Dinner And A Movie.

Lena Dunham was on The Tonight Show and she and Jimmy Fallon talked about how they both used to work in video stores. I loved this because I too, once worked in a video store. 
It's a shame that future generations of kids won't have the chance to work in video stores. 
It's good for you. 

My Aunt and Uncle used to own a video store on this little island on Florida's Gulf Coast. There was actually another video store on the island as well, but that one was run by a guy who left the store locked with a sign on the door that said, "I'm at the bar. If you want to rent something, come get me." 

(Florida.)

So my family's store was pretty busy all the time.

When my uncle had a heart attack, I went down to help out for a few months. I probably learned more about movies working there than I did in film school. I watched a LOT of movies. I watched three a shift on the big screen at the front of the store, and then brought home a stack of foreign and independent films at night. I watched so many movies I started to want to rearrange the store by different categories, like:

"Movies with good soundtracks" 

"Quotable" 

"Movies about food"

I really wanted to categorize movies by what kind of food you might be eating before, after, or during the film. When I'd watch movies at night by myself I'd point to the screen and say, "Now, see?! This would be perfect for Sauce/Italian/Pizza!" "Remember this for "Holiday/Celebratory Meals." (Horror movies were under "Halloween Candy." Most films with violence filed under "Fasting.")

My Aunt is super organized, so that idea never flew, but we did have an employee recommendation shelf that became ridiculously important to me. I picked my selections so carefully and wrote what I thought were the most compelling reasons to watch, and then waited while no one rented my picks. Sometimes I would switch them out mid-week, or add other ones. 

I worked with one kid who just put Bad Santa on the shelf every week with the explanation, "It's good."-Robbie

Being a tiny island on Florida's Gulf Coast, most of the customers were old people and beach bums. I worked there when Lost in Translation was released and I cannot tell you how many times people screamed at me for recommending it to them. A lot of refunds. A lot of exchanges for Bad Santa.

But every so often, someone would come in and ask about an obscure movie, or mention a scene they'd once seen, and we'd start to talk. Talking about a good movie with a stranger is like meeting someone and realizing you share a mutual friend. That same nodding, smiling, familiarity. It's nice and it makes you appreciate the movies more. 

And every so often after one of those talks, a person would ask for a recommendation. 

And I'd ask them what they were having for dinner. 

Winner.

My mom's side of the family loves casinos. When my great-grandmother was alive, you could mention the word casino and literally watch three generations of women turn to face you, their heightened interest showing in their eyes with a look that said, "Go on..."

I strongly dislike casinos. The noises bother me and as a people-watcher, it's pretty much the saddest kind of place to observe humanity. But collectively, my mom and grandma ask for almost nothing, so the very least I can do is listen when they talk about slot machines.

Is it possible to overstate how little I care about slot machines?

Not really.

I truly do not care about slot machines.

I don't think there's a technique to using them, or a strategy for winning, or that a "good one" is something that exists within the universe. My mom and grandma talk about some slot machines like they're people I should know. 

"Have you ever seen the Hoot Loot machine? That's a good one. A really good one. It's funny and kind of cute. You'd like it. Green Machine's a good one too. You'd like it."

And then I feel myself getting sucked into this slowed down version of life where I'm not allowed to roll my eyes, but where the only thing I want to do is roll my eyes. 

If you know someone who likes slots, you've probably heard them tell you how to play. Look, we all get it. Put some money in, press a button, lose the money. It's like paying to take an elevator. Or not even because you don't actually get anywhere. It's like paying to ring a doorbell. Anyway, the point is, I understand how they work. But my grandma and my mom both think I don't, and explain in painfully specific detail the combinations I should be trying to get despite the fact that I will never ever be playing these games. 

I once wrote a stand-up act about a conversation I had with my grandma concerning a Chinese food slot machine. I've only performed it for my mom but it killed. The real-life conversation was 20 minutes. A TWENTY MINUTE lecture about the best combinations to get on the Chinese food slot machine. It was my grandmother's TED Talk. Yelling out menu items, how to bet the max, 5 rows, diagonal on the bonus, absolutely none of it making sense to me. "You just press the button, right?"

"If you get 2 moo shu porks with an egg roll and a chopstick, that's good if you have a star. But if you you have THREE moo shu porks, you want two egg rolls. Or noodles are always good. With or without a star, get noodles on the max bet with chopsticks and chicken..." 

20 minutes this went on. 

You learn after five minutes that there is no possible way to respond.

Anyway, Nessa and I were recently listening to my mom talk about casinos, and I sat in the slowed down version of my life as she discussed various prize nights. 

Mom: Monday night is Ladies Night and Men's Night.

Ness: Both?

Mom: Yes.

Ness: So it's just night. Monday nights are just "Night."

Mom: Well, technically no. Because of the prizes.

I felt my head tilt a little, wondering if I should weigh in at all. Time stood completely still as I heard Vanessa laughing at my mother's explanation. 

Finally I asked, "Have you been to Ladies Night and Men's Night, mom?"

