Saturday, November 29, 2008

From the mouths of parents...

"We have a new Christmas tree this year. I have to warn you ... it's aneroxic." -my Mom

"I signed up for a Facebook account but dont worry. I know I have no 'Friends' in this family." - my Dad

Thursday, November 20, 2008

E-Tu Gmail?

Gmail- WTF!? I look at my screen to respond to a gchat — my most beloved feature since I gave up AIM — and all of a sudden everything is light blue. Why are you so scary? It's not even a drastic change right away — that I can handle. It's this weird surreal Gmail world where I think I'm going a little insane and I have to highlight things to see if its just me, and then eventually sign off because you are too much to bear.

I. hate. change.

When Facebook added Newsfeed (which admittedly is now an amazing, helpful stalker tool that I depend on), I was very upset. I joined the "Thousands against Newsfeed" group and proudly took my stance against this. And by the time "New Facebook" came about I just used "Original" as long as possible until they took that away and I quietly sulked thinking back to the days Facebook was exclusive to top schools while also being easy to use and not trashy like MySpace.

But Gmail ... WHYYYYY?

I have to say, I was curious. I wanted to change it immediately back to original but was swept in by the beach theme, and then even more astounded when I received this message after clicking on "Summer Ocean" :


After clicking around I just went back to "older version" to try to calm myself down. Then I realized, something was missing. I was starting to get the shakes. Why was that? Because the older version DOESN'T HAVE GCHAT.

You freaking trickster you.

Fine. I give up. I'm putting it on Summer Ocean 33326 because I associate myself with Florida beaches over NY ones. And hey, the sentence in my top email sort of explains my current feelings.

Actually, I just went back to check it out again. I lied. I need my old Gmail back pronto. Please. I'm not good with break ups.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Flip-flops and 4 SPF Here I Come

I'm going home this weekend and my mom knows how I feel about getting as much sun as possible while I'm in Florida, because who knows when I'll see another ray of light now that Manhattan is dark and 30 degrees. She called me, all worried, and said "Honey, I think it's going to be a little cold to go to the beach. It's really cooled down today and you need to bring some sweaters."

I checked the weather:

I told her I think I can manage.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

An Ode to Sexism

Me: "Rumor has it, Hillary Clinton is accepting Secretary of State today.
Friend #1: "That's a good little job for her ... secretary."

Friday, November 14, 2008

How Hot Is That Doggie In The Window?

I've been on a 'I want a furry puppy NOW' (said in the voice of Violet from Willy Wonka) kick for a while now, and the BF doesn't think it's the best idea ever. Whether it's because I'm insisting its 5lbs or less and want something with the word "poo" attached to it, or because I'm apparently "not even responsible enough to take care of myself let alone another living being" is unclear, but he has his reasons. Yesterday, I passed by a pet store and saw these two adorable puppies I've posted above. As I was holding one in my arms, I thought to myself 'this little guy better not freaking pee on my coat,' and I paused and thought to myself 'Maybe, I'm really not ready for a puppy.'

But then I realized, if I loved my dog enough I wouldn't care if it peed on me. And in order to love my dog, it needed to be super freaking cute because, let's face it, I'm that superficial. The truth is, I'm like that with people for the most part too. And before you go all 'OMG I can't BELIEVE you would say that,' on me just shut it. I've heard it all before. I was even once broken up with by an ex at a formal dinner merely because I mentioned a girl was "unfortunate" looking. I'm not kidding, it wasn't pretty — but that's a story for another rainy day.

We all would rather be speaking to gorgeous people than ugly ones. And if you wouldn't then good for you. But let me just tell you, there is reverse discrimination as well. You know, those people that judge you for being good-looking and automatically assume you are either dumb or boring, or both. I think the best compliment I've ever received was a friend telling me "you're like a really nerdy person trapped in a hot girl's body." That was nice.

But, enough narcissism, back to puppies. See, my dog has to stay looking like a puppy always because a) I was petrified of dogs until I was 14 and still get nervous around larger animals and b) because puppies are cuter than dogs. And with people, what they are lacking for in looks they can make up for with a "good personality". Slap some humor or intelligence on that sucker and call it a day. Often enough, those people are much more interesting to talk to than a sexy bimbo. But a puppy can't tell me a really good joke and make me laugh until I cry and forget all about how ugly it is. So, while most people say the reason not to get a puppy from an animal shelter is so you can see it's breeding papers and make sure it wont get sick, I don't want to get one because it might not stay cute.

