I've moved!

I've moved!

Due to some negativity on a post (which seems stupid now a year after making the switch), I basically don't write here anymore. My posts can now be found over at Almost Grown-up

Jenuinely yours,

Jen

Can I get yo numba?

Attention men of the world,

I'm pretty sure that most of you have gotten the memo on this already. But for the rest of you who were crowded around the water-cooler chatting and for some reason didn't hear the announcement over the PA system... pay attention:

Pick-up lines are jokes. They are things that groups friends say to make each other laugh. They are things thrown around in drinking games. And Categories.

You know the ones I mean:

"Are you a terrorist? 'Cause you da bomb!" "Are your legs tired? 'Cause you've been running through my mind all day!" And my personal favorite: "Baby, did you just fart? 'Cause you blew me away."

They are not, not, not, (let me reiterate) NOT a good way to get girls to go out with you, give you their phone number, or even speak to you.

I bring this point up because I recently met one of those memo-less water-cooler-dwellers at a party. A friend and I were casually chatting with someone we hadn't met before. People were dropping into the conversation and we thought nothing of it. Until one guy sidled over to me.

"Hey, you look familiar, have we met before?"
"I don't go to school up here so I don't think so." I spoke quickly, without really considering it. I'm generally pretty good with faces, if not names. He blinked, looked a little taken aback. It didn't occur to me that I had been expected to ponder it so that he'd be able to snap his fingers and exclaim wittily "Oh! I know where I've seen you before! In my dreams."

He abandoned that. "Oh. Well. Do you want to count shoulders with me real quick?"

I realized suddenly what had happened. He was using a pick-up line. Legitimately using a pick-up line as though it had some possibility of working.

Thankfully, this was one joke that I had heard before. Otherwise, I would have been put into the awkward predicament of having this stranger's arm around me. The punchline of this question involves him counting his own shoulders: "One. Two." He points to your shoulder; the one closest to him: "Three." And stretches his arm over you to land on: "Four."

I instead responded with an uncomfortable laugh. "Oh, no, I've heard this one before."

He walked away.

This kid wasn't terrible-looking. And granted, he probably wouldn't have gotten anything from me beyond some polite conversation regardless, but he didn't even get that.

Because he opened with a pick-up line.

Let this be a lesson to you all.
Jenuinely yours,
Jen

The thrill of the hunt

I like to own nice things.

This isn't really a shock. I mean really, who doesn't like to have nice stuff?

But I really like labels. Probably more than I rightfully should. Even if my scope of labels is somewhat limited (sue me, I'm only just starting to learn about this stuff, I didn't even know how to do my own make-up in high school). This doesn't mean that I won't buy something from Target... or hell, even Wal-mart (I can hear the screams from here) if it's something that I really like. But I like having those things that were trendy, even if it was "last season" (or many, many, many seasons ago...)

I like to wear my Rock & Republic jeans. I like to carry my Kathy Von Zeeland and Coach bags. I have a dress that I looked up on the internet because I just had a feeling it was some obscure, expensive brand (I was right). I love to wear my Brighton earrings because God knows I just live for the moment when someone will ask me if they're Brighton and I get to answer.

Yes.

...Just call me a victim of a consumer society.

But here's my not-so-well-kept secret: I feel like a fraud when I wear these things. Because since, like most of the rest of America, I live on a budget, I don't really indulge often. I'm frugal. To the point where I wish credit card debt didn't terrify me the way it does... because good lord, I want that... dress, necklace, purse, pair of earrings... really, just insert whatever here.

My Brighton earrings? $1. My Rock & Republic jeans? Two. My purses? The results of some fantastic sales.

Garage sales, Consignment shops, coupons, and sales...

I better get back to Plato's Closet soon. I feel like it's my only ally before I wind up like Becky Bloomwood... I've got to get my Shopaholic fix once in a while and at least it's there and not in a designer store where I'd do some real damage.


Jenuinely yours,
Jen

Where Shopping is a Pleasure

There is a homeless man at my Publix.

Don't get me wrong, he doesn't live there. There aren't any signs of habitation outside, but it seems to be a favorite hang-out spot of his.

I first encountered said homeless man--to make things a little easier, let's call him Hank-- I first encountered Hank as I was running into Publix before a fraternity semi-formal. My legs were shaved, I was wearing heels, I'd donned a dress, and had painstakingly applied my make-up for the occasion.

But more importantly, I had curled my hair.

It was about 6:00 p.m. when I made it to Publix's automatic doors and saw Hank sitting there in what was either a wheelchair or stolen electronic shopping cart that had bags hanging from it. My bet was on shopping cart; I hadn't ever seen a wheelchair quite that design. His scraggly gray hair hung past his chin and even from a distance it was clear that he was unwashed.

