May your New Years Eve be a rockin' one

I just feel terrible about this. Since Bill O'Reilly and his Crusaders (I smell a delightful Motown group name!) told me that I wasn't allowed to say "Happy Holidays" (a term which I, a Jew, use merely to mean Christmas and New Years, not even including Channukah-to assume one celebrates my religious holiday seems a tad uncouth and, why, just a little fascist) and I didn't see so many of you in the time between Christmas and today, I barely got to wish any of you a happy new year! So here it is: Happy New Year!

Well that was a tad anticlimactic.

Refill this

Oh, hi Internet! Me again. This is my 234th post of the day, because I now live in my bed and the only things I can reach are my alarm clock, phone, tissues, and computer, and it is nearly impossible to use a box of Kleenex to blog anything worth reading. The reason for my post is this: I just needed you to know that I hate a certain pharmacy which shall remain nameless, but it's a big chain and has three letters in its name and it basically SUCKS HARD.

I called said "pharmacy" to refill my inhaler. You know, the one that I have to take twice a day, every day, since I was 10 until I die so that my lungs will function (it's not the rescue one that nerdy kids pull out of their pockets and suck on in 80's movies when they get nervous, its the one I need to LIVE). I was informed that sorry! It can not be refilled because prescriptions are only good for one year (SINCE WHEN YOU DIRTY LYING LIARS) and mine ran out 3 days ago. But could I refill it 3 days ago? NO because it would have been too early for my insurance! FABULOUS. So now I have to wait until Tuesday to find out if my old doctor who I don't even see anymore will call it in for me, and if he doesn't I am S.O.L. and will end up in the hospital by Tuesday night.

On another note, I am running out of things to complain about and I am still sick and stuck in bed. Don't worry though; I'm in the midst of planning out my travel itinerary for a very exciting trip to the bathroom to brush my teeth for the first time in a day and a half. Leave me an address, I'll send a postcard!

Plague-Induced Bed-In (For Peace!), Hour 42

I refuse to leave this bed until we have world peace (and clear nasal cavities)! Look, I figure as long as I am stuck in this king-sized, fluffy, down-encased prison, I might as well support a cause. I would feel a lot better if John and Yoko were here, and maybe a little bit of press, because this bed-in is looking pretty pathetic (just me and mountains of tissues, my echinacea, the vicks vapo-rub that I am not about to rub anywhere because I think it's weird, some cold tea, and the nyquil).

I didn't actually get out of bed until 6 pm today, and that was just to go upstairs and whine to anyone who would listen and cry because the can of chicken soup was waaaaaay too hard to open and freak out my dog, who is part hound and can smell anything a mile away and apparently hates menthol (ok, I rubbed the vapo-rub under my nose, which is apparently like the one thing you are NOT supposed to do, aside from smearing it on a cracker and eating it. But I am not going to put that crap on my chest and go topless! This is not Plague Victims Gone Wild!).

I'm beginning to get a little restless here. How are we doing with that Coke slurpee, hmm?

Bad medicine is what I need

This post has absolutely nothing to do with Stones drummer Charlie Watts. But I am sick, and when I am sick I can do whatever I want, and I adore him and how he dresses like an investment banker. Actually, if you need me to make a connection, here you go: I am sick and don't want anyone to bother me-actually, I would like them to just go away, get off my cloud, if you will. Hey, "Get Off My Cloud" contains my favorite drum intro ever, performed by the afore-pictured Charlie Watts!

So yesterday I was all "yeah, I am TOTALLY going to just call out sick tomorrow, just skip work, I'm gonna do it and then just shop or sleep or go see ten movies, wahooooo, yeah!" knowing full well that I never would, because a.) I have never ever lied about being sick to Ferris Bueller myself out of work and b.) I totally love and cherish my paid sick days way too much to waste them. But I talked all day about how I was going to do it. So what happens today? Yep, wake up with the plague. And I can't even watch one movie from my couch, because walking around makes me dizzy (YES, dizziness and nasal congestion are indeed plague symptoms, what are you, a doctor? Shut up).

