June 22, 2005
The funniest thing a complete stranger has said to me in a long time:
Friend: Hey Jenny, this is Stranger. He’s my evil co-worker.
Jenny: Hi Stranger. So, you’re evil?
Stranger: Yeah. I’m so evil that they killed me off two seasons ago.
Jenny: Wow. That is evil.
Stranger: But don’t worry. They’ll bring me back for mid-season sweeps.
Jenny: Will you be seeking revenge?
Stranger: Definitely.
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June 17, 2005
How does one begin the story of a shattered dream?
Where do I start the tale of innocence lost?
Like all sad stories, at the beginning, I suppose.
It seems like it all began two months ago, but it’s actually only been eight weeks. Natasha and I walked into that first jug band class full of excitement and a bit of trepidation, and came out changed women. For the first time in my life, I knew what it meant to truly be alive. To be conscious of the rhythm of my beating heart. To experience unbridled joy.
So this is what unconditional love feels like, I thought. This is what it means to belong. As the weeks went by, Natasha and I threw ourselves into becoming the best jug band members this band had ever seen. We spent days researching traditional jug band instruments, scoured local Salvation Army stores for the best spoons, trekked through the hills of Wisconsin to find antique washboards, and drank untold quantities of sugary soda pop to construct our glass bottle xylophone.
The fervor and commitment with which I approached my music could be described by one word, and one word alone: love. I had fallen in love, not with the individual, but with the collective. With the idea of jug band, and everything that came with it. I couldn’t stop thinking about the jug band. I wanted to impress the jug band. I wondered what the jug band was doing when they weren’t in class. I wore my contacts and put my hair down for the jug band.
But as is my history with love, I fell too hard, too fast. If it hadn’t been for Natasha, I probably wouldn’t have seen it coming at all.
It all started in Week Four:
Jug band class ran later than normal because we began practicing our songs for an upcoming performance. This would be our biggest and most prestigious gig to date, so everyone was a bit on edge. After class ended and we packed up our jugs and dried off our kazoos, Natasha and I decided to grab a drink and some quesadillas before heading home.
As we waited for our late night snacks, Natasha squeezed more lime into her vodka and tonic, and said, “Jen, I’m not so sure about this jug band anymore.”
Taken aback, I said, “What? What do you mean?”
“I mean, I just don’t know if I’m into it like I was on the first day. Something has changed.”
“Well, everyone’s really focused on this upcoming performance, if that’s what you mean.”
Nat glanced up at me with a look I hadn’t seen since we dropped out of tap dance class, and asked, “What instruments did you play today?”
I had to think for a minute, but then said, “Well, I played woodblocks on the first song. And egg shaker on the second one. Then on Broke Down Jug Band Blues I played the woodblocks again. Oh, and then I went back to the egg shaker on Whiskey Tells No Lies. Why?”
She took a gulp of her drink, wiped her lips, and continued, “Now let me tell you what I played on those four songs: egg shaker, Fanta bottle and chopstick, Fanta bottle and chopstick, and then Fanta bottle and chopstick.”
“Huh. I wasn’t really paying attention. I mean, I kind of wanted to play washboard on Bottle O’ Corn, but someone was already playing it.”
Nat nodded, “Exactly. And I wanted to play washtub bass on Boxcar Baby, but that really wasn’t an option, now was it? And I wanted to play kazoo or spoons on Tobaccy Road but it seems that someone else had already claimed those instruments as well.”
“So what’s your point, Nat?”
”What’s my point?! What’s my point?! My point is that this utopian jug band society we thought we stumbled upon is really nothing more than a fascist regime in sheep’s clothing! This is no democracy! What happened to that welcoming, ‘Oh here try my washboard’ attitude they used to sucker us in on the first day? That went away pretty quickly when you actually wanted to play washboard on a real song, didn’t it?”
My mind started racing. Could Natasha be right about this? Was jug band really a tyranny? I began to play back the events of the previous four weeks, and suddenly felt a metallic burning in the back of my throat as I realized that everything Natasha had said was true.
