Once More with Feeling.

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.)

back 2 skool

In an effort to "get smaaht" about my new best bud, Steve, I went and got some learnin.

And now, while I "get it", what I don't get is why stuff doesn't "work" when I try "stuff" when I get home.

The class was helpful and I did learn some things that I wouldn't not have found in the manual. And a few had I read a little more ("Oh, so that thing adjusts the shutter speed? Huh, ...how 'bout that?").

For example:

Shoot in the lowest ISO speed possible (that you are able to get away with).

For the love of God, USE A FILTER.

Shoot in RAW + JPEG (which I get why now, but seeing the RAW as compared to the low quality JPEGs, The JPEGs look better to me(specifically the color). WHy? Why is that??)

Reformat your memory card after each uploading to the computer.

Back up your stuff OFF your computer (uh, maybe I sorta already knew this one and just haven't gotten around to uh doing...that. Or buying the thing that backs it up. I've been...busy. Yeah, that's sounds reasonable.)

Naturally, after 3 hours there's more to but it probably doesn't translate into riveting reading.

Anyway, all I can tell you is working in Manual Mode and Depth of Field is going to make me weep. Openly. 

On a lighter note, my first "arty" shot with the D80 which looks nothing like I was hoping it would by the way but as is the mantra of most greats (I'm sure Ansel Adams muttered this one or twice under his breath), "fuck it".

I call this "Mother, may I sleep with danger?"

Oh, and the deal with red eye? It is actually the pools of blood behind your eyes being illuminated by the flash.  Ew, gross.

On the Record

[Conversation over a pint...]

Katy: OKay, I have a confession to make to you guys. I don't know what it is, but lately? It's like I cannot get enough of Nickelback.

Me: Oh my God, I know totally what you mean. Me, too.

Ben: Seriously, I think I have just lost all respect for you 2 girls.

First of all, Benjamin, shuddup, you don't know anything about anything*! And secondly, how can you not love a band that has e/affectively brought back the Power Ballad? Far Away has been said to reduce grown men to tears. TO TEARS!

Recent odd muscial obsessions? Hit it.

*the fallback comeback since age 7.

Tip #241:

Putting you arm in between the bus doors as you try to get on at the last second I would suggest that you do NOT expect to yield the same results as you would say with elevator doors which come handily equipped with electronic sensors.

For in this situation you see, it is the bus DRIVER that controls the doors and he WILL close it on your arm ("Sorry, I didn't see you there.") and it WILL hurt (well, it did a little bit, I have a bruise forming anyway, but at least he was "nice enough" to open the doors back up after hearing me squeal "OW!" and not drag me along the block to the next stop.)

Things I have learned: Me

At Stella's request...

I am equal parts jock and girlie-girl. This makes for a interesting wardrobe and vocabulary.

I want to be well traveled and own a house on the coast.   

I wish my relationship with my mother was different. Oh, and that I had one of those locators for my keys.

I hate  the smell of pet food. I avoid that aisle of the grocery store for fear the stench will knock me out. Also, thongs.

I miss vacations that last an entire summer.

I fear I have been too wasteful in my life.

I hear "Penelope" by Pinback.

I wonder where I'll be and what my life will be like at 40, 50, 60....   

I regret quarter-assing those college courses which almost got me bounced and my commitment to my orthodontia treatment...I mean, treatments. Oh, and waiting so long to get a tooth fixed that I landed myself with a root canal, siphoning buckets of cash out of my wallet in the process. Like a tax return sized bucket.

I am not a phone person.  I tend to get distracted with stuff around me. I need eye contact.     

I dance during the commercial breaks.

I sing  made up songs to popular melodies because I can never remember the lyrics. People "love" this about me. 

I cry usually at one point during Grey's Anatomy. Usually when wearing a face mask because Sunday nights are my "nights of beauty".

I am not always prompt. 

I make with my hands pretty decent calligraphy for a person who's never taken a calligraphy class.

I write to get these thoughts or funny stories or inner monologues out of my head. And if I entertain someone in the process, that's gravy. Really, really, great gravy.

I confuse effect and affect, no matter how many times I look it up. It's just one of those mental blocks. 

