Saturday, February 27, 2010

Top Reasons Why My New Car is Better Than My Old One

1)  It is three years younger (an '08);
2)  The stereo has a remote (!);
3)  It has 40K less miles on it (31K);
4)  It has a 100K mile bumper-to-bumper warranty;
5)  It is in excellent condition (zero body damage);
6)  It is a roomy four-door sedan;
7)  I got a 2% better deal on the financing;
8)  I brought them down 12% on a fair first offer; and
9)  Given all of the above, the payments are only $26 more/mo.

I don't think things could have worked out much better for me.  What an incredible relief!

 Om shanti <3

Friday, February 26, 2010

To the Open-Minded



Getting more and more excited about the upcoming April show in Chicago!  Fingers crossed that my friend can get us tickets!!!

X

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Simply Business

In September 2008 I sat open-mouthed at my office computer and watched the stock market drop by nearly 800 points in a single day.  It wasn't a huge surprise for me.  I had also followed with considerable interest the Frannie Mae and Freddie Mac implosion, the Bear Stearns debacle, and the AIG bailout.  In response, I made absolutely sure to work my prodigious butt off at the firm.  I came in on holiday weekends, worked without pay, and sacrificed paid sick leave.  I knew how important it was that I shined in the eyes of the partners because the economy doesn't skip sectors - not even the legal field has survived this financial crisis unscathed.

This afternoon, when nearly 25% of our support staff was fired, I was not one of them.  Those that thought they would be safe by playing office politics had a rude awakening today.  And the funny thing is, they assumed they could all come running into my office with their tails b/t their legs and their arms outstretched.  One of them actually said to me, "I'm sorry, Jen; life is too short, you know?"  Oh, I know.  But what you do not realize is that I'm smart enough to keep an eye on the big picture.  It doesn't matter which of the little guys you are buddies with.  You can all band together, but it won't make a speck of difference when the partners are looking at their books.  What they want to see is money and what I'm most concerned with is bringing that profit to them.  Go play your reindeer games elsewhere.  I, for one, have a job to do.

Crushing

Approximately eleven years ago I lost my hetero virginity in the back seat of a car parked on South Grand in front of Cheap Trx to a beautiful, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy (which isn't even the half of that story; it also involves the infamous line by my girlfriend, "If you don't fuck her right this minute, I am going to come back there and fuck her myself!").

Flash forward over a decade.  The boy and I start talking again after many years of no contact.  He has overcome a terrible addiction, gotten married, gotten divorced, and had a son, who is now almost elementary school aged.  In many respects he is the same boy who I've known since junior high school.  In other ways, he has changed thoroughly and unexpectedly.  Somehow, our friendship has not changed much at all.  We still engage in extremely heated debates, we still laugh ourselves gelastic, we still connect on a deeper level than most (and he still consistently beats me in chess - the bastard).

Small wonder that the crush I've had on him since I was thirteen has wholeheartedly reasserted itself.  What didn't make a whole lot of sense back then makes even less sense now.  What is more, last night he revealed to me something that would make most women run screaming in the opposite direction.  But not me.  I felt that much closer to him and I also wanted to save him from himself.  After I told him so, he somewhat flippantly, somewhat incredulously, responded with, "Why the self-destructive behavior, Jen?  What is that all about?"

Indeed.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Sexy Boys


 
                       Jim Carrey and Ewan McGregor

I have a funny feeling that this is going to be my new favorite movie.  I guess it goes without saying that this feeling originated in my loins, right?  Alas, if only I had a penis, I would joyfully masturbate in the theater at the opening of this film...

Come Hell or High Water

Judging by the seven story geyser outside of my associate's office window, this is going to be another no water day.  My only regret is that I do not have a digital camera with which to post evidentiary photos for you all to see.

And folks think Clayton is oh so high class.  I am here to tell you that, although we may be located next door to The Plaza Hotel, we are doing our absolute best to bring down the neighborhood.  Ideally, by flood...

Monday, February 15, 2010

Nobody Tosses a Dwarf!

That is, unless the dwarf invites you to toss him...

This afternoon, my youngest brother, Timmy, was cheerfully telling me about a series of metal shows he had attended over the past weekend.  He was especially pleased about the final show, because it was his very first time crowd surfing, which is somewhat strange given that Tim attends some 50+ metal shows a year and never misses a circle pit.  That he had yet to experience this has something to do with the dwarf-like shape of his physique, an explanation of which dovetails nicely with a conversation I had moments ago with my father regarding this particular subject.

