1. There is no better housecleaning music than Mariah Carey. Sure, it took me 20 minutes to make my bed because I had to keep playing Heartbreaker over and over again, but I’m telling you – that bed would pass any military inspection you could throw my way. If I didn’t need all my quarters for laundry today, you would be able to see that quarter ricochet off my sheets and embed itself in the ceiling. I also considered taping Swiffers to my feet while listening to Fantasy, but that just seemed a bit over the top and maybe a little dangerous.
2. I’ve been telling my cats that in order for them to take first place in the upcoming cat show, they need to get used to letting people hold them like babies. They also need to keep their claws trimmed and stop meowing so loudly and pacing around the house at night. I told them that no Purina Champions on record have ever vomited in their owner’s shoes, so they need to gain better control over their gastrointestinal systems. There is no upcoming cat show, but my cats have a poor concept of time, so I think I can keep putting them off.
3. There’s no use fighting the rhythm. It’s gonna get you no matter what.
4. For the first time in my life, I bought a gallon of milk. Not a half-gallon. Not a Chug. But an entire gallon. I may be from Wisconsin, but milk just isn’t my thing. Maybe it’s because my mother is Sicilian and she always says that Sicilians are lactose intolerant by nature. But how come we eat all that cheese, I ask? That’s… different. Besides, she says, name me one other mammal that drinks milk after infancy. I’m at a loss, and am easily won over by this sound, logical argument.
In spite of that, for some reason I feel compelled to try to drink this entire gallon of milk before it turns. I tried to find a gallon with the furthest out expiration date possible, so I have until April 13th to accomplish this feat. I will be tracking my milk-consumption progress through time-series photographs starting today.

22 Comments; | Filed under: General

I bent down to give him a hug and noticed the huge gap in the front of his mouth.
“Hey! What happened to your teeth?”
“That’s my surprise! I told Grandma not to tell you – my two incisors fell out. I got $3 each!”
I told him that now we looked alike, and I pulled out my braces, revealing my missing eyetooth. He had already seen this trick, so wasn’t overly impressed. He asked me to remind him why I needed plastic teeth, and I told him my adult teeth never grew in. But I assured him that his would.
“Aunt Jenny – when we go bowling, don’t forget to put your teeth in, or people will make fun of you.”
“Do I look hideous without my teeth?”
“No. But I just don’t want people to laugh at you.”
“You’re right. I should put them back in.”
I dropped my bag on the floor of my six-year old nephew’s bedroom. He was temporarily displaced for the weekend, but happy to be camped out in a sleeping bag in his older brother’s room.
“I got my room all ready for you. We put new sheets on the bed!”
Pale blue flannel that matched the dark blue bedspread. Tiny cowboys atop bucking horses, with lassoes twirling above their heads. I looked around the room and saw a red bandana hanging from one of the antlers of the deer skull in the corner. I wondered if I would dream of the wild West – of campfires and cowgirls, ranches and wranglers – but I didn’t. Instead, I dreamed of Gollum, his imaged locked firmly in my brain after sitting through several hours of the Lord of the Rings trilogy before realizing that I didn’t care what happened to the ring.
It was my older nephew’s 9th birthday, so his mother planned a bowling party for him and nine of his friends. I volunteered to chaperone and act as official photographer, accepting the intense pressure of being the designated photo-documentarian for a skilled scrapbooker such as my sister-in-law.
“I’m picturing the layout right now – there are ten boys and ten pins. I’ll have them all lined up like bowling pins, so you’ll need to get individual photos of each of them standing straight.”
Within moments of meeting all the boys, I had identified my favorites. There was Nick, the tall one with the soft voice wearing the grey shirt. He’s a nice one. He smiled sweetly and congratulated each of the boys as they stepped off the lane.
“Nice job! High five!”
And Scott. So tiny I could put him in my pocket.
“Should I smile?”
“Yes, you can smile. Just be sure to stand really straight.”
Evan reminded me of Harry Potter, with even finer features. He has perfect enunciation, according to my brother, which makes me like him all the more.
“Open my card first! I picked it out myself – it’s so funny!”
The card wasn’t all that funny – I think it was a pun about being one in a million – but he picked it out himself and his smile was infectious. I didn’t know boys bought each other cards, but they all did. Nick’s was handmade, of course.
That other boy – the one who drooled as he showed no one in particular how he could fit his entire mouth around a plastic cup, the one who hoarded the orange bowling ball even though it was the only one light enough for most of the boys to carry, the one who stole my younger nephew’s most powerful Yu-Gi-Oh! cards – he’s the one I would watch out for. He stands at my brother’s front door, sometimes for 20 minutes straight without ringing the bell. He just stands there, hoping someone will pass by and invite him in.
“Feel how heavy my present is! It only costed $20!”
The one who, like most of these boys, has not yet mastered tact.
My nephew calls him up, “I really hate you for stealing my cards, but I don’t have anyone else to play with, so do you want to come over?”
He says sure.
I watch in awe as the boys devour the birthday cupcakes, wiping orange and blue frosting on their pants and sleeves before continuing the game.
“Aunt Jenny, can you make sure you don’t eat any of the candy in my room?”
“None of it?”
“Well, you can have a Snickers. I have three of them.”
“I’ll try my best, but sometimes I eat candy in my sleep.”
“Even with your plastic teeth? Okay. I’ll put it in a drawer, then.”
As I fluff the cowboy pillow and pull up the cowboy sheets, bathed in the soft glow of the cowboy nightlight, I think how nice it is to have someone to remind me to put my teeth back in.