I need to find some level of humor in a situation.  It doesn't have to be "funny ha-ha" -- ironic, absurd will do. Like the time my car got towed because I had about 900 bucks worth of parking tickets and I thought it had been stolen?  Or the time I got my car impounded with my boss's kid in the car - a kid I was babysitting? I found humor there believe it or not. This ability keeps me sane. 

I should find a little religion on the saving money front.

I start many books and then drop them, which forces me to start all over again if/when I ever pick them up again.

I finish other people's sentences when they are stuck searching for a word. Or even sometimes when they're not.

You Can Do It (Put Your Back In To It): A How-to Guide

(for my buddy Dawn)

If it is one thing I have learned, or at least raised to believe anyway, it's that if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything. Be Anything! There are no ceilings to contain you!  You are not a pre-fab person! "Shoot for the moon and even if you miss, you'll still land among the stars!" they'd say (uh, no they didn't; my parents weren't losers).

But that sounds a little exhausting, no? Which is exactly why I aim low.

My goal?  My quest? My one mission in life?  To win a Dance Off!

Let's start with my background in the Dancing Arts. Um....yeah, historically my education in this arena can be best described as..limited. There was the year of ballet I took at age 4 (here I am in my pj's practicing the routine for my upcoming recital).

Of course, having a built-in dance partner at home did help refine my interpersonal dance skills some:

Then it was the occasional family function where I'd perfect and perform my patented twirl move (I'm the one in white):

Some years later, my friend Mary Martha would hook me into the occult that is...God forgive me for admitting this, ....SQUARE DANCING. (dun-dun-dunnnn)  I know, I know, but in my defense 1) I was in  2nd and 3rd grade when I got nabbed into this underground perversion and 2) I was holding out for the twirly 1950s-like skirt with the puffy slip that went underneath. And true to my hidden agenda, I quit almost as soon as I got it.

But as the years wore on, I began to break away from "my art" and became your average, ornery, tomboyish teenager who was obsessed with basketball and soccer; activities that did not make me self-conscious.  Eventually both my sisters picked up "where I'd left off" and took Irish Step dance lessons, which for some reason, made me like dancing even less. I wanted to be "my own person" and Kate and Em both did things like cheerleading and dancing and wearing skirts.

But thankfully I entered my 20s and somewhere in that decade I got over it (and "it" being "a moody asshole") and here is where my sisters and friends are all, "and here is where we lost her forever." A friend of mine from my Boston soccer team brought me to a few hip-hop classes and lo, they were FUN! And a workout. And I probably sucked but whatever. I was DOWN. I was STREET.  Of course, this was an awesome opportunity for my sisters make fun of me. "A few hip hop classes and now she thinks J-Lo."  I didn't care. Clearly they were just jealous!

And this was also around the time Brit and Justin broke up it was rumored that they'd had this "dance off" in some Hollywood club. And with that the mainstreaming of a term that defined an event so silly and absurd to me, that naturally I'd have to latch on to it.

But, as my sisters had implied, a few hip hop classes do not a dance-offer make! Last year I'd made the mistake of taking my (much unwarranted) confidence coupled with some moves from a handful of dance movies I'd watched (Save the Last Dance, Honey, Center Stage, to name a few) and good-naturedly but yet, stupidly challenged a girl from my office on the dance floor. A 5' Latina chick who I would learn could literally dance my ass off.

But do I strike you as someone who gives up that easily? You can be lazy and still have goals, you know. The crux of my error?  My issue? I needed to AIM LOWER.  In basketball terms?  I NEEDED A LAY UP.

So here, good people of the Internet, here it is:

How to (handily) Win a Dance Off:

Step One: Find someone who doesn't look like they'd ever been asked to dance, much less participate in a dance off.

This may sound mean but I am sorry, are we looking to achieve the goal of winning or are we going for Nicest Person Ever Awards? Exactly.

This past January, the day after I quit my job and 3 days before my birthday in fact, I went out with my friends to celebrate. I will mention, being in a really great mood helps, which for this evening was the quite the understatement.  I spotted my victim, "Poindexter" and said to him in passing, "You, Me. We dance the way of Britney and Justin, dance off style. I'll let you know when our song is playing."