"Yeah," she replied. "It's a good one." 

Drop It Like It's Dots.

There are so many great songs about candy that explicitly tell you what to do and how to dance. As someone who looks for instruction on the dance floor, I appreciate the direction.

-I think he wants to see your Tootsie Roll.
-Shake that Laffy Taffy you brought.
-Well, get another one and count how many licks this time.

It's all very helpful but sort of imperative that you show up to the club with a lot of different snacks.

Pretty much any candy can sound like a hit song or a dance move. These are a few I'm waiting for:

Chocolate Bitcoin
Little Dots on Paper (I'm just eatin' paper)
Rolo, Yolo
Smarties, Nerds, and Dum Dums.
Drop 100 Grand
Raisin' Roofs and Raisinets
Twizzler as a Straw
Pez Dispenser
Can I Eat The Bottle? (Wax Bottle Face)
You Say Reese's Pieces, I Say Reese's Peese's
Peanut Butter Cup, Butterfinger, Butterface

Also, semi-related, do you think by this time next year Candy e-cigarettes will be a thing?

I Bet That's Justin Bieber!

The Biebs was staying where I work and I guess he tweeted something about where he was and last night 500 girls showed up to the hotel lobby. This afternoon when leaving work, there were close to 1,000 tweens outside the employee exit and across the street from the main entrance. The police, most of hotel security, and a lot of managers from different departments were standing guard so no one could try to sneak in.

When I was leaving work ready to head to the gym, I was wearing my standard cut-off shirt, flat brim, and gym shorts. There's a ramp in the garage down to the street level in the employee exit and I stood with a coworker laughing at the crowd of kids for a minute. Throwing on my sunglasses and starting to head down the ramp, two girls at the front of the line screamed, "Is that Justin Bieber?!"

I stopped walking for a second.

Besides my height, my most defining physical characteristic is that I look like a prepubescent boy. I smiled to myself wondering if they thought I was Bieb. And with the ramp, I don't think they realized that I'm actually nine feet taller than him. Turing my backwards SIN cap around to the front with the flat brim as low as it could go on a tilt, I started walking again. Slowly.

-Is that Justin?! (5 girls yelled)
-It's Justin!! (10 girls yelled)
-It's Justin Bieber!!!!! (50 girls yelled)

People, I'm not joking.

I debated stopping, popping, and locking, but I saw one of my managers at the end of the ramp and just kept walking down.

By the time I reached the street level, the screaming group of people stopped screaming and said to each other, "That's not Justin Biiber!!!!!!!!"

I grabbed the shoulders of the manager standing in his suit and said, "But this is his tour manager!" and they all started screaming again.

I don't think I've stopped smiling once since this happened. Whenever I need a pick me up I'm just going to replay, "That's not Justin Bieber!" in my head.

Where Are My Keys?

When I saw my Grandma over Mother's Day Weekend I asked about how she and my Grandfather had met. My Grandpa passed away when my mom was just a teenager so he just exists in my mind from the million love stories my Gram tells and the small-moment stories my mom shares that seem so big. But I realized riding home with her one night that I had never actually heard how they met, so I asked.

My Grandma was so in love with my Grandpa. It's obvious in the smallest details she chose to include in her retelling of how they met. I'm such a sucker for the tiniest parts of a story and she filled me up by not forgetting a single one. When something feels important, I try to remember little details. What I had in my pockets, the feel of what I was wearing, what the people around me were reading or looking at, the smell of anything. My Gram didn't disappoint by sharing layered details of the party they had both attended at social club for the boys who served in the war-- a club that was looked over and maintained by their girlfriends while they were gone. My Great-Aunt Sophie (the biggest badass and greatest person I've ever known) was dating a guy from that club at the time and invited my Grandma to attend. Everyone was assigned a specific task at the beginning of the party and my Grandma, not knowing anyone, was told to hold all the car keys.

She said that at the end of the night, a tall good looking man started asking, "Who has the keys to my heart?" In her retelling of the story, she must have said the word jalopy 35 times. Apparently my grandpa drove quite the junker of a car that he absolutely loved and he called it his heart. So he went around after people started leaving asking, "Who has the keys to my heart?"

My Gram was holding them.
How perfect.

A night later, she and my great-grandmother grabbed throw pillows to sit by the window after dinner to people-watch.  This is what they did. It was pretty much like Facebook but with live status updates. They just watched their neighbors from their apartment in Brooklyn. At this point in the retelling of the story, I should say, I could not have been grinning any more widely. In terms of storytelling, my Gram was KILLING it. But I guess that's what happens when you retell a love story. Anyway, they were sitting at the window and my grandma saw the guy from the party walking down her sidewalk. She knew he didn't live in her neighborhood and that he could only be there for her so she ran to get changed and met him.

They went to the movies.

