Jenrez

And Then There Was ASHA

OMG, I have a job interview for a salon tomorrow.  OMG.  OMG.  OMG.  The nerves are a shakin'.

Insane in the Membrane

After my friends dwindled out of the bar last night, I was left (by choice) to finish my beer at one of the tables in the center of the pub.  Exposed.  I sat there, bored, wishing for some strength, twirling my phone around and around on the table, staring at it in a hypnotic trance when I was interrupted by a large man named Sean.  It was his birthday.  And apparently he wanted to share it with me. 

I’m a friendly person; but I could only give him a half smile due to my mood.  The birthday boy was not phased by this obvious standoffishness, though.  He was adamant that I partake in some birthday conversation.  So, I tried to appease him.  The conversation went something like this:

“So, my friend has this theory that everyone is insane.  Do you think we’re all insane?”

“What?”

“My friend, he thinks that all the 9-5ers are insane and the people that are jobless are insane, etc, etc.  So, like, everyone is just striving for sanity.”

“Um, so you’re saying unique preferences of lifestyle make you insane?”

Thinking: I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

“I don’t know, it’s my friend’s idea.”

Thinking: you’d be better off at least trying to come up with your own.

“Huh.” 

“So what do you do?”

Thinking: I avoid conversations like this. For a living.  I’ve reached sanity.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

To Hunt or Be Hunted

Sunday night Becky and I read tarot for each other and not only did I get the Death Card, but after SEVERAL SHUFFLINGS AND CUTTINGS OF THE DECK, Becky also received the Death Card.

Grim Reaper and shit.

(I don't associate tarot with freaky spirits or anything... I took it as a "Transformation Card" and thought nothing more of it).

Until....

I woke up Monday morning at 4:30am with the Heebiest of Jeebies after a nightmare about ghosts, one little girl of a ghost in particular.

I immediately shrugged it off and thought I had been watching too many previews for the Ring Two lately.

But later that night after work, Becky told me about how she and her sister played the Ouija board once in the apartment. Apparently they were visited by a 7 year old girl who had died there.

THEN, THEN... I take a shower and when I'm done and I peel the shower curtain back, I see that The Friggin Bathroom Door is Cracked Open.

I never do that. Ever. Out of habit, I wouldn't have done it. I had to turn the fan on as well, WHICH IS RIGHT NEXT TO THE DOOR. There is no doubt in my mind that I would have shut that door. I had no intention of fixing my hair, brushing my teeth, etc, etc... all things in which may have caused me to decide not to shut the door. But, I went straight in to that bathroom with the intention of taking a shower. I always close the door when I'm taking a shower.

So, I get freaked out, and I run out in my towel, still dripping wet to Becky who is on the couch. I tell her and she looks at me and says, "who were you talking to? Weren't you on the phone in there?"

I HADNT SPOKEN A WORD. NOT ONE WORD.

(also of note: Becky and her sister have both had the same dream (months apart) while sleeping in this apartment. The dream consisted of them waking up and feeling pinned down by a hand on their shoulder.)

Any ghost hunters out there?

I arise in the morning torn between a desire to sleep more, and a desire to sleep more.

"If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world, and a desire to enjoy the world.  This makes it hard to plan the day."  -- E. B. White

My Mother & Dr. Demento

We started the evening at a nice sushi restaurant and after a glass and a half of wine, my mother entered Tipsy Land where one’s VOICE DECIBELS ARE RAISED TO AN ANNOYING LEVEL.  Tim asked the waiter about the difference between two tuna pieces and the waiter began to describe them, one piece as being cut from the fatty belly of the tuna which gives it more flavor.  Immediately, my mother quiped, “WHY WOULD WE WANT IT TO BE FROM THE FATTY BELLY?!  WE DON’T WANT FAT BELLIES?!!” The waiter didn’t get it.  He didn’t know what to do.  I didn’t know what to do.  Tim certainly didn’t know what to do.  And instead of laughing/waving the awkward moment off, she began to talk about it more.  I believe she even grabbed her gut and spoke of Buddha.

Our last Maki roll of the evening had a bit of a fishy taste to it, most likely the seaweed.  Margaret’s face scrunched up as she was chewing and she turned bright red.  I was scared she was going to show us her food like she loves to do with mashed potatoes or even worse spit it out on the table. She managed to get the sushi down, but afterward she began to talk about how it tasted like rotting fish heads.  And because talking about it isn’t good enough for Margaret, she broke into song “Fish Heads, Fish Heads! Rolly, Polly Fish Heads!”  Again, the decibel level is priceless.