And I believe "our song" was Mariah's "Shake it Off" or one of her newer songs. Anyway, that's when I came a-knockin'.

Step 2: Enter the dance floor and give challenger false sense of security by opening with bum moves.

Yes, make it look like you don't know what you're doing. You lull them into your trap so that they're thinking, "oh yeah, I so have this in the BAG, man."  So maybe do a nice white-man's overbite for good measure. Or some unsexy mouth breathing. Or both!

Step 3: Turn up the heat.

Blindside the guy. "Yes, I am dance goddess and you are lucky to be with me right now." Circle him, like I did. Wave your hands seductively in the air. Sexily shrug your shoulders. Wiggle your hips til he's dizzy.  Go big! Whatever you got, work it.  Next thing you know, the dance floor will part like the Red Sea and it is all yours. 

Note: Your Heat *will* attract innocent bystanders.

You will need to release to locus of control temporarily by acknowledging these "Heat Stroke Victims" (as I like to call them), for they are innocent in all this for you really cannot realistically expect them to be able to control themselves with your moves, your heat so close in proximity. So let them onto the dance floor for a moment, give them a little thrill, but then politely push them back into the edges of the dance floor until you and your dance off partner are done competing. This is called "good form".

Lastly: Confuse the poor bastard.

Incorporate 18 different styles of dance into a 30 second segment if you have to (I used everything from hip hop to fake salsa to Brit moves to freaking Michael Flatley's Lord of the Dance).

Also a fan favorite? "Making Shit Up". It is not as though there are judges who are gonna call a technical here. So why not?  At this point, I think I am doing  something of a mimed macarena praying to the heavens. Or I'm about to throw down. Whichever.

And, well, that's basically all there is to it.  And "it" here being "kicking a little dance ass".

Hopefully you have come away with something from this guide. Print it out and fold it into your purse if you feel you need a handy reference. 

So good luck in your Dance Off ventures.  And remember: Aim Low.

Well, it's like I'm always sayin, 'better late than pregnant'*.

I think I just had one of them "blogiversaries" sometime at the end of March (though if you were to go by the "Catholic Calendar", my anniversary would be Good Friday (tomorrow) which makes this a day early).  I wish I could say for you nice people who read this that this space has gotten a lot more interesting or deep or funny since my first post, an ode to my rekindled romance with Mac and Cheese, but hey, you get what you pay for around here, people.

Things that I have learned since starting this blog last March:

• Spell check is a beautiful thing**. Maybe I could break down and use it sometime.
• Corollary to the above, cheating in Mrs. Merrow's 8th grade typing class (i.e. peeking at the keyboard) is one decision that has really come back to bite me in the ass.
• There are some wickedly funny, creative people out there who really need to move to my block so we can chill sometime.
• I think I am better at the "photo essay" in Flickr which, by the by, looks like no effort at all, but really is a BITCH.

Though the biggest thing I have learned since becoming a blogger a year ago:

• There is no cool way to drop "I have a blog" into conversation. None. And don't think I haven't tried either. It especially difficult when a person doesn't know what one is, as then the conversation definitely takes on a certain "derailing" quality. "So, it's like a journal? Online? Nerd." and you futilely protesting, "No, no, no - you don't get it. All the cool kids have one. Really!"   And even if you're able to get past the "you're a geek" bit and they start to buy what you're selling, "So, um, here's my website address if you want to check it sometime." Just typing that makes me feel dorkified. So the people who know me in real life and know of this, you either have a blog of your own (so that's a push in the dorkified arena) or I am comfortable enough around you where I don't think you're gonna give me the eye roll.  Or I'm just cooler than you. Whatever.

Anyway, Happy Blogiversary TO ME!______________________________________________________________________________________

I was going to write this post of the worst April Fool's joke ever played on me on April 1st. Well, it's now April 13th.  I guess you could say I forgot.

