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.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Early Blogs
Enjoy these early blogs that I posted on MySpace back when people used MySpace:
Lean Cuisine Observation #1 (Originally posted: March 22, 2006)
I've eaten Lean Cuisine for lunch for the past 2 years. The last cooking direction is, "Let stand for 1-2 minutes. Enjoy!". Should they be so confident? It should be changed to "Let stand for 1-2 minutes, and then see how you feel about it."
I may not be cut out for hipsterville: Reason #1 (Originally posted: October 30, 2006)
A misunderstanding with a small dressing room mirror turned an innocent shopping trip for hipster skinny jeans into a misguided purchase of $70 mom jeans.
I may not be cut out for hipsterville: Reason #2 (Originally Posted: November 3, 2006)
A night out to my favorite neighborhood restaurant suddenly turned sour when my two friends and I attempted to split the bill with 3 credit cards. The previously amicable, army jacket wearing female server took one look at the cards before her and condescendingly spat, "I can't just split three credit cards. First of all, there is a $20 minimum required, AND THIS ISN'T APPLEBEE'S."
Be True to Your Crunch (Originally Posted: February 10, 2007)
Author's Note: Before blogs, there were emails between friends. The blog you are about to read is an exerpt from one such email to a friend dated February 2005
Upon finishing my Fritos Brand Flavor Twists (Cheddar Ranch flavor), I couldn't help but read the Nutrition Facts panel. There was nothing of interest there. My eyes naturally (instead of artificially) wandered over tothe description of the aforementioned snack chips, and I couldn't believe that they were described as the following:
"Fritos Brand Flavor Twists Corn Snacks give you the classic taste of cornwith an added twist - a special shape that means more hearty ALL-AMERICAN crunch ..."
Apparently no one is interested in an all-Japanese crunch or any other foreign crunch for that matter; it's just inferior to any kind of crunch that America has to offer. Basically, we like our crunch to be ALL American.
All I'm saying is, be on the lookout for other ridiculous American snackfood propaganda.
Don't kick a soccer ball (Originally Posted: June 12, 2007)
Don't kick a soccer ball.
If it's raining.
If you have nice flats on with a skirt.
If you're walking in the park.
If the Polish boy yells, "Hey miss! Hey Miss!"
If you do, the shoe will fly through the air with the ball, and everyone will laugh at you.
At least the Polish boy picked it up for me.
Lean Cuisine Observation #1 (Originally posted: March 22, 2006)
I've eaten Lean Cuisine for lunch for the past 2 years. The last cooking direction is, "Let stand for 1-2 minutes. Enjoy!". Should they be so confident? It should be changed to "Let stand for 1-2 minutes, and then see how you feel about it."
I may not be cut out for hipsterville: Reason #1 (Originally posted: October 30, 2006)
A misunderstanding with a small dressing room mirror turned an innocent shopping trip for hipster skinny jeans into a misguided purchase of $70 mom jeans.
I may not be cut out for hipsterville: Reason #2 (Originally Posted: November 3, 2006)
A night out to my favorite neighborhood restaurant suddenly turned sour when my two friends and I attempted to split the bill with 3 credit cards. The previously amicable, army jacket wearing female server took one look at the cards before her and condescendingly spat, "I can't just split three credit cards. First of all, there is a $20 minimum required, AND THIS ISN'T APPLEBEE'S."
Be True to Your Crunch (Originally Posted: February 10, 2007)
Author's Note: Before blogs, there were emails between friends. The blog you are about to read is an exerpt from one such email to a friend dated February 2005
Upon finishing my Fritos Brand Flavor Twists (Cheddar Ranch flavor), I couldn't help but read the Nutrition Facts panel. There was nothing of interest there. My eyes naturally (instead of artificially) wandered over tothe description of the aforementioned snack chips, and I couldn't believe that they were described as the following:
"Fritos Brand Flavor Twists Corn Snacks give you the classic taste of cornwith an added twist - a special shape that means more hearty ALL-AMERICAN crunch ..."
