ari race around the apartment like he's training for Olympic sprints and watching Modern Family with Honey Badger while we make dinner (okay, he makes dinner, when its my turn I pick up take out cause the idea of cooking pushes me closer to the tears).

I'm a lot stressed out.

In part due to the high visibility from all levels of my organization and that every detail that goes missed-gets caught...and its always made evident who missed the detail.

I was distressed by even more scrutiny a month or so ago while prepping a presentation for a client. I put in tons of hours, edited at least eight "final" versions of the presentation, and the night I flew into the clients headquarters, walked to my boss's hotel to work on the project "just a little more".

5 hours later it was go time.

The presentation went well, I was pleased. Afterwards, I was standing in the lobby with my department's director and numerous other "key stakeholders" (Read: Higher up the rung than I) with my suitcase ready to hop a cab to catch a flight back to the airport.

When the cab arrived, I was the first to march out the door, and my suitcase caught on the edge.

I yanked.

And the first thing I heard was a gasp.

Then I saw what I'd done.

My suitcase had caught on the door frame, and when I had yanked...I yanked out the frame.

It hung there suspended for a moment or so, with everyone staring. And then, it crashed to the ground. And bounced.

Security raced over, I stood there horrified, and my Director burst out laughing saying, "Jenna's the new secret weapon."

Apparently I'm stronger than I give myself credit for.

To Do

2011-10-31T21:42:00.002-04:00

I was actually sitting in my cube thinking I had lost my mojo. In jeans, a shapeless pink sweater, and my hair tossed in a ponytail, I was ruminating over my failure that was my Halloween this year.

Halloween is my Holiday. My friends know it, and historically have cooperated when I started bombarding their inboxes with group costume ideas and an itinerary...in July. But this year was a bit of a bust. I've been working too much to have a wide circle of girlfriends that I could consider "close", Honey Badger deplores dressing up, and my broken hip (slight exaggeration) and soul sucking job that requires me to turn to ice cream sandwiches has left me...well...in the aforementioned shapeless pink sweater and not in the glamorous peacock ensemble I had envisioned for myself. I got home on Friday and was asleep at (wait for it...) 8 o'clock. 8 friggin o'clock.

I actually cried to Honey Badger on Saturday, before he dragged me out the door to 6th street for a Halloween drink, that I missed my friends and Halloween was ruined for me forever. He found me a hot dog from a street vendor, told me it could be worse-I could be dressed as a sexy Nurse and not have friends period, and then we watched Poltergeist at a bar.

I felt better.

But I still felt sad today about how boring I've become.

And then I noticed a post on my wall from Mega Crush, my adorable Cambridge neighbor whom I crushed on hard core back before I moved. Intrigued I opened it, though Facebook is generally work "no-no".

"I was browsing the interweb today, and there you were...listed as a "Thing to Do" on Halloween in Boston.

I immediately opened the link, and there on Boston.com (and apparently the Metro that is passed out to all Subway or "T" riders in Boston) I was, in full Halloween regalia with my friends. Last year's Halloween lives on...it was Epic enough to put me in front of thousands.

I blushed about being a "Thing to Do", blushed about being informed of this by Mega Crush, but I felt a grin spread across my face. Jennaventures lives, and even if this Halloween was less than my best-the memories of the previous ones are there for all to see.

It reminded me that even though Work Jenna has taken over, I am still fun...and damn it, I look good.

http://www.boston.com/thingstodo/special/halloween/halloweenevents?pg=5

and in case it gets taken down...

Dating Diary: Neighbor

2011-10-20T08:15:00.000-04:00

I met my neighbor through my other neighbor (future roomie)Kayvie.

My first impression of Neighbor was that he was sarcastic,pompous, handsome, and an Asshole. Aftersipping on some beers, playing a rousing game of Catan, he said to me, “I didn’texpect you to be cool, you look like you’d be a bitch.”

(“What!!??”)

He likely meant this as a compliment, maybe every prettygirl he’d ever run across had treated him like garbage, but I tookoffense. How dare this person I’d nevermet assume that given my genetic fortune that I was a bitch. And in that moment I decided to useeverything in my Jenna arsenal to get him to be my friend. He would be on Team Jenna if it killedme.

And it didn’t, kill me that is. Neighbor was my type of people. He was smart, had an amazing satirical wit,was handsome and fun to be around, enjoyed watching movies, and didn’t mind listeningto me storm on about various social injustices until late in the night with meon his assorted armchairs.

When I dated the great Grizzly he was a voice of reason whotried to get the Grizzly to chill (“Jenna is a big girl, she can walk home at 9o’clock at night alone”) told me I wasn’t crazy for being smothered. We talked about everything I couldn’t talk toGrizzly about. Even his virginity.

I found his lack of passage fascinating and horrifying. The self control he possessed with admirable…anddisturbing to me given my own tendency to impulse and passion. We spent tons of time together. He saw me in my jammies-people who’ve I datedfor a year have never seen me in my jammies (with kitties on them, not fornights of fooling around).

Things about him drove me bananas-the fact that he had noissues with his parents footing the bill on a studio in Back Bay and hiscontinued education-or on his enormous big screen tv.

But when I got tickets to The Daily Show in New York City he was the only one I thoughtto invite-much to the Grizzly’s chagrin.

We sat outside the studio in the sub artic temperatures, andI laughed at his apparent geekdom when he spazzed over George Lucas being theguest. It wasn’t until we were on thebus back to Bostonwhen he started to rub my back that I realized that something had shifted fromfriend to feelings. And it wasn’t on myside.

I started to avoid him. But how do you avoid your Best Friend?

I broke up with the Grizzly.

And Neighbor was there, but rather then appreciate hissupport I felt suspicious.

Until one night we were out with his friends, standing inline I remarked on the some girls in skirts short enough to show their hoo-ha’s. He looked at me and said, “They aren’t likeyou, class isn’t someone that everyone has.”

I got hammer drunk.

And at 1:40 am in the bar I found him, on his birthday, andpulled him aside and told him I liked him. He just beamed at me, and said, “I like you too.”

A few night later when his company had left, I let him kissme in his apartment, I let him push me against a wall in a moment ofpassion.

And the next day I felt guilty.

I felt guilty when he asked me on a date, the second girl he’dever asked out.

I felt guilty when I avoided him—I felt guilty when I triedto pretend it never happened.

He’s the only one I’ve ever hurt to save.

I saw what I’d done to the Grizzly, I saw what I’d done toJJC, I still felt what Third was to me. I couldn’t do it to Neighbor, my best friend in Boston.

So I avoided him, and then one night, when I tried toapologize to him, I deleted his hatred of me before I’d had a chance to readit.

We never spoke again.

He’s the only one in my Diary that I regret my behaviortowards. I cared about him in a way I hadnever experienced and I blurred the line between friend and boyfriend because Ididn’t understand my feelings. I hurthim because of that misunderstanding.

I know retrospectively we wouldn’t have worked. I’m alot to take. I feel on a big scale, andride the current of my emotions in bigger ways than most, and I love love loveattention, he would have ended up hating everything that he liked about me inthe end-and given how much I cared about him that would have been a toughpill to take.

I’m sorry that I was a terrible friend to him.

The Poem

2011-10-17T22:21:00.004-04:00

I pulled into my gate at the end of the day and rested myhead against the wheel of the car. I satthere for about five minutes, no doubt annoying my neighbors who pulled inaround me who couldn’t tell if I was coming or going-but that I did have a plumparking space that they wanted.

I didn’t really care. What I cared about was that for a minute, my phone wasn’t ringing, Iwasn’t at my desk, and that I was allowed to breathe for half a second-which Idid before deciding to be responsible and collecting the mail that I hadallowed to pile for days. Inside was apackage from my Pops.

I hustled into the apartment and ignored Ari who hurledhimself into me as he purred in sonnets and love songs about the glory of myreturn (his neediness is epic) and sliced open the package.

It was the book my college published of the best creativewriting pieces of its students that year. Of my 4 submissions, 3 had been published, a fact I had been proud of—mostlybecause I had despised my professor, but partially because after days locked inmy room I had written a poem that shocked the hell out of me-because I hadwritten it-and that was the poem that won.

I sat on my sofa pondering the message behind the package.

My Dad does not do subtle. He’s a cop, it’s his job to make everything as clear as possible, noroom for fudging. But once every fewyears he’ll send a card and shove a newspaper article circa 1993 about a youngJenna’s stellar performance in “Goldilocks and the 3 Bears” and my sister and Iwill go…”wha???”

I have not been that happy lately, I’ve been feeling a bitdown about not being able to run cause of my torn hip, not having time for myfriends, missing my carefree existence of a few months ago where I bitchedabout my lack of responsibility and professional growth and over abundance offree time replaced by a job that seemed to expand to cover every facet of mylife. I even dreamed about it, andfantasized in my free moments about getting laid off. That’s right, when thousands in my countryare without work, I, making more money then I thought possible at 25 was havingactual fantasies about being given my walking papers.

I missed my friends. I missed having time to myself. Imissed traveling. And I missed my blog.

And then, the package.

There could be multiple meanings behind it.

My Dad could have wanted to remind me about the professor Iloathed, who loathed me during one of the busiest summers in my life where Iworked 40 hours (ha!) commuted to take a semester’s load of classes in thesummer 2 hours from home, found time to work out and lose 25 pounds, and findto write well enough to wipe that smug smirk off “Mr. You are my CaptiveAudience and you will listen to every damn word I have to say for 4 hours twicea week even if its just to listen to me read from my unpublished novel”’s faceand that I could get through it all.

He could have wanted to remind me of something that I’m goodat.

He could have wanted to draw my attention to the theme of mywinning poem-of drowning in desire to please others.

He could have been wanting to clear out a drawer.

I didn’t know, but that night I hugged the book to my chestand slept like I hadn’t slept in weeks, because despite all the dissatisfiedappraisals I’ve been getting lately. Iremembered what I’m good at, and I remembered who I am.

The next day I went in with a new attitude, a careless attitude. And promptly got a bonus and a raise.

WTF.

The Birth of a Bitch Face

2011-09-18T18:44:00.002-04:00

Frequent readers of the blog would assume I possess aproclivity towards exaggeration. Thenyou spend an afternoon with me in “real world” and wish me well as you see thatI possess a force field that screams, “Please! Bring out your weird on me!!” I’vehad cross toting Jesus’s on the streets of Michigan avenue chase me down whileyelling about saving my soul, homeless people follow me into shoe storeschirping about my style, and strangers in bars ask me for my cup size and afondle. I respond in much the same wayto all of them-I apologize for my discomfort and try to slink away withoutappearing mean.

-as if its my own fault they decided to make meuncomfortable.

Its beginning to be a problem. There’s a difference between being nice andbeing a doormat, a difference I’m only starting to discover at the “Dream Job”where I spend a healthy portion of my day being berated where the only optionis to smile and ask if I can bend over more. Necessary at work-I need to pay my bills and keep Ari in a luxurioushabitat whilst supporting my shoe fix, not necessary to tolerate on my onenight out a week when I escape the office and have the back of my neck strokedby some addled 60 something in a cowboy hat demanding to buy me a whiskey(laced with a roofie) because I look like his first wife before he’d “tappedthat”.

Something has been bubbling beneath my blonde smilingexterior. Rage.

I had the day off on Friday, and by day off I mean I workedfrom home until 2 and still read email from everyone and their nephew about howI need to do x/y/z-and still they will never be satisfied up until about 6. Mysister and I had bought tickets to Austin City Limits- a three day concertfestival with headlines like Kanye West, Coldplay, and Stevie Wonder-and I wasintent on enjoying myself. Afterbitching about work for an hour or so, we found ourselves back in the 80’s. No really, 80‘s fashion is back, and everycollege and high schooler there was racing around in neon and legwarmers. This blatant resurrection of a blight on the historyof fashion was everywhere, and the neon seemed to add glow to my irritationlevels.

There are bad manners abound at outdoor festivals. Not wearing shoes into the port-a-potty whileI stand waiting in horror is one of them. Yelling into silence over and over about how Kanye is the voice of ageneration (from a 18 year old white boy sporting an iPhone paid for by hisparents) is another. But perhaps themost egregious sin of concert going is the punks who wait until the concertstarts to wheedle through the crowd directly into the spot you’ve held down andsaved for two hours and ignore your puzzled expression as they invade your territoryand congratulate you on saving this great spot for them.

My sister and I are not the typical Kanye crowd. For one, we’re upper middle class girls whowork in management roles at technology firms in Operations. Damn we’re exciting. We’ll probably never wield a gun and droppingthe f- bomb is not exactly customary. But we enjoy “Stronger” and “Gold Digger” as much as the next person sowe staked out a spot about twenty feet from the stage two hours before.

Not five minutes before the concert began I was standingcozily close to the person in front of me about six inches of space between us,enough to swap SARS or Swine Flu but not an STD. And then this guy and his girlfriend barrelthrough and wedge them selves directly into my six inches of person space. I kid you not my entire chest was touchingthis guys back. I was shocked hestopped, there was no room, I was even more shocked when he proceeded to makeout with his girlfriend on top of me. I started to inch into the person behind me’ssix inches of personal space…when I snapped. Why should I move? I bounced mychest forward and yelled, “HEY!!!”

The kid turns, annoyed I was speaking and didn’t notice myBitch face on full blast, “I’m sorry…you need to move up, or away from me, andyou need to do it now.” He glared,rolled his eyes and obliged me with an inch.

I fumed.

But then Kanye rocked the place out and I got over it.

The next day AC and I were in our same old position waitingfor Stevie Wonder to play.

We saw the same bad manners. Our personal favorite was the mother who sent her kid to the edge of thefence, waited a few minutes then shoved herself there as well claiming shecouldn’t leave her daughter alone. Time spent waiting for the spot. Approximately 3 minutes, the people who’dbeen there previously 2 hours.

We remarked to our fellow concert goers who’d spent the afternooncamping in the space about these “wedgers”, and then we made a pact to standtogether, in our area no one was gettingthrough.

Ten minutes before the concert started we heard a rustlingfrom 3 rows behind us, “the edge of our group”. 3 girls were trying to get through up closer to the stage-and there wasno space to get up there. The girlclaimed the guy in front of me was her brother and she just wanted to get tohim…Our group yelled to the guy in the Indianahat, “Is this girl your sister? She claims she trying to just get up to you!” Indianaturns, appraises, and goes “NOPE!!! Sendher back.”

She screamed, she begged to be let through, she demanded tobe closer to the stage, and we looked on-unimpressed.

Individual bitch face doesn’t always make an impact. Group Bitch face? Works like a charm.

Subject: A pyschopathic rant from a better ex

2011-09-18T00:52:00.002-04:00

A few week's back, I recieved a not so "subtle" comment from a not very secret poster.

It was mean.

I published it, because, well, everyone is entitled to their opinion. And because it pretty much validates everything I wrote about this person in my "Dating Diary". It grated at me for an hour or so, I commented to my Canadian BFF and soul mate about it in a text before I left for work. By the time I got there I had pushed the incident from my mind-moved on-but still I cringed for a couple of hours everytime I opened my inbox.

And then, there it was:

Subject: A pyschopathic rant from a better ex

Dear Jenna,

You are fucking amazing. That's right Blondie, you heard me. You Rock. How dare you have all those brains, ambition, humour, writing skill in one C cup package? You mean that you work hard and get everything you deserve? GAWD! And you write with a great honesty and humour that has made random strangers on the internet reach out and think you're awesome? Where did that come from? Did you steal it?

So you have a huge brain that you apply to work friends and everything else? Whatever. I've got one too. I just decide to use it for other more important things. Like knowing inane celebrity factoids. Totally more useful. So much freaking better then money management and supply chain logistics.

Wait you think you're beautiful? You get hit on by strangers? You have exes that can't get over you? (this is really more that you're too nice of a person to break their heart but we'll get to that later) Who cares that your confidence and awesomeness shines through and lights you up. Only great people care about that! And really only Canadians can see it that clearly.

And the niceness. Gawd that makes me sick. Why don't you just grow a set of balls and start being douchey to everyone. You have a great bitch face. Use it for more then letting people know you're hungry and hungover. it's a complete fucking waste of a fantastic bitch face. Only you would not find it in you to make other people's lives worse when a smile is so much easier and prettier.

So today, when you're upset and hurt by what one brain damaged asshole douchebag of the #th order wrote to you, I want you to put that aside and think 'Fuck it, I'm awesome and people who truly are the best in the world think I am the best in the world.' Do it! I'm DEMANDING it!

Love not withheld,

Your Canadian

I felt such a wash of love and gratitude wash over me; because I have the most special, witty, loving, kind people in my life--who take the time to show me that they care.

They inspire me to be a better friend, and now I want all of you to take the time today to tell someone you love all the wonderful things about them.

Casualties of 9/11

2011-09-11T15:05:00.000-04:00

I was 15 when the Twin Towers fell. I lived almost 400 miles away from anybuilding that was more than 4 stories. But at 15 I was old enough to comprehend what was happening even if Iwasn’t old enough to grasp the consequences of what was to come.

In my 15 (and 25) year old mind it was hard to wrap my brainaround the idea that there were people thousands of miles away, some who hadnever met an American, that could hate us enough to harm fathers, mothers,sisters, lovers, friends, and children who were just going about theirday. That they could hate what werepresented enough to commit murder and destroy a sense of safety we had cometo expect as our right. That there werepeople that could hate on a level I didn’t understand.

I think the greatest casualty of 9/11 was not just the livesthat were lost in the attacks and aftermath (and today as first responderscontinue to suffer the consequences of their amazing acts of heroism), but theloss of connection that some people lost to what makes us Americans-to whatmade us a target in the first place.

We are a melting pot of cultures, races, and religions. Since we began people came to America for theidea of a better life-to live a life pursuing their own happiness. My Grandmother got on a boat when she was 17and left everything she had ever known to come here on the hope that she couldlive a better life. My other Grandmotherwas able to escape an abusive marriage because unlike in other cultures womenare not property here. My father who hadbeen raised by a single mother was able to go to college through socialsecurity benefits provided through his deceased father-because as a country wehave a history of doing the right thing for our people so that everyone canhave the life they want and work for.

In my late teens and early twenties I have seen Americanswho’ve grown up with these rights start to become obsessed with restricting therights of others-racism towards a culture we had never met instead of justthose who had committed these acts against us has unfolded over the years. Racism has always been around, but I feellike what happened gave license to so many to hate even more. I’ve seen our government use the expense of awar to protect freedom as an excuse to not protect their own people byproviding access to reasonable healthcare-not even the first responders whosaved lives of others that day. I’veseen 9/11 used as an excuse by the ignorant to hate a religion almost a thirdof a world practices simply because they don’t understand.

I will never forget what happened to us on 9/11. The memory of seeing bodies leaping to theirdeath to escape the flames behind them is one that I don’t want to forget. But I do hope that 10 years later that as acountry we can forgive those who had absolutelynothing to do with it. I hope thatevery single American can be as brave as those that died, survived, and thefirst responders who went in to save those around them, brave enough to be trueto who we are, who we’ve been, and who we can become if we stay true to theideals that make our country one of the greatest in the world.

I am proud to be an American.

One Item or less...

2011-08-17T23:24:00.000-04:00

Can we all agree that there are things that you hate to shopfor? Particularly when you literallyneed nothing but said item? I mean a boxof condoms amidst 45 other things like deodorant, Doritos, assorted cleaningitems, and tin foil, says “I plan ahead, and yes…I AM sexually active. And I like Doritos.”

Just racing into the store to pick up condoms and onlycondoms says, “Yup. Guess who’s had asad sex life up until today!!?? Andguess who’s probably gonna get some in the next hour.”

Sigh.

And the teller is always someone completelyinappropriate.

Like when I bought condoms and came face to face with alittle old lady reminiscent of my grandmother looking at me with judgment asshe looks at my ring finger.

Or when a 15 year old boy is ringing up my tampons andmoving them through the scanner using nothing but the very very tips of hisfingers as I stand in front of him practically ready to snatch them out of hishands as I rue my decision to wear white pants.

Today I added a new item I will never again buy by itself(along with cat food, tampons, ping pong balls, and condoms).

A plunger.

When you go to the store and buy nothing BUT a plunger…well. Let me tell you. Everyone that sees you on the walk to thecheck out with your pretty damn conspicuous item knows…well…that somethinghorrible happened to you, and very well may still be happening wherever youcame from.

They keep a wide berth.

And if you’re me?

Well, the teller will wish you “Godspeed” as you leave.

Dating Diary: Smirk

2011-08-15T22:24:00.000-04:00

I’ll be honest with you, sometimes I don’t know if it reallyhappened or not. But then I’ll dreamabout him, and wake up on my knees sweating and vomiting on the cold concreteof my apartment 3000miles away. Unable to breathe, and terrifiedI’ll see him pacing like a predator in front of me. Hands that always moved threateningly overme, enough to convey what they were capable of without tainting themselves witha reality that might be less violent than what he could inspire with a smirk.My body violently reacting a year later tells me it happened, and that he wasindeed a predator. The reaction to thepolice when they ran his name but couldn’t confirm his history validated it.

The truth of it is that it was probably far worse than Iever allowed myself to comprehend while it was happening. But then that’s true of a lot of things.

I don’t like to think about it, and there is one entry thatfalls before this one in the Dating Diary. But HB tells me that I cry a lot in my sleep, and I have this naggingfeeling that I won’t stop until I admit to myself what happened.

I struggle with self worth. No one is a harsher critic than me. As far as I’m concerned, I could have always done more. Been better. Been more involved. Beenthinner.

Its why I graduated with honors and the highest salarystarting out of anyone I knew.

Its also why I graduated at 108 pounds and more than oncebroke into my apartment complex’s gym at 3:00 in the morning to run just a fewmore miles.

But when I met him I had been feeling better. I was doing well at my job. I was a healthy 130 pounds, and I had spenttwo years with a therapist who was really helping me to see that I was prettygreat and I should stop beating myself up.

So, I found someone to do it for me.

I never would have gone out with him a second time if hehadn’t called me.

But I was lonely, and I was still getting begging texts fromthe Grizzly that would have made even Mother Theresa feel like she hadn’t doneenough. I was getting reproachful looksfrom my neighbor for telling him I didn’t share his feelings for me. And it was nice to be around someone who didn’twant anything from me…yet.

He lived not too far from me from me, and he was justflattering enough with his attention, and he talked constantly about everythinghe had accomplished.

It was attractive.

We started to spend more time together, and I found himmagnetic.

Which is why I didn’t scrutinize more when I saw his licenselying out revealing that he was far older than the age he’d original told me. I believed him when he said I must have heardwrong. That I had this “nasty littlehabit” of not paying attention to him.

Which is why I felt bad for him when he talked about why hewas working for himself since his previous managers took advantage of his starpower and potential and screwed him over again and again.

Which is why when he described how he’d broken up with hislast girlfriend after three years when she was 21 I held back the urge to thinkof him as a statutory rapist as a male in his thirties dating an 18 year old.

Which is why on one afternoon at his apartment when helaunched into a tirade about how I was a conniving bitch who had the nerve tomock him, I believed him. And that I waswilling to tell him anything to just calm down and be kind to me again.

These little spats continued, with me pulling away, and him,with eyes like a snake confirming all the worst things I’ve ever thought aboutmyself, and then laying on the flattery thick when I was ever so close to notbelieving him.

About 3 months into the relationship, I started to getscared of him.

His temper was like nothing I’d ever seen, but it was alsounpredictable in a world of men who’d thrown themselves at me-begging me tolove them.

We went to the beach one day, and we got lost.

What happened over the next few hours had me quivering,afraid I wasn’t going to make it home, as he spoke low and quietly about movingaway with me to somewhere in the woods when my attention could finally be whereit belonged, when I could finally focus on what should be most important in mylife.

I told him at lunch that I was moving away, that he needed tocool it.

Back in my apartment that night, he called me and screamedat me for three hours. Until my roommate walked in and hung up the phone, and told me that I should never letsomeone speak to me that way. That thisguy was dangerous.

The next day he begged for forgiveness and told me that if Icared about him half as much as I did Ari we could be happy. And that maybe Ari needed to find a new home,and that we could discuss it over dinner.

I never called him back, I emailed him an apology instead, that’show messed up I was. That I thought Iowed this guy an apology.

