Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

If you have a complicated relationship with someone, an unexpected but pernicious reminder of this fact can be had, of all places, in the greeting card aisle. Here is a place where relationships are neatly divided and categorized, and none so much as in the birthday cards. There are cards for mothers and fathers, brother and sisters, and every other member of the family. There are cards for husbands and wives, and cards filed “Birthday with Romance” for that specific sentiment, when such heavy handed gems as, “It’s your birthday and I’m thinking of you... Naked”. There are “Birthday for Him” and “Birthday for Her”, some meant to be given to close friends and some meant to hand to someone in the office after the whole floor has signed it.

There is a card for everyone in your life that has a defined role, which often people do. People who you have fuzzy relationships with are either still on their way to being important enough to get a card, or on their way out of your life. In Greeting Card Land, someone is your friend, or they’re not. Someone is your boyfriend or fiance or husband, or they’re not. There is no birthday card for the man who you met when a new friend started dating him, the man who then drew you into a bizarre triangle where you provided all the abstract elements of a girlfriend—the long nights talking, the emotional support, the understanding—and the actual girlfriend bought the sex. There isn’t a card for this man who you threw yourself at while he was still dating your friend, and then again and again after they broke up, getting rejected each time. No card for someone who initiates deep kisses when they’re drunk, knowing full well your deep, abiding feelings, and then when you bring it up a day later abruptly changes the subject. There isn’t a card for the man who, despite rejecting you, expresses romantic feelings and actions to you constantly in the space of well over a year, orchestrating candle lit dinners, posing as your boyfriend at weddings, asking you to dance in bars and in his kitchen, insisting you stay over and sleep next to him, rubbing your shoulders when you don’t feel well. And there is not a good card for someone who, after being out of touch for months, starts a letter with “Jenna Baby,” and in the next sentence refers to you as his “dear old pal”. Read More »

Last night I had a dream that I lived in a large houseboat with a couple dozen other people. It wasn't really like a houseboat but more like a small steamship that had been converted on the inside to house people. The bedrooms were long and narrow, with a dozen people in each one, kind of like what you might imagine an orphanage might look like, but with bigger beds. I remember havings the distinct feeling I was living here because my parents lived just up the dock, on land in an actual house, and even though I had to share a bedroom here I actually got more privacy. I have no idea where that idea came from but to my dream self it made lots of sense.

When the dream opens up it's night, and I'm walking into my bedroom, and getting into the first bed, my bed. A tan heavily tattooed young man is lying next to who I presume is his sleeping girlfriend in the next bed, and he watches and smiles as I get into bed and then take my clothes off once under the covers (apparently, I sleep naked even in my dreams now). Then I turn over and go to sleep. Read More »

For kicks, or maybe because I'm just feeling beat down by the world today, I headed over to OK Cupid and retook The Death Test. The last time I took it was ages ago, back when OK Cupid was still wet behind the ears and was a place people actually visited. At that time, The Death Test predicted I would die at the age of 24, with the probable cause “sealed for privacy”. (The only reason I even know this is because OK Cupid saves your results; I had remembered it as 35 years old or so. Boy was I off.)

Since I took this test those many years ago, I have stepped up my drinking habits to a near alcoholic level, I became a smoker instead of someone who smokes sometimes, I've engaged in some lite but nevertheless illicit drug use, I've partied hard and all night, I've left my drink unattended in a crowded bar, I've driven drunk, I've kissed more people than I can count, and I've gotten into a few sticky (ahem) situations with men.

I took the Death Test this time around fully expecting at the end a fullscreen pop up that said something to the effect of OMGWTFBQQ How are you not dead already? flashing at me over a chorus of moaning evangelical Republicans.

Wait, are you maybe writing from the afterlife? 'Cause that would be so badass.

But this is not what happened. Instead, the test now says I'll die at the ripe old age of 28, of cancer. So I managed to add four years to my life, despite all my less-than-wholesome activity, but I don't get that fun feeling of wondering what cause would warrant a “sealed for privacy”. So I get to live longer, but I no longer have, say, the distant possibility that I'll die from drowning because I fell off a diving board where I've been straddling a hot Cubano pool boy, you know what I'm saying?

Did I just get more or less interesting as a person?

There is a discussion on the much lauded opium² about the best songs to do the deed to. I was asked to weigh in by the Roommates™ (I have this undeserved rep as a mixtape aficionado) and offered this:

What you need to understand is, the key to a good sex mix is the fact that the seduction music is part of it. You can't stop someone in the middle of, um, whatever they are doing so you can run over to your CD player and pop in your “Music for Humpin” mix. You have to start it up when you get them back to your humble abode, and act like you're not trying to imply anything with your HOTT background music.

It also shouldn't just stop abruptly at the end of the act. Think about a story arch. A climax is simply the major turning point, not the end.

So, presented with notation, a chronological sex mix:

Arrival. "Come on in, sorry about the mess."

1. Strong As Death (Sweet As Love) // Al Green
2. Lover, You Should've Come Over // Jeff Buckley

Smooching begins.

3. Love Letters // Jude
4. I've Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now) // Otis Redding

Clothes start coming off. Nakedness and related activity is in full swing by track 7.

5. I Want You // Elvis Costello
6. Sugar Pill // Ambulance Ltd
7. I Remember // Damien Rice

Climax.

