Falling in glove

I take far too much pride in the number of gloves I've lost over the past four winters: One (which was a total fluke and not my fault, by the way). If winter runs from Dec 21-March 21, that's about 90 days during which I could lose one. With a record of 90-1, I'm the f'n Mariano Rivera of winter glove saves.

Even if you don't live in wintry weather, I'm sure you can imagine how frequently one misplaces a glove while fumbling for phones, keys, money, handguns. Walk through the city tomorrow and you're bound to come across more lost gloves than Starbucks.

Maybe you've never thought about or noticed them before but when one can boast such a fantastic record as mine, it's hard NOT to see them. In fact, I can't stop taking pictures of The Lost Ones. Most are photos of gloves lost in ridiculous places (on the train tracks? both gloves? both palms down? how?)...

How did this happen? Was the owner of this pair Ming the Merciless who, after being skewered by Flash Gordon, fell and melted into the train tracks near my house in Brooklyn?


Just your standard "lost black glove" shots. Apparently, black gloves are the Honda Civics of winter wear.

...while others are of gloves placed by kind souls in spots where hapless owners may return to find them (seriously, though - what's the likelihood of this ever working as planned?).

After snapping the photo on the right, I was tempted to stick the middle finger up on this glove since it was slightly wet and temps were below 30.

What, you may be demanding to know, is my secret? It's elementary (really): Glove clips, or as I like to call them, "glove garter belts."


Silly blogger, glove clips are for kids!

Yep, the very same thing that parents use to keep mittens from wandering off the jackets of small children is what I've used since 2005 to secure my own. Based on crude observations of lost gloves, I'm guessing that most parents are hypocrites.

It reminds me of that nursery rhyme:
Three little kittens,
They lost their mittens,
And they began to cry,
"Oh, mother dear,
We sadly fear
Our mittens we have lost."
"What! Lost your mittens,
You naughty kittens!
Then you shall have no pie.
Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.
You shall have no pie."

What a crock of shit. My money's on "mother dear" losing HER mittens the next day while rushing to catch the B train.


What really happened: "Mom, you lost YOUR mittens? WTF?!" "Yeah, you're always yelling at us for losing ours but you're just as naughty!" "Since we found OUR mittens, we'll be eating YOUR pie! Mee-ow!"

In the time since adopting Jr's accessory, I've gotten a lot of curious looks, laughs and praise to which I say, "Why should kids be the only ones to keep their gloves?" The response is usually, "That's so true!" but I doubt I've actually changed anyone's mind. I've yet to see someone my age with glove clips on their winter coat.

It's not that gloves are expensive (at least mine aren't); it's more about how difficult mine are to replace. If I was willing to admit the absurd amount of time I spend picking out a matching scarf/gloves/hat combo for each winter, you could appreciate why I decided to add a "glove insurance policy" in the first place.

I'm such a fan of them that last Christmas, I included glove clips as stocking stuffers for adults in my family. Unfortunately, my gift wasn't exactly received with the same appreciation I'd hoped for. Some looked confused, others insulted. What can I say? I had good intentions (and the clips were from the $1 rack at Target).

I expected the same reaction from my Man, after I gave him two sets of glove clips for his winter coat and leather jacket. After all, this a man who would pretend he didn't trip over a coconut even if it was just him and the palm tree on a deserted island. But after losing a second pair of gloves just one month into winter, my Man quickly strapped the clips on (black ones, of course).

Sure, it can be annoying to have your gloves constantly dangling around your wrists, but there's comfort in at least knowing they're still there. And yes, you may look like you're waiting for the short bus instead of the M104, but at least BOTH of your hands are still warm.

For those who are too cool for glove clips, it's okay, really -- I totally enjoy taking photos of your lost gloves.

p.s. Just realized that by writing this blog, I've now jinxed my record and invited the universe to take one of my gloves before winter ends. The good news is that my paranoia also means I've already taken precautions against such a fate: when picking out each winter's scarf/glove/hat combo, I always buy two pairs of the same glove. It's like I'm Mariano Rivera with Joba Chamberlain (or John Wetteland circa 1996) warming up in the bullpen. So, WHATEVER, universe!

Note: Gloves aren't the only winter accessory people lose. I snapped the shot below while waiting for the train earlier today. I would be so f'd if this happened to me (no scarf clips, no back-up scarf)!

The Grapes of Crap

I'm not sure what the point of this blog will be but I've got an urge to write it. So, let's review:

I've been trying to get a Patriots NFL helmet cell phone charm from a vending machine at Pathmark for the last few weeks. A real crapshoot: I've sunk about $19 into the piece of crap machine and now own 35 helmet charms, none of which are the Patriots. I've been waiting to return to Pathmark while I recharged my mojo.

Well, after the gym tonight, it was on like Donkey Kong. Feeling revitalized and ready to take on the vending machine, I drove over to Pathmark thinking, "Yes, this is definitely the night I get that helmet charm."

After parking on the street outside, I gathered about $2.50 in quarters from my purse and headed in. And that's when the night took a hard left turn.

The vending machine's contents had been replaced and instead of cell phone charms, it was now hawking ping pong balls with NCAA teams' logos. WTF?! My eyes grew bigger than the balls inside the machine as I searched nearby stands to see if the charms were somewhere else. No, gone.


The Grapes of Crap book cover (what, you didn't have to read it in 8th grade?).

So much for ever getting a crappy Patriots cell phone charm. Deflated, I decided to take a photo of the new machine just for posterity's sake. And that's when my cell phone froze and crashed.

Crap! I rebooted and tried to take a photo again. Crash. Reboot. Crash. The Pathmark employees were growing suspicious of me hanging around, cursing my phone so I wandered the aisles, rebooting while grabbing a very random assortment of stuff (2 lunch bags, 1 liquid dish soap, 1 pumpkin spice coffee creamer, 2 birthday cards). I figured the phone would be working again by the time I got to the front.

Nope. No phone. No photo of new tchotchke. No cell phone charms. All crap.

Frustrated, I left with my craptastic bag of randomness only to turn the corner in time to see some asshole backing into my car. Outrageous! The street was empty except for my car and still, this craptard couldn't even parallel park without hitting mine. While my car rocked back and forth from the hit, I rushed over to accost the jerkoff.

As I neared the driver's side of his car, it occurred to me that he might get out and be a 6'5, 300-pound pile of crap. No matter, I had a lot of anger to take out on him. (Is it any wonder that I haven't been killed yet?)

"Hey, asshole! Are you completely incapable of parking a car?! You just totally hit my car even though you've got miles of empty street in front of you!! Are you retarded?!"

Luckily, the crapmonger who got out was neither 6'5 nor retarded. Instead, I was face to face with a young Hasidic Jew (who looked completely baffled as to why a woman other than his wife was speaking to him). I continued to rant and threatened to hit his car on the way out "since there's 2 blocks of space behind my car and I just don't know how I'll manage to get out without hitting something!"

It was not my finest moment. In fact, it was downright crapathetic. And, before I maneuvered to drive away, I'll admit: I hit his car.

Driving home, I thought of all the crap in my life (aside from the stupid cell phone charms): I'm unemployed and I'm running through my savings faster than Obama signs executive orders. Before leaving my car to go into the gym earlier, I'd been filled with such sadness and despair that I'd even wondered, "If I had a gun right now, would I shoot myself with it?"

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not usually prone to suicidal thoughts (even passive ones). I'm guessing that a headline I'd seen earlier in the day, "LA man distressed over job shoots wife, 5 children and self" had gotten stuck in my subconscious. I know, I know, I try to keep this blog lighthearted and funny, but I'm just not there right now. The good news is that the answer to my question was "hell no."

Anyway, so I'm driving home thinking over the crap sandwich that's now my life while trying to find the "silver lining." Yes, I thought, there are many things I don't have (self control being one) but there's plenty more that I do have such as perfect health, an incredible family, a loving boyfriend, amazing friends, an education, a warm place to come home to (for now). The list could go on and on until I'm giving thanks for running water and electricity.

"Yeah," I thought, "things are hard but they can't always suck." Just as I thought this, I pulled into the driveway of my building and pressed the garage door opener. Nothing. Pressed it again. Nothing. Again, again, again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Crap. Ah, the proverbial "last straw."

But then, the laughter took over. A deep, body-shaking laugh that freaked my neighbors out and saved me from tears.

And so, there's one more silver lining to be thankful for: I can still laugh (when I stop laughing, call the crapamedics).


A silver lining if I ever saw one!

I need a (crash) helmet

My fanaticism recently jumped the shark, so to speak. It all started innocently enough with a few quarters. I made the leap from "fan" to "insane person" this weekend when I returned with a roll of quarters.

Perhaps if I was talking about slot machines and bus rides to Atlantic City, I could pass for "normal." No, I'm talking about a vending machine at my local Pathmark. You've seen the type before, just beyond the registers where kids whine for quarters as they pass temporary tattoos and giant gumballs.

The difference here is that I'm 35 and have access to a bank account full of quarters. I'm also a devoted New England Patriots fan whose cell phone always has some sort of charm hanging off of it. Can you see where the shitstorm is brewing now, just off the end of this paragraph?

Yes, Pathmark has a vending machine chock full of NFL helmet cell phone charms; several Patriots helmets are in clear view but nowhere near the bottom. I am determined to get my hands on one (just one, dammit!) -- it's only 50 cents, after all!

Three attempts and $19* later, I am now the not-so-proud owner of 35 NFL helmet cell phone charms, NONE of which has the Patriots' "Flying Elvis" logo on it.


"Collect all 32 teams!" screams the vending machine at Pathmark (left). At this point, I pretty much have. The "like I give a shit" helmets I've amassed so far (right).