And in the response I received the most cutting words of mylife. Words that made my hair stand upon end.

I started to be jumpy when I walked home alone at night, andmore then a few times over the next few weeks, I noticed a familiar shapeloitering in places close by.

I stopped sleeping.

Every part of my body stood at attention at all times.

Then something happened, and I left work and spoke to thepolice.

I saw a mug shot with a familiar smirk and despite all myhesitations and dancing around what had happened with the officer, when shesaid-“let’s just say this is not a new behavior and he has a history of notresponding well to women who say ‘no’ to him” I burst into hysterical tears andbecame hyper aware of everything that he had lied to me about-and that I hadlet him mold me into being as pathetic an accommodating as something I’d alwaysfeared.

I started packing that night.

But still, I dream that I didn’t get away. I can still see the smirk, and sometimes whenI wake up I still smell the faint odor of cigarettes in the air, and I let thetears come while I lay awake clutching Ari-protecting him from the darkness inway I never could protect myself.

Hostage Situation

2011-08-08T22:44:00.001-04:00

Ya'll. I am being held against my will.

I started a new job almost three months ago (pretty much when my posts took a nose dive) and I have been held hostage by it.

Friends and family (and blog readers) are reaching out to me to find out what's happening in my world...and (gasp) their queries are going unanswered...because in the 10-12 hours a day I'm at the office I have virtually no down time. Zero. Zip. None. No time wasted on shopping websites. No time spent reading other blogs. No time spent being a pro bono therapist to everyone in my social circle. I am literally racing to get everything done all the while my list grows steadily longer.

At the age of 25 I increased my salary by a ton, and effectively cut out a lot of things that make me happy by almost double that percentage.

I'm interested in what my job is, despite feeling overwhelmed, and I can see the value I bring everyday, though when driving home at 10 o'clock and realizing I had one bathroom break at 1 o'clock that day, I'm more aware of the fact that I need to establish some boundaries...and quick.

So starting tomorrow, I'm taking bathroom breaks, refusing to let my manager reduce me to tears over the formatting of an email, spending time at work to let myself grow as an employee so I'm not in the office until 8 every night, and recommitting myself to my writing-cause I realize how much I miss it-and just how much I notice that "I" am being muffled and brought down by not doing it.

This hostage situation ends now.

Party People...who nap

2011-07-25T07:45:00.000-04:00

We’ve already established on multiple occasions that I am aTerrible Bridesmaid. In part because myeyes reveal my true opinion while my mouth says, “No, this fuchsia wonder of adress is flattering on everyone,” and I will tell a hysterical bride (in an effortto make her feel better) “Its fine that the seat covers aren't the color youpicked—no one cares and will remember your wedding as much as you willanyway”. Slam bam word vomit. (Never tell a bride no one will care aboutHER wedding as much as she will…it’s a bad bad bad thing to say.)

So naturally when my oldest friend asked me to be in herwedding I had trepidations. Weddings areexpensive, and I don’t revel in signing up for what always has the potential toturn into a hostile situation between all the love, expense, and mother in lawdissention in the air, but for my friend I said yes. And promptly proved right away that I was aterrible bridesmaid by posting about a bridal store in our (mutual) home stateoffering a “Hunting Season Opening Sale”. My mockery of the bridal sale was taken as mockery of the wedding (twohugely different things, now if I’d been mocking that wedding had beenscheduled to accommodate bow hunting season that would have been making fun ofthe wedding). So for a solid month I wasin the dog house until I redeemed myself by talking my bride off the ledge acouple of time from falling into the pit of Bridal Manic Mania.

Last weekend was my first real Bridesmaid duty, and I flewhome to Michiganfor the Bachelorette.

My last Bachelorette weekend kicked off with having a Peniscup setting off the all sort of security in the Boston airport, so I was determined thisweekend would go better.

It started out with Zimm picking me up, me opening the backdoor of her car and it falling off in my hands. That’s right, the car door fell off. In my hands. I stood therelooking dumbfounded and worrying about my apparently hulk-like strength, whileZimm casually walked over and slammed the door back into position.

Needless to say it was not the kickoff I wanted for theweekend.

Now when Bachelor/ette parties come to mind, the typicalstandard is to think of the usual debaucheries-strippers, booze, bad decisions,and losing a member of your gang to copious amounts of alcohol and the topfloor of a swank hotel.

Zimm’s Bachlorette was none of these things, we kicked offthe party with a group nap. A nap. And it was fantastic. From there we played cards, raided the bulkbooze at Sam;s Club and went a fancy smanc dinner followed by loads of skiball. In short, it was the perfect nightout with the girls.

We woke up the next day with our memories intact the way hercar wasn’t. Fabulous!

Giving my Insurance a Run for it's Money

2011-07-22T23:00:00.003-04:00

I’m fairly confident that if I lived in any other period inHistory I wouldn’t have lived past 21. That’s not to say my abhorrently bad luck with people would have placedme smack in the path of Jack the Ripper, but I definitely would have come downwith polio or consumption or some generally terrible infectious disease. Because, just like me my body is god damn accommodatingto whatever virus or bacteria crosses its path.

“Why Hello nasty virus, come in, make yourself comfortable. Can I bring you anything? A beer to furtherwear down my defenses? Well okay.”

Almost a month ago I fell victim to a UTI, an infection thatI am all too familiar with.

I went to Urgent Care, got some antibiotics and went on mymerry way. Lalala! The glory of modern medicine…and peeing painfree (which is an underappreciated pleasure if you ask me).

A couple weeks later I went out to brunch with my sister andher horde of children where I munched on Crème Brulee French Toast (yes it wasawesome), after a nap I found myself doubled over retching. I had a kidney infection. I went on my (lessmerry) way to the doctor and was mentally preparing my will afterwards when Iwaited in the slowest line ever. Likeseriously. I waited 19 minutes. Have you ever waited 19 minutes for somethingwhen it felt like your entire innards were going to explode? It’s not pleasant.

Which is why I almost bite off the head of the pharmacist whenshe tried to explain the side affects with my birth control.

Happily medicated a few days later I returned to thehospital-this time to see a Sports medicine doctor about my hip that has beenaching since the marathon. I signed allsorts of papers promising I wasn’t prego so they could do an MRI to figure outwhat was wrong with me.

Flash forward a week.

I was stressed out. About Honey B. About my job (that keeps me away from ya'll). And about the fact that my MRI showed the tissue/muscles/etc cushioning my hip and leg bone is torn to shit and I won't be able to work out until it GETS SEWN BACK TOGETHER.

And my period was a day late.

Those side affects of the meds I was on that the pharmacisttried to tell me about? Yeah, how aboutMAKE YOUR BIRTH CONTROL INEFFECTIVE.

I wigged. Not becauseI could be pregnant. But because I hadhad an MRI, and if I was prego I would give birth to a mutant baby.

A MUTANT BABY!!!

I spazzed for an hour.

And my body promptly announced I wasn’t preggo-just stressedout and behaving all PMS crazy.

Thank God for modern medicine.

Boom

2011-07-06T22:41:00.001-04:00

I feel completely alone.

I left work drained on Friday. After two back to back weeks working 60-70 hour weeks, and leaving work 4 hours later then I expected, I was tired. I hadn’t seen HB in a week since he had been working similar hours, and I was looking forward to seeing him.

We ate dinner and before getting into our respective cars he pulled me into a tight tight hug. And I burrowed into it. The comfort of it. The warmth of it. The support of it.

July 4^th has some romantic significance to me. I remember watching fireworks with JJC when I was 18 and recognizing the vibrancy of the blasts. I remember watching them with Third and feeling nothing but the excitement of them. I remember a year ago watching them out of the corner of my eye while literally being dragged along and thinking how dangerous they were.

I wasn’t feeling my best this weekend, and Texas is in a draught so the fireworks were banned so on Monday I turned on the television so I could watch. And see the colors and the brightness light up against the blackness. I made up some dinner and invited Honey Badger over, excited to see him.

I picked up some beer for him and worked on dinner while he entertained Ari on my couch. I collapsed next to him and watched the television and thought about other 4^th’s, and how it was nice to finally feel secure on the holiday. Safe.

I noticed his hands weren’t on me, and aside from the hug I trapped him in when he arrived he hadn’t touched me all night. After the fireworks, he got up to leave, and I started to cry. I realized it had been a long time since I’d gone out of my way for a man, and I was grateful to trust someone, and scared because I suddenly realized what it meant that he wasn’t touching me.

He asked me why I was crying, why I was mad at him, and I replied, that I wasn’t mad. Just disappointed-that my effort wasn’t being reciprocated naturally.

He went home, and today I called him because I wanted to say what I felt. To talk about it. And now its done. He hesitated to give me an answer saying that we had so much in common as friends. I pushed for an answer, hating waiting for the moment of ignition.

I feel so naïve. I feel so alone. I feel so foolish.

And so not good enough.

Ka-Boom.

Very Mundane Musings

2011-07-04T14:53:00.002-04:00

I have been working a lot of hours at the new ‘Dream’ job. A lot of hours. Like barely getting home while its light out hours. Like I have hundreds of unread emails busy. Thus my steady decline in posts. But it will get better.

I was sick yesterday and was unnecessarily mean to the Honey Badger. I told him he had a big nose when he started talking about his perfect genetics, he told me I was “white as a tub of glue”. Touche. The fact that my (retrospective) mean teasing was handled so well made me like him more.

My pen friend from Saudi Arabia saw me bitching on facebook about how hot it is in Texas (I’m like a tub of glue for a reason) and reminded me that there is 110 degrees after the sun goes down. I retreated into my air conditioning.

My other friend, Kare Bear, wrote me a lengthy email about what is going on in her life and about getting used to not being recognized as special. It made me think about how successful and motivated all my friends are. And that I’m not alone.

On Saturday I finally took my clothes that have been living in my car to Goodwill. I felt like a Champion conquering my to do list.

I received a friend request from someone I met a couple weeks ago for about an hour. I declined it. I think its weird when people add you as a friend too soon.

That’s my news.

PDA with HB

2011-06-27T23:29:00.000-04:00

Here’s the thing. As you could probably testify from the past few entries of my Dating Diary, in past relationships I’ve harbored a secret hope that some other blonde lady would come along and snap my problem (boyfriend) off my hands to spare me the aggravation of soul stomping and breaking up. I don’t have much time for jealousy, and usually when out in public I dislike public displays of affection—cause I’m checking out the other merchandise.

Which is something Honey Badger and I had in common. A shared loathing of public oogling/fondling/eye worship, etc. Naturally this commonality thrilled me-as most mutual interests do at the beginning of a relationship. When we had this conversation I pictured us on opposite sides of a bar waving at one another congenially but giving no real indication other than slipping out the back at the end of the night that we were together. I was excited about not having to hold hands, be embarrassed my escort sobbing in public that we were meant to be together, or falling to his knees in the middle of some crowded place calling me a beautiful lady.

Imagine my surprise when, out one night Honey Badger was being publically oogled. And not by me.

I wanted to tear that drunk skank’s hair out for trying to pick up what is (figuratively) mine.

It was a completely foreign experience to me. Jealousy. So, I slunk over and laid a big old kiss, a big whooping PDA—with tongue, branding him, before glaring at said skank.

I didn’t know what to make of it at all.

A few weeks later we were walking home from dinner when I inadvertently went to hold his hand.

I stopped myself and skipped on ahead, determined for us to continue to share our mutual disdain for the dreaded PDA.

He told me that I was being silly, and this one time it might be nice to hold hands. Brain dead Jenna practically swooned.

Then on Saturday we went to a fancy French American Bistro. He ordered beers and made me laugh, while I mocked the guy behind us in a tie who was so nervous about his date his energy was palpable 3 tables over. We chatted. And talked about normal stuff. Mostly Ari and his upcoming birthday par and his upcoming birthday part (not really).

Then I offered him a taste of my (amazing) chicken. He consented to try it, so I stabbed it with my fork and offered it to him. Correction…I fed it to him.

Me. Hater of PDA’s. Fed the Honey Badger from a fork in a romantic French restaurant.

He looked positively uncomfortable. The only thing that would have made it more obnoxious was if I was a cocker spaniel and he a lovable scamp of a dog sharing spaghetti on a dumpster.

I didn’t blame him when we exited the restaurant and I was 10 feet behind him. I figured that way we were kind of in line with my vision of slipping out the back together so no one would know that we were together, at least not the nervous guy on his date that was making fun of us feeding one another in a French dining experience while a pianist played in the corner and I could avoid being broken up with for disrespecting Honey Badger’s hatred of the PDA.

The next night Honey Badger cleverly invited me over to his place where he could avoid being publically branded as mine. It was fun.

At the end of the night, when no one was there to see, he walked me to my car and kissed me on my forehead before saying goodnight. It might not have been public, but it was a sign of affection that I felt in my toes.

I left him with a squeeze and went on my way…thinking about how differently I’ve been feeling about affection of late.

It's a Major Award

2011-06-15T23:20:00.000-04:00

The Bruin’s won one tonight, and I feel proud for my adopted town’s victory. Yay for teams winning that haven’t won in decades! If Hockeytown can’t take Stanley I like it when the love is spread to other places I’ve called home.

Speaking of Major awards my peep Julie over at At Home With Myself bequeathed me with a delightful Irresistibly Sweet Blogger Award. Yup. My blog is full of sweet lovey goodness, as is hers. Jules writes about an array of topics I rarely consider and frequently makes me jealous of her fabulous life in Prague. Check her out.

Like most Blogging awards, this one comes with a condition of sharing 7 random facts about myself, linking to Julie, and passing the award on to assorted sweet and deserving blogs.

Done.

1.) I miss living near the water. It never occurred to me until in lately that I have always lived near water. I grew up on Lake Huron, spent my summers wondering the boardwalks and beaches with my girlfriends and favorite family members at all sorts of lakes in Michigan. I walked the Red Cedar daily at Michigan State on my way to class. Wandered along Lake Michigan when I lived in Chicago. Looked at the architecture on the Thames in London. And became more familiar with the Charles River in Boston that I’ve been with any other place in my life. I really really miss the soothing feeling walking along the water brings me. I’m not meant to be landlocked.

2.) I am lazy. I never thought I was. But the fact of the matter is, my new job is showing me near daily that I don’t think things should be hard and I don’t think buying and selling commodities is worth losing sleep and getting hysterical over. I’m not saving lives people, take a friggin chill pill. Again I find myself thinking, I need to find a job that inspires me, makes a difference, AND supports myself in the level to which I am accustomed.

3.) I had to get an MRI on Tuesday to check out my hips. I marvel at modern medicine…and simultaneously wonder with all that marvolousness why the doctor didn’t prescribe me something to numb the pain that kept me up in tears until 3 am.

4.) Distance has the strange habit for me of bringing me closer to people. My closest friends all live far away. Sadness.

5.) I want my next vacation to be with my girlfriend's in a cabin or a condo on the water. Ahhh, good food, views, and company.

6.) Halloween is the best day of the year.

7.) People not recycling is my number one pet peeve. I loathe the people at work who have the recycling bins RIGHT NEXT TO THE TRASH CAN and still choose to use the trash. I am now the girl who sifts through the top of the trash to dispose of items properly.

So onto my candidates for blogging sweetness…

Katy-cause I want to see what her random head comes up with for random facts.

Tish-read about the things that changed her life.

Renee-Cause she is coping with cancer with more grace than I thought possible.

Pandorah's Box-Cause she is Canadian.

Honey, I'm home...

2011-06-13T22:56:00.000-04:00

I’ve been watching Mad Men.

Gobbling it up disc by disc. The intrigue, the details, the fashion. I love the retro fashion of the fifties and sixties-when curves were celebrated, color was supreme, and skirts the norm.

Skirts are my norm and a couple months ago I literally squealed when at the mall a pleated flaired blue skirt ala’ Betty Draper was on sale. I paired it with a form fitting white blouse and yellow pumps as my new favorite work outfit.

It was what I was wearing last Tuesday when I offered to make the Honey Badger dinner. I raced home from work, clicking around the apartment in my heels, too busy and pleased with the sound to take them off as I threw the meatloaf I’d made the night before into the oven and pealed potatoes and tossed green beans to steam.

I wanted him to like it, and I was a little stressed out from work-and truth be told cooking calms me. He called me from my gate and I let him in. He was looking fabulously handsome and looked like I felt from my day at work-exhausted. He collapsed on my sofa, patting little Ari on the head, and turned on the Red Sox, I clicked over in my heels to give him a smooch and cracked open a beer for him.

I decided to make some chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and put them in the oven as I pulled out the meatloaf-so they’d be warm when we’d finished.

I made him a plate and curled up next to him on the sofa.

He asked for another beer, and then I wondered what was wrong with this picture.

I promptly took off the shoes and put on some shorts and a t-shirt, and handed him the bottle opener.

I’ve been watching too much Mad Men.

26 Things: Dear X

2011-06-12T19:16:00.002-04:00

Almost two months ago I got a letter in the mail. A legit letter. Dated in the upper right hand corner and signed with x’s and o’s from a friend I haven’t seen in over a year.

It was so thoughtful and took my “marginal” ho-hum day into a “wow, someone thinks my friendship matters enough to take out a pen and hand write a message and send it snail mail.” I loved it.

When I originally made up my 26 things list I intended to write a letter to my dance teacher of over a decade and my drama coach and a couple others that helped etch out the person I became. I haven’t wrote any of those letters.

Instead I wrote letters to the people who are shaping the person I am right now.

I wrote my boss a letter when I left my job telling her how she was the type of boss I wanted to be eventually. That all the care and attention to her employees did not go unnoticed.

I wrote a letter to an old Boston U classmate who, after I got hit by the biker and was hobbling around, offered me a ride to and from class—and as time went on her friendship. I thanked her for taking the time to be generous with someone she barely knew.

I wrote Grey Goose a birthday letter telling her how much I admired her commitment to being herself and how freely and fiercely she loves her friends.

I wrote a letter to a friend in Boston who had been having a rough time telling her that she was in my thoughts and that she was one of the toughest and kindest people I knew.

And I wrote a response to my friend who had taken time out of her day to write me-because she inspired me by being the type of friend I want to be.

I’m amazed at how these small gestures have elicited such a big response from the people I love—it turns out, even the qualities you think are so obvious—aren’t to the people who possess them. And that little bit of recognition makes those qualities shine even brighter.

You can bet I’ll be writing more than 5 letters.

Dating Diary: The Great Grizzly Part 16

2011-06-08T21:56:00.000-04:00

Catch up on all my Dating Shenanigans here. And please read bottom to top.

Also, please keep in mind...Grizzly was a nice guy. I think he'll make someone a great boyfriend someday...when he grows a pair and some self worth. Some of these events of been dramatized for effect.

Dating Diary: The Great Grizzly

Now you would have thought prior to be whisked away on a romantic weekend in Maine meeting the parents would have been an item cleared with me on the itinerary. You know, somewhere between “Hike the Precipice in Acadia!” and “Enjoy tour of local tourist spots!” in big letter so I don’t miss it: MEET MR AND (insanely submissive) MRS GRIZZLY. But no. This jagwad brought it up ON the car ride to Maine, two hours outside of Boston when I had nothing to do outside of nap and fiddle with the radio dial from the passenger side.

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately when considering the time invested) this was not how the courtship of The Grizzly and I began.

After getting canned and having my one night stand with a man who’s pick up line was “Hey Jenna, wanna touch my arms?" I decided there was no where to go but up and signed up for an online dating sight…and quickly learned that it was possible to go down. Way down. Down for approximately 12 dates with 12 different guys. And then, the Grizzly appeared. His profile was correctly spellchecked and he was punctual (two skills that were of increased importance to me at the time given I had just gone through the job hunting process), he was tall, employed, and (almost unBEARingly--I made a pun!) polite. And from the second he saw me (and almost every time after until I stomped all over his heart) his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

On our second date the Grizzly got pulled into a circus act performing in Faneuil Hall-and the entire time he was holding up a man on a stilt he stared at me with his eyes twinkling and I realized it had been a long time since anyone had looked at me that way. Certainly not Third of whom I longed for that look reflected back at me, not since the beginning of my time with JJC had I seen that expression. It was nice to be on the receiving end of that look-and not the one giving it.

And so we started dating.

I loved the attention. Grizzly brought me flowers, met me outside my building for lunch, hung on my every word—changing his political views to mimic mine and applying for grad school when I suggested it, and he never once made me laugh. A couple months into dating (his hero worship) and a fun weekend in Martha’s Vineyard (where Eastcoast douchery unites) I realized over dinner that I didn’t care about him at all. Not that I disliked him, and not that I liked him, I just didn’t have an opinion either way. But then he looked at me with those big puppy eyes and I didn’t have the heart to kick him away. Surely he just needed time to see that I am a big, bossy, motivated, loud pain in the ass-and he would go away on his own and I could stay as pristine as how currently saw me.

He didn’t.

We went to concerts. We talked on the phone. I fawned all over him when I was drunk.

Somehow (can't imagine how you heartless wench) he still didn't get the idea in his head that we weren't right for one another.

Which is how I found myself after 3 months of dating found myself in the car on the way to Maine listening to him talk to his very backwoods Conservative brother about the EUTHINATION OF RETARDED CHILDREN AT BIRTH and about how I, his lady love, was going to meet his Mom and Dad later in the weekend.

WTF.

I was going to meet his parents? Normally, I love meeting parents-I’m an Ace at meeting parents, but I was going to meet parents who taught, at least one of their children, that EUTHINATION OF RETARDED CHILDREN was OK? The second the phone was hung up I lit into Grizzly about his brother’s opinion for 20 minutes, citing all sorts of reasons it was inhumane and why his brother was demented. After agreeing with me (of course) I got the run down of the weekend plans. Including advisement on how I should avoid clamoring on about women’s rights…or mentioning the fact that I was (am) of the opinion that women can do anything a man can do (except move heavy furniture) while at dinner with the parental unit.

I was annoyed. And I realized that for the most part the Grizzly annoyed me. I definitely needed to end it. Though surely he would get the idea soon, wouldn’t he? Preferably before making it all the way to Maine. Instead, I gave him a pep talk about all the potential he had.

The dinner was a disaster. His Mom was a nice lady, but as someone who surrenders her paycheck to her husband every week and drives a dilapidated Honda while her husband drives a new Lincoln and charges his son for the cable he watched in the 35 minutes he was home, I had a hard time finding common ground since I thought the guy was an asshole. I also got the feeling that Poppa Bear had never been stood up to in his life, which is why I almost caused the man to choke when, upon being asked if my textbook company wrote books teaching children about the “proper” family structure I answered that because we were in the business of making money we presented what sells-and since most PTA’s are filled with women I had no doubt our educational materials were abdicating women’s rights and all sorts of different effective family structures.

It was a fun ride home after. I felt guilty because the Grizzly was upset…right up until he told me about how badly his Dad used to knock him around as a kid-then I was A-OK with the verbal smackdown I’d just sprinkled through the meal between asking for more salt.

Grizzly cuddled me all night telling me how much he adored the way I didn’t back down from his Dad like everyone else did. That he admired my commitment to my values. That everything I did was wonderful.

A couple days later a mutual friend warned me that the Grizzly, after 3 months of dating ya’ll, had mentioned he was looking at DIAMONDS.

WTF.

The next time the Grizzly drove me home I suggested that we spend some time apart, that I thought he needed some distance from me because I didn’t share his feelings for me but that I’d like to be friends.

He sobbed. For FIVE HOURS.

Making me cry cause I felt guilty for making him hurt.

The next day he showed up tryng to convince me I’d made a mistake.

That he loved me.

I told him I still wanted to be friends (with benefits...essentially leading him and continuing to stomp on his heart like a heartless harlot)

This patterned repeated almost weekly for the next month…until he showed up at 3am on a Saturday at my apartment. I went ballistic.

Suddenly I didn’t care if I hurt his feelings or not, and at 3 am and listening to a month of whining about how he would never find someone as wonderful as me I agreed with him. He wouldn’t. Cause he was boring. Didn't have any of his own ideas. Had parents it would never be safe to leave kids alone with. He couldn’t make a decision on his own, and I was on birth control because-at this point in time-I didn’t want a kid, certainly not a 6’4” one. And despite the fact that he was doing everything for me-was one of the most selfish people I had ever met because all of those things he was doing? He was doing them not because he wanted to, but because he wanted to “earn” me. I ranted at him for close to 15 minutes before slamming the door in his face and stomping off to bed.