19 Comments; | Filed under: General

It comes down to this: Portlanders eat a lot of macaroni and cheese.

There are so many stories to share about TequilaCon, but for some reason, I just keep coming back to the macaroni and cheese. Why is that, I wonder? I mean, why is it that they eat so much macaroni and cheese, not why do I keep coming back to that? No matter where we went, we couldn’t escape it. Fancy restaurants, dives, street vendors – they all served macaroni and cheese. Puzzling.

Is there something about the grey climate that makes people yearn for comfort? Does the smell of evergreen and hemp trigger some innate need for carbohydrate induced happiness?
I don’t really have the explanation, but I do know that comfort was an important theme throughout the TequilaCon weekend.

It all began when Brandon met up with me on Friday night before the main event. We went to a bar not far from my hotel while we awaited the arrival of Jill, Jessica, and my friend Dee-Dee. I stuck with beer, while Brandon sipped his gin martini. Eventually, he opted for something he considered to be less potent, and ordered a shot of Southern Comfort. As soon as the bartender poured the drink, my mouth began to water, but not in a good way.

“Oh god, the smell! It just brings back so many bad memories,” I winced.

“Me too,” said the bartender, as she shoved the drink in front of Brandon. He moved over a stool and quietly sipped his drink.

Once everyone arrived, we headed out to dinner at a restaurant called Mother’s Bistro. Before any of us had picked out our entrees, Dee decided to order an appetizer.

“Can we get the macaroni and cheese as an appetizer?”

“Of course,” the waitress replied, as though it were a common request. And perhaps it was. Either way, it was the most amazing macaroni and cheese we had ever eaten. We used the bread to wipe up the last remnants of cheese from the plate.

Our entrees consisted of the ultimate comfort food: chicken and dumplings, meatloaf and gravy, pierogi, and crab cakes, topped off with a plate of cream puffs for dessert. As I reached down to unbutton the top button of my pants, I was sorely disappointed to realize that I had already unbuttoned them after the macaroni and cheese.

After finishing the last of our wine, we then moved on to the site of TequilaCon – the Kennedy School. There, we met up with more bloggers and got our first look at Dave’s amazing handiwork – the lanyards and buttons. Although he pretends to be hard core on his site, Dave is really a softie, and wanted to make sure everyone would be comfortable walking up to bloggers they’d never met before, hence the lanyards:

Brandon, on the other hand, pretends to be a softie on his site, but is really hard core, and wanted to make sure everyone would be comfortable walking up to bloggers they’d never met before, hence his closet:

I was certain that Brandon had purchased enough alcohol to supply not only this year’s TequilaCon, but well into next year’s. However, after about one hour, both the entire bottle of Jameson’s and half the bottle of tequila were gone, so clearly he had researched the TequilaConner demographic more thoroughly than I had.

