the beast of beauty

Beautiful women go through life as if it were a maze. They get trapped, sort of, but there's always a way out, and no door is ever really closed. It just leads someplace else. The maze is erected by so many, many people who so desperately want to possess beauty that they try and confuse it, tame it and make it stay. But really, beauty and the woman possessing it, just wants to escape to a place where it will be cherished and understood.

But nobody can understand beauty. And even those who claim to cherish it only want to possess it. Still others want to kill it off, cover it up, take it away, make it theirs.




There are women more beautiful than I, of course. But I have been fortunate to live my life with many open doors that I know I've walked through not because of my brains or my wit or connections but because of my face, my legs, my breasts, whatever a someone or someones deemed appealing at that moment. There have also been, at times, perplexing mazes with people waiting just outside them, hoping I've surrendered somehow, that I'd be putty in their clever hands. But I haven't. I've walked through those doors, found the one way out of their bewildering construction. All in all, yes, I've probably had it better than most but I've also been lied to, manipulated, loved for the wrong reasons, put on ridiculous pedestals, told to change, and made to feel less than.

But, most of all, still: I've had it pretty damn good, I'd say. I mean, a big smile or a flirty gesture and a lot's gotten done. Tables have turned in my favor from that crap.

As I've gotten older and deeper into my 30s and longed for the respect that can only come from accomplishment, intelligence and sophistication, I've learned to relinquish my hold on the fail-proof methods that once turned heads in my 20s. But, the funny thing is, now that I'm here, I've noticed that girls in their 20s are inappropriately vying for the same positions at work as I am. Or, well, they want to be right there near me, riding my coattails, sniffing me too closely. And I'm thinking: no way in hell. I've earned this position through my hard work and my talent.












And the worst thing I've noticed? These girls don't give a lick about hard work. Or talent. They're just busy doing the hair flick and giggle. The low top. The short skirt. The tarty 5-inch heels. Yeah, they're employing those methods. As pathetic, kind of trashy and obvious as they are. And you know what? It doesn't matter. It works anyway. Some people (not all, but definitely more than I'd like) are just gone in the face of all that beauty because they just want it around. They want to scoop it out and lick it like a big, pretty ice cream cone. Who cares if Miss Batty Eyelash isn't that talented or even qualified for the job? That ass alone can be enough.

Through this soul-numbing realization, I now know that I am beginning to be lost. Not that my beauty or youth is gone. (Well, I hope not just yet anyway. I'm pretty sure I have a few hair flicks and winks left in me). But my approach to getting what I want has changed. It no longer relies so heavily on my black eyelashes and just-low-enough blouse. Oh no. I've abandoned that. For respect!

Respect goddamnit!

Ha. Yeah right. What the hell was Aretha Franklin yammering on about anyway? Just a little bit? A little bit of respect? Can I get some please?

As I inch (creep?) towards the higher numbers on the slippery slope of the 30s, I'm reminded of a conversation I had just the other day with someone very dear to me. We were talking about fading youth, fading beauty and what it means for a woman of a certain age to still be, of course, attractive, but to no longer embody that alluring Bambi-like vixen who, with a wink or a flick of her thick, shiny hair, could have pretty much any man in the room.

What did all that mean when we were young? And how does it feel to let that go?

What I think is this: there are different kinds of beauty. I told this very thing to a friend years ago when I was living in Los Angeles: there is no one kind of beautiful. There are many. We were at Swingers on Beverly having some of their really great french fries and some chicken noodle soup, likely nursing a heavy-duty black russian, no cream please, hangover, and for some reason we were discussing the wide variety of bodies of strippers. Tall, willowy, small-breasted. Petite and curvy. Voluptuous, large-breasted and child-bearing hips. All of them so different yet all of them so beautiful in their own ways.

As I see it now, as women grow older, particularly beautiful women who've been so accustomed to doors flying open, or mazes erected for their entrapment their entire lives, they realize alarmingly suddenly that those same doors quietly close and nobody longs to trap or confuse them anymore. But, the thing is, they are still beautiful. They are still so, so beautiful.

Perhaps it is an equalizer in a way. It has a sad way of knocking them off their status and into a more "real" place. A place where they have to be, well, just a good person. And for all those unaware goddesses floating around out there with so many doing their bidding, and so much made easy for them, well, they have another thing coming. It's just that it's so hard to think that will ever happen while they are so breathtaking, while the world stops for them, bows to them, and paves the way for them, often a path of fragrant flowers. And outlined by a wall of shoes, diamonds and expensive vacations. But one wretched morning, bleary-eyed and wrinkly, over a cup of average joe, it will come in the form of a rude, blaring, wake-up call that the world ceases to adore them anymore. And then they will begin to wonder, after all, if they were worth anything at all? And if they weren't, if all they were was beauty, well, they had better get around to making something worthy of their lives.

How can that, in the end, be such a bad lesson? I mean, hey, at least they got all those doors opened, and mazes erected that let them know they were wanted and special.

And shit, that wake-up call: it's also just hard to accept that nobody needs them for procreation anymore. Yeah, it's biology in part, too.

As for the weaker sex, sorry guys but it's you (come on, you know it's true, you live 7 years less than we do and you need us around in order to live longer, read the studies), you still like to have those sweet, young (and clueless) things around to remind you that you were once pretty beautiful, too.

Let's face it: it's bullshit that men get "distinguished" while women get haggy. Come ON. All I seem to see are jowly old farts trying to reclaim their youth, too. In SL 500s. In trophy wives. In cigars. Oh, and let's not forget the truckloads of Viagra and Cialis letting them know they can keep up like the stallions they once were.

It's everywhere. This getting old thing. And it is what it is.

It's a mad world.

I'm just glad we have such excellent plastic surgery available to us all.

Because no way in hell would I want to go back to being 23. I was a full-on idiot. Yeah, my hair was thicker and I didn't have to diet. But shit, I was a moron.

Ha!

Signing off....in all non-serious, oh but serious, contemplation as I head to the mall.

The MAWL. Say it just like that: THE MAWL.

I want an iPhone. Stet! (anyone listening? No, I don't want to wait forever for them to pass it off to T-Mobile or Verizon. I want it now).

And some new lingerie. La Perla damnit, not that trashy Victoria's Secret crap. I can't even find my way around in there. And those sales girls: lame! No, thank you, I do NOT need a bra fitting. I think they just want to feel me up. Ick!

At least my Christmas tree is decorated extra pretty this year.
I have my sense of humor and I'm not letting anyone take it from me.
Oh, and let's not forget: I have a pile of cat barf on my new rug waiting for me when I get home.

Life's alright.

Peace!!!!!

Love y'all! (Paula Deen makes the best fudge pie. Yep, fudge PIE).


;)

City of brotherly...liberty bell?

Life, liberty and...you?

What happened to "the pursuit of happiness"? Why is that not a part of all this?

Is this all Philadelphia has to offer? That stupid cracked bell? After all these years?

I am from this old city. I was born in the tiny western town of Chambersburg but my whole family is from this city. Born and raised. It's a good city, oft-underappreciated, with great culture, a laid back, and sometimes edgy, style that's warm and welcoming as well as surprisingly cool and mysterious. I love Philadelphia. Love the place. There is a lot to love about it. You can find anything you need, more than you might expect, and, of course, things you don't ever want to find, either.

Like any great city, it's always about ever-present Descartian dualities, and a dose of Spinozan determinism that makes being there so electrifying. Maybe that's just me and my sophomoric (literally) outlook on things, pontificating here for my own amusement. I thought I might once be a Philosophy major in college because I found myself sitting in class listening to one of many lectures on these great thinkers and meanwhile my mind had escaped the confines of that little, flourescent-lit room to float out of myself in a way I'd never known in my life and to explore nature, the universe and the notion of god. And it is probably there, in that small midwestern town of Lake Forest, Illinois that my taught beliefs and all that newfound exposure to an entirely new realm of possibility led me to question every fucking thing I would ever see, feel or hear ever again.