Apparently no one is interested in an all-Japanese crunch or any other foreign crunch for that matter; it's just inferior to any kind of crunch that America has to offer. Basically, we like our crunch to be ALL American.
All I'm saying is, be on the lookout for other ridiculous American snackfood propaganda.
Don't kick a soccer ball (Originally Posted: June 12, 2007)
Don't kick a soccer ball.
If it's raining.
If you have nice flats on with a skirt.
If you're walking in the park.
If the Polish boy yells, "Hey miss! Hey Miss!"
If you do, the shoe will fly through the air with the ball, and everyone will laugh at you.
At least the Polish boy picked it up for me.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Does it have a Balcony?
When I was a little girl I dreamed of having an apartment of my own. Not a house. An apartment. I liked the balconies. I wanted to decorate my imaginary balcony with colored twinkle lights in December and plain white lights during the rest of the year. I imagined dance parties (which could be dangerous), cute patio furniture, aloe plants in big ceramic planters, and paper lanterns. I have never had a balcony of my own. Because of this, I feel I've missed out on a special club. When I visit other apartments I always gasp when I see that they have a balcony and then immediately step outside to see what it feels like or check out the view. If I stay in a hotel, I always request a room with a balcony. You can often hear me say, "AND IT HAD A BALCONY!" If YOU have a balcony and I'm visiting, no matter the weather you can expect me to want to hang out on it... hopefully it will be bathed in sun and there will be a plenty of beverages and (if I'm lucky) some cheese. P.S. I also love cheese.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Happy Holidays. Specifically, Christmas.
To Whom It May Concern:
I suffer from SEH. SEH is a TLA for Small Ear Holes. (TLA is a TLA for Three Letter Acronym).
I thought the iPod ear buds were kind of big. Like, big for everyone. As they often do, those ear buds totally broke, so I bought some $20 JVC melon-colored ear phones. What the H? They are too big for my SEH, too! I hate being mid-crunch, mid-jam, mid-jog, mid-... well, mid-anything, really and having those things fall out of my ears.
Come on, people. Let's have some consideration for those of us who do not have huge, gaping ear canals (H,GEC). Do I have to start a group on Facebook to bring attention to this matter? I'm quite confident that I am not the only one afflicted with this condition. Yeah, I know Bose sells some small ear phones, but they are about a million U.S. dollars. How about some affordable yet comfortable, sweet-sounding ear phones? What has two thumbs and needs better ear phones? What? Aren't you paying attention? THIS GIRL!!
I suffer from SEH. SEH is a TLA for Small Ear Holes. (TLA is a TLA for Three Letter Acronym).
I thought the iPod ear buds were kind of big. Like, big for everyone. As they often do, those ear buds totally broke, so I bought some $20 JVC melon-colored ear phones. What the H? They are too big for my SEH, too! I hate being mid-crunch, mid-jam, mid-jog, mid-... well, mid-anything, really and having those things fall out of my ears.
Come on, people. Let's have some consideration for those of us who do not have huge, gaping ear canals (H,GEC). Do I have to start a group on Facebook to bring attention to this matter? I'm quite confident that I am not the only one afflicted with this condition. Yeah, I know Bose sells some small ear phones, but they are about a million U.S. dollars. How about some affordable yet comfortable, sweet-sounding ear phones? What has two thumbs and needs better ear phones? What? Aren't you paying attention? THIS GIRL!!
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Deleted Scene
Well, it finally happened. I had played this scenario out in my head countless times over the past 2 1/2 years. I'm only surprised now that it didn't happen sooner.
November 19, 2008.
I stepped mindlessly off of the 5 train onto the platform at Union Square. Some guy in a business suit, who was still seated on the train, kept his eyes glued to my ass until I had cleared the door. I attempted to sport some tights with a stretchy skirt today and neglected to calculate the clingy factor, that must be it. Or, maybe I had money hanging out of my coat pocket. Probably, he was just an asshole.
