Dress For Whatever Job

If I had to use a story to adequately depict my life, it would be the one about the time I was in high school and had a huge crush on a guy named Albert who was super popular and a star varsity basketball player but had to settle for his twin brother who was the chubbier version of him and played JV basketball. Or, the time I wanted Rainbow Brite for Christmas but got Murky and Lurky (the villains – typical) instead. Things are always a bit B-team for me.

Take my job. After deciding that I needed a job that would help me pay the bills while I write, I landed a marketing/admin position with a company that basically serves as the Ask Jeeves of the Medicaid world: instead of Googling how to get Medicaid we do it for them. 

Yet, I take it seriously. Or at least I dress like I do. However, on Thursday I learned that’s not what gets you ahead at this place. 

So I’m sitting at my desk doing actual work for once when my overly-caffeinated chain-smoking boss walks in with a guy he introduces as James – a confusing moment for the guy because he recalled introducing himself to my boss as Chad. His name wasn’t important (to me or my boss, apparently); what I couldn’t help but notice was his appearance.

Chames (mashup because who knows what his real name is) walked in wearing a t-shirt, cargo shorts (the kin with an elastic waistband), a haircut that would make the 90s jealous, and plain white tube socks. If I sound like an asshole I do not care – this guy was in the office for an INTERVIEW.

Chames and my boss walked into the conference room – which is 2 steps away from where I sit – and their meeting commenced at hushed volumes. I was being so judgmental that it never occurred to me that Chames was probably just undercover or that this was probably his schtick. 

As I continued to judge his attire and wonder what the hell was so secretive that they had to talk in a high school girl whisper, I officially quit what I was doing and started thinking about the other time I was in a situation similar to this one. 

Back in the day, I did marketing for a motorcycle dealership and one of our annual events was a bikini contest. In the event’s sophomore year we made the rookie mistake of hosting it during a national holiday so our entry list was pretty minimal. In an attempt to conjure up some contestants I was sent to the local strip clubs to try and entice strippers to participate.

OK, we held the contest at 7PM. There was no way we were going to get A-team strippers to compete in a bikini contest where the prize was probably a fraction of what they usually make. 2nd string strippers (you know the kind) was our best case scenario. 

Regardless, I went strip club to strip club speaking to club managers and building my immunities by posting flyers in the stripper’s dressing rooms. While waiting for the manager at my last stop, a girl walked in wearing sweats, her orange/blonde with black roots hair up in a messy pony tail, and no make-up. 

At first I thought, “oh shit, she’s looking for a stripper and it’s about to go down.”

Then she opened her mouth.

“How do you become a stripper?”, she asked with a twinkle in her blood shot eyes. 

There’s no fucking way she’s serious, my expression said. This is just a cover. She’s trying to find an in and then she’s going to beat up the stripper that her boyfriend used their beer money on. 

No. She was 100% (as the kids say) serious. The hostess was a true professional; she was even dressed like a strip club hostess (or dressed for success the way I saw it) and politely explained that the girl needed to come in looking presentable and ready to audition for the club owner. 

“You handled that very well,” I said to the hostess, to which she replied “that happens all day long.”

That day I thought 2 things. 1) I did not realize there were that many aspiring strippers out there and, 2) “dress for the job you want, not the one you have” is very good advice.

Or at least it was in 2010 when this happened. In 2020, nothing means anything anymore, and I have proof.

The day after my boss’s top secret meeting, he let me go. And you know who’s replacing me?

Ol’ tube socks. Chames is a salesman (clearly) and my boss needed to free up money to hire him. 

The moral of the story is this: like the girl inquiring about stripping (who I gave a bikini flyer to BTW because I was desperate), we’re all just trying to figure things out. My ex-boss (who pulled a ‘me’ because he is also desperate) is trying to figure out how to keep his company afloat, and I’m trying to figure out who used my credit card to try and buy a hooker on OurTime.com and bullshit on Vista Print a couple of days after I used my card to pay for my MacBook on my work computer. 

Yeah. My ex-boss fancies himself an IT pro so I found it interesting and not the least bit coincidental that a couple of days after I used the work computer for my purchase, my card got hacked. Could it have been him? I don’t know but I’m in the process of figuring it out. 

Yup, in 2020 we’re all just figuring it out. Update coming soon. 

It’s National Power Rangers Day so here’s a story about my 25+ year grudge with McDonald’s and my hometown all because of Tommy.