The puppy also can't be one of those friends that acts too needy and doesn't understand the concept of playing hard to get (which is why I'm often attracted to cats). It can't be cooler than me and take away all my need for constant amounts of attention. It has to be just right.

Which led me to worry — how am I going to be when I have kids? I mean, not that I would ever want to genetically design my children and pick out their eye color — although blue eyes and brown hair are so attractive — but they better be freaking beautiful or we are going to have a problem. I know the saying is "only a face a mother could love" but I don't know if I have it in me to be that kind of mother. What if I don't realize my baby is ugly? Or worse — what if I do? Terrifying. Good things I have many, many years to deal with my horribleness before I have to worry about that.

By the way, I'm probably going to hell. I realize that. Please don't get upset with me. All I want is a friendly, loveable, really ridiculously good looking dog who keeps me company. Because if I'm going to be picking up his crap — he better have the best damn bedroom eyes I've ever seen.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Because lately my friends are funnier than I am...

I'm sorry I haven't posted in a week, I promise I'll write more soon! For now, here are other people saying things that make me laugh:

Friend #1: "I am currently doing psych experiments to earn extra cash."
Me: "Do you have to take any drugs?"
Friend #1: "No, I wish."

Friend #2: "How is it possible that people have trouble finding boyfriends? Seriously. I find them on accident."

Friend #3: "There's something gratifying in hearing 'She's great and all, but she's not you.' Its like I pick relationships based on the likelihood of hearing that at the end."

Boyfriend's Foreign Barber Girl: "Come back when your hair grows up!"

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Amen sister

Jen:  new phones are always a biatch
 Jen:  its like learning a new boyfriend

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

But I would totally have a fashionable leash...

I work from home all day, by myself. And it's safe to say I'm a fairly energetic person — although very lazy, which I admit sounds like a juxtaposition, but I assure you I am both — so working from home all day with no physical communication to other people can make me a little ... pent up. And here's where the lazy part comes in, as you might have realized, I'm not very self-motivating. So it's hard for me to convince myself it is worth going through the trouble of gettting dressed and cleaning myself up just to go outside for no reason. After all, I live in Manhattan — everything can be delivered to your doorstep.

But, I digress. My boyfriend lives with me — lucky him— and so he gets the pleasure of dealing with me when he gets home, after I haven't had human contact all day. When I first started working from home, which happened to coincide with the beginning of our cohabitation, the BF would come back from work and take me out to dinners or walk with me to Trader Joe's Wine Store (aka The Greatest Place On Earth).

One day we were walking home and he turned to me and said "You know, you're like a dog."


"Excuse me, darling?" I asked really sweetly. Okay, no I actually turned to him and screamed "WHAT?!" at the top of my lungs, appalled at being called a canine by my supposed other half.

"Well, every day I come home from work and you have been cooped up all day so you are really excited to see me. You run to the door and give me a kiss and get all worked up and require a lot of attention. So I've been taking you for walks. After work. That way, you don't keep me up until 2 AM every day talking about whatever it is you talk about. And I get the chance to watch Sportscenter and catch some sleep."

Naturally, I was completely indignant at this revelation. I had not noticed that I was being lead around NYC like a pet, I thought we were just spending more time together and enjoying the city and going out on dates. Little did I know I was equivalent to the maltese yapping around at her owner's heels we had just passed on the street. Infuriated, I denied that I needed walking and huffed home with him as he laughed at my anger. 

We got home and he went to his computer to check his email, and I laid down on the couch, turned on the TV, fumed silently at our previous conversation ...

and immediately fell asleep.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

I can hear people cheering out their windows...



Please do not let the below post scare you away from voting. Mine might not have counted so anybody else voting would be appreciated.

As my friend Marc said: 

I like that you'll wait in that line for a burger from Shake Shack, but not to vote for the next president.

P.S. I'm eating pesto pasta for lunch. Just on damn principle.

P.P.S. I just realized I didn't get an 'I Voted' sticker! Boo! At least Tim Robbins shared my troubles.

Canada, anyone?

I am not the most patriotic person in the world. But today, I wore red, white and blue and went to the polls with a huge smile on my face and a Vince Flynn novel "Transfer of Power" in hand anxious to cast my vote.

