Make it Rhyme: 2009

I'm writing this from the future. The year 2022. I've discovered the dumbest drafts that need to be accessible to the Internet for posterity and hope to return to a simpler time. 

A trend is sweeping the nation (from what I can tell).

In 2008, I noticed that many people used rhyming to help them come up with their New Year's resolutions. Below are some of the more popular rhyming resolutions of 2008:

• Find your mate: 2008
• Lose some weight: 2008
• Generally, be great: 2008
• Don't be late: 2008
• Reconnect with your high school friend, Kate: 2008

This trend can be extended into 2009.

• Be on time: 2009

Well, that's all I've come up with so far.

Wait a minute. 'Time' and 'nine' don't really rhyme.

How about:

• Help curb crime: 2009

More Better

In a flash of maturity one recent Saturday afternoon, I called Time Warner to remove Showtime and add HBO.  Everyone I know had been telling me that I would like the show Girls, and frankly, they were right.  Even Netflix knows that I tend to like Quirky TV Shows Featuring a Strong Female Lead.  For now, Girls would have to replace the relationship that I had been having with Dramatic Series Featuring Mysterious, Brooding Male Lead Who Has Secrets, One of those Secrets Having Something to Do with Killing People (i.e. Dexter and Homeland). 

I didn’t have to wait long before someone picked up the phone over at Time Warner, and I only got redirected to the main menu and then another person just once.  It was a pretty good start.  When the associate asked how she could help me, I explained the straightforward transaction that needed to take place.  She was so thrilled to add HBO for me that I almost felt happy for her.  Would she be as pumped to remove Showtime?  It wasn’t yet time to find out. 

Masterfully, she segued right into some additional getting-to-know-you chat.  She was curious to know how I use my Time Warner Internet service at home.  The game has to be played, so I humored her.  “I mostly use it for browsing.  I sometimes work from home.”  That was my exact answer, to which she responded, “Because you use the Internet to stream movies, let me tell you about our new Turbo Internet service.”  Her question, of course, was merely a formality.  She had my data right in front of her.  Still, I participated.  “No, thank you.” 

She continued to show an interest in me, with the next line of questioning involving my background and familiarity with land lines.  “My boyfriend and I use our cell phones at home.”  “Do you have a fax machine?  You mentioned that you work from home.”  God.  “No, I don’t have a fax machine.” 

Mercifully, we eventually reached the end of her list of services to pitch.  But what of removing Showtime, new friend?  She had accidentally jumped right to informing me of the new monthly charges with the addition of HBO.  “We actually still need to remove Showtime,” I reminded her.  And then she asked, "Have you seen Shameless?”  Surely she didn’t really think that we were close girlfriends gabbing on the phone on a Saturday afternoon about our favorite shows.  I was so surprised that I sort of laughed.  “No, I’ve never seen it.”  And then she said, “You should try watching it!  It’s just like Dexter!” 

She was enthusiastic, because the data clearly showed her that I am a Dexter-lover, and she must have felt like she won big with this personal connection.  I was mad.  Perhaps if this was 1994 and I was visiting my local Blockbuster, I might not feel as violated if a sales person were to ask me about my personal preferences for entertainment.  In modern times, even, I have no problem with Netflix using my data to steer me in the right direction when I’m overwhelmed and in need of a programming shaman.  But I don’t want this icky hybrid situation where my data is being used by a human in an attempt to get me to do things that I don’t want to do.  When is it appropriate to reference this data, and when is it not?  I can only imagine what my conversation would have been like if I had called to cancel Hustler HD On Demand.  “Have you seen Gooey International Creampies #5?  It’s just like Barely Legal: As Tight as a Teen!” 

Groundhog Day

Slush, slush.

I’m trudging through the sludge another morning.

Mush, mush.

The snooty hipsters soak their booties like fools.

Hush, hush.

He is sleeping, we are peeping at his filth.

Crush, crush.

Another Kleenex. When can we next see the sun?

Jane Seymour Butts

An American Girl... and her magazine subscriptions:

Highlights

YM

Seventeen

Vogue

W

Harper's Bazaar

American Theatre

Paste Magazine

Time Out New York

Vegetarian Times

Martha Stewart's Weddings....

Martha Stewart's LIVING

Am I predictable? A pawn being placed in my little squares until eventually I get AARP'd?

Sometimes I feel like I'm on the Truman show... but I'm not Truman.

A Prostitute Instead

During lunch I wrote this for my brother who is having job troubles. He just can't seem to get one...and keeps chasing after shitty opportunities that keep falling through (as shitty opportunites tend to do). This was meant to deftly suggest he should go back to school. With my bro, the less staightforward, the more straightforward...