It’s no secret that I hate influencers. What’s to like? Think of that one guy and/or girl from high school that you wanted to punch in the face daily. Well get ready to double up on that clenched fist because those same assholes that tricked people into thinking they were cool are now GETTING PAID for tricking people into thinking they’re cool. Rich and full of zero talent. Telling me what mascara you like isn’t a talent. Impersonating  windshield wipers and claiming it’s a dance is not a talent.

Did you know that the teens who played the original Power Rangers had to do their own stunts and kicks and shit? They didn’t light a firecracker in their ass while doing parkour on YouTube and get discovered. The only “like” they got was from the casting director.

When I was a kid, I wasn’t one nor did I care for the popular kids. I didn’t want to be like Alicia who wore make-up and had the latest in Ocean Pacific wear. I cared about the Power Rangers, particularly Tommy the Green Ranger turned White Ranger who was the boss of everyone – I wanted to be him. So when the local McDonald’s in my hometown announced that Tommy the White Ranger himself would be making an appearance I was all over it. At 8-years-old, I was convinced that if we met, he’d immediately knight me as a Power Ranger and make Billy let me be the blue one because that was my favorite color at the time.

My aunt was more than happy to take me and my cousin to this event because she also liked Tommy –  for not 8-year-old reasons. Unfortunately for me and my cousin, my aunt wasn’t the only adult who thought they had a chance with White Ranger. There were way more than the 250 person capacity so they had Tommy do his demonstrations in the parking lot. And because adults don’t know how to be not-selfish (I would know), every single person 4’11” and taller crowded around my favorite Power Ranger, pushing me, my cousin, and every other actual Power Rangers fan out of the way. I couldn’t see shit. My aunt put my cousin on her shoulders but she could also barely see shit.

I was told he did some kicks and whatnot, and I do recall seeing a foot in the air, but that could have been the foot of a kid being flung in the air by an adult that wanted to touch Tommy.

This was my first brush with pure rage. I’m not sure if you’re a comic book fan but FYI, this is how super villains are born.

20 years later, I was working as an MMA promoter… and still pissed.

One day while working on the digital marketing push for our 3rd event, I came across an interesting article: Jason David Frank was in the process of developing his own career in MMA and was now living in Houston. Who is Jason David Frank, you ask? THE WHITE FUCKING POWER RANGER. It. Was. On. After some Googling I discovered that not only was he now an MMA fighter, he’d also launched a clothing line called Jesus Didn’t Tap and promoted his line at various MMA events.

Perfect. I navigated my way to the Contact page and typed it all out: the event at McDonald’s, the jerks who pushed their way in front of me and my cousin, the supposed feet in the air, all of it.

I expected zero response. What kind of a psycho holds a grudge for 20 years about not being able to see a dude wearing a mask and a spandex suit do karate.

Me.

People don’t forget.

A few days after I sent the message, I got a response. The message began: ” haha, I’m sorry that happened to you. If it makes you feel better, that wasn’t me at the McDonald’s that day :)”

Not only did I not get to see Tommy, but everyone who cheated me out of the experience didn’t get to either. And even though the imposter never took his mask off that day at McDonald’s (my aunt informed me of that after the event but it helped approximately negative zero percent) and people probably never knew for sure if that was actually Tommy/Jason David Frank, I felt vindicated. I. Win.

The first thing I did was call my cousin and tell her the story. Then, I planned my comeback tour. I would bring Tommy to my event, have him set up, take a picture with him, then write an op-ed or maybe publish an ad in my hometown newspaper that included the picture and a quick paragraph letting everyone know that the guy in the Power Rangers suit and mask was not actually Tommy, you shoved me and my cousin out of the way for nothing, please admire this picture I took with him.

Unfortunately, our company was still so new that we couldn’t afford Tommy/Jason’s rate and for whatever reason “sweet revenge” wasn’t a justifiable expense, according to my business partner. So for the last 8 years I’ve been pissed about that and it’s not going away anytime soon.

The point of this story is a) it’s National Power Rangers Day and, b) follow whoever the hell you’re going to follow but don’t be surprised when you go to see them at McDonald’s and they don’t take off their mask and you don’t get to meet them and then you find out 20 years later it was all a lie.

Also, I’ve just added “who the fuck was that at McDonald’s?” to the “things to hold a grudge over” column of this story. Update to follow anywhere between 8 and 20 years from now.

Image by: deviart.com

“I’m Right On Top of That, Rose!”

“Sometimes in life, you gotta eat a lotta shit.” No wait, this one’s better: “Life is just one all-you-can-eat shit show.” I’m on a Marvelous Mrs. Maisel kick and I couldn’t have started watching this show at a better time.