Some background that might be handy:

As a teenager, I was never comfortable singing in front of my peers. I thought singing was "geeky". See, us band geeks could look down our noses at the chorus geeks because, "hey, at least we are MUSICIANS!"  Unless a girl was really, really good, maybe I would give a pass, but even the good ones found a way to grate on my nerves often over-singing and often with that annoying vibrato making decent songs sound like they were being sung by a young, female goat.  Regardless of my position on singing, I was thrown into having to by having to go to church where, wouldn't you know, other high school kids would be. So maybe mumbling the lyrics to a U2 song in the car was alright by me, but rocking the church tunes  in front of these people wasn't particularly high on my list of things to do. I wasn't alone on this one though, and so I, like millions of other teens around the country who attended church with their folks, defaulted to mouthing the words to such hits like "Let There Be Peace on Earth" and "Yahweh I Know You Are Near" (and that's if I wasn't feeling particularly defiant and just stood there staring straight ahead doing nothing which always got me "The Look" from my mom). Sure, I was a geek who was in marching band and Jr. Classical League (Latin Club), but even *I* had my limits.

So, it got to be this thing about getting me to sing during church. To her credit, my mom found her choice weapon of "Mass" destruction against moody, would be too-cool-for-school teenagers: Manipulation of Mob Mentality.  On the car ride over, she advised my 2 sisters and brother, "we aren't stopping for donuts afterwards unless I can hear Jennifer sing." I have to admit, nicely played. So on that particular Sunday, I made sure that not only would I sing VERY loudly (for one song only) BUT! I would have the last laugh and as I would DEFIANTLY and in STICKING IT TO THE (Wuh)MAN fashion-  and sing it BADLY.  Yes, the ultimate in passive aggressive Fuck Yous as far as I was concerned. Unfortunately, this only got a laugh from the group, including Mom.  Foiled again.  But at least we got the donuts!

Enter: April 1, 1989. Me, 10th grade.

The phone rang that afternoon. First, let me state the phone in our house was never for me; it was always for the phone clowns, Kate and Em, who were always making the mad dash for it, short of beating each other to a bloody pulp on the way there to see who'd  get to answer it. So when the phone rang, true to Pavlovian form, the phone clowns' fast twitch muscles were summoned and started to make their sprint for their lifeline. That afternoon, however, my mother put the smack down on the 'clowns and but quick.

"I got it."

My mother talked to the person on the other end for a few seconds and then surprisingly handed the receiver off to me saying something about it being a woman from our church about Kate's Confirmation and wanting to talk to me privately.  My mom left me alone in the kitchen and retreated back to the family room with Kate, Em and Bri.

I answered the phone and the woman introduced  herself as the choir director from Sacred Heart and that for that year's confirmation class, they wanted the kids from last year's class to sing at the ceremony.  A touch more than a touch torn about signing  for this gig as it went against "everything I stood for" (I was an Anti-ChurchSinger) but 1) it was for Kate and, (sorry Kate) more importantly, 2) my high school crush of 4 years, Kevin Grant, would probably be saying yes to this call and in my mind was, "hey, another clutch opportunity to hang out with him outside of school!"  So I nonchalantly committed, sure, what the heck, and almost as an afterthought before we hung up, she requested, "just so I can get a feel for your voice, can you sing a few bars of something for me?"

I assumed this was to determine if I was an alto, soprano, etc.  Again, church lady was "testing my limits of cool" but back in the day I was a pretty obedient kid when it came to figures of authority and searched my brain for a song that wasn't U2, REM or what have you. Wholesome church music, if you will....so what did I have in my arsenal?

Which brings me to my song selection. In grammar school, the kids on my block but on a few legit plays to raise money for MS: Annie and Oklahoma! I had all those songs memorized. So I pulled from the archives the song that was easiest to sing and remember lyrically and began quietly to cover my embarrassment but loud enough for the lady to hear:

"The sun'll come out....tomorrow...betcha bottom dollah that tomor-ooooh...they'll be sun...."

Mind you, I'm 16. Old enough to drive. And I'm choosing "Tomorrow" as my song.

The woman said to me, "Thank you, Jennifer. That was lovely. I'll be in touch shortly with the rehearsal dates."

I hung up and walked back into the family room. My mom asked what was going on. "They want me to sing at Kate's Confirmation. Something about last year's class performing for this year's or something."