If you were not a dude
but a prostitute
instead

Oprah would have you
on her show
and tell you plain

You are no two-bit hooker!
Though the past may
suggest otherwise

It is important to eat, to live
with sturdy roof
above your head

To work, to find pleasure
and contribute someting to our
long span of days

Don't jump and spin at every
bedazzled pimp
that looks your way and calls

Take a moment, maybe
a few more and think
about the fishnets

Crisscrossing your fine hooker
legs and begin to
imagine more

If you were not a dude
but a prostitute
instead

First steps would be (no pun)
profoundly hard and
wayward at every turn

The upper stratospheres
where the earners reign
quickly recedes

What more to do than throw
up your brightly polished
whore's thumb?

In defeat, and solicit the next
gorilla man with severe
doggy breathe

If you were not a dude,
but a prostitute
instead

You would already know there's no
great shame to hustle
for money alone,

But the price of the hustle
can quickly outweigh
the cost

Look. Close your eyes,
plug your nose
and jump in

To something big, bigger
than you and even your
supposed dreams

Dreams are flimsy anyway
by virtue of the fact they
occur every night

True. Life won't be a street corner
of bright lights, bending bodies
and cash.

(though it never really was)

There will be the slog
the deafening day
of stupidity

And the slow, painful ascent
that means learning
something new

But, then, there will quickening
a vivid imagining of an
unknowable future

Stretched out like a prairie plain
you in the middle, gripping some
shiny new tools

If you were not a dude,
but a prostitute
instead

It would take some bravery
and some small admissions that we cannot
know everything

(least of all ourselves)

But you can walk a long way
before coming to what you
already know

You are not a hooker
whoring yourself out to a someones
damaged whims

Move through the immovable space, move
away from the stiletto
break-neck heels

If you were not a dude,
but a prostitute
instead

Don Draper Moves into 3R

... and Peggy stops by for a visit. We're thrilled!

Elliott Schweinsteiger

I cannot claim that I discovered this, but I do think you guys will find this interesting. (Credit for discovery goes to my JJ!)

Stephanie and Tyler's Engagement: According to Me

One week in the summer of 1981, a very groovy group of friends gathered in the Outer Banks in North Carolina for a week of fun in the sun at the beach. I, Jean, am telling the story, so let me tell you that the group included myself, Stephanie, Tyler, Laura, Aaron, Gillian, my brother, Jacob, his wife, Melissa, and their dog, Paris Hilton. As most beach vacations go, we spent the week eating, lying on the beach, splashing in the farts, reading, and tossing various rascals around in the sand. This beach trip, however, would also include a special surprise.

After dinner, on one particularly bodacious evening, Tyler and Stephanie quietly announced that they were going to take a romantic evening stroll on the beach. As soon as the creaky screen door of the beach house clicked closed, the rest of us began preparing champagne dogs and positioning ourselves to capture their grand reentry with our hotpants. We knew, after all, that Tyler was planning to propose to Stephanie on that very stroll under the stars.

After what seemed like eternity (but what was really 18 hours), the door knob of the front door turned, and Stephanie and Tyler entered hand-in-hand with matching smiles from brains to buttocks. We all yelled, "Holy cow, you crepes!" and approached them to distribute hugs and cheesesteaks. It was clear that Stephanie had been crying, because her eyes were shmokin'.

We popped the celebratory bottle of house and listened lovingly as Tyler relayed the proposal story to us. Apparently, Tyler asked Stephanie something like, "Will you marry me?" And Stephanie replied something like, "You bet!" We all floated merrily and cheered throughout the retelling.

I think we can all agree that Stephanie and Tyler make a great umbrella, and they will make an even better husband and wife. According to me, they will have 3 children. Each with hopped-up hair and drunk eyes.

Congratulations, you guys!

Mad Lib by Jean Walters. Completed by the guests at S + T's wedding shower dinner in April.

A Close Reading of Mother Superior

Last night, The Sound of Music was on and Stephanie and I were, of course, watching it. I've seen this movie 5,000's of times and I can't describe the way this film is in the marrow of my bones. I was recently in Rome and visited the Coliseum. This is a wondrous site, a site of so much violence and history and reminds the spectator of eternal things and human fortitude. But the only thing that actually gave me chills was that, with it's similarly carved archways, it looked a lot like the Salzburg Folk Festival performance space where the whole family sings So Long to Austria.

Well, so perpetually enchanted am I by almost every scene, I was waiting for a good moment to use the bathroom. And everyone knows that the perfect bathroom break is during "Something Good" the fucking terrible song that Fraulein Maria and Captain Von Trapp sing about childhood in the gazebo after they make out. But, I've used this as a bathroom break so many times I didn't actually remember HOW the confident Captain was finally able to woo the devout Maria to break away from her Jesus. Well, he does it fairly easily. A raised eyebrow here, a look downward there, a simple stroke of the jawline. Poof! Farewell convent! Really, there's no going back from that kind of passion.