Everywhere I've lived since that time has been put to this existential test. And I can tell you, my friends, that Philadelphia passes with flying colors. Old places have housed old souls, many of them, and those energies are still there, in all their sickness and health, in all their doing and non-doing. And when you're there, if you listen, if you look, if you touch, you will hear, see, and feel just about everything. Great places possess this. And those dualities of good and bad are held together. And fate is a key player. Like you were just meant to be there for some reason.

Ah, Philadelphia.

Unfortunately, I have been attacked for the unsportsmanlike conduct of voracious Eagles fans (batteries embedded in snowballs and thrown is not something I condone) and my animal lover reputation has been called into question for defending Andy Reid's decision about Michael Vick. Tony Dungy says he's ok. I like Tony Dungy even if he is a god-fearing man. Tony Dungy says he's ok, alright by me.

Remember, before you pass judgement: Second chances are one of the best things about being a human being.

Philadelphia. This is a good place (and even a great place, really) so let's get back to the subject at hand:

It is a place definitely deserving of a better logo. That'd be a nice start anyway.

I was listening to NPR last night and the genuis that is Tom Ford, fashion designer and now film director, was explaining, very eloquently, about how everything in our globalized world has become "branded" to the point of insanity. And the point of non-impact. We're all just a bunch of copycats, following each other's trends and fads around the world.

In this case, however, oh thee rare and unbranded Philadelphia, you are in so much need (you always have been, it seems, stuck between New York and DC) of an identity that does you justice. An identity that tells all your stories in one quick glance. One quick glance that makes people want to pack their bags and book a ticket to meet you.

Now that would be something to see. Hear. Feel.

holiday chubbage

Got on the scale at a neighbor's Christmas party last night. 138.6.

One hundred and thirty-eight point six.

Pounds.

Granted my clothes were on, and shoes, and I'd already eaten something with Velveeta in it. But still. No bueno. :(

Sad face on.

I know there are more important things to worry about in life.

But the holidays. So chubbage-inducing!

Please pass the spinach and artichoke dip.

No, not that one.

The one with the water chestnuts in it.

Oh and some of that, whatever it is, cheese pizza sauce and cracker thingys.

Yeah, those.

Thanks.

Sure, why not, another glass of Montoya red wine something or other.

Sure.

Oh, and some of those mere-nothing, wafer-thin cupcake things.

The ones with the happy little sprinkles, like colorful icicles in white frosting.

A veritable snowstorm of calories in my mouth.

Mmm....mmm....good.

Ah, holidays.

So tasty.

So fun!

So chubbage-inducing!!!

Idiots in the Woods

It's none of my business so why do I care?

Two Sundays ago at our local watering hole---before all this non-stop daily trash-talk--- a friend of ours who isn't one for gossip but was merely relating the incident to us about Tiger Woods' car "crash" told us he heard from a reliable source that Tiger had been "doing the Red Bull rep for years." Yes, doing.

Many people don't know this but Orlando is a small town. Sure, there's sprawl and lots of it but just like New York City, people stick to their neighborhoods. And the same types of people patronize the same places. Over and over again. We are all, most of us for the most part, creatures of habit. Like Sam and Diane and the rest of the crew on Cheers, we like a place where "everybody knows [our] name." It's comfortable. It's easy. And, as it happens, we all kind of know each other. At least within a few degrees of separation. And that's especially so here in Orlando.

So anyway, about Tiger. I didn't really care. I figured it was nobody's business. It sounded to me like his wife was chasing him around and bashing his car with golf clubs. Passion'll do that to you. Not that I'm speaking from experience. OK, fine, maybe I am. If you love someone deeply and totally and they betray you, you might just lose it a bit. Or maybe even a lot. And if the damage is a busted car window, that's not the worst thing in the world. Go Elin. Fight for your man. Let him know that you won't put up with this shit.

Anyway, so when the news very officially broke and this Rachel Uchitel broad was suddenly forced into the spotlight, I studied her, too. Such a classic illustration of too much plastic surgery at too early an age. The telltale "bass lips" channeling Lisa Rinna (yikes, so scary, all puffed up like that) and, of course, the pulled cheeks and eyes. I mean, the girl's only 34. Ease into your age, don't scare it off with scalpels. Because you end up looking like everybody else who's done the same thing. A tribe of the Pulled Tight & Mighty. Not very hot. Her body, however, was smoking hot and, beyond all that plastic surgery, well, I could see what a typical guy would see. And, even more so, I used my active imagination and I imagined Tiger, oh-so-famous and oh-so-rich and maybe a teeny bit lonely and feeling a little randy out there in Vegas and ok, fine, he cheats with this sassy, plastic chick. Who's business is that but his and his family's? It's certainly not mine. And, by the way, at least the Uchitel woman is keeping her mouth shut and denying the whole thing. Who cares how much they're paying her and the reasons. Keep your mouth shut. I respect that.

And so, on the drive to work the following day, the radio chitchats endlessly about Tiger, Elin (who knew her name was pronounced "Eel-in," I always thought it was a stupid spelling of "Ellen"), his broken window, the embarrassment, yadda yadda yadda. And I start to actually feel kind of sorry for the guy. Sorry for him, his wife, their kids and anyone else close to them. And I really start to wish the media would just shut up about it. As one guy so astutely said on 104.1 The Monsters, "he's a great golfer, that's it. Why do people think he's a god or good at everything? He's just a great golfer. Period."

True that. It's just that we're so enamoured with celebrity and wealth in this culture that we expect the rich and the famous to be the ubermensch. We expect them to be better somehow, to be something we strive to be, that we'll perhaps model ourselves after or tell our children to be "more like."

And then the names of more of these women come spewing out like so much smelly garbage. And all seemingly cut from the same mold. Plasticky, cheap and with great bodies. But pretty forgettable overall. Clingy, climbing, slutty, and now throwing their trashy stories out there to get money and hurt people. I'm disgusted. Jamie Grubbs, you're a lil pig. Oink oink. And the Perkins waitress. If there was a "Come on Man" for this Tiger Woods spectacle, it'd be all these woman, and especially that one. The parking lot? And, excuse me while I laugh and throw up in my mouth a little, but she "fell in love with him" and yet he "was selfish and heartless"? How dumb are these women? Smart women learn in high school or college that men, all of them given a chance, will screw you if you let them. It's how things are wired. It's biology, baby. Sex ain't got nothin' to do with love.

So now this whole slutty debacle has become a statement of our age. The times we're living in. Plastic tramps. And the rich and famous. And everybody looking to cash in. It's foul and appalling. I do think Tiger has to get his shit together, if he can at all. But maybe he's destined to be just another rich "whale" with a big sex drive, fucking plastic whores until he dies just like Wilt Chamberlain. I met Wilt Chamberlain once. He was sweaty and old and he hit on me. He died not long after that. But I remember that disdain in his face as much as his desire, that I was just one more. I was just another possible body he could fill, and he was just like an addict seeking a fix.

Tiger = Wilt someday? Yuck. That's just gross.

I hope that Elin packs the kids and goes someplace for a good, long while.

You're right, it's none of my business. None at all. I wish this had never been broadcast to these masses. There are entirely too many people making too much money off this thing. And too many people humiliating themselves (plastic girls, you make us all look bad and stupid. So stupid).

You fuck a guy who's insanely rich, married to a beautiful woman, with two beautiful kids and expect him to what? Love you?

It's so much more than embarrassing.

It's sad.

just some thoughts i'm not keeping to myself

Keep your opinions to yourself. That is, if I don't agree with them.
If I do agree with them, well then, by all means, please share.

This is what Scott told me I do. That my so-called open-mindedness is, actually, its own form of narrow-mindedness. Of course, I don't agree.

I was raised in the cold North by, let's call them "conservatively liberal" people. As I recall in the late 80s as a teenager carving out her own pale, yet distinct, identity, as a family: We weren't big on religion. We were big on Reagan. We weren't big on homosexuality.

Flash forward twenty years and what are we now? As a family: Still not big on religion (keep that to yourself, please). Former Republicans, we're still not into big government (again, religion, please, to yourself) but we are big on rights. We are very big on homosexuality.