If you know me, you know that when I get sick I revert to my 5 year old self. Frankly, I don't like being uncomfortable ever, hence the reason I went camping and slept in a tent precisely once, and it was in my backyard with my dad when I was like 6, and it lasted about 3 hours before I learned an important childhood lesson (nature is stupid and lacks air-conditioning) and then the next day, true story, I took a shovel to the tent and ripped it apart because it was ridiculous and I already had a house that actually had a floor (I think that was the most violent thing I have ever done-I guess I just really hated the great outdoors). I get really cranky and can't function when I have a cold. I also refuse to do things that will make me better, like ingest anything other than Coke slurpees (true story, I was super sick the week before Amit's wedding and my bridesmaid dress with the 8 billion dollars worth of alterations didn't fit because I lost like 7 pounds from living on ice and high-fructose corn syrup and I spent the whole night doing the classy strapless dress tug move) or take medicine.

The moral of the story is this: please go buy me a Coke slurpee and some trashy tabloid magazines and bring them over to my house. The end.

Also, if you see him hanging out around town, bring Charlie Watts.

Zoom, Zoom

My brother is a rock star. A little, mini 7th grade rock star, but a rock star nonetheless

OK, last night when I heard the news about Ford, I knew, I KNEW, that some jackass headline writer somewhere (ok, actually more than one) would write "Ford Tough" or some equivalent as the hed on a story about him. So what do I see this evening on some random station? Yes, exactly. I knew it, and I should have said something last night so today you would all be praising my genius. I knew this because when I worked at TIME in London, I wrote dozens of photo captions and heds and photo-leads every week, and if there was some kind of pun/pop-cultural reference to be made, I was all over it.

So, my site-counter for this blog (which I think is broken and doesn't really work) tells me when people find my blog by googling things. It's almost always people googling the Beatles (but weirdly enough, this entry gets a lot of hits-people are really into researching "Hair of the Dog", apparently). But I just need to say, without looking like some weirdo Internet stalker, to the person who googled "jakob dylan, jew-fro" and found my blog: I really, really hope you've stuck around. I feel like we should be friends.

Most of all you've got to hide it from the kids*

Dear Cute 19/20-ish Looking Guy Working In The DVD Section Of Best Buy,
I don't care how cute you are, you "ma'am-ed" me 4 times so if you're expecting me to flirt back when you tease me about my lack of technological knowledge, you will be waiting forever.

THANKS JERK

Love,

Jenn

I am TWENTY-THREE. I am NOT A MA'AM. NO NO NO. DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A MA'AM, I MEAN SERIOUSLY I HAVE THE FACE OF A 12 YEAR OLD HALF THE TIME:

NO, THAT IS NOT A MA'AM. THAT IS A HOT MESS WHO MIGHT CONSIDER SOME EYE-MAKEUP AND POSSIBLY A COMB SOME TIME IN HER LIFE, BUT NOT A MA'AM.

In other breaking news, I am stressed out and too busy to do anything. That is shocking, totally new information! I am never stressed! Never complaining about my lack of free time! I am also sad about James Brown, maybe even too sad to blog about it (but if you don't know how important he was to music, to our country during an extremely fragile and tense time racially and socially, etc. then I feel sad for you and PLEASE learn about him). But it did make me think that I need some kind of grandiose nickname, a la Godfather of Soul. The Second Cousin of Mayhem, perhaps?

*Get the reference? I AM AN OLD LADY, a "Mrs. Robinson", if you will...

ETA: UM, just got a CNN alert that President Ford just died. I don't know what's sadder, the fact that he died or the fact that I know basically nothing about him. Except that Squeaky Fromme (or however one might chose to spell her name) tried to kill him (do you see me with the pop culture knowledge?? Do you SEE me?!?! I don't know a damn thing about his presidency, but I know which member of the Manson family tried to off him).

Hopefully, the stockings have now been hung (with care!)

Merry Christmas, you gentiles! Seriously, I hope it is lovely and happy and you get to be with your families and that you get lots of fun presents to share with me. My Christmas Eve will be decidedly less merry this year. Usually, we go to the only kosher deli in DC, and then head over and see the trees. When the sibs were younger, sometimes they'd ask inappropriate questions that people going to see the Christmas trees should probably know (Christmas Eve '97-"Daddy, who's that baby in that barn with all the animals"-Caroline, age 5, as people shot horrified looks at my father for not teaching his children about Jesus), but usually it is a very successful and joyous tradition. Until last year, when the owner of said restaurant got involved in a whole mess of political scandals and was charged with three felony counts of defrauding and all that jazz and had to close up shop. Oh, Jack Abramoff, I could forgive you for all of your shady, illegal activities, but how are your fellow chosen people supposed to get any protein now???

