Monthly Archives: March 2008

It was kind of like Spring Break ’07 in Cancun minus all the booze, man.

Last week was Spring Break. As mentioned in the previous post, it was spent with my aunt, uncle, and two little cousins outside of San Francisco in a little place called the Central Valley. Aside from there being just about as much to do in their town as there is to do in my hometown: eat, watch TV, bowl, get your nails did, walk the dog, drive nowhere–I had a wonderfully educational experience.  

You may be asking yourself–Educational? Really Jess? Please, do let me expand. First off, my aunt is quite the homemaker. She never seems to be that much older than me, until I visit her. It’s when I step into her house and notice that not a single thing is out of place, not even a crumb to be found on the kitchen counter, that I realize–Man. She IS getting old. Now, now. I jest! It’s just that my tiny one-bedroom apartment is, um, far from this level of immaculate. Most people my age tend to shower regularly, sure…but clean our apartments? Please. I would rather do something more productive with my early twenties like watch Rock of Love or Housewives of New York City while thinking about why Rumer Willis looks like that.

Another thing I learned: kids can wait. Not forever. But for the time being, I do not want ’em. I love the tykes known as my cousins, but they require a certain level of patience I just don’t see in myself yet. Maybe patience comes with time or the desire to want children of your own like, immediately. I’ve just never been a “little kid person.” You can’t be competitive and play games with them, because they’re always supposed to win. ‘Cause if they don’twin–watch out! You’re about to see the biggest, bat shit-crazy, hissy fit of a lifetime. I was there. I know what I saw, and it was frightening. I had no idea what to do in this situation. I’m supposed to be the cool, older cousin. They are not supposed to throw tantrums with me. All I wanted to do was lie and say that he had in fact won the game. This would be followed by me throwing my Monopoly Junior money at the kid. Here. Take it. It’s not even real. What do they know? They’re just kids! I think I tend to connect more with the 9-13 year-old age group. –Not because I think they’re cute or anything, but because I don’t have to speak an octave higher in order to sound nice.

This weekend my little brother comes into town. He’s a pretty laid-back fellow who doesn’t require a squeaky clean abode to sleep comfortably when away from one’s home, nonetheless I will be fixing up the apartment in anticipation of his arrival. And if he happens to start talking to me about girls, I’ll let him in on a little story about what I see parenting really being like. It’s like my friend Michaela always says, “Abstinence is a condom for the heart.” So. True. 

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Filed under Family, life lessons, love. sort of.

It starts out on a plane.

It’s bad, really bad when you write a blog post by hand in your personal journal since no computer access exists 30,000 feet above ground. However, I’ve managed to accomplish this task with relatively little harm to my ego. Here’s what I wrote:

Well, I’m on my way to San Francisco to visit my aunt and the family for part of my last Spring Break ever. For those of you who know me, you’re aware that I’m terrified of flying…so bear with me while I waste some air time and indulge in my utter nerdiness by writing this blog post.

First things first:
1) I HIGHLY suggest flying with jetBlue. My flight began with an episode of That 70’s Show followed by movie Juno on my personal TV screen. People: I have just experienced the 21st century and…It. Is. Awesome! I have copious amounts of leg room and even decided to get one of those baby bottles of wine to encourage my self-important nature.

2) On the way to the airport today I had a cab driver offer me two very interesting rules of thumb he says he swears by:

a) Never go to the doctor’s office for a physical. This man is sixty-eight years old and apparently healthy as a horse. Mazel Tov.

b) Never wear a condom. (FYI: I did express to him that this was an over share…c’mon folks, I do have some morals!) He said that this rule keeps him faithful to his girlfriend. I don’t care to go on.—Yeesh.

There is no level of ‘uncomfortable’ that shies away from me. These types of situations often find their way into my daily routine, and I’m just going to start recording them. For instance, I’m not really sure why some cab drivers feel the need to push the envelope that extra inch and completely cross my self-imposed comfort line. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just talk too much–you know, too nice too quickly? On my way home from work last week, the driver asked me for my number to go on a date. Great. It’s uncomfortable moments such as this one which happen on a regular basis, that make me want to crawl under a large rock and hide forever.

A similar type of uncomfortable occurred a couple weeks ago at my internship. I was going on one of my many important errands at the magazine: a coffee run. I had gone out with one of the new interns who had decided to tell me that she no longer drinks coffee due to her IBS. I did not ask her if caffeine made her irritable. I didn’t even ask the girl if she liked coffee! My only regret is that I didn’t have a good friend of mine around at this moment to share in this heightened level of ‘uncomfortable’ with me. Instead, I have resorted to sharing this intern’s digestive ailments with cyber space. I’m sorry…

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Filed under Excuses, Friends, i don't get it

I’m not worthy.

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The photograph of this little, Parisian fashionista can be found on one of my new favorite blogs, Style Sightings. The people photographed for this site are stunning, so much so, that everything in my closet could basically be compared to a burlap sack when placed next to the threads these folks are donning. Sure, some of the wardrobe choices are a little too over the top, their outfits screaming, “Today, I went for more of a train-wreck look,” but I understand the appeal of wanting to see something different. In America we generally tend to go for a more, “I’ll have what she’s wearing” approach to fashion. This can get really boring, especially when you live in D.C. and the dresscode happens to be an ill-fitting business suit with tennis shoes.

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Filed under fashion

A girl home alone. A romance. A recipe for contemplation.

Ah, yes. After an extremely tedious and tiring day, what better way to enjoy a quiet evening at home than by watching Under the Tuscan Sun, featuring Diane Lane? It’s amazing how happy this movie makes me. I laugh. I cry. I think, yes! Someday I will move to Italy and find happiness, love, and write the next great novel! I will stroll through the villages of Tuscany and find an amazing mansion for a reasonable price. Sure, there will be hard times. But I’ll look so good doing it all–in fact, I’ll buy a blow-dryer and do my hair. Then all the Italian men will come a runnin’!

I am a such a sucker for a good romance/coming-of-age tale. But it got me wondering…how realistic are any of these romances? Do children in Italy really run around throwing rose petals at people, as opposed to the sticks and stones American kids manage to hurl? It’s a little unsettling.

Josephine Cox, a popular British author, brings up an interesting point: Love stories may be instilling some unrealistic expectations in many of us. Here are some key arguments she poses in an article from The Daily Mail:

1) Generally, all the main characters of a love story are really good-looking. (Not the case in real life.)

2) Often enough, it’s love at first site. (For those who say they’ve never noticed someone on the metro and thought–if even for just a second–that this could be the one, you’re lying. And probably no fun at all.)

3) If it’s not love at first site, it’s a childhood friendship that has developed into much, much more.

4) The stories end when the two characters end up happily together. Forget the baby diapers, cottage cheese thighs, and “first gray hairs” that come later.

Still, at the end of all this I say that storytelling is just storytelling. If novels and films were about how Paul and Lauren met their sophomore year of college and got married after graduation, I would cry giant tears of boredom.

Under the Tuscan Sun probably made me think a little too much. But I am considering a future as a divorcee who decides to start over in Europe…I just hope I have Diane Lane’s waistline.

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Filed under Guilty Pleasures, Love, Sleepless Nights