They ended up dating. After each date he took one of the fake flowers she wore in her hair (apparently a fashion of the time) and pinned it to the inside roof of his jalopy. When they broke up for a minute, she received a call at work one day. This was very rare. They didn't even have a phone in their house. How it worked in their neighborhood was if someone wanted to talk to you they would call the candy shop. Then one of the kids at the candy shop would run to get you and you'd give them a penny for delivering the message. Apparently there was a woman in their neighborhood who always gave a nickel and all the kids would race to get to her house first to deliver a message because they could actually get a lot of candy for a nickel.
But I digress.

She got a call at work from my grandpa and he must have been quite charming because they started dating again and got married. And something like 65 years later, we were siting in a parked car outside of her house and she was recounting the whole thing like it had literally just happened.

It made me so freaking happy.
Love you, Gram.

A Belated OES Review.

It'd be hard to beat the initial reviews, but I just received this message and laughed out loud.

• i just finished your book. i loved it. i'm living the real-life version now, so if you're nostalgic for that feeling of i-guess-it's-your-house-and-you-can-do-whatever-you-want-but-for-the-love-of-christ-stop-teaching-the-dog-to-bossa-nova-and-saying-"she's-doing-it!-she's-doing-it"-when-she's-so-clearly-not-doing-it, come on over. also, ithought you'd appreciate that i just got an email from Kiva asking if i want to loan a woman named Tuna $40 to buy wheelbarrows. those two thoughts are unrelated.

  
  

  Sorry, i was wrong. it's to buy "a mistblower, gloves, a shovel, and a wheelbarrow". so that when she kills you, no one will ever know.

My Engagement Story. (And So Lovingly Told.)

I'm not engaged. I should open with that. I thought that was clear, but apparently my mother called my sister and then Bri called me just to double check. Why my mother didn't call me directly is still a little strange. And if there was any doubt in her mind that I wasn't joking, I'm actually pretty offended that she didn't call to congratulate me. It's kind of big fake news.

Anyway, enjoying yet another incredible night out in LA thanks to these amazing  people, a generous friend bought roses for all of us at a gay club (as you do). I thought it was so charming but everyone else quickly asked me to hold theirs. My new favorite person immediately said upon being handed the rose, "Love it, not gonna hold it."
Lesbians.

So as we left that club and walked to another, I commented on the fact that I now looked like the lady who sells roses at clubs. I can never have just one night of chill. It always has to be something. And that night it was moonlighting as a rose seller.

So as we walked around West Hollywood, all the roses in tow, my friend starting shouting, "She said yes! She said yes!"to which supportive gay strangers smiled and congratulated. It was a nice little moment. When we popped into Norm's for late night bites, the "She said yes!" line followed us to our table. Our waiter congratulated us. The man sleeping in the seat next to me stayed asleep. The older couple next to us mentioned that they were getting married too!  They were in their late 60's and happy as clams. "He gave me his mother's ring." she said, before looking down to her hand and smiling. Filled my whole freaking heart up. And because my fake fiancee is a self-proclaimed old man at heart--and let's be honest, I'm often confused for old men-- I felt so happy for all of us. Just a bunch of happily engaged old people out for sandwiches and pancakes at 3AM.

I should be so lucky for a story like that.

Anyway, the "She said yes!!" line made me smile for the whole next day and the getting engaged part of the weekend started to make its way into recaps of the trip because it was better than saying, "Trainer Megan smoked me in every competition." I posted this on FB:
Lots of important stuff happened this weekend, including being so happy, getting engaged, working out and working it out, laughing the best laughs, and loving LA-- but nothing is more memorable than meeting a little Australian kid and having her ask where in Australia I'm from. My accent is OFFICIALLY legit. #nailedit

I should say that roughly 9 people congratulated me (again, if this was real, I might be hurt) and NO ONE mentioned the accent. People, it's getting really good. I don't think you understand how big this is for me.

Anyway, this post was mostly for my mom. Call and ask about my accent, please.

Privacy.

When I went into a public ladies' room today, a little kid was standing by the hand dryer with a coat over his head. All the doors to the stalls were closed so I posted up next to him, smiling to myself in the mirror. After about 30 seconds, he pulled the coat down from his face, looked at me, and then put it back over his head.

A few seconds passed and I watched the coat mass of the young boy inflate and then deflate before hearing, "Mum! This is rubbish! Rubbish!"

Note: I LOVED that the coat-covered kid was British. It made it that much better.

From a stall the mother shot back, "Spencer!"

I hoped this was an alias. I mean, his identity was pretty much secret at this point. Why'd she have to go and call him out like that?

Anyway, I used the restroom and when I made my way back to the sink, Spencer was bobbing his coat head back and forth below the hand dryer to turn it on.

He was the best part of my day.

Up up up.

In Light by Givers pretty much saved my heart last summer. Listening to it again in the heat this year feels like having a really great friend pick you up at the airport. If you're going through something right now, pick a good album and give it 365. 

The human heart is amazing in its capacity to fill back up.

The Ting Tings On Repeat.