When the 90-year-old lady behind me started screaming about how the Taliban is voting for Obama to win, I got a bit annoyed but I stayed quiet. After all, today is a glorious happy day where we show what this country stands for and nothing could bring me down.

Last year I voted absentee and so this year while I stood in line reading the directions over and over, foregoing my novel to know exactly how the levers worked. I looked upon those black covered booths with excitement — despite the fact that our district was the largest of three but had the least amount of booths — nothing could stop my overeagerness.

As I get up to the front of the line an overwhelming large lady in a "Your village called their idiot is missing" tshirt (I couldn't make this up) barked at me "What are the last three letters of your name?"

Huh? I looked at her and said "I'm sorry ma'am what did you say" "THE LAST THREE LETTERS OF YOUR NAME?!" I handed her my registration card, confused. She threw it back at me and said "I DONT NEED THAT!" I say to myself, 'Okay keep your anger in check and calmly respond to this moronic demon lady who is controlling your right to vote.' "Ma'am I think you mean the first three letters of my last name." "NO, THATS NOT WHAT I MEAN!"

So I give her the last three letters of my last name, which although it made no sense to me was what she had asked for. After all, who was I, an Ivy League college graduate, to question this lady who was chosen to run the polls? She proceeded to look up last names that started with E so I smiled politely and said, "Ma'am. I think you want the first three letters of my last name." She looked up at me, laughed, and said to the guy next to her, "This girl does not understand I want the last three" — caught herself. Looked up and said "What is your last name?" as she glared at me. So I tell her, she looks it up, points to the list and says "Are you Michael?"

"No" I tell her ever so nicely. "I am not Michael." I repeat my full name I had told/showed her at the beginning of this fiasco. "Well you aren't here check the other districts." 

At this point I am ready to strangle this woman. "Ma'am if you would look at my registration card you would see this is the district I am in." The man sitting next to her grabs my card, pushes it in front of her as she has already moved on to the next lucky voter, and points to the district. "What the hell am I supposed to do about it? I'm not the only one working here." The man yells at her "GIVE HER A PAPER BALLOT." 

Hands me one, asks if I have a pen (luckily I came prepared for the US of A to be totally messed up) and I take my paper ballot that looks like what I filled out when I voted for 7th grade class president and I fill in the bubbles. Next to me another happy citizen was getting yelled at by an electoral helper as they got into a screaming match over what her address was.

I turn in my envelope to the old man — who by the way never checked my license — and he stares at it blankly not knowing what option to check for his part he has to fill out. I helpfully say "I think I registered too late for this district and that is why you don't have me on the list" and then point to where I think he should check. He dutifully listens to me although at this point I have no idea what is going on, and then places my long awaited - heavily anticipated - sacred vote next to him on the table. I ask him what he is going to do with it and he attempts to reassure me saying he "will take care of it." As I'm about to question if there might be — you know — a ballot box for that to be put in the Village Idiot Herself starts screaming that "IF THAT VOTING MACHINE BREAKS ONE MORE F-ING TIME I AM OUT OF HERE!!!!"

Lady, I hear you. I am out of here too, although I might be going further away then out of the building.

Because I really do love my pesto pasta...

Four years ago, I was in Spain for the election. I stayed up all night to hear the results, fell asleep in front of the TV and when it was clear Bush was going to win went upstairs and broke the news to the Spanish secretary of our dorm. She said "Pero es imposible!!! IMPOSIBLE!" I don't think I have to translate that but needless to say I didn't have it in me to console the woman who was so shocked by the outcome. It was pretty eye-opening to be an American abroad that day.

Anyways, after Bush won I locked myself in my room for a few days. I ate pasta and pesto sauce, drowned myself in red wine and watched the West Wing seasons 1, 2, and 3. No joke. I think I was trying to disillusion myself that Jed Bartlett had actually won.

My point is not to vote Democrat, my point is — well actually I sort of would appreciate it if you would do that but — well I don't really have a point other then whenever I smell pesto sauce to this day I think of George Bush winning a second term. And it used to be my favorite dish... 

So in the name of all things linguine...Don't forget to vote today!

Monday, November 3, 2008

Guess I'm not the only one reading Us Weekly

I was walking down the street with the BF when we walked by a girl wearing the exact same dress as me. He turned to me and said the last thing I would expect to hear from his mouth: "Who wore it best?"

I don't think I've ever been so proud.