Being an adult right now is terrible. Nothing at all like what I imagined, which was me rich and famous living in a mansion but still 12-years-old for some reason. Instead, I’m about to be 37, diving face-first into my plate of shit like it’s a pie-eating contest.

I’ve quit working for myself; I couldn’t do it anymore. I’m not a bad boss but I am bad at doing stuff I don’t want to do (like any good employee) so every day at “work” was like the eternal struggle between good and evil at my own desk. It’s a real bummer because working from home/for myself has been a dream of mine since I was 17. It all started when I worked at the movie theater and had to work on Easter, which meant I couldn’t hang out with my one friend. That was bullshit. I vowed to one day not work a real job.

Back then it was because I wanted to do whatever I wanted to do. Now, well, it’s still because I want to do whatever I want to do but the thing I want to do most is to write things I want to write as well as write for all 13 of you. Unfortunately, that isn’t what happened. I got too busy writing content for three clients, each in different fields. One I know a ton about but the other two I know dick-all.

One is a pest control guy. The few things I know about insects are 1) NO ONE will EVER be able to get rid of all the mosquitos, 2) I discovered I wasn’t allergic to wasps when I got stung by one last summer, and, 3) thanks to my parents, I’m terrified of spiders because they made me watch Arachnophobia when I was 9 and to this day I can’t eat popcorn in handfuls because I’m convinced there’s one hiding in my bowl, just waiting for me to let my guard down.

The other client is a water treatment company. I know we need water to survive but I also know there’s a crap ton of places to get it, which isn’t a good PR campaign when you’re trying to push home reverse osmosis systems.

I’m sure I could make this work but it would be at the expense of my writing, and I’ve already wasted enough time writing about things that are about as funny as the office job I’ve since taken:

I’m doing marketing and admin work for a company that helps elderly people file for Medicaid. So far my favorite conversation with a potential client has been “I’m calling about the Medicaid eligibility form you filled out” and their response was “I did?” My plan was to find an office job (temporarily until I can get paid bill money to entertain you full time) that I could transform into the job I had a few years ago where I really only did actual work 2 days a week and read and wrote the rest of the time. As I write this, my boss is in a training so it’s working out so far.

But this is where I’m at. Back to square one. Doing what I have until I can do what I want to. Here’s what I’ve learned so far:

First, I’ve completely forgotten how to be an employee (for a real business) and work in an office. You know they want me to help clean? Like I have to throw my own trash out. Does anyone else have to do this? Additionally, my “boss” tried to change my start time to 8:30AM. Originally we agreed on 9AM and then on my first day he tried pulling the ol’ switcharoo. I told him no, explaining I would not cut into my CrossFit time. He gave me a shaky “ok”. Who does he think he is?

It gets worse.

The diva attitude I developed while “running my own business” appears to be permanent. When he showed me to my desk I took one look at the computer and said “that’s not a Mac.” He set me up with an HP. I didn’t even know those still existed. He doubled-down on the subpar electronics by throwing in a laptop. Not a MacBook. A laptop. It’s an ASUS VivoBook, whatever the fuck that is. And by now you should know that my brain doesn’t see ASUS, it sees another word – one that adequately depicts the picture that I’ve painted for myself.

The other thing I’ve learned is nothing is supposed to be like anything. Failure is totally an option; there’s even a book about it. It’s called Failure Is An Option by H. Jon Benjamin, the voice of Archer and Bob from Bob’s Burgers. Everyone should read it, mainly because it’s hilarious. Anyway, failure is fine. I thought leaving my job where I had an abundance of time to read and write for a content writing position would be the answer for me, but it wasn’t.

I thought taking that experience and turning it into freelance marketing/content writing gigs would be the answer, but it wasn’t. For me, I need a job where I only have to think about one thing so that my brain is free to come up with anus jokes and figure out ways to write about the things I want to (like books and movies and things that make people forget about the shit for a minute). Does working a real job suck? Yeah, kind of. I have to get dressed every day. I can’t wear flip flops. I have to drive somewhere. I only get an hour for lunch like I’m in prison. But I’m writing this from the office so it’s not a total let down.

The point is, it doesn’t matter how you reach your goal. What matters is, if you want it bad enough, you keep figuring it out. Sometimes things come easier for some than they do for others. Since I was a kid I’ve learned things the hard way. Fortunately, that makes for better stories.

