let's go away for a while, you and I, to a strange and distant land

I think my Wii arm must be getting stronger, because I played with a lot of Wiis (hahaha) this weekend and my arm doesn't hurt at all. DESPITE the fact that I almost ripped my arm out of socket trying to play tennis. This was before someone told me that you didn't, in fact, have to swing your arm like you were actually holding a tennis racket. But it's so much more fun that way.

We tried to play Guitar Hero at Nancy's Friday night, and none of us made it through a single song. Perhaps it was the song, but I have a feeling it had more to do with the beer. HOWEVER. Last night, I played it again and I made it through a billion songs! Or like four. One of those. Of course, I was playing on Easy, but whatever. You know what I'd like to know? How can boys pick up a game for the first time and be good at it IMMEDIATELY? I have this theory that boys have an extra gene or chromosome or something (it's a well-thought out theory, you see) that enables them to play any video game well, even if they've never played it before. Sort of like Rainman and the toothpicks. Only not at all. Never mind.

I had Indian food for the first time last night, and it was delicious. Also, our waiter was psychic and NOT friends with the cute, little man who poured the water. And we enjoyed the musical stylings of Raj Patel and Little Ravi. I am aware I'm not making much sense to most (any?) of you, but I'M laughing and isn't that really all that matters? Yes. Yes, it is. You know, there was a time (birth through high school) that I wouldn't try any food that I didn't think I'd like. Which was limiting, you know? Then one day, I decided to just try anything someone put in front of me, as long as it was, you know, food. I think it started that Thanksgiving my dad bet me $10 that I wouldn't eat a raw oyster and yes, it was disgusting and yes, it was slimy, but at least I tried it. And I made ten dollars.

Also! Someone submitted something I wrote for this thing. Wow, I am great with details, yes? Anyway, thank you to whoever nominated me. This award will be added to my other writing awards which include . . . um, being a finalist in a short story contest and then LOSING. This is much better, thank you very much.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I did an original sin. I poked a badger with a spoon.

Heidi and I break a lot of stuff in our apartment. There was the oven knob incident, and the garbage disposal (twice), my toilet, our refrigerator, various light bulbs, our recliner, several coffeemakers, the dryer, the time I threw a coaster at the wall, and, very recently, Heidi's closet door, the patio door blinds, and our kitchen light. The beauty of renting, however, is that the apartment complex had to pay to fix most of this.

With our history of breaking shit, I wasn't too surprised yesterday evening when I broke the front door. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Jennie, whatever, you did not break the front door." Well, shut up, yes I did. You see, for the past several weeks, Heidi and I have noticed that the lock on our front door was getting harder and harder to lock and unlock. So what did we do? We mostly ignored it. And when we weren't ignoring it, we complained about it. This was working well for us, you know, until yesterday.

So there I am, all tired from work and shivering on the front stoop, and I stuck my key in the hole, like I always do, but this time? When I tried to pull the key out? Part of the lock came with it. You know, the little cylinder part that has all the pins and crap in it? That little cylinder was just hanging there. A bit was still in the hole, but most was hanging out in the cold, cold, winter air.

"Hmm," I thought. "Perhaps I can shove it back in." So. I tried to shove it back in. Nothing.

"Hmm," I thought. "Perhaps I can simply turn the cylinder with the key and, even though it's not even connected to the door anymore, the door will unlock." So. I tried to turning the key. Nothing.

"Hmm," I thought. "Perhaps this is something I cannot fix myself and I should stop messing with it before I make it much, much worse and Heidi and I can never get back into the apartment and we have to live in an igloo next to the front porch." And so I got in my car and drove up to the apartment complex office.

Things were looking up as I walked into the office, for who should be working but Hot Guy Who Works In Our Apartment Complex Office (who I will now call . . . Bartleby). He is the one I have a tiny, baby, little crush on. Not in a real way, but in the junior high way where every time he talks to me, I start stuttering and my face gets red and I say stupid things. Well. Stupider than usual.

Bartleby: Hi, there. What can I do for you?
Me: I'm having a problem!
Bartleby: OK?
Me: I broke our front door and now the door won't unlock.
Bartleby: Um . . .
Me: Allow me to demonstrate.

And this is when I got my keys out and walked him over to the lock on his office door and imitated the whole lock coming out of the door while attached to my key thing.

Bartleby: Wow, I've never heard of that happening before.
Me: Super.
Bartleby: I'll call the maintenance guy.

While I waited, I was just going to sit in the lobby and read my book (after calling Heidi to tell her if she tried to go home, it would be a fruitless journey that would only end in tears and frustration), but Bartleby came out to talk to me! Yay!

