Once More with Feeling.

"Call 1-800-Dentist. Here, let me get the number for you."

My friend Mary and I had this thing about the old 1-800-Dentist commercial, in that it would INCENSE my friend Mare because the lady recommending 1-800-dentist  would pause to say, "here, let me get the number for you," as she flipped through her roledex.  Oh, how this would burn my friend Mary UP.  "THE NUMBER IS 1-800-DENTIST. WHAT IS THERE TO LOOK UP??" and it never got old for me seeing her lose her shit over it. I knew from then we were kindred spirits, even if she was old enough to be my Ma.

Anyway, all this to say I am off to the dentist this very minute having not been seen in 2.5 years.  People, I made the appointment because, aside from the obvious "girl you need to" I am in pain, which reveals to me that shit aint right.  It is no secret I have crap for teeth, and this, I feel, is the beginning of a very expensive and very painful series of appointments.

If I am not back to the space, please know if was nice knowing you, and that the dentist killed me dead with the drill. Or his bill.

Over/under on # of cavities or if I need a root canal/crown(s).  Seriously, I think the situation is so bad no guess would be too extreme at this point.

Fondly,

Jen

 

Kiss Me, I'm Irish

                                                   

 

I'm on a mailing list for a local spa/salon.  I should mention I live on the south shore of Boston, and my town is also nicknamed "The Irish Riviera".  This isn't a city-slicker $50 for a mani type of place,  and I appreciate the fact that,  for a few miles drive,  I can go in for an occasional facial or eyebrow wax and not break the bank.   Still,  it's amazing what special offers you can be afforded when you're on a mailing list.

To wit,  today I found this special offer:

    "Nothing says "I feel lucky" more than a Shamrock vajazzle!! Come in to Gl*w and show your  Irish pride by donning a green shamrock (anywhere on your body) in honor of St. Patrick's Day. You're friends will be so jealous... Just $15."

Yeah, I know, I know...this isn't exactly groundbreaking news, thanks to a one Jennifer "Boob" Hewitt and her labia of a year or so ago.  She promotes some lame book which makes an offhand reference to her vajazzling practices (in interviews of same book promotion, somehow this was an integral part in getting over a break up to Jamie Kennedy,  to which I can only offer a heartfelt "????")  but now this 3rd party personal grooming -meets-"interior design" has infultrated my small town spa. 

And, (AND!)  as if that were not enough to digest,  my neighbor who also goes to this same salon,  has asked about this  service, along the lines of  "are people really going for this?" and reportedly yes, and in pretty good numbers,  actually.

Oh, really.

(I feel like there is  a joke  about "the south shore"  and "Irish Riviera" to be made here...give me a minute...)

Perhaps I'm just projecting my own awkwardness and level of  commitment to pain for beauty's sake, but damn, ladies.  I can barely tolerate a bikini wax. And  I'm not even talking The Telly Savalas Special, just a seldom, summertime, very, (verrry) basic "I want to wear a bathing suit without humilation" level of care.  Now I am armed with the knowledge that there are women among me, in my town, walking around going Telly Savalas Special AND adding hot glue gun and some rhinestones  (shamrock blangy-style) to their parts.  

Remember when a thong peeking out of some low-rise pants was THE scandal?  Those were some good times, the early 2000s.

Also,  I'd like to know why my friends would be "jealous" as the offer suggests, as I can tell you my friends have no personal (specifically, visual) knowledge of  South of the Equator lady business. (nursing Carolyn has since removed "North" from that list. ) So do people show off their vajazzling? Is that a thing? Like in the ladies room where we tend to congregate? Or at Book Club?  I admit, it's been awhile since I've gone out.  Or is it the low $15 price tag that they'll be jealous of?  It's a confusing time for me.

 

I really hope my hyper organized planner people and OCD types don't read this.

Tomorrow, after working a 7/8ths workday, I am embarking on a 2 week trip to Europe (Barcelona, Paris, London and a few places in Ireland).