The first night I encountered the helmets, I can't remember why I was even in Pathmark. It's completely out of my way and doesn't carry anything I like. Its only quality is that it's open 24 hours and is known to host some pretty entertaining characters after 1 AM (including me, apparently). If only I could access their security cameras and zoom in on the ridiculous look that must've been on my face when I first noticed the helmets.

Attempt 1
I had about $4 in quarters on me (between the change in my purse and what I had got back from my purchase). A small, childish voice in me kept thinking, "oooh, this is gonna be it, this time! Aw, man. No, THIS time is it, here it comes! Aw, man!" For all I know, I had my tongue sticking out in deep concentration as I rapidly slipped quarter after quarter into the machine. I left frustrated but naively convinced I would succeed if I went back the next night.

Attempt 2
Late at night again, same cashier on duty (now mildly interested in what I was up to). Had dipped into my parking meter supply from the car before entering. Total expenditure: $5, some pride and a good deal of optimism. Returned home that night to scour the Internet in search of a helmet I could buy outright, saving myself another trip to Pathmark. I was also concerned about the fast-growing pile of crappy helmets I'd accumulated...

Inventory from first two attempts yielded:
2 Oakland Raiders (both broken - they can't even get it right as toy plastic helmets)
1 Cincinnati Bengals
2 Arizona Cardinals (has ANYONE even seen a real live Cards fan before this season?!)
1 St Louis Rams
1 Washington Redskins
3 San Francisco 49ers (were these helmets made in the 80's?)
1 Chicago Bears
1 Atlanta Falcons
1 Miami Dolphins
1 San Diego Chargers

Attempt 3
Seems this Pathmark in Brooklyn is the only place one can buy NFL helmet cell phone charms (that aren't covered in corny rhinestones, anyway). More determined than ever to get mine, I returned several days later. Made it a point to hit Pathmark during daywalker hours so I could stop at the bank to get a roll of quarters first.

While crossing the street, it occurred to me: "This is why I'm an alcoholic. It's not because I forget where my car is when I'm drunk but because I don't know how to stop drinking once I start." Within seconds, the Addict in my brain menaced the Voice of Reason with a roll of quarters.


The look in my eye says, "They can't deny me both 19-0 AND a cell phone charm!" Next door: The machine that ultimately said, "Yes, we can deny you all that AND $10."

Leaving Pathmark without the helmet charm was the closest I've been to what the team must've felt leaving Arizona last year 18-1: So close, yet so far. Standing on the other side of the window in the freezing cold, I stared in at the machine, bitterly noticing several Patriots helmet charms trapped in the crap heap. I mouthed, "You will be mine" and dashed to the car.

Inventory from $10 roll of quarters:
3 Tennessee Titans (1 broken, perhaps in honor of Steve McNair?)
2 Houston Texans (Tom Brady's toenail clippings are more valuable)
1 Tampa Bay Buccaneers
1 Oakland Raiders (really?)
1 Green Bay Packers
1 Cincinnati Bengals
1 Buffalo Bills
1 Denver Broncos (great, now I have 2 and they have my offensive coordinator)
1 Detroit Lions (actually could be a collector's item after 0-16 season)
1 Cleveland Browns
3 Indianapolis Colts (damn you, Peyton! As if the VISA/Sony/Snuggie commercials every 5 seconds weren't enough!)
3 San Francisco 49ers (bringing overall 49ers total to 4!!)
2 NY Giants (the sting doesn't hurt as much now that Eli's post-season is with Oreo's Double Stuf Racing League)

In a cruel twist of fan fate, the last helmet to spit out of the machine was a Miami Dolphins one. As a Patriots fan whose 11-5 team didn't make the playoffs thanks to Ronnie Brown vs Patriots in Week 3 and Brett Favre's farewell terd against Miami in Week 16, this last helmet felt like the football gods flipping me off. Never one to care that small children are within earshot or eyesight, I gave them the finger back.


Not my best moment: giving a vending machine the finger in a crowded supermarket (left). Later that night, I modeled the Dolphins helmet that was the proverbial cherry on my $10 poop sundae.

Actually, there were several children around, including a boy who was keenly interested in what I was doing. I thought to ask him who his favorite team is and then offer him the crappy helmet if I had it. Then, in a somewhat adult moment, I realized that I can try to sell these unwanted helmet charms on eBay (why not? If someone was selling a Patriots one, I'd buy it -- for $19!). Seriously, if I can sell them at $5 a pop, it'd raise enough to cover my cell phone bill!

In the meantime, I'm keeping clear of Pathmark while I recharge my vending mojo, hoping that Attempt 4 will be the "charm" -- literally. My Man has expressed genuine concern about my sanity (I am, after all, technically unemployed and pouring money I don't have into a toy vending machine). He's afraid that I'm walking a thin line between safe driver and car wreck. He's even threatened me with, "I'm going to call your mother" (the ultimate threat between boyfriend/girlfriends, apparently).

Fine, put me in a crash helmet. As long as I get to take it off to make calls with a cell phone that proudly boasts a Patriots helmet dangling off the end of it.

* For anal accountant-types wondering how I have 35 helmets at 50 cents each but only spent $19, the answer is simple: some of the little plastic containers are blessed with 2-3 charms. Yep, I've gotten several that contained a crapfeast of helmets. In fact, there is a container in the middle of the machine that contains 3, yes THREE, Patriots helmets. The loser who gets this precious egg of joy will no doubt be a Dolphins fan.

As seen on TV

I'm a people-watcher. It's probably the biggest reason I moved to New York City nine years ago. Whether it's observing feces-smeared crazy people from a safe distance on the train or taking in an angry woman's threats to sue Macy's for not letting her return a sweater, NYC is a hotbed of people-watching activity.

This fascination explains a lot about my TV-watching habits. For example, I've been super Real World fan #1 since its debut in 1992 and am thrilled that the new season 21 was shot in Brooklyn. Not only do I get to observe the show's first transgender roommate, I get to see it all happen in familiar settings ("hey, I've had lunch in that place where Katelynn is coming out to JD!").

I like to think of my people-on-TV-watching as a self-guided anthropology course. It's only a matter of time before there are graduate courses on The Real World (if there aren't already), which I'd be very qualified to teach. I'm guessing I'm the only person who bought MTV's The Real World Hawaii: True Confessions, a 1999 tell-all book that currently has a place in my home library alongside other anthropological classics such as The Harmless People and Aztecs of Central Mexico. Seriously, I could talk for days about the impact of The Real World on our culture (so I'll stop now -- you're welcome).


A quick glance at some of the more academic titles in my home library, including a BEHIND-the-behind-the-scenes look at Ruthie and her drinking problem (center).

After a childhood of Sesame Street and The Electric Company, I've been trained for this line of study. Beyond voyeuristic pleasure, people-watching-on-TV can be very educational. For instance, I learned many things today that I would've never known if it weren't for CMT's season 3 premier of My Big Redneck Wedding, such as:

1. You can get custom wedding rings in camouflage.
2. Limos also come in camouflage.
3. You can get married in a duck blind.
4. When writing your own vows, anything goes ("I will drink beer with him always").
5. Same lawlessness for wedding cakes, which can be layers of cupcakes, Zingers, Ho-Hos, Twinkies and Jello shots.
6. Wedding toasts are also a free-for-all ("buuuuuurrrrrrp!").

This show has fast become one of my favorite anthropological studies (is it any wonder that MTV owns CMT?). How else would I know that deodorant can also be used on one's face to prevent unwanted perspiration?

From CMT's "Biggest Redneck Wedding Ever" in which Tom Arnold made Elaine and Bruce's dreams come true in the muddiest beer fest yet. Here, Elaine demonstrates how she plans to keep dry in all that mud and beer.

My cat has herpes

Even though I updated the blog two days ago, I'm compelled to write again to help process what happened earlier this evening (I try to limit entries to keep things interesting)...

So, I took my cat to the vet and it turns out the sneezing, runny nose and watery eyes I'd so been so naive to think were a kitty cold are actually symptoms of a herpes flare up.

Yes, at the tender age of 4, my cat Pumpkin has herpes.

Now, I can't vouch for her reputation prior to my adopting her last summer (for all I know, that far-away look she gets could be her reminiscing about dog-on-cat orgies), but I'm pretty sure she's been chaste the entire time I've had her. My other cat is a 12-year-old female tabby named Eve who doesn't seem to like a single thing about Pumpkin -- no kitty porn here.

So, I'm going with the vet's explanation that Pumpkin is an innocent who was born with the herpes virus. We can speculate about her mom's reputation but she, too, may have been born with it. I'm not in the blame game. Just trying to come to grips with the idea that cats get herpes, too. I was having a hard enough time with the idea that cats get colds (seriously, who knew?).

The vet advised that I treat this current flare up with Zithromax (another "cats can get this too?" moment) and try to avoid stressful situations for her. What qualifies as a stressful situation? "Something as simple as taking down the Christmas tree can be very stressful for them and cause a flare up like this." Really? So much for putting the laundry away -- I can't afford another vet visit.

I take comfort in the vet's advice that Pumpkin is not alone -- "feline herpes is just as common as herpes among humans, with nearly 1 in 5 adults infected." Not sure if there's a support group at my local Petco but I guess we can always start one.

Also, the vet says my li'l Pumpkin head can benefit from regular ingestion of lysine, an amino acid that competes with the herpes virus' growth. I've been told to get a $5 bottle of it from the drug store and sprinkle it liberally on Pumpkin's food. Dear God, what's the likelihood that CVS sells tuna-flavored lysine?

