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.

Of COURSE!

So, this exists.

I saw a commercial that said something about pancakes inside of a waffle cone, so naturally, I googled it.

AND. IT'S. TRUE.

This entire meal is called a Pipsqueak Breakfast and has something to do with The Lorax and IHOP's attempt to plant 3 million trees. (Psst, IHOP-- stop using paper placemats. There's your trees.) The meal is described as scrambled eggs with creamed spinach-- served with a ham quarter and a Rooty Tooty Bar-Ba-Looty Blueberry Cone Cake.

Note: If you were able to read that last bit without going back and saying it again out loud, you have more self-control than is necessary.

Note 2: I have not stopped saying ham quarter since reading this five minutes ago.

-Can I borrow a ham quarter for the meter?

-Just gonna grab a roll of ham quarters for laundry.

-Q: Why didn't the pigs tape the barnyard recital?

A: They didn't have a hamquarter.

That last one is a stretch.

But my main area of interest here is the pancake stuffed in a cone. I'm a huge fan of self-contained foods. Falafel wraps? Sign me up. Burritos? My great love. Ice cream cones? Obviously. When I saw the commercial I wondered how no one had ever thought to stuff breakfast inside of a delicious and crunchy waffle cone before. More specifically, I wondered how I had never thought of it.

Pancakes or waffles is such a common breakfast tossup. Why not have both? And why not eat them both out of a cone? Why the green eggs and ham aren't also shoved in the cone, I'll never know. IHOP really missed the boat on that one. It would be like Lady Gaga's version of pigs in a blanket. She'd call it, "Chicks n' oinks in a Snuggie Spaceship." And she'd wear it on her face for an hour before eating it.

But I digress.

The slogan IHOP is using for these meals is, "Have a Lorax meal today, Hooray!" But again, I think they missed the mark. The slogan should obviously read, "I can't wait to get totally drunk and order that pancake cone."

And on that note, a flashback:

http://openeyedsneeze.blogspot.com/2011/03/its-like-missing-christmas.html

Well, Yum.

I popped into a little beauty supply store to buy some shampoo and the two ladies working there were deep in conversation, hovering over a list. They looked up at me and said, "We'll be right with you" before looking back to their list.

-OK, don't forget to order the 7-layer cake. You have that, right?

-Yes, I ordered it. The 7-layer cake, cotton candy, the pomegranates, I have all that.

-How about the sangria?

-Yeah, I have sangria and margaritas.

Standing at the counter waiting for one of them to ring me up, I said, "Sounds like a fun party!"

Neither one responded, so I decided to say it again. "Sounds like you're planning quite the party!"

Taking off her reading glasses and slowly making her way to the counter, one of the women flatly replied, "We're ordering lip gloss."

Death And Taxes.

After literally just filing my income taxes, I stepped out onto the street and was nearly run over by a car.

How To Embarrass Yourself In Public.

This is part one of a 6,382-part series.

Yesterday I went to a new place to get a haircut. It was a quiet little salon with really chill stylists who talked in soothing tones about homeopathic remedies. I had to fight the urge to laugh when a discussion about homemade sponges went on longer than I would have preferred.

-Just put oatmeal in a sock, it's wonderful.

-Totally.

-Take an old sock and just put the oatmeal in there.

-Totally.

-Oatmeal...

But having a professional shampoo your hair will relax just about anyone, so by the time I was finished, I was feeling mellow and calm, and to be honest, kind of craving some hot oats.

My backpack was on the floor near one of the sofas in the waiting area, so I grabbed it and made my way to the counter to pay. Just as I was throwing it over my shoulder, I saw something out of the corner of my eye trailing at my feet and then it seemed to jump onto me along with my bag.

For readers who know me, take one guess as to what I thought it was.

A cat. Obviously.

For readers who don't know me, it's important to know that I'm afraid of cats and have a history of them following me. Anything you need to know about this topic can be found here.

So as I saw this thing leaping onto me, I yelped like a little baby girl in the highest pitch I can reach, "THIS DOESN'T BELONG TO ME!"

Every person in the tiny calm salon stopped what they were doing and turned to look at me. The music even seemed to stop.

I took a deep breath and composed myself.

[Silence.]

I slowly turned my head and looked to the floor only to stare at the children's scarf that had caught on my bag.

It hung from my shoulder strap down to my feet like a limp boiled noodle.

[Silence.]

I licked my lips, nodded my head, and slowly untangled the scarf before placing it back on the waiting room sofa.

When I returned to the counter, bright red, I sheepishly said, "I thought it was a cat."

[Silence.]

I paid and left.

I won't be back.

Mindfull.

Read an interesting article in the NYT about mindful eating; thinking more about the food you're eating while you're eating it in an attempt to practice gratitude and moderation.

I'm always onboard when I hear about stuff like this. Serving food is the fastest way to grow disgusted with how people eat. Servers have a unique experience in their workplace in that they not only have to ignore how gross their clients are, they have to pretend that their behavior is perfectly acceptable. Maybe strippers have this experience as well. So when someone yells at you with a mouth full of food asking for another Coke, not only are you forced to check your natural reaction to dry-heave, you're actually preconditioned to smile. An overly enthusiastic, "Of course!" always means, "Thanks for not waiting to chew! I would have been sorry to miss your request for a ninth refill, you beast."

I'm guilty of this too, don't get me wrong. When I get a burrito, I grab a corner seat and face the wall. It's not pretty. If I'm unsure about a new cereal's ability to remain crunchy in the milk, I'll finish the bowl faster than you can say cerealously. And a sleeve of Thin Mints is the actual serving size for Thin Mints. I once heard someone say they could only eat two thin mints before getting full and I never talked to that person again. Why am I going to waste my time on a liar?

But gratitude and moderation are good things to practice. So after reading the article, I put it to use. I decided to start small, just with a snack, and by using stream of consciousness, attention to detail, and small slices, it took me seven minutes to eat a banana.

Here's what I found out by taking seven minutes to eat a banana:

1) That gross eating a banana noise is only heightened when you try to get in 25 chews per bite.

2) You can't really chew a slice of banana 25 times. After one bite it's the same sensation as chewing yogurt. You start to think to yourself, "Why am I still doing this? I'm not even chewing at this point. I'm just moving my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Is this what it will feel like when I don't have teeth? Why won't you have teeth? Maybe I'll live so long they'll all fall out. You'll live that long and yet there will be no advancements in dentistry?! Finish this banana and go floss immediately."

3) You become mildly self-conscious that you're talking to yourself.

4) No you don't. You talk to yourself all the time. Eating alone only makes you talk to yourself more.

5) You discover that the marks in the inner banana peel made by the knife grow darker with time. You decide that if you were ever kidnapped in the jungle, you would leave notes for your rescuers using this technique. When you're eventually found, you'll be praised for your ingenuity and also have incredibly healthy potassium levels. A win-win.

Mindful eating was an interesting experience, but if you're going to try it with soup, better make it gazpacho.