A Weekend With The Fam: Oh Boy.

Part II:

Once we got inside the house, we were greeted by wine and appetizers. My mother doesn't consider a homecoming official without a cheese plate and some sort of layered dip waiting for you on the kitchen island. 

This was my first trip home in a year, and I can't actually remember the last time I was there with both my sisters, so it was fun to sit around the kitchen and chill like old times. My father quickly made this nice moment awkward while sharing a story. In an effort to include Meredith, he lightly punched her arm and said, "It's a guy thing. Right, Mer?"

Because it made no sense, we all laughed-- but my dad only recognized that we thought it was funny and continued to use the same line throughout the weekend. 

"It's a guy thing, right, Mer?"

"Dad, stop."

"She gets it."

"No, Dad. No one gets it." 

After dinner we were all hanging around the family room and when Sabrina put on some music, she and my father started dancing. Obviously. To give you an idea of what this looks like, this was a pic from his actual surprise party. (My dad and my cousin Chris.)

All of Meredith's nerves about spending the weekend with my family were quickly erased and replaced with sheer joy when she saw how embarrassed I was by this. Brina is a great dancer, and hilarious. And my dad is hilarious too. I would have just preferred that he waited 2 hours before dancing around the house in front of my girlfriend.

(Me looking away.)

Also, it's important to note that he still had no idea there was a party planned for him the next night. While he was trying to follow Bri's instructions, Meredith leaned over and said, "This could be his birthday party. He's so happy!"

I looked to my father's huge grin and high-kicking legs and shrugged. "Yup."

That night, while looking through a closet in the foyer, I found 20 boxes of crackers hiding under a blanket.

To be continued...

A Weekend With The Fam: Don't Be Nervous.

As previously mentioned, my girl came home with me a few weeks ago for my father's surprise party. We planned to get in Friday night, and the party was on Saturday. My sisters arrived on Thursday and Meredith wondered if having everyone there might ruin the surprise.

"Won't your dad suspect something is going on when all of his girls are home right around his birthday?"

"Honestly? No."

I met up with her in Northampton and we made the road trip to the farm, which was full of good laughs, music on shuffle, and an ongoing discussion about whether or not it's OK to fall asleep in the passenger seat while someone else is driving. 

Me: Loving someone means letting them fall asleep while you drive.

Meredith: No it doesn't. 

Me: Yes! If you love someone, you let them fall asleep.

Meredith: If you love someone, you should want to stay awake! 

We ended up agreeing that it depends on whether or not the driver is tired. 

Anyway, in an incredibly rare (read: inconceivable) moment, Meredith grew completely silent when we got off at the exit for my parents' house. Stunned and concerned, (read: She's never silent. Ever.) I asked what was up and she admitted that she was a little nervous. While this was just about the most adorable thing ever, I quickly tried to assure her that there was literally no reason to be nervous. Not one single reason. Here's why:

-My family is crazy.

-My family is loud.

-My family is ridiculous when it comes to food. My mother prepares enough food for one gathering to feed about 600 people. And that is NOT an exaggeration.

-They will start an impromptu dance party at just about any time during the day if an appropriate song is played. 

-They're pretty much the nicest people around.

Even after making all these points, she still wasn't buying it, and we drove past the farm in silence. Turning slowly into the driveway, I immediately saw my mother standing on the front porch flapping her arms in the air. I remember thinking, What the hell is she doing? I never told her when we were arriving, there's no way she would be outside waving. Maybe she's swatting at a fly or something. 

(She later told me that she sensed our presence with a mother's instinct. Ummm, OK. )

While she stood there flailing, my father came running out into the front yard yelling, "Jessie! Hi girls!!!"

As both Deb and Steve ran to the car, I turned to Meredith and smiled, suddenly realizing that maybe I was the one who should be nervous. 

To be continued...

Slacking On The Blog.

Long time, no blog. Sorry about that. Here's what I've been up to, because oddly, you're interested. 

1) Bought a tube of toothpaste and couldn't open it for 4 days. FOUR DAYS. I debated leaving a post-it on my bathroom mirror for my roommates that said, "Could you try to open my toothpaste?" but thought that would make me look like a bigger moron than usual. In my defense, the tube had a new specially designed seal that was ridiculous including grooves and a cap screw or something. 

I ended up cutting the actual tube with scissors.

2) Traveled to Miami with my best people and almost punched through a ceiling while attempting to dance at a bar on South Beach. Again, in my defense, the ceilings were incredibly low. 

3) Went home to my family's farm for my dad's surprise 60th birthday party and my girlfriend came along to meet the fam. Posts to follow on this, to be sure, but just so you know how the weekend went for me, someone found the cable to our VCR making it possible to watch old home movies. (Cue pained expression of embarrassment.) I'm quite sure I've never seen Meredith laugh so hard. And now whenever she gets a little grin from out of nowhere, I know she's picturing fat little kid me in my hiked-up Umbros and a Body Glove belly shirt. 

Grrrrrr.  

4) I bought a pack of gum with the flavor "Nonstop Mint" and the smell is following me everywhere. It's seriously such a strong smell. Every time I open my bag I am assaulted by the fumes of manufactured mint. It's making me sick. I think I'm going to have to throw it away, but it offends me to throw gum away instead of giving it away. Do you want a piece? 

5) Had this conversation with Jeffrey yesterday and was pretty unclear as to how I should respond to any of it:

Jeffrey: What's new, Jessie?

Me: Not much, Jeffrey. Going to New York this weekend.

Jeffrey: Oh! Do me a favor? If you go to the thing-- the thing is there, right? The thing?

Me: Which one, now?

Jeffrey: Rockefeller Center. If you go can you get me a Days of Our Lives hat? My sister-in-law threw away my Passions hat. She tossed anything that wasn't nailed down. My electric knife is missing! 

Book Update: You Don't Know Me.

The editor rejections I've been receiving have been pretty positive if you forget about the parts that say, "I don't want to work with you." 

Luckily, I'm quite dense.  So I read what they say and then nod with a smile, thinking, "Why, thank you!"

The main problem for most of the editors I've heard back from is that it will be hard to market my book because people don't know me. That no one knows who I am. 

To which I say, OF COURSE no one knows who I am! My own parents have trouble remembering my name! I'm not famous! My book is not about being famous! It's about life after graduation and trying to find a job using a resume filled with random summer jobs, a degree in film, and my complete lack of experience. It's about living with my parents, in my childhood bedroom, and trying not to suffocate from my life's absurdity as my father suggests careers for me to consider in aeronautics and Riverdance. It's about uncertainty, and trying to start a life for yourself, and being afraid, and being so confused there's little else to do but laugh. It's part of a story we've all felt. And true, it would be easier to sell if it was written by Kim Kardashian. But maybe a recent grad living at home, struggling to find a job, or searching for their passion, doesn't want to read about Kim Kardashian's path to success. Maybe they want to read about something that reminds them of themselves. 

