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.