Be Kind, Not Kind of a Bitch

Never stop being nice.  Do cold-hearted, money-hungry, foul-mouthed, rude and crude shmucks get ahead every day?  Of course they do.  After all, they’re cold-hearted, money-hungry, foul-mouthed, rude and crude shmucks.  You’re always gonna see your typical assholes pushing to the front of the line in an amusement park, teaching their kids that that’s the right thing to do.  Sorry, but it’s a fact of life.  But I want you to think long and hard about something.  For the most part (and I’m not talking about an extreme case of someone punching you in the face or pushing your grandma down a flight of stairs) don’t you notice niceness before you notice nastiness?  I know I definitely do.  I’ll explain...  

When I hold a door for someone at work, and they don’t say “Thank you,” sure, I curse their lives for about ten seconds and wonder what the world is coming to, but then my brain automatically feels stupid because my tirade is almost always interrupted by someone saying “Good morning” or “How are you today?” or “Pretty top.”  Anyway, my point is that as much as I love being cynical, sometimes I just can’t follow through with it.  I guess I'm just so used to people being mean that I am that much happier when they are nice.  And that’s what made me come to this conclusion: I am always going to be nice.

Now, when I say "nice," I don’t mean I’m going to be a pushover.  Because, after all, everyone knows that there is a key difference between the definitions of “nice” and “pushover.”  People who are nice smile, as I’ve said, they hold doors, they are friendly; they are often warm and can be confided in.  Pushovers, on the other hand, are generally considered to be weak and spineless.  They will do anything you ask of them, redefining the phrase “Can you do me a favor?” to basically mean “I know you’re going to do me this favor, there’s just a matter of how quickly.”  I have never been a pushover and I don’t see myself crossing that border in the near future.  However, I also don’t see myself crossing the other border, either – into the Land of Assholeness.  You see, while it is not on any current maps, the Land of Assholeness is a huge, but lonely, place where cranky people live.  Just like those crazy fanatics who want to convert the entire world to their “great” religion at any cost, these Crankies (as they’re known for short) wake up miserable, and feel the need to anything in their power to ensure that everyone around them becomes just as miserable as they are.  The Crankies don’t say “Thank you,” they let doors slam in other people’s face, and they say things like, “Ugh, I hate that show.  You actually watch that garbage?” when you tell them about your favorite TV show. 

Most people think that most Crankies are old – but that just isn’t the case anymore.  Sure, it’s true that you have your fair share of elderly Crankies – and probably for good reason.  It must be hard to wake up at 4AM, take eight or nine pills for God only knows what failing organs, and then sit outside and watch people with firm skin and tight asses jog by you with their non-sagging breasts/pecks bouncing and non-white hair blowing in the breeze.  Personally, I’ve always been jealous of old people.  I mean, think about it.  They don’t have to go to work because the government just sends them money every week, their house and car are paid off, they have no more kids to raise, they don’t have to worry about the keeping up with the latest fashions or hitting up the latest clubs because, let’s face it, people are just proud of them for not dying yet.  They really don’t even have to get up from the front porch or from in front of the TV all day if they didn’t want to.  And then there’s the whole Depends thing.  What a life.   They should be happy.  

Jenisms

Things I think about and/or have learned over time:

1.              Crying is done best in the shower: The rain is nice too, but people are usually around in the rain, and plus, it’s harder to focus on whatever the hell you’re crying about when your clothes are all gross and sticking to you.

2.              When you feel sorry for yourself, it’s a lot easier to keep feeling sorry for yourself.  When your happy, it seems to be pretty short-lived.

3.              When you really need to take a picture of something, and you’re lucky enough to happen to be carrying around your camera, the damned thing will probably be dead.

4.              Wearing heels always seems like a good idea until three minutes into a party.

5.              Mac computers are, in fact, way better than PCs.  (#6 correlates to this fact.)

6.              PC people hate Macs, until they get a Mac, then they just hate themselves for prolonging the time in which they got their Mac.