Next week I’ll go into detail about how I royally fucked everything up. For now, I need to finish writing about the time I stalked the white Power Ranger so I can post that story on Friday, AKA National Power Rangers Day. I’m supposed to be working on my boss’s website but that can wait. He’s only been in business a year, I was in business for a year and a half. I think I know what I’m doing.

tenor

 

Adventures in Senior-Sitting: The Inheritance

Other than my niece, I don’t like kids. I’m genuinely mystified when I hear someone say “I love kids!” I just don’t get it. Kids scream. They want to touch your stuff. They have cooler toys today than I ever did and yet they still want to play with an iPhone. Wait until it turns into the thing they need for work, THEN let’s hear how much they love it. Unless their job is to hawk things on TikTok – another reason to hate kids.

They’re just not my cup of tea. And don’t try the “they’re worth it” argument with me. Every time someone says that to me their facial expressions never match up with their words. Either that’s a frown or you’ve been cursed with a face that melts when you lie.

I’ve never been a fan of kids; I hardly liked them when I was one. So it would only be fitting that a couple of years ago I inherited one. He doesn’t help around the house. I pay his bills. He doesn’t clean up after himself. He bad mouths me to anyone who will listen. He throws tantrums about his girlfriend not being a part of the family. I’ve never had to potty train a kid but I would imagine it’s equivalent to trying to get this one to do any type of work. I’m not sure if this experience is what parents think of when they say “it’s worth it” but whatever – I’m still not sold.

But that doesn’t matter. Because I have a child on my hands and for the time being there’s not a lot I can do about it.

Oh yeah, one more thing.

He’s 65 years old.

My mother-in-law passed away unexpectedly so the natural reaction of everyone was to worry about my father-in-law. No one was more concerned than my husband, which is why he decided his dad should move in with us. Unfortunately, his dad agreed.

I was not OK with this. Call me selfish but I knew my FIL before I even met my husband and if there’s one thing he’s good at it’s figuring out how to manage. He’s a talker, that one. And you know kids: they be talking their way in and out of bullshit.

So, we bought a house big enough for the 3 of us and our combined total of 5 dogs. A couple of weeks after we moved in, my FIL announced he had a girlfriend and would not be moving out of his old house. Did I mention this was just 2 months after my mother-in-law had passed away?

You see? He was managing just fine.

So here we were, in this big house that we could not afford on our own. Meanwhile, my FIL was living it up like he’d just gone off to college. Other than he and my husband working together, we never saw him. I do remember hearing from him one time: he asked me if I could watch his dogs while he and his girlfriend went out of town.

Then, at the end of the year, a shift happened. He was ready to move in. He even seemed excited about it. Which of course he was because he’d gotten evicted from his previous residence and he had no other place to go.

With him came the girlfriend. Her name is Janie but I call her Janie Dumb Fuck (JDF, for short). My FIL moving on so quickly was obviously a problem for my husband so JDF’s welcome into our home wasn’t an easy one. However, we managed. She was welcomed at our holiday parties. She was welcomed to spend time with us on our patio. One time she hung out with us and told me a story about seeing a UFO but made sure to emphasize that it didn’t beam her up to which I replied, “that sounds like something an alien would say.” Even though she’d just outed herself as extraterrestrial, she was still welcome.

We were not.

For her daughter’s 21st birthday, my FIL took JDF, her daughter, and a daughter’s friend to Vegas. For my birthday, he got me a gift card to a local restaurant. Also, we were not invited to Vegas, or anywhere else they went for that matter. No dinners at her house. No holiday parties. Nothing.

Things were going great for my FIL. He had not a care in the world. That was until JDF told him it was time for them to move in together. Well, like the sentiment of every child, nobody tells my FIL what to do. So they broke up.

Side note: the day before they broke up she celebrated her 60th birthday. For her birthday he gave her 2 stone tablets with the 10 commandments etched on them. She’s not a religious person by any means. I even suggested that they might burst into flames in her mere presence. But he gave them to her anyway. The day they broke up she dropped them off on the porch and when he called her to ask why she did that, she replied “who gives someone the 10 commandments as a 60th birthday present?” As much as I hate to admit, she was not wrong. Also, the answer to that question is ‘kids’. Kids are fucking horrible gift-givers.

Anyway, they stayed broken up for a month and during that time, he entertained himself by going on dates. I entertained myself by constantly recalling the episode of Parks and Rec where the towns’ old people kept getting STDs.

Eventually, though, they got back together. Except this time, like any sane parent, I told him she was not welcome at our house (our side of the house – he has his own side). Well, that didn’t sit well with him, so he rebelled. Not for long though, because he started getting sick with kidney infections about once a month and needed our help to take care of him. For a while, I kept telling him he should go get his shit checked because who knows where JDF has been.

It’s called parenting, look it up.