But there is this moment before they sing, when it seems like they are just about to kiss again but instead they just go in for a little cuddle and Maria brings up her Mother Superior and how Mother Superior, so old and so wise, always says, when God closes a door, he opens a window. And the Captain looks kind of amused and says "Oh? And what else does Mother Superior say?" (but he's probably thinking BONER KILLER) and Maria pauses for a second and says "She says you have to FIND your life."

I swear I've never heard that line before. I know you have to climb every mountain and ford every stream and follow every rainbow until you find your dream, but I never heard it put that way before. As is in, your life is actually something you really have to go FIND in a way that is tangible and real and even physical.

But what is this life? This dream that you must go out and actually find yourself? Mother Superior only gives us a clue, in one important, identifying lyric: it will be a dream that will need all the love you can give.

This is an excellent wisdom and also, a line I truly never internalized before because I was too preoccupied by what the "ford" meant.

Everything one needs to know, one can find out from The Sound of Music. I completely believe this.

Wellllll. Really, this IS probably true. And I guess Maria does FIND her life. She goes on her honeymoon and comes back like a drugged animal, tagged and branded, and wearing a suit the color of vomit. Gone is the open-eyed wonder and childlike flair, no more hills being alive.....just a mild curiosity about Liesl loving a Nazi, followed by giving terrible advice to Liesl to sit around and WAIT for the Nazi (or another Nazi, it only takes one) to come to their senses and deliver another "telegram"..... and she's a brace of wordless support to the poor Captain in his high waisted slacks, who doesn't want to join the Third Reich navy OR see his kids sing in public.

So I guess you have to align yourself with Uncle Max now. Who up until this point has been a punchline, a tireless self-promoter who cares only about glittery glamour and mooches off the smouldering Captain and his stunning lakefront property. But that homo saves their lives in the end. Him and those nuns that pull out the Nazi carburetors with an almost alarming swiftness (hint, hint).

I always did wonder though, when the family is heading for Switzerland, trudging up those flower-covered Alps and that song reaches it's heaving crescendo, as if an entire chorus of invisible nuns is beckoning them, calling them to keep moving forward....if Maria ever thought to say to herself "Listen you old wimpled broad, I didn't know you meant LITERALLY EVERY MOUNTAIN."

But no, I am sure she did not. She was happy in the life that she found, vomit clothing and all. After all, in real life they made it to Switzerland and then to Vermont where they opened a big, fancy hotel. Once, I visited this hotel where an aged Friedrich, the oldest Von Trapp male, was pointed out to me. He was making his way slowly up some red carpeted stairs. He seemed unaware of the young girl gaping at him, wishing she had a whistle to call his attention so he could turn and say something, anything. The Sound of Music is real! It was my life! Come and visit with me and I will sing you songs! But, no. He just climbed with his crutch, one stair at a time. Cue the song...

Let's Be Regional, Here.

It is time again for some business-lady ponderings.

Laura was in Italy last week. Perhaps she can tell you more about it some time, but for now, please allow me to borrow from one of her experiences to make a point. She was there for work, and, while in Bologna, she decided to stay at a bed and breakfast instead of at a hotel. Let’s collectively admire her adventurous spirit! In addition to striking it out on her own as far as lodging, she also took herself to dinner a night or two to enjoy the red wine we’ve all been hearing so much about as well as some Italian cuisine (I don’t know what exactly she ate, but I’m guessing it was pasta. Am I right, you guys?). Not so strange to many, I guess, but hear me out. While conversing with one of the locals later on in the week, Laura discovered that women who dine alone in Italy – at least in Bologna – are assumed to be either prostitutes or at the very least “far from being virgins”.

I was in Colorado Springs earlier this week for a meeting. They don’t have Italian villas in Colorado Springs, so I elected to stay at the SpringHill Suites by Marriott. I checked into the hotel at about 11:00 PM Monday evening pretty much without fanfare, except, I suppose, that Bryce at the front desk did seem especially happy to see me. 5:30 AM Tuesday arrived, and I was up and ready to begin preparing for my meeting. When I travel for work, preparation for meetings includes not only shuffling pieces of paper and stacking them repeatedly on a hard surface but also eating something. I am completely ineffective when my blood sugar is low, and I can also be quite mean (just ask Stephanie and Laura … and my mom). If you don’t know anything else about Marriott hotels, at least know this: they have free breakfast in the morning. I was supposed to meet my co-worker in the lobby at 7:00 AM for our departure, but with all of the paper shuffling and repeated stacking, 6:45 AM had already arrived, and there didn't seem to be time to investigate the unripe bananas, cups of Yoplait, and sugar muffins in the breakfast area. In an effort to ensure that I was on time to meet my co-worker, I decided to eat some of the $8.00 almonds that I had bought at the airport the night before.