Whoa, rant! Where did all that Kim Kardashian stuff come from? Sorry. Anyway, here's the latest rejection:

Hi Penn,

Thanks so much for sending this my way. Jessica has a likeable, witty voice and I found this to be incredibly readable. Not only that but the subject matter is timely and there will be a lot of people looking for someone like Jessica who has been through the same struggles as they have. Unfortunately, my colleagues who read this weren’t as enthusiastic about it. They agreed that Jessica is talented but worried that memoirs can be very hard to sell especially when the author doesn’t have a huge platform. So sadly, I’m going to pass. 

I really appreciate the chance to consider this and hope we’ll connect on the next one!

Best,
Laura

 

So the point of this post, dear reader, is to ask for any suggestions you might have to increase one's platform. All ideas welcome! 

Thanks in advance, Mom. (ps. this is your daughter...Jessica.)

That Sounds Good. I'll Have That.

My coworker Alex had this exchange with a customer the other day. As follows in his words:

"So the woman at table 1 just pointed to the menu and said, 'I'll have this, but hold the bacon.' I looked to where she was pointing and calmly explained, 'Well, that's the list of salad dressings, ma'am.' To which she replied, 'Oh. OK. Then I'll just have a coffee.'" 

Book Update: First Official Shout Out.

I was sitting across the street from the Booksmith last night waiting for the bus, after just having finished a 10-hour shift at work. The dark night and the lights from the store made for optimal people-watching, so I sat observing readers browse and exit with bags of books. Feeling slightly deflated about my own attempts to get published, I wondered if my book might ever hit the shelves of a bookstore. 

It's important to note that being incredibly tired and having to wait for public transportation is a great combo for feeling badly about yourself. If you want to throw a little pity party, work for 10 hours and then hang around waiting for a bus. If you want to throw a more extravagant pity party, spend a few years trying to get published, work a 10-hour day, and then wait for a bus outside of a bookstore watching people buy books that actually are in print. 

And maybe serve punch. 

Sitting there feeling like a jerk, I remembered I left something at the restaurant. Making my way back to work, I grabbed my stuff, noticing the lights of the 66 bus coming down the street. Not wanting to wait for the next one, I ran out of the restaurant, and darted across the street to the bus stop. Avoiding traffic, and looking quite stupid as I ran, I heard someone yell from a block down, "Hey!! OPEN-EYED SNEEZE!" 

The combination of words sounded familiar and then it hit me-- Hey! That's my book! 

I looked up to see a regular from the restaurant (who has been reading the blog) waving and giving me a big smile. 

I jumped on the bus, absolutely thrilled with the funny little moments life provides. 

There I was feeling sorry for myself, and just when I needed it, I got a random shout out. 

My first official shout out was an actual, literal shout-out. 

Book Update: Beer?

In the latest book news, more rejection! Yee, and might I add, haw.

This one was particularly wonderful:

Dear Penn,

I really like this writer – I mean, as a writer, but also as someone with whom I could enjoy a fun drink after work – and I enjoyed reading this. And I grimly suspect that when the book comes out, her situation will still be all too familiar to many new graduates and their families. But in the end, I just wasn’t sure we’d be able to get enough copies into reviewers’ and readers’ hands to make this work here.

So I’m sorry to stand aside, but I hope you’re hearing better news elsewhere.

All the best,

Reagan

Great.

Do you think I should be worried or buoyed by the fact that editor rejections now include offers to drink?

Oh No.

Just got an email from my literary agent saying that the new website will include pictures of the authors with their bios. If you've ever tried to take a picture with me, you understand why I started to sweat when I read this. 

I'm awkward. It's fine. I'm totally cool with it. I flail, trip, blush, miss social cues on the daily and have come to understand that that's just who I am. But bring out a camera and I immediately forget my Zen state of awkwardness and start to freak out. Every picture I take is ruined by the commentary I make about not liking to take pictures. So a head shot should be just the thing to snap me out of that. (cough). 

I'm thinking of just sending this one in because it's essentially the summation of every other pic I've ever taken.      

My Father Is Steve Martin.

Little shout out to my dad on dad's day! 

A few things you should know about my father:

-He has written some of the greatest letters I've ever received.

-He is genuinely thrilled to see everyone he runs into. Everyone. 

-He's the hardest worker I know. (And I know a lot of hard workers)

-He's silly in all the best possible ways. Just as an example, I've seen my father play fake guitar with a vacuum more times than I'd like to admit.

-He used to wake us up in the morning with orange juice in a champagne flute. When I was living at home as an adult, he still did this. 

-I once overheard him talking to someone at a party about me and my sisters and he said, "They're my life." 

Even though I knew this, and know this, overhearing him say it made me really happy.

A few oldies but goodies: 

Gay? God Bless

Loking Good, Feeling Good.

Blank Stare

Blank Stare II

Good Talk

That's Deep.

Smile, You're At Work.

Missed Call/Good Call.

Someone left their Blackberry at the restaurant today and when it started to ring, Lauren noticed the incoming call was from someone named, My Lovebug. 

Me: Please tell me Geoff isn't in your phone as Moondoggie.

Lauren. No! No. Definitely not. (Pause.) He's actually stored as G Wizard. 

Me: OK, that's worse.

Then I mentioned that I'm stored in my sister's phone as, Jessica Martin-- something I discovered while calling her and running into her at the same time. This still kills me. Her reasoning was that she has a lot of Jessica's in her phone and it's just easier to have last names. She never came up with an answer as to why I wouldn't just be known by Cher/Oprah/Sister status as the only Jess in there.  Whatever.

So I was telling this to Lauren and she interrupted me: 

Lauren: Your older sister?

Me: Sorry?

Lauren: You're in your older sister's phone as Jessica Martin?

Me: Yeah.

Lauren: I totally knew it was your older sister. Just from reading about her and hearing stories, I knew it had to be her.  

Not To Mention The Pigeons.

Statues get no respect. 

While walking through Davis Square the other day, Mer pointed out two children kicking the statues. I believe her I-spy moment was expressed with something along the lines of, "Those kids are totally kicking the elderly couple statues in the crotch."

And she was right. They totally were. 

Two children, barely at the waist level of the statues, stood in front of the elderly couple and repeatedly kicked them in their crotches using "Hiiiii-Ya!" sound effects. The kicks were delivered with 100% accuracy and Tae Bo speed. We watched them for about a minute. I have no idea how long they were doing it before we arrived.  

Now, I support non-violence and I support art. But this was funny. What killed me is that no one said anything. Where were their parents?!  And ironically, there was a little ceramics fair going on right next to this, so you would think one of the artists might have asked them to stop just out of fear for their own work. If two five-year-olds can continuously kick a grandma and grandpa statue in their hoo-has without a word from the crowd, imagine what they could do to a little clay coffee mug.   

Quote of the day.

Kelly: A girl I graduated from high school with is sitting at table 43. I should probably go say hello but I smell like french fries and have cream cheese on my boob. I think I'm going to pass. 