So, with a $30 prescription of Zithromax and a steady diet of lysine, she will be able to live a normal life. What a relief. Now she can do all the things I've always hoped she would do like kayaking, hiking, camping -- basically all of the outdoor activities that herpes victims like to do.

Yes, Pumpkin can feel good about that.


I had more fun doing this in Photoshop than any alleged "sane" person should.


One of the many, many herpes commercial spoofs out there (this one is a funny take on actors in those commercials).

Jury of my sneers

Written today in real time via my phone's handy "MemoPad" feature...

8:15 Leaving the house for jury duty in downtown Brooklyn. Game plan is to say whatever the hell it takes to limit the obligation to today.

8:54 Am still on train, wondering--and kinda hoping--that jury duty is like detention: doors close and access denied after designated 8:45 arrival time. Of course, given that I've ignored every jury summons sent to me for the last 8 years, I'll probably be arrested when I finally get there.

9:00 After clearing security, I rush to the Central Jury Room to find that I probably could've stopped for that Dunkin Donuts coffee I'm now dying for. Nothing but a pre-recorded "Welcome" message playing on several TVs in a large room (similar to what I imagine most classrooms at the University of Florida are like).

9:15 "Welcome" message is mostly unconvincing "you're lucky to be here doing your civic duty as an American" stuff but ends with a threat that strikes home (as a person with anger management issues): "Wouldn't you want someone like you on YOUR jury if YOU were ever on trial?" Okay, so no fake epileptic seizure. I'll stay and get some work done.

9:30 Black guy with MC Hammer-type glasses comes out of side door to speak at large bench in front of room. As he goes down the list of do's and don'ts, I am busy trying to see if they're prescription glasses, at least.

9:39 First glance at phone for time check and Facebook status update. "Jennifer has finally been coerced into jury duty after being threatened with a bench warrant (geez). Why don't they do the same for people who don't vote?"

9:50 Still in the thick of the do's and don'ts of jury duty as read by MC Hammer (the carrot on the end of the stick being you get credit and don't have to come back for 8 whole years). Laptops are permitted but cell phone use is prohibited except in lobby area; however, I'm making an exception for my BlackBerry since it's technically a teeny tiny laptop with cool ringtones.

10:07 What's this bullshit about smokers being allowed to leave for 10 minutes at a time?! There's even a specific warning to us non-smokers that if we leave for 10 min and return with a coffee from Dunkin Donuts (is MC Hammer a mind reader, too?), we'll be marked absent and won't get credit for today. I'm tempted to ask, "what if I smoke a cigarette upon returning from Dunkin Donuts?"


Central Jury Room in downtown Brooklyn, where my ass sat like a good citizen for most of today. At right, smokers exercising the 10-minute reward the court allows them for having a bad habit. Isn't coffee considered a bad habit, too?!

10:30 Am happy to see several friends have already commented on my Facebook status. I'm struck by Jason Roeder's comment, "It's not that bad. I helped put a rapist in prison. Not bad for a Tuesday." I'm almost inspired to want to serve today. We'll see; it'll be a game-time decision.

10:35 Unsure if I'm free to email/text, I keep the BlackBerry held low in the purse at first, typing and scrolling on the sly like a kid cheating on a vocab quiz.

10:45 Am now brazen with the BlackBerry.

10:55 Man, I am REALLY productive when being held prisoner! I've already sent like 10 emails, all related to work! Mental note: Must have my Man lock me in the home office M-F, 9-5 from now on (with the threat of arrest if I fail to show up).

11:15 A quick glance at one of the TVs (now broadcasting CNN) shows that 1) Senate Democrats are going to approve Blagojevich's appointment despite vowing to block it just days ago; and 2) it's already 11:15! Woohoo! Only two hours til lunch break and, more importantly, that coffee from Dunkin Donuts.

11:20 Decide to start keeping notes for a blog about this, ya know, just in case it ends up being some profound, noteworthy experience. That and it's more interesting than the book I brought (The Great Bridge by David McCullough).

11:59 The girl sitting next to me is really pissing me off with her restless leg syndrome. Doesn't she realize that our chairs are attached like some juror chain gang?

12:01 Wow, this is really starting to feel like The Breakfast Club. Where's Judd Nelson when you need him?

12:10 I'm overcome with worry that my name was called and I didn't hear it because I was too focused on work or glaring angrily at the girl next to me (enough with the legs already!).

12:15 Some businessman just broke the imposed silence by talking very loudly on his cell phone. The entire room is now focused on him and collectively holding our breath until his phone gets confiscated. (They promised!) I feel a communal sense of outrage and longing for a time when cell phones were "car phones." Airplanes and jury holding tanks are now like the protected wetlands of Silence.

12:23 So hungry. Can't go on. Can't believe I haven't moved from this seat yet. Can't muster the energy to check out the juror "lounge" next door. Have resigned myself to eating the remains of a Greens+ protein bar. 40 minutes until lunch!

12:30 Still haven't been called. If they don't call me, do I still get credit for sitting here all day? MC Hammer didn't cover that in his speech earlier and now he's disappeared into that mysterious side door.

12:31 Why does this girl insist on torturing me by shaking her legs and thereby my chair? Wasn't I nice to her earlier when I politely suggested Cliff's Notes for the GRE (after noticing she had a study guide for it in hand)? Is this the thanks I get? And why haven't I moved if I'm so annoyed?

12:37 Yay! I've been called! Am now in a MUCH smaller room with two attorneys for a civil case. Am filling out a form that I think will definitely disqualify me. For instance, the last box under "Highest level of education" is "More than high school."

12:40 They just announced outside to the other jurors that they're breaking for lunch early. Everyone in my little room let out a collective groan (or, in Brooklyn's case, a collective sucking of one's teeth and shaking of the head as in "bitch, please"). Luckily, the two attorneys made an executive decision and are letting us go now, too! DD, here I come!

1:05 DD coffee in hand, I rush over to the Vitamin Shoppe to get my Man one of the 3,000 supplements he takes (such a devoted girlfriend to take 5 minutes of my 58-min lunch hour for him. Of course, I could've waited until after 5 when I'm free to run this errand). Luckily, I know Brooklyn Heights pretty well so I save time by making a beeline to my favorite sushi spot on Montague Street. Okay, so I've only been here twice before but it still qualifies as my "favorite" for today's purpose. I was tempted to go to the Chipotle across the street but know the result would be horrifying breath for the rest of the afternoon (that jury room is way too small for me to kick the funk like that).

1:29 Good news: the lunch special here is retardedly awesome (3 rolls for $9 including miso soup and salad). Bad news: eating 18 pieces of sushi really fast is really gross. I feel like I'm in the hot dog eating contest out in Coney Island.

1:30 After wolfing 15 pieces of sushi, have asked for check so I have enough time to get back to court and compose myself. How the hell do people manage to eat lunch in one hour?! Unemployment does have its benefits, I guess.


If I ever do end up on a jury, it's sad to think how easily I can be bribed: one extra large flavored coffee from Dunkin Donuts and more than an hour for lunch.

1:45 Back in the court house, going thru security. One of the guards asks, "Toy car blah blah bag?" Excuse me? "Do you have a toy car in your bag?" What?! I look at him incredulously. But before I can advise him to recalibrate the X-ray machine, I remember that I've got a Priority Mail box filled with Christmas presents in my bag. Yes, I'm a procrastinator who multitasks by schlepping packages to jury duty in the hopes that I will finally mail them.

1:50 Tragedy strikes! While struggling to layer the peed-on toilet seat with TP (Ladies: most of you lack the quads needed for proper hovering so please, until you're built otherwise, sit on the seat), my Burt's Bees lip balm drops from my coat pocket to the sticky bathroom floor and rolls behind the toilet. Must hose it with antibacterial lotion when I'm done!

1:53 Lip balm sanitized, I'm feeling adventurous after refreshing in the bathroom. Have decided to wait for 2 o'clock in one of the other juror holding pens (with windows, no less!). Wish I'd known about this room before. Would've saved myself some aggravation from the likes of Loser McLegs.

2:11 We're all back in the little jury room...except for the two attorneys (who apparently refuse to eat lunch like they're in a hot dog eating contest).

2:16 So, if neither of these attorneys comes back, do we still get credit for today?

2:20 Excitement! The guy sitting in front of me got up and started looking everywhere for something. Within seconds, nearby jurors were asking what he'd dropped. "An earring" Yawn. "A diamond earring." All at once, 4 of us stood up to help him search the floor and his belongings. Boredom and luxury items breed helpfulness, it seems.

2:27 Earring found (was stuck to the bottom of his shoe -- these floors are a testament to the power of dirt). Nearby female jurors offer earring-and-pony-tail-wearing man unsolicited advice about the best kind of earring backs and where to buy them. I fight the urge to offer advice about how men should never wear earrings and pony tails without Zubaz pants.

2:29 Attorneys arrive. No apology for delay except a bizarre diatribe on "new rules from Albany blah blah blah we used to be able to choose 10 people blah blah blah and then interview them while the rest of you sat patiently waiting to be excused but now we blah blah blah have to talk to all 21 of you before we can challenge you as a juror." In other words, get fucking comfortable.

2:35 Playing musical chairs in a room the size of my bathroom with 20 other people while the attorneys have us move to chairs they just assigned 1-21. On the way out to get the judge, a joke from the plaintiff's attorney: "Be right back with the judge and a complaint box."

2:44 The judge, who looks ripe enough for Century Village, comes in and advises us to cooperate, be fair and impartial. On the way out, he also suggests, "And don't get old."