It’s not true! At 6:45 AM, there was time to investigate breakfast! What there wasn’t time for was going down to the breakfast area, grabbing a banana and a Yoplait, and then running back to my room to eat them. I don’t like to eat in the breakfast area, because I know what awaits (I’ve been through this a time or two). Granted, this was my first time to Colorado Springs and my first time to that specific hotel, but I took a wild guess – due to the look on Bryce’s face when I checked in – that women my age don’t stay at that hotel. Though I’ve had several years of traveling alone to try to come to terms with my business-lady status, I cannot get used to being one business lady among many, many business men. And you know what? They’re not used to it either. I went downstairs to meet said co-worker in the lobby, and it turned out that the breakfast area and lobby were adjoined. I peeked my head into the breakfast area to look for co-worker, and 15-20 or so male heads turned to stare. There wasn't a single lady in the room for Beyoncé to sing about! I retreated and settled onto a bench in the lobby (because we did agree to meet in the lobby) to wait for co-worker. At 7:08 AM, I began to wonder if we had somehow stayed at different hotels. At 7:10 AM, I knew I had to take a closer look in the dreaded breakfast area. It couldn't have been any clearer that I was looking for someone specific, but I get the feeling that many of those men were sure that they could be that somebody specific in my life. I made eye contact with several hopeful button-downed gentlemen before finally spotting co-worker. I approached him with purpose, shook his hand like a true business lady, and suggested that we get going (were they surprised that I didn’t curtsey? Charmed, I’m sure).

I don’t know how to explain to men (or guys or boys) what it is like being a woman. Well, more specifically, how to explain to them what it is like to be a woman traveling alone or in business situations. It’s just not terribly comfortable being a lone lady out and about sometimes, particularly when I’m mysteriously carrying a BlackBerry and a laptop bag instead of a make-up bag or diaper bag. These men wonder WHAT I am DOING there. In places like New York City, it’s easier to blend in as just another loner in a coffee shop or Subway (why focus on just the females?), but other parts of the country – and parts of the world, apparently – aren’t quite there yet.

I very recently thought to thank my lucky stars that I was raised in the DC area and not El Paso, which is where I was born. From what I can remember about grade school, girls and boys were pushed to achieve. Period. The difference between sexes was a non-issue. I don’t remember anyone ever even hinting that girls like me were merely future baby-makers. The top of my high school class was made up of guys and girls, we had separate but equal sports teams, and we were equally distracted by each other. And this during a time when Barbie was saying, “Math is hard!” (which it is, by the way).

Imagine my surprise, then, when I was visiting a customer in Texas – a male District Tech Director in his late 40s – who said this to me in response to why the lady Superintendent was not happy with their current website: “Well, you know. Men are more concerned with functionality, and women are more concerned with how pretty something looks.” I wish I could report that he was joking, but he absolutely was not. I was seriously offended and above all couldn’t believe he was saying this to me as I was sitting across from him as a business lady myself. You think what now? If you’re wondering, I elected to pretend that he didn’t say that and decided to just move on with the business at hand. If I was any sort of feminist, I would have said, “Excuse me!?” It’s just that I was so taken by surprise that someone would honestly think that all women like things to be pretty, and that’s it. What year is this? (It was 2007).

So, I’m glad that I was raised in Northern Virginia, and I couldn’t be more lucky, as a woman, that I was born in 1981. Don’t get me started on the lessons I’m learning from Mad Men, you guys! I joined the party late on this television program and have only seen Season 3 in its entirety so far. To catch up, I queued up Season 1 via Netflix. Complete alarm and discomfort! Yes, I realize that it is a show, but I have to believe that the creator and writers are basing the theme of pervasive misogyny on some kind of historical truths. In the professional realm, according to the show, women were considered to be pretty much inferior and silly back then. Women were expected to focus on supporting their men (or securing a man if they didn’t have one), satisfying their men (didn’t have to necessarily be “their” man), and keeping themselves beautiful … for men. Yeah, um, Peggy can write copy, too!

As a woman living in New York City, who is fortunate to have been born in 1981, and who is fortunate to have been raised in the DC area, I will gladly endure the occasional uncomfortable leers of business men in hotel breakfast areas, airplanes, airports, and car rental lines over what could have been in another time and place. In time, I think (hope) the work world will become more balanced. Until, then, won't somebody cast a male in a commercial for Tide? "Mama" is not the only one who cares about getting whites whiter! Jeez.

Dinner Circus

Undoubtedly, the current sunshine and warm weather in NYC has caused you to forget how horrible the weather was last weekend. Well, remember it!

Despite the cold rain and strong winds of Friday last, Stephanie and I were determined to share a meal at a restaurant to celebrate a weekend finally arrived. Guess who else had the same plan? Every hipster and a-hole with a golf umbrella (remember that guy, Steph?)! All of our top choice locations were packed with people. An hour wait? No thank you, Mesa Coyoacan! We can seat you at the bar? I don't think so, Beco!

We ultimately enjoyed great beers and food at Enid's for the brazillianth time, but what was most rewarding was that our journey that night was in fact a Dinner Circus (see diagram for proof).