50% of the time, people begin to step onto the train while I am trying to step off. On this particular day, they waited for me to clear the door before scrambling on. That was nice.
I started my trek down the platform toward the stairs. I happened to notice the 6 train unloading. He'd be transferring from the 6 to the 5, naturally. No one in their right mind would take a local train all the way uptown. This shit plays out in my mind completely on its own. I have spent too many hours of my life simply considering him and his existence, which apparently has made it impossible for me to find the off button for this subconscious, auto-pilot obsession.
My iPod was playing. It had switched to "No Air" by Jordan Sparks, a guilty-pleasure iTunes purchase that I had played into the ground at the beginning of the summer.
Then, right in front of me, I recognized his coat. In nano-seconds, I assessed his height, gait, and jeans. They all checked out. There had been false alarms before, but this was not one of them. My mouth dropped open in disbelief. I was three steps directly behind him. This is really happening? He stepped onto the 5 train. I must have stopped or was moving without direction, because the short man coming toward me had to do a football-style juke to get around me. I was frozen, yet at the same time completely determined to know for sure whether or not it was really him. I kept my head turned to look at him as I passed. All I could see was his back. He began to turn his face. At first, I thought no. But his head continued to turn, and I saw his trademark sideburns. Unmistakable. I assume that he was looking back to see if anyone else was coming onto the train after him, but he was looking up, over where any heads would be. My instinct was to look away. Immediately. I turned straight ahead toward the stairs before there was even the slightest chance that we could make eye contact.
As I made my way up the stairs, and as I became aware that my legs had turned to jelly, the movie scenarios began to play in my head. Would he jump off of the train, run after me, yell my name, and tell me that he was sorry for all that he had done? Would we lock knowing eyes as his train passed by me? Would I ultimately stand defeated on the platform for the L train only to receive an unexpected tap on the shoulder? No. To all of the above, no. It took 5 or so minutes for me to regain stability in my legs. My shaky hands took longer.
Life is really funny that way. 3 years ago - almost to the day - we sat next to each other at a Mexican restaurant in Reston Town Center sharing Negra Modelos and tortilla chips, and he told me that he loved me for the first time. Present day, this happens. 3 years ago we longed to be in the same city, in the same room, in the same bed. Present day, those feelings are mere memories. He had bought a small glass bowl as a gift for my mom. We made one hell of a paddle ball team, even in sub-zero temperatures. He had called me at work on Valentine's Day, and simply said, "Jeannie." The single happiest moment of my life.
If love is a roller coaster, this is the part where you are in your car on the way home from the amusement park, stuck in traffic.
It's emotional purgatory.
Wait, I've got a better one. This is a deleted scene that is included in the bonus features of the DVD of your favorite movie. It seems out of place and unnecessary. It doesn't fit the story. Why didn't the director realize this before wasting the actors' time? There was a beginning, middle, and end; why does this need to be dragged out further? What business do the characters have left that hasn't been addressed already? Is this what passes for an alternate ending these days? Why am I watching this, anyway?
Much like a deleted scene, there is no grand meaning to extract from the chance non-encounter. The fact is, we both spend most of our time on the same, tiny island called Manhattan. We were bound to almost run into each other at some point. In the scenarios that I had played out in my head, though, he always saw me and not the other way around. In real life, I saw him, and I decided to just keep moving.
Is that a Carrie Bradshaw-style ending or what?
November 19, 2008.
I stepped mindlessly off of the 5 train onto the platform at Union Square. Some guy in a business suit, who was still seated on the train, kept his eyes glued to my ass until I had cleared the door. I attempted to sport some tights with a stretchy skirt today and neglected to calculate the clingy factor, that must be it. Or, maybe I had money hanging out of my coat pocket. Probably, he was just an asshole.
50% of the time, people begin to step onto the train while I am trying to step off. On this particular day, they waited for me to clear the door before scrambling on. That was nice.