20 minutes later he buzzed, and fell to his knees in my hallway begging me to reconsider. That he would do anything if only I would care about him a little.

I realized at that point the kindest thing was to shut the door, and let him hate me.

Afterthoughts: Nice guy. And I’m sorry that by trying to be kind I ended up being the brazen bitch who strung him along and ruined him for women for the next couple of years. I learned the lesson that sometimes, the kindest thing is to just be mean. And that if you worship someone and wonder why they are with you, eventually-they will start to question why they are as well.

He also made me admire the men who've broken my heart more. Because I realized the courage involved with breaking up with someone who adores you.

Thinking back on it, his relationship with his Dad makes a lot of his behavior on our relationship make sense. I hope he's ok. And that he's realized he shouldn't have to beg someone to love him, that he's a great person...just not for me.

Boring Boyfriendville

2011-06-06T21:49:00.000-04:00

On Saturday I was bored. I went for a long walk. I cleaned my closet and sorted out a pile of items I wished to donate. I scrapbooked. I watched disc 1 of Season 4 of Mad Men. I did everything that wasn’t productive (no blogs). After a few hours of this I wondered how Honey Badger’s soccer game (cause he is wicked athletic, ya’ll!) went.

As this thought went through my mind, I felt my stomach drop as I sat looking around me—not a pinch of makeup, yoga pants, pony tail on top of my head, and a massive bowl of Apple Jack’s on my lap. I have become a resident of Boring Boyfriendville.

What is Boring Boyfriendville you ask?

It’s a state of mind.

Now, for the grand majority of my existence (even when I am casually dating someone) I live in Jennaventures. I spend inordinate amounts of time caring/maintaining my physique, I like fashion, I actively look for adventure (drama) with which to entertain everyone, I rarely miss an opportunity to hang with my gal pals, and I always always always have to be doing something. And if a man happens to be in the picture, well, he’s there—but he is a passenger on my ride.

But things are not that way with Honey B.

The night before I had my dawning realization Honey Badger and I went to dinner. We drank fancy cocktails and ate fancy desserts out of shooters. We talked about our days and I laughed when he made funny voices. After we left the restaurant we discussed what we wanted to do for the rest of the night, I suggested going to a bar—though I was super full, and he countered that he’d prefer to go back to his place—and as he suggested it I felt happy since I didn’t feel like partying anyway. We were asleep by 10:30.

When I woke up I was a-okay with the state of things. HB made fun of my morning crankiness and we ate corn flakes, with sugar sprinkled on mine, while watching the morning news.

A few hours later when I wondered how his game had gone I realized what the difference is this time. I’m actually comfortable.

It’s a lovely feeling.

That said, hopefully some adventures will happen soon in Boyfriendville. Else my blog will become very dull indeed.

An Ari-ism: Mojo Slaughter

2011-06-02T23:42:00.000-04:00

It pains me to admit, but Ari's (non-stop) humping was making it difficult for me to adhere to my usual philosophy of cat parenting (my schmoopsie poo can do no wrong! But if he does I will discourage that behavior by showering him with toys to distract him from his path of destruction). People, I couldn't even sit down with him thundering over to get down to business.

Having dated a possessive douschebag in my past I know enough to know this is not, "Aww, how sweet he loves his Mommy!!" but rather "Ewww, you just referred to yourself as his Mommy...and he's humping you...gross!!"

So I did some research (there is a disturbing amount of information available for male cats who begin humping in their middle age) and some sites suggested depression medication--but all the sites agreed on one thing, "As a new behavior, humping in adult male cats indicates the cat is feeling anxious and unloved.

Oh for Christ's sake (it's always the Mother's fault...shit. Must stop referring to self as Mommy).

I decided I would try to make him feel loved by buying him new toys, a fluffy pink bed (the current obsession), AND the kicking kong HUMP toy.

Honey Badger came over for a home cooked meal and while witnessing the insanity of toys strewn about the floor informed me that this behavior was my fault because he had never seen a cat as spoiled as Ari. Which pissed me off because at that very moment I was piling Honey Badger's plate with Parmesan crusted chicken and risotto--clearly I spoil both of my boys. Honey B countered that I had never gotten him a hump toy, so HE couldn't be spoiled. I stared at him annoyed that he didn't realize I was the hump toy. Anyway, I digress.

I stomped off to my room and chattered on in my girl way until Honey Badger announced that he was no longer in the mood. I had killed his mojo.

Last night I found myself alone in bed reading with Ari coiled on my lap. Shocked by what I was reading I announced (to no one in particular), "No way!!" Ari seemed to agree because he meowed loudly--inciting the pet owner bout of crazy of conversing with your pet...an lo...Ari didn't hump the rest of the night.

Turns out when I chatter on non-sensibly the mojo of all men is halted.

Fancy that.

Everyone is assuming I'm in mourning...my token Oprah post.

2011-05-28T15:29:00.000-04:00

I’m not sure what it says about me that approximately 12 friends-5 of them close friends have contacted me in the past few days to see “how I’m doing”. I become puzzled until they go on to say, “You know, about Oprah…” Jesus. Is my adoration really that obvious? No wonder I was single for so long.

Here’s the thing, I really was sad because it’s rare that a person with a platform uses their power “for good”.

I loathe morning radio personalities that mock and jeer and spread stupidity and ignorance.

I hate hearing about politicians who can’t publically acknowledge that they support a women’s right to choose, healthcare, what religion they are, whether or not they practice yoga—because they are afraid that some people may be offended by their views and not vote or give money to their cause.

It makes me sad to see women (or men) in relationships become absorbed into their partner and partner’s interests because they are afraid they won’t be loved if they are themselves.

I hate when people only tell half of a story because they want to “be right” and not admit where they may be at fault or loose the loyalty of people they don’t really know or care about anyway.

I hate when people try to blame all their problems on someone else and accept no accountability for the decisions they made that led them to that point.

Whether or not you loved or hated her, Oprah carried herself with decorum and elegance and stood consistently for what she believed in and in a way that she thought was best tried to help people—while being successful.

In her way she tried to spread a message of integrity, generosity, and excellence. I admire her.

Her show highlighted issues that needed attention-like how soldiers are treated in their communities, the state of schools, how child abuse could be stopped—and more importantly-how anybody could make an impact. Every month her magazine highlights people who are helping others, or being excellent in their field, or using their life to make a difference.

About three years ago when I started writing I dreamed of writing an article and having it published in her magazine. Later, I started to wonder what it would mean to become one of those people she hails in her magazine—a person living a life based on what they believe in, and using their energy to support what they believe in and it became my unspoken (until now) goal—to do something worth having others write about. To find my passion and excel-in a way that means something to me and to others.

I admire Oprah because she showed me that it was possible to be successful and still work for what you believe in, she gave me that dream.

So yes, I’m sad, but I’m not weeping outwardly like a family member died or anything. Fear not people, I'm fine.

Thick

2011-05-25T23:34:00.000-04:00

A week ago I had kind of a rotten day…aided in part by the same hormones that had me assuming the fetal position over the idea of Mr Trump even theoretically getting his hands on the name Mr President. Everything and everything was setting me off until I wound up speeding down the Texas highway having a full on crying meltdown. Real safe.

Now, the next day I was willing to admit that the new birth control pills I’m on may be creating a hideous and horrible, irrational, irritable Bitch Monster and that during the beginning of the third week of every month I may need to recede into a cave for the safety of my job and those I love (even Ari wouldn’t get near me). I decided that I was not allowed to react to anything until I had some time to reflect and let “Rational Jenna” solve whatever issue Bitch Monster Jenna had decided was worth a hysterical sob session.

Now, what are some things that set me off?

-Honey B leaving my apartment without adequate snuggle time (I believe I actually snapped, “I think it’s kind of shitty for you to just get up and go”…even though he had been at my place for the entire evening and had to get up early the following day).

-Working until 7:30 on a merciless Excel document.

-Getting home afterwards and realizing the only food on my premises was popcorn

-Having issues taking off time for my friend’s wedding (that I’m in) in October

-Running and feeling my hip continue to hurt (has since the marathon)

-Not fitting into a pair of jeans cause I’m bloated

-Having the Snot Acquaintance we all have comment on a photo in Facebook, “You’re looking kind of thick here”

-Ari refusing to snuggle with me (even he was afraid)

-The Cat litter bag busting while I was cleaning out the litter pan…disgusting.

-A zit.

Now I understand why I felt the need to sleep my Sunday away on Honey Badge’s couch. I’m exhausted, but glad I waited for Rational Jenna to intervene before starting a reign of terror...except on the DBag Facebook commenter...he needs a slap from the Bitch Monster.

A case of the Tuesdays

2011-05-24T08:00:00.001-04:00

Someone’s Got a Case of the Tuesdays…

I got into an “unfight” with someone the other day who thought I should take down my blog and censor myself. I flew into a rage…well, as rage like as I can get at any rate, because this is my creative space. Writing is one of the few things I'm 'good' at and I felt so resentful of someone trying to take it away from me. It's my record of my thoughts, and I appreciate knowing that I am being heard-even if by someone I’ve never met on the other side of the world. That kind of volume is reassuring on days when I’m feeling like my voice doesn’t matter or is fading in the crowd. So fuck that noise, I’ll carry on as I like. As my sister said, “Jenna Badger don’t care. Jenna Badger don’t give a shit what you think.”

Tomorrow is Oprah’s last show and after watching her final shows these past few days I feel less sad because I know she will carry on inspiring me by paving pathways outside a daily talk show. She has this quote, “God can dream a bigger dream for you than you can ever imagine” and I feel inspired to hope that the same can be true of my life.

I love LOVE Lady Gaga’s new album Born this Way. Do yourself a favor and listen to “Edge of Glory”. It was the lone part of my Monday that was inspired.

I’m wondering if dating someone has given me license to be boring. Pre-dating I was all about training for my marathon, interviewing for big jobs, lining up 18 fun things to do in a weekend, flying off to Europe or some other exotic locale (Paris for NYE, anyone) and now, for the past two Sunday’s in a row I have passed out after getting my snuggle on on Honey B’s couch. High excitement I tell ya’.

Ari’s humping is a problem. “It” came out. Yuck, yuck, yuck.

Does anyone else ever feel like a hostage to their rapidly filling DVR/TiVO/ ever growing pile of magazines? When am I going to have the time to watch/read this stuff??!!

At work yesterday I made a list of all the things I wanted to accomplish when I got home to make me feel like I got the most out of my day. I’m proud to say I scoured the apartment, hand wrote a letter for someone special, played with Ari, grocery shopped, did all my laundry, changed my sheets, and caught up on three emails for people that are important to my happiness. Now I can give myself permission to be a boob the rest of the week.

I’m curious if any of you have any questions or requests for things you’d like me to write about…I noticed this happening on some other blogs and am hoping I can get some inspiration out of it. Not to fear though, minimized in the corner of my blog at about 5 work in process word documents.

The Morning the Night went Missing

2011-05-22T14:16:00.000-04:00

Given that my Dad is a cop I like to think that I have some inherent sleuthing skills. Mostly these skills are utilized for cracking down on cheating scumbags (cue: ) or for deducing who in the apartment moved my remote control underneath the sofa (Ari). But occasionally after a vodka influenced night out I get a chance to stretch my skills.

Usually it’s easy to retrace my path. Keys and purse in pile by door, shoes following a few feet forward, a shirt hanging on the ceiling fan, my pants sitting in front of the toilet next to my wallet where Drunk Jenna allegedly took inventory of all major cards and cash while taking a pee—or else she was online shopping because my laptop has also (mysteriously) found its way to the bathroom. I then rely on my memory or facebook updates/photos to retrace my actual descent into this stumbling buffoon incapable of utilizing a hanger.

But from time to time, entire nights go missing, until weeks or months later I find clues. Usually I meet a perfect stranger who is delighted to see me because we had a blast together and invented a secret handshake on “the Missing night” or some girl will give me dirty looks and later inform me that her boyfriend had bought me drinks on the ‘missing night’.

A few months ago I had a night that I knew should probably stay missing. For one thing, I woke up vomiting a “Korean Taco”…later identified by a food wrapper in my purse. What the hell is a Korean taco? Do they even have tacos in Korea? Where did I even find this delicacy? My tights were at the door…but my shoes in the bathroom (So I walked in, removed my shoes, took off my tights, then put my shoes back ON to walk to the bathroom that was 10 feet away?), my jacket was lying sopping wet in the bathtub, and perhaps most conspicuous, my iPhone 3GS was MIA.

After gaining mobility and will to stand upright without barfing, I cleaned up and went to the ATT store to be sure no one was calling Sex Lines on my phone and to replace it. All was well and I learned from some friends that I may have danced on a bar and in a drunk state stopped some “alleged” investor from trying to bang me by going all Suze Orman on his ass when he said some ridiculous thing about how he was investing 20K a year into a Roth (maximum allowance is 5K dumbass, and you’ve been a financial advisor for how long? Yeah right.) I still didn’t know what happened with my phone, but whatev. I replaced the phone and went on my merry way, fully committed to never drinking again.

Two weeks later I received a voice message from the Austin PD.

I was a little alarmed, how did the Austin PD get my number? Why did they want to talk to me, my insides cringed worrying about my ex. Given that I am law abiding, but not dumb, I verified that the officer who called actually worked at the Austin PD on their website before calling him back.

Wasn’t I surprised (and still confused) when he asked me to describe my physical attributes then about my whereabouts of the very night I had my night go missing. I told him I was at the bars on 6^th street and rattled off the names I could remember-then asked him what this was all about-fretting in my head that this was how law and order episodes go into the break.

He explained that a car had been broken into and an iPad stolen, but that the owners of the car had received text messages and photos (okay, dumb criminal) sent to their phones by the thieves taunting them.

I was shocked, I told the officer my phone had gone missing that night and I had replaced it the next day, but that I would be happy to check my call log for them to see if the thieves had placed any other calls. I also explained that I wasn’t the same sex, age demographic, or ethnicity of the alleged criminals in the self portraits that they submitted in a fit of stupidity.

So, apparently, on the night that went missing-I got robbed by idiot thieves…or else I spent my evening as the Madame of a Car thieving ring…the clues will always come in…eventually.

Stupid Blogger being Shut down...delaying my publishing

2011-05-13T19:14:00.001-04:00

I could be out doing something awesome and Austin-y, celebrating my first paycheck and survival of almost 3 weeks with the new corp’…but I am home, nestled into my sofa with my petite pooch, stretching my exhausted muscles and brain, catching up with my blog ‘friends’, writing, while watching some Oprah…it’s positively decadent.

You know what one of my biggest blogging pet peeves in the blogging world is, the post that explains a lengthy absence, “I’ve been busy/I lack motivation to write/I’ve replaced blogging time with gratuitous amounts of sex”-all of which are true in my case, but the real reason I haven’t been as eager to sit and regale you with my adventures is that I’ve been a little bit down the past few weeks and besides excuses, I also loathe whiners, and that’s what I feel like. I have every reason to be pumped about life-but instead I’ve just been a little intimidated and freaked out about leaving old job/starting new job not knowing a damn thing/missing my Michigan-Canadian-Boston Besties and their camaraderie and feeling out of step. Such is life I suppose.

I went shopping with my sister last weekend and spent more money on Ari than I did on me. Wonder of wonders, with the onslaught of new toys, cat nip, and fancy fluffy pink bed the humping has stopped. Ari feels loved and spoiled…thus the neurosis have stopped…but now I’ve taught him that if he humps he gets prezzies…bad lesson for him and the Honey Badger both.

Can I just share with you a compliment Honey Badger paid me? I went to his apartment on Sunday to lounge by the pool. We went grocery shopping and cooked dinner together. (Barf). Afterwards I passed out on his sofa ,possibly because I was tired and cozy comfortable…possibly because I was bored into it through being forced to watch golf on tv, either way I woke up two hours later nap crabby and wondering where he was. I wandered his apartment for about ten minutes. Kitchen, Dining, Bathroom, Living area, then I found him and scared him. He hugged me and said, “You are so elegant and catlike, I need to stick a bell on you.” Elegant, me? For the girl who typically bounces around like a kangaroo on methamphetamines this was high praise. Swoon.

I think my new job is going to be good cause it will “stretch” me professionally, but I know long term its not what I want to do. How can I tell this? I’m not fired up about what I’ll be doing. It’ll be a job, but a job that puts me in a better financial position to make a change if I prepare for it well enough. Which is a lateral step up from my last job. So that will be my goal. To learn a ton, to gain what I can professionally and financially, and find the direction I should be pointed in which I feel in my gut is less numbers and more people focused.

My nieces have a dance recital on Sunday. The fact that I can go makes my heart dance.

I left my pilates class last week and saw some older people taking a tap dance class and having an absolute blast. Starting in June I’ll be joining them J

I am planning FOUR trips…one home to Michigan for a wedding, one to NYC in August, one to go to the OPRAH conference in Atlanta, and one to Vegas. Bring it, baby!

I have five blogs in progress…the return of the dating diary, my almost arrest, and a post about the heavy worry in my world.

A Dog's Life...Molly

2011-05-10T00:09:00.000-04:00

I’ve been training for the past couple of weeks at work and have been putting in far longer hours than I did at my previous post, so I shouldn’t have answered the phone when “Dad’s cell” flashed across it at 4:30 in the afternoon, but my Excel Sensei insisted I answer.

My Dad made small talk causing me to wonder why he was calling, when he announced, “I have some bad news, Molly died last week but we didn’t want to upset you at work by telling you about it then.” My Dad went on to say that she had passed in her sleep and that in the past months she had deteriorated rapidly-but that at 17 it was to be expected.

I knew Molly was old, and to be honest I always felt trepidation when I called home and asked about her, but it didn’t stop the tears from welling up ever so slightly. Tears which I was able to release a couple hours later when I finally left work.

Mine is a family of dog lovers-and our dogs are a part of our family and we have been blessed with some wonderful ones.

I still think about Ellie, a tri color collie that got abandoned by her previous owners in a divorce who slept on my bed every night, followed me around everywhere, and even waited at the bus stop for me to come everyday from school. To say I was devastated when she had a heart attack would have been an understatement. I was inconsolable for months, and refused puppies and other replacement dogs my parents tried to bring home, I didn’t want to be hurt again.

One night in October my Dad went on a drug bust and told us later about a dog that had been tied to a tractor and left to starve at the farm. The thought of that dog enduring that and then sitting in animal control was too much for my Dad, and a couple of days later the dog came home and named her Molly (though looking back Mary Jane would have been more appropriate)…cautiously opening up my head and heart to another dog after Ellie.

Molly was a total knucklehead. She raced around with the energy of a 100 dogs, chased cars (“God damn it, Molly” was a familiar yell), and brought life and vigor back to our aging dogs, and loyally followed around our old Black lab-even moving off comfortable pillows for Shadow when Shadow stopped being able to move very well. Molly worshiped my Dad and her big brown eyes were always reflecting love and trust in them. She would “scream” and run circles around me whenever I came home, and would navigate the distance between mine and my parent’s room a couple of times every night to be sure all was secure.

Almost 15 years after the drug bust, the original owner still in jail sued my Dad for “custody” of the dog, a dog which, we found out, he had never even bothered to name. The judge threw the case out, but I was struck by finding out that a man rotten enough to get life in prison, could starve a dog, not bother to name her, and then 15 years later try to take her away for the sole purpose of hurting others…that was where Molly came from, and she was still as sweet and loving as she was.

I get mad when people say. “They’re just pets. They’re just dogs”-because when I think of their capacity to love, to move past things, to be loyal to those who love them-I think they teach a humanity that we humans could learn a lot from.

Molly was the last of my “childhood” pets-she was 17, and I can’t help but feel sad that the next time I pull into our driveway, and open the same front door of my parent’s house that she won’t be screaming in ecstasy at the sight of me in a display of reckless emotion that you would never get from a person. Cause that’s what dogs do-they love ferociously seeing only the best in all of us.

I miss my dog. I miss my childhood, I miss that giving and receiving that effortless love.

Lo...w

2011-05-09T00:46:00.000-04:00

Now that my parents are finally sans children the level of attention paid to the pets is escalating at an exponential rate. They actually pay a groomer to come out to the house and “tend” to their posse of pets (3 dogs and 2 cats). This was Lola pre grooming…gorgeous.

This is Lola post grooming…ever so slightly less so.

After nearly choking when the image finally loaded and then having to choke back giggles I uploaded it to Facebook.

A couple of weeks ago I bought a “Buy with Me” coupon for a “spa” day-massage, facial, etc. I was pretty amped about it and went prepared to relax. Instead I got put on edge.

The entire appointment was a sales pitch to explain everything wrong with my skin/face/hair and what services were accessible to “fix” me. I was put off by the entire experience. And as time has passed I’ve grown to feel worse about that appointment. It wasn’t until tonight when I was looking at the picture of Lola that I realize that had been bothering me about it.

I feel the same way about that appointment that Lola, as evidenced in the later photograph, feels about her beautification appointment…”F*ck that noise!! How dare you capitalize on my insecurities and try to make me feel bad about myself! I was gorgeous before this appointment-and your opinion of what I should be only makes me feel less so.” So now if you'll excuse, I'm going to carry on being myself now-and not worry about the size of my pores or my belly fat that you could easily remove.

An Ari-ism: If I hump it—it iz mine…

2011-05-04T00:34:00.000-04:00

I may have mentioned a few (hundred) times that when I sprung Ari from his “temporary” shelter home they were thrilled the little thug was no longer their problem. From the moment he burrowed into my bosoms he gave up his life of giving scars to passerby’s and attempting strangulations of larger cats then he.

But who he was didn’t completely disappear when he became “my little man”. The Alpha male remained. In my Boston apartment Ari’s litter box was stored in my bathroom. Being a gentleman he refused to use it when I was in there…he likes his privacy; but when my then (wimpy) boyfriend used the bathroom Ari raced in before the door closed to take a dump—just so the Grizzly would know who was the boss. When I dated Assbag Ari launched an aerial assault on him and tore the hell out of his back. When I moved in with Kayvan, Ari would periodically play to the point of attack-and never let Kayvan win-but he never once scratched or rough housed with me, cause I’m the Momma!

But since moving to Austin I’ve been a loner or in the company of women—and Ari has been nothing but a charmer. Enter Honey B.

Honey B is a cat lover, and upon entering my abode he paid proper homage to the “Lord” of the manor. Ari fawned all over him…until Honey B and I started canoodling. Then Ari tried to interrupt. At first Ari tried to distract HB by climbing all over him, then he switched tactics and got on my lap. It didn’t stop us from ignoring him.

A couple nights ago Honey B was over and left, and Ari climbed on my lap moment he left and had what I thought was a seizure. But it only lasted a minute, so I ignored it. Then it happened again and again the next day.

Naturally I wigged out and consulted the internet and became convinced that he had eaten something that had clogged his intestines. I called my Vet friend who listened, and was shocked to discover that Ari wasn’t sick-he was humping me.

It seems, that my neutered boy is an ALPHA male in every sense of the word and wants to be sure that I (and Honey B) know that I am HIS. Ari's never done this before so he must be afraid that I really do like Honey Badger.

Cause, much like anyone, Ari thinks that “if you hump it, it’s yours.”

She Mine

Classy.

The Symbol

2011-05-01T23:27:00.001-04:00

I remember being a Freshman in high school and watching the towers fall. Watching the people jump, the smoke, the devastation, and wondering ‘why’. Then watching the news at home with my Dad as they announced that suspicions were currently on Osama Bin Laden. At the time, I couldn’t fathom that someone could hate “us” so uniformly that they would be willing to kill without prejudice-that we were attacked because we were Americans. That there were citizens in countries in other countries cheering at our pain, it was beyond what I understood at 14. That people could hate that way.

I was in New York on September 11 this year, and I watched the trail of police officers driving around the city. All of them had come into work that day-intent on protecting their city, a symbol of the service that so many had sacrificed the decade before. My friend Sam and I went to the top of the Empire State Building that night, a wait that typically takes hours, only lasted 15 minutes because people were feeling cautious. I felt so sad about the loss of life, but also the loss to American ‘innocence’. Sad about the rising of prejudice and racism in our own country—sad that hate wrought hate. Sad about all the families that lost loved ones, and sad about a city of people that feared for their life from an enemy that they never even met.