Bartleby: Talk talk talk.
Me: Reply reply reply.
Bartleby: Ha ha ha!
Me: Ha ha ha! Oh, we are laughing!

And the whole time, I'm thinking, "Is he gay? I can't tell if he's gay. He seems sort of gay. It would totally be just my luck if he were gay," but then I said, "I hope I'm not keeping you," and he said, "No, I'm here til 6 anyway," and I said, "Oh, OK," and he said, "I really don't mind staying after 6, though," and I thought, "Score!" but then he said, "My fiance and I were just going to get some wings later anyway," and then I thought, "Fuuuuuuuuck you." True story.

So, apparently Bartleby and I are not meant to be. Unless he and his fiance break up, but it feels wrong to hope for such a thing. Luckily, Heidi and I still have Bernard and Sebastian, who may or may not be gay and who may or may not have another Hot Guy now living with them. New Hot Guy has glasses (heart) and a black car (irrelevant) and a purple lunchbox (um) and now all he needs is a name. And so I shall christen him . . . THADDEUS.

Oh, we eventually got back into our apartment. Like THAT'S the important part of the story. Sheesh.

_____

Today on The Collective, it's your turn to tell us our business.

lacking active conscious knowledge or awareness

Last night, Heidi and I were talking about the Springfield Mall. I don't know why. I worked there my junior year of college because it's like five minutes away from campus. I worked at Vitamin World. It was as glamorous as you can imagine. Anyway, I'm not sure how we got to talking about that mall, but who cares because CONVERSATION WITH MY ROOMMATE:

Me: That was such a good job. We were only busy on like two days of the month when we had a giant sale, but other than that hardly anyone came in.
Heidi: Oh really? [what she should have said: Jennie, you are boring, shut up]
Me: Yeah. This one guy? He worked at Lazarus. And he'd come in every night and buy one of those gross protein bars.
Heidi: Haha. Ew.
Me: This one night he came in and I was working alone and he handed me this wad of cash but didn't wait for his change. And when I looked down, there was a slip of paper with the money and it had a phone number on it.
Heidi: Oooh!
Me: Heh, yeah, wait. Anyway, when I saw it, I was like, "Weird! This piece of paper has a phone number on it. I wonder why? Oh well," and then I threw it away.
Heidi: You did not.
Me: I did. And it wasn't until I was telling the story to someone later that they were all, "Jennie, he gave you his phone number. And you threw it away."
Heidi: Wow.
Me: I know. I am an asshole. But it didn't even occur to me! I just thought he handed me garbage!
Heidi: Was he cute?
Me: Yes.
Heidi: You are so special.
Me: Tell me about it.
Heidi: And this is why Jennie is single.
Me: Seriously, though.

Also, this one time an old man came in and hit on me for like an hour. He was wearing a cowboy hat and boots, eating an ice cream cone, and was shorter than I am. I turned down his offer (several times) but sadly, this is how obvious men have to be before I realize that they might like me. I mostly wander through the world with my head in the clouds, so not only do I run into stuff all the time, I am pretty much oblivious to things that may seem obvious to everyone else. Lazarus boy, if you're out there, I'm sorry. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings. I thought you were very cute and totally would have let you buy me dinner, and not just because I was in college and poor.

apparently I'm a big hit with farmers, IT guys, and 16-year-olds

I got yelled at by lots of employees today (turns out they don't like it when you don't give them all the money they want but TOO BAD and also? I'm not doing it to be a bitch, TALK TO THE GOVERNMENT BECAUSE THIS IS ALL THEIR FAULT) so after work I went to Kroger to buy some self-medication. There I was, wandering around the store carrying my precious, precious beer and when I passed two 16-year-olds walking the other way, one of them shouted, "Hey BABY, you need help drinking those?"

The answer is no, little boy. No, I do not.

It's not us, it's THEM! Them and their stupid boy . . . penises!

Me: Heidi . . .
Heidi: What?
Me: Do you wanna skip the gym and not go running and get shitfaced instead?
Heidi: God, yes.

Last night, for absolutely no reason whatsoever (heh), Heidi and I had a "Boys are Stupid Night." Obviously, we don't think ALL boys are stupid. Just some of them. OK, a lot of them. Also, they're smelly.

Anyway. Boys are Stupid (and sometimes Smelly) Night included Friends, margaritas, and chips and salsa. And best of all, Nancy! I don't know if you guys remember Nancy, but she is the one who went to Dinosaur World with me so that automatically makes her awesome but you guys have NO IDEA.