I started my trek down the platform toward the stairs. I happened to notice the 6 train unloading. He'd be transferring from the 6 to the 5, naturally. No one in their right mind would take a local train all the way uptown. This shit plays out in my mind completely on its own. I have spent too many hours of my life simply considering him and his existence, which apparently has made it impossible for me to find the off button for this subconscious, auto-pilot obsession.
My iPod was playing. It had switched to "No Air" by Jordan Sparks, a guilty-pleasure iTunes purchase that I had played into the ground at the beginning of the summer.
Then, right in front of me, I recognized his coat. In nano-seconds, I assessed his height, gait, and jeans. They all checked out. There had been false alarms before, but this was not one of them. My mouth dropped open in disbelief. I was three steps directly behind him. This is really happening? He stepped onto the 5 train. I must have stopped or was moving without direction, because the short man coming toward me had to do a football-style juke to get around me. I was frozen, yet at the same time completely determined to know for sure whether or not it was really him. I kept my head turned to look at him as I passed. All I could see was his back. He began to turn his face. At first, I thought no. But his head continued to turn, and I saw his trademark sideburns. Unmistakable. I assume that he was looking back to see if anyone else was coming onto the train after him, but he was looking up, over where any heads would be. My instinct was to look away. Immediately. I turned straight ahead toward the stairs before there was even the slightest chance that we could make eye contact.
As I made my way up the stairs, and as I became aware that my legs had turned to jelly, the movie scenarios began to play in my head. Would he jump off of the train, run after me, yell my name, and tell me that he was sorry for all that he had done? Would we lock knowing eyes as his train passed by me? Would I ultimately stand defeated on the platform for the L train only to receive an unexpected tap on the shoulder? No. To all of the above, no. It took 5 or so minutes for me to regain stability in my legs. My shaky hands took longer.
Life is really funny that way. 3 years ago - almost to the day - we sat next to each other at a Mexican restaurant in Reston Town Center sharing Negra Modelos and tortilla chips, and he told me that he loved me for the first time. Present day, this happens. 3 years ago we longed to be in the same city, in the same room, in the same bed. Present day, those feelings are mere memories. He had bought a small glass bowl as a gift for my mom. We made one hell of a paddle ball team, even in sub-zero temperatures. He had called me at work on Valentine's Day, and simply said, "Jeannie." The single happiest moment of my life.
If love is a roller coaster, this is the part where you are in your car on the way home from the amusement park, stuck in traffic.
It's emotional purgatory.
Wait, I've got a better one. This is a deleted scene that is included in the bonus features of the DVD of your favorite movie. It seems out of place and unnecessary. It doesn't fit the story. Why didn't the director realize this before wasting the actors' time? There was a beginning, middle, and end; why does this need to be dragged out further? What business do the characters have left that hasn't been addressed already? Is this what passes for an alternate ending these days? Why am I watching this, anyway?
Much like a deleted scene, there is no grand meaning to extract from the chance non-encounter. The fact is, we both spend most of our time on the same, tiny island called Manhattan. We were bound to almost run into each other at some point. In the scenarios that I had played out in my head, though, he always saw me and not the other way around. In real life, I saw him, and I decided to just keep moving.
Is that a Carrie Bradshaw-style ending or what?
Monday, November 3, 2008
JAVahhhh!
I love The Coffee Shop. I don't know what I'd do without it. It's warm. It's welcoming. Sure, it's expensive... but no one can make me feel more "at home" than say the Uro Cafe in Greenpoint. Or the Beaner Bar in Williamsburg... or Starbucks in Manhattan. Unless we're talking about my mom in CA. But you guys! The coffee shop! How great is it? Sure I could make my own coffee at home and save myself loads of money... but it wouldn't be the same.