After sushi, we strolled over to another bar across the street.  It’s only around 9pm at this point, so the bar is fairly empty. We grabbed a seat in the back corner (Thanks, Tim!), but it didn’t help completely. We looked around to see if there was a waitress or if we should go up to the bar to get our drinks.  The bartender was clearing some tables and as my mother lit her cigarette with elbows atop spread knees, she shouted, “OH, SHE’LL COME OVER!” to which the bartender tersely replied from across the room, “I’m sorry, but I’m not waiting tables tonight.”  Unaffected, Margaret then strolled up to the bar to get some drinks.  She requested Bailey’s and coffee, but to no avail.  Instead she got WHISKEY because, you know, that makes sense.

For the next two hours, she talked and talked and talked.  She talked about camping, she talked about drugs, she talked about getting drunk, she talked about death and life and never throwing anything away, she talked about her new kitchen cabinets; she talked about giving herself plumbers crack while she tried to fix a pipe installing the new kitchen sink. 

Sadly, though, not once did the woman ask Tim anything about himself.  Not once did she include us in her conversation.  I love her like no other, but the only thing Tim could say about her was, “She really likes the spotlight, huh?”

Happy Valentine's Day to Me

You go out for a nice Italian dinner for valentine’s day.  He tries to hold your hand from across the table.  You get flustered, and probably talk too much about something trivial.  You’re comfortable with him, but for some reason the whole setup strikes you as awkward.  Maybe it’s the hallmark holiday.  Maybe it’s the crowded restaurant.  He doesn’t like that your table is in the corner, but it has a comfort to you that makes you unwilling to give it up.  The food is served.  It’s delicious and you are relaxed now, especially after the second glass of chardonnay.  The main entrée is heart-shaped ravioli; but you have to split them in half with your fork before you eat them.  You wonder if it’s ominous. 

You buy dinner as your valentine’s present.  He asks you if that was your plan all along because he remembers you mentioning a shopping trip.  You feel guilty because you were too lazy, but you just spent $100 on dinner, so you don’t feel that guilty.  You walk with him into the bar across the street.  Both of you neglect to see the broken heart on the front door. The DJ is in drag and hell bent on shouting Down with Love for the rest of the evening.  You wonder if people are staring at you while you kiss from across the table.  He soon asks if you still talk to your ex-boyfriend and you realize that the question stems from his own broken heart. You look at him hard and wonder if you are in this for the long haul.

You go back to your place.  You drink a beer and smoke a cigarette on the back porch and smile at each other.  You hope it doesn't take long to finish the beer.  He leans over and kisses you. You make note that this is the best kiss you've ever experienced.  You hold each other while you think about how comfortable it is and you go back to your room to play until exhaustion.  You catch yourself trying to learn the lines of his face before you lay your head on his shoulder, staying as close as possible, thinking that long hauls don't matter because moments are moments and it's rare that they are as good as these.  You drift in and out of sleep, waking up to reposition, soaking up every moment of his warmth until you fall back asleep. 

Cymbals and Saxophones

Okay. Time to talk about the new boyfriend, well, sort of boyfriend, really Guy I’ve Been Dating for a Few Weeks. We kind of claimed it a relationship, but we kind of claimed it that way on the second date. Does that count? Regardless, neither of us is looking elsewhere so I will henceforth refer to him as my boy, Tim.

You know he’s a keeper when:

You walk up to him and what looks like a friend of his laughing their asses off in a loud bar and he (still laughingly) tells you in your ear, "this is the Cymbal Guy." And, trying to find the humor in that statement you begin to laugh for their sake and proceed to say in the friend’s ear, “So, you’re the Cymbal Guy, huh?”

Then you realize, “Oooohhhh wait. The Cymbal Guy. Shit.” This is the guy that never gave him his cymbal back.

OOPS.

You tell him your mishap and he not only laughs it off, but kisses you on the cheek before he proceeds to apologize to Cymbal Guy. Where did I find him, you ask?

Oh yeah, the Internet, that’s right. DAMMIT.

Bowling Shoes

I will start out by saying that the myspace date has turned out to be much better than I originally anticipated.  I really think I like this guy.  Anyway, we have a bowling date this evening and I was thinking about it, catching myself saying “bowling shoes” over and over in my head, wondering why I knew something about “bowling shoes,” and then I remembered that it was CODE that my friend Donna and I had created at a party when she was pointing out this Guy With a Big Ass Who’s Kinda Cute and Proportionate Elsewhere But Oh My God The Size of His Ass.

"Bowling Shoes, Jen!  Bowling Shoes!"  Poor guy. 

Artsy Fartsy

My boss just tried to rationalize to me that the color red is a cool color and blues/greens are warm colors because red symbolizes anger.

And I thought I had no artistic ability... but maybe it's that I have no imagination either.