On another note, I went to a fake 5 year high-school reunion last night (people reading this blog who don't know me in real life are now all like "holy hell, this chick isn't 14??? An adult writes this crap?") and it was fun and not nearly as terrible as it had the potential of being. Although I don't remember being in school with 80% of the people there, those that I did know in attendance were generally the people that I actually liked in high-school. Um, also-congrats to Jen and Daniel and Leah who are engaged! Except, not all to each other. ALSO, if you weren't able to make it, and have spent the last 5 years wondering "is Jenn still kind of a tool?", I believe this picture tells you all you need to know:

Merry Christmas, ya'll!

Everything I Need To Know I Learned From Christmas Songs

I LOVE CHRISTMAS, especially the music. "Little Drummer Boy" is on my favorite songs of all time list. Yes, I am aware that I am a Jew. But guess what? SO WAS JESUS. And apparently he has something to do with the holiday. I can't quite make the connection between Jesus, Santa, and Crazy Spastic Elmo, though. REGARDLESS, here are the things that I HAVE learned from listening to your music over the years:

10. Holly is measured in boughs.
9. If you lack a metronome, donkeys and lambs can keep time while you drum.
8. For the love of God, don't let Grandma walk home from your house on Christmas Eve without some kind of light-reflecting clothing.
7. Eartha Kitt apparently has room under her tree for sables, checks, and a ’54 convertible, too (light blue).
6. If three kings showed up at my house and two offered me spices/weird things that I had never heard of while the other gave me gold, only one of them will be invited in. And it's not the jerk with the frankincense.
5. Anyone dumb enough to roast chestnuts on an open fire deserves a hell of a lot more than Jack Frost nipping at their nose.
4. When making a snowman, one must include a “corn-cob pipe”. I’m not sure what that is, but if there’s a long-lost verse from “Frosty, the Snowman” that tells you to pack the pipe with any illegal herbs, I’d advise against that.
3. Christians express love by giving each other fowl. I know, I wasn’t aware either. But seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, four calling birds, three French Hens, two turtle doves, and a Partridge in a pear tree equals A LOT of poultry.
2. Here was where I was going to insert a little factoid about who "Parson Brown" was and why one would name a snowman after him. But I got so bored with it I had to abandon my research. Sorry, kids.
1. Santa is a pervy dude who watches you when you sleep.

I just need to zen the eff out.

This week has been too. Much. You know your week's off to a bad start when you leave work Monday evening, stop at the grocery store to buy something for dinner and walk out with a bottle of Chardonnay and a Milky Way (Dark, thanks).

I have been sad since yesterday, when I was reading the Post and the "if your birthday is today" horoscope said "Pisces and Cancer people adore you." This upset me because I too want to be adored by both Pisces and Cancers alike. It's very important to me. If you are a Pisces or a Cancer, please affirm that you do in fact adore me, and not just people born on December 12.

I'm taking the GRE's on Tuesday. This stresses me a bit. So if you can't get in touch with me until Wednesday, this is why. Please don't hate me. I still know NO math (but I'm taking it as a positive sign that my number one school choice lists average verbal and written scores, yet no math at all. Please assure me that it will be ok), EXCEPT for graphs. You guys, I am a freaking GENIUS at graphs. I have NO idea where this came from or why this little skill never reared it's head when I was failing algebra, geometry, algebra 2, trig, etc., but I will be thankful for it now. For serious, I am a graphing wizard.

ALSO, I made the disturbing discovery that I am wicked awful at analogies, like really, really terrible. EVEN WHEN I KNOW THE MEANINGS OF ALL WORDS INVOLVED! I make really weird connections in my head between words or ideas that apparently the unimaginative bastards making these standardized tests fail to see. Whatever. I can read every graph in the land, I don't care.

Oh Fidel, you're SO next

So Pinochet died today. If you had no clue there was such a person, don't feel bad. He's one of those dudes/events that most high-schools in the US have deemed not necessary to learn about, kind of like the Iranian hostage situation. Whatever, we're like, miles and miles from Chile. 'Tis understandable.





In other news, I am so that girl. You know, the one who spends 17 bucks on a cake for her dog to commemorate the one year anniversary of his adoption. Enjoy the photographic evidence of my lameness, please:

Then I gave him a bone, which was bigger than his arm, but was apparently quite enjoyable.

And I was clearly exhausted from my Adoption Day Party planning.

If you guys tell anyone about this, I will hunt you down. This would RUIN my street cred.

Nothing's gonna change my world...