Interesting. It's what touches us so personally that ultimately defines us.

So while we had some Wild Wacky Wit and some Savannah Fest Bier at the Moon River Brewery in Savannah, GA this past weekend while watching Gators fans (there is no escape) passionately watching their god in blue and orange, Tim Tebow, who just surpassed Herschel Walker in rushing touchdowns this fall, we talked about these things. I hate Tim Tebow. OK, scratch that. I don't hate the guy. I don't even know him. But I find the fact that he promotes Biblical passages in his eye black just obnoxious as all hell.

Why Jess? How is that any different from you sporting an Obama/Biden sticker on the back of your car during last year's election?

Why am I offended by religion in my face---and evangelical crap on Tebow's face? I don't know, exactly. I just am. I find it as annoying as people who talk about blow jobs like they just had coffee, not respecting their sexuality as private in certain company. I find it as rude as the Prius-driving Northerners who, at times, shove their political beliefs in places they just don't belong. Like the workplace. Come on. Your boss is probably a Republican. All of mine have been. Every single one. From the Clinton era to now. If I agree with you, my job's at stake. If I don't, you wonder about me. Either way, I lose.

Leave well enough alone, I say.

But what of trying to change things? What of making an influence? What about that?

Good question.

How can I have just interacted cordially with people who had no problem---none whatsover---in declaring their blatant racial superiority? How can they assume I feel the same as they do? How can they be so FREE to say those things in front of me? Because I'm a white girl who has clearly had decent opportunities in this life?

Sometimes free speech is a little too free for me. The "self edit" button is missing on some people. Like Tim Tebow's eye black. And the reverse snobbery of the middle class (I'm better than you because I worked harder and came from less). I'm so confused. I just want to be free enough to be left alone. To not have to watch a football game and think about Jerry Falwell.

Sex. Politics. Religion.

Let's talk about something else.

Oh yeah, race. And education being the great equalizer. Sure, if you can get there. But what if you can't? What if you're stuck in the poverty cycle, you don't know anything else, and you don't know how to get out and even if you do get out, nobody wants you to. What then? Do the people with more opportunity get to look down on you?

Let's take a look at the ridiculously talented street performers we watched this past weekend.

There were four of them, three black, one white.

All the black guys clearly had:
Fast twitch muscle fibers.
An innate sense of rhythm.
Ownership of their manliness even though they danced.

The one white guy in the group (we called him "The Spider" because he was just so damn lanky and skinny) and while he had the courage to get out there and even demonstrate some impressive skill, to be sure, he was never going to be one of them.

White men can dance. But not like black men can. And why is it that a black man dancing is sexy and manly and a white one dancing is show-tuney and gay?

Shrugging my shoulders and just thinking my thoughts over here. Just asking. Looking for answers. Just chattering into the internets. The tubes. Asking for your thoughts back. Asking see? Not avoiding your in-our-faceness. Let's chat. Don't dictate. Not to me, please.

It's good to question things, mostly. Isn't it? That's how I see it. Keep asking. Keep observing. Keep questioning. I don't know what else to do. It's not that I'm afraid to stand for something (I know I won't "fall for anything"), it's just that I'm afraid of those who do that. I'm thinking maybe they just haven't thought it through enough.

How can you be so sure? Tim Tebow, are you sure? There's a god? Really? How do you know? Or are you just some guy who's a good athlete? That's a lot of biology right there. Or did God do it? Hmm. Maybe we should consult the breed-happy Duggars.

Are you there God? It's me, Jess.

I still like my Buddha, my gargoyles, my dirt.

But what do I know?

At least I know I don't know.

an old memory

Andover, New Hampshire.
Spring 1986.

We were waiting for an important assembly to begin. I sat outside with a bunch of other students, but really I was all by myself. For some reason, a tall senior—whose name I’ve forgotten now, who, for whatever reason that afternoon was not with his large circle of friends—sat beside me. He seemed very much alone, albeit, of course, very temporarily so. He was tall, very tall, very self-assured, and very handsome. He played all the important sports and I’d seen him many times, sweaty, covered in grass stains and dirt, weighed down with shoulder pads, kneepads, and helmets tromping back and forth with all the other boys from the field house to the dining hall. He was six-four or so with this jet-black hair and these huge blue eyes and sharply defined calves that weren’t too hairy. Too hairy was creepy to me back then. But he had the perfect ratio of bone and muscle to hair. And this was a very acceptable thing for a fourteen-year-old girl.

It was hard not to be mesmerized by athletes. I’d been watching boys kick soccer balls and dunk baskets since grade school and I could close my eyes and imagine their jaw lines, their hands, and sarcastic gestures, too. I was so in love with the idea of boys. It was beyond my own comprehension at the time. Their vast difference from me in all my self-conscious shyness and awkwardness made me impossibly curious and awestruck at their confidence. All their energy and athletic power and ability to work out math problems on the chalkboard in front of an entire class while exhibiting seeming nonchalance no matter what was so much of what I longed to be, too. I couldn’t imagine how free that would feel.

The handsome senior beside me was a tall, thin, sexy version of John Travolta. Of Italian or Persian heritage perhaps, something altogether dark and alluring amid a sea of fair-haired Connecticut wasps. Yet he fit in. He fit in and stood out at the same time. He was always polite and yet, to me, intimidating. So there I was seated next to him on this quiet spring day, age 14, horribly shy and insecure, with braces and unruly hair. And there he was: 18, graceful, muscular, broad-shouldered, and confident without a care in the world. I couldn’t think. I just felt silly and out of breath.

He small-talked with me for a few minutes, wondering when the assembly would start, what was the hold up, had I seen Coach Johnson, things of that nature. I just quietly replied, smiled, and minded my business. But, he didn’t want that. He wanted to talk. To me.

Before he said what he said, a thing I’ve never forgotten, in the hot sun that was boring a hole in my navy blue sweater in the late afternoon, both of us perched on the uncomfortable concrete walkway, I looked at how his face looked. It was so close to mine and I wondered what it might be for someone like him to want someone like me. He turned to speak to me and I was caught in his dark blue eyes framed by this enormous fringe of lashes.
He said, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but----“
---- he paused and looked at me in a way that felt like someone looking right through me,
“You’re not quite beautiful now—but someday—you are going to be stunning.”

I felt my face get hot and then impossibly scorching. I smiled, faintly, looked down at my knees, wanted to disappear into the concrete walkway or jump into his arms or just shout out with some unrestrained happiness. I looked back into his face, into those huge eyes of his, not knowing what to say. But I didn’t have to speak. He looked away momentarily and then right back at me, “Really. You will be.” And then his face broke into a big, genuine smile. Like giving me some sort of honest, out of the blue gift. Like a prophet telling your future in no uncertain terms. Like somebody looking into a crystal ball. And holding it in their big, boyishly calloused, sexy hands.

And as ugly and awkward as I felt at that moment, as impossibly shy and young, I believed him.

Not long after he said this, somebody shouted something about assembly beginning and we all marched into the hall. I caught up with somebody I knew from one of my classes and he disappeared off into his crowd of friends. We never spoke again.

howling at the moon

wolves howl at the moon. we, however, fill up hospital delivery rooms, commit petty crimes, toss and turn, and, generally, behave strangely. Cynics and logical, rational people may call me crazy for associating the cycles of the moon with any human behavior (Scott you know if I say the word "energy" one more time you'll do something rash) but, please, consider for a moment that if that same moon overhead can control the tides of the ocean, why wouldn't we, made so much of water, not also be similarly moved?

The weekend began on a high note. We'd just celebrated my birthday over dinner at the Ravenous Pig. Whisper-thin proscuitto. Sashimi tuna over warm mushrooms, an odd-sounding pairing that was, in fact, divine. Steak frites medium rare. Long, thin, perfectly crispy fries cooked in truffle oil and served in a pint glass. The heavenliest pig they should call it. We never overeat there so "ravenous" is not the word for us. It's more about this gentle, yet sensual, flavor rapture (that's as religious as I get). And the only heavy thing is really their privately brewed, in perfect small batches, chocolately dark porter.

