Love means never having to put a laugh line in the third act

So I have this really strange habit when it comes to guys. Alright, I mean, as my best friend will attest, I do have more than one. Okay- I have more than one hundred.

But there is this one habit that I’ve had since I was a young, fresh-eyed teenager that just barely started thinking boys were cute. Whenever I meet a guy, any guy and have that moment of “Okay, maybe he’s cute. I could see myself dating him…” the very next thought that enters my head is telling people how we met. The scene is always the same. It’s always a dinner party complete with white linens, candle light and good wine; me and my new boyfriend (call him boy X) are sitting next to each other, enjoying colorful conversation with the other party guests when someone asks “So… How did you two meet?” X and I gaze at each other for a beat and we tell our story. However, if the story isn’t a good one, I shut the attraction off. Yeah, that’s the habit.

For example, a few years ago, I was working at a coffee bar while I was in school. It wasn’t the best job in the world; the hours were insane (sometimes I’d have to get up at 3:30 am to get to work on time), the pay was just above minimum and to make matters worse, I was putting on weight from my endless consumption of decadent iced coffee drinks. But there was this one thing that kept me going to work on time, and loving it every day. It was a boy X. This X was sweet and funny. He made off color jokes and liked my music and- this is the biggie- he was really- REALLY into me. He left notes in my locker. He stayed after his shifts to spend time with me. And everyone else at work already assumed we were sleeping together but *cue dinner party sequence*

PARTY GUEST: You and X are just so cute together.

ME: Oh, gee, thank you.

PG: So, how did you two meet?

ME: We worked opposite shifts at the Coffee Bean. Pass the cabernet.

Um…no. See, I can’t have something average. I blame Sleepless in Seattle. Remember the dinner party scene in the very beginning of the movie where Meg Ryan and Bill Pulman describe how they met? She orders a BLT on rye with no mayo and no bacon or something and he ordered the opposite- and their orders got switched? I mean how great is that? I want something like that!!

The crazy thing is the scenario is always the same and happens literally the instant after I meet someone. I don’t even really need to talk to them- I can see someone and I’m transported to that dinner party immediately. And it hasn’t changed with age, either- in fact, the stories just get better. Think about it “He was in my college algebra class” becomes “Four years ago he was in my college algebra class and never spoke to me and then one day we were in the same line in Starbuck’s…”

I’ve created the scenario for people I barely know as well. Like if I’m getting pulled over for a speeding ticket.

PG: How did you and X meet?

ME: Oh it was silly really. He pulled me over for a traffic violation-

X: She was doing forty in a thirty-five-

ME: And he asked for my license and registration and-

X: And her phone number!

Sometimes even people I’ve never met at all.

PG: How did you two meet?

ME: Well, I called because there was a miscellaneous charge on my Visa bill…

The thing is, perhaps it’s outlandish to want some ironic, romantic meeting, but I don’t necessarily think that there is anything wrong with it. One of my favorite stories my grandfather ever told me is how he met my grandmother. He was working as an office manager and she was one of many young stenogs that came in looking for a job. My grandfather interviewed her. “So, did you give her a job?” I asked him one day, “What?!” he asked, flabbergasted, “No, I married her!!” When my parents met, my mother was my father’s choir director and then something like fifteen years later, she was his landlord. My oldest older brother met his wife when they were randomly riding in the same elevator together. I may come from a family of cynics but dammit if we don’t have some adorable stories to tell. I mean- who doesn’t want a meet cute?

Maybe this is the exact reason I don’t like the idea of internet dating. Not that there is anything wrong with internet dating, it just lacks that Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy type epic romance I crave! I mean “His name popped up in my e-mail of possible matches from Love.com” just doesn’t seem like a funny, quirky, dreamy story of how I met my prince charming. Call me an idealist, but maybe I’d like something less ordinary.

And so, as I continue my search for my Harry, my Sleepless in Seattle, my optometrist, Paul- you’ll have to excuse me if I pause for a moment to reflect on our impending love story. Because as every good woman needs a good man, every good love story needs a good plot. Mine is still in rewrites.

Douche-onary Part 1

Douchebag :

An individual who has an over-inflated sense of self worth, compounded by a low level of intellegence, behaving ridiculously in front of colleagues with no sense of how moronic he appears.

Jewchebag: a Jewish douchebag.

Goychebag: A non-Jewish douchebag (as referred by a Jew. eg: "did you see McGrady make fun of Cohen's jew-fro? What a nazi goyche-bag."