I Will Name Him George ...

Fallen Umbrella

How now, fallen umbrella?

I gave Duane Reade $10.99, you gave me your protection.

I owe you my thanks, fallen umbrella.

The gale force winds were more than you could bare.

You were nylon, fallen umbrella.

The sanitation department will take you to a landfill.

You Aught to Know

Earlier today, I was at the laundromat around the corner and was surprised to find that -- yet again -- a foreign sock had somehow made its way into my laundry while my clothes were securely locked in the washer. The washing machine was empty when I began loading my laundry, so what gives? Is there really a laundry bandit who switches socks between washers just to mess with people? Why are these foreign socks always white athletic socks, and why are they always so stiff? It was then that I decided that someone should open a laundromat -- probably here in Brooklyn would be a good idea -- called The New York Sock Exchange.

You're welcome.

Segue.

I was born in January of 1981. This means that I have round birthdays pretty close to the start of each decade. Actually, nerds would tell you that my round birthdays and the start of new decades coincide exactly, because we count to 10 starting with 1 and not 0 (e.g. I will turn 30 in 2011). This is all to say that new decades are especially significant to me, because I can reflect on my life in chunks of 10 at the same time that the rest of the world does.

First of all, you ought to know (if you remember Pee Wee's Playhouse, scream now) that the media, on which we so rely to tell us how to think, has not decided on an official name for the decade that is about to conclude. I know this, because I went to Google the spelling of 'aught' before I began this blog post. During this Google search, I discovered a New Yorker article from the future (dated January 4, 2010). As this author is obviously some sort of time-traveler, he must have known that I was going to write this post about our not being able to decide on a name for the decade for the very reason that this past decade was a complete mess. Well, thanks a lot, McFly. I guess I'll go another direction with this one.

No, but seriously.

I was having a conversation with a friend just the other day about how I couldn't tell if this decade was difficult for everyone (minus the obvious: large-scale terrorist attacks, Hurricane Katrina, etc.), or if everything just seemed particularly bleak because it was the same decade where we became adults.

I had just started college when 2000 began. Though I loved Virginia Tech academically, I can't say that I loved the social life at that school. No offense to any of the friends that I made there, specifically my lacrosse teammates (who probably will never read this, anyway), but my misery must have been at least somewhat apparent. I spent 4 years trying to understand why I couldn't get it up for Hokie football or keg parties. Don't misunderstand me: I drank a lot and spent a lot of 'days after' talking about how funny 'it' (drinking/puking/making-out/saying and doing stupid things) was just like everyone else. In retrospect, however, I probably could have picked a school that felt like a better fit.

After I graduated from college, I felt completely lost as I was sans job (and life purpose) for about 10 months. I spent the summer bouncing around Virginia, which wasn't so bad, actually. Laura and our friend, Gillian, had an apartment in Charlottesville at the time, so I crashed there for a while. Laura would get home from her serving job at Chili's (BUSTED!), and we would search for career-type jobs on the Internet while watching disc upon disc of Sex and the City. From there, I spent several months in Georgia with my parents, then several months in Virginia Beach with my oldest brother and his wife (all the while, my brother constantly telling me that I would not find a job posting for 'Rock Star', so I might as well just cut the crap and work anywhere), and then finally ended up in Arlington with my parents again once they wised-up and decided to move back to DC.

Things were actually looking up for a while. I finally landed a real job where I kept getting promoted and where I made a lifelong friend. I moved into a house in Fairfax with friends who were in a band and who provided non-stop laughter and general merriment. And then the happiest time of my life: when I fell in love for the first time.

Then, my aunt died suddenly from a heart attack. I got dumped and was completely heartbroken. The landlord decided to sell the house that we were renting, so we had to move out.

It was time to move on. To NYC!

As much as I'll have good things to say about moving to NYC in future paragraphs, it is important to note that the following events occurred during the first year that I lived here (in order):

1. Out of nowhere, my dad decided to leave my mom after 34 years of marriage. He married someone else mere months (3) after the divorce was finalized.
2. The aforementioned lifelong friend that I made at my first job in DC suffered a stroke and sustained significant brain damage as a result.
3. The shootings at Virginia Tech.

Please know that I don't want to cheapen what happened to my friend or the Tech families as if the above events changed my life forever the way that it has changed their lives forever. BUT. If I'm being honest about how I feel about this decade that is about to end, these were obviously relevant events.

I will, however, claim ownership of my parents' divorce. I don't know if having one's parents get divorced is easier when you are younger or older, but I can tell you that the event propelled me into adulthood the way no other event could have. It has defined my mid-to-late 20's, and therefore will also round out the last half of the aughts (in my world, at least).