And that's when everyone busted out, rather dramatically I should add, my song and laughed their asses off.  I just stood their looking confused.  "Jen, ...(laugh, laugh,laugh) that was Mrs. Niese!" Mrs. Niese was our good friend and neighbor who I would babysit for and worked at her in-house daycare during the summers. Now I'm realizing I hadn't recognized her voice to boot.  This joke was just spiraling.  Someone I knew well had just heard me sing "Tomorrow" --and without trying to be ironic or jokey. Christ Al-freaking-mighty.

I believe my initial reaction before the blistering-hear-of-a thousand-suns rage set in was could be summed up succinctly: "je suis mortifié" ("I am mortified").  After the mortification that an April Fool's joke had just been had at my expense, I stammered, "I...YOU...I ...WHAT?!...I DON'T...I DON'T BELIEVE YOU GUYS!...I HATE YOU ALL! YOU GUYS ARE ALL ASSHOLES!" and ran upstairs to my room and slammed the door.

After a few minutes of chilling out, I came back down still in shock and disbelief that I had been gotten and intermittently laughing at the joke and calling them assholes, tried to get some details of the joke.  Yes, they had listened to every word,  Yes, they were surprised I hadn't recognized Cathy's voice, and Yes, yes, a thousand times YES! they were definitely, bonus-ly surprised they'd gotten "Tomorrow" out of me. 

I should have realized that the other room got a little too quiet for my family when I took the call. In real life, that would have never happened.

* from a belated birthday card from my father. nice.

** Typepad's spell check really, really sux. The few times I do use it, I am constantly challenging it with Merriam-Webster and am often proven right. (to wit: "proven" isn't in Typepad's dictionary)

Things that I have learned: Ants

The day you call your property management about a certain ant problem*, so horrible, in fact, that you had mopped and cleaned and most importantly, murdered, while still in your 2-towel out-of-the-shower ensemble room to room when you spied the various tribes that morning, as you couldn't bear the thought of them walking all over your apartment while you were at work, doing God knows... multiplying probably, another second, that 97% of them will go into hiding by the time you return that evening (they got twins, stunt doubles, extended families, etc. you know).

I swear, they know an exterminator is coming to town. And they want to make me look crazy.

* we're talking the real little guys, not the ones that look like they can bench an ice cream cone.

Updated to add: Apparently the fuckers are nocturnal. Tribe Kitchen returned this morning. But hey, at least I'm not crazy! At least there's that!

My least favorite form of puncuation.

There's a saying out there something to the effect of "the fastest way to get your period it to go out and buy yourself a pregnancy test (retailing for approx $13.99, er, not that I would know personally mind you) and you will get it the next day."

I have found a quicker, cheaper*, and one less trip to the drugstore alternative for you ladies.

Step One: Wear new off-white pants. As in "price tag is still on them the morning you decide to don same" new.

Step Two: Bow down to societal rules of light pants/undergarments and wear the teeniest, flimsiest pair of knickers based on your decision of wearing light colored pants because heaven forbid people should see an outline of your underwear. I mean, so you like underwear that covers your butt! Excuse me!

Step Three: Get on bus headed for work.  Feel a little out of sorts. Blame time change and fact that it is morning, not your best time of day and you haven't had coffee. And it's Monday.

Step Three A: Get off bus and feel the infamous "The Twinge". Run complex math calculations during walk from bus stop to work of how long I have until "The Embarrassment" sets in. Literally.

Step Four: Get to work, find ladies' room and realize as you thought but thankfully no damage is done to brand new pants. Curse that there are no Advil Liguidgels at desk but at least you have vision/foresight to bring backup supplies for such an event.

So there you have it. It's no EPT but it gets results.

*And I take back the "cheapest" qualifier. Had there been an accident, I did not take into account any potential dry cleaning damages. Yeah, now that would have been an awkward conversation.

Oh, and FYI - I recommend ThermaCare Heatwraps (which I am using right now). Much more convenient than a heating pad and feels very nice. My Dad also uses them for his back.

Updated to add: Almost 12 hours later and there is still heat kicking from this wrap!