Gaychebag: A gay douchebag

Feircebag: A fabulous female (or gay male) who is also a massive douchebag

Douche-fuck: A huge screw up made by a douchebag. (eg: McGrady's presentation was a huge douche-fuck. McGrady fails at life.")

Douche-K: A douchebag that hails from the UK. (Also acceptable: Euro-douche, Brit-bag, Douche` [doosh- ay])

Douchette: 1. A female douchebag (Also acceptable:douche-baggette)
2. An obnoxious girlfriend of a douchebag

The Dream Team (long a** clip show)

For awhile now,I have been referring to my own personal "dream team" of friends. I point them out when their in movies, or when they make a tv appearance. It's like- "Oh there's Jennifer Anniston. She's on my dream team." And it's all well an good- but I figure, what's the point of blogging if you can't make an official looking list that has absolutely no point whatsoever?

So I've decided to make my list official. This is my official Dream Team. Now, in order to make it official, I have to take stock of my actual friends. After all, how can you cast the perfect team of friends without a list of characters? Now, as usual I won't name names- I'll just use personalities or defining characteristics. rather who they are to me. Here goes:

The Crazy One
The One Who's Hotter Than You But Is Still Awesome
The Conscience
The One You May Have Wanted To Sleep With at One Time- (But not anymore. You somehow became friends, along the way and now you don't see them that way anymore.)
The Funny One
The One You Would Still Sleep With If Given a Chance
The Gay Quota- (Some people don't have a gay quota. Mine is five. You need the super gay, the not so gay, the power gay, the might-be gay and the best gay. Five. Life is incomplete without the five.)
The Smart One and of course
The Bestie

So there's the cast. Let's do this!

Crazy One: No other than La Lohan herself. Honestly- who could do it better? She's fun, she's wild, she's sometimes gay, she's in rehab, she's out of rehab- lets face it. Bitch is crazy.

Hotter but awesome: To quote an old friend of mine "she's so cute I just want to put her on a fucking keychain" (He was in the gay quota, btw) Sure, she's a supermodel, but she's awesome, right?

The Conscience:
This took awhile to cast until I realized- wait a second-
Smart One:
BAM!! Double cast!! And why not? Your conscience should be your smart friend. Plus I just really want to be friends with Michelle Obama.

Friend You Wanted Sleep With Once:
Look don't judge me. But, look, ok, he's really funny. Anyway, he's all married with kids, etc- We're better as friends.

Funny One: Nuff said.

Friend You Would Still Sleep With:
Yeah I would.

Gay Quota:
Super Gay
Power Gay Not-So-Gay Might-Be-Gay
Best Gay. (Because apparently when you're best friends with him, you're also hugely famous. Plus British!!)

And finally- last but certainly not least.... The Bestie:
NOT UP FOR RECAST.

So there it is- the Dream Team. Check them out. Worship them- wish they were your friends. And you know- maybe cast your own dream team. You'd be surprised how fun and ridiculously time consuming it is. Yay?

And there ya go.

Alright, just hand me my hood and robe.

I want to warn you, this is gonna get real ugly, real fast.

This is what happens: I walk up to a table with a large party in it- say six or seven people- and do my typical greet.While tossing out coasters I say something like, "Hi everyone, how are you tonight?" (Which usually gets a response like "Good how are you?")This table doesn't respond. They look at each other as though something incredibly awkward just happened. Then, one person sitting in the back corner of the group speaks up. With an accent so thick I can barely make out what they're saying, they order for everyone at the table. It's always Coke or Iced Tea.

Then one person at the table invariably isn't ready to order. The Translator asks in spanish and the stray responds. They have a drawn out conversation about it in spanish- I stand and wait. Finally The Translator says "Coke."

They order food incorrectly."the chicken spaghetti with the alfredo sauce- can I have with shrimp?" They point at things that aren't food in the menu and say "This." When you ask "Salad or soup?" they say "Yes." Everytime I check on them they need six more things, making it nearly impossible to deal with my other tables. They ask for things I'm not technically supposed to bring, ie: three bags of breadsticks to go,a brand new salad-to go, etc. The check is presented, it is over $150. They pay with two $100 bills and ask for change- they leave me a $3 tip. Always.

