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!!!!

Typhoid Mary

You know when you're sick- or rather are about to get sick and you make the mistake of mentioning it to a group of people- (either you say something like "God, my throat is so sore." or "I have the worst sinus headache") and they do that thing that is equal parts funny and obnoxious- they back up? They do that sudden step backwards like you just spilled something? Ever notice how literally ten minutes later everyone has forgotten that you just admitted you were about to get a cold/the flu/a sinus infection and once again shares space with you? Sure, they might remember you're sick if they're sharing a drink or a taste of their food, but nobody is really that freaked out about it. Know what the ONE ailment is that no one ever forgets about?



That's right. Pink Eye.

I have this horrible luck with pink eye. Every single time I've ever had a cold, it is without fail followed up by a nasty case of the gooey grossness. It's horrible and annoying because A: Everyone can immediately tell you have it. B: No one will come within ten feet of you, ever. and C: It's the sickness that you don't feel. You're not achey, you don't have the sniffles or a sore throat- just nastiness that's literally written all over your face- and what's worse, there is nothing you can do about it without a doctor! You got a headache? Take an asprin. A cold? Day quil it's ass. Bleeding gums? Listerine. Can't sleep? Unisom. Pink Eye? Hope you have health insurance! HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?!?!?

People also have an irrational gross out reaction to it. I got sent home from work today (even though I've been on antibiotics for 24 hours). I was sitting on the bus (a one-two punch if you ask me) thinking What luck! I don't have to work today and I'm not sick!!! So I called up a friend.

"What's up?" asked my friend as he answered the phone, "I thought you had to work today."

"Yeah, I have pink eye so-" I didn't even get through the sentence when I noticed a dramatic change in the seating positions of the other passengers. Suddenly, people were leaning away from me, covering their faces- some even changed seats so they wouldn't be near me. It was like I had suddenly pulled out a bag of dog shit and began snacking on it. And this is the CITY BUS. The place where the homeless spend the day because of the air conditioning. The place where drunks vomit on a nightly basis. The place where meth addicts hock bloody loogies. These people wouldn't bat an eye if I had said "Yeah, it turns out I have chlamydia" or "they sent me home on account of the chronic diarrhea and bloody stools" Not an eye. But pink eye put the fear of God in them.

What really irks me is that just last night, I watched as my friend, Catherine made out with a stranger in a bar. A hot stranger- no- a REALLY hot stranger. And Catherine- has what is possibly the WORST cold in the history of time. (BTW don't ask me what possessed her to decide to go out that night)And it was no secret. She was sneezing and hacking and coughing. Every two minutes or so, she would sniff, dramatically and her clogged sinuses would make an audible slurping sound. It was gross- but not so gross that Hot Guy didn't want to make out with her. Oh- but pink eye? "Don't touch me, don't hand me anything you've touched- don't even look at me. I'll get the horrible, sticky, death plague."

So, here I sit- on Valentines day, no less- continuing my use of antibiotic drops every three hours and feeling- not sick- but annoyed, and sometimes a little itchy, but that's to be expected.

Don't worry- you can't get pink eye from reading this blog.

Wheels On the Bus

I think the bus drivers in this city have way too much power. I realized this today when I dutifully paid my $2.50 for the ride to work this morning without first removing my Ipod and responding to his "Good Morning!"- and as punishment he took off while I was still waiting for my bus pass to spit out from the machine. I said to him "Hey, I'm not done here." thinking this would at least make him slow down. Instead this jack ass responded with "Yeah. I'm late."