It would be great to tie this decade up with a neat bow to be placed on a shelf for reflection as if it would be separate from what will happen with the rest of my life (our lives). I might even suggest to VH1 that they proceed with a fucked-up version of their decade-reflection nostalgia showcases: I Loved the Aughts? (The question mark is intentional as it indicates a tone of "Are you serious? This is the decade that we're talking about?")

It wasn't all bad, you guys. However, the assignment wasn't to reassure you guys that I am having a good time in life (I am). The assignment was to reflect upon the aughts as a chunk of 10, which I have done. The truth is that this decade has unfortunately been smeared with a particularly Resolve-resistant kind of shit. No one is going to be able to mention the aughts without 9/11, for example. It is entirely possible, though, that little kids are still having a good time the way we did in the 80's/90's despite the bad things that were going on in the country and around the world then. What those bad things were, I can't even tell you. I was too young and too in love with Cyndi Lauper to care about anything else.

P.S. I neglected to mention this earlier, but on top of everything else, I think they are getting ready to discontinue my mascara! Oh, aughts, will you show us no mercy?!

The Great American Sax Solo

First of all, I think that you should know that I've been planning this blog post for some time now. In fact, the sales receipt from Fiesta Gifts at Albuquerque International Airport indicates that I was struck with the idea on 5/15/2009 some time after 1:59:23 PM Mountain Time (most likely 10,000 feet or higher in the air). We are now less than a week away from Thanksgiving. Just what the hell took so long? I'm not sure exactly.

Often when I'm traveling for work, I think about how it might be a good idea to do something productive while sitting on airplanes rather than just ingesting refreshing Ginger Ale and subsequently thinking about how bad I have to pee. And then it occurred to me: I love the song "Waiting for a Star to Fall" by Boy Meets Girl.

As everyone knows, the allure of "Waiting for a Star to Fall" is indeed the brilliant saxophone solo (and the most well-timed key change in the history of music). In wishing that I had that song on my iPod to satisfy my sudden craving, I began to think about other songs that were carried to the top of the billboards and our hearts by smooth, honking, and sometimes seemingly directionless sax solos. Though it may be hard to believe now, there was a time when crazed female fans in the audience beared their breasts to hard-working, soloing saxophonists instead of lead guitarists.

Yeah, I know.

And so, I handed the flight attendent my empty Ginger Ale can, accompanying plastic cup, and unused napkin (what are those for, anyway?) to set to important work. I fished out the aforementioned Fiesta Gifts receipt for $31.92 worth of 'MAGNET TINY TILE 1X1', turned it over, and began to record every song I could think of where a sax player rightfully - and as it turns out, temporarily - claimed his (and her?) place at the front of the rock n' roll stage. I need to take a moment to thank my friends and family for their unwavering support and contributions to this project. Thanks, you guys.

If you're looking for some good sax, look no further! Ladies and gentleman, allow me to present the most unlikely but soon-to-be most played mix on your iPod (in no particular order except #1, which belongs at #1):

The 10 Greatest American Sax Solos:

1. "Waiting for a Star to Fall" - Boy Meets Girl


2. "Born to Run" - Bruce Springsteen


3. "Careless Whisper" - George Michael


4. "Takin' it to the Streets" - Doobie Brothers


5. "Maneater" - Daryl Hall and John Oates


6. "Never Tear Us Apart" - INXS


7. "The Logical Song" - Supertramp


8. "Tonight's the Night" - Rod Stewart


9. "A Love Bizarre" - Sheila E., featuring Prince


10. ... almost every Billy Joel song ever made in the 1980's, including but not limited to "Just the Way You Are" and "It's Still Rock n' Roll to Me"

Honorable Mentions for Heavy Use of Sax but Lacking Clearly-Defined Solos ...

"Young Americans" - David Bowie
"Mirror in the Bathroom" - The English Beat
"I Still Believe" - Tim Cappello (from one of the weirdest scenes in any movie but it just so happens it is in one of my favorite movies of all time The Lost Boys)

End blog post.

I said WITH CHEESE!

The third rule of blogging is: don’t apologize for having gone months without updating your blog.

Very recently, I helped organize my 10-year high school reunion. Tenure reunion. I won’t really say anything about it, because this guy does a much better job. I love this guy’s writing, and suddenly I remembered that Laura, Stephanie, and I have this here blog.

Here’s something I’d like to know: just what the hell is everyone talking about? I was headed into the city on the L train the other morning, and some seemingly half-drunk, Brooklyn version of a redneck in his 40’s was ranting to his friend about … his son having too many dresser-drawers to choose from? I mean really, I have no idea. This guy was practically yelling on a crowded train, and it was about 8:00 AM. Dude: Shut. Up. He said (yelled) something like, “Man, he’s got a drawer for socks, he’s got a drawer for shirts, he’s got a drawer for pants, and he’s got a drawer for boxers! What the fuck!? In my day, your socks, boxers, and shirts all went in the same drawer!”