We were extra pieces. Spare buttons. Wisdom teeth. This band didn’t need us. They never needed us. They were fully formed before we even joined the class. That’s why we always got stuck playing the leftover instruments that barely made a sound.
But why? Why did they encourage us to join the band?
We later learned that the answer to that question came in the form of the $150 check we each wrote out to join the band. As it turned out, funding for class materials had been cut, so in order to keep everyone in shiny new jugs and taut new washtub bass ropes, the school had to increase the class size.
Natasha had already figured out what took me three beers to deduce, “Exactly, Jenny! So they increased the class size, without giving a second thought to the severe shortage of viable instruments that would leave everyone. I mean, seriously! At what point was someone going to notice the fact that I had been playing a piece of garbage and a chopstick for the past ten songs?!”
I felt like Dorothy, when the curtain was pulled back, revealing a weak little man hiding behind a booming voice. My head was spinning from the combination of betrayal and Boddington’s. I looked up at Nat and asked, “So… what are you going to do?”
She just grinned, and said, “Revolt.”
4 Comments; | Filed under: Jug Band
June 14, 2005
Well, if my last opinion poll taught me anything, it’s that I don’t know you at all. I thought you felt like you could say anything to me, but clearly that’s not the case. Obviously it took a random opinion poll for you to be comfortable enough with me to let me know that you liked beef Stroganoff. I’m not mad at you; I just wish you had told me sooner.
All I can say is that I am truly, truly astounded by the results of our last poll. On the controversial topic of “foods we would eat until the end of eternity,” the results came in as:
36% Leftover beef Stroganoff
29% Hamburger flavored pizza puffs
14% Sardines packed in mustard
14% Circus peanuts
7% Chicken and rice cat food with hairball remedy
0% Egg beater omelettes with no salt or butter
There are so many observations that can be made about these results that it’s hard to even comment. The only thing I can say, however, is that the next time I have a potluck dinner, 36% of you will be asked to bring beverages and/or fruit salad.
As excited as I was with the results of this initial poll, it did reveal to me that I need to spend more time getting inside your heads. If we’re ever going to bring our relationship to the next level, we need to focus on sharing our feelings, which is why I’ve decided to sponsor a weekly opinion poll, covering the most pressing topics of our time. The polls will continue until I feel we’ve become closer, until you stop answering, or until I run out of survey ideas, whichever comes first.
So with that, I launch my next opinion poll:
Question: If you were stranded on a deserted island with only one singer, and he/she could only sing one of his/her hit songs for eternity, but then ultimately you would have to eat that singer to survive, who would it be?
I look forward to getting to know you all even just a little bit more than I did a few days ago!
14 Comments; | Filed under: Opinion Poll
June 10, 2005
I had really hoped that my first installment of “Wish I Hadn’t Witnessed” would be my last, but sadly, the universe clearly needs me to shine a spotlight on the atrocities I witness on a regular basis. In addition, the universe also seems to want me to continue writing about underwear. And so, my cherished friends, I am compelled to shock and disturb you with another tale of unmentionables. Consider yourselves warned.
This weekend, while enjoying a tasty meal of tapas at a new neighborhood restaurant, I excused myself to visit the ladies’ room, as I am known to do on occasion. While I was washing my hands, which I am also known to do on occasion, two women – one about 25 and one about 40 years old – stormed into the bathroom in a bit of a panic. Within seconds, the younger woman tossed something out of the bathroom stall, which the older woman quickly grabbed. This woman then shoved me out of the way and started rinsing what appeared to be white shorts in the bathroom sink.
Since there was only one sink, and I’m not into the “doing laundry in a public bathroom” kink scene, I quickly moved aside. After grabbing a handful of paper towels, I turned around, only to see the younger woman standing next to me in her underwear as she waited for her friend to finish rinsing her shorts. In a voice that was far too loud for a public restroom, she said, “Oh my god! I don’t even have anything! This just sucks so bad!”
Now, first of all, let me point out that I was not eating tapas at a roadside way station. Not that I think it’s appropriate to stand in your underwear in any type of public restroom, but I imagine that running into partially clothed strangers in the bathroom is a bit more commonplace in way stations than in upscale Spanish restaurants. In fact, that’s usually the only reason I ever stop at roadside way stations.