He's late. So I was tossed about a moving bus, falling into poles and strangers laps because he was late. Too much power. Here's why. Nobody on the bus is ever happy to be there. I knew this was true when I had a conversation with my best friend about the bus.I remarked that while you may encounter someone weeping openly in the privacy of their own car, you never see anyone crying on the bus. "that's interesting" she said "Because if I was on the bus, I'd be crying." Ouch. But so true. There is not one person on the city bus that is sitting there thinking "You know, life is good. I'm here on this commute with thirty strangers, there's a kid screaming in the back, it smells like BO and salsa and the guy behind me is shouting into his cell phone so loudly that I doubt there is anyone on this bus that is unaware of his entire personal life. Yeah, good times." No. NO! Every single person is thinking What miserable fuck up have I made that landed me here and how can I right this horrible wrong?

There is nothing good about the bus. First of all, its never on time. It's always ten minutes late or arrived and took off seconds before you got there. You never get to the bus stop just as the bus is pulling up. I mean that, it's just an impossibility. If, by some bizarre chance you happen to arrive just before the bus does, you are so shocked by this event that you can't enjoy it. There must be something wrong. Either there is a bomb on the bus or there is about to be a fatal crash. It's like I always say, God doesn't give with both hands.

And another thing. There are no good looking people on the bus. It's always really smelly or really fat, or overly tattooed terrifying people. There sometimes some beautiful girls. Always young- and they always have that depressing air about them, that "I'm sad and desperate and will probably marry someone who does meth and beats me because I am currently pregnant with his child" sort of energy.The guys are forward and obnoxious. I told myself long ago I will never date anyone who I met on the bus. this was a huge moment for me because (and Chris, you probably shouldn't read this next part) I consider myself to be pretty open minded and well, easy. But something inside me says "No, absolutely not, I will not ever date anyone on the city bus." Like- if they can't afford a car they can't afford me- which I'm aware makes me elitist and shallow, but whatever. I have a standard. A standard.

Once- and I mean this- ONCE I saw a beautiful man on the bus. I mean Dolce and Gabanna model hot. He was tall and lean and muscular, and I think- I can't be sure, but everything he did seemed to be in slow motion. Like somewhere, out of sight, there was some photographer documenting his every move "Give me angry. Ooooh. you're amazing, now love me. Make love to the lens, you're a God." I realized that I had been staring at him for an inordinate amount of time- like six or seven stops when he glanced up at me as if to say "What? Stop staring." I wanted to say "Hey, screw you, man- you knew when you got on this bus that you were crazy hot. It is your JOB to be stared at. It's why you were born."

Anyway, this bus driver this morning awakened a secret dream I've had, that had laid dormant for years now. As I was tossed about the aisle, I thought That's fine, asshole. When I shatter my pelvis from being hurled into a metal pole at thirty miles an hour, I will fucking OWN this bus. Hell, I will own MESA and you will become my white slave. So then I started thinking- what am I willing to lose for my dream lawsuit settlement from the city bus? Certainly not a limb. Possibly a broken knee cap or arm. Maybe a few fingers- or hey- why not a broken nose? I'd deal with all of the above at once if it meant a hefty settlement. I'd fill out an accident report- from my hospital bed, of course, detailing the horrors I endured on this bus ride to Hell. I started imagining all the cars and real estate I would purchase- and the look on this dipshit's face when I called him into my estate to fire him, hopefully in front of his children. And when he wept, because this job was all he had- I'd offer him a job as my butler or pool boy- or my driver. And then I was at my stop. Fuck. No lawsuit after all.

The thing is- they have the power because they CAN. Regardless of how miserable we commuters are, it's not like we have a choice. It's the same reason things like brake pads and electricity are so expensive. We need it, so we endure. If oxygen wasn't freely available, I am certain it would cost hundreds of dollars by volume. So I figure, the only way to take the power away is to act like it's no big deal at all. Swing on the poles. Skip down the aisle. Go ahead, bus driver, go faster. See if I care. It's small, but effective.

And when I win my lawsuit, I'll buy a Mercedes and forget all about it.

Except for the nightmares.

The Name Game

My friend Sabrina has a problem with people named John. Well- Jon.