It's 10:15 p.m., and just off the phone with my sister.

Her: Do you have **ANY**thing packed in the suitcase?

Me: I have things NEAR the suitcase.

Yeah, I haven't packed yet. I've never been to Europe.  I've never been on vacation for 2 weeks. 

It's like I'm TRYING to make my both sisters' heads explode. Because this is the usual for me, and yet, somehow they thought that for this trip, things might stand a chance of being different.

OH, how so very wrong they are.

Also worthy of noting, I still have to hit the 24 hour CVS for my Women's TImes (tm Tracy Jordan) stuff tonight.  Yeah, I am right-on-track.

A Rookie Mistake

Late this afternoon, I decided to finally dust off the running shoes, find the sports bra, and head to the new gym I signed on with about 2 weeks ago.

And I don't know why I feel compelled to add this, but this is NOT a New Year's resolution.  It is just something that needs to be done and it's taken me 6 months to get back at it. (So not the point of this post. Just thought the timing of me saying I joined a new gym on January 4 looked suspect.)

Anyway, as I said,  at the new gym for the first time.  I started off on the bike, and I had my water and magazine.  All was well.  Once done with the bike, I decided to drop my magazine back into my bag in the locker room so I could freely move about to work on the weight machines. 

As I headed into the locker room, I still had the iPod volume fully cranked and I was zoning out listening to the music,  contemplating lots of little stupid shit.  As I made my way around, my eye line was downward seeking locker #180.  And I got to the spot where I would have it would be,  I got confused - the numbers were nowhere near 180, ....and, wait,  this is weird, the room's layout is not quite how I remembered ....

... I lifted my head to get my bearings and it is only at this moment that I realize....

I AM IN THE MEN'S LOCKER ROOM.

Somehow I was able to squash a squeal of shock (and yes, there were naked men. the nerve.) and booked it out of there.  And I can tell you, the walk of shame heading to of the MEN'S LOCKER ROOM as a woman is as awesome as it sounds.

Fortunately, 5:30 on a Saturday evening, the gym wasn't all that crowded.  I mean, had I done this on a weekday, can you imagine how many bare butts (which I saw) and hairy backs my delicate sensibilites would have been exposed to?  Thankfully tonight's episode no one noticed me (THANK YOU JESUS) and no Full Montys.

So to sum up:  My night - like Porky's, only in reverse. 

And Procrastination was her name-o

Things I should be doing instead of hanging out here on a Saturday morning:

Cleaning. 

No really, there is a lot of cleaning to be done up in here.

Seriously, I've been wandering around the apartment telling myself, "Just pick a room. Any room."

Get my car's new emissions sticker, seeing as it expired back in May.

May...2006.

Get the oil changed while I'm at it.

Which according to Jiffy Lube reminding sticker, maybe should have been done, oh I dunno, 2,500  miles ago?

(seriously, maybe I should start with just getting all my laundry off the couch. I can do that much, right?)

Find out where my friend lives so I can get to her house for her garden party.
Find out when garden party starts.
Figure out how far Marblehead is from Boston.
Figure out if I can even go as I am going to see Jim Gaffigan tonight and that is being held in opposite direction of Boston.

If my 20/10 eyes don't deceive me, I should probably make another bikini wax appt. 

Dry my hair before it takes on Rastafarian proportions.

However and instead, I will ruminate about the following:

1. That it's cute that my dad sends me text messages about how my house deal is going, adding "Love, Dad".  My dad sends me text messages, people.

Which reminds me, I should probably tell him I'm going to be showing up at his place in Chicago on Thursday, hoping he'll let me crash there til Sunday, because, uh, well...yeah, let's hope he remembered that I said I was coming for the weekend "at the end of July" for the "conference" I'm attending which is 1 mile from his sweet pad. Otherwise, I just may very well be fucked.

(mental note to add to Saturday's To Do list: Call Dad)

2. The realization that texting my friend Matt (after a night of hanging out/drinking w/ him) the clever phrase "P.S. Your mom" around 1 a.m. is not as funny as you thought,  though at the time you thought it was comic genius.