7.              No matter what you do or how smart you are, you will not be able to block all light from coming into your bedroom.  That’s why vampires sleep in coffins.

8.              Girls, at least one of your newly painted nails and/or toenails will always get messed up after a manicure.

9.              Guys, “I’m sorry” is not ever enough, chocolate is always always the official makeup seal.

10.          Spandex for fat people is never okay, not even if you’re a fashionable fat person wearing fashionable leggings.  I’m sorry, I didn’t make up that rule.  I just enforce it to the point of death.

11.          It never occurs to anyone to listen to happy music when they’re sad.  I always tend to listen to music that should be labeled “Music that ensures to make you feel even lower than you already do.”

12.          I always hate reading until I start reading a book I like and then I walk around telling people how much I love reading, until I finish the book and start the process all over again.

13.          I vow that I need a vacation until I go on vacation and miss home.   Then when I get home, I miss vacation.

14.          When I read a really funny, down-to-earth book I form a love/hate relationship with it because as I’m laughing, I’m secretly thinking, “Fuck you, [author], I could have written this.  I think this shit up all day.  I just never thought anyone would care about reading it.  Now you’re a millionaire and fucking copyrighted it.  Asshole.”  Then I praise the author to everyone I know and desperately search for more of his/her books so I can do the same thing all over again.

I feel that the faster we, as cultured and educated human beings, accept these things, the better.

Today, I Am The Pigeon!

I really do believe in the whole Ying/Yang way of looking at the world.  I’ve never really done any research on the topic or anything.  I just think everything in the universe comes down to this one philosophical and ingenious quotation: Some days you’re the pigeon, and some days you’re the statue.  Not that I’m a huge fan of pigeons or anything.  But the point is – life sometimes sucks, but sometimes, it doesn’t suck completely.  Sure, you may have lost your wedding ring and your wife is going to most likely do such unpleasant things to your testicles that you’ll spend more time crying than thinking that this is the most time your wife has ever spent touching your testicles, but, hey, remember when the girl at McDonald’s forgot to charge you for those extra Chicken Selects that you added onto your order last minute?

You have to accept that bad shit happens, but still hold on to that hope that good shit will come along and, at the very least, ease some of the pain that the bad shit caused.  Sure, your self esteem could take a nose dive sometimes, like when the Chinese teenager asked you if you wanted his seat on the train because he thought you were pregnant.  But, hey, that doesn’t mean that you should forget about that time that you got whistled at by three construction workers, a teenager, and an elderly person with a dog!

        A perfect example of the pigeon quote:  All of my Susan B. Anthony women’s rights empowerment goes right out the fricking window when I’m in the supermarket and I can’t reach something and I have to ask someone to get it down for me.  You can’t get much lower than that (no pun intended).  But there’s always those times when an old person can’t reach something and asks me to get it down.  Yeah, those are the good days.

         Today I interviewed for a really cool internship and got it!  I am in a crazy good mood.  I think the company I'm going to be working for in going to totally be the new Facebook and I am going to be a part of it! Ahhhh :)

Bunnies, Bikinis & Beauty

So, today is Easter, and I had an awesome day.  It started off with eating cake batter, a chocolate bunny, and Peeps. I then continued to eat pretty much up until this blog post. 

Right now I'm staring in disbelief at my sunburn (yes, SUNburn -- we had sun here in Alaska...umm, I mean Brooklyn).  When I opened the back door to let The Bud back in the house at noon, I saw how beautiful the weather was and ran upstairs to change into shorts and a tank top.  By the time I battled the garage door and got the beach chair out, I was sweating profusely and decided to change into a bikini.  I listened to music for twenty minutes before turning on my new audiobook and dying laughing in my backyard looking like a crazy person (just looking like one? haha).  Now I have this awesome glow. Woohoo for April actually feeling like April :)