Later, at home, he sang to me "Happy Birthday dear Pumpkiny, Happy Birthday to you" and then, melting into a bit of emotional sap and Publix cupcake, wrapped me in his arms tight and sang "Happy Birthday Jess" before I blew out my solitary candle and made three wishes into one big one. I am convinced if I make my wish by blending it into one run-on sentence of requests that all will be granted. The wishes I made when we were apart---at any given opportunity to make a wish: eyelash, penny in fountain, necklace clasp touching pendant, another eyelash---those wishes I made about him, and about us, well, they all came true. So like the moon, wishes have some merit for me. Making them. Believing in them.

We went to a party way, way inconveniently far from home which is not something we do. We tend to stick to our stomping grounds, probably out of laziness and also because we don't need to go anywhere special to have a good time. It's usually the same places, or home, out back, a couple of beers and some meat on the grill, just us. But we went to the party to say happy birthday to my friend who shares the same birthday as I do. We got there and felt this disjointed feeling of who's that? Do I even want to talk to that person? Why are we here? How long do we have to stay in order to not be rude? My friend was tired and even she didn't seem to be in a party mood. We really didn't know anyone so at this point in the evening, oh about 8:45pm, we planted ourselves in the kitchen and snuck in kisses by the sink and, like partners in crime, agreed an hour was good enough and then maybe we'd hit Scruffy's for a beer on the way home.

By the time we left at 1:15am, we had found ourselves enjoying the evening far more than we ever could have imagined. Why is it always the simplest times, the ones standing around someone's well-lit kitchen over beers and a little too much headachy red wine, that you meet the best people? Well, this one was of those nights. A pleasant surprise. Our polite hour had turned, happily, into our entire evening. Where did the time go? It didn't matter. And we went home and fell into bed, glad we'd made the trek out of our way only to meet others who'd made the same journey. So refreshing and needed, really. People of high-intelligence, wit, music, car enthusiasm, religion and political similiarities. It can get so wearying to conceal my true feelings around so many of the people I meet who assume I'm a church-goer. You go ahead and spend your Sunday wearing that and listening to that. I'd rather get outside, dig in the dirt, mow the weeds (there is no lawn, sadly, just green weeds), trim the hedge (there is a nice hedge which flanks the driveway nicely, though). I'd rather be out there connecting with the Earth than thinking about connecting with some religious figure. You do your thing, I'll do mine and we'll all be happy. I think, maybe, where I'm from, that people just don't talk about their religion or their church-going like they do here. They're more private about it or something. I'm not sure. I haven't figured that out yet. I like it being private. And if my spirituality is digging in the dirt, let me be. I also honor my little Buddha in my kitchen who I've put above eye-level (Scott's too) so he can guard over us. We also have a winged gargoyle in the front of the house warding off danger. Dirt. Buddhas. Gargoyles. It works for me.

Halloween, I dressed as a roughed up, black-eye, bruises, bloodied dress and bloody hand print on my chest, girl in an off white slip dress. A tad old to be a prom queen, I was still going for "Carrie." For one really weird moment (yet even weirder that it didn't upset me or seem improbable) I pondered whether Publix would sell me a bucket of blood so I could pour it over my head for full on Stephen King authenticity. We went to a neighbor's party. It was a crappy humid and soggy time of bad keg beer, a luge and all around douche baggery where a guy I kinda-sorta-not-really dated was a real condescending creep to Scott. We hightailed it outta there fast. And ended up having one of those overly emotional nights of needless drama and questioning. It was good we weren't really drinking. I swear it was that damn moon. We ended up curled up on the bed in the half-light (of that damn moon) both saying we'd never wanted to give this much to anyone or work this hard for a relationship. I will say, of one night out of five months since we've been back together, a little moon-induced drama on Halloween night was really not that big of a deal.

Yesterday, we got a flat screen TV. A 42-inch Samsung plasma which, to our welcome and joyous surprise, was marked suddenly down to $593 at Best Buy. We tossed it in the back of my car, securing the boot down with an Ipod wire and crawled home on Colonial. What a difference a day makes. The moon behind us, the Bears in our midst in crystal-clear, mind-numbingly (did we get it too big do you think?) jaw-droppingly (is this too many adjectives?) perfect vision. I commented on fingernail length. "You'd never see that on the 27-inch Sony tube TV." Really! Wow. What a fun day. We decided we'd make roast chicken, with red skin and roasted red pepper mashed potatoes and broccoli for dinner and just have a nice easy night in together. I decided to go out for a quick run to get some oxygen in my blood and some endorphins pumping. Just a short run, that's all. Scott said "just run a mile and come back."

I wish I had. My new Saucony Pro Grids that were my most-wanted birthday gift last week make running into a marshmallow ease of delightful whip-stepping. It could be a lot in my head but there's a lotta cushioning in there and that makes the pavement-pounding ever so palatable. I ran to Lake Eola, around just once and back again. Probably no more than 3 miles. As I made my way back down Livingston, I passed people on their porches and attarctive women walking their pooches. I felt reasonably safe listening to my iPod and ready to be home. At this last stretch of my short run, I saw walking my way a man, a rather tall black one. He was wearing a red hoodie and dark jeans, appeared to be in his 20s. My first instinct was to run to the other side of the street but something stopped me. That's racist, Jess, don't think that way. Just keep running.

The quietness of that block on that street. That man walking slowly, me running. It wasn't about him being black. No. It was all about him being a man. Why didn't I just cross that street? I was more concerned with offending a stranger than with my own feelings of security. When I don't listen to my instincts, I always wonder why I didn't. Because, 99% of the time, my gut is dead on.

All I can say is, I knew what he was going to do before he did it.

I just knew.

As I ran past, he whipped out his junk and just stood there waiting for me to react.

When I saw that, I ran faster than I've ever run in my life to the light at Mills. But he just ambled on. And what would my running fast have done anyway? If he'd wanted to hurt me, he could have. Easily. I would have been no match for him.

Today all I can think is: why does it have to be so hard to be a woman? Why can't I run on the streets of my own neighborhood and feel safe? It wasn't dark. There were people around. But maybe not enough people. And today I feel angry at myself for not crossing that street. And today I am relieved, so grateful and relieved, that nothing else happened, that I wasn't hurt.

And today I feel scared and vulnerable and afraid to run outside anymore.

When I got to Mills, in the safety of traffic lights and activity and other runners, running obliviously by, happily immersed in their iPod mixes, I felt like I wanted to vomit or cry, or both. I ran across the street to the YMCA and asked the girl at the front desk to call the police. Which she did. I asked them to get out and drive down Livingston, see if they could find this guy. I left my name and number and had the Wellness Director walk me to safety because, at this point, it was dark out. When I got home, I told my boyfriend who was busy making delicious roast chicken and mashed potatoes and enjoying the early evening. He kept asking me if I was alright.

You okay baby?

Yeah.

The police called me back about a half hour later. Everybody downtown was "busy" so they dispatched a guy from Pine Hills. Of course they didn't find him. Of course the flasher on Livingston was long gone by then. Where are the police when you need them? Where are they when you need them to go catch a creep?

Full moon. Howling at it. Tides turning. Watch your back. So much goodness in the world. So much creepiness, too. Protect. Find protection. Be safe. I want not to worry but I can't help it now.

braindrizzle (storm center)

When you want a storm but can't dredge one up, settle for a light drizzle. It's less messy. Less interesting, to be sure, but less messy.

Sometime you just have to putter around on the Internet looking up silly things until it starts raining a little harder in the brain area. It's the only thing you can really do indoors in a 6x8 gray cubicle---four cubicles back from the window and far too near the traffic coordinator who bangs so angrily on the stapler. So angrily.

I long to wander through fields of daffodils (or a Prius commercial of people-flowers) and think up great things. But that's not happening today. I hate the pants I'm wearing. I feel like someone else. Stapler girl, please. Please. For the love of god. Cut off that mousy frizz Crystal Gayle hair of yours. This is not Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and milking duties before dawn. OK?