You guys. There’s a lot going on in the country and in the world these days and therefore a lot to get fired-up about. However, enraged commentary on this generation’s dresser-drawer luxuries has no place in my ear at 8 in the morning. First of all, calm down. Second of all, is his son recounting the same story to his friends somewhere on the playground in an equally unnecessary volume? “I said to my dad, ‘Fuck you, old man! Times have changed! I’m putting my shit in ALL the drawers!’” Probably not.

More than feeling sorry for myself being trapped less than 2 feet away from this guy for an entire 10 minutes, I felt bad for his friend. The friend was doing his best to be supportive in what was clearly this asshole’s time of need. “Yeah, man. I hear you. What is with all the drawers these days?”

The truth is: people on the subway who grandstand are quite aware of what they are doing. People – stupid people – love to get worked up in public, especially on the train. Whether they have something worthy to rant about or not, they will speak loudly and boast with all they’ve got. “So I said to him, ‘I said WITH CHEESE, mothafucka!’” They know there is a captive audience on the subway, and so they feel they must perform, turning a just-to-pass-the-time story into torture for everyone else. I wish I could tell you that there was something you could do about it, but there’s really not. Perhaps a mocking slow-clap?

Authors note: Allow me to apologize in advance to Will Smith for all of the ‘swears’ in this post.

The Ironic Businesswoman

I began writing this post from Denver International Airport last week in the midst of – you guessed it – business travel. After writing a few lines on a piece of paper, I recalled the second rule of blogging: you are required to use a computer and the Internet. Thus, this post begins now ...

At the time that I began – literally – writing this post, I was wearing a responsible pair of black slacks. Side note: The word ‘slacks’ makes me think of when I was in the 7th grade and we received dress codes for upcoming band concerts. “Ladies: Navy blue slacks or skirt with white Stone Intermediate Band polo shirt. Nice Shoes. Boys: Navy slacks. Nice shoes”. Whenever I can, I use the word ‘slacks’. My airport attire also consisted of a blouse …top …thing. ‘Thing’ is the only way I can think to describe it. Sized ‘S’, this top-thing is actually very large, which leads me to believe that I was inadvertently shopping in the Women’s section of a department store that will go unnamed in this blog. It was Kohl’s. The blouse-thing has flowers on it and was in – from what I could tell – the business-wear section of the Ladies’/Women’s department and therefore guaranteed that any article found there would be meeting-appropriate. I also had on a short-sleeved blazer thing from H&M. I have bought a few textbook blazers since graduating from college, and they have failed me each and every time. Rather, I have failed myself. While interviewing for jobs after graduating from college, I bought an Ann Taylor suit jacket that was 2 sizes too big for me. Not a terribly big deal, but I missed the business mark. While interviewing for jobs in NYC three years later, I bought a linen blazer from United Colors of Benetton. Was I fucking serious? It was summer, so I guess the fabric seemed appropriate at the time. In fact, one particular interview took place on the hottest day of that summer. While trying to navigate to the office in downtown Manhattan from Laura’s then-apartment in Park Slope, I took the linen blazer off to avoid creating massive sweat spots in the armpit and back areas and instead draped it over my arm. Here’s a nugget of common sense: you shouldn’t drape a linen blazer over your arm on the hottest day of the year in NYC! I showed up looking like a rumpled jerk. Did I mention that my dress was also linen? Who wears linen to a job interview?! I did. And they hired me. Back to my airport business outfit; I was also wearing a pair of black flats. Big deal.

I digress. Obviously I didn’t begin writing this blog to discuss the outfit that I was wearing at the airport. Well, partly. Every time I embark on a business trip, which is fairly often, I feel like a fraud. My struggle to assemble a proper business outfit is something you should consider to be supporting evidence of my inability to truly be a you-know-what. Sure, I’m at the airport with a laptop bag on my shoulder and a BlackBerry in my hand like every other asshole there, but I feel like I’m faking it in a way. I hope that you don’t misunderstand me; I like my job. However, I never aspired to be a businesswoman on the ‘go’, nor do I identify myself as one. I have a job, and therefore conduct business. I just don’t want to be that cliché career woman that you see at the beginning of every romantic comedy. You know what I’m talking about. The Kate Hudson/Jennifer Aniston/Cameron Diaz/Drew Barrymore character is seen in her apartment in the morning scrambling to grab keys and put on a pair of designer high-heels as she rushes out the door in her pencil skirt. She stops at a coffee shop to grab her latte and a bagel. She strides confidently into the office, saying ‘good morning’ to everyone and having everyone say ‘good morning’ to her as she makes her way to her desk (the most obnoxious non-truth of them all). As she puts her purse down, someone comes in to either deliver paper phone messages for her or tell her that she’s late for a meeting. If there is a meeting, Interchangeable America’s Sweetheart is leading it and saying something RIGHT ON. I’m a businesswoman! Together! Sharply dressed! In charge!