While carpooling home from our respective offices, my father was holding forth about the history of our family's clan, and in particular, our ancestors who had immigrated to Ireland from Scotland as mercenaries.  Dad then segued into talking about how our savage mercenary genes are distinctly prominent in my little brother, Timmy, who, if Dad had his rathers, would have become a renown wrestler in high school.  Dad went on to reminisce at some length about the bulk of Timmy's upper leg muscles ("like two logs, is what I'm telling you!" ) and how much larger still he would have grown, if only he had lifted weights with proper aplomb.  I interjected that Timmy is actually a pretty tough guy and proceed to tell him the story of his crowd surfing, which I recollect Tim recounting to me, as follows:

Tim:  So I make my way over to the biggest guy in the pit, about three times the size of anyone else around, and I say to him, "Hey!  Would you lift me up?" and with a grunt in reply, he hefts me over his head and tosses me onto the crowd!

Me:  That reminds me of that scene in Lord of the Rings where Gimli [the dwarf] requests that Aragorn toss him into a mass of soldiers during the Battle of Helm's Deep.

Tim {chuckling}:  Yeah, but the dude who tossed me was more like one of the trolls than a simple man!

I went on to relay to my father that Tim, in his estimation, "politely" smacked the people in front of him on the back of their heads to notify them that he was coming, because he didn't want anyone to be caught unawares and subsequently be dropped on their heads--

Tim:  Because I hate it when people fall on me.  It makes me so infuriated that I just want to punch them and I certainly didn't want to get punched.

Me {somewhat incredulously}:  So, you mean that you do punch guys when they fall on you?

Tim:  Hell, yeah!  I just keep punchin' 'em until they move away into the crowd.

Just then my dad interrupted my retelling--

Dad:  That is so bizzare!  That whole metal culture is just so strange.

Me:  No it isn't, Dad.  They have their own way of doing things--probably just as our mercenary ancestors did back in Ireland.

Dad only shook his head and laughed in bewildered wonder.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

My Kinda Diva



He gives me a serious lady boner.

To-Do Today

Because, I'm sure you all really want to know:

1)  hygienic rituals (enough said)
2)  wash dishes
3)  launder clothes
4)  clean kittiepoo's "crap shack"
5)  sweep floors
6)  straighten apartment
7)  balance check book
8)  pay bills
9)  gather and take out trash
10)  gym (lower extremities only, per PCP)
11)  yoga
     -min. 5 min pranayama
     -min. 15 min. asana
     -min. 10 min. shavasana
12)  possibly tutor Julia Rose (awaiting her response)
13)  grocery shopping
14)  water plants

Notice, indulging in massive amounts of self-pity is not listed above.  I more than caught up on that yesterday, thanks.

Addendum:  I completed nearly everything on my list (including tutoring Julia in two algebra lessons and doing my parents' dishes, too); the only thing I didn't have enough time for was my yoga, which I will definitely catch up on tomorrow after work (expect a second addendum to this effect).

Om shanti.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Risk-Aversive Me

I'm sitting in my living room thinking to myself for about the hundredth time, "All of my friends have either left this town or gotten married and/or had children (so they might as well have left for all the good it does me).  I have absolutely nothing keeping me here (not even a car) outside of my family and my absentee friends.  I need to get the hellfire out of the STL and start a life somewhere that doesn't lead me by the hand into a deep depression...WHY AM I HERE?  My associates in Chicago and New York have offered on numerous occasions to sponsor me (let me reside on their couch/in their guest room) until I can locate a decent job/apartment/grad school.  What is my problem?"  and then I answered myself,  "You, dear Jen, are risk-aversive.  You can not handle even the most remote possibility of instability.  You can't even pay your rent two days late; you're that tightly wound."

I then put down my book (I'd been pretending to read, but had only succeeded in scanning the same paragraph about five times) and started horsing around on the internet.  I'm looking at my blog's "Followers" section, and thinking what a casually insulting term that Blogger has chosen for a title, when I decide to click on Little Pete's icon.  Just because.  Maybe he decided to start up a non-MySpace blog that I could peruse? Who knows? And what do I find listed on LP's member page, but a blog called--Why You Should Get Out of St. Louis fervently devoted to that very topic.  

