The Jennie Blog

Snowbaby with the Lambrusco

A couple of things today:  firstly, I HATE all of this snow here in the ‘Burgh.  I am a winter pansy who drives 10 mph on the highway at the mere sight of a flake.  Slow and steady wins the race, you aggressive haters.  Eat it.

Secondly, I’m still pissed about Sarah Palin’s irresponsible website.  You know, the one with the gun scope targets.  No, it’s not Palin’s fault that the Tucson tragedy happened (not exactly)…but how loudly do you think that righties would be crying if a Dem had the audacity and bad taste to create such a website? In what universe is this even CLOSE to being acceptable?? Just sayin’.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I do love me some Steelers and Reunite Lambrusco (and thanks to my Twitter buddy @jclenzi for mentioning the Lambrusco tonight…I happened to be sipping it during my current snowed-in situation).  All of the wannabe, high-browed a-holes that I know hate both of the aforementioned.  I love the black and gold like a good, knuckle-dragging yinzer.  As for Reunite…well kids, you gotta love a wine that makes you feel like a second grader who’s chugging grape juice while simultaneously gettin’ you all crunky (complete with the purple ‘stache). 

One last thing…get ready for an awesome throw-down, wild wild west kind of fight between AT&T and Verizon.  The big V is finally getting the iPhone, which means, friends, that Crackers (my BlackBerry) will soon be headed for retirement.  It also means that there will be tons of corporate fun and snarky jabs between the two companies.

Raise high your glass of Reunite, babies.  Good times, they are a-comin’.

Bukowski's Shoelace

Many thanks to my fabulous friends, Julie and Laura, at Crazy Mocha for leading me to this wonderful poem.  It's extremely powerful; the next time I have a *really* bad day, it'll be on my mind for sure.  And by the way, if it matters, some have compared Bukowski to Chekhov (i.e. this is GOOD STUFF).

The Shoelace - Charles Bukowski

a woman, a
tire that’s flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard…
it’s not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he’s ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse…
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left …
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can kill quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
licence plates or taxes
or expired driver’s license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink’s stopped-up, the landlord’s drunk,
the president doesn’t care and the governor’s
crazy.
lightswitch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill’s up and the, market’s
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it’s
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there’s always crabs and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they’re
your friends;
there’s always that and worse;
leaky faucet, christ and christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.

or making it
as a waitress at norm’s on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a carwash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady’s purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.

suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and china and russia and america, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
pot, except maybe one to piss in
and the other one around your
gut.

with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.

so be careful
when you
bend over.

 

You'll Be My Teenage Dream Tonight. Or My Frappuccino.

Here’s the deal: I like to drink with the big boys.  Keep your fruity, girly drinks martinis and give me a good, smoky scotch.  The same holds true for coffee.  Give me a big mug of steaming, freshly brewed black coffee.  No cream.  No sweetener.  And I want a bold, knock-you-on-your-ass roast—sometimes with espresso shots added.  My respect for others is directly proportionate to the number of espresso shots that they order for their beverages.  Order a penti venti (that’s FIVE live wire espresso shots, kids) and you’ve become Chuck Norris in my eyes.  Only pansies actually “sleep” when they aren’t dead.

Espresso=caffeine=RESPECT.  That said, allow me to express my extreme irritation and disdain for the obnoxious teenage coffee shop clientele who always order beverages without espresso.  I hate them.  They’re loud, obnoxious and pack a grandiose sense of entitlement that makes me want to vomit all over their designer shoes (that mommy and daddy bought).  Here’s a sample encounter from my shift last evening, as the Christmas Break Teeny Boppers herded into my place of employment to enjoy “grown up” beverages.

Cocky Teenage Boy (after ordering a caramel apple spice): “Wouldn’t it be funny if I took money from that box (points at our tips) and used it to pay for my drink?”

Wow, you’re a rocket scientist.  You’ve made the acute observation that there’s money on the counter.  People use money to pay for things.  You could, in theory, use that money to pay for your sugar-laden drink and keep the funds that Mommy and Daddy gave you for your exciting night out at the coffee shop.  It’s an utterly brilliant and flawless plan.

Me: “It would be really funny.”  I adorn my faux smile and fervently wish that my eyes could shoot lasers through this little a-hole’s heart.  If he had one.  “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

He completely misses my blatant sarcasm and chuckles to himself, a cocky affirmation of his own perceived cleverness.  I don’t doubt that, had I turned my back for a moment, he would indeed have stolen money from our tip box and used it to execute his brilliantly conceived plan for free beverages.  And there isn’t a thing that I can do about it.  I can’t even decaf him.  This is not due to any sort of guilt I would feel in doing so; there is very little that would delight me more than providing a caffeine headache for these little miscreants.  I can’t decaf them because they order frou-frou beverages that don’t have any caffeine, which is why respect=espresso.  Teeny boppers frequently order nothing more than dolled up kiddie drinks, like hot chocolate or vanilla crème (steamed milk with vanilla syrup, NO espresso…seriously, you big baby??  Do you want me to serve it to you in a sippy cup, too?).  Nothing, however, compares to the king of all frou-frou drinks, the dreaded Double Chocolatey Chip Frappuccino.  Mocha syrup, chocolate chips, lots and lots of dairy, but nary a drop of coffee in sight—this is the basis for this diabetic-coma inducing monstrosity.  I do not respect this 500 calorie disaster, especially since it epitomizes teenage punks who don't know who to order any other beverages. 