Sometimes, if I see a large Mexican family come into the restaurant, I think "Oh, God, please don't let that be my table." Then I hate myself! Because it's not just that they take up my time and then don't pay me for it, there is an inner rage that I can't describe without sounding like a klansman. For example: when I was growing up, there was a strip mall that I loved going to. It had a Swensen's (which was the MOST AWESOME ice cream shop), a toy store and an Orange Julius. Across the street was a 31 Flavors. It was kid heaven. Now, the Swensen's is a cheesy buffet restaurant where they serve food poisoning; the toy store is a discount clothing store where they sell quinsinera dresses for $30, tiaras, candles with pictures of the Virgin Mary and bad designer knock offs; the 31 Flavors is a BoSa Doughnuts. What I'm hedging around saying here is that the strip mall has been taken over by Mexican business. The worst part of that is it's a terrible neighborhood now. The crime rate is through the roof. I'll drive past this strip mall now and think "Look what you did here. How could you do this?"

And don't worry. I hate me too. I'm seriously disappointed in me too. I mean it's not as though my values are dead. I speak up for equal rights. I know that basically every American is the descendant of an immigrant. My shtetl iz Amerike. Amekhaye khlebn, etc, etc. That's exactly what makes this so disturbing. I mean how can I, liberal me, be thinking things like this? Look at me. I mean look at ME. As if my father didn't have the exact same hate directed at him? Oh and uh- holocaust anyone? My cousin gave me a good tongue lashing all about "white flight" and how these people are fleeing tyranny and trying to make a life for themselves. It's true. I know that. I get myself all geared up to be this warm, accepting person and then it happens again. The same thing: a table full of Mexicans runs up their check and then tips less than 5%. Back to square one. And I hate it! It's not like "Oh- f*cking Mexicans.I should have known." It's more like "Oh,come on, don't make me hate you!!"

So I guess my question is: What makes you a racist? Is it this? Because this feels more like a bad relationship. It's like I'm this downtrodden girlfriend that lives with this guy who I truly believe in. I think he's smart and fun and charismatic, and has so much potential. But he continually lets me down. He comes home late, he drinks too much, he says inappropriate things. He keeps getting fired from his jobs. I never lose faith though- and I never leave. Eventually though I start to expect it, like- I'll be making dinner for myself and I think "There's no reason to make dinner for two, it's not like he's coming home." or someone asks us to go on vacation with them and I think "I shouldn't make any plans. He's due to lose his job any minute now." That's what this feels like. I can't resign myself to be a racist. That's not who I am- right? Right?

Nothin but love.

When I was little, I used to think all white people were happy. I mean, you have to understand where this comes from. I was the only black person I knew- well besides my dad. My mom was white, both of my big brothers are white (and for anyone who has an older sibling, you know that they hold the "infinitely more cool" status, simply for being older) all of my classmates were white, everyone on tv- you get the picture. As far as I was concerned it just seemed like life was easy for them. They never got ashy knees or had to have their hair relaxed. They didn't have expectations put on them of how to act or speak, what they're supposed to wear- they just smiled and laughed, their hair fell onto their shoulders in easy ways; they had jewel colored eyes in greens and blues; they had to be so happy. In fact, even further, I thought that if anything went sour in their lives, that in the back of their minds they must have thought "Well- at least I'm white...." Yeah, I thought that.

Needless to say, I've had a troubling relationship with my race.

I'm not like my Father. I wasn't there for race riots or Martin Luther King. I didn't see schools get integrated or witness the Montgomery Bus Boycott- I didn't have that rage or pride that seems to naturally come to other black people. Wait- ok, that's not exactly true. I do- and I stand by the theory that this is an inherent occurrance in all black people- get like, a deep, sort of animalistic rage whenever I hear (or read) the N word. Well, by a white person. (sorry).

But, okay- have you ever spent time with a Mormon? Actually, no, a whole group of Mormons? (Go with me on this) It's like- they have their own language, like a jargon. Sister this, elder that- Mutual, Family Home Evening, G's, Temple Recommend. Like a little club. I spent a good part of my adolescence wanting to be a part of that club. Nobody wants anything more, when they are a teenager, than to belong to something. That was it- I just didn't have anywhere to belong. I was accepted, but I didn't belong. Like everyone was having a dinner party and they set out an extra place setting for me at the last minute. I was there, but not entirely.

My adult life has been different. Now I look at what my father went through, what his parents went through, etc, and I think, this is an incredibly rich history. I sit with a group of black people and I think "I actually do belong to something." It's been a long time coming, sort of like falling in love, but I've fallen into step with it. Why wouldn't I want to be a part of that? Look at what we've done, look at what we've come through. I wasn't there, but- I'm a part of something. I do belong. I wear it on my skin.

