I had lunch last week with an old friend from the former job. He’s a good guy, and it was nice to finally have a lunch with him where I was happy & not bitching about management the entire time. (He’s part of management, but somehow I could still talk to him.)

He said he’d forgotten to bring a quote from me along, but he’d kept it since I’d said it – July 3, 2003. He emailed it over the weekend. I can still hear myself saying it, and can even see my hands waving wildly. Good thing I make myself laugh, otherwise I’d be upset that everyone else was laughing, too.

Words to live by:

“I think if I was self-centered AND selfish…that would be bad.”

Seriously, why did People magazine overlook Phil Spector for the “50 Most Beautiful People” list? He’s a sexy mo-fo, and obviously knows his way around the diffuser attachment on his blow dryer. All he’s missing is a few gold chains, a conversion van, a pinky ring and a box of wine. :: SWOON :: (Oh yeah, maybe gettin’ the murder charges cleared, that’ll help with gettin’ the fillies.)

sweeeeeet. 

It’s like life is a Disney movie right now – I expect a little bluebird of happiness to land on my outstretched hand, while I’m on the back deck singing about rainbows or something else pukeifyingly happy.

I offer this into evidence:

We were supposed to go to World’s of Fun yesterday afternoon for a company outing – but it rained. So we still got all our lunches brought in, and then we were sent to a bar next door at 4, for cameraderie & free drinks.

This new place has summer hours. Every other Friday off at noon. No extra work to “make up the time”. Some people wanted every Friday off (by then working longer during the week to “make up the hours”) – but hey. I came from a place with no Friday off. So I’m dancing in a fucking musical called “JOY”.

Then, a most excellent haircut. One should not drink heavily before getting a haircut, because you could make poor choices. Therefore, no Patron shots, sad as that is. I am wise beyond my years.

While getting my haircut, my phone would not stop ringing. Two friends from the old job at Missie B’s. (Missie B’s is the home of the drag queens, among other queens, and is a very melting pot of a gay bar.) Come meet us for a drink. Instead of calling, I just decide to show up and surprise the hell out of them. It worked. Very fun couple of hours, and I felt so nostalgic for all the years I spent in the gay bars – mostly Minneapolis and a bit in St. Louis. Then I got Thai House take out, and the owner refused to let me tip, I “made her happy just by coming in”. I started trying to listen for a soundtrack, because obviously I was in some kind of movie.

Kristin got engaged last night. Couldn’t be happier for her, and I wish them a lifetime of happiness.

Going shopping at SuperTarget this afternoon with Roger & David, followed by dinner at Angela’s tonight with all of us, and we’re having wilted lettuce salad. Bacon grease dressing = heaven, even if it sends you there quicker.

I love my job and I love my bosses. On Thursday one of my bosses & I went to a client meeting & we had a great conversation in the car, about the state of things & what we want to do & accomplish, and he said he saw me taking an ownership position within the company, (not like, Hey, Jennifer is gonna own the company) but just being a leader & effecting change & making the department a lot more solid & valuable to the agency. Jesus in the sky, it has taken 15 years to get here and even if it goes away, it’s finally come.

As with everything, there are fluctuations & ups and downs. I know it, and I don’t expect everything to keep rolling along this smoothly. It would be nice if, every time I walked into the back yard, a handful of Oompa Loompas appeared & we did a dance number in the grass together. But I’ll settle for the two black dogs to just chase each other & knock each other down with the joy of their play, and brace myself so they don’t knock me down, too. And without sounding too entitled, I would like to say I think I’m due, finally. I’m shedding the anger layers, the old resentments, the bitterness and lack of hope. Everyone deserves a bluebird of happiness, even if it has to fly off for a little while – sometimes a long while.

I’ll try not to pull a Fiona from Shrek and kill it.

I started thinking again yesterday about the question, “How much do you tip on carry-out?” I know I was told long ago, you didn’t need to, it wasn’t necessary, etc. And yet sometimes I feel guilty, and sometimes I straight-up tip, without even thinking much about it. With the increased opportunities for take-out as traditional dine-in spots add the service (e.g.,Applebee’s), it seems inevitable that the etiquette experts will weigh-in and tell us to shell out more money.

I got a carry-out salad yesterday from a restaurant around the corner, and it’s a mid-fancy spot, primarily a sit-down place, and I tipped a dollar & change (around $1.35) on a $7.65 order. Mostly because the bartender brought it to me, gave me a huge bag of bread & some butter (unexpected!) and he happened to be the bartender who introduced me to Patron tequila a month ago. I thanked him for that & we had a happy short conversation about Patron, including the $200 bottle I’d been shown at the liquor store a few weeks ago. He estimated the cost (in a bar) for a shot of that would be $40, and said the reason they’d never carry it in their bar is because the owners know the staff would drink it all.