The next morning, I joined the pilgrimage to Powell’s Books, where about a dozen of us got lost among floor upon floor of glorious used and new books. My friend Dee has been clocked as one of the fastest readers in North America, and therefore had already read 90% of the books in the entire store, but she was still able to find a vampire story written from the perspective of Renfield that caught her fancy.

Once we’d reached the limit of books that would fit in our luggage, Jess, Dee-Dee and I decided to make a pilgrimage of another sort – shoe shopping. Jill’s eyes lit up when we mentioned our plans, so she happily joined us on our quest. There was much squabbling over who would get to purchase the last remaining pair of red tapestry Converse low top Chucks, and after both Dee and I each walked around with one shoe on and tried to convince ourselves that it fit, it was ultimately Jessica who ended up as the true Cinderella. I, on the other hand, came home with the most comfortable pair of boots I’ve ever owned.

All of this, of course, was simply the prelude to the main event later that night. I promised Brandon I would help him assemble the gift bags he brought for everyone, but I got an urgent call as I was eating an early dinner with Dee, Jill and Jessica.

“Hey, Jenny –it’s Brandon. It’s an emergency! I’m out of bread!”

“Out of bread?”

“For the sandwiches! The peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that I’m putting into all the gift bags. I miscalculated and now I’m out of bread!”

“Half sandwiches.”

“Huh?”

“Just cut them in half.”

“But what if people want a whole sandwich?”

“I just won’t eat mine then.”

And it turned out to be a good thing that I didn’t eat mine, because Dustin ate approximately nine half sandwiches. But he’s a growing boy with naturally curly hair, and having curly hair makes you hungry. I should know.

[The ridiculously adorable Vahid and Dustin]

Once at the Kennedy School, our fellow bloggers began arriving in droves to pick up their lanyards and begin the festivities. There was a steady stream of activity all night long, and more stories than I could begin to share.

There were gift bags:

[Brandon surveys his handiwork]

and tattoos:

[Sibyl unleashes her inner badass]

and toasts:

[Robert and Jill break into their gift bags]

and feats of strength:

[I prove I can carry Vahid]

and the airing of grievances:

[Dave2 and I almost come to blows]

But most of all, there were so many smiles and laughs:

[Jill, me, Brandon, Dustin]

I didn’t think we would be able to compete with TequilaCon ’06 in New York, but between the gift bags and the lanyards and the uber-cool city of Portland, TequilaCon ’07 was an amazing event and an absolute blast. Thanks so much to everyone who came out and made it a total success, and a special thanks to Brandon and Dave2 for all their amazing efforts that raised the bar to a whole new level.

I can’t wait to see everyone at the next one! Next year it will be held wherever we can find the best macaroni and cheese.

Now for a different perspective, check out the other attendees’ sites:

brandon, jill, dave2, adena, asia, chad, chantel, colleen, dan, dustin, hilly, jessica, karl, kimberly, lewis, michelle, neil, robert, sass, shari, sherri, sibyl, sizzle, vahid, william

And for a visual tour of TequilaCon, check out the flickr group.

26 Comments; | Filed under: TequilaCon

So I’m officially off-the-clock, people. The business portion of my business/pleasure trip to Portland is all over, which means that I am now all about pleasure. In fact, at this very moment, I am eating the $3.00 mini can of Pringles and the $4.00 giant Snickers from my hotel mini bar. And I just threw the wrappers on the floor. ON THE FLOOR! I’ll pick them up in a minute, but for right now – they’re ON THE FLOOR!

As soon as I’m done with this entry, I’m going to jump on both the beds, play the LodgeNet branded Nintendo gaming system until I have a grand mal seizure, rub complimentary ginger orange lotion all over my body even though I am quite adequately moisturized, and see if I can fit this ottoman into my luggage.