I still haven't adjusted to the idea that while I was allowed to wear jeans every day for the past 8 years, this year it's back to 1992. And, for this reason, of course I don't have the right pants. These pants I'm wearing today I bought at a Banana Republic outlet mall in 2005 somewhere near Miami. They are a size 2. But the size is very much like "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants." These pants, well-traveled as they also are, are what I refer to as my "magic pants." I have a second pair, also Banana Republic, also size 2, that I purchased full-price in Boston in 2006. They also are magic pants because, well, when I am 122 lbs they fit. When I am 137 lbs they fit. When I am 131lbs, as I am now, they fit. They always fit. They fit a bit differently in places but they never create a muffin top, camel toe, pull or bunch. They just...magically....fit. Weird, isn't it?

I hate them anyway.

I hate them today because they are not the Anthropologie pants I really, truly want.

Sigh.

Brain.

Drizzle.

Storm watch.

Clouds brewing.

Clouds in my coffee.

Not much in my head.

Sigh a little more.

My name is Jessica Gwinn and today I discovered, accidentally on purpose, that:



Top 5 Facts for this Name:
33% of the letters are vowels. Of one million first and last names we looked at, 60.6% have a higher vowel make-up. This means you are averagely envoweled.

In ASCII binary it is... 01001010 01100101 01110011 01110011 01101001 01100011 01100001 00100000 01000111 01110111 01101001 01101110 01101110

Backwards, it is Acissej Nniwg... nice ring to it, huh?
In Pig Latin, it is Essicajay Inngway.

People with this first name are probably: Female. So, you are constantly overcharged for beauty products.

Name Origin and Meaning:
Origin: Hebrew
Meaning: God's Grace


3 Things You Didn't Know:
1. Your personal power animal is the Nine-Banded Armadillo

2. Your 'Numerology' number is 7. If it wasn't bulls**t, it would mean that you are spiritual, eccentric, and a bit of a loner. Introspective and analytical, you think deeply and prefer seclusion.

3. According to the US Census Bureau°, 0.49% of US residents have the first name 'Jessica' and 0.0019% have the surname 'Gwinn'. The US has around 300 million residents, so we guesstimate there are 28 Americans who go by the name 'Jessica Gwinn'.

27 other people may share my name.

But they will never, ever, ever share my braindrizzle. Soon to be shower. Soon to be downpour. Soon to be tip-toeing through those tulips I mentioned above. Creating glory and madness. Beauty and mayhem.

Good day all. May your brains storm and, if not, may they, at least, drizzle just a little.

the skinny on this

Last week's The New York Times Magazine (Sunday, October 11, 2009) had a fascinating article on the subject of calorie restriction and health:



And while I've been a "Calorie Restriction Society" (CSR) member since 2003, I am not an active participant now---even though I promote it. Because I do believe in it. I suppose, in my case, I believe in wings and pizza a bit more. (That's a joke, alright, with some sweet, smiley truth in it). The thing about me is that I like balance and variety. That being said, I possess a naturally ascetic nature and a willpower (some call it stubbornness) that has allowed me, at various times in my life, to restrict myself in this, some say "extreme," fashion. As for me, I wouldn't call it extreme. I would call it focused. And I would call it, when done properly, very healthy. After all, that's the goal right? Abating disease and lengthening life? Well, it works on the monkeys and it also is working on us.

I will say that when I have been my thinnest, I have, in many ways, felt my best. As the calorie restriction experiments have shown, when the overall body weight is lower, the body is made of less mass and therefore uses less energy. This conservation of energy allows the body to function more quickly and accurately, allowing normal physical processes, as well as brain processes, to, quite simply, work better. While I feel amazing when I am this thin because my body works better (as for digestion, I burn what I eat more quickly and efficiently and have, overall, greater energy and a greater ability to calm, as well. And one cool thing: I hardly ever, ever fart when I'm really thin---think about THAT people!) Unfortunately, my personal thinness usually evokes responses from friends and loved ones that is not so positive and is more care and concern-based. I think this is because I have a narrow face and (as my boyfriend so affectionately calls it) a "bean sprout head." These physical characteristics make my actual body weight appear more gaunt than it might on someone with a rounder face, perhaps. But I am, once again, digressing.

I am writing this post because I am passionate about this topic. I have watched one too many "Two Ton Teen" and "650 Pound Man" shows on Discovery Health for my personal liking. Is it wrong that I am offended, saddened, disgusted, bewildered and angry? All it makes me wonder is: what, as a culture, are we doing to ourselves? Why are we fascinated with this suicidal approach to nutrition exemplified in these sad, all-too-often molested and abused, people who reach for food in an attempt to "drown" themselves in their own bodies and, ironically, to disappear?

A sad thought that most of won't even acknowledge: aren't morbidly obese people, in a sense, "invisible" to most of us? Their overly-fat bodies hide their features and mar their shape to the point where they become distantly recognizable as the normal-weight people they may once have been. Even if we don't want to admit it, don't we dread the fat person coming down the narrow airplane aisle on a Southwest flight: man, I hope I don't get stuck next to that fatty. Why are we, as a culture, sitting back and letting these people kill themselves with heaps of non-nutritious, fatty, calories-laden foods? Why are we just sitting there watching television shows about them?

If, as the spiritualists say, we are "all related" well then aren't we "all sick"?

Why is it so second-nature to me to eat healthily? Why do I crave broccoli over ice cream nine times out of ten? Why do I feel compelled to have grapes and almonds and beets and carrots and raspberries and fresh green beans when so many others are inexplicably drawn to McDonald's latest gluttonous offering? I'm no saint. I'll be the first to admit that every so often I crave Chick Fil-A chicken strips with the Polynesian sauce, a little bucket of salted waffle fries and a large Dr. Pepper. But I also do this only a few times in a YEAR. I do not eat Chick Fil-A every day, or every weekend. To me, that would just be....wrong. It wouldn't feel...right. To me.

But I'm lucky. I have a reasonably high IQ, I was raised by a diligent, health-conscious mother whose buying and consumption habits I've clearly inherited, and I was not molested as a child. I am lucky.

But what of this world we live in? Seems like some of us are not so lucky. Studies are predicting that obese children today will not outlive their parents. Children not outliving their parents? What, indeed, is the world coming to?

I say we all take a deeper look at the simplicity of calorie restriction----not as a diet but as a new consciousness. Just take a look at it. At the premise at least. It makes a lot of sense. And for those of us not in the death-grip of food addiction, let's eat a little less. And while we're at it, let's talk a little more. About what the hell we're gonna do to get healthier.

Because, whether you're spiritual or not, if we allow this obesity epidemic to continue to flourish as it already is everywhere we turn, clearly we are all sick. Very, very sick.

My Bio

A few things about me.  Here goes.

I...

Believe in love at first kiss.

Focus so hard sometimes I won’t hear you talking to me.

Short attention-span.

At age 8: Iearned to ski.

Also at 8: taught myself to type on an IBM Selectric.

At 9: started my own newspaper.

At 16: learned to drive (in the snow).

First car was a brown 1980 Saab GLi.

Love a challenge and being told no.

Won’t take no for an answer.

Can’t relax for very long.

When I relax, I really relax.

Could watch “The Office” all day.

Justin Long appears to be a very good kisser.

In real life, I believe Kate Winslet and I would be fast friends.

Tendency to be indecisive.

Previously known as wildly impulsive.

Open-minded.

Judgemental.

Born enabler.

Born to run.

I worry about everyone. All the time.

I love peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches.

I cry every time I see that ASPCA ad with Sara McLachlan.

Have a small ass and a big mouth.

Restless with myself.

Patient with you.

Thick skinned at work.

Sensitive in my personal life.

Take things literally.

Don’t hold grudges.

Love mysteries.

Am madly in love with my boyfriend.

Am madly in love with my Himalayan cat, Smashface.

Grew up in a tiny New England village.

Got a little smarter at a tiny college 30 miles outside of Chicago.

Got really smart living in a 1979 Cadillac Coupe de Ville in Malibu one winter.

Smartened up and left that guy.

And that guy.

And that husband.

Learned to write while writing short stories for my little brother.