2:46 Attorneys already arguing about the process (should we separate triplicate forms now or later? Ask questions to group or individually?). Collective groan. I take comfort in the little bit of Dunkin Donuts coffee I managed to save for later. Truth be told (and why not? I'm in a courthouse, after all), this is the worst DD coffee I've ever had. I wasn't expecting greatness, though; it's from one of those half-assed DD kiosks set up inside a KFC/Pizza Hut joint.

2:52 Attorneys now ready to question us...just as soon as they figure out the new process. Something about this being a civil case between a bicyclist and a driver who hit him. Bootleg DD coffee nearly finished.

3:05 There's gonna be a riot! The plaintiff's attorney is in love with the sound of his own voice. After mauling British/American history ("there was a war hundreds of years ago for your right to have a trial before a jury of your peers..."), the defendant's attorney interrupted and asked to speak with him outside. Meanwhile, an angry outburst erupted in the small room about "why is this asshole talking so much?" "Isn't this what the trial is for?" When the attorneys came back in, one young white woman in the back raised her hand and objected, "All of this seems tangential. We've been here an hour and you've yet to ask one of us a question. How long is this process going to take?" To which, the plaintiff's attorney answered, "this is going to take until tomorrow at the earliest" (collective "bitch, please!!"). Then, he asked to speak to HER outside. She was excused and came back to get her things saying, "Oh, snap!" which was odd for one who just used the word "tangential" so nicely. But, yo, I can relate.


A shot of the two attorneys doing what they seem to do best: haggling while we wait. In the foreground is Pony Tail Man, who briefly lost his earring, giving us something to do besides wait.

3:15 Attorneys are both outside--again--talking to another juror who managed to scream something objectionable in the short time we were all assembled in the room. I'm cracking jokes at the fast-growing outrage in the room. "Damn," I quip, "I should've told them I hit a bicyclist on the way here!" Collective laughter. "Where's that judge?" I demand. "From the looks of him, he couldn't have gotten far." More collective laughter.

3:30 Can't imagine why the plaintiff's attorney would want to pick any of us since we're clearly on the verge of forming a lynch mob. Is it any wonder that this case has been dragging on since 2004 if the jury pool is biased within the first hour of meeting the plaintiff's attorney? For the record: not a single potential juror has been asked a question in the 90 minutes since we returned from lunch.

3:45 Huzzah! After haggling outside with each other and another judge, the attorneys returned and we've all been dismissed from the case! Being openly hostile has its rewards! After high-fiving each other outside the juror fattening pen, we all wonder with wide-eyed fear, "what now?"

3:50 Back in the Central Jury Room, it seems a bond of friendship was formed by the hostage-like situation back in the little room. Several of us have opted to sit near each other in the larger room despite many open seats elsewhere. Like a Rainbow Coalition of disgruntled juror rejects, we formulate a new game plan as a team: ride out the remaining hour and 10 minutes, hoping to not get called for another case.

3:54 I'm thinking about what the word "impaneling" might mean (it's plastered all over the place and keeps getting announced in conjunction with random names). Can this word be used as an adverb to describe home decorating circa 1972?

3:55 A ray of Sunshine! No, really, Nancy Sunshine, Kings County Clerk, just announced that those of us who haven't been picked yet are being excused! All we have to do is wait for our name to be called to receive our certificate of completion. Now, time for the juror graduation ceremony! Am suppressing the urge to hum "Pomp and Circumstance" and congratulate fellow jurors on making it through the day without being selected.


Nancy Sunshine, clerk of Kings County, living up to her name.

4:10 A graduate of jury duty steps out into the cold, grey winter day, praising the Almighty with, "Free at last, free at last!" Spotted: Nancy Sunshine at the door, thanking each of us as we raced for the nearest exit. I thought to tell her about the jacked-up questioning process and terrible experience we'd just had but then remembered, "Free at last!" and "I don't care!"

4:20 Now in line at the post office next door to mail the long-delayed Christmas presents. Was thinking about how I basically bitched and moaned my way out of jury duty, worrying that perhaps I've cheated my state and country in the process. Am also feeling sorta guilty about my part in inciting the near-riot (and then smiling coyly when the attorneys returned to find torches and pitchforks).

4:40 Waiting for the train home, my mood lightens when I think of all the work I managed to do while fulfilling my civic responsibility. I'm especially comforted by the thought that it will be at least 8 years before I'm called again for jury duty. Here's hoping that plaintiff's attorney manages to select a jury before then!

Closing argument: If you don't want to serve on a jury, you can safely ignore all summons for about 8 years. After you've exhausted time and at least one allowed postponement request, show up very annoyed and be vociferously hostile. Justice may be blind but she ain't deaf.


A parting sneer on the way out of the courthouse.

Minding my own beeswax

Next month will mark 14 years since I last had a drink of alcohol (no thanks to super douchebag chef Alain Ducasse for marring that streak last year -- see "What a Ducasshole!" blog). It will also be nearly 17 years since I quit smoking and 19 since I dabbled in drugs. During the intervening years, I've had an ocean of Sprite while steering clear of new addictions such as fantasy football and all-you-can-eat buffets.

And yet, my mind somehow managed to sneak in a very big one, right under my nose: lip balm.

Before today, moistening my lips with Burt's Bees honey lip balm was something I did every 10 minutes or so without thinking. But, while applying the gooey sweetness this afternoon, I remembered a seemingly-inconsequential exchange I'd had over the holiday with my Mom:

Sitting on her couch in RI, my Mom casually mentioned a story she'd seen on TV about lip balm addiction and how it reminded her of me. "Really? Why?" She raised an "are you kidding me?" eyebrow and returned to watching the "On Demand" yule log on TV. I went back to applying lip balm.

One week later, there I was, reaching for the Burt's Bees that's permanently stationed below the radio in my car. I recounted the story to my Man, who was sitting in the passenger seat, also applying lip balm. He scoffed at the idea. "Lip balm addiction. Please."

The idea continued to fester in my head. I Googled "lip balm addiction" on my BlackBerry and somehow managed an epiphany while weaving through heavy traffic on the BQE into Manhattan: "Christ on a moped, I've replaced alcohol and cigarettes with lip balm!"

Granted, enjoying my stick of goo won't ever have me wondering, "where did I park my house?" or "is this tracheotomy really necessary?" -- but it's still an oral fixation not unlike all the others I'd been so careful to quit.

And, I'm pretty sure it's an addiction: I tried going without it for the 20-minute ride home...and failed. Maybe it was the 28-degree weather outside or dry, heated air in the car but my lips "cracked" like Pookie in New Jack City with just one mile to go.


Smoking my tube of beeswax and then basking in the post-moisture high.

So, now what? Do I give this up, too? Take a Burt's Bees inventory and throw the cracksticks into the heap along with vodka and Marlboro Lights? That's crazy! I mean, even if I did, it'd take for-f'n-ever to unearth all of my sticky stashes -- there's a lot of honey lip goo flowing around here.

Consider this cursory glance around the apartment:
1. living room, on the stand near the couch
2. living room, hanging on the wall in my coat pocket
3. bedroom, on the bedside stand near my side of the bed
4. bedroom, on the desk by the computer
5. den, on the desk by the laptop
6. den, on the bottom book shelf
7. bathroom, two tubes still in packaging
8. dining room, at the bottom of my purse
9. dining room, in the outside zipper of my purse
10. right pocket of the hoodie currently on my body

Aside from being a great exercise to teach kids prepositional phrases, it's also a terrifying survey of lips whose thirst for beeswax seems unquenchable.

And, that doesn't even begin to touch the staggering number of J/A/S/O/N and Burt's Bees tubes in the apartment that belong to my Man, who is a bigger balmhead than me. He WEARS a tube of lip balm around his neck like a lifeguard, for crying out loud. His misplacement of my goo has led to many panic-stricken moments in which I race around the apartment like an asthmatic desperately searching for an inhaler. At this rate, our children might need lip balm in utero instead of amniotic fluid.

While I don't like the idea of being addicted, I guess there are worse things I could rub on my mouth every 10 minutes, like dog shit or random body parts (mine or otherwise). Today's realization just struck me as being a cruel joke: try as we might, we can never truly be free of addictions. Freedom is an illusion disguised as choice: good or bad, CVS or crackhouse, moisturized lips or black lung?

Addendum
I applied lip balm no less than 20 times while writing this blog. Thinking about it seems to trigger the impulse to apply. I'll bet fellow balmheads applied several times while reading.

Surprisingly, there's a lot of attention being paid to this topic by reputable media outlets (the Washington Post -- really?). Just a quick search online turns up a few interesting nuggets:

Get over your lip balm addiction
By Julia Feldmeier | Special to The Washington Post
December 28, 2008
(which concludes with) Reach instead for your water bottle. Most of us don't drink enough water, and the hydration will only help your lips.

Beating Your Addiction (from the BBC)
(which claims) Lip balm addiction is just another form of substance abuse. Over time you become dependent on it, and getting out involves some necessary and unavoidable discomfort. In truth, you don't need the product, because most of the time you create your own problem - by licking your lips.

Lip Balm Anonymous (a parody set up in '95 by a Web developer)
Lip Balm Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other so that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from their addiction. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop using lip balm and there are never any fees for membership as we are self supported through our own contributions. We are not affiliated with any sect, denomination, political organization, or institution.

Are Lip Balms Addictive? (a special page on Blistex.com)
(lots of blurbs from the media poo-pooing the idea of lip balm addiction) Excerpted from the Australian edition of Cosmopolitan Magazine, December, 2002:
"Since dry lips can be a chronic condition and balms provide immediate relief, habitual use may feel like an addiction," says David Leffell, a professor of dermatology at Yale University. "But there's no ingredient that causes a true chemical dependency."