No, this isn’t my first time in a hotel, but it is almost TEQUILACON EVE people, and I’m so freaking excited that I can barely contain myself! Soon enough, I will be hanging out with 40 bloggers, friends of bloggers, and significant others of bloggers who tolerate this ridiculous blogging hobby because it’s either that or crystal meth.

For the folks who aren’t able to make it on Saturday, you will be sorely missed, and at various points during the evening, I will take a swig of whatever I’m drinking, then pour some on the floor for my homies. And when I say “homies,” I’ll be thinking of you.

When we began planning this event, I always thought that my Excel spreadsheets would forever earn me the title of organizational dork, until Brandon posted the Google earth map of the bar we’ll be at, and then laid out the floor plan in notes so that everyone would know where to go. I cried tears of joy when he sent me this photo:

Rumor has it there may be some live blogging from the event, so let me preemptively apologize for anything I might post between now and Monday. I’m not a bad person, but sometimes I make bad choices.

Safe travels to any of you making your way to Portland this weekend, and I look forward to sharing many tales (and photos) once I get back!

21 Comments; | Filed under: TequilaCon

When I decided that my theme for 2007 would be “Revival,” I had a lot of things in mind – reviving neglected passions, lost arts, old friendships – but I didn’t think it was going to take a physical turn. But for years now, something’s been bothering me about my appearance – a lot, actually. I thought about getting some work done, researched alternatives, weighed the financial options, put it off some more, but then finally just went for it.
So a couple months ago, at 35 years old, I got braces. Again.
I had braces as a teen, wore my retainers religiously, and then went off to college with a bright, straight smile. A few years later, my wisdom teeth came in and didn’t cause me any problems, so my dentists never recommended having them removed. This was clearly a mistake, because 15 years later, my teeth returned to exactly the same crooked state they were in when I first got braces.
But now in the high-tech 21st century, modern science has changed the world of orthodontics forever, so no longer do I need to suffer with brackets and rubber bands and headgear and wax. Now, there is this amazing invention called “Invisalign” – space-age clear aligners that fit over your teeth, gradually straightening them over time. I love my new aligners so much that I’ve given them an affectionate pet name: down payment on that condo I’ll never be able to afford thanks to my jacked up grill.
Fun Fact #1: I never developed adult eye teeth, which is why my teeth got so messed up as a kid.
Fun Fact #2: I apparently have a great uncle who had two sets of eye teeth. Lucky bastard.
Fun Fact #3: If I were a fighter and not a lover, I would take a crowbar to my childhood orthodontist and dentist for clearly colluding to ensure that they could destroy as many of my good teeth as possible with unnecessary bridgework, when they should have done what my current orthodontist is doing, which is closing the f*ing gaps in the first place.
So while I’m pleased with my decision to get braces again, and happy that I will be able to get rid of some of my bridgework in the process, what it means right now is that whenever I remove the space age aligners to eat, there is a gaping hole where my eyetooth should be.
This has done wonders for my social life, because without the aligners and depending on how much makeup I’m wearing, on any given day I look like:
a) an 8 year old
b) a hockey player
c) a crazy toothless cat lady
Fun Fact #4: Ironically, when I was 8 years old, my first boyfriend was a hockey player, and I lived down the block from a crazy toothless cat lady. I guess this would be what we call the circle of life.
A bit frustrated by the lack of progress, I recently asked my orthodontist how long it would take before the gap would be closed. She told me that the aligners move the teeth ¼ of a millimeter every two weeks. I had to go back to work and consult with our European accounting division to help me figure out what that actually meant in American units of stones and tooth-inches, and they basically told me not to plan on dating for the next 8 to 10 months. I said that wouldn’t be a problem.
So while I’m still enthused about my Revival theme for 2007, and thrilled to finally be taking care of something that’s bothered me for so long, I can only hope that I don’t revive any of my other teenage physical traits, because a flat-chested, acne-faced, crazy toothless cat lady is really more than even I can deal with.