People are always forgetting my name. It's fine, I'm used to it. I once had an entire conversation with someone from my hometown who thought I was Sabrina. He said, "Sabrina! How are you?!" when we saw each other at a restaurant and I didn't have the energy to correct him. If I had known that the conversation was going to last 20 minutes, of course I would have said something immediately. But I thought it was just a quick hello so I said, "Good thanks, you?"
And then he came over to my table.
Thus began the slippery slope of identity theft.

I answered the first few general questions honestly. My summer was going well. I was enjoying the food. I had indeed, eaten there before. And then he started talking about Ithaca. And I started lying. I know how crazy this seems. Trust me. But he had said "Sabrina" at least seven times by this point and I hadn't corrected him. After answering as Sabrina and repeatedly responding to Sabrina, how could I suddenly say, "Oh, I'm not her." I just kept hoping that every question he asked was going to be the last and he would walk away and there would be no harm done. When he started asking personal questions about Sabrina, I felt compelled to answer as her. It was sort of a no turning back now moment that kept getting worse. I started to get watery eyes and that tingle in my nose that tells me I'm about to burst out laughing when he kept asking about my singing. The only thing that was going through my head was, "Goooo away!!! Please just walk away now!!!" 

Eventually my dad arrived at the table saying hello and my heart sank, knowing that my attempts to save this man and myself from an incredibly awkward moment were in vain. Everything was about to come crumbling down. There was no look in the world that I could use to convey the situation to my dad. To tell him in a single glance, "Dad, don't say anything else. Just say 'Nice to see you.' He thinks I'm Sabrina. It's a long story, but I've been pretending that I am and I just talked about my singing voice for the last 5 minutes. Please, Dad."

No. There's nothing like that with my father. Of course he asked what he had missed and when the man pointed to me and said, "I was just talking about your daughter's beautiful singing voice!" I closed my eyes, knowing what was about to happen. My dad tilted his head and said, "Well, Jessie doesn't sing."
I breathed in deeply.
Man: Sabrina. I was complimenting Sabrina on her voice.
Dad: Well that's Jessica. Sabrina's not home right now.
And then I died a little.

Embarrassed, the man asked me why I hadn't corrected him and I couldn't give him the real answer (I was just hoping you would go away) so I played it off like I had misunderstood him. It was terrible. But honestly, I was trying the whole time to avoid embarrassing him. I know how backwards it seems but that was my reasoning.

Anyway, you'd think after this happened years ago I'd be better about correcting people when they get my name wrong, but I'm still just as bad. There's this tiny old Chinese woman who works in Laundry where I work and for the first 3 months she couldn't remember my name. She always asked. It was very cute. And then the next day she'd look at me meekly and ask, "Who are you, again?"

One day, about six months ago, she shouted from down the hall, "Hi, Jen!" It was the most confident she'd ever been with my name. It was wrong, obviously, but came from a good place. Something must have clicked in her that said, "That's Jen! You know her! Say hello!" And these are the exchanges I've had with her ever since.
-Good morning, Jen!
-Morning, Mee Sou.

-Going home, Jen?!
-Yes I am, Mee Sou.
-Good for you, Jen!

What am I going to say?

Again, this wouldn't present a problem at all except that she works in LAUNDRY-- where all my dry-cleaning is. So when I see her in the morning I wince a little knowing I won't be getting my pants.
-Hi, Jen! You need your dry-cleaning?
-Yes please, Mee Sou.

Then I watch as my shirts and pants fly by on rotation with the giant label I can see clearly from across the counter: JESSICA MARTIN.
This happens 3 times before she turns around with a little frown to say, "Sorry, Jen! Not here yet."

And then I just wait for her to walk away before going back there to pick it up myself.

Lightheaded Before The Blood Test.

I had to get some blood work done this morning and the whole experience felt like a giant joke was being played on me. When I went to the lab, I greeted the the woman at the counter with the traditional pleasantries (Morning, how are you, strange weather) while she asked for my name and information, had me sign in, before saying, "Thank you. Someone will be with you shortly."

I grabbed a magazine and sat down in the middle of an empty sea of about 25 chairs. Literally thirty seconds later, the same woman from the counter walked around from her seat to stand in the waiting room and asked, "Jessica Martin?" I smiled to myself, closed the magazine I had just barely opened, and looked behind me to the rows of empty seats. "Jessica Martin?" she called again. I looked to my left and then my right and then to her, waving a little before saying, "Yes, thank you, right here." We had literally just spoke. I was the only person there. Could she honestly have forgotten?

Walking back through the lab she asked me to verify my name and date of birth. We had covered all of this about a minute earlier. This was now kind of the third time. "How are you today, Ms. Martin?" I walked thinking. I'm fine. I just told you at the desk I was very well but now I'm just fine. "I'm fine, thanks." While following her I tried to get a better look at her face. Was it possible her twin sister worked here? One at the desk, one to draw blood? Was it possible this woman had short-term memory loss?