Speaking of my awesome glow, I started using this new face wash about two weeks ago.  Remember when I told you that the professional makeup artist was completely and utterly disgusted by my apparently dry, horrible skin?  Well, even though I thought it was completely unnoticeable and irrelevant -- good news, it's gone!  Want to know my secret?  Being brutally attacked by a Russian facialist and losing a fucking hour from my day -- that's my secret lol.  After being attacked by the Russian woman who stabbed me repeatedly in the face with a needle-like knife torture device, I wasn't allowed to wear makeup for two days.  I think I scared my co-workers, family, and boyfriend, but, hey, those are the facial rules, and who am I to ignore them? After the 48-hour time lapse of ugliness, I began using my new products. Now, before I go to bed, I use a nighttime face wash, then scrub my poor skin with "toner" to remove all the makeup (which, by the way, is apparently buried beneath my pores because it literally takes like 5 cotton balls soaked with the stuff to get all of the concealer off my face), and then put on my old lady night cream.  When I wake up in the morning I clean my apparently-filthy-from-sleeping face with another face wash, and then proceed to put on more old lady daytime cream before applying my makeup.  

I would have said that the $162 worth of face crap was useless, but I really do see an improvement.  I guess you don't really realize how non-soft your face is until you feel it after weeks of properly washing it and moisturizing it and see how soft it is.  Anyway, me and my pretty, sunburned, soft face have to go. Happy Easter! Talk to you soon.

Jennifer

The Meeting, Not the Interview

So, is it just me, or is it incredibly awkward when you sit down with someone for an initial interview, and the first thing they say is: "So, tell me a little about yourself."  Tell you about myself?  What do you want to know?  I'm a cancer, I love chocolate, I'm a shopaholic?  To me, a first interview is a lot like a first date.  There's so much ground to cover, but you don't wanna give away the farm right from the start.  You have to sound unique and fun, but not too much of a party-girl.  You have to sound cultured and well-read, but not a total bore that no one wants to hang out with.  They have to believe that you are equal parts funny, witty, charismatic, intelligent, diligent, organized and hard-working.  So you simply keep some things to yourself.  Hey, it's not lying.  It's simply putting your best foot forward.  So, maybe don't mention the fact that you have successfully eaten a quart of Ben & Jerry's Rocky Road in your bed by yourself while watching a marathon of Grey's Anatomy.  Perhaps omit that you go to the gym solely to get one of those awesome berry shakes, pretend to ride a stationary bike, and stare at the guys lifting weights.  Don't discuss the piles of clothes and shoes littering your bedroom at the moment, causing you to act like a climber trying to get to the top of Mount Everest every time you leave your room.  And, last but not least, you should probably not let it known that you only shave the part of your calf that your pants will be showing off that day.

Instead of sharing all of those totally-you-but-completely-embarassing details, talk about your schooling, where you live, how you're family-oriented.  Talk about your pets and how much you love to drive around with sunroof open, listening to blasting music.  Talk about how much you love to read (so what if you haven't read an actual book in over three years, they don't know this).  Talk about your love of fashion, and nature, and traveling and other beautiful things.  

I assume in a first interview a person can go one of two ways -- you either tell the best, most promising things about yourself, or you do what I did, and make a fool out of yourself.  I had a "meeting" with a magazine writer yesterday in a smelly bar in the village.  I had prepared for this meeting (not interview, meeting) by reading some of his articles, doing a background check on him to see what he liked, what he wrote about, etc.  I was totally prepared to woo him with my knowledge of researching, fact-checking, and proofreading.  And yet, when I sat down in the huge wooden booth, I was completely unprepared for the seven little words that came out of his mouth -- "So, tell me a little about yourself."  I believe my exact words were something along the lines of "Umm, well, let's see, umm."  Smooth, I know.  Then I graduated to much more mature sentences like, "Well, I'm twenty-three years old...I'll be twenty-four in the summer."  Really, Jen, really?! Did you actually just say that you'll be twenty-four?! What are you in elementary school?!  "I'm seven and three-quarters!"  Humiliation. Thank God I'm so pretty.  I was able to do that smile, eye-catching thing that I've had down-pat for the passed ten years, and saved my pitiful self.