3. My new pretty friend, Hollow Squirrel ...
(Seen here:)

(See? pretty.)

...whom (who?) I met for the first time on Monday and with my local assistance, managed to get her out of hanging with fellow conference attending co-workers who, unlike me, did not know where the Sephora was. 

This is my secret way of telling you I took my new girlfriend to Sephora and people, my God, [/whispers] it was MAGIC.  Sephora is a woman's Disneyland. "Disneyland for Broads" they should call it.

However and as such, Sephora is definitely a place that requires a "wingwoman" because to be without adequate, skillful supervision,  there runs many dangerous perils, such as not benefiting from, say, a verbal soap opera slap, "PUT THE BODY GLITTER BACK, IT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A TRAGIC WHORE", ipso facto finding one's self with a shell shocking $300 Visa charge at the register for stuff you don't even want right before you're supposed to be drop some serious bank on a HOUSE in ONE MONTH, JEN-NIF-ER.

(in all seriousness, I put back some Benefit under eye concealer as she thought my expression was that of "placating Sephora rep" based on her observation of my head nod "confirming" the "difference I saw" and in doing so, helped me get out of there for only 60 bucks. A miracle, I can assure you.)

But it wasn't all wine & lipgloss.  We got into our first fight right on the very  fancy Newbury St.

(still have a few of her hair extensions on my dresser to prove it.)

Apparently lady is not down with me referring to the daily appendage I wear on my shoulder as a pocketbook. 

"A 'pocketbook'? That's not a pocketbook," she snitted, "THIS [takes out wallet] is a pocketbook."

Uh, no.  That, dear simpleton, is a WALLET.

The thing you keep all your stuff in? Pocketbook.  POCKET-BOOOOOOOK.

Were it not for the fact that she has a cute kid waiting for her at home, I probably would have cut her.

Maybe it's a Massachusetts thing?  Who knows. But it's always been a pocketbook to me.  Not a bag, handbag, or purse.  Pocketbook.

Deal with it.

Above: Her superior "that's not a pocketbook" face. Don't you just want to bean her with a complimentary piece of warm bread? No? Just me then?

So, aside from her unwillingness to acquiesce to my quaint "handbag" colloquialism, she was really nice (and she bought dinner, and also, I ate some of her food because I am awesome), and also talks super fast like me (which is good) and does this thing of saying random shit just to see if you're paying attention (to wit, at one point she randomly suggested I bring back the bridal hat.)

So, I hope you had a good time, HS.  Sorry the last words you had to hear from me as you drove off in the cab were "POCK- ET. BOOOOOK." in a Captain Caveman voice. But you're wrong and I am right and you will bend to my will on this one.

4. How sort of horrified I was when I walked into the bedroom wearing my 2 towel-post shower get up only to be chastised by Mike:

"Will ya STOP USING MY GOLF CLUBS' TOWEL ALREADY?! I KEEP THROWING IT ON MY CHAIR SO I CAN REMEMBER TO BRING IT OUT TO MY CAR and YOU KEEP. USING. IT."

"I use that to clean off my clubs."

Uh, my bad? And also, "thought it was small."

5. I have waited too long and now my hair now has dreadlocks.

6. Yeah seriously, that bikini wax appt. isn't going to make itself.

7. It is 1:30 in the afternoon and I'm still wearing a towel.

Go Shorty, it's yer b...wait, what?

They say "the best predictor of the future is past behavior", and it is with deep regret that I'm going to have to say that "they" might be onto something.

June 25, 2004 my sister Emily had a destination wedding in Bermuda (oh, yeah, Happy Anniversary, Em).   It was a small group of us in attendance for the wedding: immediate family, spouses and significant others and a few friends.  Most of us landed a day or 2 in advance of the wedding to hang out, golf, get pedicures, read US Weekly by the pool, work on the tacky suntan/sunburn lines for our strapless numbers, and watch Em micromanage take care of last minute wedding details as we knocked back our Coronas. 