Yeah.  I know.

Friday, February 12, 2010

The Noisy Fake Orgasm

In the wee hours of this past morning, I was awakened by my downstairs neighbors' abominably obstreperous sex noises.  Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa-thump sounded their bed frame against our mutually shared wall, as the man spasmodically hammered away;  "Aaaaahhhhh," squealed the woman routinely.  A pair of thoughts straightaway came to mind in the moments that followed, beginning with:  "That woman is faking it."  Indubitably.

A woman knows when another woman is dutifully forging an orgasm.*  In my experience, women naturally do this whole breathy, groaning, moaning type thing.  Maybe they will cry out, if it is remarkably great sex (or they are remarkably sensitive lovers), but rarely do they make a semi-regular, sort of hyper-feminized, high-pitched wail.  That noise is reserved for porn stars and emulators of porn stars.

Of course, some of you will argue with me and say, "No. I make the aforementioned wailing noise and I am utterly sincere in my climax."  Okay, fine then. But there was something more significant than the characteristics of the noise itself that clued me into the reality of the situation (something that the scientist in me is truly loath to admit) and that, my dears, is intuition.  I intuitively know whether a woman is indeed enjoying herself to the hilt and I intuitively know when she is simply putting on a show. 

My second thought was:  "Hey, this really isn't so bad!" Before, when I came (ha-ha) to the realization that a woman was faking orgasm (yes, I've heard it many a time; having lived in numerous multifamily apartment buildings over the course of my life), I became deeply annoyed.  I wouldn't have begrudged a stranger an earnest climax, but to fake it was inexcusable.  I mean, what exactly was the point?  Assuming they enjoyed orgasming, you'd think they would want to clue their lover into what one really sounded like, and in particular what theirs sounded like, rather than reinforcing a stereotype.

However, this morning I had a change of heart.  I thought, "Maybe this lady already had her orgasm and now she is pleasing her guy.  Or maybe she will have one after he has his?  Or maybe she isn't the quid pro quo type."  Regardless, I ultimately realized that what I heard was encouragement in her voice.  She was the epitome of GGG** and she was serving as a little cheering section for her man.  Perhaps that is why so many women fake it w/ the porn-star-sounding simulated orgasm.  They know that is what their partner has grown accustomed to enjoy...  Either way, once I had that thought, I was perfectly fine with her little charade.  I got up, drew myself a glass of water, turned on the BBC to drown them out (they did deserve some privacy after all), and promptly fell back to sleep. 

***

Hmm, as I was writing my introductory paragraph above I realized that I made an assumption this morning, as to where that thumping noise originated.  It could very well have been the LADY pegging her man in the bum (wouldn't really account for the lack of rhythm, unless that lady was truly truly terrible in bed, but I digress...).  Actually, it would be even better, in my mind, if that were the case.

In conclusion, I'm glad that I can finally embrace my neighbors' sexual enjoyment regardless of the spontaneity of same.

Om shanti.


*To be fair, maybe men know this, too, and maybe they would rather fool themselves.  Perhaps some men are of the ignorance is bliss persuasion and can happily bang away with no regard for his partner's experience whatsoever.  Hard to say definitively.
**Good, giving, and game (a Dan Savage term)

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Miscellany

About me. I don’t do too much these days, what with my injuries and lack of a car, so I predominantly spend my leisure time reading nonfiction books about astronomy until the muscle relaxers lull me into insatiable drowsiness and I can’t possibly keep my eyes open any longer.  Then I fall into my most bizzaro non-waking life. (Did you catch my Tweet yesterday about my recent dream involving feeding cats maggots from rotten vaginas? – yeah, my unconscious is revolting.)

Speaking of revolting, the water in my office building was out for about six hours today. I josh you not, the hallways were scented with the not so lovely odor of el urine de human  (as folks continued using the facilities, they just weren’t flushing the toilets – or, washing their hands, evidently). In response, I simply ceased to eat or drink anything following the fateful shut-off.