Bum blog

While Christmas shopping the other day, I was reminded of a 2004 visit with family in England for the holiday. Most of my time there is spent with my Aunty Chris and Uncle Ron, a loving couple in their mid-60's who live in Birmingham. Packing up for a long drive to London to visit other family, my Aunt called to me from the car, "Jenn, babe, can you ask your Uncle Ron to bring my bum bag?"

Um, bum bag?

I went into their cozy little house to find Uncle Ron putting the final touches on our sandwiches for the ride (these are people who survived the Battle of Britain - there's no stopping for food on the way when there's plenty to be packed from home). "Um, Uncle Ron? Aunty Chris wants her bum bag," I said, suppressing laughter. He reached into a closet and handed me a fanny pack.

"Ohhhhh," I said, realizing yet another funny British-to-American translation. "In the States, we call these 'fanny packs.'"

"You WHAT?"

"Fanny packs."

"Go tell your Aunty Chris that. She'll love it."

So, off to the car I raced, bum bag/fanny pack in hand. I recounted the story for her and she howled with laughter until tears ran down her cheeks. What could be funnier than the act of actually wearing a fanny pack?

"Oh, Jenn! Do you know what a 'fanny' is in England?"

"Your butt?"

"No, it's your vagina! And it's not a nice word for vagina, either!"

And, so, that's how I learned "pussy" equals "fanny" and not "arse" in England. I thought of this story with fondness as I stood 15-people deep in line at Macy's in Brooklyn the other day (they have a very strict hiring policy: no IQs over 50). In my arms were two LeSportsac fanny packs.

For everyone born after 1930, there awaits a fate that seems as inescapable as BINGO: the fanny pack. What seems open for negotiation is when we decide to start wearing said utilitarian belt. For some, it comes with retirement age; for others (like my good friend Paula), it comes in your 20's shortly after the birth of a child. For me, it looks like it may be as soon as next summer.

While rummaging through the LeSportsac bin at Macy's, I came across a fun, colorful little number called "Frida Vibe." I held it up for inspection and then tossed it back in the pile with disdain: it was, after all, a fanny pack.

Then I thought of Paula, rushing around Coral Gables with her well-worn Gucci fanny pack bursting at the sides with papers, cell phones, keys. "This would make a great Christmas present for her," I thought (ignoring the fact that Paula is a practicing Jew). And so, off I went to purchase the curious item.

The line for the cashier was long so I had plenty of time to ponder the pack. I thought of the song "Camel Toe" by Fanny Pack, a group from Brooklyn that seemed intent on single-handedly making the fanny pack cool just by virtue of their name (note: none of them actually wear a fanny pack).



Then, I was reminded of another group now flying under the radar whose determination to bring back all things gross is a big as its girth: Leslie and the LYs. I couldn't remember if I've seen Leslie rockin' a fanny pack, although it's a very strong possibility. The woman loves gold lame, fringe and your grandmother's sweaters - so why not? Maybe fanny packs are the next big, ugly thing in fashion?


I vote Leslie and the LYs most likely to use Glamour Shots for album covers. Their "Blame the Booty" remix is in heavy rotation on my iPod.

And then the mixture of counter-culture cool and Paula's explanation of the pack's usefulness fused in my brain: perhaps I should have one of these ugly things, too? Why should only Disney tourists and aging queers have them? I examined the pack in my hand and thought of everything I could store in it while say, riding a bike in Central Park (what? I've done it!) or taking in a game?

So, I politely asked the angry customer behind me to hold my place in line while I went back for another pack. I worked quickly not because I worried about losing my spot but because I was afraid to think about what I was doing. I was about to buy a fanny pack, for me.

As I write this, I'm wearing the fanny pack, you know, just to see if I can do it. My man says I look like a gay carpenter.


Me and my new fanny pack (or pussy pack for those in the British Isles).

I'm still unsure of how I feel and wonder if I can manage this in public? The rest of my outfit will have to be really cool so people don't get the wrong idea about me (no black socks with flip flops that day!). Watch for my fanny pack's debut next summer, friends (my man has already warned that no less than 5 feet will be between he and I at all times).

While parading through the apartment just now, I noticed that wearing the fanny pack doesn't make me feel old or gay (like I was afraid it might). And, I now believe that somewhere deep in our Anglo DNA, Americans know that a fanny isn't a butt. How else to explain why we instinctively wear it in the front?

Does this blog match?

I once saw an MTV "True Life" episode about teens with obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD for those who haven't spent years talking to shrinks -- um, like me) and I thought, "that sucks, having to count all the jellybeans and color-coordinate them before finally allowing yourself to eat them." What can I say? It was a moment where I felt safe enough in my sanity to feel pity for others more obviously afflicted than me.

So, it was with a little bit of shock the other day that I observed myself experiencing an undeniably OCD moment: On the train, I was filled with glee when yet another person with a red accessory boarded. Unbeknownst to him, the man with the red tote bag was the perfect addition to my already-assembled Red Team lineup. It was all I could do to keep from cheering when he sat RIGHT BESIDE the other Q train passengers who had also decided to wear red AND be on my train that day.


Check it out: Red shoes, purse, tote, jacket, ipod case AND earphones (hard to see but the hipster chick with the BLUE checkered suitcase has these)

"Yeah, yeah," you're thinking, "what's so OCD about noticing patterns?" Well, prior to the Red Team's formation, I had been happily relishing the joys of being on a train where all of the advertisements match. Yup, I take far too much pleasure in boarding a train made up entirely of Budweiser ads (as opposed to those that offer a potpourri of crappy technical school and skin care ads for Dr. Z).


I'm mulling over a petition to the MTA that all subway trains have matching ads like this one. Sorry the photo is blurry but Red Team members were growing suspicious of me, my glee and picture-taking.

I imagine what I felt at that moment--surrounded by a train AND people that matched--was similar to what the chick on MTV felt when she finally ate the jellybeans.

Until then, I never thought that OCD might also be on the menu (throw it in there with ADHD and whatever other acronym you'd like). In my youth, I don't recall having to wait a certain number of times before answering the phone or wearing my Burger King visor at a certain angle before operating the fryer. But, I guess that's my glitch: I fixate on things that match.

I have a very difficult time with the whole hipster paradigm of mismatched outfits. In fact, I'm deeply bothered by the entire population of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I know, I know, they're cool, I'm not. But, the confusion and sadness I feel in Urban Outfitters is not my fault; my wardrobe is limited not by bad taste but results from a psychological disability. And, you know, it really hurts my feelings when I overhear fashionistas say, "ugh, but it's SO matchy-matchy!"

I'm now on high-alert for other OCD symptoms such as checking every 5 seconds to see if the toaster is on fire. The closest I've come to new evidence is calling my Man from midtown the other day to see if I'd remembered to turn the boombox off. It makes me wonder what else is OCD about me?
- That I eat the same salad every night?
- That I've worn the same nail color since '94?
- That I only drink Dunkin Donuts coffee (even in Barcelona - sorry, Marni and Dan, but what were the odds of finding DD in Spain? I had to partake)?
- That I correctly punctuate text messages?

Or, that I always have to end a blog with a witty punchline?

Addendum: Yes, I know I don't really have OCD (more of a self-absorbed hypochondriac than anything). It's just funnier to say that I do. I'm sorry if I offended those who actually have it or know someone who does -- well, I know someone who does, too. He went through a phase where he couldn't open doors with his hands and would wear gloves or open them with his sleeve. Yeah, he was pretty much a freak.

I was a big tease

I think I'm one of the few people who looks at old photos with the same apprehension that plastic surgery patients must have about pre-op snapshots. Instead of "dear God, how did ants never mistake my breasts for home sweet home?!" I have the pleasure of wondering, "Why did my parents keep buying me hair spray?"

Yes, for those who met me after 1991, I was a Jersey Hair girl. No, let's be honest: I did everything but snort Aqua Net. I've never been comfortable with admitting that I had a problem but I was outed on Facebook this week by my HS friend Amy, who posted a photo of me from 11th grade that would make Bon Jovi wince:

I only hope that this look is so 80's that its awfulness can be considered cool.

I honestly don't know what possessed me to do that to my hair. I don't recall anyone ever telling me that it looked good (which should've been a clue). I wish I could remember the acid-wash-wearing person who inspired me (so I can hate them) but I can't. Vats of alcohol left me drowning in dead brain cells so I don't remember much about the 80's, 90's and half of today (let alone which member of Bananarama might've sparked my interest in mousse).

Who's to blame for such a craptastic hybrid of mullet and ladder? I could blame MTV and movies (even pets had big hair back then). I could also blame my friends (let's face it, alleged BFFs: I would've been pretty if it weren't for that rats nest). But, in the hopes of making peace with my past and hair, I'll take the blame. I'm the one who spent hours teasing and sculpting that 4"-closer-to-God helmet, after all.

It's okay, Facebook friends from CSHS, feel free to leave the comments you've all been thinking: "Jesus, her hair looks better now that it's conforming to the law of gravity" or "So THAT'S what her face looks like!" I'm not afraid to talk about the flammable mess that once topped my head.

I mean, really, we all have something we didn't like about ourselves as teenagers (braces, baby fat, acne, bad makeup, ugly clothes, etc). Anyone who looks at their yearbook without cringing is either a liar or an asshole. Seriously, if you were perfect in high school, FUCK YOU (I probably wasn't friends with you then, either).

But back to the healing process...thanks, Amy, for helping me see that no matter how old I felt today, being young doesn't guarantee looking better. And much respect to my Man for helping me put down the hairspray and step away from the blow dryer in 1992; without him, I may never have felt the wind blowing through my hair again. In fact, I'd probably be bald.