Secondly, this bathroom was very tiny, making it utterly impossible to pretend that I didn’t notice these women, which was my initial instinct.
Thricely, there was no air dryer in the bathroom – only paper towels. So I couldn’t help but wonder – once this woman was done rinsing out what I could only assume to be the stains of womanhood from her shorts, how exactly did she intend to dry them off?
As much as I wanted to run from this scene, a tiny voice called to me in my head. It was the voice of a twelve year old Jenny, so sweet and innocent, and still not fully in tune with her lunar cycles. The voice reminded me that I, too, had been in this situation before. Well, not exactly this situation, but a similar one:
Summer of ’83. County fair. White shorts. That carnival ride that spins you around until you stick to the wall. Centrifugal force and unexpected period do not a pretty combination make. Nothing but occupied Port-o-Potties as far as the eye could see.
To this day, I refuse to go to traveling carnivals and let mentally ill carnies strap me into giant spinning wheels until the floor drops out. Do you even understand how this experience crippled me emotionally? Why do you think I’m still single? I’m like a shut-in!
The pain of that memory still stinging in my brain, I stopped myself from leaving, and without really making eye contact with the semi-nude woman, I just said, “Uh, do you, uh, need anything?” Because in woman speak, “need anything” is the universal code for: I’m carrying Tampax products and am willing to share, because I’m just always that prepared, which is why I never find myself in your situation, i.e. standing in a public bathroom half naked in front of a complete stranger while waiting for my shorts to dry.
The semi-nude woman seemed completely oblivious to my presence, even after I spoke directly to her. Her friend just kept rinsing and shrieked, “No, she doesn’t need anything. She needs to have her head checked, that’s all!” She then let out a husky, bitter laugh that made me think they might both be a bit drunk.
She continued, “I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m your mother!”
I shrugged my shoulders, tossed my paper towels away, and returned to my grilled lamb chops. As I recounted this recent adventure to my dining companion, Lazlo, he asked innocently, “Does that happen a lot to women?”
I shook my head and said, “Not unless you hang out at Six Flags all the time.”
He gave me a puzzled look, “Huh?”
“Uh… never mind.”
7 Comments; | Filed under: Wish I Hadn't Witnessed
June 8, 2005
It struck me today that I have been selfish. Insanely, ridiculously, horribly selfish. All I do on this site is talk about me, me, me. What tap class is Jenny dropping out of now? Which stranger on a train has she divorced this week? What homemade instrument is she, or is she not, currently playing in a hit jug band?
I just haven’t taken the time to get to know you. Your likes, dislikes, hopes, dreams. So I’m dedicating an entire feature to getting to know you better. Your opinions are important to me. In fact, maybe they’re better than my own opinions. Maybe my opinions are the wrong opinions. Maybe I should check to see what you think first. Do these shoes go with these pants?
To remedy this egregious oversight, I’m launching the first step in my quest to strengthen our bond. It’s called: The Opinion Poll.
Question: If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would you choose? Wait a minute! You can’t just make up any answer at all. This isn’t some sort of anarchy. You’re not in Canada, you know. There’s got to be some structure to this if it is to be an accurate poll. So your choices are as follows:
Since I run a highly scientific research shop here, I won’t tell you my opinion. Okay, but maybe I’ll just tell you one of the things I didn’t choose. I didn’t choose B, because that is the most repugnant food known to man and should only be fed to prisoners of war when we’re trying to get them to talk. But please don’t let that influence your opinion. Thank you!
17 Comments; | Filed under: Opinion Poll
June 7, 2005
So – I realize this isn’t my usual type of entry, but I am in need of a release because I have become mildly obsessed with figuring out Tom Cruise’s relationship with Katie Holmes. What the hell is going on? He has gone insane, and he’s taking a 25 year old girl with him. Was he always this crazy, and we just didn’t know it? What’s wrong with her? She’s dating a lunatic, and he already has her going to Scientology centers. Won’t someone intervene? Why is Oprah condoning this lunacy? Has the whole world gone mad? Nicole Kidman and Penelope Cruz must be breathing great sighs of relief right now. I want Brooke Shields to punch him in his face.