She had me sit down and looked at my arm before saying, "It looks small."
Slightly confused, I thought she was talking about my vein, which made me a little nervous, so I asked, "Sorry?"
"It looks smaller."
"The vein, or my arm? What looks smaller?"
"Yes."
As she tied my arm and asked me to make a fist, I quickly searched her lab coat for identification, any sign that this woman actually worked there. I do OK with blood tests as long as I don't actually see the blood. So I closed my eyes for what felt like forever. Replaying in my mind that this woman didn't seem to remember that I was the ONLY PATIENT in the waiting room, I panicked that she was just going to keep drawing blood until she remembered that it was time for lunch. So I made the terrible mistake of looking down and seeing four vials of blood before asking with a louder than indoor voice, "Is that enough?"
"Almost, sir. Dear."

Holding the cotton down while she unwrapped my band-aid, I sat there wondering what the hell just happened.

Then I went and bought myself a cookie.

That Part Where The Soundtrack Starts.

A friend with a mind that impresses me once talked about montage moments and how she thinks about songs that would play when she's on the train, or moving from point A to B. I loved this immediately because it's how I've lived my life. If this is all The Truman Show and we're starring in our own stories (which we are), we know the important days. We know when things matter. We know when everything starts to click, when messes start to reveal themselves as things that had to be cleared so we could find something new and unexpected, we know when something feels right. It's that part where the soundtrack starts. When the perfect song for the moment plays and dialogue isn't really needed. It's the moment and the moment is a feeling and the feeling is good.
It's the montage.

You have dozens of these moments in your mind right now and if you think of one you'll smile immediately, maybe get a little teary-eyed, but always feel grateful. Grateful that life in that moment was so loud and so honest and so nice to you.

Had a strange day that started to unravel at an early hour, spun uncontrollably through the afternoon, started to slow like a spinning top by early evening, and then rolled slowly to my feet just now, moments before I started to write this, presented perfectly. You know the way a well-made bed looks when you're exhausted? That's how today ended up feeling for me.

In montage fashion:
A steamy morning bike ride, a job that confuses and amuses me, walking in and out of small scenes, meeting strangers, talking while I set up their meals and they get ready for the day, and then never seeing them again. Ideas, taking orders, taking notes, writing, writing, writing, in my head. A coworker calling me out and humbling me by saying, "Sometimes you're happy, sometimes you're mad, you want to work, you want to quit, which Jess is here today? Give me a hug!" breakfast with my girl Emma ("I have Ms. Granger on the line for you."), just seriously wanting an English accent. Meeting up with the girl I'm subletting from for the summer and her basically asking that I not pee on anything, and then when prompted to "Wait, wait, wait" by the talking crosswalk, starting to sing Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Maps in time and getting a smile and a nod from the guy on a bike next to me. I've been truly sick for over a week, not sleeping since forever, and so out of it that all I could do when I arrived home 15 hours after my day started, was stare at my favorite sweater hanging on my door, air drying, even though I shrunk it in the dryer over the winter. Comically small. It will never ever EVER fit me properly again. And yet, I've hung it on a hanger on the door. To air dry this time.

My playlists have been on point lately, I've had gum on me when people ask for gum, the interesting small funny beautiful things that the people in my life say have made their way into my notes, and everything feels right. Even the wrong things feel like they're there for a reason. It feels so good to have a crazy day seem important. To have confusing things make sense simply because I can't explain them. It feels so damn good to hear the thunder and think of bowling and to try to think of a great song to play in the moment.

Uphill Face.

There's a hill in my neighborhood about a mile long and I never feel cooler than when I'm riding down it on my bike.  I sing the chorus to Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr.'s "If You Didn't See Me  (Then You Weren't On The Dancefloor)" at the top of my lungs because in my mind, I'm flying by people so fast that they can't hear me anyway. Bobbing my head with loud Youuuuuuuu should know by nows, zooming down like a cartoon, thinking to myself, "This what the X-Games must feel like!" Every time. It's a great hill. The speed is a total thrill and I end up smiling like an idiot for the rest of my ride.

Until, of course, I circle back and have to climb that same damn hill.

Then my face looks like I'm eating a super hot food that I'm trying to cool down while chewing just by breathing out of my mouth really fast. It's a combined look of pain and anger. I can actually feel what my face looks like when I'm climbing this hill. That's not good. If you're not smiling and can feel your facial expression, you should try to change it. But I can never sing the chorus on the climb and humming through gritted teeth is certifiable. So I just make that uphill face and try not to tip over because I'm riding so slowly.*

I've become so aware of what this face must look like that I can't help but make it every time I look in a mirror. I seriously can't stop making this face. It's my go-to mirror face. Totally hilarious when I'm by myself in my apartment, and less so when in a public restroom.*

*This has happened.
Twice.

Blank Stare: Do I know you?

One time at the restaurant I used to work for a customer stopped me and said, "You look so familiar."
I replied, "Well, I'm your server. So it's probably me."

Today was a new twist on that exchange when a guest at the hotel was convinced he knew me.

Guest: I'm sorry, have you been on TV before?
Me: (Immediate thoughts to Shea's birthday and The Price is Right) Well, not really.
Guest: On a cooking show? Have you competed on a cooking show before?