In short, we were dealing with a lot of shit.

I was so excited to be in Bermuda.  I hadn't been away on a real vacation in awhile, I was thrilled to be somewhere warm with gorgeous beaches and Dad's credit card to pick up the bar tab to hang out with the people I loved most.  Which means that it was PERFECT timing for me to get sick. Like sick-sick.  The day I left for Bermuda I could feel I was getting a sinus infection and, as these things do, it just kept getting worse.  I didn't want to bother anyone with my troubles (as it was not "MY DAY!") so I kept my trap shut about it, but the day before the wedding, when I realized that I was feeling feverish and that my sinuses were so backed up that water was spilling out of my nose whenever I lifted my head, I thought maybe it was time to mention it to someone to that I needed medical attention before shit starts in on my asthma and things get really fun and exciting.

It was during all this that Bermuda was enduring Day Two of a countrywide taxi strike.  So even when I FOUND a doctor who would see me on a last minute basis, there was the minor detail of getting me there. And back. Just thought I'd mention that.  So I'm a little ...concerned.

Long story short, after finding a doctor who'd see me last minute and a rogue taxi driver to take me, the good doctor gave me the good stuff (Zirtho-pack) and after a pill and some R&R by the pool, I was feeling better almost immediately. I was GIDDY with joy that, unlike Stateside, I didn't have to beg for "the good antibiotics", and I could now get back to important things like, you know, not dying.  I was also extremely comforted by the fact that I would neither be wiping my green ectoplasm snot into my bouquet nor spitting hucktueys into the sand as I walked down the beach thereby ruining the picturesque ceremony.

The day I went to see the doctor, the boys (BIL, BIL-to be, Mike, my Dad) had been out golfing  since 6:00 a.m. and they returned late afternoon to find us girls lounging by the pool. I was feeling so much better after 1 dose of the Zithro, that I bounced over to the guys  and told them as much (for you see, they worry) and asked Mike how he'd done, if he had beaten my Dad at golf.  He had.

Oh a Z-pack high and hepped up that it was my guy was able to beat my father at golf (who is very good, by the way), I randomly 'rapped', "Go Shorty, it's yer birfday!", which, one should know, was not a phrase I was known to drop.

And it was with launch of those words, that my fate as Family Space Cadet was sealed forever.

"As a matter of fact, it is."

"Um, wh......[5,4,3,2, 1] Oh, shit."

This was in front of my 2 brother-in-laws, my Dad, my stepmom and my 2 sisters. My face went white. In the midst of everything, I had forgotten. I was the asshole girlfriend and there were witnesses to attest to this fact.

I had nowhere to go with this but downward, gut first, onto the sword.

Suffice it to say, I ate of lot of shit over that weekend.

But as I started out here, history is an excellent resource for predicting the future.

June 23, 2007:

Mike and I are in a cab on our way out to dinner and are having a little tiff over me being hours away from not meeting a deadline he'd set.  A deadline, he contended, he'd imposed to line up with his birthday.  After some back and forth over when the actual deadline was (I thought I had until the end of this week),  he asserted no, it was a birthday deadline because he wanted to be able to tell his mother a definitive answer when we saw her on Sunday (June 24).  Miffed that I was being wrongly accused, I spit back, "Well, you had said end of the week after I saw my sisters and besides, your birthday isn't even until TUESDAY."

"Uh, no it isn't; it's Sunday."

"Um, noooo, Sunday's when we're celebrating your birthday with your parents."

"Um, no, my birthday is the 24th."

"[dead silence] oh ...heh...well, ....this is embarrassing." 

[Mike trying not to pee himself in cab]

"[in a small, cracking voice] oh...sna - ap.  I swear I didn't forget! I just remembered it wrong. I mean, I have it marked on my calendar at work for the 26th and everything!"