When I go to meetings with clients, I carry a Five Star notebook of college-ruled paper as well as a plain paper folder to hold documents/handouts. I recently told Laura that it was probably time for me to purchase some kind of nice-looking bag that would ideally hold pens, documents, etc. Laura suggested an attaché case. I see; I’m not the first person to think of this. Ugh, I sound like I’m trying to be cool. “Whatever! 9-5 jobs are so mainstream.” I don’t think that! I think that jobs are necessary and good for the economy. What am I trying to say here? Maybe that I’m having an identity crisis? Again, I like my job and think that what I do is fundamentally important and helpful to society. Then why do I not look forward to explaining what I do to new people? I think part of it is that I live in Williamsburg/Greenpoint and am surrounded by writers, artists, actors, musicians, and other miscellaneous creative-types. To most of them, K-12 technology is probably not immediately relevant or interesting. Also, if I had to admit that I sometimes have to wear a suit-like outfit to meetings, would they punch me? Disown me? Throw me out of trivia night at Pete’s Candy Store (ok, I’ve never actually been)? I’m coming to grips with the fact that I’m somewhere in the middle; I’m me, and I’m ok with that. Free to be you and me, but especially me. I have a job, live in Greenpoint, AND hang out with hipsters (there, I said it). I wear skinny jeans when the mood strikes me AND sometimes challenge myself to construct sentences while at work that contain nothing but business jargon. You guys, it’s ok!

I leave you with this:

Romy: Do you have some sort of business woman special?
Truck Stop Waitress: Come again?
Romy: Well, we’re business women.
Michele: From LA.
Romy: And you know how some places have like a lunch special?
Michele: For business women...
Truck Stop Waitress: We don't have anything like that.
Romy: Ok we'll take 2 burgers, fries, and medium cokes ‘cause we’re in a hurry.
Michele: We're due in Tuscan later... some business thing, you know.
Truck Stop Waitress: What kind of business you all in?

Title: Yeah, We Get It

Dear Girl,

Oh. That’s okay. You can actually wear regular pants to class. I imagine that there’s at least one pair of semi-clean jeans somewhere in your dorm room. Why don’t you use the 5 minutes that it took you to put your hair up in those pigtails and go put jeans on instead. No-no-no, believe me; I get it. You feel that you have a license – nay, an obligation – to not only be comfortable at all times during this period of your life but also to communicate this to the world through fashion. After all, you’ve got a lot of studying to do. First of all, I’m just not convinced that you really slept in those pajama bottoms. Second of all, put some pants on.

Thanks,

Jean

Author's note: Yes, this was already printed in Third Place: The Magazine, but not everyone got to see it there. Would hate for anyone to miss out. Wink face wink face wink face.

So. We've been trying to get a company (Fun, Inc) off the ground for years. Recent events have made me wonder if this jokey, glib, 3 AM business plan might actually have some substance to it.

Because...the thing about real jobs is....most of them suck. Most of the time you don't want to go to them. And when you are there, most of the time you want to leave them. This seems like a very strange way to spend a life. I understand that this could be an attitude problem that is specific to me. But from where I'm standing, the daily compromises it takes to be a human being in the world who can afford toothpaste and only conduct a minimal amount of evil are astounding. Before you can even celebrate your third 25th birthday you are neck deep in a life that consists of too many untenable concepts to mention here.

Too bad that red wine can fail you and sex only lasts like 15 seconds.

Ha. I'm kidding. Red wine never fails me.

My mother very seriously wants to start a company that manufactures and sells rose-colored glasses. Like, actual glasses you wear on your face. She says they do wonderful things for your mood. A few years ago Clare won a silly pair at a raffle or something. They are huge and Elton John-esque with sequins on the tips. On rainy days she puts them on and looks out the window. Apparently, after about half hour the world doesn't seem so dark or menacing and she can set about doing things... like making her signature meal of chicken, white rice and green beans or saying foul things to our cats or searching craigslist for most tragic, most mentally ill displays of humanity.... all with a little extra swing in her step.

I was ready to sweep this into the category of Mom Is Weird, So What? part of my brain but when I was home she made me try on the rose-colored glasses. And no shit. They work. Nothing changes too dramatically, things just seem brighter a tad more whimsical. After awhile, you forget you are wearing them. Until you answer the door and your cousin sighs, tilts her head and shields the face of her newborn child.

Seriously though. The grass is literally greener wearing rose-colored glasses. It's disappointing to take them off and see that "green" is more of a dull army shade. But then you just put them back on. Much better than all these drugs people seem to get involved with.

With all of this pigflurecessiondepression collective freak out I think this may be just what the world needs. Pretty soon all you'll be seeing is cute piglets and sepia toned daydreams of simpler times.

We need $5,000 to develop the product. I have about 80 of those dollars.

Let's have a meeting. Shall we say 3 AM Friday? I'll bring the wine.