Wrote my first screenplay at NYU when I was 24.

Still tie my shoes wrong.

Still type wrong.

Still ski. But it's been a while.

Wonder if I’ll ever have kids.

Think I’d be a great mom.

Often think the best word is the first one.

Don’t believe in having the last word.

there's always another side to it

For the past few months I've been immersed in babyland. Diapers. Formula. Nursery water. I know, right? Nursery water? What's that? It's super-purified, hyper-clean water for babies. How come everyday peeps don't get this? I don't know. I haven't asked. I continue to refill my aluminum water bottle (so as to avoid any estrogen-like-hormone long-term side effects said to be linked to drinking from plastic water bottles).

Anyway, so yes: babyland. (It's not called that but that's how it feels).

For Publix, I've been promoting the features and benefits of diapers (supersoft, stretchy, new and improved leakage, that kind of thing) and, perhaps most important, their low cost (just as affordable as Wal-Mart and Target, thank you). Along with this, I've been dishing up spoonfuls of applesauce and peas. And featuring stock photography of happy babies covered in pudding and other messy food items. Ooh, that reminds me: wipes. Those, too.

Appealing to the "Gen Yers" is the goal. Wow, I know. They seem awfully young to me. My brother, age 24, a Gen Yer. But after some Wikipediaing, I discovered that my own boyfriend could very well be, and likely is, a Gen Yer as well. He does, sort of, kind of, (I'm sure I could make a convincing argument thereof), somewhat straddle that fine generational line. And truth be told, okay, I've never identified with the generation so not affectionately deemed X. But I do like Pearl Jam. And I do appreciate what Larry and Sergey have done for making information so readily available to us all. And while I share the exact same birthday as Winona Ryder, I also identified almost completely with her character in "Reality Bites" (minus the "doily-style" dress and the bralessness). I would also use toilet paper as a coffee filter. Without question. But I just don't feel as mature and/or responsible as my fellow Xers. And certainly not as jaded.

I digress. per usual.

OK, so my interest was piqued today when, perusing other bloggers who are so much more keenly dialed in than I....(I do like to think I, at least occasionally, have my finger on the pulse. On the pulse of something other than my cat's incessant purr box. But maybe I don't).

Anyway, while I've been doing all this baby promoting and baby product promoting to a group of people who, in my opinion, should still be backpacking around Europe, having torrid and wild affairs (while practicing it safely, yes, of course) and drinking and smoking like I did until it's really, really uncool, meanwhile.....other, smart, inventive people have been telling the generation even younger than that one (the children having children group) to think about some shit first.

Literally.

Here's what I discovered during my blogging snooping. This gross (but, let's hope, effective) campaign to banish teenage pregnancy. This, apparently, 'Scratch 'n Sniff" concept they slapped on bus stops (click on the image to make it bigger):



I wonder who sniffed it. It's like your buddy declaring: dude, that fart reeks, smell it. (I have had many guy friends, not to mention I am the only girl in a family of four boys). Or when you try something god-awful out of a can/bottle/tube/microwaveable entree and say wow, that's bad, oh my god, taste it.

Why would you?

But you're curious.

Right?

Like Eddie Murphy said in Raw all those years ago (I'm dating myself now) that we all like to "rate" our farts. Let 'er rip and then let the rating begin.

Anyway, digression. Once more. Always.

But, really, as gross as this campaign is, maybe it'll work.

Will be interesting to see how this shit turns out.

thoughts on a thursday

YOUNG ME-NOW ME: Check out this link: http://colorwar2008.com/submissions/youngnow






So...................

I am frustrated with people lately.

Really frustrated.

Please can I rant a little? Forgive this. But I need to.

I posted that "young me-now me" link for fun but also because it reminds me that we were all young once. And some of us are still young---in hearts and minds. When we were young(er), we had goals, aspirations, maybe even dreams, right? So, did we achieve them? Are we still striving for them? And, if we achieved those goals, what are we going after next? If we didn't achieve them, why didn't we? And have we given up?

I've achieved a lot. I've also let a lot of (pipe) dreams go. Most of my "dreams" had something to do with delusions of grandeur anyway. Fame and the like. But, after living in LA for a few years, I realized that fame was not what I really wanted. Nor did I want to claw after it like a I'm-gay-but-acting-straight waiter at the Ivy. I just wanted a life. And so I made one for myself. And it felt pretty good. It was mine and it was simple.

Over the years, I've felt pride here and there for things I've accomplished. For making people genuinely say "Wow, that's good." Again, it's been mostly a here and there thing. Like a dog getting treats or something. That's because, for me, my work has been about feeling that I've tried my hardest, put some of my heart and personal sweat into it, so that when I go home at the end of the day I can say to myself, Jess, you tried. You didn't quit. You put effort in. You cared.

We all have our on days and our off ones. But on should be the sought-after days. And "striving to be on" should be our default setting. And so, now that I've realized that people are not all I think they are, that most are, in fact, pretty damn average, well, I try even harder. I want to stand out even more. I want my work to count. I want what I do all day long to make somebody smile or think or question something in their life. It doesn't have to change the world. Maybe someday I can do something more important. For now, I just want to be good at what I do.

It infuriates me to work with people who are so....uninspired. So....alright with having more off days than on. So...lazy. So....used to not having to try. Fact is, I've lived in fear most of my working life. So have many of my friends. Of being laid off. Fired. Replaced by the more ambitious junior person. (Actually, I've never been afraid of that last thing because if you compete with me, I will only be that much better. I have a kill instinct. Mess with it. It only makes me kill.) Actually, what I've genuinely feared is being thrown under the bus. Which has happened to me. Because I'm more concerned with doing good work than with politics. That's my weakness. Working. Politics are irritating and in my way. Unfortunately, they matter way too much sometimes.

But this isn't about politics. This is about work. This rant of mine. Work. Why are some people so seemingly allergic to it? Why are they fine with being so average?

What I really want to know is this: what does it take to make changes? What does it take to make someone do better work? I've heard that managers struggle with this question. This is one of their biggest obstacles: how do I motivate my people? Good question. I'm not a manager. If I were, I'd probably fire the dead wood and start fresh. But that's because I'd want to assemble the best possible team I could, a team that's fired up and ready to work hard, put in the time, make things better, shake things up. I'd want to just divorce myself from the no-talent bums who show up day after day doing schlock and calling it work. And going home early. I'd just send them packing. In this economy, they should be scared. But, shockingly, they're not. They're complacent. "I've been here a long time, they won't fire me." And, to boot, they complain!

Eye-opening. This life. Always so eye-opening. It never fails to surprise me the way it all really works. The way it all goes down. In my idealistic viewpoint, I've always wanted to change things. Always and forever. Make it better. Teach me to be better. Learn from me how to be better. Let's all work together and do our best. Why else do we come here every freaking day and spend most of our lives here? Why?!?!

Thanks for listening.

May you root our your young selves, unearth your lost dreamer. Be your best. Every single ever-loving day you get to breathe and eat and shit and avoid dying on this spinning ball we call earth. Get up and do something with your f****ng day!

What else are you doing people? Really, I'd love to know.

Rant over.

Signing off.

copywriter: best drunk?

Stereotypes and cliches are stereotypes and cliches for a reason. To be honest, I've been a horrible stereotype. A boring cliche. In many of my so-called unique experiences and adventures, I'd love to claim complete innovation and awe-inspiring individuality. But, no I'm just a muddied variation, yet another perfect mold made from the original. But I am, at the tender (and, ok, slightly chewy) age of 37, really alright with that.

When it comes to my writing, though, I have never claimed that booze or pot or any other substance makes me better. In fact, I know (for a fact) it makes me worse. A few Stellas with a French Onion soup at Sam Snead's or two, three (who's counting?) large hot sakes at lunch might make me a bit saucier, seemingly happier, and certainly more garrulous and amusing (if only to myself). But, in the grand scheme of things, I am not a better writer with a pint of beer, a martini or any other boozey concotion in my hand. But I've known a few who might be. I won't name names. I just know their brilliance shines through with this in their system. I don't look down upon them for this.