My heels clicked against the pavement in a frenzied clip-clop. I was running very late, but still needed to grab a snack since chances were my finicky tastes wouldn't be allowing me to eat anything there.

Hank's voice stopped me. "Ah like yer hay-ur."

I looked at him curiously. "Thank you?" I had a tendency to be awkwardly polite even when cheering for my school's football team. I hurried inside and away, and exited through the other doors.

I had several other encounters with Hank. He liked my "hay-ur" every time, whether it was, up, down, styled, natural, attractive, or unattractive. Gradually, I realized that Hank liked everyone's hair, as I heard them receive the same compliments.

I figured out that he had some semblance of a schedule. I learned to do a drive-by of the entrances to pick which one I'd go into if I wasn't particularly in the mood for his praise. If I made it to Publix before four o'clock, he was nowhere to be seen. Afterwards, he'd appear, doing nothing more than complimenting the various 'dos he saw passing him.

It therefore amused me greatly when I was paused, the other day, at a red light. This particular intersection happened to put me right next to the Publix plaza, and I couldn't help a startled laugh as I recognized a familiar figure whirring his way across the street in his cart. I looked at the clock. 3:56. Right on schedule.


Ride on, Hank. Ride on.


Jenuinely yours,
Jen

Commercial Appeal

Television is a favorite pastime of mine. I watch a lot of it. From old sitcoms (Frasier, Golden Girls, Friends, Reba) to dramas (Desperate Housewives, The O.C., One Tree Hill), to game shows, to the Disney Channel, to Lifetime, to... well this list is getting pretty long. Suffice to say, the only things that I don't watch are "Serious Things." In fact, when I was asked within the Human For Sale quiz how much T.V. I watched, I was forced to admit to myself that it was "excessive."

Now, because I watch so much television, I also watch commercials. I have a deep love for Billy Mays and OxiClean. We've gotten to be buddies as I sit on my couch and he shouts at me about the wonder of OxiClean and Orange Glo. I adore the Sham-Wow! man. I purchased a Strap-perfect, and it is one my deepest desires to own a Caulk Pro (I have no idea why, I just feel like it would make me happy every time I looked at the grout in my shower). There are certain commercials that I love and will stop whatever I'm doing to watch them. A prime example is the latest Minute Maid commercial:



Now, that commercial is hilarious. However, I won't lie and say that I love them all. The latest Father's Day commercial from Hallmark really irritates me.




Yay, Charlie. That card was so amazing that we must all now dance and cheer for you. Your mother picked out a card for you, probably helped you record it, and didn't bother to correct your grammar.

Dear Charlie's Momma, for future reference, "perfectest" is NOT a word. And maybe you should have just recorded it for him because it's beyond me how Dad could even tell what he's saying. I had to go to the internet to figure this one out.

And the award for the commercial that earns my undying odium more than any of the rest goes to Nutrisystem and Jillian Barberie. Congratulations.



Thanks, Jillian. Because when I make eye contact with someone and they gently lob me a football, I can't catch-it. In fact, I have absolutely no hand-eye coordination at all.

"How many girls can do that?"

Unless they are struck blind... then most of them.

Jenuinely yours,
Jen

"Humans, Getchyer humans!"

Have you ever comforted a friend with the expression: "He's not worth it?" Do you ever feel a supreme sense of self-worth?

Have you ever wondered just exactly how much someone is worth?

Well, thanks to a mildly entertaining website a friend told me about the other day, you can now find out!

Humanforsale.com will tell you, down to the dollar, how much someone is worth.

But be careful, for it does come with risks. As one friend of mine said, "I feel at minimum that I'm worth 3 million dollars and if it tells me something else, I'm going to be devastated." It's a good thing I don't share his mindset. I'm only worth $2,580,030.

So, watch those self-confidence levels... and have at it!


Jenuinely yours,
Jen

Narration Nation

I've been narrating lately.

This is something that I think I did a lot my junior and senior years of high school, back in the days when I did a lot of writing. I don't do it out loud... that would earn me strange looks and/or a beating like Peter gets from Lois. Especially if I spoke some of my sometimes insulting thoughts...



But it lends a sense of power to my otherwise mediocre day. "I got up and peed" sounds so boring. "Jennifer Ashley" (yes, that's right, I subconsciously middle-name myself. I sound more important as "Jennifer Ashley" than as "Jen"). "Jennifer Ashley rose from the couch and lengthened her spine-- like a cat stretching after a particularly restful nap. She absently shook her foot, pins and needles racing up it. She rotated her head, scratched at her side and made her way to the bathroom to relieve the pressing ache in her bladder." It just sounds so much more important.

I hope I don't start to think out loud like this. That might be embarassing.

Jenuinely yours,
Jen