Then I moved on to talk about how I'm a teacher, but I'm trying to get away from that field and move toward the world of magazines and writing.  And then, another curve ball.  He asked, "Why?"  "Why do I not want to be a teacher?" I asked back.  "Yeah, why the change of heart?"  I could have answered honestly and said something along the lines of "Little children are the bane of my existence," but I decided to go with a more loving and generic, "I feel more like a babysitter than a teacher and writing is what I am really passionate about, so..."  After a few more questions about how old my students are and how long I've been teaching, he, thankfully, moved on.

That's when he asked if I had ever written anything before and I began talking about the book I wrote about my studies abroad in Italy.  (Damn, could have mentioned that I love to travel.)  He asked if I'd gotten it published yet and I said that I was trying, which I am.  Then, strangely enough, he started asking me how I was trying.  How am I trying?  "I sent out like 200 query letters, got 4 maybe's, and about a million No's."  He seemed to accept that.  Who is this guy?  Asking me questions about myself and my book?  I was so confused.  But then when I told my mom the story, she said it's common for an interviewer to ask you to talk about yourself and to give a reason for wanting to leave your current job.  Who knew?  The irony is all I do is talk about myself anyway, and yet there I was, speechless.  

When we finally started discussing the job at hand, I sounded worst than ever.  It turned out that he needs someone will a lot more free time than I have.  But I tried to stay strong.  When he said there would be red carpet interviews, I tried to contain my salivating.  "Have you ever interviewed anyone before?" he asked.  "No, but I think I'd be great at conducting interviews," I said, eyes shining.  "Why do you say that?" he asked.  "I dunno, people just like talking to me," I fired back, smile big, eyes slightly crinkled. He laughed, I smiled brighter.  Got him. 

So, for anyone who hasn't gone on an interview in awhile or has never been on one at all -- take note.  Have awesome, witty and intelligent things to say about yourself and your work.  Don't be cocky, but sound incredibly confident about crap you've never done in your whole life and have no clue how to do.  Dress really pretty and get your hair blown out.  Whiten your teeth so they glow a little.  Wear the good makeup and put on heels.  And don't forget to shake hands, keep eye contact, and smile.  Everyone loves a happy, confident, smiling person.  The smile will get them every time ;)  Except, of course, for the times it doesn't.  But try anyway!

Jennifer

Luck Be A Lady Tonight...Please!

So, here's the thing about Atlantic City or, as I like to call it, Mini Vegas: Everyone comes here thinking they are going to win. And you don't come in thinking you're gonna win fifty bucks, either. You are convinced that you're going to win BIG. You think you're going to win enough to cover your entire trip -- food & tolls included -- and then have more left over to go shopping. You're completely prepared to text everyone you know to proclaim your victory. And then something shocking happens: You lose. And you're so surprised to have lost that you check your numbers against the winning numbers one last time. And then another. Then you scratch your head while the totally-void-of-personality dealer take your chips from you. You want to scream, "No, you're supposed to be doubling my chips, not taking them away!" But you don't. Instead you place more chips down on any number that has ever symbolized any kind of importance to you: family's birthdays, anniversaries, important events. And, strangely enough, you lose again. Hard to believe, I know. This goes on for the next few rounds or so until you suddenly remember that there are other numbers that you've forgotten are very important to you. And there goes that money, too.