But after a couple of surgeries and a recovery, he’s better and picked up where his rebellion left off. Now we really never see him. My FIL and my husband fight CONSTANTLY at work. And just yesterday, in one of his rare outings from his side of the house (or bedroom, for all you parents dealing with this kind of shit) he said “I’m going to do even less around here”, which I found funny because the only way that would be possible is if he were dead. He followed that up with “I’m moving out!” (or “running away” in parent lingo).

JDF appears to be the cool parent so I’m sure that’s where he’ll end up. Although, I’m not sure how long she’ll enjoy it considering he has not saved nor is he in a position to retire. But maybe it’ll work out. She was sad that her daughter moved out; maybe this new child will fill the void.

So, here we are, facing the possibility of having to sell our home that I love. The business that my FIL and my husband share is facing the possibility of going under. Yesterday, I was mad. This morning, I was depressed. Right now, I do not care, because it felt really good to let it out. Is this what moms do at their book club meetings or when they’re at “pilates”? I don’t blame them, it feels great.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. What I do know is I’ve put myself in charge of decision-making from now until eternity. So I really hope this kid likes his new parent because, should he want to reenter my queendom, my first decision as Empress will be to put him in a home – the Dateline kind.

You know what? Being a parent isn’t so bad after all.

This Week on Typical Jenn

Hi hello! How was your week? Awesome, here’s what happened to me.

So, according to my husband, our roof is rapidly deteriorating. To me, that sounds like a colossal exaggeration. I don’t ever look at our roof when I drive up to the house but if shingles aren’t flying at my windshield then how bad can it be? Well, he says bad so we submitted a claim to our insurance company and a few days ago, we received our insurance check. As soon as I saw it I had a brilliant idea: find a cheaper way to fix it because we could really use the potential leftover money.

What do you mean “that sounds like insurance fraud”? It’s MY money. It doesn’t matter anyway; I didn’t even get to do it. I made the mistake of telling my husband my plan, to which he responded by calling the insurance company to ask if my plan was something we could do. Well, not anymore it’s not. THANKS. In his defense, ideas like that usually sound better in my head. When I have to actually follow through, I tend to lose interest. But still, he took away the possibility of committing insurance fraud.

Next up, a spying story. A client of mine is in a lawsuit with a former employee and needs help collecting evidence so he asked me and an employee of his to spy on the former employee. Yup. This was a for-real request. After my initial what-the-fuck-is-this-a-joke reaction I thought, maybe hilarity will ensue. Ok yeah I’ll do it.

Here’s how that went down: it didn’t. I couldn’t do it. I’m not stealth enough. I panic when I’m internet spying and my thumb accidentally brushes over the heart button. My anxiety can’t handle real-life spying. Anyway, I told my client I didn’t see anything which is technically true. I didn’t. Unfortunately for me, the other person he asked to spy did do it. And at the same time I was supposed to have done it. And she did see something. And sent the evidence to my client. Typical.

My takeaway from this week is: I’m bad at executing crimes. Just one more thing I suck at.

See you next Sunday for another exciting edition of This Week on Typical Jenn.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god the girl who stole my sunglasses 20 years ago is out of prison

I’ve mentioned this incident before but for the people in the back, here we go. So when I was 16, my friend Ileen and I were heading to the lake when she announced that we would be giving another girl, Kelly, a ride. Why? I don’t know but I begrudgingly picked Kelly up and brought her with us. Sometime during the car ride, I asked Kelly, who was sitting in the back seat with my purse if she could grab something out of it for me. I’m pretty sure it was my Carmex but I don’t remember. What I do remember is when we got to the lake, the blue lens sunglasses that I had in my purse were gone. GONE. Nowhere to be found.

I was pissed. It wasn’t like I had tons of money to just be buying shitty early 2000s fashion whenever I wanted. Kelly went off to be with her other kleptomaniac friends while I stayed mad about my sunglasses.

The next day, I called Kelly and asked her if she’d seen my sunglasses to which she replied, “no, but I have a bunch that you can come look at.” What the hell kind of an answer is that? If someone accused me of stealing their tumbler I wouldn’t be like “I haven’t seen it but I have seen a bunch that I have if you want to come look at them.”

You bet your ass I went to her house, and Ileen came with me for back up. I get there and Kelly had laid out about 6 or 7 pairs of sunglasses on her bed. Each pair had blue lenses, each probably stolen from someone else. None of which were mine. She offered to give me a pair of the ones on her bed but I was positive those belonged to not Kelly so I declined because I think if I’d taken them it would’ve been like I was covering up her crimes.

Skip to 10 years later.