Maybe someday when they’re older (and obese), they’ll understand how hard that sweet barista works in order to earn those tips that they’ve joked about stealing.  And maybe when Wilford Brimley is beating down their doors, demanding that they check their blood sugar levels (and check them often), they’ll switch to real, grown up drinks.  And I’ll be laughing at the caffeine headache…how did decaf get into that cup??

Where was Wonderboys Filmed Again?

One of my favorite things about living at Mom’s is the Crazy Mocha coffee shop that’s within walking distance. Crazy Mocha is Pittsburgh’s “other” white meat when it comes to coffee. The manager, Julie, and I are kindred spirits (she gets me, man). We’re both survivors of the fiction writing program at the University of Pittsburgh, and though we’d graduated at least four years apart, the good old fiction track remains ever the same. Let’s discuss Pitt’s writing program (aka “The Young and the Restless, Pittsburgh”) for a moment. And let’s do so in list format:

1.) Michael Chabon, Michael Chabon, Michael Chabon. The much-heralded author of neo-cult classics like Mysteries of Pittsburgh and Wonderboys is the gold standard to whom all other budding writers at Pitt are compared. And they always, and inevitably, fall short; no matter what the happy little undergrad writes, it will never be as awesome as Michael Chabon’s novels, or even that stupid short story that he wrote in 4th grade about losing his cat. And, lest you forget (though Pitt will never let you), they made a MOVIE out of Wonderboys and filmed it on campus. So eat it, haters.
2.) The man, the myth, the legend…BK. He’s so cool, he sweats whiskey. EVERY female student, undergrad and grad alike (and most of the waitressing staff at Fuel and Fuddle in Oakland), made him their not-so-secret elusive fantasy. Mention BK to any woman who knows of him and the reaction is always the same—a looooong, languishing sigh and then a loss of retinal focus for approximately 3.6 minutes. BK has been romantically linked to several other members of the Pitt Writing Department, with all of his relationships ending in tragically glorious explosions after months of tumultuous passion. Or something like that. BK had originally been a film student, but decided to get his MFA in Writing after a fire destroyed all of the work that he had been creating. At least that’s what he tells the ladies. Oh, and go ahead and try to make him your friend on Facebook…your stalking efforts shall be promptly halted (believe me—I’ve tried). BK is much too fabulous for that new-fangled social media stuff, or even that “wireless” cell phone garbage. Legend has it that BK refused to buy a celly until 2007, and even then, he bought it grudgingly. Apparently, it’s unacceptable for outlaw writers to take calls during drunken binges at dirty saloons, or while they’re riding their mopeds through Spain in a desperate attempt to “find” themselves. No one is quite sure of his age either, though I’m fairly certain that he has always been 35. Oh yes…I do love me some BK.
3.) Want another legend? Here’s one for you: the illustrious Mr. K. Any student who has taken a class with Mr. K would call him “the best damn teacher” they’d ever had…but I didn’t take any of his classes. Mr. K is the epitome of “outlaw writer.” His wild exploits with Raymond Carver in the depth of Appalachia are well-known; consult any Carver story and you’ll find traces of their adventures. Anybody who was anybody in the writing dept absolutely salivated at the thought of being invited to one of Mr. K’s fabulous house parties, during which he would enrapture his guests with wild tales of drinking, sex and moonshine (and when I start my garage band, that will be its name). Mr. K is larger-than-life; in fact, another “Pitt legend” says that Michael Chabon, Mr. K’s one-time protégé, wrote Wonderboys with him in mind. So go and watch it—it was filmed at Pitt, don’t forget.
4.) Ah yes, the catty female instructors in the writing dept. Bottomline: males with an ounce of good looks and a smidge of talent = brilliance. Females=go back to 8th grade creative writing because you don’t belong here.
5.) The “advisors”: can we really call them that? Lady L looked (and acted) perpetually stoned. Her counterpart was clueless 98.7% of the time. How I actually managed to achieve a B.A. with that winning team on my side, I’ll never understand.

And where did my writing degree get me? You’re reading my blog, right? Julie and I often joke that they should have offered “Barista 101” to writing majors—at least then we would have acquired some useful skills. Maybe if my name was “Michael Chabon,” things would be different. Have I mentioned that they filmed Wonderboys at Pitt?