Anyway. I did a search this morning to see what the guiding standard was on carryout tipping, and it’s all over the place, especially if you land on some of the bulletin boards I found. Some people get really wound up over it; I don’t really have the patience or energy to add carryout tipping to my list of things to get enraged and up in arms over, but I do think it’s incredibly subjective. I still don’t have it quite figured out – recommendations range from a little money into a tip jar (if it exists), 10%, the full 15%-20%, to nothing at all. And doesn’t the kind of place make a difference? (Sonic, versus white-tablecloth-dine-in?) How much of a “regular” you are there? (Thai Place? If it’s a big dinner order, I might, because it’s packing it up & all; but if it’s lunch &/or I had to wait/it took longer than they said, I usually don’t.)

What do you do?

It’s much easier to blog when you’re pissed off at the world. Some days I find myself just stumped, trying to figure out what to rant about or what stories to dig up from the vaults of my mind.

The good news, though? My jaw hasn’t been clenched in over two months now.

Yesterday at lunch, Kristin & I were talking about college courses, and I revealed how I never did well at anything science-like. I was a studio ART MAJOR. Despite this fact, my advisor, who later went through a sex-change operation, and never stopped calling me “Jenny”, continued to insist I take a science type of class, because, like, PAINT was based on chemistry and so it was a stretch and ok, fine, I fucking enrolled in CHEMISTRY.

The first day was a lab. That blew. I had plans for happy hour and this lab thing was cutting in to them. Sorry dad, your money for school was WELL SPENT if you include socialization and alcohol resistance training. Anyway, I broke my crucible. That was a sign. The next sign was the first full class day, when we were given a QUIZ. I failed. Lovely. I withdrew, and enrolled in Rocks for Jocks. Despite not being a jock, it was supposed to be extremely basic astronomy for non-science people. Withdrew Passing.

Thank god the Psychology department was a science. I enjoyed some of my Psych classes, and even did some independent study projects. But the worst, absolute WORST, was Psychology of the Brain. This turned out to be a very involved anatomy class that was chock full o’ science. And there were only four tests. No papers, no labs, straight up tests. I was performing DISMALLY in this class.

But there was one thing that could save me: The Coloring Book of the Brain. Don’t be glib and think this was a little workbook. This was a mammoth book, with diagrams you’d never imagine needed coloring. This is 320 pages of hardcore stuff, presumably useful to future neurologists and NON ART MAJORS.

I spent several days parked in front of the tv, coloring furiously while watching all of the CBS soaps, while drinking Diet Mountain Dew & eating brie with wheat thins. (This was my finals week diet every year, for some reason.) For if one completed the dreaded coloring book, it counted as another GRADE, thus reducing your test values from 25% each to 20% each. I had a very excellent box of high-end coloring pencils (because remember? ART MAJOR) and while I suffered some ridicule from my friends, spending all my time coloring, I was driven to get that fucker DONE, and have some semblance of hope of passing the stupid class.

Which I did, but good gravy, I don’t remember anything except the brie and the Young & the Restless. Maybe it explains how I ended up in advertising…..

I did not lose my tone, I did not smirk, I did not laugh, as I said the above line during the commitment ceremony Saturday night. I am once again convinced I am missing an Oscar for my ability and stage presence: after all, as two gay men are lighting a candle, using the word “Flame” repeatedly, it carries a double entendre not lost on me (or the audience) and during the rehearsal I lost it (all three times I read it) by the time I had to say “as these two flames…” I toyed with hitting a high-pitched falsetto and throwing in some jazz hands, but in the end went with my sincere, warm (and controlled) voice. And no jazz hands.

Mike & Gordon threw a great party, they declared their love & commitment to each other, and I danced with my husband to the song we got married to: Barry White’s “You’re the First, the Last, My Everything”, which actually got everyone out on the floor (not because of us, because it’s BARRY). Then we had to leave because it was 800 degrees in the tiny ballroom, and despite having windows open, there was not enough air circulating to combat the crowd & the heat. Good thing JWo drove us home, because I wouldn’t have passed that eye test thingy.

Today is a barbecue at Roger & David’s, and then it’s back to work – and I am again, looking forward to going to work. I swear, I’m not acting, either. But I will ALWAYS give you jazz hands, because they are such a happy thing. And because my self-portrait for work was deemed “too boring” (wha? Me? TOO BORING?) I give you some hamming for the camera, right before we left for the ceremony. I put on half the scarves I’ve knit (to show something about me) and then it was all Vogue covershoot from there, only I started singing and waving the scarves and making up new words so they were funny and about JWo, and in half the pictures I look like a total goober because I have on so much lipstick, any odd position of my mouth gets exaggerated. So here’s the “normal” one. Sorry, no jazz hands. But there’s a little Diana Ross going on. Because I am Supreme.