I get a call from my dad asking if I went to school with Kelly (which is actually a shortened version of her name but I won’t give her real name because SHE JUST GOT OUT OF PRISON). I said yes, why? And he said, well she’s going to federal prison for some drug crimes. I said, “you know what? that’s what she gets for stealing my sunglasses when we were in high school.” Oh, BTW, she also stole a pair of my friend’s boots and had the balls to wear them IN FRONT OF HER.

Anyway, my dad was like “I guess” and that was the end of that. Until now.

She was released 5 years early.

And she’s on Facebook.

And I found her.

And I really want to message her and say “look, I don’t think you can go back for this but seriously, did you steal my sunglasses?”

Oh shut up I’m not going to. She’s served her time, I suppose. But let that be a lesson: don’t steal because you’ll go to federal prison for unrelated crimes 10 years down the road. I know she took my sunglasses.

Drunk Things: Vol. 1

I’m not sure if you can tell by my previous posts, but I like to drink. I tried to not drink, but it didn’t work so instead, I decided to not drink as much. It works great during the week but when it comes to the weekend? It’s. ON.

My drink of choice is Miller Lite. As I type this, I’m drinking one. I’ve already drank a lot more than this one. But I haven’t drank enough to make any purchases.. at least not yet. And that’s what this post is about, kind of.

First, a backstory. Fridays are my favorite. I’m pretty sure they’re everyone’s favorite but they’re particularly mine and me is who we’re talking about. Friday kicks off the weekend and the weekend is when I get a few hours to myself at night. The weekend is when I drink my Miller Lites and watch my favorite shows by myself. And I go on kicks. For a while my favorite thing to do was get drunk and watch To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything. Julie Newmar. A few weeks ago I was on a Bridezillas kick but only season 6 (THE BEST SEASON). Right now my kick is the movie Real Women Have Curves. If you haven’t seen it, you hate movies because this is a fantastic movie. That’s not the Miller Lite talking, that’s just facts.

Anyway, I like to drink Miller Lite and watch my favorite movies or shows. I’m doing that now and I’m pretty buzzed. Before I get too far gone, I thought I would talk about the things I do when I get drunk. Those things include buying stuff from Amazon, and/or iTunes, except I don’t know that I bought them until way after my drunkenness has passed.

A couple of weeks ago I was drunk watching Bridezillas but also scrolling on Twitter. So I’m scrolling and then I see a super cool video featuring the making of the Mortal Combat game.

Cool, right?!

So I’m watching this and thinking “Mortal Kombat is the best!”

A few days later, I’m getting ready to get on my elliptical to get in an extra workout. I don’t feel like listening to music so I’m like, let’s watch the Jennifer Lopez documentary I have on iTunes. Hell yeah! I click on the app.

What the fuck?

Then I remembered: watching how the Mortal Kombat game was made prompted me to buy BOTH Mortal Kombat movies. Yup, I own Mortal Kombat part 1 AND 2. Thank you, drunk Jenn. The first one isn’t so terrible but the second one.. Jesus. Unnecessary.

The point is: drunk Jenn is very influential. The shit that I buy is ridiculous and I discovered I’m not alone. The other day I found out that my friend drunk bought a game of Prosecco pong. I didn’t even know that was a thing.

So I decided that I will now document my drunk purchases and happenings as well as those of my friends. Please enjoy my drunkenness. Now if you’ll excuse me, IT art 2 is on for the 137th time and I need to watch it because you never know.

Reading Jogs My Memory So Here’s My Pants Stain Story

So right now I’m reading Weird But Normal by Mia Mercado and in it, she tells a story about being on vacation at Disney with her family when she was 12 and there’s an Aladdin Ride/Poop story it reminded me of a vacation I took when I was 14 that I still can’t believe my parents let me go on.

In 9th grade, I had a boyfriend named Anthony that I somehow managed to date for an entire year. Our one commonality was that he played baseball and I was super into baseball players, so we were just slightly more compatible than the couples you see on 90 Day Fiancé. Anyway, the summer after our freshman year, his team earned a trip to regionals to play for a spot in the Little League World Series and his family invited me to go with them.

I. Was. Down.

My Parents. Were. Not.

So I did what any pubescent, maturing teen would do: I lost my shit. Well, as much as I could around my strict-as-shit Spanish mom. For the most part, I just lost my shit in my room. I couldn’t understand why my parents would not allow me to travel ALL the way to Mississippi to hang out with some parents (that they barely knew) and a bunch of boys (that they didn’t know) and my boyfriend (that they really knew) and all in a time when we didn’t have cell phones (I mean they were invented but we couldn’t afford one because at that time I believe it cost about $100/minute to talk on one). What the hell?