Au contraire.

The thing is, with the few I've known, they are hideously corny and cliched without it! So please, pour them another. And one more for good measure. Without their imbibing, well, the world of advertising is a dull, dull, (and rather cheesey) place. A place where clients nod in merriment and buy their bad work. And it's more than a sad state of affairs when this happens. As we all know (ahem, drinkability) it is the norm rather than the exception.

As for me, well, I'm just a writer. If anyone thinks being a writer (other than the lucky few Carrie on Sex & The City columnists none of us know in real life) is, at all, glamorous, think again. A real writer is a dork. A wordsmith. A little pun-ready geek. I know, I know. We must not use puns. Write it a thousand times across the chalkboard of your copywriter brain. See it living there
"I will not write puns and pretend they are headlines. I will not write puns and pretend they are headlines."
But see if you can live there. That's the copywriter's challenge.

I don't think Augusten Burroughs was the lunch-drinking copywriter who needed the booze to make him great. I think (and no, I don't know exactly what work is his, only that I respect his writing and assume he's telling the truth and all that)...I think he is probably one of the rare few (and yes, it's rare, at best) who is likely a good writer no matter what he's drinking, smoking or ingesting to alter his brain. He's just probably a rare breed. Most of us are either good when sober and not good when inebriated, or bad when sober and only good when plowed.

I'm the former. It sucks. But when I do, finally, have my drink (and that's all I have, mind you), well, I like to think I've somehow earned it.

For those who are best when hammered, well, they get to celebrate all day. Lucky bastards.

a few of my favorite things

it doesn't take a dog bite or a bee sting to make me think of these things. i think of them all the time.

an update: a few of my favorite things were mentioned, or rather, merely glossed over in my previous post about, ahem, jealousy. i've since come to terms with my savage, nearly flatulent, rabid beast. i've flogged him into submission. he likes it. he's not just resting. he's begging for more pain. so i deliver routine whippings, as needed, to silence him. and so, for now, my latest bout with jealousy is contained.

but what a lot of strength it can take to tame it. but, ah, as i well know: strength becomes me.

and so does...for lack of a better word: FASHION.

i prefer my fashion as an art form. and i believe it is one of the highest art forms we know. after all, what other art form can we not only view but touch and, most truly and completely, immerse ourselves in?

unlike so many others, when i saw "when the devil wears prada" i never viewed meryl streep's character, miranda, as a witch (as she is meant, albeit lovingly, to be portrayed). rather, i recognized the need for her fierce defense of a thing so lovely as bodily adornment. how true she was when she dissected that hideous blue j.crew knockoff sweater her assistant wore:

"You think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select out, oh I don't know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you're trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don't know is that that sweater is not just blue, it's not turquoise, it's not lapis, it's actually cerulean. You're also blindly unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar De La Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves St Laurent, wasn't it, who showed cerulean military jackets? And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of 8 different designers. Then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic casual corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of a clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and so it's sort of comical how you think that you've made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you're wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room.

i may have clapped out loud in the theater. thankfully, i sat next to a fashionista herself, transplanted from new york city to western massachusetts where we both worked in a small advertising shop, missing terribly our....well....our art. that need to express ourselves creatively through...for lack of a better word: fashion.

anyway, this is just a blog to blog. i'm about to head north for a vacation and i was craving sharing some of my favorite things...with the select few (whoever you are other than my mom, my cousin, and a friend or two) who actually bothers to read my various rants.

So...here are some things from the past season...and some things from earlier seasons....you know you're in a recession when Marni is on sale so quickly. sigh. sad. unfair. they should put some of that god-awful (yes this is a judgement, sue me) crap they call "art" on sale down in chelsea in new york. paintings that have no right to hang anywhere but in a filthy gas station lavatory. i mean, hold a sidewalk sale for some of that utter junk. relieve the world of its misfortune. let it die in peace and away from our viewing. but i digress.

onto happier thoughts, grander musings, and the loftiest of all inspirations. for you. for all of us. go on and adorn yourself beautifully. you owe it to yourself. and to those around you. consider what you wear a gift not just for you---but for those with whom you grace your presence. and, please, a request: for those of you who don't know the difference between fashion labels and fashion as art, please, please, please, try, at least try, to get some kind of education.

and thank you, to those that do "get it." for the rest of us, please, continue to walk tall, carry a big handbag (or not) and be proud of the art you so carefully choose to share with the world.

your body: a canvas.

your question: what masterpeice shall it be today?

Jealousy: the Beast

The lowest emotion known to man. Primitive. Basic. Horrific. You know the one: jealousy.

In my case, my jealousy is mostly over money equaling freedom----in other words, one's ability to have free, quality time resulting in a more attractive, easier (seeming) life. As in: I am prone to small pangs of benign, rather silly jealousy over women with perfectly sculpted bodies who have achieved this state from high-priced, at-their-beck-and-call personal trainers. And women who have the means to buy clothing that isn't just fashion but is, instead, art. And I positively loathe the women who don't know the difference. So it's jealousy intermixed with a snobbish voice that will not silence: you have the means but not the essential discerning taste. I think this is all just unfair.

And then there's the ugly green monster that dwells in the sexual realm. The jealous demon that emerges when your lover betrays you and chooses the company of another over you. Often you see the chosen one and you think: Her? Really? Oh come ON. You can't be choosing HER over ME?!?! Of course, it usually has little to do with you. There's usually no comparison, it's something else entirely, like, for example, you weren't emotionally available. This has actually been studied, surveyed and well-documented. There are men who cheat because that's what they do, sure. But most men, according to all that convincing data, cheat because they are emotionally dissatisfied. Anyway, betrayal sucks. And it results in: that feeling. That awful feeling: jealousy.

Worst of all is when you ruminate over the act itself: what did he do with her that he doesn't---or didn't---do with me? Or, perhaps worse: did he do it exactly the same? Caress her face like he does mine? Kiss her softly and tell her sweet things? Ugh. And then: was her body better than mine? Her boobs perkier?

But all jealousy does is awaken (and shake violently) that primitive beast within. And once the beast is loose, ooh boy, watch out. It's been ripped from its quiet, subduded slumber only to burst nearly out of your skin with a life all its own. Interestingly, it speaks through your mouth, too. It says horrible things, does horrible things, thinks horrible things. And despite its low intelligence, it manages to conjure up vivid images and situations, play by play scenarios, and near video-quality mini films.

This beast is quite a spectacle of imagination.

Today, I am bashing him in the head with small, bite-size Butterfinger candies while attempting to quell his maddening thoughts with more peaceful ones like:
happy hour with the girls in a few hours, yeah? sound good? followed by a nice dinner date with your true love?
The beast looks momentarily happy, almost contented at this news, grunts up at me... then, just as quickly, the mood turns and he stomps his feet and frowns, makes an awful noise akin to stomach rumblings of the I've-had-too-many-beans variety and thinks almost audibly: but your true love is the one who bed down with a stranger and all you can do is picture that dimly lit room (candles burning perhaps?) and what her perfume must have smelled like and her shampoo and what did he say to her and how did he manage to forget you....

OK beast, if Butterfingers won't cut it, I'm resorting to rum in a few hours. Mojitos?

And---as if channeling sweet, easygoing cookie monster---he alertly grunts a high-pitched approval.

For now, he rests.

Stay tuned.

When You’re Dumped (Even Though You Dumped Them First And Wanted Them Back They Said No Thanks).

I wrote this a while ago. And things have changed (a lot) since I wrote this.
But I think the feelings are pretty universal.
And, in retrospect, pretty funny.

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When You’re Dumped (Even Though You Dumped Them First And Wanted Them Back They Said No Thanks).


Hate’s a funny thing. Not so much the opposite of Love, really. It’s more like Love’s insanely jealous twin. Love’s prettier and more easygoing. Hate is not so pretty and really pissed off that Love gets it so good. Thing is, nobody realizes that Love always has a twin. Sometimes the twin is hiding behind its sibling. You leave the room. Hate walks in, tells Love to get the hell out. You walk back in, it looks like Love. But it’s not. It’s Love’s bitch sister. Love always has a twin. You just have to know it’s there and send it packing like a 3-day-or-you’re-gonna-stink houseguest. Otherwise, well, it bashes Love’s head into a splattery, Charles Manson mess.