"Everyone I've ever met named Jon is a jerk" she told me one day. I think we were in high school at the time, and Sabrina was the most popular girl I knew. So obviously what she was saying was gospel. Silently, I did a quick inventory of anyone I knew named Jon, noting that one of my best friends was named Jon. So either my friend was a jerk in disguise or Sabrina was wrong. Well, up was down at this point. I had no idea what to think. As it turned out- my Jon was actually a really nice guy.

Years later,though, she still insists on this. "No- I've never met a Jon I liked" she still says. (Infact, I bet she's reading this- this exact sentence, right now and exclaiming to her husband "It's true!" regardless off what else I say here. [for good measure, Sabrina, you should just give up and say it now.])But I, however have had no trouble with anyone named Jon- or John for that matter.

Eric, on the other hand- I've never, EVER met an Eric that I didn't have a passionate hatred for in the long run. So this got me thinking. Is it possible that certain names hold greater significance for some people than others? Does everyone have a specific name that always gives them trouble?

And then that got me thinking. There are specific truths for specific names. For example- The name Candace. I've always been intimidated by girls named Candace. Usually because they are intimidating girls. Every Dylan I've ever met has been impossibly good looking. I've never met a Matt that wasn't awesome. And every Amber I've ever met has been, well- experienced? Okay- they're sluts. (Many apologies if your mother/sister/cousin/niece/best friend is named Amber. Buy her some condoms.)

And if you're wondering about my name- yes, I've had some issues with my name as well. But there are different truths for different uses of the name. Most girls who go by Jenn (two n's) are down to earth, cool girls. Most. One n- bitches. Jenny- either very old women or very hyper cheerleader types. Jennifer= either celebrity or banker. Either way, snobs.

The same goes for the different versions of the name Andrew. If they go by Andrew they're usually nice, unassuming guys. Andy- total sweetheart. If they go by Drew, however, they could be nice, they could be assholes, but the truth remains, they are HOT. All Drews are hot. I don't know why, it's just fact.

I've never met a thin girl named Kayla, a pretty girl named Kimber, or a girl named Tori that didn't have something about them I couldn't trust. As far as men go- I've never met a mean guy named Ben, a hot guy named Bryan- or a girl that hasn't had some experience with a guy named Justin. Explain that! Ask any girl you know and she will without a doubt tell you that she has, in fact dated, kissed, slept with or been in love with (or all of the above) someone named Justin. It's weird. I mean even Britney Spears.

Names that hold a paradox: Chris, Lisa, Shannon, Mark, Katie, Robert, Joe, Morgan and Julie.

So think about it. Are there certain truths of different names for you- and if so, What is your name? Because it's possible that your name has something to do with the experience you've had with other names. Maybe it's a numerology thing, who knows? The point is- I had a point, what was it?

Oh, right. Maybe it's less to do with the person, and more to do with the name. So, if you're naming a baby, or helping someone name a baby- remember- someday, someone is going to hold that name as a standard and you may hear "All people named *insert baby's name here* are jerks." So there ya go.

Oh... I get it now.

This is a story so whack that it begged to be blogged. Infact, I believe that I said "I'm so fucking gonna blog this when I get home." after it happened. So, here I am.... (And it's all true.)

Brief intro: For the last two months or so, I've been getting acquainted with the city's public transportation. While sometimes terrifying (I once witnessed a weapons deal go down right in front of me) and sometimes disgusting (two days ago, I sat next to a woman who smelled like she not only bathed in cat piss, but then spritzed behind her ears, in her hair and on her pulse points for good measure)I've been pleasantly surprised by it's efficiency, and have found a strange kinship with my fellow commuters. That is, until today....

Here's what went down. As usual, I missed the 10:15 transfer at Stapley and Southern. It happens like three out of the five days I work a week. What I usually do is sulk for a moment, then patiently wait the twenty minutes for the next bus with my Ipod and book.Today, however, while doing my waiting- I was approached by a nice looking young man. He seemed friendly enough. He was dressed in scrubs, so I knew he worked for the medical industry in some way and he had a pretty casual demeanor. "What time is the next bus?" He asked.