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I was getting off the train yesterday in my usual Monday morning fog when I paused to let a woman go ahead of me. I had seen her before. I see her whenever I catch this train, actually. Sometimes, I think she might be crazy – she has that look in her eyes. Vacant, yet focused at the same time. She also always seems to have a good 2-3” of grey roots at the base of her Crayola red hair.
When I gestured for her to go ahead, she smiled and thanked me. As she grabbed the hand rail to step down to the platform, I saw that she wore elaborate rings on all ten of her fingers.
“Yes,” I thought, “crazy.”
And then I caught a glimpse of the ring on her right index finger – it was a silver pentagram.
“A clarification,” I thought, “she’s a crazy satanist.”
I nodded my head, pleased with my decision to be polite to this woman, lest I end up on some sort of sacrificial altar or as an unwitting surrogate to the demon spawn.
The encounter was over as fast as it began, but it was too late. My brain, as it is known to do, had already translated the experience into song. That morning, it was Anarchy in the UK by the Sex Pistols. So during my walk to the office, and for the rest of the entire day, I hummed this tune in my head.
I am an antichrist! And I am an anarchist!
It’s no Katrina and the Waves, but still seemed to keep me going throughout the day. The problem was that these were the only lyrics I knew from the song, so I kept repeating them over and over again in my head. Like a crazy person. At lunch, I caught a glimpse of my hair under the harsh fluorescent bathroom lights, and noticed my grey roots showing.
I am an antichrist… Christ – look at those roots! Remember to pick up some Clairol #30 tonight… and I am an anarchist!
Now, the irony of singing about being an anarchist as I sat in my dull blue cube, writing up business cases to justify investments in new product development was not at all lost on me. I know that I’m a conformist and a lifelong resident of the corporate sector. But that morning, as I sat down and fired up my laptop, I paused for a moment while bending down to slip off my clunky black motorcycle-esque winter boots.
“No,” I thought, “not today.”
This would be the day I would take a stand. I pulled my boot back on and straightened my pant leg around it. A pair of much more professional looking loafers sat quietly in the bag next to me, but not today. I wouldn’t wear them today. These boots were office-inappropriate – anyone could see that – but I didn’t care.
I don’t know how they do things in the UK, but here in corporate America, anarchy often takes the form of the subtle pushing of dress code limits. I made a point of walking around and popping into people’s offices, crossing my legs in a manner to more clearly display my civil disobedience. No one said a word, but it was clear. I looked everyone straight in the eyes as if to dare them to say something about my boots. Had she forgotten her normal shoes at home? Recently undergone bunion surgery? I can only imagine what was going through their minds.
Then, on my way out, I walked right past the sign that said “Sign out with security.” I didn’t even say goodnight to the guard, and it felt good. Real good. It’s a slippery slope, this rebellion thing.

16 Comments; | Filed under: Uncategorized

Brief observation: maybe it has something to do with my passion for infomercials, but I find that I am completely drawn in by advertisements that ask me rhetorical questions.
Confused by the new tax regulations?
Ever wish you had a flatter stomach?
Had enough of the same boring dinners?
Whenever I see ads like this on TV or hear them on the radio, I find myself subconsciously nodding along or responding aloud.
You can say that again!
Who doesn’t?
You’re preaching to the choir, my friend.
The thing is, I never actually buy these products, but it’s just nice to feel like someone gets you, even if it is Ron Popeil.