The morning that my boyfriend’s parents were scheduled to leave, my parents gave me permission to go. I think they thought that if they waited till the last minute to give me the OK that I wouldn’t have enough time to get ready. I packed my shit in about 5 minutes and was gone about 20 after that.

So we get there and spend the first couple of days at the baseball field because, duh, it’s a baseball tournament. The third day was an off-day for the team so we went to the beach. I honestly can’t remember if Anthony was with us but his older brother was and he’s partially the reason I have a story in the first place. The other reason being my shit packing skills.

In my haste to evacuate my parents’ house before they could change their mind, I failed to pack maxi pads for the trip. I’d been cramping but thought that surely my period would know I was going on vacation and would give me a break for a week.

It didn’t.

Also, yeah, I wore maxi pads. Tampons scared me. They still do but I’m on birth control so it’s not an issue, in case you were wondering.

Back to my period. That fucker came in with a vengeance, and I had nothing. I was way too embarrassed to tell my boyfriend’s mom so instead, I kept buying those shitty .25 cent pads that you used to be able to get in any public restroom. Luckily, our hotel had them. I say ‘luckily’ because it was just one step above ‘nothing’. It was awful. I was used to my normal thin pads and now, I had no choice but to wear this thing that felt like a pillow in my underwear. Fuck.

I managed to play it off until it was beach time. I told everyone I forgot my bathing suit but was fine just hanging out in the sand. Well, Anthony’s brother found this unacceptable and carried me into the water. Me. My pillow pad. And my khaki shorts.

At first, I thought, “OK, no big deal, the pad probably absorbed the water.” Then we got back to the hotel. I went straight into the bathroom to check myself and there it was: a HUGE red stain on the back of my shorts.

And not one person said a word to me about it.

To this day, I don’t know if they were being kind or didn’t notice it. Probably the former. Either way, I’ve had PTSD about it ever since. Because of this incident, I still check my butt in the mirror from time to time because you never know. Additionally, I can’t tell people when they have a booger in their nose. I don’t know where period stains and boogers intersect but for some reason, I just can’t do it. In my head, I’m being kind by ignoring it but I’m also doing people a disservice by letting them walk around with snot hanging out of their nose. I’ve got to work on that.

Anyway, that’s what I get for being a shit about going on this trip. By the way, this is how I learn all of my lessons.

So there’s my story. Back to my reading.

 

 

Funerals Bring Out The Kid In Me

Age is nothing but a number. It’s such a cliché thing to say but it’s true. It has to be or the reality is I’m mentally aging in reverse. In fact, don’t even ask me how old I am. I’m relearning numbers.

Recently I attended a funeral that I was not prepared to attend. Not because of the sadness and what have you. I didn’t have anything to wear. I’ve succeeded in not having to dress like an adult for work but completely disregarded the fact that there might be non-work events that may require attire that is not in the form of a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I can never get it right.

So, the day before the funeral I bought an outfit that included a pair of slacks that matched a blazer I had. Well, it’s been a couple of years since I’ve worn that blazer and in addition to it having shoulder pads, it had also shrunk to an unreasonable size. On top of that, it was really cold outside and my painted-on blazer wasn’t going to cut it so I wore my peacoat over it. I couldn’t put my arms down. Paired with my 5-inch heels that I also hadn’t worn in a couple of years, I was miserable. It only got better when we got to the church. We arrived 10 minutes before the service and the place was packed. So much so that we had to park across the highway from the church, and thus began this entire ordeal.

It was a good 5-minute hike uphill to the church and by the time we got to the top I was really regretting my outfit choice. I spent the next 1.5 hours hating life, which is admittedly a pretty selfish thing to feel at a funeral. But I couldn’t help it. I felt like I couldn’t move, which is also a selfish thing to be annoyed about at a funeral. To compliment my poor outfit choice, I made a bad hair choice: I wore it down. Every time I had to move it out of my face I had to lower my head because my arm wouldn’t bend past a 45-degree angle. I looked like a mannequin.

The uncomfortableness, by the way, spilled over into conversation. Because we’d gotten there right before the service started (and apparently everyone else had camped out) there was nowhere to sit. So we ended up in a lovely standing spot next to my husband’s friend and his more comfortable looking wife. I like this better-dressed-than-me wife but it’s hard to have a conversation with her because we have nothing in common, obviously. Nevertheless, I tried. Recently I decided to go alcohol-free from Jan. 1st to April 1st so I thought I’d ask her about her break from alcohol. The conversation was going great until I told her I was doing this strictly for vanity purposes. No other reason – not my health, not my family. I want to be able to feel comfortable and move all of my limbs freely in my clothing. Also, sucking in my stomach is starting to hurt. She raised her eyebrows and said “oh”, then turned around and that was the end of that conversation. Whatever.