When I looked into the sky I saw the glow of the towers from a light that beamed as a reminder of where they stood, a symbol of what we lost, a symbol of how strong we still are. I felt so grateful to be alive, and to be an American—a place where people of different beliefs, ideas, and backgrounds are all entitled to be exactly who they are. A place where hate does live, but in the long term isn’t able to thrive, because things like hope, faith, and commitment to ideals can win out.

Last night the news reported that Osama Bin Laden, a man who long ceased to be a man and became a symbol to so many,to us a symbol of hate and hurt, was killed. I feel grateful that he’s gone, and grateful that a man who felt such hatred, who caused such devastation wasn’t allowed to thrive. That in the end he got what he deserved.

Report Cards

2011-05-01T12:20:00.000-04:00

I love getting report cards. Or I did, cause pre-college I only got one B, the rest A's in my 13 years of academic life. In college I did pretty well, only a couple complete disasters (Engineering calculus and statistics ruined my "high honors" chances). So for the most part I liked being accountable to my tasks cause I was good at them. Why yes, tell me how great I did so I can run home and show my parents and revel in their pride! Now that I'm an old foggie though, I no longer know how well I'm doing. So I decided its time for my review of how my 26 things are going. Boring cop out post I know, but handle it!

26.) Run that Motha’ F-in Marathon. Yes, Swearing is allowed.

Okay. Actually running a marathon sucks ass. Finishing the marathon isn't even that great cause you've pushed your body to its absolute limit. I was disappointed by the whole thing for about two weeks. I hurt, my time sucked, etc. But then...in a conversation I was having at the bar one night I got to drop in, "oh, I did the marathon in Austin." That, my friends, felt incredible. To just say, "I did it Mo-fo's!! I'm strong! I'm tough! Yeah, check me out, only a .1 of the population ever does one!" So yeah, after about 2 months I finally recognized how big of an accomplishment it was, and I was finally proud of myself.

Which is why I want to run another one next year...on a flatter course.

25.) Go to the "O" conference and see Oprah speak. Yeah. It'll be awesome!

People. Oprah has been on television as long as I've been alive. I credit her show with helping me be a more thoughtful, open minded, better person. I am actually getting upset as we wind our way closer to the end. When her last show comes on I'm insisting my sister come over for cocktails and tissues so I'm not alone else I fall completely apart. Anyway, no talk of the O conference yet this year. So this may end up as a mulligan. But I did watch her Master Class which was inspiring and wonderful.

24.) Join 3 clubs, stay involved with 2.

Meh, I've kinda joined my sister's "Girl's Night Out" group. I'm counting that, else this would be a complete failure. I still want to find a book club, but I fear by shooting for 3 I'm over extending my desire on this one. Oh well, I still have approx 7 months to get this done.

23.) Only spend 1000 decorating/furniturizing new apartment

Win! But only cause my sister gave me her furniture and my Mom bought me a bunch of stuff when they visited (bedding, rugs, hutch). I've only really bought a massive mirror (love it!) for 86 dollars, 3 bar stools at 60 a piece (180), a 5' by 6' poster for 90, and a coffee table/trunk for 45. I still want a desk. But this counts as a win cause right now I've only spent around 400 thus far.

22.) Leave a “Big” tip

No luck, I've yet to have either really awesome service or encounter a really awesome person (you know, the waiter that is personable and chatty and comes off as genuinely awesome) as a waiter.

21.) Cook one completely *new* meal a month. Actually follow recipes-will not modify to the point that recipe becomes a microwavable wonder.

Hmmm, I went to a cooking class in January and made Bolognase, made cookies in April, but this one isn't going that great. I've decided though that I can still win this one by doubling up in the coming months.

20.) Take a Trapeze Class. Because a.) I’m afraid of heights, b.) It would be cool

No progress.

19.) Go to 40 Pilates classes.

I'm WINNING this one, I'm at 11 classes done and I'm getting into much better shape. So yes, this is going well. I absolutely love my classes and love how toned I'm getting. Win.

18.) Write 5 Thank You Notes to People Who Made a Difference

I'm at 2/5 for this one. On my last week on the job I sent my boss a thank you note that seemed to have resonated. I also sent my therapist a long letter a couple of weeks ago. I know the next letter I want to send will be to my old Drama coach, but I need to track down an address.

Expressing gratitude is important.

17.) I would like to do a retreat of some sort, totally by myself.

I want to go on a weekend cleanse of some sort with a good book on spirituality that doens't bore me, good views, healthy vegetarian food, and yoga. Still looking into this.

16.) Eat Vegetarian 4 days per week (its good for the planet!)

I have no idea how I'm doing on this one. I eat vegetarian a lot when I'm home for dinner, but in terms of entire days I know I'm not doing well. I have converted to buying all my meat free range. Not sure how impactful this is, but I'm working on it. I also picked up the Omnivore's Dilemma for some educational reading on this subject.

15.) For two months-make 400 of discretionary spending on gas/groceries/fun last. This will recoup finances lost with 25.) and 23.)

Thus far, huge fail. I've had too many visitors and shopped way too much. Oddly I anticipate due to my work schedule that June and November will be these months out of sheer volume of work hours.

14.) Donate $600-1000 (depending on raise situation) to charity.

Right now I've donated to Kayvie's soap project (50) (which got fully funded!), magazines and books for a dialysis clinic in Austin (75), and to relief in Japan (100). My new job has greatly improved my financial situation so I will be going for the higher number. I'm definitely going to donate to Ari's shelter and I want to find an organization that supports families with children with cancer. I watched a special on a group that sends siblings of cancer patients to camp-to give the parents a break and time to spend with their kids in the hospital and the sibling access to some fun and people who understand what they are going through. I think this is a pretty great idea and I would be pleased that my money could go to something like that.

13.) Teach Ari manners. I deplore boys with bad manners (or anyone for that matter) so I should not allow my cat to bulldose around.

Ah, my little cutie! He is very sweet when we have guests, he just needs to not claw on things or get on counters when we have company (or at all), but I think he's improving.

12.) Sing Karaoke

WIN!

11.) Have a Girls Weekend with the College Classics (may combine with 2. For sake of finances)

This is good thus far, I've had a couple of my bestie's visit me here, and I'm planning on coordinating a weekend in NYC or Vegas depending on my schedule with work. This will happen!

10.) Meet a few of my Jennaventures Regulars-I'm looking at you, Texas frequent commenter’s, oh the intrigue of meeting "stranger friends"

WIN! I loved meeting Susie. I hope if Sara from Le Petite Village comes to Austin this summer I get to meet her as well.

9.) For one month NOT GO OUT TO LUNCH during the week

May. This is my goal for May.

8.) Go on a "blind" date...after my 8 month reprieve from dating is over--of course. The vouched for person is going to be key to this-Nobody with a police record for harassment and a false sense of grandeur.

Winning, I met Honey Badger on a blind date, and according to my Popsie he doesn't have a record of anything.

7.) Would like to be super assertive about something when someone I know is trying to get me to do something I don't want to do. Saying NO, ya'll.

Harumph. I am a "Yes" girl.

6.) Write three blogs per week

I was doing great-December/January/February/March...my change in job circumstances may make this one difficult now, but I am going to continue to try.

5.) Get really good at parallel parking again

Meh. I'm decent-ish.

4.) Go to 6 different concert events

I nailed this at SXSW.

3.) Retry 3 foods I dislike

No progress

2.) Travel to do a half marathon in another State

I want to do the Disney Princess half, but that's not until next year.

1.) Take an Art class

No progress

Happy Dancing

2011-04-27T23:39:00.000-04:00

Things that are making me Happy Dance this week

*Last week was my last week at my job. You know what? If you are ever having a piss poor day and feeling bad about yourself you should quit your job, the outpouring of love and compliments that you get as you leave practically gives you the ability to levitate.

*Have you seen these “Sassy Gay Friend” videos? Oh my God! I love him!!

*Honey Badger was cat sitting last week (cause he likes pussies, ya’ll!) for his neighbor’s a-freaking-doreable Himalayan kitty…and their other anti-social bastard cat that refused to come out to allow HB to clean out his eye boogers. I went down to see the kitty and was playing with her while HB tended to his caretaking duties. When we left the cat started screaming and we could hear her all the way down the hall. It was sad. Honey Badger is a huge softy, and even though he had a million things to do (or just one important thing to do) insisted we turn around and spend more time with her. Swooooooonnnnnn. I like that he likes animals.

*My pilates classes are working! I’m seeing results, and this pleases me immensely. I'm gonna be bikini ready.

*I’m sure I’ll be back to being super nervous about my job, but today I was shadowing one of the people who interviewed me. At the end of the day he tossed my resume my way and gave me his notes about the interview. “Lacks experience customer facing and expertise in Excel” (Totally True) “Sharp/Out-going/Logical/Strong supply chain knowledge”—also true. Knowing that the things I was self conscious about were evident and that they hired me anyway made me relax a lot. Yay for being outgoing and sharp!

*Tuesday’s Glee. For those that don’t watch, the episode was about accepting and loving the things about yourself that you dislike-“Cause you were born that way”. This is, of course, a feel good topic that I would love. They also discussed mental illness and the stigma that surrounds illness that are completely misinterpreted by the masses. One line stood out and made me want to stand up and applaud (or march over to my laptop and immediately start writing) (paraphrased) “this mental illness is not who you are, its what’s keeping you from who you are supposed to be”. I’m grateful that this topic was handled so elegantly.

*I have had three no spend days!! Yay for being economical!

Overheard, Or Poor Jenna's Dad.

2011-04-25T22:38:00.000-04:00

A couple weeks ago my friend, Little Foot, from college was crashing with me while she vacationed in Austin. Naturally I was out and about after 10 o’clock at night gallivanting with her and when we arrived home we were just as drunk as we were at 19 making poor life decisions at a frat party.

I woke up on Friday sulky and marginally hung over so a coffee break was necessary almost immediately after I arrived at work. When I hobbled back to my chair my cell phone glittered with a message from “My POPPY!!”. I pulled the phone to my ear while I read the news,

(Loose transcription) Jenna’s Poppy: Ah. Jenna. Ah. Please give me a call. We received a call last night at, oh, 2:15 AM our time, 1:15 AM your time. Sounded like someone was drunk and having a good time. Anyway, I need to make sure you are alive so I’ll give you, ah, about 10 minutes to call me back before I try you on your work line. And if I don’t hear from you on that I’ll be calling the Austin PD-cause, after all this is you we’re talking about and there is the distinct possibility you are lying in a ditch somewhere—or, you know, kidnapped. Call me.”

I was instantly sickened cause my Dad was using the same tone he used when pulling out my first and middle name when I was in 5^th grade and got caught making my fifth grade teacher cry. I was in trouble and I knew it, at 25 flipping years old. Upon dialing I felt my stomach drop again cause I realized what I was doing at approximately “2:15 am their time, 1:15 am my time”. I was in the middle of 6^th street (hopping up and down) in front of the Honey Badger (my new beau) yelling “kissmekissmekissmekissmekissme!!!!!!!!!!nownownow!!!!!”

Ughhhhhhhh. What did my Dad hear? And worse, why does my Dad assume that kidnapping and quick onset of Stockholm Syndrome is something I would fall victim to?

My Dad answered on the first ring with, “Well, it certainly sounded like you were having a good time last night.”

Sigh, poor Dad. Poor me.

I’ll never be a real adult.

Dating Diary: Compensation "Package" Part 15

2011-04-22T06:00:00.002-04:00

Object of release: Compensation Package...aka Clark Kent
Age of Self at the time this all went down: 22

It was a huge source of pride to me that I had never encountered a one night stand (Yes Jenna, Congratulations. You were content to make the same stand over and over). Yeah! Momma didn’t raise no ‘ho! But you know, I was feeling kind of shitty after the whole Ginger experience. And then I got bad news from my doctor. And then I got laid off (all in about a 1 month period). (BTW we are all keeping our fingers crossed that the new beau doesn't get annoyed with my dating history being online)

I'm recycling an old post

There was only one place to go, a place where success and self respect were not mutually exclusive…the bar.

After running through a gamut of emotions since getting laid off the week before, I had networked my ass off, and carried myself for five brutal days with humor and charm to my last official day on a project at Big Blue. To celebrate my last night in Austin, I gathered up my small posse of coworkers fortunate enough to not be going in a ‘different direction’ and began to nurse my wounded ego with whatever assortment of liquors that they placed in front of me. In my drunken delirium I started to think of far worse scenarios I could have been in-- I could have been fat and laid off, or 45 with a family and a mortgage payment, or worse still, condemned to being the ‘coffee girl’ for higher levels for the next five years and fannying about hotels locked out of my room wrapped in a towel. The more I drank the more confidence I had--I was young, smart, funny, and had a ratio of attractiveness that was correlating quite well to my alcohol consumption, and everything was going to be A-okay…particularly as my vision fell onto my co-worker that had arms like Superman.

The week before, when I was still employed and had no clue of the terror looming before me, he had winked at me and asked, “Hey Jenna…wanna touch my arms?” I had stared at him dumbfounded for a minute or so unable to believe I had just heard that sentence come out of his mouth, before I acquiesced and groped them a bit, pleased with my discovery that beneath his exterior of khaki pants and button ups Clark Kent was concealing a killer body. Such was my pleasure in my new discovery I allowed some fooling around on the walk home before coming to my senses and announcing in the cab that I wasn’t a one night stand kinda girl, and I didn’t believe in banging coworkers-particularly one that would be sitting next to my cube for the better part of the year and shooed him away. He had thrown an epic drunk tantrum in the middle of the hotel double doors that can only occur with a lethal combination of blue balls and alcohol and I had gone back to my hotel drunk and content in my ‘good decision’.

God hadn’t rewarded me for my good decision, and the next morning Superman listened in the cube next to me as I got the ax, and tried to block me with a hug before I ran like hell to my car to sob hysterically in the limited privacy a GM provides.

Here I was a week later and the alcohol was bringing to the forefront of my brain some fairly heavy topics. I am a winner, I like to win, and when I set my mind to anything, I set my brain to compete. I play by the rules. I excel. And what did I get for all my effort…two weeks salary and access to a resume specialist…lamest compensation package ever. What I needed was some instant gratification because my compensation for playing by the rules was not cutting. What I needed was someone capable of moving away these heavy thoughts-metaphorically speaking, someone who was conveniently right in front of me andno longer my coworker.

F#$k it.

Which is precisely what I did, and afterwards there was only one thing left to say as I rolled over considering my deviation from the straight and narrow, “Worth it.”

Key Takeaways: I continue to think "worth it". Not so much for the sexual gratification it brought (I'm one of those annoying clingy females who likes there to be feelings and emotional intimacy with the Dirty Deed, but because deviating from the straight and arrow and doing something because I felt like it-not because it was expected, and not because I wanted "someone to like me" felt good. Worth it.

We spoke a few times afterwards, and are Facebook friends, but Compensation Package faded in his importance-much like Big Blue.

So you are dating a Toolbag (or a She devil)

2011-04-20T14:13:00.000-04:00

I have this pretty fabulous friend from my glory days at Big Blue. She’s smart, crazy motivated, beautiful, super moral and she, deservedly, is head over heels with her college sweetheart. We bonded over orientation, staying in the same crappy ass hotel on a project in a crappy ass dying Michigan town, and over the crappy ass situation of getting laid off at the same time. We’re buds. And Facebook Friends, which is how we came to catch up about a month ago in the whole how’s life/work/where you living these days exchange (evidently she is not a loyal follower).

In my email I confessed to breaking up with a Jerk (note the capital J) and in her response she expressed a worry about her sister who was in, what my friend considered, a not very healthy relationship. My friend expressed admiration for me and asked if I had any advice for her sister.

Admittedly I snorted at first clucking that I had nothing valuable to offer, until I thought about it for awhile, and realized-yes, I do have some advice. My years of dating war stories , hilarity, and heartbreak have given me some thoughts on the subject

Here you are Sara’s sister (and all you other fellow comrades in this Relationship War)…my advice:

You know what is super annoying? When everyone else has an opinion about your relationship, particularly when it’s a view in direct conflict with your own. I get it, they don’t know the dynamic behind closed doors, they don’t know about that second date you had when you first realized there was chemistry, they don’t know about that night you first kissed and you felt butterflies and thought about all the possibilities, they don’t know about what you feel in your heart.

And a lot of times, “they” don’t….but sometimes “they” don’t need to know because “they” can see with their eyes that something is wrong. Maybe they can see you aren’t as happy and carefree as you used to be, maybe they’ve seen the dynamic with your significant other in person, maybe (in extreme cases) they see physical examples of how this relationship in manifesting itself on you.

Now, I’ll be the first to advise you that listening to every one off opinion is a bad thing-cause let’s face it sometimes taking advice from a girl who is married to a guy with a mullet/or your girlfriend who is a stripper on the weekends doesn’t always feel like the wisest course of action, but if it’s coming from multiple sources? Sources who care about you and are genuine in wanting the best for you? Sources who seem to echo a feeling that you don’t want to admit you felt? Then I urge you to take pause and absorb what it is they have to say—and ask some questions about why they feel the way that they do.

In some instances, it may just be that your room mate wants this guy outtah the picture so she is no longer sexiled from the apartment when he makes his pilgrimages to your place. In which case, ignore her and live it up! But if its friends who on multiple occasions seen how you interact together and have real concerns about how you are being treated? Or family members that haven’t seen you together but just notice that you don’t seem very happy? Or friends who don’t even cite what they’ve seen but the things you have told them about this other person. These, my friend, are signs you need to do something for yourself.

It’s frustrating when you want so badly to be in love-especially when other people/couples around you are in that happy/gooey relationship place. Sometimes that frustration/loneliness/desire to be loved and fear of being alone can drive you to make some pretty stupid decisions (no seriously, I once went with a friend on a stakeout of an ex…people so stupid things). But as someone who has dated a lot, some nice guys and some dirtbags,believe me when I say the lone regret you will have about your relationship is if you stay in it when you no longer like how it makes you feel and you aren’t growing as a person.

Let me repeat, the only regret you will have (after you get some distance physically and emotionally from this person) is if you continued to stay with that person once you felt in your gut it was over.

I’ll be back with some heartbreak pep talk and remedies later…

The Comb Over from Hell

2011-04-19T15:49:00.000-04:00

I flopped onto the sofa on Sunday after blogging and watched Ari cross the room, lock eyes with me, then begin to tear the shit out of my favorite chair.

Now there was a simple reason for this—he was being an asshole. Did I decide to take it that way? No. In my head I immediately began to assume Ari was acting out because my new Mr Wonderful spent the night before and Ari was demonstrating his displeasure with the situation.

So I stewed a bit in guilt wondering if I’d exposed Ari too soon until that same Mr (of yet to be determined pet name) engaged in a gloriously romantic text exchange with me and then I felt all happy about my good fortune to be dating someone funny, considerate, smart and handsome who appeared to be equally infatuated with my worrywart self. He told me that one of his favorite things about me was how I had my life together. L’amore!

Monday rolls around.

I wake up in a decent mood from aforementioned text messages and feelings of infatuation euphoria. Until I tried to wiggle into a pair of jeans that I had just washed and was incapable of buttoning them. Now could this been because I just washed and dried them? Possibly. Did I decide to take it that way? No. I immediately began calculating all the chick-a-fillet I had been eating of late and demise of my running regimen and cursing my recent addiction to tasty delicious waffle fries. Did I leave it at that? No. Because for the rest of the morning I sat thinking about how badly I wanted a breakfast sandwich but that if I had it I would become a bulbous hideous cow who would cause the new Mr to look at me with horror and disdain. Not over reacting at all.

Then I had my exit interview for my soon to be former job. Holy Hell! Woman from HR blasted me for 20 minutes-and capitalized on every guilt I had. In the span of twenty minutes I was basically called a money grubbing corporate whore who would grow to regret my decision after my company and management had been so good to me. I felt like I’d been shot when I left. Was this an over-reaction on my part due to HR lady’s poor manners? Absolutely. Am I a corporate whore? No, I’m taking an awesome career opportunity. Did I remember that when I left? No.

But still, all was well when the Mr chatted with me online and made me laugh and cheered me up and asked me to come over later that evening.

I went home, wrote out some thank you notes to my old co-workers and felt sad about leaving. I hate good byes. I showered. I fawned all over my little one, I got ready to go over to the Mr’s apartment when he called to say he’d been invited to play flag football and would I mind if we pushed back out meeting. Would rational Jenna care? Absolutely not. Did On-Edge Jenna care that the one thing she’s been looking forward to all day was postponed for a WHOLE hour? Yup. But rational Jenna was in charge on the phone and it wasn’t until after I hung up that I felt sad.

What does a sad person do to cheer themselves up? Eat ice cream? Well they should…unless they are having an existential crisis about their expanding bottom, in which case turning on the news seems like a grand idea. Turning on the news and watching Donald Trump drone on about STEALING AN OIL RIG IN IRAQ as compensation for the money we spent on the war. WTF.

In my emotional duress I drove over to the Mr’s place and got steadily more annoyed as I waited and waited for him. Cause I went to the wrong entrance. Was that his fault? No. Was I annoyed anyway? You betcha.

So into his apartment I went and he promptly set about making me a fancy cocktail and flattering me incessantly. Then he pulled me into his lap while he canceled his eHarmony account so I would know he wanted to see only me.

Should this have made me feel awesome? Yes. Did it? No, cause then I started wondering about why someone as great as him was interested in me.

We fooled around a bit…and then I burst into full out hysterical sobbing.

Yup. I started crying about everything. The lone thing he could understand out of my muddled crying fit? “HR lady….(muffles)…And Donald Trump is an asshole, and people may actually vote for him…the world is an awful place.”

Naturally when I woke up this morning I was mortified—way to demonstrate how kept together I am. I went into work a little convinced I would never hear from the Mr again after he had played witness to my emotional meltdown. But I did, with the IM: “Now Jenna, was the comb over really that big of a deal?”

The guy’s a saint.

And women are crazy.

Thinking about Jenny

2011-04-17T18:58:00.000-04:00

There are certain things I give myself credit for—I am a better than average writer, I’m polite, and I am a damn near gifted worrier.

I can worry about practically everything. My desk at work is covered with post it reminders of everything I have to do as well as consequences if I miss ranging from, “You will get a disappointed sigh from your boss” to “Sheer apoplectic rage from sales staff as they will lose 4 million dollar sale as result of missed date on brochures”, my calendar at home is covered with reminders like “Give Ari his medication else he become a werecat and become biting fiend”, and my personal life doesn’t need the notations as my brain likes to keep a steady underlined hum of all the hideous and horrible prospects: “You must do xyz at new job else you be huge epic failure on face of humanity”/ “all the guys you have dated have been huge losers and/or scarred you deeply—current guy will invariably find out how neurotic you are after you fall hard for him and then dump you…or you will find out he is a murderer for hire in his spare time.” It’s a little bit exhausting.

Since the marathon I haven’t been able to run more then a mile or so without my hip flexers starting to throb—and running for me is my meditation. It’s when I give myself free reign to worry for the first five minutes of a run and then let my brain go silent so all I’m left with is my breath and the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Whenever I hit the end of a run I feel calmer…and less worried about everything. Cause I know I can always push myself past two miles and all my own personal negativity I’ll be left with nothing but quiet, adrenaline, and feelings of being able to take on just about anything.

I tried to go running today, and felt inadequate. My breath was heavy, my legs weren’t cooperating, I kept thinking-“How did I run 26 fucking miles?”/general work worries/”why does my hip hate me?”/”I hope Renee’s chemo is working”.

It was not going well. I stopped to sit on the grass and stretch my legs out in front of my. My forehead resting on my knees. Resting from the run and from my own internal dialogue. Out of nowhere, I thought about Jenny.

When I was a kid I took dance lessons out of a farmhouse and I carpooled with another little blonde girl named Jenny. We were close in age, our mom’s worked together in the same orchard, we went to the same school, we both had older sister’s who sometimes picked us up from school or practice. She was nice, and everyone liked her. She was popular. Even then I wondered how she got everyone to like her so easily and envied her gift of putting people at ease and that extra year of life that she had that seemingly gave all the similarities we had so much more oomph and elegance.