Run, Katie! Run!
8 Comments; | Filed under: General
June 6, 2005
As I may have mentioned before, I am not a skilled gardener. I am as neglectful of my plants’ health as I am of my own. So upon returning from my Memorial Day weekend getaway, I realized that I had forgotten to water my plants before I left, and most likely for several weeks prior to my departure.
My Easter cactus was shriveled and dark green. My bamboo was puckered and yellow. My jade was droopy and slightly purplish.
I immediately saturated their pots with tepid water, and within a few days, the most amazing thing happened. I noticed some healthy green new growth on my jade plant. My bamboo looked plump and vital. And springing forth from the tips of my Easter cactus were bright pink buds, eager to bloom. Not once, in the two years that I have owned this cactus, has it ever flowered. Despite my neglect, or perhaps because of it, my plants were suddenly thriving.
So what am I to take away from this experience? Is it possible that my houseplants were trying to send me some sort of subliminal message? Could it be that, sensing their impending doom, my plants suddenly realized how amazing life truly is, and therefore when given a second chance, leapt at the opportunity to make the most of it?
I have to wonder if my plants were trying to teach me a life lesson. Over the past several years, I have watched my body slowly erode and shrivel into a state I assumed was permanent. But what if, like the sturdy bamboo, I, too, can grow new shoots once again? Is that what they were trying to tell me? Perhaps there is much to be learned from our leafy friends. Lessons like:
1. Only through adversity do we reach our full potential
2. What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger
3. A near death experience makes you truly appreciate the value of life
Of course, I quickly rejected this theory and instead, determined that all of my plants were suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. For years, I had held them hostage on my windowsill, their fate teetering between life and death, dependent upon my god-like hands to bring them water and Miracle-Gro. As could be expected, they have all begun to sympathize with me, their captor. I think the Easter cactus might even be in love with me. I have consequently decided to name her Patty Hearst. We are going to rob some banks together later this weekend.
While I was momentarily impressed with my plants’ physical fortitude, I ultimately became disgusted by their spiritual weakness. I mean really, what does it take to find a plant that will actually stand up for itself? Every last one of these pathetic plants caved in to my abuse. And now they’re all trying to teach me some sort of Reader’s Digest life lesson about the strength of the spirit? I don’t think so! I have enough people telling me what to do with my life – the last thing I need is to have a bunch of insecure flora telling me I can be a better person by just letting people abuse me.
You know what I would do if I were one of my plants and I were that neglected? I would form dozens of beautiful flower buds and let them almost open, then I would go on a hunger strike until they all dried up and fell off, never allowing my abuser to witness their splendor. I would drop leaves into her coffee cup, and shrivel up when company was over, just to embarrass her in front of her friends. I would suffocate myself rather than emit the sweet, sweet oxygen that my captor so desperately craved. That’s what I would do. And I would respect the plant Jenny for having the guts to do just that.
This bunch of low self-esteem, preachy plants makes me sick. So I decided that this weekend, I’m throwing them all out and getting a plant that has some attitude – a Venus flytrap. Venus flytrap takes crap from no one. Venus flytrap is at the top of the food chain. Venus flytrap just says, “What? You think you’re gonna forget to water me and let me die? You think I need you? Shit – I’ll catch my own food, sucka! I’m a carnivore – I kill what I eat. And lord knows you got enough flies in this pigsty apartment to keep me living large for months.”
Yeah. Me and Venus flytrap are gonna get along just fine.
1 Comment; | Filed under: General
June 1, 2005
I spent Memorial Day weekend at my brother’s house in Wisconsin, working desperately on my never-ending quest to achieve Favorite Aunt status with my two nephews. My plan entailed a carefully structured regimen of:
1. Candy distribution
2. Lego’s construction
3. Ant-farm observation
4. Star Wars viewing
I was well on my way to accomplishing this goal when Elliott and Anthony begged me to play baseball with them again in the back yard. Having spent a few summers on a neighborhood softball team as a kid, I figured this would be right up my alley. Both boys wanted to bat, so I alternated pitching to them and cheering them on with each hit. I taught them all the good banter:
“Hey, batter, batter, batter. Swing!”