(Seriously, 'Defense' Exhibit A:)

"Oh my God, you did it AGAIN. I suppose this means you didn't buy me a card yet either, huh?"

[um, nope]

"Wait, are you surrrre it's the 24th? "

Happy Birthday, Mike. I'm sorry I keep doing this to you and you're a good man to see the humor in all this, but maybe we should consider moving it to another day?  How does 6/30 work for you?

Love, Jen

Before you ask, No, I did not go to a "special school"

My thoughtful, insightful  PSA for the day:

Do not agree to arm wrestle a coworker.  With your broken wrist.

The wrist does not and will not magically repair itself for those few seconds.  It will still be broken.  The brace will not grant you strength or power.** And you will lose, pretty much on contact. And then you will sit there looking and feeling like a total loser.

A really, stupid, dumbass loser.

In completely unrelated news to this event, Wendy's has hands-down the best hangover food.

(**And neither will 8 dozen vodka tonics for that matter. Allegedly.)

7, 9, 11

I try.  I swear to God, I try.  But some days, despite my best efforts, I still end up with a day like this:

Awaken with Whitney Houston's "I've Got Nothing" stuck in my craw, complete with dramatic phrasing. Inside my head sounding something like:

[forte] "I've got NOTHING!

NOTHING!

NOTHINNNNNG!

[piano] If I don't - have- you-uuuuu."

Repeat approximately 2,500 (+/-) times, you have my moring and afternoon. 

Because I have nothing better to do, I contemplate how that song got there.

Realize, Oh yeah, the day before I read somewhere where a girl had gotten the phone number of a semi-famous MTV reality-TV star and though she wasn't naming him, she had mentioned he was a son of a very famous athlete and stepson to a famous producer.  I was pretty sure I knew who she was talking about, but to confirm my suspicions, I IMDB'ed Br*dy Jenner (from MTV's The Hills, a show I am inexplicably into) where I was proven correct. 

However, as I read his bio, I noticed that his mom is Linda Thompson-something or other and that she is listed as an actress and also "soundtrack", whatever that gig is. Thinking this name looked familiar as a producer/creator for a few shows I used to watch back in the day (Designing Women being one), I clicked on her IMDB link to figure out this edge-of-your-seat "mystery". Going thru her profile, Linda Thompson-something or other is married to David Foster and shares an Oscar with him for Best Original Song for the song (wait for it) "I Have Nothing"- a song used in the Whitney Houston flick, The  Bodyguard.  Boy. I also learned thru my extensive research that the Designing Women creator is Linda Bloodsworth-Thomason.  Am colored impressed with myself because, this show came out in 1986... when I was THIRTEEN.  How or why I can recall something this random and insignificant to my daily life and not other fairly important things kind of frightens me.

Also goes without saying: I really, really need to get a life.

After a day of Whitney Houston's "I've Got Nothing" on repeat and realizing that I need to get a life, I headed off to the gym.  The gym, much like this assine song being soundtracked into my brainwaves, was no fun at all.   I had no energy, felt as though I had accomplished nothing and it was a complete waste of my time. This put me in a somewhat salty mood.  No big whoop but my mood only fueled my next (dumbass) move.

Having left the gym, it was around 8:15, and at this time of day the bus schedules are pretty skewy with bigger gaps in time between buses (as opposed to running every 10-15 minutes or so like they do at rush hour), I got to the bus stop and realized it was probably going to be awhile and so, even though I was carrying a lot of crap, walked to the next stop thinking "hey, at least it's exercise."  Finally get there and wait.  And wait.  And wait. And Oh DEAR LORD, WHERE IS THAT FUCKING BUS?! 

Somewhere around 8:45 I see a bus.  Not MY bus (the #7), but the #11 that also runs to South Boston.  Thinking the #11 runs by or near my house, I figured I would just hop on that and walk the one block to my apartment rather than wait until God knows for the #7.

Less than a minute later as the bus is taking a sharp turn that it wasn't "supposed to", with a sinking feeling realize, "Oh shit,... this isn't the...ohhhh, I wanted the #9."