11 Comments; | Filed under: General

Conversations you probably shouldn’t have with your friend who is in her final semester of grad school, getting her MFA in poetry:
So what have you been up to lately? Anything exciting?
Ugh. Nothing. I’ve got to work on my thesis.
Thesis shmesis. Write some poems. Hey, I saw this thing on TV-
Okay, I love how you ask me what’s going on, and I tell you I’m working on a 100 page thesis so that I can complete my master’s degree and that’s your reaction – thesis shmesis.
No, just listen to me. I’m trying to help you. So I saw this thing on TV – quick muse? – have you heard of this?
Of course.
Well, I think it’s to help you write poems or something. There were these two poets – a husband and wife – hey, is it national poetry month or something?
In April. Where did you see this?
PBS. Anyway, there’s like this couple – Mary Jo somebody and Brad Lightsomething-or-other – do you know them?
Actually, yes. Well, not personally, but yes, I know who you’re talking about.
Well, FYI, they’re wackos. Anyway, they both go to this quick muse thing all the time and have contests with each other to write poems in 15 minutes. I guess the website gives you a theme or something. They were like, “Poetry keeps our marriage fresh!” or something like that.
Hmm.
Yeah, well, the theme this day was a poem by William Carlos… what is it – Williams?
Yes.
Anyway – his poem was like blah dee blah roses something something love, so then that was supposed to inspire the two poets’ work. The woman took the whole 15 minutes, but the guy finished his in like 6 minutes.
So they actually had an entire show on poetry? That’s so cool.
Well, so then they read their pieces, and I don’t know – it seems like poetry is basically just talking, isn’t it?
What do you-
I mean, it’s just like having a conversation. But slower.
Well, it is made of language, yes.
No, but I’m just saying, it’s just a bunch of sentences with weird line breaks. Like, I could just talk about anything – waiting for the train, eating some cheese, washing my hair – and if I stressed certain syllables differently, it would totally be a poem.
I cannot believe we’re having this conversation. You do realize I’m working toward my MFA in poetry, don’t you?
What? No, look – all I’m saying is that there sure seems to be a lot of poetry stuff on TV for a non-poetry month. That’s all I’m saying.

12 Comments; | Filed under: General

I was talking to my friend Vivian the other day and she told me that she would totally move back to Chicago, if it weren’t for the weather.
But you live in New York City, I said. New York isn’t exactly Palm Springs, you know.
She told me that yeah it’s cold, but New York never gets as cold as Chicago.
I told her that being able to endure sub-zero temperatures builds character. It teaches survival skills. Like me, I know how to get by. I don’t leave my house with less than four layers on. I have wool blankets and extra hats in my trunk, and hand warmers in my glove compartment. In the Midwest, you learn that in winter, fashion is for fools.
Take the other night. After getting home an hour late because the trains were delayed due to drifting snow on the switches, I had to shovel my car out from under three feet of snow, piled high and compact by the snowplows. It was so high that I couldn’t even open my car door. Twenty minutes later, I had cleared the snow and ice from around my tires and doors, and made a path out to the street. Then, it took me fifteen minutes of rocking the car back and forth – drive, reverse, drive, reverse, floor it, wait here comes another plow, now go, give it gas – until I finally was able to swerve out of that parking spot. And did you ever hear me complaining? Even once? No, you didn’t. Because you weren’t there. But if you had been there, you would’ve heard something like this:
Motherf@#$in goddamn snow plows! You have got to be kidding me. Oh, you $%&#@. If you f@#$ing plow me in again while I’m trying to get out of this spot, so help me god I will pull you out of that plow and beat you to a pulp with my shovel. And you too, you lazy neighbor man, staring at me for thirty minutes while my wheels are spinning in vain. Ever hear of a little help? Oh, I’m sorry – is your prissy little dog too cold to stay out here so you can help me get out of this frickin’ iceberg? Why don’t you get a dog that actually has fur, huh? Huh?! You heard me. Yeah, you’d better look away. Don’t make me get my jumper cables, sh*t. I swear to god – I know I say this every year – but this time I mean it, I am done. I have had it with this subzero bullsh*t for 28 days in a row. If one more dripping nose leaky boot hacking cough mofo shoves into me on the train again, I’m gonna lose it. I will kill someone, and it won’t be quick or painless. Mofo.
So anyway, I told Vivian I never thought I’d say this, but New York has made her soft.