You Forgot This.

Researchers have found the world's oldest leather shoe, according to the Associated Press. Dated to be over 5,500 years old, the shoe was discovered in the mountains of Armenia in what archeologists believe to be the world's first bowling alley.

A researcher involved with the find said, "This is thrilling for many reasons, but mostly because we now know that the concept of rental shoes existed before recorded human history."

It is believed that the old shoe's owner left his footwear with the bowling alley staff as a deposit for a different pair of cowhide shoes specifically designed not to scratch the lanes. 

The discovery has led archeologists to understand that humans have been walking away with bowling shoes that don't belong to them since perhaps the beginning of time. 

Semi-related note: One time at the restaurant, a busser came up to me with a high heel. Explaining that he had found it at a table, he asked me to put it aside in lost and found.

Furrowing his brow, he asked, "How did she leave?" 

Then, smiling, he lifted himself up on the toes of his left foot, and walked away, shifting his weight to a lower right foot, then back up to his toes, and repeat.   

I Mean, Seriously?

The first time I met my girlfriend's parents, her father called me a liar. 

I should explain. 

To be fair, we weren't even dating at this point. But I had a huge crush on her and was nervous to meet her parents all the same. I wanted to make a good first impression--which is something I've never actually done-- so there was a little pressure. Her mother had prepared a fabulous meal at their beach house and right before sitting down to enjoy, I asked to make a toast. Raising my glass, I cleared my throat and said, "I'd like to toast to Canada. To the land... north of us. It's where I grew up. Anyway, they're very happy right now. Cheers!"

It was basically a word-for-word version of a toast Mer's father gave after Canada won the gold medal for hockey. I thought it might elicit a chuckle. 

Surprise surprise, I was wrong. 

Giving Meredith a little smile, I stood as her father considered me for a moment and then asked with genuine curiosity, "Where in Canada are you from?"

We had literally talked moments earlier about my family's farm in upstate New York, where I had mentioned I was raised. This hit him and he said, "Wait, you're not from Canada!" 

Meredith's mother quickly stepped in and tried to explain my reference. "No, Bob. She was talking about..."

"You're from Rochester! Or that port!"

"Right, I know, I was just..."

"So you lied."

With this, I burst out laughing. "Yes, I suppose I did."

I spent the entire dinner that night making sure all of my attempts at jokes were based on 100% truths.

Anyway, Meredith's old high school recently organized a production to honor their fantastic theatre program before the school is torn down and replaced by a new one.  Alumni were asked to come back and perform, and obviously, Mer was on that list. My girl can siiiing, y'all.

When I met her parents outside the auditorium, I was already sweating. It was easily 115 degrees in the school, and news flash, I've been known to get nervous. They both greeted me warmly and her father immediately commented on the fact that I had flowers. 

"Flowers? That's nice."

Looking around and noticing that almost no one else had flowers, I immediately started to sweat more. Were flowers a stupid idea? Shit.

We made our way into the auditorium and the temperature rose to about 135 degrees. It was uncomfortable. Tropical, really. Think of sitting in a cramped row of seats in a jungle theatre while trying to force yourself to stop sweating. It was like that.

The flowers started to wilt. Neat. Fucking flowers.

The event began, but because theatre people have been known to have a way with words (bug out eyes) the speeches lasted far longer than all of the performances combined. At one point, a man walked us through half of the school with his tour of words. "You start in the lot," he said, dramatically, of course. "And you come in through the lobby, and walk through the theatre, and onto the stage, and through the wings, and leave a door, and walk down a hall, and pass a room, and come to another room. Room 127." 

This is where I started to smile to myself. My little sister and I used to press on each other's legs at Sabrina's performances when we wanted to laugh at something. I had to actually fight doing this to Meredith's father as the man's speech continued. "And in that room... a piano..." 

I should mention that I've been having a huge problem trying to sleep over the past few months that has completely altered what I find funny. Listening to this man wax poetic about a hallway or the contents of a room now qualified as something that I wanted to cry laughing about. I was worried that I would bust with out a roaring HAAAAAAAAAAA at any moment. I was also worried that I had sweat through all of my clothing. I was also fidgeting uncontrollably knowing that the 2+ hours worth of performances that had already passed were about to be followed by a "Musical Medley" including  selections from no less than 17 musicals. What the what?!  

The flowers were now dead. 

The absolute, hands down, "I know I'm biased, but this is legit" highlight of the night was Meredith's performance. Driving around with her as she sings along to her playlist is easily one of my favorite things about life. I LOVE HER VOICE. But I've never seen her on stage before. She was incredible. She was just unbelievably good. Ok, you're going to vomit, I'll stop. But I'm serious. Worth every second of sweating it out in an auditorium. When she left the stage to thunderous applause, the MC's for the night came back out. With a shaking head and widened eyes, one of them responded to her performance by saying only, "I mean, seriously?!"

When the night fiiiiiinally ended (I'm not saying it was bad. It was truly wonderful. Truly. It just also happened to be longer than the Director's cut of Titanic), I leaned over to her parents and said, "The after-show dessert reception has been changed to brunch."

Looking to his program, and then to me, Mer's dad asked, "Really?"

Coming to my rescue with a soft smile and a gentle hand on his arm, Meredith's mother flatly said, "No, Bob."   

Chicago!

I spent my Memorial Day Weekend in Chicago, visiting one of the greatest people I know. My friend Katie possesses an energy that is instantly infectious. People just become happier and more positive around her. When I was considering a move out to Chicago a few years ago, Katie wrote me a Top 10 list of reasons why I should do it. Knowing about my cynical nature at the time, she noted, "I hope my enthusiasm for life doesn't discredit my opinion here." 

It still makes me laugh. Anyway, she sort of shows life how it's meant to be lived, so who better to lead us around the Windy City?

It's important to know a few fun facts about walking around Chicago with Katie.

1) She stops for every dog she sees. Every dog. The number one sentence for the weekend was, "Can I pet your dog?" which she asked to every owner as she bent down to say hello to their pet. It was basically impossible to get through a farmer's market with her considering the amount of dogs we saw. When we passed the cutest little puppy ever on a street in her neighborhood, Katie pushed her way into a crowd of children petting it and started to freak out. Someone passing by looked to the puppy's owner and referring to the group of people waiting to say hello said, "It must be hard to get to where you're going with that little one." 

He could have easily been referring to Katie.

There are also a lot of dogs in Chicago named Wrigley. A fact that my friend shared with me and we found to be true. "Everyone here names their dog Wrigley. Every other dog is Wrigley. You'll see."

2) She knows every person is Chicago. Wherever we went, she knew someone. It was weird, and hilarious, and wonderful. At one point, we passed an outdoor seating area at a bar and she leaned over to look a guy straight in the face to make sure it was who she thought it was and then casually mentioned, "That's my cousin."

Of course it is.