I am on THE WRONG BUS.

It's a great feeling to have, really.  Apparently odd integers confuse me.

I get off the bus and walk to the stop that I know sees the #9 - a bus that will, in fact, drop me in front of my house...I think. I really can't be trusted at this point.

By now I am starving as it's past 9:00 p.m.  But ooh, what's that smell? Is that The Teriyaki House?

I walk across the street and order some pork lo mein. Not a second after the lady hands me my change and as if on cue to emotionally hurt me, the #9 rolls by.

"DAMN IT."

The Teriyaki House peeps have my name and tell me it'll be 15 minutes (which, seriously? for lo mein?).  I wait. And wait. And... MOTHER OF GOD, WHERE THE HELL IS MY LO MEIN???

Patience is not my strong suit right now...but I am trying.

I will learn is was sitting on the counter. They never called me. It just sat there for what felt like an infinity (or what was possibly 20 minutes) before some girl noticed me loitering and asked, "Can I help you?".  UH, yeah yah can. Can I have my damn lo mein, please? (or more accurately, "I ordered Lo Mein." "Jean?" "Yeah.")

Finally, with lo mein in hand, I get the #9 bus. SEETHING.

And I probably could have stayed in a pissy mood for the rest of my otherwise shot night had I not heard a 3 year-old little girl ask her mom, "Do you smell farts? I smell farts. Is someone farting?"

I believe that would be my lo mein.

I see London....

I started off 2007 with the same continued commitment to working out that I had had the end of 2006, that is to say, very good. I actually got off my ass a few times a week and ran, did a sit-up here and an "arm-y thing-y" there.   Then, ... then the wheels began to fall off.  My gym, which is located directly across the street from my office,  was visited during the months of February and March and, oh yeah, April, probably just ONCE.  Yeah, 60 bucks well spent.  Wow, just looking at that my justification that I was at least playing soccer once a week was really getting some mileage. Damn.

Anyway, as of mid-April, I have tried this working out thing again.  Just last night, I went for the second time in 9 days (OMG!!1!!).

Here's a tip I got for ya, for those who are the working out type. (Free even.  Yes, I am all about passing on the savings here.)

If you are packing a bag to go to the gym (say, if you don't feel like working out in your skirt, pants, dress, suit, etc.)....

PACK SHORTS.

Just call 1-800-DUMBASS

This morning I had a dentist appointment and per usual, I was running my standard fifteen minutes late.  When I got there, no receptionist was at the desk but after a few minutes, a dental assistant appeared and I gave her my name.  At first she seemed confused as to who I was and when I realized it was taking her a little longer than it should for her to locate me on the schedule, I joked, "don't tell me I showed up on the wrong day!"  She said no, that I was just making her nervous (maybe I was giving her a look of "why aren't you finding me?") and she asked for my last name.  My last name can be a little tricky so I spelled it out for her, she nodded and said okay, wait for Tammy (my hygienist) to come back (the dental group occupies 2 office spaces on the same floor).

So I waited for another 5 minutes and during that wait, the regular receptionist returned.  She knows who I am, and when she saw me SHE was confused as to my presence. 

Yeah, I had shown up a week early.

"Great, now I have to explain this one to my boss, " amusing her and the other gentleman waiting, "that I'm going to have to go back again next week."

When I got back to the office, I explained the (my) mix-up to my manager and then point him to my calendar where I had marked the 13th instead of the 20th, only for that to be the exact moment to learn I had in fact marked the 20th, the correct day.

You should know this leaves a remarkably swell impression of you on your manager as to your level competency.

My only guess as to why I did this (other than the obvious "because you are dim") is that for the first time in the history of my oral hygiene, when asked the condescending and annoying, "So, have you been flossing regularly?" I would have been able to look them square in the eye and tell them, "Yes, twice a day, everyday,...even the ones in back, beeyatch" and it not be a total lie.