In the interest of moving forward, here's one last look back at the "hair don't" I once thought was perfectly normal, possibly even cool:

A chronological retrospective of how my hair progressed in high school: big, bigger, biggest, and OMFG. Of course, "progressed" might not be the right word.

The youngest old person

I visit South FL once every 3-4 months without much fanfare (I pick myself up from the airport) and yet, every time I come, this place manages to find a new way to freak me out -- this after living here for nearly 25 years.

I landed in Ft. Lauderdale last night around 5 and by 6, I was already rushing my rental car west toward dinner with my Aunt, Uncle, Cousin and Dad. They'd decided on the Olive Garden in Coral Springs because some awful person had given my Aunt a gift card to the place.

On the cell phone while waiting for my luggage, they asked, "do you know where it is?" Of course. It was where I first waited tables back in '92.

The outside of the place is still the same box (fitting since most of the "authentic Italian food" is delivered in boxes, too). Upon entering, however, the inside has been completely gutted (unless they singled out the Coral Springs one for special interior design treatment, I imagine the same thing has happened to all Olive Gardens?).

I felt like one of the old farts who used to come into Lundy's, a landmark seafood restaurant in Brooklyn where I last waited tables in '02. At least once a day, elderly customers would wax nostalgic to me about the 80-year-old restaurant, "I used to come here as a kid. Back then, only negroes waited tables here and the biscuits were always so light and fluffy..."

So, there I was, telling the young server that, like her, I peddled General Mills' own brand of "Hospitaliano" 16 years ago. Leaning in like a senior citizen about to let a whipper snapper in on a secret, I told her about the scam we ran during the bottomless soup/salad lunch rush (dropping the same check at different tables and pocketing any who paid with cash).

She laughed, saying they still did the same scam. "Imagine: I was only 5 years old then!" she observed, bouncing off to greet a new table.

Christ on a stick. I really am one of those old farts now.

It was surreal but things got even weirder after dinner. I dragged my cousin Frankie down to Galaxy Skateway in Davie for Round 2 of "Adult Skate Night in the Land that Time Forgot" (see "Time Travel to Another Galaxy" blog entry).

While shuffling to Clay D's "Boot the Booty," I spotted an Asian man who looked familar. By the third time I passed him, I was certain I knew him from somewhere but couldn't figure out where (a common occurance since alcohol morphed my memory into Swiss cheese).

By the time the DJ was mixing "Egypt, Egypt," I remembered who he was: the token attractive Asian guy at the Coral Springs Roller Rink. He was probably in his late teens/early 20's then but everyone in my middle school used to sweat him. I'm sure I knew his name when I was 12, watching eagerly as he laced up his speed skates, but my mind was now blank. I remembered only muscles.

I skated over to him and said, "hey, did you used to skate at the Coral Springs rink back in the day?" He smiled widely and said he used to go every weekend before it became a Pep Boys. That's when the editor in my head went on a "stay-cation."

"I knew it was you," I replied. "You used to be really built," I said, motioning to where his rippling muscles once were, now replaced by a sunken chest and middle-aged arms. I should've noticed the expression on his face (it was probably the same one I had when the server told me she was 5 back when I was a fresh-faced 20-year-old working at the Olive Garden) but I continued.

"You used to wear white tank tops all the time to show off your muscles." For some inexplicable reason, the asshole in me left the "what happened?" part unsaid.

So, that was yesterday. Feeling old and sorry for myself, I decided to do the only thing I can at this point to feel better: hang out with people way older than me.

My Dad lives in a retirement community (I'm proud to say he was one of the first Baby Boomers to infiltrate these particular condos) so today I made my way to one of its many pools, where a cluster of alligator-skinned senior citizens was floating in the mid-day sun.

From the moment I entered the gated pool area, all eyes were on me. "Who is that young person?" "Who does she think she is, being young here?" I propped my relatively-nubile body on a sun chair and fed myself grapes while reading, feeling quite happy to be the youngest person in a 1-mile radius.

Out of the corner of my eye, a lizard caught my attention, winking at me from where it was perched on the fence. It was a small, young lizard and seemed to be saying, "we're all animals, but at least you and I are the youngest."


At the Petco near my house in Brooklyn, these critters go for $14 a pop but they're as common as flies in South FL (maybe I should stuff a few in my carry-on?).

Must-pee TV

After a bittersweet day at Gillette Stadium for the Patriots' home-opener (where I watched Tom Brady's knee get twisted like a pretzel from WBZ-Boston's mind-meltingly-awesome luxury suite), Jeremy and I were kicking back on the couch in Boston, flipping through the channels in yet another mind-meltingly-awesome suite at the Taj.

We stopped on Fox's new show, "Hole in the Wall," the American version of a very funny Japanese game show where people of all sizes have seconds to contort into shapes so they can fit through a hole in a wall or be pushed by it into a vat of acid-colored water. As we laughed at team Beer Bellies vs team Six Pack, I was reminded of the funniest game show ever: Spike TV's "MXC: Most Extreme Elimination Challenge."

If you've never seen it, think "Mystery Science Theater 3000" meets Japanese game show -- very funny Americans dubbing over a Japanese game show of outrageous and humiliating challenges. I'm not sure if it's still on the air, but there's plenty of footage on YouTube:

An assortment of highlights from the show. Best line: "here's Karen Griffin. She paints life-sized boogie men in children's closets."

With all the crap on TV, I can't understand how this one isn't on the radar. If I was a TV exec, THIS would be must-see TV (which is probably why I'm not a TV exec).

Better yet, I'd market it as "must-pee TV." Ya know, people always say, "I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants" but does anyone really pee in their pants from laughing? On the serious tip: watching MXC is the closest I've come to doing so.

If you're ever in desperate need of a laugh, I recommend watching clips of old MXC episodes on YouTube. Facing the very real threat of a Bradyless season, it was exactly what this grief-stricken Pats fan needed.

I'll be okay. Just on my way to the bathtub now with a dull blade.

Fancy words from a clitoris

Saturday afternoon found me trapped on the couch, impatiently waiting for rain that never came. All week, the weather reports got me excited for the day's alleged thunderstorms (the only thing I miss about South FL). Disappointed, I remained on the couch for hours, waiting for something else to happen.

Determined to find brain candy on the TV, I unearthed nuggets of fun between channels 187 and 190 ("80 Hours of the 80's" on VH1 Classic and a "Prince Video Marathon" on VH1 Soul). Ah, the 80's: permed mullets, acid wash, Peter Gabriel's Africa phase and Prince's little purple boots.

But I soon found something funnier than Glass Tiger's "Someday" video (really, it summarizes everything that went wrong in the 80's). Caught between the two channels like some Balkan nation is CMT, the Country Music Channel (or "the channel I quickly skip over, pretending not to notice").

I'd never watched more than 5 nano seconds of it before; I thought it was an endless loop of "The Dukes of Hazzard." But while skipping past it, I stumbled across a show called "My Big Redneck Wedding."

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

Hosted by a surprisingly-tolerable Tom Arnold, the show follows the nuptials of the red state-iest rednecks who, through some giant legal loophole, are allowed to marry and produce offspring.


Yup, she got a pink shotgun as a weddin' gift. It's a right perty one.

The first episode I saw was about John and Gail, a couple from a place I'll never visit who live in a double wide trailer and deliver newspapers for a living. It was as if they'd won a "who can best exemplify every redneck stereotype there is?" contest. Consider:
* John proposed to Gail by peeing "marry me" on the road one morning.
* They decorate the wedding with beer cans (John drinks most of them the night before to finish the arch in time).
* While writing his wedding vows, John tells his granny that "I'd like to use fancy words but I don't have a clitoris" (i.e. a thesaurus for those with indoor plumbing).
* One of his vows goes like this, "I want to put your love into a locket, 'cause you're hotter than a Hot Pocket. We done it in the backseat and at the zoo, I don't care where we do it, as long as it's with you."
* Their wedding is held at an indoor flea market and includes a mechanical bull ride.
* John gets Gail's wedding gift at a bowling alley out of a claw machine -- a stuffed snow man he paid $38 in quarters for.
* On the day of their wedding, Gail is sent into a tizzy because she can't find her teeth.

A 5-minute clip from John and Gail's episode that includes John's lack of a "clitoris" to look up "fancy words." (View more episodes here.)

After setting the DVR to record future episodes, I realized that it was my lucky day: CMT was in the middle of a "My Big Redneck Wedding" marathon! Other episodes included mud, hog hunting, mud, deer skulls, mud, demolition derbies, mud and a Confederate-flag-waving-truck load of camouflage (every groom wore it and every bride incorporated it into her dress, veil and/or garter).

Between laughs, the fear started creeping up. I began to feel dirty. I wondered, is wearing camouflage one of Jeff Foxworthy's "you might be a redneck if..." jokes?

While I don't own any camo hunting coats, I sometimes wear camo pants to do bullshit errands and hang out. I mean, it was only a month or so ago that I was lamenting the loss of my favorite camo pants in the Grand Canyon (see "I lost my pants in the Grand Canyon" blog entry).

As I got myself off the couch and ready to go out, I announced to my man, "I don't think I can ever wear camo again after seeing that." A fan of camo himself, he reassured me that as long as I don't show up to a weddin' wearing camo, I'm in the clear.

Minutes later, I threw on a camo cap to hide my hair (which had been viciously attacked by humidity from rain that never came). Feeling like a Wal-Mart shopper in Central Florida on her way to buy bullets for the kids, I stepped out into the streets of Brooklyn. Fuhgetaboudit, ya'll.


"Camo cap" is probably a lot more tasteful than it sounds.

Doodle bug (me)

So lately I've been seeing a lot of fake doodling in advertisements and it's really starting to annoy me. At first, I thought it was clever. I even felt a fond wave of nostalgia for the doodling that marks our youthful days. I'm to the point now where I'm starting to resent Madison Ave for doing such a bad job of it.