Now, you're getting desperate. You start remembering why you always leave Atlantic City saying you'll never gamble again. But there's still time. Why lose a few hundred when this could just be a blip in the radar? This is your streak of bad luck; it'll change. You can win it back. You will win it back. This attitude lasts about ten minutes or so until every last dime is gone and you're staring blankly in the mirror of the 50-stalled bathroom. After five minutes of attempting to get the soap to come out of the censor-powered dispenser, and then another two trying to wave your hand around the stupid faucet, waiting for the censor to pick up the fact that you've been standing there and allow the damn water to come out and wash away your troubles, you finally realize that you've hit rock bottom. There's no more money for gambling. There's no more money for any of the lavish meals you planned to treat yourself to. There's no more money for shopping. Well, there's always your credit card...

Pajamas Are A Girl's Best Friend

Today's topic of discussion: Pajamas.

Can you think of anything more pleasant than pajamas?  And I'm not talking about the pajamas you see girls wearing in the Victoria's Secret commercials, either.  I'm talking about comfy, huge, embarrassing-to-be-caught-in pajamas.  I don't know about you, but the second I get home from work, I fly upstairs to my room, throw my tight-fitting clothes in the hamper, and slip into my soft, gigantic pajamas.  Right now I'm wearing my short-sleeved "Hug Me I'm 1/2 Italian" shirt (size X-Large, of course) that I bought three years ago at the 18th Avenue Feast.  I could totally get away with wearing this as a nightgown if I lived alone.  But #1 I don't live alone, and #2 I love pajamas pants waaay too much to ever be one of those girls who wear nightgowns.  My pants of choice at the moment are felt blue Men's Medium "This Is How I Roll!" pants that I bought for Danny last Christmas and stole from Danny this Christmas.  I think the big Pillsbury Doughboys give it a nice touch. 

In the fall and winter I wear my long-sleeved red "Cats With Funny Hats" shirt -- which does, in fact, have a picture of cats wearing funny hats.  It's probably about seven years old.  There are now tiny holes on the arm of that shirt, ironically from my own cat, who wouldn't be caught dead in a funny hat.  My winter pants variate from the afore mention Pillsbury Doughboy, to leopard-print cotton ones matching the cat top, to felt white ones with pink and red hearts.  Depending on just how cold it is, I have my Yankee sweatshirt (X-Large, stolen from my dad), my hot pink robe with white polkadots, and my beige Ugg-knockoff moccasin slippers.

You would never actually catch me wearing pajamas out, however.  I always try and dress to impress.  When you're five foot one and a quarter, you need to stay away from baggy anything and try to spruce yourself up with crazy padded bras and form-fitting-great-ass pants.  Heels don't hurt, either.  If I'm feeling up to the torture that day.  On that note, it really pisses me off when I see high school girls or trashy girls that are pretending they are still in high school walking down the streets in their pajamas.  I just want to scream at them: It is not okay!  Don't they know that they are not the only ones out there who love pajamas so much that they want to  hold on to their softness all day long?  Don't they know that bra straps and tight jeans and stilettos hurt us, too?  But we, the civilized people of the world, don't behave like them, do we?  We wear jeans and dress pants and leggings; we wear shirts, and bras, and blouses.  I am often overcome by equal parts jealousy and disgust when I see these pigs on the street.  For goodness sake, buy a pair of Victoria's Secret Pink sweatpants, ladies.  And I use that term lightly.  Pajamas are meant to be sacred at-home attire.

I'm not sure if you're bored or not, but I can literally discuss pajamas for hours.  I long for them from the second I have to take them off in the horrible morning, to the second I reunite with them after my long, hard day of dealing with the little monsters.  They are home.  They are everything.  All the pain and hardship of the day melts away with the cloud-like comfort they provide me.  And, no, this is not an advertisement for any particular pajamas, nor is it an exaggeration.  Pajamas are the one fashion that will never go out of style, and if I could live in them all the time, I would.

Favorite Lyrics of the Day:  

Today I don't feel like doing anything

I just wanna lay in my bed

Don't feel like picking up my phone, so leave a message at the tone
'Cause today I swear I'm not doing anything
Nothing at all, nothing at all

"The Lazy Song" by Bruno Mars