I know this because it just happened to me. I had no idea that Love could be such a wimp. It’s like come on, Love, get it together. Tell Hate to get the hell out. Nope. Sometimes Love is just not that strong.

When we met, I thought I’d met The One. We all know this feeling. The One. Ooh, The One. It’s so amazing.

Like that comedian says: you like pizza? Oh my god, me tooooo! Wow, we BOTH like PIZZA. What are the chances?!

My therapist calls it mirroring. You look at this person and you see yourself. Yippee. Yay me. There I am. Looking back at me the way I’ve always wanted someone to look back at me. Yeah, it feels pretty good. What a bunch of narcissist crap, though, right? I mean, who are we fooling? We just want to be loved. We want to be ok. We want that validation in the world.

But is there even such a thing as Love? I mean, really?

OK, I actually think there is. Unfortunately, I never discover it until it’s too late. And it’s walked out the door. And I’m running after it shouting: But wait! I’ll do it better this time! I won’t take you for granted anymore! I’ll be a better girlfriend.

But Love goes. And then I spend all this crazy time losing weight and drinking too much and trying to fill in time with meaningless time-filling activities like, um, drinking too much and not eating enough.

And doing other, really humiliating stuff that just tortures and prolongs the thing. Such as:

1. Re-reading their letters and cards and notes, even the crumpled ones, scribbled on scrap paper that say “Lovenugget, I’ve gone out for a run, be back soon. I love you, R.” (Yes, I know: Lovenugget. Don’t give me grief over it. I didn’t make it up. Actually, I wondered if maybe he called all his girlfriends that. Now I’m getting annoyed.)

2. Googling their name a thousand times even though you find nothing new. And Googling their name twenty more times beyond that wondering if they have another identity and going a little crazy obsessing over who they might be dating.

3. Repeatedly listening to saved voice mail messages where they say “I love you” in this way that sounds really convincing. And continuing to save these messages (even thought they’re about to expire) because this spoken tidbit of declared love is something you can listen to again later and savor the sound of their voice. And that whole “I love you” thing that just sounds so…. convincing.

4. Locking text messages they sent so you can save them, too, while searching for meaning in something like: “Thanks, it was good seeing you too.” In other words, something you might say to your brother after a weekend visit.

I mean, COME ON. Is there Love to be discovered in a text message? Can you conjure it back up by listening to a saved voice mail?

But really, the question is: how can you have what looks like Love right in front of you for a year and just ignore it, tell it it’s in the way of the TV, can it move please, in the midst of your little pity party about the stupid job you lost (that you hated and deep-down wanted to quit anyway) while they’re doing all this nice stuff for you all the time but you feel like such crap you can’t get around your own piddly head trips only to realize, painfully, agonizingly, that you had everything. How is that possible?

Because later, when it leaves, it’s all you want. It’s all you ever wanted. But it won’t come back. No matter how much, or how earnestly, you beg.

Human nature is so pathetic.

I’ve been the leaver. I’ve been the left. It’s the same story over and over and over and over and over again.

In the end, we all want what we cannot have. Period. End of story.

In fact, if you think it’s any different, you should just stop reading this right now and forget about it. There are no epiphanies in here. It’s the same shit, different cast of characters. Blindly following their sexual urges to a dark, intriguing corner in hopes of finding the light. The light, man. The enlightened light of Love, baby.

With The One.

Or something like that.

Point is, I’m a sad sack right now. A sad sally. A little pissant with a broken heart and a shattered soul. And he knows it. Because I told him. Because I swallowed all that pukey pride on down and let him know just how much he hurt me.

This is not a good idea. Don’t do it. It’s stupid. You lose all power when you do this. Oh yeah, that’s right. The ugly word power. Hate loves power. But, when you’re licking your wounds, you still have to think about power. Even if you don’t have even a shred of pride left in your sally sad sack soul. Because the illusion of power will get you through. Once somebody knows you’ll “do anything” to get them back, well, you are a piece of dried dog turd on the side of the road. Gathering dust in an old Clint Eastwood Western. And nobody wants that.

pickup lines, so right now

DDB Stockholm's new ad for McDonald's. Would-be Lothario is a drunk guy full of pickup lines who, in the end, settles for a Big Mac. This one made me laugh the hardest.

running: a love affair.

I was forced to run for sports in high school---which I hated. I went to a (not the right one for my creative, shy self) private school that was all about the jocks.

"Get out there and run 3-5 miles today LSD," coach said, clapping his hands.

3-5 MILES? LSD? What? Freshman kids with little to no running experience.

LSD = Long. Slow. Distance.

And yes, for three to five miles. Without stopping.

Sounded like hell. And, for me, at the tender age of 13, a kid who had never even run a mile without stopping, it was pretty much that. I will say that all that running was very helpful later---out on the field while I got whacked in the shin, arms, back of legs, by much older, stronger, meaner girls. At least I could run---fast and far away from their whacking sticks---for long periods without getting winded.

But then I left that (mean, jock, rich brat) private school. And you know what I signed up for back at public school? Junior year. Age 16. Yep: Cross-country. What was I thinking?

I don't know.

What I couldn't understand was how some short chick could run faster than me. How did she do that? The mini greyhound against the Weimeraner. Built for speed while I was built for...what?...grace? Eh. I'll take it. Grace isn't so bad.

The endorphins were better than some other recreational activities at that time in my life, I'll say that.

At 19, I was running on Martha's Vineyard in the dry town of Vineyard Haven. Running at sunset by the harbor, through town, and up and down the narrow, winding streets. Running was my drug of choice. Has been for many years. It's a love/hate relationship, one that I abandon at times but always return to.

It wasn't until I faced a deep, dark depression at the age of 21 that I realized that running, and its effects, had the ability to not just transform my brain chemistry here and there and make my body tighter, stronger and better, but it had, well, the ability to save my life. I'd fallen down the rabbit hole. Way, way down it. I couldn't see up anymore. I was trapped down there, sleeping all day, not eating. I'd lost my sense of humor entirely. Nothing made me happy anymore.

The psychiatrist said it wasn't clinical. It was situational. I'd gone through a rough patch. Not only was I working in a smoke-filled office with no windows in the dead of winter, I was living with an abusive drunk who put holes in the walls when angry. And I didn't drink at all. So, one night, around 4AM, I went back to my parents. And curled up in a tiny ball and tried to disappear. It was my mother who woke me up one afternoon---after many, many days of sleeping around the clock with the two black cats---who handed me The "Cindy Crawford Workout Video" and told me she was going out for a few hours and that when she got back she wanted me to tell her I'd done this tape.

I did the tape. It was weight training stuff. I did it for a few weeks every day. And then, one day, I looked outside at the flat, treelined road outside my parents' house. It called to me. I went to it. And I ran. This was all way before that movie Forrest Gump. Run, Jess, run became me. I lost all body fat, I sweated like a mad man, my quads grew into lovely, muscular machines that made me feel, for once, kind of powerful. All alone, in the days before iPods, I ran. And I cleared out my mind. And my heart got stronger. And everything else got better.

A little fairytale of sorts.

It's funny because, just recently, I went through something painful again. Really painful actually. And instead of curling up into a ball and trying to melt into the fabric of a couch, I started running again. I'd had a bit of hiatus. Too long. It's strange how you can forget what works while you're looking for another outlet, outside yourself, to fill in the pain like so many cottonballs in your ear, silence it, dull it, numb it, make it go away. But there is a better way. And that's to fight the pain with pain. Because running is no easy feat. Especially when you've just come off the longest pity party you've ever thrown. A pity party on a couch with a laptop and a resume asking the world "love me, hire me."

Pity party: over.

Blood flowing warmth pumping in my veins at 8.0 on the treadmill: yes.

It's been 21 years since my love affair began. We've broken up a bunch of times. But we always get back together. Ah, running. I love you. Even though you annoy me.