When Jenny was 13—her sister picked her up from softball, heard something drop in the backseat, turned to tend to it while crossing the yellow line into oncoming traffic. Her sister was fine, but Jenny wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and got thrown from the car and died.

The school dragged the wreck out and left it on display in front of the school as a warning to the dangers of teenage driving. Jenny’s mom was never able to wash off the footprints Jenny had left on the consol of the van the last time she had seen her, and when last I heard was never really able to get over it.

I used to think about Jenny a lot. At 12 coming to the realization that man is mortal and news stories are real is hard. Thinking that someone who was so similar to me had died was uncomfortable, cause it meant that nothing was there to stop me from meeting an unpleasant end as well. But as life goes on, and as the years and the distance I put between myself and my beginnings I stopped thinking much about Jenny.

Until I was laying on the grass today brain bitching in my head about god damn irrelevant things people invent to consume them. Then I thought about her. And all the promise she had, and everything I have been lucky enough to experience that time stole from her. About the fact that I was lucky to have a job to worry about, friendships to treasure, and love life/history at all.

I got up again. And ran slower than I usually do towards the bridge, and my brain got quiet and all I could hear was my breath. And a tiny voice inside that managed to silence the worries. You are so lucky. You are so lucky. You are so lucky. Just to be here you are lucky.

Dating Diary: Part 13: The Ginger

2011-04-15T12:40:00.000-04:00

This is the text I got from the Canadian after I went out with The Boy and raved about my sheer level of giddiness: “Remember when you went out with a Ginger and I met him and asked him what was wrong with him and he told me he didn’t have a tv? Then it ended up that he was an impotent orgy king?
Thanks, Canada! As it happens that’s the next installment in this little series of the train wreck that is my dating history. Sigh.

Object of my Dismay: The Ginger, ultimately Known as Impotent Orgy King

Age of Self at the time it became evident that my priorities needed rearranging: 22

The night I met Ginger I was a little bit depressed. That very day I had been thrown off my project at Big Blue by a manager who called me Barbie and I realized I did not have a single friend in Boston outside of Frommer’s whose friendship I had fucked up by hooking up with him. (Note. If a 37 year old makes a pass on a lonely 22 year old, it’s not gonna end well). And my plans for my favorite holiday of the year, Halloween, required me to go to HIS party.

I was not happy.

I was pretty psyched about my costume though! I was going as cupid-it involved humongous hot pink wings, a bow and arrow, tights covered with kisses, a teeny white skirt, a white bra top, and a pink sash loosely wrapped around me. I traipsed my blonde booby self over to his party…and was confronted with the fact that the costumes that had been all the rage on my college campus made me look like a raging whore at a thirty something Halloween cocktail party. It took about thirty seconds before I was getting appraised like a prize mare by every guy in the joint and being muttered about by all the women there. It was awful. I was looking for an escape when I heard someone behind me start chuckling.

He too was by himself, and unlike the other guys present wasn’t obviously looking at my ass. He was my life raft out of my awkward situation. We started chatting and were talking and laughing in no time. He was super sarcastic, and his friends were very friendly. After about a half hour one of his female friends inquired if I wanted to go to a party with them since it was obvious Ginger was interested and he would never ask me himself. We went to the party and spent the night dancing and drinking. A lot.

I woke up the next day still in my costume (underwear intact) with him curled up next to me. Also fully clothed.

I didn’t really remember how he came to be in my apartment, though I did remember he had driven the night before and had been pretty messed up when we left the party. I assumed I had suggested he crash in my 300 square foot apartment to avoid a drunk driving charge. But that didn’t help me get out of the fact that I was still in my costume and no longer had the aid of liquor to help with the awkwardness. He woke up and immediately suggested we go to brunch.

It was fun, and midway through the brunch he confessed he didn’t remember my name (awkward).

He walked me home afterward, and left.

I realized he didn’t have my number (if only it had stayed that way) and was annoyed my possible life raft out of loneliness hadn’t cared enough to get my number. Twenty minutes later he buzzed and came back up and confessed he had driven home and turned around to get it.

We hung out some more and I liked him (or rather I liked having someone to call) and I was really excited about his prestigious doctorate degree from one of Cambridge’s prestigious schools (not being from New England I assumed this actually meant he was smart. Which is, as you know, one of my criteria for a boyfriend). To be honest we didn’t have much in common, but I was unwilling to admit it, and I wanted a boyfriend, or anyone to hang out with really. So one night after hanging out at the bar I took him by the hand and led him home. And climbed on top of him, ready to create some common ground if it killed me. He couldn’t get it up.

My already fragile self esteem came crashing down.

It was an absolute disaster. And the disaster carried on for about a month before he suggested another possibility, increasing the partners involved to increase his “interest” in the proceedings.

Fail.

Just Fail.

Key Takeaway: Ummm. It is possible to force a relationship for a couple of months even if you have literally nothing in common. Not even chemistry. I take comfort in the fact that if I had known anyone else in Boston this likely wouldn't have happened. I was just so lonely.

Easy

2011-04-14T13:41:00.000-04:00

This isn’t a post about the relative ease with which thighs can fall apart. Sorry to disappoint.

Jenna,

I know this is a really shit time for you and it feels like nothing is going your way. You are a really bright, outgoing, energetic person. You do nice things for people and give 110% at everything you do. You cannot control everything, only your reactions. You can wallow in self pity, which is probably necessary for a few days. You can take advantage of the break and give yourself some time to reflect and decide what you want for your life, personally and professionally. You can go balls out and knock on all possible doors for another assignment asap, or update your resume and start looking for another job.

:It seems like life after college is not what you thought it would be, and that's O.K. You can embrace what it is, or decide how you want it to change. I have faith that things will get better for you as you make your way through the world and figure out who you are.

I love you, many people love you and care about you.

Amanda

PS. I really don't think you will get laid off. Big Blue paid a lot of money to recruit you and send you through all that training, they have already invested more than what your yearly salary is and it would be stupid for them to lay you off and would reflect poorly on their university relations with MSU.

My sister sent me this after I was, rather unceremoniously kicked off my first project at Big Blue. As you can likely tell, I didn’t handle it well. (She was also wrong, I did get laid off-but that was later).

In school, I wasn’t hugely popular. Cause I was a goody goodie, liked learning, and likely annoyed a lot of people because schoolwork came so easily. I didn’t really have to try to get A’s. (I can feel your sympathy) In college, I tried a bit harder, but still-I graduated with honors after only a relative few all nighters and managed to work a job through all three years.

Even now-I meet people easily, I’m a size 4 with a bit of effort, a 6 with slightly less-much to the hatred of some acquaintances who exercise and diet and never see the scale move. I’ve dated a bunch. I pay my bills with relative ease (again, I can feel your sympathy blooming for me).

I am used to things being easy.

So when at my first job wasn’t—I got upset. I hated my job. I hated the politics, I hated sleeping in hotel rooms and working til 10, I hated having to guard my personality since superiors found it too “friendly to be professional”, I hated that my job was supposed to be helping clients…’within reason’, and mostly I hated being barraged on a near daily basis of all the reasons I “wasn’t good enough”.

I spent at least 3 nights a week crying in a hotel room feeling completely alone because I felt like who I was (and am) was being banished. I found myself re-developing some habits about food I had tried to stop.

Then I started a new project with the Sales team. I started to do better—because I found my niche with people who were more my stride than my other bosses—and because I seriously busted my ass. I stayed at the office til 11, was in by 7, was leaping at the chance to go to Kinko’s at 4 am. But there were still a few that said I was “too personable and it was a problem”.

The night before I got laid off, myself and several of my colleague friends were discussing the announcement that had just come out saying that 5000 were being let go from our division. I felt in my guts I was one of them—even though I was surrounded by people that called me nuts.

I wasn’t.

I did get laid off, and was a trainwreck for several days (as several people who talked to me the day of can testify). About a week later I started to feel grateful (though I would never have admitted it) because I don’t think I could work in a culture where who I was was something to be modified.

I was lucky, when the economy was at its worst I found a job in 3 weeks.

I started a non-consulting “industry” gig in publishing in Boston. I actually got to live in my Back Bay apartment, and I was actually good at my job.

My boss was/is amazing at making everyone feel valued-even when you mess up. In the two years I was there I had my role expanded every six months because I was good at my job. I loved my job.

In the past few months, I’ve started to take how good I was doing for granted. I expected the praise, even my marginal efforts were garnishing huge praise and thanks so I began to try less. I was bored out of my mind (thus the uptick in blogging). We had a re-work allocation after it was discovered that I was handling a disproportional amount of work compared to my team mates-so some of my responsibilities were redistributed. “Isn’t it great!?, my boss asked, “now you won’t be so stressed!” I asked for my titles back since I barely had enough to fill my day. I was annoyed.

I interviewed for another job.

A really hard job. A job that would require a lot of long nights, canceled holidays during the retail holiday season. A job that most of the people who were currently doing it had 10 years of corporate experience. I never thought I would get it. I wasn’t sure I wanted it because I had it so easy at my current job-and my hours would likely go from 35 to 60 or more a week. A job at a company that is doing pheonomenally well in a shit economy so I had tons of competition.

I got the job.

And when the HR guy told me the offer I almost started crying.

Because I had been tempted by the money before when I chose to do consulting out a college…and I landed smack on my face. I thought back to how miserable I was when everything I did wasn’t enough. How I was so afraid to disappoint my bosses I let a bladder infection get so bad I wound up with the worst possible kidney infection you can get and in the hospital. How I coped with the stress of always being less than by running for hours on a treadmill to offset my calorie intact which I had carefully tallied all day on post its. Because when I was 15 I set a goal for what I wanted to make by the time I was 30 and in the past 2 years I’ve grown complacent about that goal and forgot about it-and now it could be a reality…and not by 30…by 26.

But then I thought of how good I was at my current job, and how bored. How in the time since leaving Big Blue I hadn’t really pushed myself professionally at all. How instead I dedicated my time to pushing myself personally-to growing. To becoming more confident so I wouldn't be pushed around. How I am a better person because of my time at Big Blue-because I became more aware of who I am and who I’m not.

I thought of what I learned from the failure. And I considered everything that happened-all the growth, the learning, the professionalism, the skillset that I had gained when things weren't so easy.

I accepted the offer.

Girl Meets Boy

2011-04-13T11:59:00.001-04:00

An event of some importance has happened in my world despite my efforts to remain foul and unappealing to the opposite sex. As a result I find myself radiating positivity, throwing up high fives, giggling like a cheerleader and I don’t even care that my lips are chapped-cause I’ve been kissing ya’ll (high fives self)

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

As I mentioned in prior posts, before I started writing the Dating Diary, I was feeling a little bit, erm…resentful of the opposite sex. I was more than content to wallow in self pity with one of the only guys who wasn’t making me crazy-Ari. After hearing from several people that I was getting irritating and that I needed to put myself out there I decided to set up an EHarmony profile. EHarmony because its more expensive then Match and I wanted to weed out some sketch balls and I thought the snazzy personality profile would stop any crazed Insaneo Conservative/Women Hating/Cat loathing/Unemployed Assbags from getting into my orbit. Or at the very least some of them. And I thought that even if I opted out of responding to anyone it still counted as being “out there”.

I picked my profile picture and then waited… for approximately a nanosecond before being besieged with prospective suitors.

Online Dating can make you feel great about your ability to appear photogenic and put sentences together describing your interests, “Blonde enjoys dry wit, her Jewish cat, worshipping at the altar of Oprah, running until her hip breaks in marathons, and long walks on the beach alone. Appreciates sarcasm and intelligence in the opposite sex. Morality and height also a big plus. Must have job and control over personal finances else I will nag your brains out and ultimately dump you citing feelings of frustration and lack of interest in being a surrogate mother.” (note: a loose interpretation of what was actually up). It can also make you feel phenomenal about your single self in that you are NOT dating some of the yahoos that message you.

After about 4 weeks of daily log ins, quick “NO!”’s after surveying the messenger’s page, followed by some emails that ultimately resulted in a “no”, The Canadian and I were (drinking) in my apartment and lying on my fold out sofa perusing one another’s dating candidates. The night before we had developed a (shallow) game with my sister where (under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol) we would decree all the boys in our vicinity as “Handsome” loudly with a point (or “Not Handsome” under our breath). The game was really fun, and can be used anytime-driving, when watching tv, out shopping, etc. A Boy sent me an intro, The Canadian saw his picture and decreed “HANDSOME” and told me I needed to be more open to getting a date instead of just a sense of superiority out of the EHarmony experience. I checked out his profile and could find nothing immediately wrong--seemed to have basic grasp on grammar, was playing sports in picture so didn’t appear lazy, went to a Big 10 school so he could be counted on to watch football/basketball games, liked cats, was age appropriate for me to date, and it didn’t hurt that his height was listed as 6’3”. Win.

After a few emails where he won me over by suggesting a disdain over my alma mater’s arch nemesis. I was actually not nauseous by the idea of meeting this guy for realzies.

As anyone who online dates knows-what you see online is not necessarily what you get. So I was nervous the day we met, albeit I was pumped cause I heard that I was getting a new job (!!!). I needn’t have worried. Boy was Fine. Note the capital F. Regardless of how the rest of the date went I immediately knew The Canadian’s initial response of “Handsome” was accurate and even if he ended up being a tool I could spend a very merry few minutes checking out those fine fine arms and huge grin. So I put forth an effort. 1 drink turned into 2 and an hour and a half later I was pleased to see that in addition to having some fine fine arms, a huge smile, he was smart (criterion met), he had a sense of humor similar to mine (criterion met), was gainfully employed, and had lots of hobbies and interests (criterion met). We both talked about the EHarmony thing and how it was a real drag after a while to not meet anyone who inspires some enthusiasm and crush worthy feelings.

Apparently I did well as well in terms of meeting his criteria/not exposing my crazy was cute enough to inspire some semblance of attractive as he made plans to meet me again.

I’m sure I’ll spill more details later, but after several dates last night I made some fancy dinner for him meant to knock his socks off-and lots of fun was had. I’m in a fantastic mood today. I have a Crush. Note the capital C.

Douchebag Bingo

2011-04-08T16:03:00.000-04:00

The Canadian thinks, based on the Dating Diary, that I am obsessed with winning some sick game. She sent this to me...and I laughed for 20 minutes...enough to pee a little.

In Which I prove I am a terrible Bridesmaid

2011-04-07T09:35:00.002-04:00

The morning after I woke up after Grey Goose and Tonic’s wedding I was looking by all accounts radiant and ready to party. Still in my rose satin strapless uniform, my hair impeccable, and I even had my false eyelashes intact. In other words I was looking exactly like I usually pray to look on a Sunday morning prior to being taken to brunch, the difference being that it was my parents who were the ones picking me up.

I had a good time at that wedding. And, despite Grey Goose’s 16 year old brother’s friend better efforts to get me to partake in statutory rape—or at the very least invade the bar and bring him alcohol—I essentially behaved myself. (And avoided this kid like the plague as he chased me around all night.)

What is amazing is that after standing up in 4 weddings—I had another friend ask me to stand up for her (I mean we have been bestie’s since before I had my trademark bosoms, but still—that girl has faith in me).

So I would like my (wonderful) female friends to know that when selecting me to traipse about your important event in some vibrant color of allegiance you can expect the following:

1.) I will un-intentionally offend some member of your family. Whether it be through running through a Traditional Indian ceremony as one of 5 Caucasian people in attendance, or catching the bouquet and then getting a little bit to into the garter dance. It happens.

2.) Odds are very good that at some point, when the reception is winding down I will be on the dance floor alone leaping around like a maniac, hijack the microphone and croon Young MC’s “Bust a Move” to high applause, or I’ll be found lying in a lump in a corner somewhere crying about how I remember life before the new Mrs. was a Mrs.

3.) I will encourage raging alcoholism at your bachelorette party, and get mad when you have the stomach flu.

4.) I will order the bridesmaid dress and I will vainly lean to the smaller size. This will result in insane dieting in the weeks leading up to your nuptials. The good part of this is that when you are too busy talking at your wedding I will finish your slice of Red Velvet wedding cake that you had one bite of. I will also finish everything you don’t eat. I will look like a barbarian who has never been fed.

5.) I will totally look at your registry, think about buying something from it…then decide you didn’t know how awesome my favorite brand of knives were and buy those instead.

6.) When buying my bridesmaid dress I will offend the bridal store owner when she declares that “I’ll be able to wear this dress again and again!”

7.) I will help you pee

8.) I will insist you take even more pictures then you can stand cause I know you’ll love them later

9.) When your mom stands to make you crazy I will run interference.

10.) I will be really happy for you.

11.) I will always be on your side when afterwards you call me to bitch about the trials of married life.

Peeping Penguin

2011-04-04T09:14:00.000-04:00

I may have mentioned a few times that I hate scary movies. You know that girl who when at the movies screams during the token scary movie preview and you look over and she is practically catatonic rocking back and forth? That’s me. (Hey! Let’s share SnoCaps! And please excuse me while I climb into your lap because I’m terrified).

The thing about scary movies is that I used to love them.

I can pinpoint the exact day I stopped loving them. I had gone with the Steady boyfriend while my parents were out of town to see “The Ring” (See a scary VHS tape, seven days later a scary little girl climbs out of your television (along with water that will ruin your hardwood floors) and kills you (before your mom can about the hardwood)).

I was really upset after the movie and he did his best to comfort me while he drove me the 45 minutes back to the secluded compound I called home. Because my parents weren’t home I made sure everything was locked up tight and burrowed behind my black lab in my room feeling scared and thinking about the movie.

The phone rang, and when I answered it there was nothing but static on the other line. It rang again, and then someone (or something) started pounding on the back and front doors at the same time and ringing the doorbell continuously. The dogs went nuts, and I? Well after glancing at the doors and seeing no one I started hysterical crying and curled into a ball in my kitchen until I calmed down enough to realize it was the boyfriend’s friends.

Since I was 17 and that whole thing went down I have been committed to avoiding scary movies.

Flash forward to this past summer. After breaking up with a not very nice guy I was a little bit paranoid. Any bump or creak in my (very old) apartment would immediately wake me up and I basically stopped sleeping for about three weeks unless it was in the sauna at the gym (which made me a real pleasure to be around, I can assure you).

The only time I wasn’t in “Fight or Flight” mode was when I was at work in my Boston high rise. Which is why it was such a surprise one day when I felt like I was being watched (I’m not reading blogs! I’m very busy and important! I’m working!) I looked around and quickly ascertained that there was no one in my cube. But I still felt like I was being watched. I considered the possibility that I had finally lost it—and thought about calling up my therapist to ask about paranoia when I realized that I was being watched. In the high rise opposite my building someone was staring directly into my office window.

I was creeped out and did what anyone being peeped upon would do, I ducked behind my chair to peep on the peeper.

He didn’t move. For like 3 minutes. So I went back to work, continuing to look over my shoulder out the window and across the street at the short man in black staring at me.

I called it to the attention of my boss. My cube neighbor. Any colleague that happened to wander in and they started to feel concern that I was of such interest to the dude across the street.

That’s when I realized.

It wasn’t a person. It was a 5 feet tall fake Penguin the person in the office across the street from me had put in his window.

I grew to hate the penguin.

So one day during my lunch hour I busied myself with sign making, taking a cue from Adam Sandler and mounted a sign in my window that said, “STOP LOOKING AT ME PENGUIN”.

Two days later the penguin had a sign of his own, “Quack Quack NO.”

And thus began a sign war.

Out like a Lamb

2011-03-31T21:13:00.000-04:00

But since the weather since I’ve arrived in Austin has been consistently awesome but for a hiccup of snow that brought these Texans to their knees for like…a day, I’m not sure how apt this description is.

Moving on.

About a month or so ago I was informed by someone who knows me in real life that my blog had taken a dark and sinister turn. That I looked jaded and bitter.

This made me sad (in addition to being jaded and bitter) cause I have a lot to be upbeat about. Especially when I considered how blessed my life is comparatively. So I decided I need to reflect more than early on things that I appreciated-monthly instead of a end of year recap.

So below recaps what made me smile, laugh, reflect on, and feel grateful for in my Month:

-My Canadian coming to see me in the ATX. Holy Crap we had fun during SXSW.

Dancin

I have wonderful friends, and Canada is truly a treasure-the fact that she calls me her friend makes my heart smile.

-My friend Reiko landed in Japan hours after the earthquake hit on her first trip home in several years. She and her family are safe. I was grateful for her safety, and the crisis made me feel grateful for so many things I rarely consider-like not fearing for my life, for example. I immediately put Japan relief into my Charity goal for 2011 and wrote a check all the while feeling grateful and sending prayers their way.

-Have ya’ll read The Hunger Games? You should. I COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN. Today the next two books in the series arrived. I am very excited about hiding out for the evening-my nose in a book…exactly where it belongs 

-My Lawyer friend in Austin told me about a bar that has Happy Hour Sushi specials-its good. Anf its been fun to see some cool girls every week.

-I started Pilates classes again. I love it.

-One night I was feeling a little down about my love life. So I sat down and wrote down every guy I’ve dated/pined after/broke. I then widened the list and wrote down my favorite moments, their best qualities, why we broke up, what I learned, and what I felt. It felt like a weight was lifting—because my immediate thought? No wonder I feel down, with this kind of list anyone would feel exhausted.

I started writing about them—and you all responded, and offered your advise, and your commiseration. It was amazing. And best of all? I wrote about JJC and acknowledged how much he made me feel, and I let it all go. And he read it, and he responded and let me know that once upon a time all of it was real. Now all I feel is gratitude. And I’m excited to write some more about these men who’ve touched my life (and me ; )

-We all know I love Britney Spears. She has a new album out this month. I cannot wait to listen to it.

-I went on a date...and had fun.

-I joke that Oprah Winfrey is my spiritual leader. But I really do admire her more than any other person that is out of my normal day to day exchanges. I think she is wonderful, smart, and really is trying to use her life and her platform to make the world a better place through philanthpic efforts as well as through simply inspiring people to make a change, connect to themselves, and truly live their best life. That’s quite the mission. Anyway, this month she was the subject of her series Master Class. I’m sure I’ll annoy all of you with quotes from this special for awhile. But one of them screamed to me, it was poignant because I’ve been afraid to make a change I’ve been mulling over since November because of a fear of failure. This is the quote,

Wherever you are, always do your best. And doing your best puts you at the next level

Simple, but a good reminder.

And I'm grateful for my awesome editor because this is how I write most of my posts.

On my hips and on my mind-this week in random

2011-03-30T10:30:00.001-04:00

What's on my mind this morning:

Body loathing is something all women have in common. With the loss of my minimum three miles a day of walking in Boston (plus running), marathon training and subsequent marathon that destroyed my hip and rendered me unable to run more than a mile, and Texas diet of bbq and tex-mex I spent a portion of my morning in a snit about a slight cushionyness that is going into effect all over my body. Sigh. Must figure out way to get in equivalent of running 40 miles a week without hurting myself. Dieting is not an option, I loves me my Texas food and miss my adrenaline/endorphins.

I got my Bridesmaid dress for Zimm’s wedding. I avoided breaking out into hives in the bridal store which is a step forward for me as weddings and commitment freak me out. But I at 184 dollars for my eggplant flowy dress you can bet your butt I’m committed to this wedding. In case 15 years of friendship wasn’t enough to seal my presence there.

I will readily admit I am not patient. I enjoy instant gratification. I’m in the process of waiting for phone call that I’ve been expecting since Monday. I’m about ready to tear my hair out. You should all keep your fingers crossed for me.

At pilates class yesterday we had to do partner exercises. The one man in the class was matched up with me. He was wearing shorts (in a class where scissoring your legs in unavoidable)-and I got an eyeful. Ick. Just thought I’d share.

Ari is shedding. I keep vacuuming, taking him outside and dealing with judgmental stares of my neighbors while I brush mounds of hair off him, and still see tumbleweeds of fluff everywhere in my apartment. He hates being brushed, hates the vacuum—and makes sure I know it by meowing obnoxiously every time I try to do either of these things—and also by rubbing all over me after I de-cat hair ify.