I have a zero tolerance policy regarding filthy bathrooms. Case in point, when I was dating The Jovial Jew, he used to drag me to hippy music festivals in the middle of East Jesus where unwashed flower children camped for the duration of the gathering. The only facilities available were the nearby rivers (which I can’t vacate in on general principal) and the Porta-Potties. I would TRY to use them, but the second I entered the narrow stall and looked down at that shallow bluish, chemically treated “water” and considered what might be floating therein, my urethra said NO WAY. The prospect of noxious splashback was too terrible to confront. Instead of food and drink, I existed on weed and mushrooms for several days straight. Hoping to gain some sustenance from the hallucinations or something…

To go back to vaginas (healthy, not rotten ones) I’ve put up a new header to my bloggity blog. Anyone notice the description below? --

“see through the nipples and speak from the vulva”


This phrase refers to something I learned in Estes’ book regarding wild femininity. To “see through the nipples” is to trust your basic instincts and to “speak from the vulva” is to communicate only the highest, most fundamental of truths. Words to live by, I think…

I will leave you, dear readers, with a factoid. Were you aware that it is not just sea levels that are affected by the interplay b/t the Earth’s rotation and our moon’s gravity? The very earth below our feet rises and falls in tides of approximately twelve inches every 6.5 hours or so. Also, our bodies are pulled by this tidal force, but not noticeably so (something like .000000000000004 of a centimeter for a tall person).  Is fascinating, no?

Friday, February 5, 2010

That's just me...

Inspired by Miss Erin's post--

My Morning In Brief

8:00 a.m.:  pick up personal effects from totaled vehicle - Check!

9:00 a.m.:  pick up accident report from police headquarters - Check!

10:00 a.m.:  attend doctor's appointment and develop treatment plan - Check!

12:00 p.m.:  lunch break - Check!

Next up--

1:00 p.m.:  arrive at office, obtain ER bill, contact health insurance co., fax accident report to insurance adjusters

1:30 p.m.:  work

5:00 p.m.:  depart from office, pick up scripts & heating pad, return car to Kenny


Om shanti.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

In the mornings to come

I waited all of sixty seconds on the Metro platform this chilly and dark morning before a Shrewbury train arrived.  As I was noting my good fortune and boarding the train, the conductor operatically bellowed in hyperbolic tones the direction we were heading (west), the rules of the train (no eating, no drinking, etc), and the next stop (Central West End).  He finished his customary greeting with a hearty "and have a blessed day."  Initially, I was briefly startled to hear a government employee officially speak in such an overtly religious manner over the loud speaker, but then I (little atheist, agnostic me) got over it.  Why?  Because he was black.

Well, sort of.  More specifically, because of the distinctive quality with which "urban" (impoverished or working class) African Americans say, "Have a blessed day."  They say it differently than any white person I've ever known.  In a multitude of respects.  They are not condescending; as in,"Have a blessed day, [you infernal heathens]" - forced smile in tow.  Or holier than thou; the way some white people sanctimoniously state: "May God bless you; [See how kind and close to God I am?  I'm even putting a good word in for you]."  Or coldly robotic and empty-eyed, "God-bless-you" and they're off to the next thing they have planned to do. 

In fact, working class black people are the opposite of divisive in their greeting.  A warmth pervades their voices.  A sweetness of community and comradery is communicated.  When I was younger, I noticed that brown people commonly said this to each other, but rarely to me.  As I grew older and had more opportunity to live and work closely with people of African descent, they extended this blessing to me more often.  Although I am the most militant of agnostics/atheists, this "Have a blessed day" expression invariably felt like the most positive affirmation of our world and my place in it. 

In a peculiar way, I appreciated that proletariat African Americans routinely omitted God from the phrase, "Have a blessed day." I wanted black people to be empowered to bless of their own volition.  Especially with reference to the history of Christianity and black worship.  It always sickened me to think that Christians had systematically infiltrated black people's heritage (often robbing them of their ancestor's spirituality) and replaced their long worshiped and dearly held God(s) with the Christian God.

So it seemed to me that these people of color were taking something back when they told me, "Have a blessed day."  As though, they personally recognized the brilliance of their own being.  As if they embraced their own is-ness.  Yes, they are in the "lower" class; yes, white people have exploited them for centuries, but regardless, they can bless the hell out of you and they celebrate it.  It is a refreshing thing to recognize one's own Godliness.  One's own inherent worth.  One's own holiness. This morning, that Metro conductor communicated his blessings at countless stops and will hopefully continue to do so in the mornings to come.  What a joyful way to begin the day.

Om shanti.