The bummer about the end of that conversation was that my attention was redirected to my feet. I hadn’t worn heels in a long time and after walking up a mountain and standing for nearly 20 minutes, my dogs were barking. I tried leaning against a wall but that only worked for a few seconds. At one point my husband asked me if I wanted him to get me a chair and like a modest idiot, I told him I was fine. I looked over at a woman across from me – who was comfortably sitting in a chair – to see what page in the service pamphlet we were on. There were still 3 fucking pages to go. I was not fine.

Then, as though I was being tested by Jesus or blessed by Satan, an older woman (adjacent to me) got up from her chair. “She has 10 minutes”, I thought to myself. At approximately 10 minutes and zero seconds, I sat in her chair, confidently. Zero regrets. Look, she had a cane to hold her up and I didn’t, OK?

Sitting didn’t matter though. It only made my blazer tighter. As people cried during the eulogies, I focused on not tearing through my blazer like the Incredible Hulk.

Eventually, the service ended and after half-hugging the family (because I was too scared to bend my arms too much) we made the 5-minute trek back to the car. BTW, not one person offered us a ride to our truck even though I looked like I had just learned how to walk. That was probably my karma for stealing that chair so I guess we’re even.

So there you go. My proof that age is nothing but a number. I may never learn how to be a real adult but I have learned what to do when life hands you a tight-ass blazer: you work your way through it until you can take it off and move again.

LOL JK the moral of the story is: wear shit that you feel comfortable in, settings are irrelevant. You do you. The end.

Review: The Tao of Bill Murray |Gavin Edwards

I have a problem, and that problem is when it comes to work I have a hard time saying ‘no’ when someone asks me for a favor. This leads to me over-extending myself, which stresses me out, resulting in my transformation into a volcano of rage. The mere thought of having to add anything – like say doing the dishes or brushing my hair – to my already packed schedule pushes me over the edge. Knowing that at any moment I could be asked a question gives me the superhuman strength a mother conjures up when she needs to lift a car off her child. If you see a house being hurled across the country, it’s me – somebody asked me how my day was going.

Then there’s my phone – it’s given me PTSD. Gone are the days when my biggest first world problem was bot calls. Now it’s actual humans. The second my phone lights up or makes a sound I break out in shingles. Oh God, it’s ringing again. Hello? Can I design a Trivia Night scorecard? Yeah, I can do that.

It’s a pisser of a position to be in: on the one hand, I’m getting paid. On the other, I now hate everyone. I don’t necessarily want to tell them to fuck off, mainly because my check would fuck off as well, but I do want to be in a position where I’m doing more of what I want to do. And who better to learn that from than the legendary Mr. Bill Murray.

Bill Murray didn’t write his own book because Bill Murray is too cool for that. The Tao of Bill Murray by Gavin Edwards is not your typical biography. While he does start at the beginning of Bill Murray’s life, the stories bounce around to fit the 10 Principles of Bill Murray, the bulk of what makes up the book. I won’t tell you what they are but I will tell you they’re exactly what you’d expect. All of his principles basically add up to this: do what makes you happy and include others in that happiness. By the way, the “things” that make Bill Murray happy are probably a little different from yours or mine. His “things include stealing a street cleaner, crashing Elvis’ funeral, and an incident where he rolled a pretentious fan into the ocean per his agreement to sign autographs for her.

Beyond some great stories – like Bill tossing banana peels at people’s feet while they walked just to see their reaction – are some great lines delivered by the G.O.A.T. One of my many favorite lines was delivered when someone shouted a line from Ghostbusters at him – his reply: “The Ghostbusters thing is not going to go away until somebody kills themselves with one of the toys.” And there’s plenty more where that gem came from.

Anyway, while us mere mortals could never get away with some of the stunts he pulls, at the very least this book is an escape – who needs fiction when his life is better than? But there’s more than just escapism. Reading The Tao of Bill Murray is a great reminder to make the most of life – enjoy every bit of it. Everything is horrible, why make it worse by spending your days going things you hate?

So, on this wonderful Friday the 13th, I’m proposing two things: the first is to buy and read this book. Then, after you read it, do what I’m about to do: spend a week doing more of what I feel like doing and more of what makes me happy (as long as these things are within the confines of the law. This isn’t Dexter). Also, try not to get fired, unless that’s what you want. The point is things are terrible. Let’s channel our inner-Bill Murray and at least for a week, make things a little more fun…. starting tomorrow. I’m helping a client address envelopes today.