Obviously, before we could start Boys are Stupid Night, we had to go to the liquor store. We bought stuff for margaritas and also wine from the clearance section. I refuse to spend more than $10 on a bottle of wine because I can't tell the difference between good wine and cheap wine anyway and also I'm poor. If I can get away with it, I'd spend less than $5 on wine. It's not like I'm buying Boone's Farm, though, I mean, HELLO. There is this place called Trader Joe's (duh) that sells 3 buck Chuck so it's not like we're suffering. Oh, Charles Shaw. How can I show my appreciation for your cheap, cheap wine? I would offer to have your babies, but if I did that, then I couldn't drink your wine and that is a lose-lose situation, if you think about it. I prefer my situations win-win (win).

Where was I? Oh, right. Boys are Stupid Night. I mean, really, we didn't even talk that much about how Boys are Stupid. We spent more time going over the stupid shit we did in college (which obviously took up the majority of the evening) and then the rest of the time we spent gossiping about our friends which kind of defeats the purpose of Boys are Stupid Night, but whatever. Considering I got the idea for Boys are Stupid Night from this episode of Friends, you're lucky we didn't accidentally burn our apartment down.

long story short (no, for real, you guys!)

Last night, I pretended to fall asleep/pass out in a guest room to avoid being asked out by someone named Scooter.

True story.

If you really wanted to screw me up, you should've gotten to me earlier.

This morning I spent . . . um, way too long trying to get 94.9 (THE SOUND) on the radio in my office. I WOULD just listen to it online, but I can't because my company blocks anything fun (like, say, if you go to Youtube and search for "unicorn planet" . . . trust me). The reason I wanted, nay, NEEDED, to listen to 94.9 is because they're playing Perfect 10's all day. Which basically means people submit their 10 favorite songs and then they play them. That was pretty self-explanatory, I guess. Please don't think I think you're all so stupid that you don't know what a Perfect 10 is BECAUSE I DON'T.

The reason I love when they play Perfect 10's is because every so often, someone else's Perfect 10 will so closely resemble my own (you know, should I ever actually sit down and compile one) that I just know if we met we'd be BFF. I know that's probably not true, I just like to say BFF. This one time? I was in the car listening to some guy's Perfect 10 and every time a new song came on I would say, "HEY! I love this song!" especially when he played "Blister in the Sun" because, um, I love that song. And I thought to myself, "Jennie (for that is my name) . . . if he plays Death Cab for Cutie or something by The Shins, I believe he might be your soulmate," and I almost called the radio station to try and talk them into giving me the guy's phone number when the next song that came on was this one.

I love listening to Perfect 10's because it's like listening to someone's favorite mix-tape. I love mix-tapes. Although now I believe they are called "iPods." Whatever. Also, it makes me think of High Fidelity, a movie I absolutely hated when I first saw it (I was all of . . . I don't know, 18?) but when I watched it (and read it) again recently I was all "18-year-old Jennie was stupid," which . . . duh. At the end of the movie, Rob makes a mix-tape for Laura, something no one has ever done for me. If some guy ever made me a mix-tape even half as perfect as my Perfect 10, then I might be tempted to have his babies. Probably not, though. Probably I'd be so freaked out that someone knew me so well they could make something even remotely close to my Perfect 10, I'd never talk to him again. Because I'm a tiny bit fucked up. Maybe more than a tiny bit. I once told a guy that I think everyone is at least a tiny bit fucked up, and it wasn't until he started to disagree with me that I realized I actually believed what I'd said. Point proven, as far as I'm concerned.

Suppose I kept on singing love songs just to break my own fall

Kat (formally of i hate kit kats) asked: what's the meanest thing you ever did to a boy?*

I still maintain that the meanest thing I ever did to a boy was the time in 5th grade when I kicked David Whatsisname in the balls as hard as I could, which was pretty hard (ballet). But I don't regret it because he was making fun of my sister. Actually, at the time I was just happy that I was wearing really heavy, pointy shoes.

*Kat, I'm pretty sure this isn't exactly what you meant. But if you look elsewhere (wink wink nudge nudge), you may find it.

you and me baby ain't nothing but mammals

There's this new radio station that comes out of Cincinnati or Fairfield or Giant Jesus, I'm not sure, called The Sound. And I want to have its babies. I'm not even kidding. This past weekend they were playing Top 10 Lists from listeners and they played, I shit you not, Ring of Fire. That is enough to buy my love forever and ever. If you want me to have your babies, I'm pretty easy. Ring of Fire. That is all.

Ring of Fire aside, I would love this station anyway because it sounds like every mix tape I ever made in high school but NOT ONLY THAT it also sounds like what a mix tape I might make now would sound like. You know, if the mp3 player hadn't totally axe murdered the mix tape. Poor mix tape.