3) This was how she introduced me to every person we met: "This is Jess. She's moving here."

Which was followed by my nervous reaction, and heightened indecisive tendencies, and a rush of thoughts about my favorite girl in Boston that caused me to stutter through my hellos. "Well.. I mean, um, I'm just... visiting, really."

We had a crazy good time full of great laughs, wicked sunburns, exciting sports games, and lots of beer. Chicago is an amazing city full of incredibly nice people. I absolutely adore it. 

On my last night there, walking back to Katie's apartment with some take-out, she stopped to say hello to yet another dog. When she asked the owner the dog's name, he replied, "This is Fenway." 

I smiled to myself about the sign.   

A Lesson In Birth Order.

In the latest example of the difference between my sisters, Sabrina recently sent out an email including all of her contact information in London. Whenever she travels she sends her complete flight itineraries to my family, highlighting airport codes, dates, and arrival times, she mentions the names/emails/numbers of the people she's meeting, and shares all the necessary and unnecessary information concerning where she's staying. To give you an idea of how detailed this latest email was, she included the price per minute she will be charged on her international phone plan. 

So the best way to get in touch with me will definitely be e-mail. I'll check it every night, and I bought a data plan for my phone. If you need to reach me immediately, just call. My phone is unlocked and it's a $1.29 a min. It will be good in case there are "emergencies"...

Who does that? 

Anyway, last night Bri forwarded me this message from our mother:

Sabrina

 

Thank you for including me in your contact info email. As your sister was preparing to leave for the plane, her contact information was the following: I am staying on an island in Miami, There won't be an emergency.  I have my phone.  

Were you both raised in the same home? 

Love, Mom

Note: You might have noticed that the word "emergency" is thrown around a lot in these travel emails. For my mother, travel is simply a way to test how well you've prepared for emergencies. It's never really about enjoyment. It's mostly knowing that you've packed enough sprays, given the phone number of your hotel to your grandmother, and have an Ace bandage tucked away somewhere.

No Fly List.

While waiting to present my boarding pass and ID at airport security the other day, a TSA official with a very loud voice said to the woman standing in front of me, "Ma'am, not to be rude, but your fly is down." As the woman blushed and fixed her pants, the guy kept talking. "Ma'am we are paid to observe and analyze the entire person. That includes from the waist down. And honestly, I'm probably the only person who would have told you."

Sorry, Which City?

A recent exchange that took place with a man sitting next to us at a Red Sox game. Ironically, no one was on first at the time:

-Do you live in Boston?

-Yeah. How about you?

-Which city?

-Oh, well I mean, I live in JP, but close enough. You live in Boston?

-Which city.

-Right, which one?

-Witch City. You know, Salem? 

-Oh, Salem. Witch City. I didn't realize they called it that. 

-Because of the witch trials.

-Right.

I turned away, slightly stunned that a city would willingly call attention to such a dark period of its own history, and then my buddy basically read my mind by saying, "Who calls their town Witch City?! That's like saying, 'Hey, welcome! This is where we killed a lot of innocent people for no reason! Want to take a ghost tour?'"

It might have been the best call of the game. 

Request And Dedication.

Pile of Cheese Guy came in for breakfast yesterday. When I handed him a menu I started to laugh to myself because I nearly greeted him with, "Hey! Pile of Cheese Guy!"

Sticking to a simple, "Good morning" it immediately occurred to me, why not fill him in on his secret identity? 

I have a theory that everyone in the world wants a nickname. How could they not? Nicknames mean that people find you interesting enough to remember by a name attached to some sort of story. It's nice. So I thought, how cool for Pile of Cheese Guy to find out he has an alias that he doesn't even know about!

It was relatively quiet in the restaurant and he was the only customer at the counter, so there wasn't any danger of embarrassing him. So as I poured his coffee, I casually mentioned that he was semi-famous around the deli as, "Pile of Cheese Guy." 

Looking slightly creeped out, he asked why.

I reminded him of this story, and he finally gave in and laughed a little. (Come on, pile of cheese is a hilarious combination of words!)

Pile of Cheese Guy: So what's my girlfriend's nickname?

Me: Well, she's Pile of Cheese. Obviously. You named her that. 

Pile of Cheese Guy: Right. Of course. And I'm...

Me: Pile of Cheese Guy. Because you're the guy who said "Pile of Cheese."  

None of this is particularly cryptic. 

But then I made the mistake of saying, "I've written about it on my blog."

As soon as the words left my mouth I felt like an idiot. I stood there thinking, this guy is going to think I'm insane.

"Good morning, Pile of Cheese Guy! Cup of coffee? Oh, p.s., you don't know me, but I write about you and your girlfriend on the internet. Orange juice?"

To my relief, he didn't call a manager over to complain about weird girl bothering him, but instead, pulled out his iphone to check out the blog. Just before typing the address he said, "Wait, I wonder what will happen if I google Pile of Cheese Guy!" 

Sure enough, the number 1 result was a post about him. 

It kind of made my day to see a person learn an incredibly random, unknown fact about himself. 

Anyway, before leaving he requested another post in his honor. 

As promised. 

A Superhero Who Blushes And Trips.

My roommate Jenna knocked on my door the other morning and greeted me with, "Good Morning, Captain Awkward."

The title is well-deserved. 

This Is My Favorite Scene.

For someone who grew up watching too many movies, who wasted most conversational opportunities quoting the lines other people wrote for screenplays, and who wished so badly for a perfect cinematic moment in her own life that she was willing to study film just for the chance to create it herself, it'd be pretty irresponsible of me to let the current wave of perfect moments go unnoticed. I'm catching them all. This one is shareable.

Scene: In a car, on a gorgeous day, on a joyride through the Boston area.

Soundtrack: Location-Freelance Whales.

Mood: Ecstatic.

With the windows down, the volume up, and the driver singing along to the best part of the song (ey-oh-we-ay-way-ay-oh...), the passenger catches the wind out of her side of the car with bunny hill movements of her hand. Looking through the sunroof to watch the clouds pass, the passenger glances at the driver.

Passenger: Hi.

Driver: Hi.

Returning her attention to the hand/wind combo out the window, the passenger realizes this might be the happiest she's ever been.  

Scene.

Take note of the cinematic moments in your life. They're important.

Oh, Harvey.

Harvey is one of the managers at work and he consistently makes me laugh out loud with his Eeyore outlook on life. He's hilarious, has an incredibly sharp wit, and I want nothing more than for him to be happy because I really love him. But every time I suggest something I think he might enjoy, he shoots it down with a wet blanket response. All of our conversations end with me saying, "Oh, Harvey!" 

Example: You know those pop-up ads online that ask, "When will you die?" and offer a quiz predicting your death? Well, Harvey took one of those. The last person on earth who needed to take this quiz, took this quiz.

Harvey: Well, I have 12 years left to live.

Me: What are you talking about?

Harvey: I took a survey online and it said I have 12 years left.

Me: Right, perfect. An online quiz. That should be entirely accurate.  