My Canadian was in town for SXSW. It was really fun, she promised to guest post about it-it will be awesome. I am missing her.

My best friend from college is visiting this weekend/week. I am very excited. I am hopeful she will fall in love with Austin and move here and I won’t have to go through the annoying trials of finding a new girlfriend BFF-cause those are hard to find. Plus I think Ari would like an Auntie in his city.

I had a date last week. It wasn’t horrible. We are meeting again. I’m trying to avoid figuring out the way in which he will end up being totally bizarre/will end up making me behave crazily. This also means I’m spending gross amounts of time mentally picturing everything in my closet…because clearly I have nothing to wear.

What's on your mind today?

Dating Diary Part 12: Third

2011-03-29T10:50:00.000-04:00

Object of my complete and total weird level of Adoration: Third
Age of Self: 21...

The thing about Third is that I liked him instantly. He was handsome in an approachable way, was pleasant to everyone, and had this charisma that-to this day-makes my hair stand on end the second he is in the same room-a reaction that is still exclusive to him. Fatal attraction.

I like to think that he noticed me too, because a couple days later after orientation he sent me a message on Facebook pleasantly teasing me about my (drunk) beauty of a profile shot. Back and forth sarcasm ensued. The week after the COB Dickwad incident he needed a ride to the Ford dealership and asked me if I would mind, I didn’t-I liked the idea of being around him even though I didn’t know him at all. He let me stew and hiss on about COB, and we chatted about life and stupid people with an ease that surprised me because he was a stranger to me.

Three days later I woke up next to him—and he was no longer a stranger. So to speak.

I had had a party at my place the night before and my place was covered in beer cups and garbage. A neighbor came over to get a pair of shoes that he had left, and I managed (in trying to conceal Third inside-which retrospectively was moot since he drove a monster truck not so obscurely parked directly in front of my apartment) to lock myself outside in a negligee.

Awkward is waking up a guy you really like but barely know who just had the pleasure of taking your virginity while locked out of your apartment. In lingerie. ( Moment of silence for the horror young self endured). He gave me an amused grin from the window and came around to let me in. Then started doing dishes that were piled up in my sink. I was mortified. M-O-R-T-I-F-I-E-D.

Did I mention he was older than my 21 year old self? Oh. Well he was. So I can only imagine how naïve and dumb he thought I was as we spent our summer fooling around, being annoyed by the other interns gossiping about us, and spooning.

I fell and fell hard for Third. He was one of the few people with whom I am immediately comfortable around, who always makes me laugh, who seems to see things in a similar way I do. Of the guys I’ve dated he is one of two that I actually respect-even if he is a republican. He was/is nice to me. And, every now and again—he seemed to like me too. He was/is my friend. (He is always good in times of crisis for a sanity check).

Which is probably why it hurt so bad when I hit the ground and he didn’t catch me. Not that I ever expected him to. But it didn’t stop me from being disappointed. For about three years.

Key Takeaways: I suppose everyone has one that got away. The one your mind drifts to after a bad date or breakup. The one who every man you meet gets compared to. The one whose facebook profile you go scope out every now and again to see where they are and what they are doing…without you. And with four years of perspective now I wonder if the mind drifts that way because this person never got the opportunity to *really* disappoint you thereby making it a safe territory to fantasize in.

What it Took 25 Years to Admit

2011-03-27T21:24:00.000-04:00

What it took me 25 years to admit:

1.) I don’t like wine…especially not red. After two wine tours, countless girls’ night, and hundreds of (wasted) glasses I can finally admit, I don’t get what the fuss is about. I don’t like it. It doesn’t taste great, makes me sleepy, have to pee, and leaves a foul hangover. You know what got me to accept this? I was talking to my beloved Poppy who was (dragged) on wine tour with my Mum and he said, “Yeah, it’s alright, I just don’t like the taste or how it makes me feel. I would much rather have a beer…or a Pepsi.” I loved that we had that in common 

2.) I don’t like bacon (Texans gasp). Fried fat, yuck. I can sense it on or in anything in seconds. Foul.

3.) I don’t handle high stress situations well. I think everyone likes to think they are great in high pressure situations—I’m not. My body physically doesn’t handle it well. It took me several hospitalizations to get this. Sorry kidney.

4.) I don’t like being around people who feel entitled. Its not that they aren’t nice or good or anything-it just annoys me within minutes.

5.) I will never be tan. I am a white white girl.

6.) I will always be a little ashamed of the fact that I let one of my very best friend’s get bullied for months before I took the leap and stood up to the bully. I should have done it from the get go. So now I do. I judge people who bully others because of it, even if they are my friends, I have a hard time ever respecting them again.

7.) I am too nice. No really, I need to bitch up…but you know what? I’m getting to the point where I am ok with it.

8.) I was resentful of my “boring” upbringing in small town America. I am now so outstandingly grateful-because it helped to develop who I am and give me a profound sense of gratitude for what I have been able to do-get a “public” education and use it to see the world, live in big cites and appreciate it-when most people live and die in the zip code. I didn’t realize having the contrast would make such a difference in who I am and what I am able to see.

9.) I may come off as brazenly confident, but I’m not. I am always racing for something—be it acceptance, approval, achievement.

10.) I love things that may be ridiculous to some-talking about kittens with my niece, Ari, talking on the phone with my Mom, lunching with my seeeeester, Oprah, Britney Spears’ music, planning trips, fashion and shoes, saving $, blogging, the last five minutes of a run, brown rice, and my friends—but I own up to loving them. Cause, really-after 25 years, I’m starting to (just a bit) care a whole lot less about what other people think.

What can you admit to?

An Ari-ism: Like me! Please like me!!

2011-03-25T12:49:00.000-04:00

I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand when people don’t like me. I mean normal people, not people who are harassing or morally decrepit, or self absorbed (says a girl with a self titled blog)—they can dislike me all they want because I don’t really like them either. But other people who seem pretty cool who just don’t like me? DRIVES ME CRAZY. I mean what’s not to like? (when I’m not a classmate, I can see why classmates wouldn’t like me, I’m a suck up and an overachiever and that’s annoying) I’m fun, people appreciate my dry wit, sure I don’t respond to text messages but I do other things, I’m very supportive when I happen to agree with the decision you are making. They should want to be my friend!! I’m likeable damnit! Can I write them off and move on? No. Because I’m a 20-something.

Instead, I start a systematic plan to take down their defenses until they include me in their inner sanctum of friends and say, “I can’t believe I didn’t like you, you are so wonderful and awesome!!” and then I am pleased and content until I find another Jenna naysayer and the whole process has to start all over again.

Most of my closest friends didn’t like me when they first met me—Canada, my sister, Zimm, Grey Goose etc…and now I’m standing/stood up in their weddings. Ha! Inner Sanctum, baby! And I’m glad I had this habit because these girls really are my closest friends, but sometimes I wish I could be better at going, “Forget you, I don’t like you either” and move on (which I do do from time to time, it’s just not as prevalent of a response).

Ari has many attributes that I’ve noticed are slightly similar to me. And like me, he too CANNOT STAND WHEN PEOPLE DON’T LIKE HIM. I mean you can literally see when someone pushes him away he’s thinking, “I’m cuddly, and handsome, I have a gorgeous fluffy tail, I show people my belly, rub up on their legs, throw toys around to amuse them, cover their faces in kisses, and I have adorable little nubbins! What’s not to like?”

He then usually goes someplace secluded to sulk until he too begins a systematic cute assault and takes down their defenses and they are left saying, “I love him!!”.

My sister teased me about Ari-ism’s and my blatant love of my pet. Then she came over with her child and Ari (not even begrudgingly) allowed my 4 year old niece to love him and squeeze him…and chase him. All in the name of winning over the affection of my sister, who he now has private time in the bathroom with when she comes over. He also insists on kissing my face when she is over and pointedly looking at her as if to say, “Seeeee…I am so loving, how can she not adore me! Its not weird at all because I am not your typical CAT, I am Ari. Purrrrrrrrrr.”

Canada also mercilessly teased me about my alleged obsession with my cat, then she visited and Ari completely ignored me for four days in the name of acquiring a fan.

This is how they were sitting in the morning:

And I find myself wondering, really-does this attitude scream of desperation? Or is really a skill to be nurtured?

Dating Etiquette: Whoa. You’re old.

2011-03-23T22:01:00.000-04:00

Flashing forward from my past romps with the assorted princes with feet of clay, workaholics, not that into me’s, felons, and random d-bags. Because I need a break from memory lane and my younger stupid self. I would much rather talk about my current stupid self.

After my last breakup I was a little bit emotionally wrought. Not because I was sad, but because I was alarmed at how naïve to who I was dating I had been (we’ll get to that tale eventually…I have to hook ya’ll some way). And by the fact that since Third (you’ve yet to read about him) the men have been a downward spiral. As my friend Canada put it, “Wow. You’ve finally done it, just when I thought it couldn’t be done . You’ve dated the biggest jerk of them all. I know you are competitive Jenna but you’ve really outdone yourself this time-gold medal! Perfect dismount!”

Needless to say I’ve been apathetic about dating, however since Mega Crush I’ve been feeling a little bit more hopeful and am no longer fixated on my “All men except my Dad and Brother in Law are huge jerks!” monologue. So a couple weeks ago I decided to dip my toe back in the dating pool when the opportunity presented itself.

I was out on a Thursday and was behaving myself for a change.

Well behaving myself in that I was out with my single friend at the bar and we had started drinking at 6. Around 1 am we agreed that pizza was in order.

Food trailers in Austin around 12:30 are “the” hangout place, and one can usually expect anywhere from 5-12 drunk people offering praise about the sheer perfection and awesomeness about whatever it is they are eating and making a last gas attempt to get laid. LE and I got pizza and she quickly busied herself chatting with the drunk guy in front of us in line (who immediately dropped his pizza onto the gravel upon receiving it. Winning!). I started chatting with his friend while keeping a leering eye on LE.

Marginally sober friend talked with an accent, had lived in London, was new in town, and was an artist. We chatted a bit about the National Gallery in London (my happy place) and he asked for my phone number which I more than happily handed over assuming I would never hear from him again. All was well.
Imagine my surprise when he called me the next day (called, not texted) and asked me if I wanted to go to the Austin Modern Art museum and grab dinner (as opposed to meeting up for Happy Hour).

The manners were impeccable. I didn’t know what to think, so I agreed to meet him.

And subsequently figured out why his manners were so old fashioned, cause he puts the old in old fashioned. He looked different in the light of day without the gentle lighting of a food trailer and an obscenely wasted cohort to compare with. And that accent? Yeah, not real. He was from Arizona.

We wandered the small museum a bit then wandered up the street while he chatted on about how he likely shouldn’t have driven home that night we met since he had had a few too many (awesome, an older man who doesn’t know better. Great. A drunk driver. Check out my downward spiral.) Then he told me of his ability to get what he wants at restaurants…by being demanding and rude (Wait. You are bragging about this?) Then he told me about his much younger sisters and how he had such a hard time relating to their ‘generation’. I asked how old they were. “26” (I smirked like you wouldn’t believe, cause as my regs know I am 25). Then I asked how old he was “41” (I draw the line at 2 decades ahead of me…or maybe just 2 decades up with an affinity for drunk driving-and he was likely lying by 3 years).

Sigh. It was a fine first date, and I felt a trickle of guilt when he called me twice to ask me out again and I sent it straight to voicemail.

What can I say, I have a hard time relating to ‘that generation’. And just maybe, I’m learning to pick up on context clues early.

Dating Diary: JJC, the aftermath

2011-03-17T07:00:00.001-04:00

To say I had some angst towards men would have been understatement. A summer after breaking up I heard from JJC-and it was cruel and is beyond the scope of what I’m willing to toss into the ether (you will just have to leave it to your imagination). My reaction? To vomit and take to my bed and walk around dead eyed for a week. I found comfort in my tennis shoes (a habit that I have him to thank for retrospectively) and started running a few times a day (yup, morning and afternoon runs).

It was obvious that I was not in a good place, and one night as I sat munching on some carrot sticks on my counter top (a habit that my Mom hated (s) ) my Dad wandered downstairs. He and I hadn’t spoken about JJC directly since the night he found me on the kitchen floor with the dog crying about what I had been called before we broke up. But he knew how upset the whole situation made me, and he knew about the latest because I had promptly printed the evidence, marched up the stairs, and threw it at my Mother saying if she ever talked to me about wonderful JJC again I would no longer engage in the conversation.

My Dad walked up to me, put his arm on my shoulder, and said (I will never forget this), “I haven’t liked JJC since that night he called you the c-word. This latest is further evidence that he was not for you. I’m sorry you have had to deal with him and with your mom making you feel guilty-I should have confronted her and told her that as far as I was concerned he was no longer allowed to set foot in the house. Because you were right about him and his behavior towards you has shown that. And you deserve so much better.” Then he grabbed his Pepsi soda and wandered back upstairs. (I often wonder how long it took him to craft that little statement).

No more was spoken of JJC again. My friends unilaterally formed a protective barrier and nothing was ever said about him again-unless it was to tear him to shreds. I kind of forgot about it.

A couple years later he sent me an apology.

I wasn’t ready to forgive him, though I did appreciate to a certain extent the gesture.

Then he sent me a note on my birthday one year and we corresponded in a friendly way in a brief back and forth.

I was happy when he had a status update about graduating with a Master’s degree in something sciency and complicated (that aimless boy found himself some direction!) and actually felt nothing but warmth when I saw his wedding pictures posted. And I realized that somewhere along the way I had forgiven him, if not forgotten, the things he taught me to feel…the good and the bad.
Then he read these posts. (And I wigged a little bit since it was way to soon for me to get hatemail/lawsuits from the ‘dates) But he had nothing but nice things to say (as well as a reminder that his corduroy suit was black) and remembered a couple things a little differently than I did, and he reiterated his apology. Which I hope he can tell I have accepted.

I painted a not always good picture of him here, and I want to acknowledge what we meant to each other at one point…with his words to me from the note he sent me last week-cause I think it sums it up far more than my takeaway would:

When I think back on us, sometimes I recall the happiest, most powerful feeling of love I ever felt towards you. I don't recall if I ever told you or not. We were at your sister's wedding reception, and you had been busy holding her bouquet or train or posing for pictures or something and left me by myself. I caught a glimpse of you on the other side of the dance floor. I remember thinking how much I wanted someday for it to be us everyone was gathered to celebrate and then grow old together. I am sure it was only a few seconds, but I remember that feeling as if it lasted for days... That's how I try to remember us. Not the way it fell apart after wards.

You know what? Time really does heal all wounds. Even if it lets you keep the scars.

Dating Diary: College of Business Dickwad Part 11

2011-03-17T07:00:00.000-04:00

Bias Alert: This guy is a DICK and I am really struggling to remember why I found him at all appealing. I swear to God, I blocked out this whole thing and was on the phone with a friend when she announced, “I cannot wait to see what you write about DICK, I have never seen you so angry in my life”. The memories hit me in the face and I got angry all over again. He is the ONLY guy in my past that given the opportunity I would punch in the face. Then in the balls. Then again in the face. I hope he’s still a virgin. And I hope someone has punched him in the face. Then in the balls. Then again in the face. So this post will not really be fair in telling my fault in this whole charade.

Object of my Hatred: College of Business (COB) Dick, 22
Age of Self at time of abject stupidity: 21

It was NYE my Junior year in college. I was bouncing around from house party to house party, from bar to bar. I felt super popular with so many options accessible to me. I was shaking my booty and dancing up a storm when I heard, “Oh my God! I know you! You are the hot tutor who works at the Athlete Center.”

Naturally I was pleased to be recognized as a ‘hot’ anything, let alone from my job where I mostly wore pencil skirts and boring blouses, and I was even more pleased when I, in turn, recognized the speaker as a pretty cute business tutor who also worked there. The clock chose that moment to strike midnight, and as others around house started kissing and celebrating, he grabbed me in a tight embrace and kissed me. We spent the rest of the night making out against various walls and doorways and drinking (so I didn’t have a chance to realize what a DICK he was) and at the end of the night he asked for my phone number.

I was amazed the next day when he texted me (I had yet to learn that texting is the laziest form of communication that requires almost zero effort) and we met for a drink later on that week.

It was totally lame. However, I was just excited someone was interested in me that met my basic attract criteria: Smart, Hard Working, Dedicated, Cute (…again girl’s got priorities) and ignored that boring/disinterest vibe I felt. Basically the next few times we met there was a lot of liquor involved and kissing. (Somehow I failed to notice that being drunk was required for me to tolerate this DICK).

Anyway, summer came and we both had internships in Chicago-him in the chic Downtown, and I was banished to the burbs. We continued to talk and my second weekend in town he asked me if I wanted to drive into town (about a 45 minute drive in traffic) and spend the evening/night at his place so I could get the real Chicago nightlife experience.

(There are so many things wrong with my logic of accepting to stay with someone who on numerous occasions I had found myself thinking, “This guy is kind of a tool.”)

I drove in after work and he greeted me with a huge kiss. I was pleased. He asked if I wanted to grab dinner, and brought me to McDonald’s. (Let that sink in a second. McDonald’s, in his defense he was making his abject loserness known.) He then whined to me about how it was hard being 22 and the only one in his guy friends who was still a virgin. (Hint: Don’t take girls to McDonald’s).

The night was going downhill fast. There was only one thing to do. Drink. Copious amounts of alcohol (Girl…there is so much wrong with your logic I don't even know where to begin)

We were at the second or third bar and COB Dick and I were dancing when he requested a drink. I was happy to oblige. Off I bounced.

And when I bounced back…COB Dick was gone. Given that I am not an asshole and a trusting soul I assumed he was in the bathroom.

He Wasn’t.

I assumed he was waiting outside for me.

He wasn’t.

I assumed he would text me his whereabouts.

He didn’t.

He had left me. He had left me alone in downtown Chicago with no way to get home.

I went ballistic.

My solution? Drink more. Thus releasing more rage. Luckily my cousin lived in Chicago and I had a backup place to stay-but I cringe to think of what would have happened if I hadn’t had her to rescue me (snaps for Lisa, she let me crash on her couch, bitch incessantly about this Dickwad, and spared me a lecture…snaps for lisa!)

I woke up the next day, still infuriated. If not, even angrier as with sobriety came with it a whole new understanding of my stupidity for meeting up with this guy and a new understanding of the gravity of his epic douschness.

He texted me something pleasant to ask how the end of my night was, it was like gasoline being poured onto my already fiery hatred.

Key Takeaways: Ugggghhhhhh. Ok, how about not meet up for an overnight with no way to get home with a guy you don't like? How about leaving after being escorted to Mickey D's? How about standing up for yourself and telling him what an asshole he is? Maybe the real person who needs to get punched in the face is my 21 year old self for trusting someone who didn't deserve it.

Dating Diary: Headboard Pounder Part 10.5

2011-03-16T08:00:00.001-04:00

Object of Obsession: Headboard Pounder, also known as Catalog Hottie, 22
Age of Self: 20

This guy was hot.

Or so my 20 year old self had thought. (I mean I also didn’t have much to compare to given that his two precursors were both cheaters). He was tall, had big brown eyes, and his Michigan State shirt was fitted tight across his chest, and he had the whitest brightest smile you’ve ever seen…he could have been in a Sears Catalog.

This guy was hot. Like, the type of hot when even the most feminist among us starts to think about how beautiful her children would be. (which shamelessly I did think about…yep…I’m Cah-Ray-Zey…but genetics are important to think about if I want healthy-smart-kind-thoughtful-pretty babies, and later on I will dump boys because as I told one loser who comes later “I would be mortified if these kids you keep talking about behaved/looked/acted in anyway like you”-Boom!).

We met at a house party, he was a friend of a friend. He asked me to go and walk with him to the liquor store. Oh the height of collegiate romance! (or…as I like to think of it now, the depths of my desperation). And in the parking lot of the Quality Dairy we began to kiss (QD…super sexy).

I went home completely aflutter. (Read: brain dead)

My first clue should have been that by the following Wednesday that I hadn’t heard from him. Not being a super sleuth (and brain dead), I decided to overlook his carelessness of not picking up the phone the same way I decided to overlook that my roommate had invited a whole bevy of her uber Christian friends to spend that Saturday night in our apartment. I laid on my best friend’s bed across the hall and lamented about my crush and the loss of my couch. Equally horny, if not so vocal, good best friend that she is, Amy suggested we go out and drown our feelings of inadequacy at a house party. I thought this was a great idea.

Two hours later I thought calling Catalog Hottie was also a great idea. Forget all the dating rules! Clearly he didn’t remember how adorable I was (I should have remembered what alcohol does to my problem solving skills-rather it creates my problems that need solving). Another hour went by filled with games of flip cup and beer pong and even I was starting to forget how adorable I was. Amy and crew took me home, quietly snuck around the sleeping Christians littering my living room floor and quite literally tucked me into bed for the night.

Around 2 am I woke up--still drunk, bored, and with my phone glimmering with text messages from the Catalog Hottie. Euphoria! (Again with the damn text messaging!)

I called him (yes, at 2 am) and was delighted to learn that he was in the area, conveniently forgetting that he lived in the next complex over. He quietly inched his way into the apartment and after 10 minutes my virgin self remembered why one does not invite someone over at 2 am.

I was sobering up, and frankly, my desires of the past week were starting to seem like not a very good idea. I sent up a prayer to God, whose name I had cried out at least twice in the minutes before, so I like to think he was paying attention; if not to me then at the very least to the prayers of the youth group sleeping a thin wall over. Above my bed I had mounted a new head board that was covered with thick yellow, gold, green and blue tiles that I had completed in an art class. The thing easily weighed 200 pounds.

I’ll never know if it was God, the gymnastics tournament going on in my bed, or perhaps my poor handyman skills when I had installed the headboard-but whatever it was, the headboard came crashing down, slammed a hole through my wall and hit Catalog Hottie in the head-simultaneously saving my virginity and ruining his modeling career.

He excused himself, bloodied and battered the way my still intact hymen wasn't, and I went to bed.

The next morning I padded into the kitchen where the Christians sat munching their Cheerios. My roommate asked me in a whisper as I reached into the fridge to pull out some milk, “They said you had some guy over last night, I told them they were crazy.”

Amy bounced in from across the hall after receiving my urgent texts and heard my roommates query.

“Guy? No way, I put her to bed last night, tucked her in and made sure she said her prayers.”

I said my prayers alright.

I did not hear from him again.

After Story: Despite having very nearly accidently killed him and committing the super sin of blueballing, I did not give up. I kept pestering him for weeks. Sigh. So desperate. The worst part though? About two months after this happened I got a flat tire on campus and some *very* nice guy helped me fix it. We talked (as you do when someone is doing you a favor) and it came to light that the nice guy changing my tire was Catalog Hottie’s lab partner. How did I know this? Because Tire changer told me about a funny story to pass the time about the most horrific one night stand he had ever heard. “My lab partner met this girl who was pretty cute, and he wanted to hook up. So he came over to her place one night and her headboard came crashing down on him. “ Infamy is so shameful (at least when other people tell their versions of my own personal horrors).

Key Takeaways: I should probably stop drinking. And seeing men. Ugh, I am so ashamed by my 20/21 year old self.

Dating Diary: English Ed Part 10

2011-03-15T07:00:00.002-04:00

Object of Affection: English Ed, 24/25?

Age of Self at Time of Infatuation: 20

I had wanted to go to

England

for as long as I could remember. As a connoisseur of classic English literature, cars, television, and dishy British actors I consider(ed) myself an anglophile. I was ready to step across the pond, away from JJC, and into my destiny. (I was under the naïve delusion that I would somehow become comfortable with myself 6000 miles away from everything and everyone I knew.)

London was everything I expected-and more. I loved it. I loved the architecture, the monuments, the diversity, the theater. But there was a lot I didn’t love. I didn’t expect to miss my parents as much as I did (and they got the $2000 phone bill to prove it), or my sister, or my friends-to say I didn’t fit in with the people I lived with would have been an understatement. But I digress.

It was my first real night out in London, my classmates and I were at Motion. A hip downtown club, and our accents made us target number one for every sketchy European in the joint. ( Europeans tend to think Americans are big whores.) In a trend that would continue for the next five years (see Napoli) I found myself cornered by a pack of leering Italians who were seemingly fascinated by my accent, boobs, and blonde hair.