TRUE STORY, this morning I woke up singing "Instant Karma". I didn't even realize it was the 8th. As is obvious, my life right now is not quite so Beatles-saturated as it was this time last year. But let's pay our respects regardless, shall we?

And we all shine on

Like the moon and the stars and the sun

Yeah we all shine on

On and on and on on and on

Why in the world are we here

Surely not to live in pain and fear

Why on earth are you there

When you're everywhere

Come and get your share

Well we all shine on

Like the moon and the stars and the sun

Yeah we all shine on

Come on and on and on on on

And now that I've brought you all down, here's the kicker...

What's a few less creative geniuses in the world as long as we've got our right to bear arms, am I right? I pass the NRA headquarters on my way to and from work, I think I'll crank up some Lennon when I'm stuck in front of it in traffic tonight.

I've lost the will to blog

This is now my official headshot. I know I already used it in a facebook note, but it so perfectly captures my foul disposition, I'm sticking with it

I am tired and cranky. So if you're looking for sunshine and flowers and love and giggles, keep on truckin', friend. Eww, I can't believe I just typed "keep on truckin'". I immediately regret that decision. As well as the decision to actually formulate sentences in this entry and not use the good old bullet point cop-out method I have grown so fond of as of late.

I can attribute my lack of bubbliness to three things, which I will present in bulleted fashion, so ha:

1. No one in the DC/Metro area can drive. Every morning on my way to work, I am surrounded by people who have no place to be, no place at all, and are all apparently just joy-riding down Braddock road at 6:30 am at speeds slower than the high-schoolers walking to their bus stops. Now, I am an agressive, angry driver. I tail these people going 25 mph in a 45 zone, I use the horn liberally and without warning, and I am not afraid to yell at you and curse like a sailor and maybe flip you off (once I am certain you can't see, anyway-I'm angry, not stupid). To make matters worse, 4 out of 5 days there is this one stupid, stupid tan SUV that without fail ends up cutting me off or not letting me in down around the Mason campus. OF COURSE this idiot is a Purdue alumn, and I have to stare at his stupid Boilermaker (a billion times worse than the word "Hoosier", a BILLION) stickers as he makes my morning drive a living hell.

2. The cold has chapped my lips and they are cracking and bleeding. That's the painful, gross, TMI truth, so just suck it up (or once again I invite you to truck right along). Since I already devoted nearly an entire entry to this affliction (and how round was my face this time last year?!?! It's about half the size now, for reals. Apparently my cheeks migrated to my chin), I will say no more. Except that I lost my Neutrogena Honey Rescue Balm and I refuse to shell out the 9 bucks to buy a new one, because SERIOUSLY. I am not made of money. Just dry, brittle, cracking skin.

3. Caffeine. There are like 45 reasons why I am supposed to completely eliminate it from my diet, which is why I am sitting here with a Coke slurpee and a bag of M&M's, which I don't even really like. I am SUCH a child. I had all but eliminated coffee and then I took a job that requires me to leave my house by 6:30 am (did you know such a time existed? Why did I do this to myself? If we were friends in high-school and you remember how I was never, ever in my first period class senior year, don't be thinking that all of a sudden I have changed into a morning person who loves to be communting in the dark. I still hate it).

Bang, bang (my hairstylist shot me down)

Some little-known trivia for your Monday evening...


- Every time Tyra utters the phrase "modeling is one of the hardest industries in the world" on ANTM, somewhere a coal-miner's head explodes.

- If someone describes THEMSELVES as funny, 99.99% of the time they aren't. If you're really funny, then you don't need to tell people about it.

- The reason why the people working at the Fair Oaks MAC store are so elitist and rude is because not everyone can wear make-up, people. You have to be very special and important. And own a face.

- Your hair stylist is allowed to decide how to do your hair, and you have little to no input in the matter. I found this out when I told mine on Saturday that when I come to get my hair done at the end of December, I would like bangs*. My request was denied. I am not allowed to have them. And also, even if I tell her that I hate to part my hair to the side, she is permitted by Hair Law to cut my hair so that I have to part it that way.

- I don't really need to study for the math portion of the GRE, because on the day that I take it a magical math fairy will float down from the sky and whisper equations into my ear.




*for real, I want thick, hardcore 60's style bangs. Like no wimpy fake side bangs. I want Anita Pallenberg-from-when-she-was-with-Keith-Richards-esque bangs. Granted, they will probably look terrible and I will immediately regret my horrendous mistake, but is it not mine to make?