Note: I've been extremely tired this month and had to actually think about this. I paused for a few beats wondering to myself, Have I competed on a cooking show before?

Me: Nope.
Guest: You've just got that weird look. I feel like I know you. You look like that weird Tilda Swinton. You must get that a lot.
Me: Not put so nicely.

When I told this to my coworker she just nodded and said, "Yeah. You look like an alien."

I feel like the only response I'm left with for about 98% of my interactions with people is just to nod and say thank you.

Boston.

A strange and unwelcome addition to my adult life has been April insomnia. It happens every year. Maybe it's my body waking up from the winter, like a little kid on Christmas Eve, afraid to miss a single thing. Maybe it's hope. Maybe it's just life tapping on the glass, asking me to roll down the window so we can talk directions. But it's every April. Little if no sleep, walking through waking life in a fuzzy daze, always thinking things are remarkable because I'm just so damn tired.

And then Monday. 

Spending an overnight shift working to set up for one of the happiest days in Boston. Working through the early morning hours I'm so used to in April with a girl who never let's me forget how uncool I am. 

-Jess, do you know how to twerk? 

-Yeah, I'm twerking the overnight shift with you.

She set the Songza playlist to Top 40 for hours because in her words,"it's neutral" until I couldn't handle another play of Suit and Tie and we DJ'd for each other.  I smiled when she knew random lyrics to random songs (one of my favorite qualities of any person). When asked about my favorite indie bands, I stopped halfway through my rant, knowing she was making fun of me. "Jess, do you put greek yogurt in your smoothies?!" is a question I get a lot from this girl. 

I fall for it every time. 

We had a nice night. Starting around 4 in the morning, guests staying for the marathon started to call down for coffee, oatmeal, toast. Lots of peanut butter. Everyone was in a good mood. I was excited for them and I couldn't hide it. I congratulated every person I served coffee to like they'd just had a baby. It was like having a conversation with someone you admire. Trying to tell them in a short window how much you respect what they do. When we traveled for rowing races in college, I remember that nervous happiness on race days. Bananas. Coffee. Stretch. Smile. It was all so fun. There was so much life happening within you. The anticipation, the nerves, the energy. All of that was tangible serving breakfasts in the hotel rooms of runners on Marathon Monday. 

My back tire was a little flat on my ride in that night and an engineer at the hotel helped me pump it up with an air tank in the middle of his shift. It was chilly. There were still a few cyclists out on Boylston. This was around 3:00 AM.  It was strange to stand on a nearly-empty street knowing how crowded and loud it would be in the afternoon. From where I work--yards from the finish line-- Boylston Street on Marathon Monday sounds like a Super Bowl stadium after a game-winning Hail Mary pass. The volume of the crowd on Marathon Monday could be a form of matter. It has weight. At three in the morning, I could hear every pump of air shot into my bike tire.  

Before more of the morning crew came in, I made a finish line tape with a sign and set it up by the elevators to our department so everyone who came in to serve or work in the kitchen would have to run through it. I slow-clapped and cheered, chanting names, encouraging people to run through. Almost no one did. A lot ducked under. But I haven't been sleeping for a month so I just kept cheering. There's a cook in the kitchen named Marco and any time someone calls him the rest of the entire kitchen (a pretty big staff) yells, "Polo!"  I've had to explain the roots of this to a co-worker from Peru.

-So it's mostly played in a pool?

-Yeah. It's pretty dangerous otherwise. You don't want to blindfold your friends near a busy street and have them yell 'Marco.'"

I yelled both Marco and Polo on repeat as he limboed under the tape and went straight to the kitchen.

The morning was great. People were happy, the city had a danceable beat that made you move, Boston was at its best. 

And then everything. 

Explosions that felt like someone was dropping furniture a floor above where we work, the horrific images my friends in the restaurant and bar saw from the all-glass walls that look out onto Boylston, hundreds of people rushing into the hotel from the street for safety, not knowing where to go, my co-workers confused, running out exits, ushering people when they could, just running. As far away and as fast as they could. Separated until seeing familiar uniforms, and then continuing to run. For miles. Their keys, wallets, coats, clothes, left in offices and locker rooms at the hotel. Just running away until cell service was available and rides could be arranged, until they could get home to figure out what the hell just happened. 

Boston has had a week of insomnia. It's painful, surreal, disorienting, and comes with moments of exhausted confusion where you just shake your head, trying to clear it like an Etch A Sketch. By Friday night, we had become an entire city of heroes, while at the same time trying to heal. Cheering in the streets, while victims of a completely senseless act remained in hospital. It's a haze. You feel proud and strong and brave and like your own hands will be forever attached to your face. You want to shoot your arm in the air so emphatically on the "Ba Ba Ba's" of Sweet Caroline, but you also just want to hug someone while you weep until they initiate those first three big breaths that steady you. You want it to be quiet like Boylston at three in the morning. You just keep thinking about the sound of air pumping into a bike tire. 