Harvey: 12 years.

Me: So live it up, Harvey! Go crazy! Date some hotties, have an extra martini with dinner, go wild!

Harvey: Nope. It'll be me and BoBo until I die. And he'll outlive me. So I have to figure out what to do with him.

(BoBo is his dog).

Me: Oh, Harvey!

It's really hard not to love Harvey.

Anyway, the other day Amalia and her mom (roommate? No, mom. Mom?!) popped into the restaurant to show off their haircuts and nails. Amalia happily mentioned that her nail color was "Hot and Spicy." Turning to Harvey I teased, "You used to wear Hot and Spicy right, Harv?"

With perfect comedic timing, he looked at me flatly and responded, "Yes. But now I wear Lukewarm and Tasteless."  

And then he turned and walked away.

YES! Wait, I mean, No!

Throughout this incredibly long process of trying to get my first book published, I've come to understand very little about the publishing industry. Good news is usually delivered by phone, bad news usually arrives via email disguised as positive news, and if they seriously mean no, they'll say nothing. 

It's not unlike my sad attempts at dating. 

So whenever my agent sends me editor rejections, I end up feeling good for a few minutes before realizing, "Oh, right. They said no." And then I become confused by the comments and start reading into things thinking, "Well maybe they actually meant..." until it occurs to me once more, "They said no."

Again, this isn't so far removed from, well, you get it. 

This is the most recent "no." Many of these rejections have been so nice I almost feel like putting them on the fridge. 

Penn,
 
Thank you so much for sending me Open-Eyed Sneeze. Jessica Martin is, without a doubt, one of the funniest, most delightful and ultimately endearing writers I’ve come across. I instantly connected with her story and that panic that slowly creeps in after college graduation. This was an absolute pleasure to read. With all that said, however, I’m sorry to say that despite this memoir’s merits, I’m afraid I don’t see a big enough audience for Hyperion to continue pursuing. From the bottom of my heart, I wish I had better news. 
 
I hope you have better luck with other houses. If in the future, Jessica’s platform grows and she’s still writing, I’d love to see her work. 
 
With all the best,
Kate 

This one left me wondering, so what's the problem? We don't have to go steady! Let's just make out a little!  

Note: I was just working off the dating analogy there. We were all on the same page for that, right? 

(sigh.)

Call Your Mom, Foo.

Look What I Can Do!

Hanging out with my sisters is just about the best time around. I saw them last weekend and had so many good laughs, it was awesome. 

The only thing is, over the last year, every time I get back to New York to visit, Vanessa's arms have somehow gotten bigger. It's kind of starting to scare me. She easily does 1,000 push-ups a day-- in public. Grocery shopping, out to eat, chilling in Central Park, wherever, I'll turn around and see that she's on the ground doing push-ups.  It's annoying and weird. But I guess totally jacked arms don't just magically appear.  It takes a daily regimen of being annoying and weird. 

While outside Lincoln Center enjoying the fountain, Bri and I turned around to find Nessa on the filthy ground doing crazy yoga moves and ridiculously fast push-ups. 

I'm telling you, WEIRD. 

Not to be outdone, Brina got in on the push-ups. (I'll spare you those shots, but trust me, they exist.)

I just stood there for a minute thinking of something equally cool that I could do, but only came up with showcasing my wicked sweet dance moves. 

As Nessa continued with her workout, I started to get arm-envy so I picked up the lightest thing I could find. My sister.

Trying to convince Sabrina that she was just as strong as Ness, I yelled, "Piggy back ride!" and tried to have her carry me around. 

That didn't work.

About 5-minutes into this, a security officer named Nomad (I've been having a lot of recent run-ins with this name) came over and started to ask questions.

Long story short, he asked us to stop. But not before taking this picture. 

I'm obviously going to have to frame this and give it to my parents. 

They're going to be so proud.

Go To The Mattresses.

In an ill-advised move, this couple attempted to transport a mattress by subway. I don't need to list for you the problems involved with such a decision. You're bright. You can figure it out. 

However, one thing I had not anticipated was a good old-fashioned couples argument taking place on both sides of the full-size mattress. 

Moving large objects can be hilarious, but mostly stressful, so I understand how having a mattress on the subway might breed the latter. But the first rule of carrying large items is, "Be nice to the person helping you carry large items." If you forget this one, you're likely to find yourself stuck halfway up a stairwell holding your end of an armoire. Fighting while moving is a classic opportunity for the offended party to walk three feet to the left and demand a thoughtful apology. Unfortunately, all apologies in these instances sound like this: "I'm sorry, baby! Now this is incredibly heavy and going to fall so get over here, idiot!" 

The girl in this photo, while tiny, was an important part of the mattress transport operation. It's a two-person job. But in anger and protest, she took a seat away from boyfriend as he yelled about missing their stop, that he was sorry, that she was being immature, that he would never forgive her, and that if the mattress ever made it out of the train, she couldn't use it. 

What's that line about never going to bed upset?

Pile of Cheese Guy Strikes Again!

This guy is quickly becoming my new favorite person. 

Yesterday when he paid the bill, I noticed his wallet was one of those pleather western themed numbers with cowboys and horses all over it. It looked like something straight out of a souvenir shop and it was too awesome not to comment.  

-I love your wallet. I think I had something like that when I was eight.

-Yeah, well I lost my wallet and my girlfriend got sick of me carrying around a wad of paper so she bought me this. I have a new wallet that looks like my old one, but I like this one. The only thing is, it smells terrible.

-Why are you smelling your wallet?

-I smell things.

So this made me smile, and when I returned with his change he grabbed his toast off his plate and made for the door.

-I'm taking my toast. 

-Be sure to smell it first.

And with that, he pressed the four pieces of wheat toast against his face and left.

I'm inspired by people who understand how important silliness is as a character trait. 

Also, Pile of Cheese and Toast Face sounds like a legitimate underground rap duo.  

Red Sox Nation Goes To The Dentist.

Here's a bit of trivia about Boston: Anywhere you go, you'll find a Red Sox game schedule.

Anywhere.

Look on the refrigerators of the apartments you visit, look at the wall behind the bartenders at your favorite watering hole, ask someone (people carry the schedule around like it's a driver's license) or simply look at the office assistant's desk at the dentist office. Obviously. 

I just experienced this last one a few hours ago at the dentist and had to laugh. A giant Red Sox schedule was taped to the desk where you check out, right next to a sign reminding you to schedule your next appointment. I mean, seriously? Dentist appointments seem kind of important. It's not a haircut or an oil change we're scheduling. We're talking about your TEETH. The idea of someone postponing dental work to catch a game killed me.

-Emergency root canal, you say? Hmm. Nope, can't do it. Home game vs. the Royals. Sorry, first things first. 

When the Sox give you something to smile about, you're going to be kicking yourself. 

I Said Grow, Dammit!

A guy at the counter this morning was reading a magazine called Garden & Gun.