Yesterday, on the way to work, I heard . . . wait for it, The Bad Touch. I have such mixed feelings about this song. On the one hand, it reminds me of these two girls in college who made up an entire choreographed dance to it. I would try to describe it to you, but words fail me. I wish Youtube had been around back then because they would have been ALL. OVER IT. ON THE OTHER HAND. Caps lock off. On the other hand, that song also reminds me of Scary Larry, who I worked with in high school at the local library and who asked my friend Sarah if I wanted to do it with him like they do on the Discovery Channel. When Sarah told me this, I believe my exact words were, "What the fuck? Wait . . . no, really, what the fuck?" Eloquent, I know but what would YOU have said to that? SERIOUSLY, who says that? That is beyond borderline inappropriate and topped all of the other creepy things he ever said TO MY FACE, like the time he told me I reminded him of the Virgin Mary or when he asked if I liked snake handling. I believe my response to that last one was, "Seriously? Keep your snake away from me."

Abraham Lincoln once said, if you’re a racist, I will attack you with the North.

People kept asking me if I have today off and every time they did all I could think was, "why do people keep asking me that?" Because, no, I do not have today off. If you do? I don't want to hear about it. Although, to the dear people of Dayton, at least I can take pleasure in the fact that it is RAINING on your day off. I'm sorry, that was mean. I'll try to be nicer (no, I won't).

I really wish it would stop raining, though. Yesterday, I tried to trade someone the internet for the sun but he wouldn't go for it unless I threw in a little something more than the internet. I still think it's a fair trade! Both bring joy and allow for hours of entertainment. Also, I don't remember the last time I saw the sun so really . . . come on. Think of someone else for a change and GIVE ME THE SUN. All this rain makes me want to nap constantly, something I have no problem with but I doubt my boss would like it if I curled up under my desk and slept all afternoon.

Speaking of napping, have I mentioned how much I love my new bed? Because I do. Love. It. I wish I could spend all day in it, but again, something tells me my boss wouldn't like it if I called in sleepy. Some weekend mornings? I'll get up and brush my teeth and check my e-mail and wander around the apartment trying not to trip over Phoebe, and then I'll look over at my bed, the covers still sleep-tussled, and I'll think, "hmm, that looks nice . . . I think I shall lie down for a moment to collect my thoughts." And so I'll flop down face first in a pile of comforter and when I wake up it's suddenly one in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas. But technically, since I'd already gotten up and brushed my teeth, it's not like I was just getting out of bed at one. It was a catnap that totally snuck up on me and you can't fight those!

SPEAKING of sleeping . . . I couldn't last night. Well, I mean I slept a little. I stayed up too late reading and then riiiiiight as I was on the cusp of sleep, my cell phone made that little, trilling noise that means I got a text message and I couldn't just NOT read it. That's crazy talk! So I read it, considered responding, realized that would be a lot of work, and then fell into a crazy, crazy dreamland. Seriously. These dreams were IN. SANE. I don't want to talk about it because I feel like you all already suspect that I am crazy, but telling you about these dreams would just prove it to you. I SWEAR. Oh, and also? I think Heidi and I have officially been living together for too long because she told me she had a zombie nightmare the other night. Which means I have passed along my zombie-phobia. Which is a totally logical phobia because zombies are scary. Seriously.

Dear Internets, did you have a good weekend? Mine was fantastic. I did nothing. Except I did a load of laundry. And went to the library. And read almost a whole book (yay, maybe I am no longer borderline retarded!). AND I showered both days, even though yesterday I showered and then immediately put my pajamas back on. Whatever. I also watched about a million movies, including but not limited to: Someone Like You (eh), Syriana (The Clooney!), Dead Poets Society (see previous entry), Steel Magnolias (shut up), Under the Tuscan Sun (Marcello!), and Shopgirl. OK, and I had really low expectations for Shopgirl (don't ask me why I rented it, then) but I loved it. LOVED IT. I have such a nerd girl crush on Jason Schwartzman; I don't know why. It is inexplicable. THAT WHICH CANNOT BE EXPLAINED.

I have obviously run out of things to say, so I'm just going to back away slowly. Bye.

suddenly i see

Mom: So how'd your date go the other night?
Me: Oh, great, but he moved to Georgia the next day.
Mom: Way to go!
Me: Hey now, he was moving there before I met him.
Mom: That's not what I meant. Although, Jennie, why do you get involved with guys who don't live in the same state as you?
Me: Um.