I sleep in bits in April. I "wake up" at 1:28, 1:44, 2:16, 2:50, 3:33, up for good at 4. I do some reading, write something down when I think of it, practice French. This morning I left super early for work so I could ride around in the rain. It was a little cold but I didn't care. The splash from the rear tire soaked my pants but I didn't care. I eventually walked through an empty Prudential Center, to our make-shift entrance, saying hello to a man pushing a floor-cleaning Zamboni. Checking in with our security, to walk through the empty ballroom, down the empty stairways, to the empty locker room, to change and head to the empty kitchen--we've been closed--where I grabbed a big bag of Stumptown beans and ground them to make the coffee for the morning. I was the first to arrive. 

A hotel is a very weird thing to see quiet. It's always open so to see it without activity is incredibly rare. It's like seeing that person you know with so much energy fall asleep. Peaceful, in a way, but mostly creepy.  I was alone in a huge empty kitchen. Waiting for my first cup of coffee, I threw on some music and The Ceremonies "Land of Gathering" came up in the shuffle. I turned it as loud as my ears could take and unwrapped a huge stack of linen napkins to fold, waiting for someone to show up so I could hug them. 

I Hate Goodbyes.

I started this blog something like six years ago for two reasons: To feel like I was being heard and to impress a girl. Those are two big reasons people do anything.

Early on-- 7 blog posts in-- I realized that only two of my close friends were reading and I was clearly impressing no one. I continued writing because I was facing a lot of uncertainty/awkwardness/randomness/absurdity at the time and everything I was encountering highlighted for me that the ridiculous should be documented.

I owe a lot to uncertainty/awkwardness/randomness/absurdity. Whenever I sense them I know something worth noticing is present. If I had a muse she'd probably sweat a lot and struggle to order refreshing beverages because she could not for the life of her say "Arnold Palmer" aloud.

Blogs are pretty awesome. They're like the diary you always hoped someone would find-- not sharing everything, just enough so that you look interesting.

This blog helped me figure out the link between what I like to write about, and what people might find amusing. My goal was always to point out the ridiculous in hopes of smiling at it, and it felt amazing when it worked. I received calls from my mom when she laughed. I heard from my Grandma when she liked a post. My sisters shared with friends and buddies of mine asked with enthusiasm when we laughed about something, "Will this go on the blog?!" (Note: People will read your blog if you write about them.)

Perhaps the greatest example of the power of the blog came when I moved to NYC. I was at a birthday party for Brina's friend when a girl charged at me with an incredible smile and a hug I will never forget and said enthusiastically, "I read your blog!"

It was a big deal for me. HUGE. It blew my mind that someone I didn't know read this. (I was still very unclear at this point as to how the internet worked.)

For months after, I wrote for two big reasons: To be heard and to impress this girl. I wanted nothing more than to make her laugh. I wrote for her. If I received a message that she had liked something, the day was marked a success. She inspired me and we barely knew each other. Blogs, man.

Years later, by chance, fate, whatever you want to call it, we ended up living in the same city again and fell in love. Cliff Notes synopsis of that chapter of my life: Amazing.

Sadly and shockingly, that chapter recently ended. This has been a difficult year for me and I suppose it proved to be too difficult for the relationship. I try to hold onto the idea that things happen as part of a larger story, but that's hard to do when you're eating huge blocks of brie and watching a Long Island Medium marathon on TLC while sobbing. Sometimes when you catch a breath and feel that cheese pain resting in your belly, and that hurt pain resting in your chest, you wonder how the Long Island Medium fits into your larger story.
She would probably know.

So it's bittersweet and maybe even appropriate that this blogs ends now. I'm feeling a lot of uncertainty/awkwardness/randomness/absurdity right now and I know that means something new is on the horizon. I'm working on a second book and I'll keep you posted through my author page about future plans for a new blog. Follow here.

Here are some lessons learned over the years of this blog:
-Life is too funny to be ignored.
-When given the option to laugh or think, I'd prefer both.
-You should love somebody.
-I've never heard better advice than what my mother used to yell out to us as we boarded the school bus in the morning. "Be kind!"
-If you want to write a book, do it. People will read it. Promise.
-Happiness is people-watching, a cup of coffee, and remembering something nice.

I want to thank you for reading this, high-five you for commenting, and wish you all the best. When you see something ridiculous, smile. Life just winked at you.

-Jess

No Rest For The Weary.

I just had the most bizarre encounter EVER with a mattress salesman. Mattress salespeople have a distinct advantage in their line of work because chances are, you're not window shopping for a mattress.

"Can I help you find something?"

"No thanks, just browsing." [Cue bellyflop onto the Pillow Top.]

If you're in a mattress store, you need one.

Maybe it's because of this fact that their sales techniques are a little out of the ordinary. I once had a mattress salesman try to convince me to go with the mattress he was recommending by repeating over and over that I slept in the fetal position.

-I'm quite certain I don't.

-You do.

-OK, then I'll just buy a big bath mat. That should hold me.