To be the object of male attention was something that I had aspired to since I was that gawky pre-teen, but now that it was actually happening I found I didn’t like it. At all.

I saw a tall blonde guy watching me try to remove myself from the situation (with little success), and watched as he walked over and yelled, “Darling! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” over the music, and grabbed my hand and pulled me away.

(Holy wow!)

I thanked him profusely and found myself exceedingly giddy over his heroism, his accent, and the drinks he was buying for me. (I felt like I was in a Julia Roberts movie) We exchanged numbers, and I bounded off into the night to get to the tube before it closed.

When I arrived home I had a text from him telling me how nice it was to meet me—my heart soared. (Again, the knowledge that texting requires bare minimum effort hadn’t sunk in.)

We met for drinks a few nights later and chatted over hard ciders about the differences in our cultures. Then wandered around in the twilight with Big Ben and the bridge in the background, he walked me to my tube stop and kissed me. It was a terrible kiss. Awful, awkward.

I chalked it up to a weird end to one of the best dates I had ever had. (Which really wasn’t saying much because, as you know, up until now my dates included a chaperoned trip to a play, a few years with JJC that was negated by breakup unhappiness, and putt-putting with a guy who had a girlfriend)

We met again a few nights later for dinner—and he described the aggravation of being 24 and living at home with Mom and Dad—apparently common in London given that rent was so high—and how it made it hard to pursue anything. Our awkward kiss progressed into a make out session on a park bench. I was loving the stars, the backdrop, and my life. (Which caused me to make a big error in judgment…allowing myself to fall into the delusion that a different backdrop negated some of the lessons I had learned about boys. Oh young Jenna.)

He texted me about meeting up to have tea at Harrod’s the following afternoon, and then ten minutes before we were supposed to meet he texted to cancel saying that a work emergency had come up. I was totally okay with this, and put my trip to good use by spending my evening scouring Harrod’s solo.

Plans were made again, and promptly canceled a similar way.

Then again.

Then we’d meet and have a charming evening.

Then more plans would be canceled.

I was regaling my sister with my European Romance Disappearing act when she announced that she suspected he had another woman on the side. Which put some brains into my otherwise addled head.

The next time he canceled on short notice, rather than texting back I called back all the numbers he had ever called me from.

A woman answered. I asked for Ed. She inquired why. I said that I was waiting for him at such and such a place and wasn’t sure if he had sent me a message or not. She paused, then said (in a cold British accent), “Well, I’m his fiancé and I didn’t know he had plans to meet up with some American” (as if I was the cheating scumbag).

Key Takeaways: Constantly canceled plans is a bad sign. An accent does not a good potential boyfriend make. Julia Robert’s characters are fake heroines who live in a different universe-a universe where romance is real. Now excuse me while I go drool over Colin Firth is his varying Mr. Darcy roles.

Dating Diary: Mocha Max Part 9

2011-03-14T07:00:00.001-04:00

Object of Affection: Mocha Max, 21
Age of Self at time of Infatuation: 19

After a year away at school I made the rookie mistake of coming home for the summer. I missed my parents, and I was lucky to have my summer job at the local coffee shop/pizza place back. It took me about an hour to become bored by my one stoplight town and a week to become annoyed by my parent’s trying to enforce a curfew on me after 9 months of not having one.

The problem with one stoplight towns is that basically everyone knows everyone else’s business. And as JJC’s ex girlfriend I heard from everyone and their second cousin about what a number I had pulled on him (Thanks, random person for sharing with me what an awful ungrateful girlfriend I was) and how he had gained about 40 pounds and six inches of unwanted hair-on his head and face-and it was my fault.

But I found a way to deal by throwing myself into my barista’ing and getting to know my customers. And every Friday evening and Sunday afternoon a “special” customer came in. He was really cute and he had a fondness for Malted Mocha Frappacinos. We started chatting every time he came in, and I found myself looking forward to his pop in’s-starting his drink when I saw his truck parking. In short, I had a crush-and a distraction from JJC.

On one random July afternoon an older woman walked in and ordered a malted mocha frap. My fellow barista commented that I was an expert at that drink because I had an epic crush on a dark haired dark eyed guy who came in and ordered them. The woman squealed with utter delight and asked, “Is it Jenna? My son Max thinks she is adorable.”

I was mortified, but being friendly I chuckled and introduced myself and then busied myself in the backroom to avoid an in depth mother Q&A and having her think I was perpetually sunburned given the depth of my blush. I needn’t have hidden, she was flew outtah that coffee shop on a mission.

About 20 minutes later Mocha Max came in and made small talk with me. I decided to take a leap (given that his mother knew my name and all) and wrote my number on his coffee clutch. It was his turn to blush scarlet, “I take it my mother got a hold of you?” he asked.

He called me the next day and made plans for a date.

We went putt putt golfing, and he remarked on how I was cuter when I didn’t have my black uniform on. He also mentioned his girlfriend of two years-who his mother loathed.

(say it with my peeps, “WTF”)

We carried on putting, and then he kissed my cheek before I headed home.

I was a little disappointed. (Ok. I was a lot disappointed.)

We hung out a few more times as I tried to understand why we were hanging out and encountered weekly covert conversations with his mother about how the hang out sessions were going.

It was weird.

Especially when I got set up by Max with one of his friends. And he asked out a pizza girl from the restaurant next door-all while maintaining his current girlfriend.

Key Takeaways: Where do I even begin. How about don’t continue going on dates with someone when they have a girlfriend? (Doesn’t exactly set a good precedent in a relationship should one develop) How about don’t get involved with a boy with a powerful mother who requires complete and total subservience to the point that she will campaign against you? But go me for putting my number on a coffee clutch-that was a pretty smooth move. And come to think of it, the lone highlight of that entire entanglement.

Dating Diary: Broken Part 8

2011-03-13T21:59:00.000-04:00

Supposedly breaking up is easier for the one doing the breaking. I don’t know if that is true. When you really love someone but you know that together you both become angry, annoyed, ‘less than’ versions of yourself when you are together it takes a certain amount of bravery to say, “Its because I love you that we have to part ways.”

Listening to JJC on the phone, in tears the night I told him I thought we needed to take some time, that we weren’t as good together anymore was awful. I sat up crying half the night. Every part of myself ached, the only place that seemed to offer any release was lying in the darkness listening to Coldplay’s The Scientist, “Nobody said it was easy/It's such a shame for us to part/Nobody said it was easy/No one ever said it would be this hard//Oh, take me back to the start”

We still talked every night, because the only thing worse was not talking to one another. Every conversation ended in tears. He admitted one night that he was glad I had pulled the trigger on it-that we had become too different, but the next night he would try to convince me that I was wrong. My Mom didn’t understand why I had ended it, and tried to enlist my sister in getting me to come to my senses. Some of our friends tried to talk to me about ‘the mistake’ I was making. Everyone had an opinion, and for the most part the popular view was that I was ungrateful for him—that I had thrown away the best I could get.

To compound my misery, for the first time I was no longer one of the smartest. In fact rather than the A’s I used to pull with ease, I was lucky to get a D in my math and engineering classes.

I could feel my entire identity crumbling away with JJC, but I still missed him. Until one night, one of the last times we spoke when he threw out the venomous words, “You are just pretty. Blonde with a good body. That’s all you are, and all you’ll ever be, and no one will ever really love you because they will see there is nothing else there.”

Some break ups break you.

I am not the same person I was before, and I will never forget the way that I felt when the person I loved said the thing I feared the most.

It was finally over.

Key Takeaway: I thought about JJC for years, and I think it took hating him to distance myself from it. Its only now that I am able to realize that a lot of what he said that hurt me so deeply was said because of how badly I had hurt him. Neither one of us was perfect. We had a chemistry that in the begining brought out the best in one another--until it brought out the worst. I think that was the worst part of the break up-seeing him in a way I never expected to. Seeing someone I loved turn into someone I hated, and to in turn see myself hurting him and see so much of my confidence disappear with him. Seeing the best turn into the worst.

My room mate at this time deserves a medal for putting up with me.

Dating Diary: JJC Reality Part 7

2011-03-10T01:07:00.000-05:00

Note: I think I forgave myself for alot after writing this.

Love: JJC, 17/18/19/20
Age of self: 16-19

I do not know if there is anything quite as euphoric as "first" love. There is a certain amount of recklessness involved, if you've never had your heart broken you have nothing to fear because you are only acquainted with the high you cant really fathom the depths of the lows. You can say anything, do anything, and your love can conquer anything. I was crazy about JJC, and he was crazy about me.

Surprises were frequent-having my car covered in Hershey kisses, getting flowers sent to me on a practically bi-weekly basis, we wrote love letters, and we went to concerts together. People told us we were a beautiful couple, and we were. My parents adored him, he was always complimentary to my mom and willing to drive places with my Dad to help "move" stuff. He was social. Everyone loved him, but not nearly as much as I did. I loved everything about him-I loved how kind he was, how smart, how funny, how handsome, how genuine his family was, how outgoing he was, how relaxed. We were inseparable.

It was six months of complete and utter bliss.

We talked about everything, except one topic that was seemingly off limits. JJC was a year older than me, and as a Senior he has all sorts of opportunities. I was excited for him. One of the things I especially loved about him was how effortless he was at school, he was smart, scored off the charts on his standardized tests, and he had tons of scholarship options. But whenever I brought up where he was going to go to school he clammed up. He had virtually no interest in talking to me about his plans after he graduated. My parents had talked to me about going to University since the womb and I had been looking forward to going away to school since I was in 5th grade-so his carelessness about something so important drove me absolutely insane. He decided two weeks before the semester started to stay at home and commute to a college a couple hours away. He told me that it would be easier for us to stay together. I was confused and simultaneously happy and disappointed by his decision, and let it be known that the next year I would not be making the same decision-that I would be going to Michigan State, just like I had planned.

We carried on being happy. We talked about what would happen after we both graduated, but whenever I inquired about his plans-what he would major in-he wouldn't answer and would get upset with me when I mocked the idea of staying in our county forever. But we would have these conversations while looking up at the stars on a cool fall day, or on my porch on an evening in the Spring and all those realities would float away just from the sheer adrenaline of being together.

We did have another problem though-outside of his lackadaisical nature about his goals and my incessant nagging about it, I wasn't ready for the dirty deed. We did everything else (my God, how many movies we claimed to go see but never made it to) and my Mom infuriated me when she instituted a 4 feet on the floor rule (WTF. I'm horrified she suspected me of doing anything under those blankets...and horrified she knew what theoretically could go on under those blankets) . But I maintained a staunch commitment that sex was an adult action and that why I was living in my parent's home I was not an adult (Go young me!! Way to be firm!). He was fine with this, until he wasn't.

Thus the cracks started to show. The summer before I left to go to school we went out with a bunch of my friends and his super social nature was annoying me-his carelessness about how he carried himself, I bickered at him, and then he called me a c*nt. I froze. We had been together for over two years at that point, and no one, especially not him had ever spoken to me that way. I was devastated. Devastated to have been called that, and humiliated that he did it in front of my friends. I was silent the rest of the night, and when he took my home I sobbed into my Labrador's coat. My Dad heard me crying from upstairs and came down to investigate.

As a token man's man my Dad is averse to tears and emotion and when he asked if JJ and I had fought he was stunned when I shouted what I had been called. "Oh" was his only response.

Once I was at school he called me, visited me, but for me there had been a shift. Or maybe I simply became aware of the shift-but I was more and more hurt by his indifference to his goals-and by our arguments about the future. I wanted so much for myself. To travel, to live abroad, to get a job in a big city, to live downtown, to excel...and I hated his indecisiveness about the future-I resented that he didn't know what he wanted and felt the guilt he applied to the dreams I had that were different than his (holy crap! An A-ha! Moment).

I ended it.

But what I had yet to learn is that ending it is only the beginning of what heartache can be.

Dating Diary: JJC Returns, Part 6

2011-03-08T21:44:00.001-05:00

Object of Affection: JJC (again), 17
Age of Self: I was 16 going on 17 (sings)

I was sitting at the lunch table at the last day of my Sophomore year when he flopped down two places down from me. JJC. Still as dreamy as ever, and this time I was not going to blow my shot. I suddenly seemed to gain supersonic hearing and listened into his conversation. I interjected and said something vaguely intelligent…and he laughed (omg! He laughed at something I said! Euphoria!) and flashed those heart thumping dimples. (Swoon) We spent the rest of the lunch period chatting about whatever it is teenagers talk about (the conversation was evidently not important enough to document in my diary. A full page analysis of his dimples, however, was. As I will demonstrate again and again—this girl’s got priorities.) At the end of lunch he walked me back to my locker and I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

Then summer started and put the kibosh on my budding romance. Friggin’ summer.

Dreamy JJC started dating a Canadian girl named Barb (Barb as a name is not appropriate if you are under the age of 50). Barb was a whore who spent the summer going down on him. As you may or may not be able to tell from my tone here I heard about this and really hated her. Then lo’! One day I found myself online (screenname: jvCHICK (so cool)) and I got a message from him asking me how my summer was going.

We got to know one another the rest of the summer through instant messages and emails…and actually became friends (what a novel concept). As soon as the school year started we picked up where we had left off at my locker the school years end before. Within a week he had broken up with Barb and my parent’s lost all use of their phone line because we were up chatting every night. I expected him to ask me on a date.

He didn’t.

I expected him to ask me to Homecoming.

He didn’t.

Homecoming came and while my friends and I were boogieing down on the dance floor he appeared in a brown corduroy suit (at the time it was great, fashionable future Jenn wonders if it really was). He didn’t dance with me (much to the shock and clucking from my friends), but we ended up leaving the dance to sit outside in my car with the t-top down talking. For hours. The dance ended, and I remember being pleased that I had booked a sleepover and didn’t have to wander home two hours after the dance ended.

I walked into my sleepover, the girls asked, “Did he kiss you?”

He didn’t.

But he was fast becoming my best friend. We could talk for hours about nothing at all and still have more to say. I remember my parents left town one night and I stayed on the phone with him until 4 in the morning. (I haven’t talked to anyone that much since. What in God’s name were we talking about?)

We started going to football games together (and not watching the games), going to movies (where he would hold my hand!!), but there was still nothing to indicate he wanted to be more than friends (apparently the hand holding meant nothing to me). My birthday came and he signed the card, “your ‘dreamy’ Prince” along with 17 cookies. I was mad, I felt like the oldest person alive to have never been kissed (so old!!) Who wants to say their first kiss happened after 17?

Being a strong, confident female means occasionally means having to take matters into your own hands. And I deciding I was sick of waiting. We had gone to see The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (mostly so I could have three hours to psyc myself up). Afterwards we walked out to his car in the parking lot where we chatted for 10 minutes or so. I went in for the kill.

He moved.

And I frenched the car seat.

(ughhhhhhhh)

I cowered with my head in my hands, he realized (too late) what I had been going for. He was embarrassed, and went in to try again, this time I moved. By opening my mouth. He landed inside my mouth.

(ughhhhhh)

We gave up, and halfway to dropping me off we both burst out laughing.

Almost a month later I had all but given up. But then after yet another night of conversation he walked me to my car and leaned in.

I remember being acutely aware of my tongue. I remember being acutely aware of being liked. I remember being acutely aware that I wouldn't have another first kiss, and I didn't care that I was 17

Key Takeaway: Oh, I was so smitten. What were we talking about all those hours? And he actually called me! And broke up with his girlfriend right away because he liked me. It was so easy (why have none of my other relationships started so easily?). Man, its kind of nice thinking about JJC in a positive way. I really loved him. (looks out window and thinks a bit on who I was at 17).

An Ari-ism: Sometimes...you gotta do something extreme...like set yourself on fire

2011-03-07T11:33:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I worry that Ari is getting a little desperate.

I mean, if I don't pet and snuggle him anytime I am sitting down he will literally begin smothering me with affection.

Even though I frequently push him away by a silly need I have, to you know...breathe.

But he is a persistent little fellow not at all thwarted in his consistent mission to make sure I know that he adores me.

He follows me into the kitchen and winds his way in and out of my legs while I do dishes.

He sits watching me perplexed while I bathe--most likely deciding if my bosoms would keep him out of the water if he tried to sit on them because he really really wants to sit on my lap whenever it is accessible.

But for all his attempts to make sure I know how much he adores me, last night I was having the exact opposite response he wanted. I was pushing him away.

Obviously he needed to do something extreme to get my attention.

I was sitting in bed, reading my trashy historical romance novel and I heard him racing around the apartment like his ass was on fire. This was nothing new, he has lots of energy, so I carried on reading. I heard him leap to my dresser.

Then I smelled burning.

I looked over to see his entire tail on fire. Like he was a Tibetian monk demonstrating for his rights, or like a cat with an enormous fluffy tail that had just flicked into my scented candle.

I've never moved so fast, grabbing my water with one hand, him in the other and pouring the water onto him.

HE IS FINE. It didn't get his skin at all. But his tail. His beautiful tail. I had to trim off all the singed parts, and now he looks maimed, and his pride is wounded.

(He is looking at me wondering why I am crying and why I am holding scissors)

(His beautiful tail...now he looks like a friggin poodle)

(Giving me a look that clearly say, "See, if you had been PETTING me this wouldn't have happened")

Obviously he has taken to his bed in shame over his tail/to make me feel guilty.

He is accepting condolences and hopes you assist him in his hour of need...to help with his guilt onslaught.

Candles are henceforth banished from this house.

Dating Diary: Bearded Ginger, Part 5

2011-03-06T11:00:00.016-05:00

~~Object of~~ Public Display of Affection: Super Tall Bearded Ginger, 17

Age of Self at time of Public Display of Affection: 15

Duration of Relationship: The time it takes to blush, wish the Earth would swallow me whole/feel slightly pleased about the John Hughesness of it all (approximately 3 minutes)

Super Tall Bearded Ginger was so far out of my small town’s league it’s not even funny. For one thing at 17 he was capable of growing a full beard and not look ridiculous. He was goofy, always making people laugh in drama club, and incredibly eloquent-he spoke fluent French and actually wrote poems that didn’t make you roll your eyes at blatant teenage angst-he wrote words that meant something. Which at 17 is kind of a big deal and pretty demonstrative of the person he would become. He was in all the honors classes and as a Senior to my Sophomore I was only vaguely aware of his reputation for being a super smart, nice, slightly ‘goth’ guy who got teased almost daily about being gay-a fact no one knew for sure about. (Note: Just like any/every where the teenagers at my school were assholes.)

Super Tall Bearded Guy and I were on the same play, I had a lead and he, because of all of his commitments had a small cameo role that managed to steal the show. When he occasionally came to practice we would sit on the tables of the “Cafetorium” and talk about literature. (Yep, literature…so lame…so cliché…so awesome.) But outside of those conversations he rarely entered my orbit. I was preoccupied with drama roles, learning to drive, and various shades of neon nail polish…I had my priorities.

It was a typical Wednesday and I was in my 6^th period class waiting to go home. Undoubtedly I was rolling my eyes at something that was entirely laaammmmeee or preening on irritatingly about my paper with an A and TWOOO pluses on it (Note: I still hadn't gotten the memo about the correlation between reading and popularity). Super Tall Bearded Ginger walked in to chat to his (my teacher) and I noticed him look back at me several times. I also noticed he was wearing a cape.

I had no idea what was coming, (but I did know that unless I was falling from a burning building seeing someone in a cape was not a good thing.)

Out of nowhere Super Tall Bearded Guy walked over to my desk, got down on one knee, threw his cape back with flourish and announced in a booming voice (you know, just in case there was someone on the other side of the school who didn’t happen to be there), “Beautiful lady, won’t you go to the dance with me?!!”

He looked at me expectantly.

I pinched myself to see if this was actually happening.

It was.

I smiled, told him thank you, and told him I was going stag with my girlfriends. My Mom yelled at me later for not saying yes, but it took ages for people in my English class to stop calling me “Beautiful Lady!” so I don’t really regret saying no.

Big Takeaway: This still makes me go, “I cannot believe that that happened.” Those big movie moments are rare-enjoy them when you are in them. I wish I cared less about the teasing I underwent for the next few months and realized how lucky I was to have had that John Hughes experience.

Update: My Mother mentioned to me a few months ago that she had seen a “Letter to the Editor” that Tall Bearded Ginger had written into the paper after the horrific case that made headlines of the College Freshman who committed suicide after being bullied because of his sexual orientation. It was a brilliant letter, and it inspired me to see what else he had been up to since graduating. Holy Batman! Tall Bearded Ginger has basically become a person to be applauded for his abject commitment to being himself and being himself amazingly. After coming “out of the closet” he has written books about being Christian and gay, been recognized by several huge organizations for being influential in his community against the likes of household names like Ellen, and runs his own ministry. Check out the wiki here.

Part 1: Danny

Part 2: Christopher

Part 3: Dreamy JJC

Part 4: G Money

Dating Diary: G-Money Part 4

2011-03-05T10:00:00.008-05:00

Because everything makes more sense when it is in order:

Part 1: Danny Part 2: Christopher Part 3: Dreamy JJ

Object of ~~Affection~~ Annoyance: G Money, 17
Age of Self at time of ~~Infatuation~~ Irritation: 15
Duration of Relationship: I was into it for approximately 3 days, we’re still friends, my vanity suspects he pined for a long while

When last we left you I was a skinny, awkward, acne laden geek with glasses. I was getting no action, with the lone exception of a newfound fascination with V.C. Andrew’s Incestuous erotica for young adults.

Then a series of fortunate events happened: My Dad’s medical insurance covered Lazer Eye Surgery-glasses gone, brown eyes revealed! I went to a dermatologist-splotchy redness miraculously disappears! My Mom decided my dull blond locks needed some luster and started paying to have me get highlights-blond hair shiny and pretty! Out of nowhere (seriously, out of nowhere since my family is the Itty Bitty Titty Committee) I went from being skinny and scrawny to being thin with mad curves. In short, I got cute. But I didn’t know it as the memory of being terrorized for several years by Pre Teen bitches was still fresh in my mind.

Which is why when my friend, G Money, who I sat with at drama practice starting going out of his way to sit with me I didn’t think anything of it and enjoyed his friendship. When he started calling me after school and my Dad started pacing around the house in a constant state of annoyance I just thought, “cool! Someone’s calling me.”

Oh, little Jenn. You are so cute and naïve. I just want to hug you.

G Money asked me if I wanted to go to a play with him, a play I wanted to see. So I went. Holy Awkward ya’ll. It came to my attention when his Mom (Yep, just an uncool at 15 as at 25) picked me up and knew and awful lot about me (from what I presumed was a constant chatter from her son) that I had become someone’s crush. The tables had turned and it was awful. I wanted so badly to get out of there because it had never really occurred to me that anyone was into me, let alone G-Money…who I really only thought of as a friend. It was the longest play ever, and when he walked me to the door (and I could see his Mom watching eagerly from the front seat of a van in my driveway) it took all my manners not to just make a run for it and allow him to hold the door open for me.

At school I did what any bitchy teenager does, I ignored G-Money and enlisted my friends to keep a protective perimeter around me in the hallways.

Key Takeaway: I forgot that, despite the fact that he “liked” me and I couldn’t reciprocate his feelings, he was my friend. And I didn’t treat him that way. I was really ashamed about this. Also, this would be the first of many instances of me not knowing when my male friends have “feelings” and mucking up good friendships.

Redemption!: Eventually G-Money and I returned to a normal friendship, though I always suspected he continued to like me as more than a friend. 5 days before his senior prom his date dumped him flat (G-Money has a history of women treating him badly). I volunteered to be his date. It was fun, but when he dropped me off at my bestie Zimm’s after and leaned in for a kiss I loved my friend more than life itself for whipping open the door and stopping him in his tracks.

G-Money is pretty cool now, he flies planes. But women still don't treat him that well.

Dating Diary: Part 3: Dreamy JJ

2011-03-04T08:15:00.003-05:00

Object of Affection: JJ, 14

Age of Self at time of Infatuation: 13
Duration of Relationship: Nonexistent, I was just obsessed

After being disappointed by lack of equal advisories in the boy department I lost almost any and all interest in the opposite sex for almost a decade. This was helped along by a wretched set of glasses that called attention to my face’s lack of symmetry, a seemingly endless case of acne, and the scrawniest skinniest body you’ve ever seen.