Java of Contrition

Have I mentioned that I moonlight as a barista? It’s a gig that I just can’t quit, even though the pay is atrocious and the work is physically demanding. I do, however, love the job…during most days, that is.

Today, though, a flaming, venomous dragon screamed at me in the ‘Bux drive-thru. I had added too much milk to her coffee. She had clearly requested “light milk,” meaning (and I’m supposed to inherently understand this by virtue of my barista-ness) that she wanted exactly one drop of nonfat milk. One teeny, tiny miniscule drop that would not alter the color of said caffeinated beverage further one shade of Cafe Estima Ebony. Obviously, I’d ignored her instructions by adding enough moo moo juice to turn the beverage dinosaur bone brown, and I had obviously done so just to ruin her day. I’m a complete jerk like that.

So the dragon yelled at me. I wondered how such an egregious slight upon the soul of humanity would ever be rectified. I prayed that pouring a cup of contritional java would help the situation. Would she give me another chance? Could this dear, sweet woman whom I’d wronged so severely ever grant me the opportunity for penance? I tried again, giving her the cup with my saddest eyes and most hopeful smile. I’d placed just a splash of skim milk in her steaming cup…it was not a mere drop, but my hand was shaking, fearful of the inevitable consequences of over-milking her coffee, yet again.

I’d feared that my first disaster had angered her beyond hope, that our barista-customer trust had been shattered–and my fears were realized. She was too angry about my previous failure to even inspect the new cup. She grabbed the coffee from me, burning my hand in her rage, to which she was entirely entitled; I deserved such just retribution for my idiocy and for my apparent insubordination. I accepted my punishment…but guess who was de-caffed. This morning, the headache’s on me, darlin.’

Re-launching the Jennie Blog!!!!

I've tried to "start over" and create a new blog...but I can't turn my back on 3 years' worth of history!!!

Dreams of Boys in Bright Green Hoodies

I had this crazy dream last night...I was walking down a pink hallway with shiny, speckled floors.  Chinese nuns were milling around, but none of them spoke directly to me,  Suddenly, I was sent to my friend's apartment.  When I looked outside, I saw The Boy frantically bouncing on a pogo stick.  When he saw me watching from the window, he dropped it aburptly and ran into the building.  My friend became very excited and started jumping up and down. 

"He's coming!"  She opened the door and tried to hug him when he entered.

The Boy looked at her, placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and pushed her to the side.  He marched straight to me with an intense, frightening look in his eyes.  I wasn't sure if he would kiss me or kill me.  He wore a large, green sweatshirt with a hood that he kept on it his head.  I couldn't tear my gaze away from his eyes.  I tried to kiss him, but my lips touched nothing but air.  I wanted to embrace him. but I couldn't grasp him, though I tried and tried.  I gave up and left the apartment.  The Boy disappeared.

What do I make of THIS?!

Changchun. I Think They Eat Cats There.

No closer to a decision about Changchun.  I still very much want to go.  All of the things that I've been reading about the city make me want to hop on a plane right now and just do it.  I'm so worried about medicine there, though; I have very specific and demanding health issues that must be considered.  Aside from my medical concerns, I'm caught up in "smaller" details: what about my car?  Can I just sell it? But what happens when I return from China, worldlier, but sans a J-O-B.  Then what? 

And my cats, my dear babies!  I'm their mama, the only human who has ever been a consistent, reliable presence in their lives.  Do I tell them that Mama's hoppin' a plane to China, a place where they EAT sweet little kitty cats?? 

I still really want to get my master's in counseling and psychology, though I can certainly do this next year, right?  I'm so torn.  Changchun isn't an international city; it actually seems like the perfect size, and is definitely strong in culture, with a sizeable "ex-pat" community, a place where I can find "my people," as Alex phrased it.

So, here's where it's at: I'm waiting for my nurse to call me back to chat about taking meds to China, and in the meantime, I'm frantically researching Changchun--especially via blogs.  I'm trying to read every piece of information that I that I can get my grubby little hands on.  I'm about to sign the MPN for my school loans, which is akin to the dreaded "Point of No Return" for a commitment-phobe like me. I have to make a decision about Changchun soon, as classes begin mid-September.

If I can get all my "t's" crossed and am satisfied about the details, I am going to Changchun.  This is not going to be another "I wish that I would have done it differently" moment.  End of story.

Spongebob Can't Save Me Now

I'm absolute ball of stress this morning.  I awoke with a rock in my stomach.  Along with my China dilemma (which I feel I need to research further--what if I arrive there, only to be sold into sex slavery or something??), I'm planning a party for 13 fabulous teens.  They deserve a spectacular time, and I'm SO nervous about making this happen.  Everyone who promised to help me completely bailed, so I'm on my own.  As usual. 

Spongebob??  Sassy Gay Friend?  Please help!

 

SB/PF-He's a Bully