But today's guy was the worst. Theeee worst. After running through the customary mattress jargon I said flatly, "Kenny, I'll be honest with you, I fall asleep on the bus, so just give me a number."

"Right well let's see here..." and then he started with notes and his calculator.

It's funny how something like a bed, which you think of as one single purchase-- "a bed"-- has like 5 separate prices plus tax. It's like when a dinner entree doesn't come with any sides. Just give me the full price for the whole thing, thanks.

Discussing price, Kenny warned me that it really wasn't possible to get the number I wanted. I should mention, by this point I was 100% convinced that this man was insane. His desk was sandwiched in between mattresses and overflowing with garbage. Sitting behind him were nine empty 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke and I'm pretty sure he drank them all today. He talked like a robot and kept shaking his head saying, "I've never, ever, ever, seen that price. I have to call the big guy (God?!) but I know he won't go for it. I'll really have to beg. Beg like I've never begged."

Kenny was starting to scare me.

I know these calls are always baloney, but Kenny took it to a new level by proceeding to have an entire fake phone conversation with a non-existent person over his bluetooth earpiece. I know it was fake because he never once paused so that the big guy on the other end would have a chance to speak. I tried to interrupt him 3 times so he could stop embarrassing both of us. At one point, I asked if I could talk and he whispered, "No, bluetooth. Oh wait, you CAN give her that deal?! Jessica! He said he'll do it!"

I ended up passing because I didn't want to think about this weirdo every night before I went to sleep.

Finally, Someone Who Gets Me.

Exchange that took place with an elderly woman I sat down next to on a bus yesterday:

Woman: Are you going dancing?!

Me [Laughing]: No. No, I'm not going dancing.

Woman: Well, I guess you just have that persona.

I couldn't stop smiling for the rest of the ride.

Why You Going To The Airport?

Flying somewhere?

Have you ever noticed how many birds are at the airport? Sparrows are always at airports as they tend to be anywhere with high ceilings (mall food courts should really have something called sbparrow--am I right, ladies?... cough). There was that whole Canadian Goose in a jet engine fiasco, and I once saw a bunch of pigeons walking around all the seats at my departure gate at JFK like they were waiting to head to Boca.

This concerns me. I can't get my deodorant through a carry-on screening, but the birds are free to fly. Also, carrier pigeons are like a REAL THING. How do we know these birds aren't up to something? I can't go past a checkpoint without being stopped, but no one questions the birds who breeze right by.

Just had this phone conversation with my sister who's at the airport:

Brina: They made me put all my bags into one bag.

Me: That's annoying.

Brina: Maybe next time I'll train a bird to fly through with my carry-on.

Me: At least your toiletries.

Brina: Pardon? Ooh, no, that's not my bag. I believe it belongs to the bird.

Me: But seriously, terrorists could train those birds. Don't say "terrorist" at the airport!

Brina: What?

Me: [Whispering in a panic] Don't say terrorist at the airport. I was worried you were going to repeat what I said.

Brina: Why are you whispering?

I get nervous about Big Brother. And birds. And baggage fees.

A Day Late and a Story Short.

Or rather, three weeks late, a short story.

Alex, you won the contest and as promised, I wrote you a short story. I hope you like that I mention your name a lot.

Here you go:

I once had the opportunity to meet a very well-known and beloved spokesperson on a beach in Fiji. It was a chance meeting, like something made for the movies. But what started out innocently soon gave way to a torrid love affair that lasted six days/five nights. With the combination of the local food, high thread count hotel linens, exotic beach drinks, and the air of mystery that surrounds all spokespeople, something happened in those six days that I have never told another living soul.

But I shouldn't be writing about myself right now.

I should mention someone named Alex.

Alex was born in the early 1970's but has a baby face that still requires him to show ID when buying light beer. He eats two large meals a day and even if he doesn't want it, he likes restaurants to offer bread. He routinely browses the selection at Redbox machines but never rents anything. Before getting out of bed in the morning, he lays perfectly still with his arms at his sides and convinces himself that he could be a successful luge competitor. "It's just lying there. I could do that."

At one point in his life, Alex thought of becoming an attorney. But the idea of having a closet full of striped button-down shirts worried him. Always at the dry cleaners. Always unwrapping his wardrobe from plastic. Taking anything out of plastic coverings annoyed him. That's why he never rented from the Redbox.

Alex works as a fact-checker for an online political magazine. He starts most of his sentences with, "I was reading an article..." He stretches a little before making a point. He likes hats.

Things happen to Alex in the same way things happen to all of us. He tells a good joke every so often and remembering how people laughed makes him smile. He finds a new band before his friends and tells them to check it out. They end up forever associating that band with him. He meets a girl who makes everything more interesting and sometimes watches her put on her makeup when they're getting ready to go out. He's happy in a way that doesn't require him to think about his happiness.

Sometimes Alex starts a sentence with the intent to voice an unsaid thought.

Straightening his back a little by rolling his shoulders, he instead mentions something he has recently read.