Case in point:

This is an ad for Kellogg's -- its design is like a giant cereal bowl of doodles kids can never escape.

Now compare that with doodles from my 8th grade yearbook:


Clearly, there's no comparison.

I think back on all the doodles I drew and shared with friends (especially Jenn Grill -- now Ritter -- my best friend and co-conspirator in a 7th grade attempt to sketch and make fun of everyone who lived in Coral Springs, FL).

None of my adolescent doodles mentioned a love of Captain Crunch cereal. Most of our sketches came from a place of pure evil; in fact, the capture of one landed me in detention for a week with "Admiral Asshole" (from the doodle pictured above).

Why would advertisers think they could safely mine such a treacherous shaft? I'm guessing it all started with 2004's "Napoleon Dynamite," whose innocent "ligers" were quintessential dork doodles.

Shortly after the surprise success of that movie, I started noticing t-shirts in Delia's, Urban Outfitter's and Alloy catalogs that were close representations of school-inspired doodles (thy muse being Boredom).

Ah, if only they WERE lifted out of actual notes, I might buy one. Nothing compares to the real thing. No advertising exec can match the evil wit of a bored 13-year-old.

And even if they could, it's unlikely that any corporation would want real doodles selling their products ("be a Cokehead like Kate" with someone snorting a can of Coca Cola off a mirror, for instance).

It makes me wonder: At what point do our doodles cease to be creative, clever, evil and fun? My adult doodle life is mostly my name in a cloud of lightning and bubbles. I've observed other adults doodling those lame-ass boxes within boxes (yawn!). It's sad what becomes of our doodling lives as we age. Does anyone do a good job of it over the age of 25?

Of all the nostalgic doodling going on in advertising now, I think JC Penney does it best (their throw-back "Breakfast Club" commercials are dead-on awesome). Check out their cute take on the classic "doodle heart" renderings we've all scratched at one point:


p.s. Incidentally, Molly Ringwald used doodle "product placement" back in 1984's "Sixteen Candles." Her 3-ring binder has "The Rave-Ups" doodled across the back (she was such a fan of the band that they later appeared in "Pretty in Pink" playing in the background of the club scene). Not sure how successful she was since the only people who bought their album were Molly and her sister, Beth.

Your stoopid

So, my friend Jason Roeder (who suffered alongside me on our high school newspaper after it was hijacked by a harpie) is now posting a very funny video series, "Magical Jason: Secrets of the Professional-Caliber Magician" on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/user/JasonSRoeder).

His email about the humorous series implored friends to leave comments, ratings, bird seed, etc (actually, his exact directions were: "If you like what I've got so far, please do right by the vids: send or post the link, five-star, comment, etc. If you're unsatisfied, you can just say that you couldn't watch because your operating system doesn't have a required plug-in or whatever. For future reference, I'm VERY easy to trick that way.").


Jason's second video, "Dizzy Ball," slips in a reference to "Space Jam." Nicely done.

As I dutifully attempted to leave a comment, YouTube prompted me to sign in, like some self-important bouncer at a cheesy over-40 night club in Sunrise, FL. Disheartened, I almost clicked back to the kitty porn I'd been viewing when I remembered that I'm a YouTube member.

Thanks to the one video I posted back in January, I was able to leave Jason some encouraging words. My only video is the one I taped off my Uncle Mark's TV of me on the NFL Network asking Tom Brady a question at the AFC Championship press conference (my panties are still drying, BTW). Its posting had one mission: so I could share it with all of my Patriots-loving family and Patriots-hating friends.

"Magical Jason" comments successfully posted, I decided to check out how MY video was doing in the comments/ratings department. Surprisingly, 1,175 people have watched the video since I posted it six months ago (I have a big family but not THAT big). Better yet, THREE people actually left comments.

Excited to see what kinds of comments my super-awesome reporting skills had elicited, I clicked on the video. Not sure what I was expecting but here are the caveman droppings I discovered:

Jeterfan906 (4 months ago)
what a fuckin douchebag any other athlete beside football player and theyd get fined so much there next paycheck wouldnt even come

walkontheocean8888 (6 months ago)
tom Brady is having a shitty day. Suck it Tom!

madness410 (6 months ago)
my name is tom. fuck you.

I've now watched the video three more times to try to understand how these comments apply. I am now giving up. I think the first one, "my name is tom. fuck you." pretty much says it all (although he gets points for correct spelling and punctuation).

Clearly, the bar for YouTube comments is subterranean. I worry that the 15 seconds I took to compose a coherent thought in response to Jason's "magic" was 14 too long. What a loser I am for using logic and grammar. What a waste of capital letters. Using one booger-encrusted finger, I should've just banged out "your stoopid" on the keyboard.

Listen, I get that the rules are relaxed here but are we at the point of being so relaxed that we're comatose? Who started this "if I write it online, it doesn't have to be literate" trend?

Or, is it naive to assume that laziness is to blame and not ignorance? Does the proliferation of email, text messages and IM offer a terrifying snapshot of the illiterate masses?

Seriously, are we THAT stoopid?

Oh no Katy-DIDN'T!

After 6 endless days working with perfectly cute Girl Scouts (and 5 torturous nights spent cursing an obnoxious bug outside my hotel window), I was free to return to gritty reality and NYC on Tuesday morning. I happily made my way down through the woods to my car, which had sat in a cozy parking lot surrounded by a babbling brook, Bambi and bugs since my arrival a week before.

As I sped down the Taconic toward the Saw Mill Parkway and away from Westchester, I noticed a small, bright green spider peeking out from behind my side mirror. Figures, I thought. Could the bug be any other color after a week with Girl Scouts? I wouldn't be surprised if it could spin a web of rainbow sprinkles.

Then, about 4 miles down the Saw Mill, I was shocked to see a gigantic green bug crawling on the lower right corner of my windshield! It was a katydid, the very same kind of bug whose sound was closest to the anonymous one that had annoyed the shit out of me all week (see previous blog, "I'm calling the cicada cops").


The bug on my windshield looked just like the one I heard (whatever that means).

As I sped closer to a 12 o'clock meeting in midtown, I figured the bug would eventually blow away. But, even at 70 mph, the only indication of speed was his antennae blowing wildly in the breeze and an occasional leg shift to steady his grip. Not wanting to be directly responsible for his death, I refrained from using the windshield wipers (I was unsure if this was the same bug whose demise I had been praying for).

About 30 miles later, I merged onto the Henry Hudson (aka West Side Hwy) and paid a toll as I entered Manhattan. Perfect chance for the bug to fly away...but it didn't. I snapped a picture of it as a taxi sped by just south of the GW. The bug seemed just as determined as I was to get to midtown.


This picture cracks me up (and almost inspired me to write a children's book called "Katy-did-it" about the adventures of a bug...almost).

As I exited at 96th Street, I decided to get the bug off my car as I would be parking in a garage and his doom would be sealed in such a place. I pulled over on Riverside Drive where the trees were still thick enough to afford a lush new home for my stow-away.

I figured I could pick him up by the wings and fling him into a nearby tree; however, the second my hand neared his weird bum, he made the most obnoxious noise...the SAME NOISE THAT HAD KEPT ME UP FOR THE LAST 5 NIGHTS!!!

Vengeance was mine.

I began flicking him with glee in my attempts to get him off the car. It was a mixture of joy (to discover the culprit at last!) and resolve (to get this bug out of my life once and for all). The noise became louder and more frequent but still, he refused to fly away.

Thanks to his loud and obnoxious eeh, eeh, eeh's, a group of two well-dressed mothers and their perfectly-coiffed children walking on the sidewalk took notice of my efforts. As he walked up my windshield and over the roof of my car towards the road, I felt their stare. I had to pretend to care. I could not flick him into oncoming traffic. Dammit.

To stop my cruel flicking, one of the mothers suggested I pluck a leaf from the tree and use it to relocate the bug (she'd probably been a Girl Scout). I followed her advice and as I placed the bug into a nearby tree, the group erupted in cheers and high fives (they were all probably Girl Scouts). I left before anyone started singing "Make new friends, but keep the old..."

As I drove away, I fumed about the upper west side momsters thwarting my revenge. But, the anger dissolved when I realized that they probably live in some $4 million brownstone on a block near where I left the obnoxious katydid.

Sleep tight, I hope that bug keeps you up all night!


(L) 96th Street and Riverside where I resolved to rid myself of the bug and (R) the tree where the bug is probably still making a nuisance of himself.

I'm calling the cicada cops

So, I'm staying at a conference center deep in the dark woods of Westchester county (about 45 minutes north of NYC) for a 6-day training gig I'm doing for Girl Scouts of the USA. Each 15-hour day is kicking my ass if only because I have to be up with the sun each day (as opposed to going to sleep right before it peeks over the horizon).

Heavy with exhaustion, I crawled into bed last night around 11:30. Just as my head hit the pillow, a horrific bug started making the most annoying noise right outside the window. (Of course, the windows of my room were open to the night air; I welcome the sounds of my beloved crickets!) It's hard to describe the irritating noise but I'll do my best "hooked on phonics" attempt:

ehh, ehh, ehh
ihh, ihh
ehh, ehh, ehh
ihh, ihh
ehh, ehh, ehh

On and on it went without ceasing. I figured a cicada the size of a cat was behind it. I lay there wondering if it was close enough to swat or set on fire. After 10 minutes, I begrudgingly closed the windows, cursing the evil bug for drowning out the sound of crickets and delaying my sleep.