“Whoa! I felt a breeze from your bat, you swung that so hard!”
“C’mon! Put a little pepper on that baby!”
“Yeah! You really got a piece of that one!”
“Hot grounder, coming at you!”
“And he knocks it out of the park! The crowd goes wild!”
After a couple times at bat each, my older nephew, Elliott, suggested that I start hitting some balls to them so they could practice their catching. He ran out to the outfield for the pop flies, while Anthony stayed a little closer to catch the grounders.
And this is where my quest for Favorite Aunt status took a serious detour: Elliott was yelling for me to hit him some more fly balls because I had hit three grounders in a row to Anthony. Ever the fair and balanced aunt, I tossed the ball up, swung the bat, and watched in horror as the ball rocketed straight into the wide-eyed and unsuspecting face of my five year old nephew.
I paused a second before reacting, waiting to gauge my nephew’s reaction. And then it came – the silent, tearless cry that signals great tragedy. I dropped the bat immediately and ran over to him, pulling his tiny mitt away from his face. Oh god. Please not his eye. My brother’s an ophthalmologist – he cannot have a one-eyed son! Oh, his eyes are fine, but welling with tears. Nose! Not a tiny broken nose! How would they even set it? But his nose looked fine. Oh shit. He’s holding his mouth. I hit him in the mouth. Good god, I knocked all my five year old nephew’s teeth out! His tiny, sweet, baby teeth. His mother will never forgive me! But… there was no blood! All his teeth were intact! Not even a swollen lip!
I hugged Anthony tightly and asked him if he wanted to go inside. He just held his hand to his mouth and said, “No… [sniff] I… [sniff] just want… [sniff] to bat… [sob!]”
“You want to bat some more? Of course you can bat! You’re such a tough little guy, aren’t you? I’m so proud of you. And you know what’s great about this? Now you and I have a secret, don’t we? Yeah. We won’t tell anyone – especially not your mommy or daddy – that I hit a line drive into your face, will we? That’ll be our little secret.”
He shook his glove off and rubbed his eyes with both hands. “But mommy says secrets are bad.”
I looked around the yard, then leaned in close to Anthony and said, “No, honey. Secrets aren’t bad. Lies are bad. You should never lie. But secrets are good. Secrets are what good friends share. It’s like in that movie Spy Kids – they had to keep secrets in order to catch the bad guys, didn’t they?”
“Spy Kids is Elliott’s movie. He never lets me watch it. I don’t like that movie.”
“Oh. Well, you like Lord of the Rings, right? With Gollum? And you know how the hobbits – Bilbo and Harpo – had to keep the ring a secret from everybody? That was a good secret – see?”
“His name is Frodo. I like Lord of the Rings. I saw that three times already.”
“Right – Frodo! So you and me, we’re going to be just like Frodo and Harpo. Keeping secrets, and finding treasure, and killing bad guys. Now why don’t you go grab that bat and show me how you can knock it out of the park?”
The entire time I was tending to my wounded warrior, his older brother was pacing around the back yard and rolling his eyes. When he saw Anthony grab the bat, Elliott threw down his glove and came running over to me.
“Aunt Jenny! Anthony can’t bat! It’s my turn to bat! He just got to bat!”
“Elliott! Your brother just got hit in the face with a ball, and I told him he could bat. You can bat after him.”
“That’s no fair! So what if he got hit. He’s a big baby! I want to bat.”
“Look, Elliott. I hit Anthony in the face with the ball, and I feel really bad about that, so Anthony is batting right now. And if I hit you in the face with a ball, I’ll let you bat twenty times in a row, okay?”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
7 Comments; | Filed under: General
May 26, 2005
As I was waiting for the cashier to ring up my chicken-flavored cat treats (free with one 14-lb container of Tidy Cat cat litter), I glanced back at the ever-growing line of post work/pre American Idol grocery shoppers. I was just about to turn back to swipe my credit card when something caught my eye. A man was in line about three people behind me, and he looked vaguely familiar. Wait. Is it? No. Could it be? Oh my gosh. It is. It was Orangehat Goatee – live in the flesh.