"Oh- it should be any minute now." I replied. "They usually come in twenty to thirty minute intervals." I was feeling like a pro.

"Thanks!" He smiled. "Nice tie- you work for a restaurant or something?" Okay- so here's that moment in conversation with a stranger where you make a choice. It's like on a plane. you can talk to the person next to you for a minute or two- but after awhile, you have to move on. It's not like we're gonna become pen pals after we get to our destination, right? But my instincts were to be friendly. My horoscope said I would meet someone influential- maybe this guy was my key to finally meeting a Jewish doctor I can marry or something.

"Yeah." I said. "The Olive Garden."

"Oh- dude, the Olive Garden has gotten so ghetto!" Okay, was that an insult? I thought.

"Um- really?" I asked, not sure how to take his last comment.

"Yeah, like- I remember as a kid, it was such a fancy place- we used to dress up to go there. Now it's like the Denny's of Italian food."

OOOOookay. I actually share his opinion. "Oh, I know right?" I laughed out loud, "I blame soup, salad and breadsticks."

"Totally!"

So here I was making casual conversation with a total stranger! No big thing. I mean, I guess I do it for a living, right? Plus, he was sorta cute in a I-could-probably-dead-lift-this-guy way. Who knows, right? And then politics came up. Yeah, that's what I thought too. I usually don't even bring up politics with strangers. (because where I come from, people most likely still wish Romney had made it past the primaries)But, lo and behold, this guy seemed to share my political views. He too voted for Obama and was horrified by both prop 8 and 102. And then he said "I just wish they'd stop with this war bullshit. I mean, everyone knows now that there's nothing going on over there."

Certainly I'd misunderstood him again. "Yeah- I mean, we should be in Afghanistan, looking for Bin Laden, right?" I asked, again, treading lightly.

"No- I mean, there is no war. It's all made up by the media."

"The war is made up by the-"

"Don't tell me you're buying into this thing!" He interrupted. "It's just like every war. It's like entertainment. Like War of the Worlds- only now with all of the technology, it's not just a radio show- it's like a whole fucking movie."

Wait, what?

"I know some guys who've been to Iraq." I said calmly, "I can assure you that-"

"Oh, my GOD!" He laughed loudly (and I might add insanely) "You're totally buying it! Unbelievable!"

"Well- yeah! It's not fake! It's a completely real bloodbath brought on by our lunatic of a president!" I snapped.

"No, no." he said. "that's what they want you to think.There is no war. There's never been a war."

"In Iraq?" I asked.

"No. Ever."

It was at this point that I realized that the stranger I was talking to was in fact, insane. Like, completely batshit crazy. How to get out of this???

"Ever?" I asked, eyes wide with shock.

"There's never been a war. It's all made up! It's like how the Jews made up the Holocaust- or the Japanese made up Pearl Harbor. It's entertainment, man!"

"Dude, Pearl Harbor happened to us." I shouted, wishing the bus would appear, nowish.

"Whatever- you're totally programmed by the machine." he dismissed.

"I guess so." I said, reaching for my Ipod- slowly so as not to startle the loon with any sudden movement.

"That's so fucking sad too- because you're black." OMIGOD, WHAT?!?!

"Because I'm bl-"

"I mean, you don't actually believe in the Civil War, do you?"

BUS BUS BUS NOW NOW RIGHT NOW

"Well, yeah?"

"So sad. It's a scam, dude. Wake up."

Finally, the bus made its (late, very late) appearance at the stoplight only yards away.

"Wow- that's some theory." I said, hoping to wrap this completely ludicrous conversation in a tight little bow.

"Pshhhh." he laughed, "Theory. Listen to you. Brainwashed."

The bus pulled up and I hastily shoved my Ipod into the wrong ears. "I guess so." I said.

I practically ran to a seat as far away from him as possible.