Greed is such an ...ugly word. True, but ugly.

I am writing this at two in the morning, as when you go to take "a nap" at 8 o'clock on a Friday night and waken 4 hours later, heh, what do you know?  You're wide awake.  As I am sit here listening to Mike's "gentle snores" from the other room and I think to myself, "I wonder if he'd get pissed if I started vacuuming?"

Anyways.

Like any 2 people in a romantical, co-habbing relationship, for the sake of our respective sanities and by proxy, the relationship itself, Mike and I have had to make certain compromises or allowances with/for each other. From the mundane "were you GOING to replace the toilet paper roll sometime this year or WERE YOU JUST WAITING FOR AN ENGRAVED INVITATION?" to the bigger ticket items like, "We're trying to save money.....right, Jen?" - and I think we navigate through the issues pretty well.

But sometimes, money talks, and "compromise"  looks a little more like "negotiations".

What I should have really called this was, "What a guy will do to watch the games with guaranteed un-interruption."

First, I would like to say Mike loves sports, loves watching them but it's not ESPN 24/7 around here.  Not only would I lose my mind, but I think he would too.  So when he wants to see something, really see something, I guess you could say there's usually some kind of "sports significance".

Over the past few years, I have learned that it is important to him not to "bug him" when he is watching these really big deal events (i.e The Masters, which c'mon, hours and hours of golf? yawn.)  I figured out that he really didn't want someone buggin him when he offered me money to scram.

Money? MONEY, you say?

Yeah, it's all about the Benjamins over here.

"How much is it gonna cost me if you promise to leave me alone so I can watch this in peace and quiet? If I give you twenty bucks, will that work? You can go to Target."

Mind you, for me that wouldn't even make a DENT at Target, but I appreciated the sentiment on this particular rainy Sunday all the same.

So I did what I thought was right. I took the dough.

I mean, "technically" I do have my own money and I "suppose" I could find some other way of amusing myself and furthermore, I could (and do) respect the fact that he's entitled to watch "his shows" just as much as I am.  Sure.  And not to give you the impression that it's one big shakedown over here every time the man wants to watch something I don't. This has happened exactly all of twice since we've been together.  And the last time  I was "paid off", I was given $40 but instructed I had to pick up the Lost in Translation DVD so as I told him, "all I really netted  was twenty."

Thursday night we went out to dinner at our favorite, PF Changs.  Over drinks Mike had asked me if I thought we had anything going on this weekend. I said I didn't think so and he suggested that if that held true, maybe we could do something fun like go to Newburyport (MA) for the day. When you're a pair of "DINKs" (Double Income, No Kids) this is the stuff you do at the drop of a hat.  Anyway, not only was I feeling good about the idea itself, but also was impressed that he had thought to think of something for just the 2 of us to do.  I was, you could say, touched.

However, not a minute later I heard, "oooooooh," with an expression that read, "uh oh, I just fucked up."

Of course, this begged the question, "...What?"

"All the championship (college football) games are on Saturday."

"Uh. Huh."

"Yeah, all day starting at 3:00 til 10:00."

Me, sensing an opportunity, "Well, how much is it worth to ya?"

"Fifty bucks?"

"Fifty? How about seventy-five?"

"How about fifty."

"How about seventy-five?"

"Fifty."

[later, after dinner]

"C'mon, a full day in Newburyport? Dinner? You're getting a discount here."

"Or....fifty."

"Sixty-five plus travel expenses. I think my car is on "E". You're talking prime time here. And  7 hours."

"Or fifty plus what I paid in for dinner and the cab tonight."

"Oh. right....    Uh, sixty?"

"Uh, no."

[the next night]

My voice starting to take on a maddening pitch, "How about a hundred and I can make myself gone for 48 hours? Or, or, one-fifty and you just bought yourself a 3-day weekend!"

Later I sang to him "If I Had a Million Dollars" but using my own lyrics and replacing "million dollars" with "fifty bucks". Wish I could remember all of what I sang - I was on a pretty good tear. Where's a tape recorder when you need one, huh?

Anyway, I'm fifty bucks richer and don't tell Mike... but I would have taken forty.