Garden & Gun.

Garden... and Gun.

I'm sorry, but it really needs to be said a few times.

Was Green Thumb, Trigger Finger already taken?

Are we really getting that aggressive with dandelions?

Is anyone else picturing Martha Stewart with a basket of fresh herbs and an uzi?

Anyone?

Earth Day.

Walking home just now with a stack of books from the library, ready to spend the late afternoon reading on my balcony, I was humming Fleet Foxes White Winter Hymnal to myself, appreciating the warm weather, when a sunshower suddenly started. Bright and warm, contrasted with the cool rain. I had to smile. It was just really nice. 

Right now in parks, and on trees, and in gardens, life is teeming. And maybe that's why I sort of sense that in every other thing I encounter. Just lots of life.  

I met some really great people yesterday and we shared good laughs and a girl so perfectly summarized her appreciation for Spring that I had to smile. It was just really nice. And while enjoying the collective company and a few beers, she said, "Wouldn't it be sad if we never saw each other again?" I was struck by the honesty. I love when people say things they're thinking without editing. It's a little kid quality and it's great. My childhood best friend and I became best friends when I asked him one day, "Do you want to be best friends?" It was that easy. Sometimes life is that easy. I was reminded of this immediately when she asked the question, and I felt like I had made a fast friend. 

And while talking about relationships with a bud the other day, he said, "I'm over looking at someone and just thinking, 'I want you.' I want to look at someone and think, 'I want to love you.'" And then my heart shattered into a thousand little pieces because, gosh, what a nice thing to say out loud. 

And right about now my bud and her fam are jumping out of a plane together just to kind of high-five life. And that's freaking awesome.

Me: Aren't you scared of heights?

Mer: No, I hang out with you all the time.

Today's Earth Day. I should probably say something about recycling, or giving up on your car, or reducing your energy use, which are things I believe in. But I guess I just wanted to tip a cap to life in general, and how great it can be. 

Good Talk, Weirdos.

It's been interesting, to say the least, to get to know my parents as a couple. When we were growing up they were both so focused on the family that I never really thought of them as a team of two. It was only the two of them as they related to me and my sisters. They were part of a 5-person team. Does that make sense? And because of the insane hours a farmer works, date nights for my parents were about as common as meteor showers. The smell of cologne in our house always meant something exciting was happening because my father only ever wore it when he and Deb were going to go out for dinner together. To this day, the smell of cologne still makes me think something exciting is happening.  When I lived with Raf in San Francisco, every morning I'd smell his cologne in the bathroom and ask, "What's going on?!" He'd just look at my flatly and say, "I'm going to work." 

Lately when I call my parents (which I've been doing because of the serious LACK of phone calls on their end) I've been greeted by a fast run-down of their recent adventures, dinners they've had, plans they're making, and then quickly rushed off the phone. "OK, Jess. We love you. Talk soon."

These calls always end with my staring at the phone thinking, "Um, excuse me. I hang up on you. I rush through the weekly calls. Did they even ask me what I've been up to?! What the hell is going on?"

Often when I call home, my mom and dad will answer at the same time on two different phones, and then my dad will stay on the line, commenting throughout the call. The last time this happened, he started to replay an inside joke between the two of them and then Deb started to chime in, and they both started laughing, talking louder over each other, until they were both laughing hysterically on two different phones in the same house, as I stood waiting for the train, listening like an idiot, realizing that I wasn't a necessary part of the conversation.  

Me: OK, well I have to go.

Deb & Steve (laughing): OK, so do we.

Me: No, I really have to go. So I'm hanging up now. 

Deb & Steve: No, we really have to get going too. Bye. [click]

Me: What the what?

Don't get me wrong. It's cute. Kind of. And I love that my parents have inside jokes. It's weird, but it's nice. But when I talked to them on Sunday, my mom interrupted me by asking, "Do you hear that?" 

"Hear what?"

"Do you hear that noise?"

"No, what is it?"

"Well I'm on the sofa in the family room, and your father is pushing it into the kitchen."

"Dad's pushing you around on a sofa?"

"Yes. I'm on the kitchen phone and he doesn't want to cord to stretch."

"He's going to scratch the floor doing that."

"He doesn't seem to care."

"Right. Well enjoy your sofa ride. I think I'm--"

"Oh, sorry, I'm getting a beep.

Seriously, who are these people?

Say Something Nice.

Sometimes when I catch the time at 10:10 or 3:33 or 5:55, I make a wish.

It's silly.

I touch the clock, close my eyes, and ask for something to happen.

I'm not saying it works. It's really just a stupid kind of game. 

But to see 12:11 and feel like anything I might ask of 12:12 has already come true, makes me think it might work a little.   

Talent Show.

Fucking Lynne went to a talent show at her grandson's elementary school and for her talent, a little girl made a smoothie.  

Hearing Lynne impersonate the little girl with a high squeaky voice and this quote, "First I take the berries..." was pretty much the best part of my day.

My Life Is A Ziggy Cartoon.

A man paid me a compliment yesterday by saying, "You have an extremely hospitable smile."

He was blind. 

Let The Record Show.

I received a rather hilarious call from my mother last week concerning her recent grand jury summons. She's been called for jury duty numerous times in the past but always gets nervous about the selection process. Answering questions under oath, having your personal life picked apart for biases, speaking in front of a large group of people in a court setting-- I imagine it can be stressful.

I've never been called for jury duty, but for someone who watches as many Law & Order reruns as I do, it really wouldn't be a good idea. I could totally see myself interrupting court proceedings with"Dun Dun!" sound effects, or randomly requesting sidebars or remand. 

"Your Honor, the people request remand." 

"You're not allowed to say that. You're a juror."

"Sidebar, Your Honor?"

"No."   

Right. Well after the long day of grand jury selection, my mom called to let me know about the funniest piece of grassroots PR my poor little unpublished book has seen. 

Here's what happened:

The entire jury box was sworn in under oath, and then one by one, they had to stand and answer questions about their lives. Name, occupation, spouse's name, occupation, the names and occupations of their children... etc. Deb mentioned that she really enjoyed hearing the life stories of all the other people around her, often thinking to herself, Oh, that sounds nice. 

When they finally reached my mom, she stood and addressed the judge as she answered all the questions. For the one concerning her children this is what she said, "I just said my oldest daughter lives in New York and works for New York City Opera, my youngest daughter also lives in New York and is a personal trainer, and then I said, and my middle daughter is a fledgling writer trying to get her first book published.  (Laughing) And then I paused for a second and addressed the court, saying, it's called Open-Eyed Sneeze. There were about 150 people in the room, Jess. So now they all know about your book."

I laughed about this for a good 5 minutes. My mom used her grand jury selection as a venue to plug my book. But it is kind of cool to think that the title exists somewhere in a stenographer's report for that day.

Thanks, mom.  

Pep Talk.

Sherri: We survived the day, Jess. We'll live to serve another egg.