Moments later, I was tapped on my shoulder by the Schlotsky's deli worker sitting next to me. I looked up to see my new lunatic friend frantically waving at me. "We should get together, you know? Talk politics." he shouted over the roar of the bus.
"I'm Greg."

"I'm a lesbian." I said and tore into the pages of my book.

I learned a valuable lesson today. Crazy people look just like regular people. I will never talk to strangers again.

All you need is love...

I wanted to talk about the love of my life. My first love, my most passionate love, the only relationship I've ever seen through- that is, of course, me and Theater.

I'll never forget the first time I laid eyes on Theater. I was seven years old and my parents had both been cast in Jesus Christ Superstar.It was their opening night, and the first time my parents had let me come with them rather than get a babysitter. I knew where they were going all those nights. Rehearsal. I mean, I was a little girl- I had no idea what it meant- what the word meant. I just knew that every night from 6-11, my parents went there. But this night was different. I held both of their hands as they led me into the Mesa Amphitheater. It was glorious, like a dream. It was the biggest stage I'd ever seen- and the lights- the set! My parents looked like magical beings up there- they were better than human! I'd been in little recitals and dance shows ever since I could walk, but this was different. I felt like the stars were in my eyes. Nothing had ever made me feel this way before. So excited, so- well, home.

It wasn't that Theater and I didn't have our bumps and bruises along the way. There was all the rejection. In high school, Theater turned me down flat. That hurt, I'll admit. Sometimes so much I laid in bed crying for days. Mostly because I still loved Theater, and I couldn't understand why something I loved with such intensity couldn't love me back- wouldn't love me back.

Then something amazing happened- we clicked. I don't know what happened, it was magic, I guess. That's what they say true love is, don't they? Suddenly everything changed. Theater loved me back- alot! everywhere I went, Theater was declaring it's love for me and I just knew we'd be deliriously happy for the rest of our lives.

But- was it safe? I mean is love really enough? Can you eat love? Will love pay for your lattes when you're living in a three hundred square foot studio apartment in Alphabet City with no cable? Would it always be there, or would it go away again, leaving me alone, jealous and desperate as it had before? Could I really have a husband, a family and the house and the white picket fence with the 2.5 kids and the love of my life? Of course not. That's ridiculous- as everyone pointed out to me, time and time again. So- I thought with my head instead of my heart- and I left my true love.

Theater doesn't take rejection well. I learned this the hard way- like any bad relationship, I simply couldn't leave. I tried, God knows. I went back to school and changed my major to communications, and Theater followed. "Would I choreograph Grease?" Theater asked innocently. "It's harmless! Plus it pays! It will help you get through school." So I numbly followed. Then "Hey- why don't you just audition for this musical you didn't get to choreograph? You've always wanted to be in it. Your friends are in it, it's on campus. It's harmless- besides, you were bored at night anyway." And then it was- "Hey- you know- you're a really good choreographer. You should send your resume out to theaters around the valley. It's harmless, we won't get back together! It's just a job." And then the job came, and with it, the horrible, heart-wrenching, soul crushing "infatuation" with my leading man.

After that heart break, Theater swooped in to pick up the pieces. "Here, just go to these auditions. It will take your mind off of him." and before I knew it, Theater and I were back on again. And we were happy- sort of. I mean, I didn't always like where Theater took me or the people Theater introduced me to, but Theater always, always loved me back, no matter what.

So maybe I can't live on love alone- but I know I can't live without it and I've never loved anything more. So, as it turns out, Theater and I may actually try to make a go of it. Now, someday, I may even get married. You know, actually married to an actual man... Sure, the threesome may be awkward at first. There may be jealousy, my new husband might think I love Theater more (or vice versa), but we'll make it work. Que sera sera. If I've learned anything, it's this: if something puts stars in your eyes, even when you're just a little girl, you should follow it. Always reach for the stars; never stop dreaming.

And there ya go.