I guess what I'm trying to say is :


Yup that's right. Ha ha ha! And proud of it!!!

*steps down from soap box*

And uh, there ya go.

Myself In Sixty Years (part deux)

For reasons that would be take far too long to explain, I found myself in the mall this morning around 11am, stricken without my trusty watch to cover up my tattoo. Behold:

Fierce, no?

However annoying, because I'm forced to wear unusually large watches to work everyday. So imagine me, decked in my OG tie, ill fitting slacks and name tag, flying about the mall for a cheap accessories store. If had the time or funds, this would actually be fun- as I did not have either it was more of a nuisance. So I fluttered into this chotchky shop pouring through racks and racks of crazy lame bangles (Btw, please, PLEASE don't bring the eighties back- I know, I know they're already back. Just, please stop this in it's place and do something like bringing the 1920's back or something. Imagine, flapper dresses and garters!!! ) Anyway, in walks this woman- this fantastic, vision of an octogenarian in a floor length fushia dress, heels, at least (AT LEAST) ten necklaces, just as many rings and a white feather boa.

Yes, yes- a BOA.

She was also wearing an extraordinary amount of make-up- I mean Bugs Bunny in drag make-up. And I thought to myself "Yes. YES, exactly." This is me! That is what I hope to be when I'm well into my eighties. I mean I can just imagine this woman digging in her closet this morning thinking "Ohhhh DAHHHHLING, what fabulously glamorous gown can I wear on this horribly BLUSTERY day? Oh, this dress is just DIVINE, I must, MUST get Murray to pour me another scotch before I do my shopping!!!" She's still got the jazz playing from last night, there are bizarre things strewn about her bedroom like fuzzy kitten heels and designer stockings and maybe, just maybe, there is a robe hanging over the chair by the vanity that is long and satin with a fur collar- you with me? She probably gives toasts to her cats with the finest champagne,and forces her mail man to do the foxtrot with her at like 9am, a long cigarette in one hand and her seventh cocktail in the other. I mean, what kind of woman not only owns a feather boa but wears it, as an accessory not as a joke or a costume piece but in all seriousness?!?! I mean, yes. Oh, yes. On all accounts, yes. She is the right amount of glamour mixed with batshit crazy. Brava. Oh, spot on, dear. SPOT ON.

Tweet Tweet. . .

I've discovered a strange, new, unabashedly self-involved pastime.

Now- let me just say for the record that I don't necessarily recommend this website for everyone. It takes a specific person to get involved with this sort of thing. The kind of person that sees a new nighttime soap opera by the creators of 90210 based in Orange County and says "Yeah, ok. I need to check that out." The sort of person that buys a purse from Lauren Conrad's website, because, why not? The kind of person that not only reads celebrity gossip, but is just dying to know what bitchy things the celebrities themselves have to say- someone like yours truly.

So the first time I logged onto Twitter, it seemed incredibly pointless. You know when you log onto Facebook and type what you're doing, about to do or thinking in the little status window? "Jenn is....." That's what Twitter is, basically. You log on and you change your status. there are no pictures, no bulletins, no surveys, no games, just "Jenn is...". BORING!!!

Then I started looking for other people. Leave it to me to not even think about finding my friends. No, I immediately went in search of B-D list celebrities. Sure enough, there's Kristen Stewart, John Mayer, Lacey Schwimmer, Michael Buckley- all Twittering. (actually, they call it tweeting.) So, if John Mayer wants to make a snarky comment, I see it. Kristen Stewart wants to comment on Robert Pattinson's breath? BAM there it is. Oh- and is Samantha Ronson Tweeting on her break up with Lindsay Lohan? You bet she is!! Ok- that's fun. A little voyeuristic but fun.

Then- I added it to my mobile. Yeah, that's right. I could tweet without having to be online. I didn't need to be a phone petter to put a deliciously random update on my Twitter account.

So now all of my friends need to get Twitter accounts. Oh, I know, blah, blah, it's not fun, blah, blah whatever. Get over it. If we all do this together, it will be awesome, I promise. As fun as an OC party, well, no nothing is as fun as an OC party (cuz an OC party don't stop...)but almost as fun, promise.

And I know you're not registered yet because I've already gone looking for you. Jump on the bandwagon, people!!!!