It had been so long since our split that I barely remembered his face, and seeing him out of context like this really threw me. I craned my neck to see if I could get a look at his grocery cart. Was he buying a lot of food, or just a little? Is he seeing someone else now? Were there any air fresheners or wine coolers in his cart? He was too far away for me to tell, which frankly, was probably a blessing in disguise because had he been any closer, he would have seen the contents of my cart: frozen pizza, generic nighttime cold medicine, sugar free cough drops, People Magazine, and Monistat 7.
But I’ll tell you right now, had he been behind me in line, I would have given him an earful:
No, I don’t want to talk about it. Look, you made it clear that you didn’t want to work things out, so don’t come up to me in the express lane at the Jewel and act like everything’s fine.
That doesn’t matter. It took me way too long to get over you, O., and I’m not going back to square one. Besides, I’m in love with someone else now.
That’s really none of your business, now is it? No, I’m not going to tell you who it is.
No, his name is not Scott S. Dale, smart-ass. Just because Seattle and I fell in love doesn’t mean I fall for every city I visit. God, are you still jealous over that Seattle thing?
Well I can tell you this – he appreciates me for who I am and sees a side of me that no one else does. He brings out my carefree, creative spirit – something you never even knew I had.
Well, no, I haven’t told him how I feel. But that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he talks to me about things. At least my relationship with him isn’t one-sided, like it was with you.
Look, Orangehat. What we had was special. I’m not going to deny that. But I’ve moved on, and I think you should, too. I’ve got to go – my pizza is starting to defrost. Take care of yourself, will you?
Well, I guess it’s for the best that we didn’t talk. I don’t want to open up old wounds, and now that I’m madly in love with someone else, I don’t even think about him anymore. Orangehat. Always wearing that stupid orange hat. Wonder if he still has that hat. That hat sure looked nice on him.
6 Comments; | Filed under: Orangehat Chronicles
May 23, 2005
No matter where I travel, whether for business or pleasure, there’s nothing quite as comforting as stepping off that plane in O’Hare, knowing that I’m but a short drive from my home sweet home. Within minutes of hopping off the plane after my recent trip to Arizona, I found myself zoning out to the soothing sounds of the Beastie Boys on my iPod and watching strangers’ luggage float past me on the baggage carousel. As I lunged forward to grab a black carryon that turned out to belong to someone else, I noticed a sign on the wall that said:
“Honey, do you see our bag yet? Remember – ours has the rainbow strap around it to make it more noticeable.”
“No, dear. It hasn’t come by yet. Phew, my dogs are barking. That was one long flight. Nice stewardesses, though! That Cheryl sure was a sweetheart. You know she gave me two extra bags of pretzels? I didn’t even have to ask for them!”
“Gosh, Jim. I just cannot wait to see the city. My first trip to Chicago, and there’s so much to do – the Sears Tower, Navy Pier, Millennium Park, the Museum of Science and – wait a minute! Oh for the love of – Jim! Look over there!”
“What’s that, June?”
“Over there – that signs says that it’s Digestive Disease Week May 14 through the 19th! Can you believe the luck?”
“Oh, for crying in a kerchief! After it was sold out in Tampa, I never thought we’d get a chance to go to Digestive Disease Week again! Please, please, please let there still be tickets! June – quick! Get the cell phone!”
“I’m way ahead of you! I’m going to see if we can still get the four-day unlimited passes. Won’t the boys be thrilled?”
Although, really, who am I to talk? I just spent four days at a marketing conference in Scottsdale, Arizona. In the grand scheme of things, with my poor eating habits and delicate constitution, attending Digestive Disease Week at McCormick Place probably would have been a better use of my time. Huh. Wonder if I can still get tickets to next year’s conference? I hear they’re holding it in Des Moines!
4 Comments; | Filed under: General