Whoa!

Big-name celebrity sightings never really did anything for me. When I worked at the hotel, it wasn't possible for me to care less about diva actors who had their assistants order for them, or requested separate rooms to do their hair. (It's called a bathroom. And yes, there's actually one attached to the the room you're already in. Feel free to use it. Dummy.)

One of the only times I was genuinely thrilled to talk to someone famous was when I ran into Harold Ramis. I think Groundhog Day is one of the more perfect movies ever made, so I was basically tripping over myself to tell him so. 

I've also asked Kevin Bacon to call me Natasha, but that's another story, for another time.

Anyway, I was at work yesterday, helping some ladies grab some cupcakes at the counter and I noticed a familiar face behind them. Boxing up 10 assorted cupcakes gave me a minute to think about how I knew her.

Me: Another coconut? Absolutely. Who is that? And a chocolate vanilla? I know I know her. Oh, sorry, 2 chocolate vanillas? Her face looks so... holy shit, it's Blossom! 

For those of you who don't know, and apparently, that's a lot of you, Blossom was a popular television series in the early 90's.

As soon as I figured out who she was, it took all the strength I have not to shout, "Whoa!" Joey Lawrence-style. 

I immediately started smiling like an idiot because 

a) It was freaking Blossom!

b) Despite knowing I shouldn't, and really not wanting to, I knew I was going to call her Blossom. I think I saw somewhere that she's like a brain doctor now or something, so I'm sure she gets sick of the Blossom thing.

The ladies got their cupcakes, and up walked Blossom.

Me (smiling like a moron): Don't say Blossom. Don't say Blossom. Don't say Blossom. Hello.

Blossom: Hi. Do you know if any of these goodies are dairy-free?

Me: It's Blossssssom!!!! Does anyone else see that Blossom and I are chatting about desserts?!!

I'm afraid they're not. The Halvah bars might be.

Blossom: (sticks out her tongue like a little kid in disgust)

Me: (laughing) Oh, Blossom. You still got it. Hey, where's that funny hat?

Blossom: Also, do you know your potato pancakes?

Me: Do I?! Well that was stupid. Why'd you say it like that?  

Blossom: Do they have eggs in them?

Me: I believe so, but let me go double check. 

So I turned from the counter to make my way back to the kitchen, trying to get the attention of servers as I passed them to say, "Dude! Blossom is here! Blossom!" 

No one really cared. I TOTALLY 110% wish Tara was working that night! She would have understood!

When I made my way back to the counter from the kitchen, I delivered the egg news to Blossom and she thanked me. 

Me: Of course! Thank you, Bl--. Um, thanks. Have a nice night. 

Puppy Ponytail.

Insert thought bubble of your choice. 

Maybe It's A Sign.

Saw a print ad the other day that was simply an aerial view of unrecognizable buildings with the number 60637 in a large font placed across the middle of the page.

I have no idea what the advertisement was for, but because I make a lot of my decisions like a superstitious 12-year-old, I booked a flight. 

Just Add Pants!

I know I've been writing a lot about cats lately. I'll stop. 

Right after this post.

So if you know me, you know that I always say the only way I'd want a cat in the house is if it walked on its hind legs and wore pants all the time. Well, holy crap, I might have found my cat!

 

Zing! Zink!

I've mentioned before that I once saw a sign at Yankee Candle that said, "Please Don't Eat The Candles." Apparently it was a big enough problem at the store that a sign was warranted.

"What do you mean these aren't Christmas cookies?"

I think a more appropriate note might have been, "Yankee CANDLE. (Idiots.)"

I thought of the Yankee Candle sign yesterday while flipping through zink magazine and reading a little interview with a model. When asked to list three items she can't live without she answered: Coffee, water, and scented Yankee Candles. 

The same answer applied to the question concerning her grocery list. 

Ice Cream: Newton's Law Need Not Apply.

Me: OK, for ice cream. Cup or cone?

Amalia: Cone. Obviously.

If you're playing along at home, that's the correct answer.

One of the best things about the arrival of the amazing weather is of course, ice cream, but if you watch closely enough, it actually extends beyond the simple happiness a cone provides.  

If you happen to see a child eating an ice cream cone, pay close attention. Notice how the child holds the cone. More often than not, it is off to the side with the cone nearly tipped upside down. Kids hold ice cream with complete disregard for the laws of physics because they don't know the laws of physics. And stunningly, the ice cream almost never falls. It's a law of naivete that sometimes seems more powerful than gravity because it involves a sugar cone and rainbow sprinkles.  

Thanks.

Lately I've been experiencing a lot of , "Um, I can hear you." moments. Most of them have dealt with people saying something about me within earshot.

"Well your boyfriend is big, right? Is he as big as her? She probably wears a large. Would he be about that size? Should I ask her if she wears a large?"

"Shh, no! Don't ask!"

What do I do here? Pretend I don't hear? Answer? 

I usually end up acting like I have no idea what's going on, but I guess I just have a face that says, "Tell me exactly what you think."

These are a few of my recent favorites:

"I'm buying a t-shirt for my 11-year-old grandson. He's a little chubby. Actually, you're sort of built like him, what size do you wear?"

"You're... what? Six? Ten feet tall?"

"You'd make a good ship's mast."

And tonight was nice. During a particularly insane rush at work, a regular (who never orders anything, just shows up to say hello and talk about hats) came in and said, "Hey Jess, you look horrible!"

Running around like a jerk, I nodded and smiled. "OK thanks, Larry."

"No, really. Just awful. You look really really tired."

"Oh, OK, thank you."

"Are you sick?"

"Just really busy, Lar."

"Well you look terrible."

"OK great! Talk soon."

Something To Consider.

Paul Madonna is a genius and his comic All Over Coffee is one of my favorite things. 

Loved this one.

Terms Of Endearment.

There was a funny couple sitting at the counter for breakfast yesterday and when talking about his omelet the guy said, "I don't like a lot of cheese." 

Pointing to his girl, he added, "She loves cheese. That's why her nickname is Pile of Cheese." 

Jamaica Plain In Spring.

What's not to love? 

Fresh air, people hanging out on their porches (I have a serious thing for porches) with some beers and some buddies, cute dogs everywhere, the amazing light my treehouse bedroom gets. 

It's all good, folks. 

Also, semi-unrelated, but I enjoyed this exchange this morning:

Michael: Have you been to San Francisco?

Me: I lived there for years. 

Michael: So you've been downtown in the morning?

Me: (smiling) Yeah.

Michael: Then come smell outside.

[we leave the restaurant together]

Michael: Smell. 

[We take deep breaths inhaling the crisp cool air]

Me: Totally with you. 

Michael: Right?!

Things like being asked to smell things for memory make me happy. 

Gotta Brag On Ya.

I have a plan to retire off the royalties from the rap songs I write. One of them is called "Brag On Ya." It's a love song. But that's another post. 