I love having things made for me. And I love when those things only cost me $2.25 and give me more joy than... heck, than a new pony. I love racks of free newspapers and magazines... mags that I would NEVER subscribe to because A. they're too expensive B. they're too alternative or C. I've never heard of them before. I love stacks of pretty brochures and postcards. Postcards for events that are A. too obscure B. too mundane or C. bullshit. And I love seeing artwork on the walls that I normally would have A. never seen before B. never noticed before (unless I had to wait 10 minutes for my freaking Americano!) or C. could not afford (obv)... But still, I love looking at the pretty colors.
I love the "coffee-shop people". I love that there are dudes there that don't seem to have any job what-so-ever and can live every day just looking up blog after blog. And I love the older, middle-aged woman. You know, the one who is friends with the owner and comments on my coat.... and I especially love that 75 year old man who comes in for two lattes! Two! I mean, COME ON! What is greater than that? I mean... any functioning person wouldn't be able to resist conjuring up images for his possible recipient.*
I love having three different milk choices. I love wooden stools and bright orange espresso machines. I love open patios in the summer and warm, gas fires in the winter. I love all of the lame, inside jokes and comic strips that are taped onto the cash machines. I get it! If I don't tip I'm a terrorist!!! Ahh!
Thanks Friends with your Central Perk, orange couches, and bad, live music. And thanks Seattle with your "shop-on-every-corner," fresh Top Pot Doughnuts, and intellectual novels in every crevice. Mom! I realize I would save hundreds a year if I could just make my coffee at home or wait for my coffee at work... But I would lose a friend. A therapist. A home. And it's not worth the loss!
I love the coffee shop! It's something to look forward to on my day off. And a treat on my day of work. It's a lifestyle. It's a neighbor. It's a friend. And if this recession hurts anything, it better NOT touch my coffee shop... or else it's gonna have to... or else I'll make sure to... well, I guess I'll just go to Dunkin' Donuts.
*Possible recipients:
1. Lucille
2. Nancy
3. Jess
4. Mason
5. Millifred
6. Bill
I love having things made for me. And I love when those things only cost me $2.25 and give me more joy than... heck, than a new pony. I love racks of free newspapers and magazines... mags that I would NEVER subscribe to because A. they're too expensive B. they're too alternative or C. I've never heard of them before. I love stacks of pretty brochures and postcards. Postcards for events that are A. too obscure B. too mundane or C. bullshit. And I love seeing artwork on the walls that I normally would have A. never seen before B. never noticed before (unless I had to wait 10 minutes for my freaking Americano!) or C. could not afford (obv)... But still, I love looking at the pretty colors.
I love the "coffee-shop people". I love that there are dudes there that don't seem to have any job what-so-ever and can live every day just looking up blog after blog. And I love the older, middle-aged woman. You know, the one who is friends with the owner and comments on my coat.... and I especially love that 75 year old man who comes in for two lattes! Two! I mean, COME ON! What is greater than that? I mean... any functioning person wouldn't be able to resist conjuring up images for his possible recipient.*
I love having three different milk choices. I love wooden stools and bright orange espresso machines. I love open patios in the summer and warm, gas fires in the winter. I love all of the lame, inside jokes and comic strips that are taped onto the cash machines. I get it! If I don't tip I'm a terrorist!!! Ahh!
Thanks Friends with your Central Perk, orange couches, and bad, live music. And thanks Seattle with your "shop-on-every-corner," fresh Top Pot Doughnuts, and intellectual novels in every crevice. Mom! I realize I would save hundreds a year if I could just make my coffee at home or wait for my coffee at work... But I would lose a friend. A therapist. A home. And it's not worth the loss!
I love the coffee shop! It's something to look forward to on my day off. And a treat on my day of work. It's a lifestyle. It's a neighbor. It's a friend. And if this recession hurts anything, it better NOT touch my coffee shop... or else it's gonna have to... or else I'll make sure to... well, I guess I'll just go to Dunkin' Donuts.
*Possible recipients:
1. Lucille
2. Nancy
3. Jess
4. Mason
5. Millifred
6. Bill
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