It was one of those throw away comments, a joke really, that I haven't quite been able to get out of my head. Until I realized that I know exactly why I do that. Because there's little to no chance of a future, and yet it still gives me an excuse to not get attached to someone who lives, say, ten minutes away from me, that I might have to see every day. Because it's hard to hide The Crazy from someone you see every day. Just ask Heidi.

Anyway. Enough of that. This weekend marked the celebration of my sister turning 21. Friday after work was the celebration with the family.

Coworker: Ooh, you changed out of your scrubs, where are you going?
Me: To meet my family at a bar.
Coworker: . . .
Me: See you Monday!

And when I say "meet my family," I mean most of my aunts and uncles and my godfather as well as some friends of my parents who might as well BE family. Particularly Larry, who my dad has known since . . . I don't know, they were fetuses or whatever. As always, he asked me how things were going.

Larry: So, Jennie, how are you? No husbands? No babies?
Me: No, thank god.
Mom: No, Larry, I was a good mother and taught my girls about birth control.
Larry: Birth control, not self control, right?
Mom: Well, that is a very important difference.
Me: I'm leaving now.

Later my mom explained to Heidi and me how we'd know when we'd met the right guy which totally isn't fair because she met my dad when she was in junior high or something. WHAT. EVER. Also, she told me all sorts of family secrets. Don't ask her if she remembers, though, because judging by all the empty wine glasses that were sitting on our table, she totally doesn't.

Let's be from Vermont. And let's have an emerging maple syrup conglomerate.

Last night, I forgot the cardinal rule of sports bars: Do not, I repeat DO NOT, make eye contact with anyone of the opposite gender if you wish to remain unhitupon. After going to see a (free) play with Heidi and two of her previous coworkers, we decided to stop for a drink but we didn't want to stay downtown because A) we didn't want our cars broken into and B) we weren't in the mood to get assraped.

So we went to some place called Cadillac Jack's, where we could NOT ONLY get a drink or two (ok or three), but we could also partake in some cheese fries or chicken wings or the like as well as some girly conversation (boys, bras, bajengas, etc). WHICH WE DID.

OK, now. Men, I have a question. Or two. Not sure yet. Where did you learn to hit on women? I mostly mean you, guy who shimmied past our table like a go-go dancer. I mean, I like the Counting Crows, too, but it's not really a shake your tailfeather kind of song. It was a little weird, is what I'm saying. Also, Guy Who is Getting Married in 2008 . . . I get that you were playing wingman for your friends. I get that it was my fault that you approached our table. After all, I made eye contact. We thought we were rid of you and your friends, too, but then you decided to sit at the table behind us and lean into our conversation, each time putting your arms around Bree and Tamara, both of whom had their backs to you so you're lucky they didn't elbow you in the face in fright.

Guy: So what do you guys do?
Bree: I'm a social worker.
Tamara: I interview drug addicts.
Jennie's Brain: Your job is boring. Lie.
Me: I'm a stewardess.
Guy: Oh, really?
Me: Well, flight attendant would be more politically correct, I guess.
Guy: So, you like serve people coffee and water and stuff?
Me: Yes, that is an important part of my job.
Guy: Cool.
Me: Yeah, and it's really hard to do in high heels.
Guy: And turbulence.
Me: Right.
Guy: OK, then.

Then he left us alone! Ok, only for a couple minutes but a very nice couple of minutes. This was the first time I'd met Bree and Tamara, and I'd already told them I work for an orthodontist, so they were a bit confused.

Bree: Wait, are you really a stewardess?
Me: Haha, no.
Bree: Oh, god, ok. I didn't think so.
Tamara: I was gonna say, you'd be pretty busy.
Bree: I wish I could just make shit up like that.
Me: It is a gift.
Tamara: So what airline do you fly?
Me: Delta.
Heidi: Where's your home base?
Me: Cincinnati.
Heidi: How did September 11th make you feel, being a stewardess?
Me: Well, I was still in stewardess college at the time.
Bree: You had to go to stewardess college?
Me: Of course. It's tough, too. Very competitive.
Heidi: Have you ever had Paris Hilton on a flight, flashing her vajayjay everywhere?
Me: No, those flights? The ones from like LA or New York or international flights? You have to work your way up to those and I'm not there yet. Obviously, I'm still stuck in Cincinnati.
Bree: Wow. I don't know how you're doing this. If I tried to lie I'd be all "Um, I . . . um, hahaha!"
Me: Hmm. You could be a Bavarian Chocolate Specialist.
Bree: Oh my god.

I think I'm totally ready to be a professional wedding crasher. What kind of dental do you get with that, I wonder.