8. We Looked Like Giants // Death Cab For Cutie

Hopefully at this point you have wooed the honey to the point where they want to have breakfast with you in the morning. There is none of that "I have to get up really early" stuff. And you fall asleep.

9. Falling Away With You // Muse
10. Drown In My Own Tears // Will Hoge

This puts the whole act, from start to finish, at about 45 minutes. While that might be a lot to expect from men at my age, it's certainly not impossible. A girl can dream.

It should be noted that my obsession is not sex, it's mixtapes—pacing, timing, and flow. It has many of the same concerns as sex I suppose.

“So... any boyfriends?”

“Boyfriends?”

“Or relationships. Whatever you call it.”

“Nothing that turned into a boyfriend.”

Heather looks at me, quizzically, interested.

“There was this one guy, [Shortstop]. I kinda sorta hooked up with him... in my roommate's bed.”

Laughing. “Where did you meet this guy?”

“He's friends with my roommates. I really had met him only about six hours earlier when they brought him over to the apartment.”

“Was alcohol involved?”

“Of course. But we just made out for awhile, nothing serious.”

Laughing. “How was that?”

“Drunk. He was drunk. I was drunk too. We were both pretty drunk. It was fine.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“He is really cute though.”

“Yeah?”

“And before all the activity I talked to him for awhile, and he has this really fascinating internal life, and he's smart and funny—”

“—so you really like him.” Heather makes the declaration for me.

“Yeah. Yeah I really do.” I give a half-hearted sigh. “I don't think he likes me though.”

“Well that's a shame.”

“Yeah it is. But that's the way things go sometimes.”

Looking back, and forward. Read More »

Saturday I'm sitting on the couch, biding my time, trying to think of something to do, when I receive a text message on my cell phone from Abie:

“We are bringing the party to you!”

Shortly thereafter Abie and Emily (my roommates) showed up at the apartment with Greg (whom I had met before) and Danny (whom I had not met before). They all proceeded to get drunk and draw on each other and take pictures while wearing hats. I mostly did a few shots and observed the drawing, which involved covering every inch of everyones arms and legs in sharpie. They wanted to draw on me but I politely declined, meaning that I threatened anyone who tried to draw on me with a smack down. Quite effective, actually.

Emily spent some time on the phone trying to track down Blake, who works at one of the downtown bars and should have been getting off of work soon. “Let's just go find him!” I needed a walk just to get out of the house for a few minutes, so we head down there. We are all still wearing hats, me in my newsgirl and many people sporting fedoras. I briefly became the handler in this group and I cannot tell you how helpful pink, white, and black fedoras were in keeping a visual on everyone.

We are navigating through the crowd on Clayton with the help of a drunk-and-less-than-genteel Abie pushing her way through the crowd, yelling.

“Excuse me, pardon me, coming through, outta my way people!”

Danny, myself, Emily and Greg follow in her wake in that order. She pushes aside one dude, and I see him rock back on his heels and turn to his friend to grin and say, “I guess fat chicks get to do whatever they want.”

I was standing right there, trying to catch up with Abie. I looked him right in the eyes I said, quite loud and proud, “Fuck you!” He gave me a surprised look and I kept walking.

I get to the other side of the crowd where Abie and Danny are waiting and tell Abie about this jackass and my imperative to beat him down. Beat him down figuratively, of course.

Abie goes wild. “Who said that!? Who said that!? I wanna talk to that bastard!”

The bastard and his friend had, I suppose, been following in my wake and emerged from the crowd. But while the friend continued to walk in our direction, when the bastard saw me pointing, he walked past the parked cars and into the street just to avoid coming near us. He looked quite frightened. Abie started yelling at his friend, who looked at me and asked me to confirm for Abie, “I didn't say anything, did I?”

“Abie, abie!” I pointed out to the bastard walking on the street and she followed my gaze. “It was that motherfucker over there.”

That was when Abie started yelling loud enough for the entire city to turn and watch.

“Bitch, you wish you could have some of this! Fats chicks fucking rule! You wish you could have me! You're just jealous, bitch!”

She continued this way for 15 to 30 seconds, with the bastard (who had obviously learned his lesson) speedwalking away with all his might. His friend stood where we stopped him, laughing.

We found Blake at his bar and sat outside chatting it up with friends and strangers. We were sitting there making friends and having a good time when the hardass doorguy came and kicked us out because one member of our party “appeared too intoxicated”. Before you sympathize with us and get ready to cuss out the doorguy, I have to say, I concur, she indeed seem too intoxicated. So we moved back to the apartment with Blake in tow.

This is where it begins to get hazy, not for your narrator, because I remember all that went on, but the narrative has cause to break down some at this point. I can say that we went through a lot of liquor, and that I was up quite late. There was not much that was life-altering, but I did have a very good time.

I would love to do that again sometime.

Tonight, after midnight, I witnessed not one but two arm wrestling matches. The man who is still the sexiest drummer in rock and roll owned the second one; we won't talk about the first. I was surrounded by men who planted big wet kisses all over my face. I pretended that I once went to Valdosta State. I talked business. I saw Walt, the hardest-working host there is, save the day more than once. I heard plenty of stories. I laughed, a lot.

Today was a good day. Do you ever just feel recharged, like you can conquer anything? That's how that crowd makes me feel. Unique. Clever. Loved.

Cosmos, do your worst. I'll be right here, waiting.