19 Comments; | Filed under: General

“I call shotgun!”
“Aww, come on. I don’t want to sit in the middle again. I had to sit there on the way here. How come I always have to be in the middle?”
It was almost 4:00am and we were piling into Farnsworth’s van after a long evening of celebrating our friend Marcy’s 33rd birthday. Our night began with spicy soups and cheap wines, tasty bread and Cornish hens. Marcy is my friend Dee-Dee’s little sister, and she, Dee-Dee and Natasha lived together in college, which is when I met them all. As we dipped chicken empanadas in spicy tomatillo sauce, we recalled the first time I met Marcy.
It was Dee-Dee’s birthday – over a decade ago – and by the time I arrived at her apartment, the party was already in full swing. Dee and four of her friends were doing shots of Jägermeister, the kitchen floor was slick from beer, and Marcy was dancing around the apartment playing a tambourine with such passion that her hand had an enormous blister on it the next day.
“I can’t believe you let those guys con you into matching them shot for shot, Dee-Dee. No wonder you were sick. Then all your creepy stalkers seemed to crawl out of the woodwork. Funny how being nearly unconscious always made you seem so much more approachable.”
Dee shook her head and laughed, “Yeah, but didn’t you make out with your little hippie poet that night, too?”
“Oh, god – yeah. Yeah, I did. And mid-kiss, he stopped just in time to run and vomit off your third floor balcony. I shudder to think what might have happened if his timing had been off. So then I held his hair.”
“You held everyone’s hair that night. Jenny always holds people’s hair. That’s why you’re such a good friend.”
It’s true, I do. People can always count on me to hold their hair. Although as I’ve grown older and wiser, I’ve found that a well placed scrunchy does the job quite well, with far less effort required on my end.
After dinner, we moved on to another bar where six of us crammed into a booth meant for two. We’ve long since traded in the Jägermeister for Pinot Noir, but Marcy still had it in her to drink a shot of tequila, no lime. I gave the DJ a $20 tip and asked him to play Chaka Khan, but we left the bar before it came on. It’s okay, though. It was Marcy’s birthday, I was feeling generous, and he had already played nearly every great dance song recorded from 1984 to the present.
We picked up a companion along the way – a friend of a friend. An energetic young twenty-something who matched Marcy drink for drink, and then passed her up a few times over. It was somewhere around the second lap that we realized he might be one of those drunks. The kind who starts out really funny and adorable, but who might end up crying and hunched over a dumpster in the alley behind a McDonald’s. Fortunately for me, he had very short hair, so I knew my services would not be required that evening.
At our final destination that night, we witnessed him reach the tipping point after a shot of Bushmill’s. Dee-Dee and I were talking to a man we had just met, who saved us from tripping over a broken glass on the floor. Our tipsy friend of a friend wandered over and squeezed in between the man and me, then poked at the man’s arm.
“You’re very… what? Rambunctious! You know… you-,” he swayed back on his heels a bit, and then continued, “You’re really tall. And hairy. What the fuck is your…”
When he said fuck, he accidentally spit all over the tall hairy man’s face. Dee-Dee and I looked at each other, ready to duck from the blows that were bound to follow. As we edged back a bit, I tried to apologize for this friend of a friend, “He’s had a few shots…”
Fortunately, the tall hairy man decided that punching someone on the verge of alcohol poisoning was not necessary, so he just wiped off his face, thanked us for the conversation, and went off to join his friends. This was our sign that it was time to make a getaway. Farnsworth was already outside warming up his van, so Dee and I grabbed the rest of our group and ran outside.
“I’m getting smushed in the middle,” I said, as I squirmed back and forth between Marcy and Natasha to make more room for myself.
Nat held her ground and said, “But you’re in the best spot. It’s the warmest place to be. You’re like the special monkey.”
“Huh?”
“The special monkey. I saw this nature show once that said that when monkeys are in trees, they keep their most precious monkey in the middle. To keep her warm and safe and protected.”
“They do? And then does the precious monkey groom them?” I asked, picking an imaginary nit from Natasha’s hair.
“No! They groom her. Because she’s the most precious.”
“So you’re saying that I’m the most precious monkey? I’m the one you’re keeping safe and warm?”
“Yes, Jenny. You’re the most precious monkey of all.”
I smiled as I settled back into the tight embrace of winter jackets, listening to tales of astronauts and garden snakes. These random pieces that build stories that become memories – it was ages ago, it was just yesterday, she still looks 21, occasionally I feel it. These stories carried us through our 4:00am fatigue and ultimately led me to my front door, where I returned, contented in the realization that the basis of love, happiness, and friendship really just comes down to being someone’s most precious monkey, even if only for the van ride home.

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