The middle school years were not kind. While other girl’s were holding hands whilst walking around the playground I was loitering in a corner with my friends who all liked to read avoiding all the other cooler and meaner middle schoolers. Not kind.

Then one day in the hall I saw an older guy with the most amazing smile and dimples I had ever seen, and he was carrying a science project that actually looked pretty nifty. My skinny 7 grade self was blown over. I was smitten from a distance, I wanted to ask him what his project was about, but I was a skinny, acne covered, nerd in glasses. I lusted from a distance.

At the end of the year there was an award’s ceremony and I learned the name of my crush, JJC. He won all sorts of awards-for science and math, for citizenship, and for class clown. JJ was totally dreamy and I was sad he got to go onto High School and I didn’t get to see him at his locker anymore.

Totally dreamy.

Big Takeaway: I really wish that I had talked to him about his science project and that I hadn’t been so preoccupied with looking like a pizza faced owl.

JJC was my first BIG crush, who was yours?

Dating Diary: Christopher Part 2

2011-03-04T08:13:00.003-05:00

Part 1: Danny

Object of Affection: Christopher, 6
Age of Self at time of Infatuation: 6
Duration of Relationship: Questionable, a school year’s worth of obsession

When I went into Sister Teresa’s Afternoon Kindergarten Class at St Veronica’s I expected to own the joint. For one thing my Mom had dressed me to the 9’s in a puffed sleeve wonder. And as you know, in the 90’s the bigger the sleeve the cooler you were. Not to mention that I had spent the first 6 years of my life hearing from my parents that I was smart and wonderful. My joy about going to school only grew when Sister Teresa announced she had a “Reading Club” where kindergarteners in both her sessions competed to get the most points, I was excited about winning this contest. I had never been a part of a contest with my peers before, only my older sister who had 6 extra years of learning and growing on her side. There was not a doubt in my puffed sleeves or puffed up little brain that I would win the top spot since I already knew how to read and that then everyone would want to be my friend (Note: no one had told me being the best at reading was the surest way to make sure no one wanted to be your friend).

I hadn’t counted on Christopher. That little jerk was better at reading than I was. I didn’t notice him at first as all my classmates had been eager to prove themselves and Catholic schools like everyone to feel good when they first start. It’s not until later that guilt and shame get thrown into the curriculum. Anyway, a few months into the Reading Challenge I realized I was second. To Christopher. To a boy.

This made little Jen bat shit crazy. I became obsessed with beating Christopher. I read everything I could get my hands on so I could crush his 6 year old spirit. I talked about him constantly and I corrected everyone that tried to call him “Chris”.

I don’t know when my hate turned into something else. He challenged me. And I hated it. And I loved it. Every day we would race up to the Point tally to see who was ahead, as the top spot jockeyed between us almost daily.

Then I won the reading contest and lost complete and total interest in Christopher and in correcting anyone who tried to call him Chris.

Big Takeaway: Even at 6 being mentally challenged intrigued me until I realized that I was smarter

Dating Diary: Danny. Part 1

2011-03-03T14:35:00.002-05:00

When sick I find myself making lists of all the things that aren’t getting done, all the times I’ve been sick previously that have been worse (nearly blowing my kidney out while on project at IBM is still #1), and yesterday…the list of every boyfriend/crush/hook up/stalker that I have ever had. It was a doozy. And entertaining. And disturbing. And wonderful blog fare!! So I bring you: The Dating Diary: A 14 Part Mini-series. Hopefully it will amuse you. And hopefully it will educate me a bit as to what I’ve been doing wrong. Or right. Or whatever.

Dating Diary: Danny

Object of Affection: Danny, 5

Age of Self at time of Infatuation: 5

Duration of Relationship: 9 months, basically a school Year

As with most relationships developed pre-Internet days, our relationship was borne out of proximity. Danny was my next door neighbor. He was nice to me, shared his toys, and, perhaps most importantly to my 5 year old brain, possessed a sweet tree house.

Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon my sister would be tasked with babysitting Danny and I would come along to entertain him and be sure that my sister didn’t have to do anything outside of ensuring we didn’t set one another on fire to collect her $5. We would watch Batman and Robin and then chase one another around the yard afterwards playing Batman in his sweet tree house. He was always Batman, I was always Catwoman—because I liked it best when we were at odds with one another…and I wanted to show off my svelte self in my dance unitard.

One day a neighbor kid joined us and was playing Joker and pushed Danny, and so I pushed him out of the way and helped Batman up. Cause that’s what Catwoman does, messes with Batman until someone else tries to. Then its Game ON. Danny hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. Then it got awkward and I didn’t want to play with him anymore.

The next year we were in different classes, and as ya’ll know long distance don’t work.

Big Takeaways: My love of costumes is apparently deep rooted, my appreciation of Real Estate is inherently ingrained as a judgment tool of prospective dates, the thrill of the chase is the most fun.

Flashback Triggers: Anything Batman related, whenever I see a sweet Tree House

Who was your first "boyfriend"?

Unread (1)

2011-03-02T07:00:00.001-05:00

You’ll remember a few weeks ago in a fit of self esteem I deleted several years worth of email history from Him. That significant “one who got away”. I deleted those messages the same way I purge SPAM encouraging me to consider penis enlargement surgery.

Do you know what happened within hours of deletion and blogging euphoria? After almost a year going by without contact with this person? That’s right. Just like the Penis Enlargement messages that can never really be fully erased as they are constantly replenished, I got another email.

My instant response was a gut wrenching feeling of happiness that he had thought of me on a lonely Wednesday, followed by annoyance that he blighted my feeling of lightness, and then, the recognition that this MR must read my blog—and didn’t want to be gone from my inbox.

And once again, I feel less lonely—because I know he’s there, and it doesn’t matter if I save the messages or not.

Thought Cloud: Something is Off Edition

2011-03-01T10:26:00.001-05:00

I just got back from Boston. The Canadian is coming in 16 days, College Bestie a couple weeks after that, and yet I have an urge to plan another trip. The idea that I have nothing on the agenda outside of entertaining (and not being entertained) is overwhelming me. A Vegas weekend may need to be coordinated.

Am I right to be offended by getting an email from someone I liked (who I made it obvious that I liked) was signed “best”? Growls.

My friend gave me a “Congrats” Card this weekend. I looked at her like she was totally deranged…after less than a week I had forgotten I had run a marathon. It was that traumatic of an experience that my body is trying to block it out.

My brain funk is calling for the purchase of shoes. Strappy sandals maybe? But I already bought two pairs of new boots this weekend. One pair is hand painted camel colored. I need to not bury my feelings in shoes.

Ari survived 3 days left to his own devices. He didn’t even seem to care that I had been gone, evidently living in a better apartment makes him more amenable to time alone. Is it sad that I’m a little bummed he didn’t miss me? Yes. It’s totally sad.

It’s been over 9 months since I’ve been on a legit date. I think I need to end my self imposed pariah status.

I miss running. My brain just isn’t right without it.

I am Not

2011-02-28T14:47:00.000-05:00

Occasionally when trolling the internet/blogsphere I read something that inspires me. I’m not one for a lot of religious reading, preferring instead to read about spirituality/karma/God in non-limited terms but I do read a friend’s blog about her relationship with God. This Post reached out and grabbed me by the gut, and I decided this was an exercise worth perusing myself and blogging on. Caroline wrote about the things she knows she is not. And to quote, “It’s not about looking in the mirror and finding fault. Rather, it’s looking honestly at ourselves and peeling away all the things that we try to be because it’s what we should be or should like or should do”

Whoa.

I’ve thought about this for weeks, and I’ve realized that some of the things I’m not are some of the things I like best about myself, and some of the things I’m not are worth accepting, and some are worth investing the effort into becoming. So here is my list:

I am not jealous: I never really realized that I wasn’t until I started to hang around people who were. I have girlfriends/guyfriends/family members/exboyfriends that lament about every injustice that has ever happened to them. I have single friends that would stew in venom about Facebook engagements. I know other people that accrue possessions just because they want to be “seen” with the best as opposed to any singular need to actually possess the item. It was an odd realization when I found myself pretty consistently reminding my friends how lucky they were/possible drawbacks to the lives they were coveting/saying things like, “Hmm, I’m okay with my life as it is, I feel great living my life exactly the way it is right now.”

I’m just not jealous. Maybe it’s because my life is pretty awesome-I was never abused growing up, I have a family that loves me, was able to do things financially that others around me weren’t, I’m smart, reasonably attractive, have a diverse group of friends, a job that isn’t super demanding and pays well, an adorable cat, a creative streak, and a thirst for adventure that I can accommodate. I’m not jealous of the good fortune of others. I know that everything the people around me have can have positive or negative effects and requires sacrifices that I/my friends may not have been willing to make. I feel lucky to know this.

I am not sympathetic: I wish I could be more so. Often times with people I am not the most sympathetic person and it can lead to some confrontation. I disapprove of whiners/complainers. In my head I may understand where they are coming from, but my advice is usually to quit complaining about a situation/person/thing in your life and actually do something about it. No nonsense, and this attitude usually gets me into trouble with my friends who just want someone to tuck them in and give them a shoulder to cry on. I’ll be that person, but then I’ll be the bully who tries to get them to think about it another way or change it.

I am not super responsive: I hate text messaging. Sure, it’s convenient. Sure it helps you stay “in touch” with people. But ask any of my friends and they will tell you I am terrible about responding to messages that require my direction.

I am not organized: I spent 40 minutes this morning looking for my keys and almost a half hour last week hunting for my cell phone. This eats up countless hours, but almost daily when I have the choice between structure/organization I go with convenience/ease and suffer the consequences.

I am not an athlete: But wait, I just ran a marathon? In my head I associate athletes with actual talent/God given grace at something. I hate any sport with a ball because I have zero hand/eye coordination. In a race I doubt I’ll beat you because I’m just not fast. I’ll never be the leanest, fastest, strongest, or smartest. But I am dedicated and loyal to things that I commit myself too, I can dedicate myself to something and slog through it-that’s why I could do the marathon. Less because of athletic ability and more because of persistence and hard work. No one considers the tortoise an athlete, that honor always goes to the hare. I’m glad I have to work at it. But I need to learn when to let go of my persistence and just let things be.

I am not low maintenance: I’ve been under the illusion for a long time that I am “one of the boys” and that my needs are simple. Not true. I am a demanding, particular, pain in the ass, that requires a lot of specific attention.

So what are you not?

An Example

2011-02-23T22:23:00.000-05:00

Ahhh, Look how excited about running I look. Fool.

The end of the marathon was an actual battle of will. I was in such a level of hysteria that another runner actually patted me on the back. It was nice-that comraderie...but how HE had the energy to comfort me is a mystery. He probably trained beyond 18 miles.

The second I crossed the line the only thing I felt was a little confused and exhausted. The medal I received was heavy, and I was relieved to have something else to feel besides weak. My legs ached, my ankles pulsing, I was cramping, and I was vaguely aware that it was hard to breathe and my heartrate was faster than I've ever felt. I was on the brink, and worried that my sister and Dad wouldn't find me. I reverted to a 4 year old fear of being lost in a mall. Mostly because the mile to my apartment could have pushed me right over that brink.

My fears were unfounded and my family appeared and we took some "Brag Shots"--even though they were both more excited about my accomplishment than I was. I was too tired.

At my sister's I sat in an ice bath in my underwear and a fuzzy sweatshirt, and perversely I enjoyed it. My (adorable) God-daughter moseyed into the bathroom. She was blown away by what she was seeing.

"Aunt Denna! Aunt Denna is taking a bath in iccccceeeee cubes!!" She kept everyone informed of my progress and sat next to me chatting away, offering to bring me some of her favorite bath toys, and a snack-but only if I promised to share. Maddy picked up my medal and held it up reverently to me. From the tub I put it over her little shoulders and she ran off (with more gusto than I ever had) to show her "Gempah!" what she had "won".

That was when I felt an overwhelming sense of pride and strength. When I realized I set an example of what you could accomplish with focus and hard work...and a little bit of insanity for my neice.

Run a Motha-F*^%ing Marathon

2011-02-22T13:29:00.000-05:00

Me, in the morning before the delirium set in.
Look how thin I look!

I had a lot of expectations going into the marathon.

I expected it to suck a little bit. I expected to feel strong and euphoria filled at the close. I expected to be sore. I expected to cuss and swear a little. I expected the hills. I expected to see my Dad/Sister/Awesome Brother in law/niece. I expected to be ravenous at the end of the race. I expected feeling immensely proud of myself.

What I did not expect was that none of these expectations would come to pass.

I started prepping in October-and over the course of 5 months of training I logged almost 350 miles of trails and pavement. I sacrificed a lot of nights out. My grocery bills went up because I was always always hungry.

You spend a lot of time alone prepping for a marathon. It is a solitary business, likely because running 26.2 miles is a little crazy and the average person doesn’t want to hang out with a crazy person.

But I had committed to this crazy task, and by hell I was going to do it.

The morning of the marathon came and I woke up cranky. I had spent most of the night tossing and turning simultaneously worried that I would sleep through my alarm and slightly terrified that I wouldn’t and that I actually would have to run a flippin marathon. My sister and her friend picked me up in the morning and tolerated my crabbiness. Somehow I wasn’t especially pumped about running 26.2 miles and I had a lot of annoyance directed at all the half marathoners in my midst. Those lucky bastards only had to run a reasonable 13.1 miles.

There were a lot of runners. 12,000 half marathoners, and 6000 marathoners, and it took awhile to get up to the start line. Even though the gun went off at 7:00, I didn’t actually start running until 7:21. And I was instantly annoyed by the people who started walking within a half a mile. Seriously? If you expected to walk why didn’t you go to the end of the pack? And how did you expect to go a half or a full marathon?

My mood was not improving.

But then, I settled in. Miles 3-6 were uphill, and I felt great. Better than I had during any of my training runs. Miles 8-9 were phenomenal, the crowd was cheering and for the first time I felt Confident. Certain that I COULD DO THIS. Then the course diverted, sending the half marathoners one way, and the marathoners another, and I mile 9 I came face to face with a big fucking hill.

I charged up. Euphoric. I urged my fellow runners on, and mile 11 I saw my brother in law, my niece, and my Dad and I was spastically excited. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see people ever. That happiness carried me the next few miles. Then, at mile 14 in the midst of what felt like the millionth hill I started to freak out. My feet really hurt, and I had 12 miles to go. 12 miles is a long way. I sat down and switched out my socks and continued running, wondering why I had chosen to set such an idiotic goal for myself.

At mile 16 I high fived a group of cheering pre-schoolers. They were all kinds of adorable, and their energy allowed me to avoid feeling sorry for myself for another couple of miles.

At mile 18 I realized that there was a serious flaw in my training regimen. I only ever trained up to 18 miles. Another 8 miles is a long ass way. I cursed “Past Jenna” for her poor planning.

At mile 19 I saw my family again and my sister charged out and gave me some chips and a new water bottle.

Mile 22 is when the melt down began. Have you ever run 22 miles? Well, let me assure you it’s not a pleasant undertaking. I was faced with yet another hill, and I was starting to suspect I wouldn’t make my goal time of 4:40. How did I know this? The pace group for 4:45 flew past me, and I started to walk for the first time. How else did I know this? Because I thought I saw my ex standing in the crowd laughing at me saying, “This is the best you can do? Really. Psh”. I was having actual delusions. My hips felt like they were going to fall out from under me, and my insides were cramping. I walked tentatively forward telling myself, “You need to run…you need to know you did the best you can do.” I began having a full on dialogue with myself, “This is the best you can do? Pathetic”.

Self was mean, ya’ll.

My phone on my arm began vibrating with uplifting messages from my friends. I slowly felt ashamed that my time was going to be so far off because I hadn’t accounted for one of the hilliest courses in the country. Nor had I accounted for the heat and humidity.

I saw someone collapse in front of me. I freaked out, worried I would be next.

At mile 25, I turned one of the final corners, hobbling and saw yet another huge hill and felt the wind pushing against me hard enough to actually move me a few steps back.

I burst into tears.

Not just any tears, shoulders heaving, hysterical, loud, “Ugly Cry” tears.

I had come so far, yet had so far to go.

In the distance I saw my sister charging towards me. I worried she was another mirage.

But no, she was real yelling, “You did it! You did it! You just have to pull yourself together for the pictures!”

She tapped into my vanity, and ran with me until the last corner. I continued to cry, another runner patted me on the back.

I wiped off my face, crossed the finish line, accepted my medal, and collapsed on a curb.

I had no emotion other than relief that it was done.

I don’t know how to feel about it yet.

Advice for Bloggers: Preaching to the Choir

2011-02-19T10:00:00.018-05:00

Though my blog is a far cry from having raging commercial success with my modest 50 followers, in the 3 years of maintaining an online journal, writing 200 posts (happy 200!!) and reading other blogs I enjoy, I have learned (and continue to learn) a thing or two about blogging.

It’s probably a bit presumptuous of me, but having received a few emails from some friends who read my blog and some readers soliciting my advice I thought I would put it out there. Take it for what it is, my opinion on putting up a personal blog.

1.) Do not post anything you wouldn’t want every single person you have ever met in your life reading (the same goes for status updates). Seriously. I don’t care how private your blog is or how secret you think it is. If it is any good people will read it. If it’s any good you will want people to read it. You will want your friends to read it. Word will spread. If you don’t want your boss, your Great Aunt Matilda, or some creeper alone in his basement with a blow up doll reading it, don’t write it. (Aside: Yes, people. Though my blog implies that I have no secrets from time to time I write a great post and think, “You know what? I can’t publish this.”)

2.) So you’ve decided you are willing to deal with the consequences if something happens and everyone and their uncle knows about what you are up to/posting. Awesome. Be aware of what you are putting out there. I think your blog should be about what you want it to be about. But be aware that people are going to take part of their day to read your words. Make it worth their while. Be aware that people are going to read your words and make assumptions about you. What do you want them to assume?

3.) Accept that there are going to be some people out there who don’t like your posts. Accept that some people will have constructive criticisms-I encourage you to consider their advice. Accept that there are going to be some people out there who are small/petty/assholes who will try to actually use their words to hurt you. This will be something that is far easier to accept if you like and stand behind what you publish.

4.) I know you think you are fabulous. I do, too. But yammering on for 8 pages about deciding how you picked out paint colors is boring (unless of course the entire wall of paint at Lowes comes crashing down on you). For the most part, people don’t want to read something that is 19 pages long. My posts that are the most popular are about 1-2 pages. Keep it brief. You aren’t writing a term paper.

5.) Speaking of boring, if someone else were to post what you were writing would you want to read it?

6.) Be honest. I know its something we’ve been told since you were born, but there is a reason. Don’t publish things that aren’t yours (pictures included-it’s why I rarely include pics in my posts, I’m too lazy to cite, so I just don’t include them unless I took them) because it’s dishonest. Don’t write things about other people that you wouldn’t repeat to their face; this isn’t a forum to hurt people. Don’t write anything you aren’t willing to stand behind-because even when you have nothing but the best intentions people can take offense. Think of what could happen if you have bad intentions! Yeah. Scary thought. Just be HONEST-it’s a whole lot harder to get into trouble.

So that is my advice. Anything I’m missing? Are you thinking of starting a blog?

Mother Mortification

2011-02-18T11:57:00.000-05:00

The one thing every girl has in common is that at some time or another they have been mortified by their mother.

The difference is that my Mother enjoys it. I actually think she sits awake at night thinking of the most inappropriate thing she can possibly say.

Here are some classics:

At 15, my “assets” were still in early stages of development-but I was no longer a member of her and my sister’s Itty Bitty Titty Committee-which my mother took great pleasure in reminding me. I was lounging on the deck of our summer home. My Mom traipsed out and announced, “I was just on the phone with your Grandmother and I told her all about your new knockers. Looks like someone may finally be popular with the boys!”

At 22 I spent the last part of my Senior semester being uptight about my new job, moving cross country where I didn’t know anyone, working 29 hours a week, going to school full time, and still getting honors accreditation. My bad mood wasn’t fun for my Mom, and she had advice on how I could relax. Which she told me loudly at a funeral, “You just need to get boned.” Thanks, Ma.

At 23, she came to Boston for her first solo trip sans my Dad or any of her friends. Her flight had been delayed an hour and my lack of sympathy as I was flying three times a week at this point in time annoyed her. She collapsed onto my bed and accepted my offer of wine. She then looked at me slyly, “You know what would really hit the spot right now? Getting laid.”

I was momentarily stunned…but then a lightbulb went off in my head and I realized this game could work both ways…

I looked at her and agreed, “Totally, but I think that the only kind that would do the trick is crazy non commitment sex.”

Her face flashed with the horror mine had in the years before as she realized the game likely wouldn’t be fun anymore if I dished it back out.

It’s been a peaceful two years since that night in Boston.

I should have known it would come to an end.

On Wednesday, I had picked my parents up at my sister’s place to take them downtown for a night of my urban lifestyle. My Mom and I immediately began gossiping the second she climbed into my car, my Dad just sitting quietly getting antsy about my speeding, my weaving in and out of the lanes, and general profanity I reserve for cussing out other drivers in the privacy of my car. The conversation turned to relationships. My Mom, bristling with glee in the back seat declared she knew what the key to a happy and successful adult relationship was.

I took the bait.

“A clean house, dinner on the table, an open mind, but most importantly cause this can trump the others, Jenna. Open thighs. Sex!!! Lots of it!”

I didn’t know what to think, but I couldn’t respond with something equally appalling since my Dad was sitting next to me.

Needless to say, I am my Mother’s daughter, and I was looking forward to telling my sister the latest Momma Jenn gem and mortifying her.

I was disappointed, my sister’s response, “Mom is so right on.”

My sister has become my mother.

EWWWWWW.

Random Thought Cloud

2011-02-16T09:51:00.000-05:00

I don't have a full post. Just a bevy of small thoughts:

I have a good blog post coming…I’m just waiting to talk to someone familiar with the law for advisement about what I can or can’t say. Which likely means I shouldn’t post it… however, I feel compelled to entertain you and bask in the attention my blog provides me…drunken blackout nights need to serve some purpose outside of making me look like a bloated manatee for 2 days.

Speaking of blog posts, yesterday I announced that I was considering coaching my niece (who is 4)’s soccer team-ignoring the fact that I hate playing any sport with a ball, cannot commit to being consistently sober on Saturday mornings, exclusively wear heels which might be a detriment to whatever field I was skulking across, it would put me in possession of a whistle and fake authority which would go right to my head. I am considering it because it has the potential to be some awesome writing material…and also a great made for tv movie pitch if I find love with a single Dad and take my pack of uncoordinated kids to national championships…and I like spending time with my “kids” (Read: offspring who are very cute, bear some resemblance to me, but who I can leave to go back to the solitude of my apartment with Mr. Ari)

My parents are in town for a few days. I love my parents, and I especially love hanging out with 3 people (including my sister) who all have the same dry sense of humor I do. This enjoyment and love is a small price to pay for the guerilla mind warfare my Mom may or may not be waging to find out if I am dating again (I’m not.)

Canadian Mrs Robinson is coming to the ATX. For 5 days. Which means that on at least two of those days I will very likely wake up sans pants. Especially given that her visit coincides with St Patrick’s Day. This is going to be better than Christmas. Especially if Grey Goose comes as well!

My BFF from college, Little Foot, is also coming to Austin for vacation-and research. My goal is to convince her to move so I have my partner in crime and bail money backup back.

You know who does not have a vacation booked? Me. This is unheard of. Since 2005 I have always had some form of vacation planned. Sadly my paycheck is not accommodating my traveling compulsion-so I am convincing all my friends to visit, and fantasizing about being convinced by one of my consultant friends to pool our points for a weekend in San Francisco. Or Mexico.

I feel physically nauseous about the marathon Sunday. Its going to be warmer than 70 degrees, ya’ll. I’m gonna die.

My 4 year old niece announced that “Aunt Jenna” is not a grown up. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I filed my own taxes, I take care of Ari, I grocery shop, and from time to time (okay daily) I balance my check book. Doesn’t that make me an adult?

Answering emails at work fills me with the sad acknowledgement that I wonder about many of my colleagues hold on the word “adult”. Le sigh.