But even with the windows sealed, the noise persisted as though it was in the room. I covered my head with pillows. No use. WTF? It was hard to believe that here I was, in the middle of a veritable nature preserve (complete with deer, bunnies, chipmunks, and wild turkeys) and I'd have an easier time falling asleep back in Brooklyn.

As a matter of fact, if this bug was a neighbor in Brooklyn, I could've at least called the cops on it. I'm sure its decibels were enough to qualify for a noise ordinance violation. Unfortunately, Bambiland doesn't have cicada cop patrols.

Nearly 40 minutes later, the bug was still ehh, ehh, ehh, ihh, ihh-ing and I'd moved on to wishing hateful things on it. Seriously, as a member of the food chain's basement, there has to be at least 50 things willing to kill and eat this bug. Where were its predators when I needed them? Was the owl busy getting its talons done?

So, now it's Night Two, another long 15-hour day behind me. I just returned to the room after a welcome break off-site with Tania and Tom Tom (who kindly drove here from CT and invited me to a yummy belated bday sushi dinner in Chappaqua -- our server was a very aggressive female Don Ho impersonator).

And who do you think is busy outside my window again?

I'm blogging about this now with the hopes that he'll tire or be eaten by the time I'm done. Plan B? There are 40 teenage Girl Scouts here with me who had 10 tons of sugar earlier tonight at an ice cream social. My guess is that one of them is on a sick enough sugar high that I could entice her into hunting the bug down and killing it.

As a trusted adult (insert evil laugh), I might be able to convince her that there's a new patch available: Bug Exterminator.


Just searched online for the obnoxious bugtard responsible for all the racket. The closest I came was the common katydid. I just find it hard to believe that something this harmless-looking could make such a vile noise:
Obnoxious noise


Don Ho, the source of a different kind of annoying noise (aka "Tiny Bubbles").

Goodbye, 18-34

So, today is my 35th birthday. [thud]

That was my ego collapsing into a hot old mess on the floor.

No, I'll be fine. As long as I don't LOOK my age, I'm cool with it (incidentally, if you didn't get me a present or card, it's okay as long as you tell me I look 12). And as my friends will attest, I certainly don't ACT my age.

So, what then is the point of counting up the years if it's only to see how many candles to put on the cake? (At this point, I'd need a cake the size of a twin mattress.)

Well, I guess there are some biological reasons why age is important. In fact, turning 35 is especially traumatic because of them. When I turned 30, my Mom said, "I hope you don't plan on waiting much longer to have children because after 35, the risk of having a child with Down's Syndrome increases 50%." Yeah, it's times like that when you wish your Mom wasn't an RN.

Birth defects aside, I think I'm most afraid of filling out surveys and forms now. Goddamn whoever invented "age brackets." I dread the first time I have to check "35-44" instead of "18-34." [Ugh. Did somebody just close a window? I need air!]

Here's a word of advice to all my 18-34 friends: live every minute like a fucking rock star.

I didn't believe the old people when they first told me but it's true: life really does start to speed up as you get older. Days and weeks become months and then years faster than Seth Rogen churns out movies.

One day you're in high school and the next, you're 3 years away from the 20-year reunion ('sup, class of '91). The only thing that remains besides hazy memories and crappy yearbooks is student loan debt (at this rate, my grandkids will inherit mine).

In honor of birthdays and the years when 35 seemed like retirement age, here's a trailer from one of my favorite movies, 1984's Sixteen Candles...enjoy!


The most quotable movie EVER!

I'm afraid of me 30 years from now

In the process of re-doing the old roommate's room and transforming it into a home office/guest room, I became obsessed with throwing things away and buying stuff. It was like "Trading Spaces" took my apartment over, except they forgot to give me money and someone else's place to ruin.

Well, I haven't ruined anything (yet). The home office/guest room is coming along nicely (will post photos of it once I'm done, no doubt). I've dubbed it the "boogie down" room as I'm going with an old school hip hop theme. In the meantime, I've got some nice pieces in there, repainted the ceiling a crisp white and then one wall a gorgeous sky blue.

While I was in Target getting a new power drill to put the corner desk together, I passed by a stack of microwaves on sale for $40. Hmmmm.

I thought of the big, brown microwave in my kitchen, the one my Dad gave me waaaaaay back in '97 when I moved in with my boyfriend. Bigger than most compact cars, the microwave was already a fossil when he gave it to me -- but, it worked. And that, with my experience in childhood poverty, was enough reason to keep it for the next 11 years.

But here was Target offering little white ones for $40 (yes, they're made in the USA - I checked). The proverbial angels appeared on my shoulders to duke it out, except they were Rachael Ray and Suze Orman:
"Aw, it's so cute and only $40!"
"Yes, but the one at home works."
"True, but this one would perfectly match the other things in my kitchen."
"So what -- since when does one need to accessorize in the kitchen?"
"I do! Plus, the cute one will free up much-needed counter space."
"Okay, but what would you do with the extra 2 inches?"
"What WOULDN'T I do with an extra 2 inches?"
"Is this just for the kitchen?"

Finally, Rachael Ray won and I bought it (along with the power drill and a box of Goldfish to inhale on the way home).

It was a much harder decision than one would expect about a microwave. Part of me felt a sentimental attachment to the old microwave with its faux wood paneling on the sides. After all, my Dad had given it to me. It was like a family heirloom (that zaps the living shit out of things).


(L) The old microwave--with a water bottle nearby for perspective--awaiting its removal while the new microwave (R) leaves ample space for whatever it is that one does in the kitchen.

When I got home, I delicately opened the new microwave's box, just in case I had second thoughts and decided to take it back. But once it was on the counter top, shiny and white and taking up a significantly less amount of space, I ditched the box. Getting rid of the old microwave was a different story, though.

Placing it in the hallway to be removed by the super the next day was tough. I put a Post-It note on it boasting, "I work!" with a happy face below, just in case a neighbor wanted it (or collects first-generation microwaves from the '80's). Thankfully, I didn't see it tossed outside on the sidewalk with the other trash so perhaps someone adopted it after all? (sigh) I'd like to think so.

Every time I use the new microwave, I'm overcome with a terrible fear as I wait for the food to cook. What will I be like 30 years from now if this is what it's like for me to part with stuff at age 34? I don't want to be one of those old ladies with plastic on the couch (because it was the first one she bought) and who still uses her first toaster. I don't want to smell like moth balls, either.

And I've been waiting a while for food to cook in the new microwave, ironically enough. It doesn't have half the nuking power of the old one (I guess they really DON'T make them like they used to). Things such as popcorn and soup take twice as long to heat (Suze Orman's angel is cursing me for the money I'll now be wasting on electricity).

But, it's nice to have something smaller that matches the fridge, blender, toaster and coffee maker. That's the price of progress and fashion, I guess. Sorry, Dad and Suze.

I lost my pants in the Grand Canyon

Okay, so today was a very emotional day for me. Since returning from a 4-day trip to the Grand Canyon nearly 2 weeks ago, a little voice (one of the many in my head) had been quietly nagging me to check the whereabouts of my favorite pair of pants. Today, I finally listened to that voice (who by now was smugly humming A Tribe Called Quest's "I left my wallet in El Segundo").

Everyone has a favorite something or other in the closet -- shoes, jeans, t-shirt, Honduran boy, etc. Me? I had a favorite pair of camouflage pants. I say "had" because they're gone.

The last time I wore them was on the flight to Vegas, where I met my Dad. After getting the Shelby GT-H Mustang, we made like Elvis and promptly left the building for the Canyon. The last time I saw them was in the cabin we rented; they were in my luggage, awaiting their next tour of duty.


I've heard of traveling pants but... The last photo of my favorite camouflage pants was taken somewhere on the border of Nevada and Utah. At least they went out with a 350-horsepower bang.

The horrible realization that they'd disappeared first began to dawn last Thursday when I couldn't find the black belt I usually wear with them. Luckily, I tend to buy things I like in two's so I had a back-up belt waiting (grrrr, if only I'd done the same years ago when I bought those pants at Macy's!).

It wasn't until today that I fully realized my all-time favorite pants are no longer with me. I checked my luggage again, I texted my cousin in Vegas, I called the two hotels where we had stayed, I even called my Dad to see if he accidentally packed them (they are, after all, camouflage and could easily blend in with other clothing). Nothing. The pain in my heart was as though I'd lost a friendship.

Oh, you think I exaggerate. Seriously, I've had easier breakups than what I felt today. Not only did they make my ass look great (camouflage is a wonderful thing), their soft fabric was versatile -- light enough to wear in the God-awful humidity of South Florida and scorching heat of Nevada while heavy enough to wear on a cool fall night in NYC. Ugh! The more I think about them, the harder this is to accept.

After searching the Internet high and low for a replacement pair (I found a distant cousin of my pants on eBay and am now the highest bidder but it's no consolation), I lamented the loss while on the phone with Paula, my friend in Miami whose shoulder is harder to cry on than a desert cactus'.

"Damn, Jenn. You really are white trash. You lost your pants while on vacation with your Dad? What the hell?"
"When in Rome, bitch."
"No, seriously, how exactly did you lose your pants? You saw the Grand Canyon and said, 'if you think THAT's a gaping hole, check THIS out!'"

I expect other friends will offer the same sort of comforting, especially Jeremy who banned camouflage anything about six months ago. I can still hear him now, "Camouflage is never in season. Period."

I think the hardest part is imagining my pants in some pile of trash somewhere (no doubt, Jeremy would approve), carelessly tossed in with the hotel's garbage or perhaps already baking in an Arizona landfill. I guess the happiest fate I could wish my pants is that they're at home in some poor hotel worker's closet. I can only hope that whoever found them doesn't share Jeremy's opinion.

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