I mention it only because I'm about to brag on my little sister for being an incredible person. While this blog is normally dedicated to everyday absurdities, sometimes life and the people in it are just so good that I feel it would be irresponsible not to give a shout out. 

So without the dramatic Lifetime music, last month marked the 10-year anniversary of a nearly-fatal car accident that Nessa survived. After the accident, when she could barely walk, she was easily the toughest Martin in the bunch, and we all fed off her strength. Through surgery and months of intense physical therapy, she made recovering from something like that seem like no big deal with her positivity, humor, determination, and signature kick-ass attitude.  

She's sort of my hero.  

Anyway, big things are happening in her life right now and I'm:

a) Proud as hell. 

b) Inclined to share.

This was from an email she sent this morning: 

Hey guys

So if you cant brag to your family then who can you brag to?! I guess the real answer is whoever, you really can brag to anyone, buuuuut I want detailed responses and will be expecting/demanding those from you.

This morning I trained [omitted, but a big deal]

It was AMAZING! Ive known him since working here but he has always worked with another trainer. We were in gym same time the the other day and he said he wanted to set something up. This morning was the first session and he was totally floored. I was a little nervous, but I threw a lot of phys therapy exercises in with the incorporation of the "power plate" (http://patcapplifestyle.com/Images/power-plate.jpg) Cool piece of equip not a lot of facilities have and he was interested in learning. 

blah blah blah, Im now working with him once a week. We played anatomical term quiz game for a great deal of the sessoion and shared a lot of high fives and besos. 

Compliment me. Thanks.

The Martin girl with an amazing smile and titanium femur.

I love when people lock into what they should be doing. I think there's a tangible energy when you see someone doing what they're good at and enjoy. Nessa's got it right now.  This is her favorite affirmation and I think it fits:

I am strength. I see myself as strong, powerful and limitless. 

Stay Strong.

Mine would read: I see myself as strong, powerful, and limitless. 

But first, a nap.

Classy.

Awhile ago my roommate's buddy was visiting and she was telling me about the time she spent living in Arizona. She said it was a cross between LA and a small town the midwest. For me, the culture was perfectly described when she highlighted that people wore sunglasses at night while out partying at the hottest club, but no one commented on the fact that said club was located in a strip mall across from a CVS. 

Anyway, this was another gem sent from Brina's phone with the subject line, "Gotta love AZ."

Dry, Oaky, Slightly Bitter.

Bri spent last week with her best bud Jen and her family in Arizona. She sent me this photo with the subject line, "Mr. Salmon bought this in honor of you." Super sweet! Although, if this was the real middle sister wine, the girl in the middle wouldn't be the middle sibling. She'd be the cool friend hanging out with the older and younger sister while the middle sister was chilling alone somewhere in Boston.  The real middle sister would be a little cartoon person on the back of the bottle, listening to a drunken voicemail left on her phone describing the fun being had on the front of the bottle. 

Juuust kidding. Thanks Mr. Salmon!

Hide & Seek.

Actual exchange:

Jeffrey: I had to hide my Cleopatra wig.

Me: Hide it? Why?

Jeffrey: My brother is coming.

Me: Oh.

Christine: Jeffrey hides his wigs, porn, and tootsie rolls.

Me: Tootsie rolls? Oh, because you're diabetic? Well that's quite a stash, Jeff. Hope you picked a good hiding spot. Someone could have a very interesting afternoon for themselves if they found it.

Jeffrey: Yeah, I have to lose some weight though to do Annette Funicello. She's in my act.

Me: You have an act?! Where?

Jeffrey: In my bedroom. 

Back On Planet Earth...

BizBash | City Opera Targets Dancing Donors With Waltz-Focused Gala

My sister worked incredibly hard on an event that turned out to be a huge success. I'm proud of her, and impressed with what she does. However, in her first ever print interview (!) she was quoted as saying, "We also know that a large group of our donor base are avid waltzers and they're very active in the New York City waltzing circuit."

Right. Sorry, Bri. But avid waltzers?? Avid? If you waltz more than one time in your entire life, couldn't you be considered an avid waltzer? Actually, if I ever waltz once, I'm going to refer to myself as an avid waltzer. 

I guess I just really have no way to relate to her work experiences. My sister works with people who are part of a waltzing circuit. A lot of the people I deal with on a daily basis chew with their mouths open. 

Fucking Lynne.

This is the first in a 50 part series of posts dedicated to the people I work with at the deli. Just kidding. I don't know if I'm committed enough to do that. But I love Lynne and have to share this story.

So Lynne is one of the managers and whenever I mention her to friends or my family I refer to her as "Fucking Lynne" because she uses the word fuck-- a lot. I love it. LOOOOOOVE it. Of all the people I've met in my entire life, Lynne easily makes the Top 10 most naturally hilarious list. When I first started working, she used to explain things to me and then quickly follow with, "But don't do that because you'll fuck it up." It was hard to argue with such a direct managing style. Plus, she was right. I probably would have. But even after about 4 months she would still say things like, "Jess, you stay there because you'll fuck this up." and before I could begin to protest I'd think, "Well, she probably has a point." 

When a certain regular comes in looking for her, Lynne speaks through a wide grin, "How many fucking times does she have to kiss me hello, Jess? I don't fucking know. Is it 5 times, Jess? Fucking six times?"  And I tell this story all the time but when she first started with Weight Watchers--excuse me-- the "WW"-- I complimented her sandwich and she launched into this rant about points:

You can't have any of it. It's all I'm fucking eating for lunch and it's like 3 fucking points, or 6 points, I don't know. It's all about fucking points, Jess. I don't know. I just eat what Lisa makes me.  All I know is I get my fucking chocolate ice cream bar at the end of the night, that's like 1 fucking point."

OK, so you get it. 

Anyway, I left work in quite a mood the other day. I try to subscribe to a "life gets heavy, lighten up" philosophy, but I really wasn't having any of it that day and I was pissy. Pretty close to my version of a boiling point. Anyway, I left the restaurant and started to cross the street without a walk signal but quickly had to jump back to the curb to avoid the oncoming traffic. As soon my feet landed back on the sidewalk, some fool laid on their horn and started screaming out of a rolled-down passenger side window, "Stay out of the fucking road, lady!"

Well that's all I needed to hear. I was already worked up, but having someone scream at me for no reason sent me to an entirely new level of mad. I could feel my pulse in my neck and had every intention of giving them a piece of my mind. (Pointing was going to be involved. I was thinking of saying something like jerkoff. It was going to be epic.) As the SUV slowly drove past me, I steeled myself for verbal combat, looked into the car, and saw Fucking Lynne laughing her head off. 

I walked the rest of the way to the train with the biggest most ridiculous grin on my face as I tried not to keel over laughing on the sidewalk. Who would have thought someone screaming obscenities at me from a car would be the fastest way to calm me down? 

So Much Better Than Lemonade.

A little kid in my neighborhood was juggling in front of his house this morning and by his feet rested a box that said, "Tips."