Drama Queen. 

Have you ever been through a sobriety checkpoint? I’ve seen those commercials on TV, where the voiceover man, presumably a warden at the Prison for Drunk Drivers, berates you in a very scary voice and promises that if you drink and drive, and we catch ya, you will be sent to prison immediately, where you’ll be forced to clean up vomit every day and raped on the hour. The visual is always some college-aged dude squinting into the bright light of the flashlight and there are GUNS EVERYWHERE.

So last night, after the commitment ceremony rehearsal, we carpooled up to the HinterNorthLands (hey Judy!) for the dinner at the groom & groom’s house. It was awesome barbecue, and I had a couple of beers with my dinner, and because we kept waiting for the cap pistol to be shot, indicating we could finally go eat, my first beer started making me feel loopy, and I announced several times that I was going to start chewing my arm off. I also kept telling Roger to keep up with me because, I guess, I’ve taken over the bossy role and demand that he drink as much as I. Plus it’s handy if he gets done at the same time because he’ll bring me another drink. I am that lazy.

So we had a plate of BBQ, and it rocked, and I had a SECOND plate. Which also rocked, but now I was slowing down, and I didn’t finish my beer, because I had transformed into the Veruca Salt girl from Willy Wonka and was waiting for the Ooompa Loompas to show up and roll me to my car. Plus, I was the driver. I joked that David could take over and drive, but I knew still, I’d have to get home from their house, and so it just seemed like a good point at which to stop. We sat and chatted with people for a while, played with Jimmy & Kelly’s beautiful baby, and then eventually left. Roger & I put Lewis & Clark to shame, because every time we drive up north, we convince each other we’re going the right way, regardless of if it’s correct or not. Amazingly, we wound our way out of the subdivision and right onto the street where Sheridan’s is. YUM. YUM. YUM. It’s frozen custard, because it’s so fatty. I had a cone (I like a cone) and it was so tall, I thought I was gonna get it all over the interior car roof. So I drive us back to Roger & David’s house, drop them off, jump back on Hwy 71, and head towards home. I even thought, “There’ve been some gang shootings on this road recently, I wonder if I should jump off and take another road.” But traffic was rolling along and I decided to keep with the straight shot home.

Then traffic slowed to a crawl, and a stop. I was in the left lane, and saw police lights. I was convinced it must be a bad wreck, or worse, another shootout. As we inched along, I realized it was more than one lane shut down, the whole damned highway was closed, with cones and everything. I’m thinking, man, this is a hell of an accident, it must be over that hill because I can’t see anything. And then I see two motorcycle cops (my FAVORITE!) in the dark, in the second lane, and I think that looks funny, like they’re waiting to catch somebody.

THEN. We’re all exiting and concentrating on not hitting each other, because there are like, 200 cars going into & through this bottle neck of the exit ramp, and there’s a little government sign on the other side of the road that says, “Sobriety Checkpoint Ahead.” And everything in my stomach turns to soup. Because now I have to decide, am I going to tell the truth? Or am I going to lie? I can hear the question from the tv commercial thundering in my head, “Have you had anything to drink tonight?” and I look at the clock, and it’s almost 10:00 p.m. and I’ve had two beers (three hours earlier) and two huge-ass plates of food, and an ice cream cone that contains more calories than Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Ritchie and Paris Hilton consume, combined, in a week. And I can assure you, I am not impaired, but I do have cramps and I need to pee, and if I have to get out of the car, I’m going to be shaking so hard I might just lose control of all my bodily functions and then I’d be blogging from prison about how some lifer named Wanda has made me her bitch.

These checkpoints are not set up for diffused lighting photography, in case you think you might try to get some portraits taken while you’re there. They have generators, they’re big lights up on scaffolding-like stands, and there are two cops waving you into two lines, and there is a whole line of cops with their flashlights, spaced out to examine the next block of cars. And they’ve all got guns. And they’re wearing gloves and hats. It’s VERY formal. I, of course, get the guy who isn’t dressed the same as everyone else, and so I assume he is the Baddest Motherfucker of the Checkpoint, and I am extremely sober and nervous. BRIGHT LIGHT in my eyes, thank god I’m not a gremlin.
“Good evening, ma’am” (FUCK I am old. MISS. MISS. Just one more time before I go to the Big House.)
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
I am now extremely friendly. I start to chirp. “Yes! This is very exciting! I’ve never been through one of these before!” And I can’t get my license out of my wallet, because it never comes out of the wallet, and I’m a little palsied as I FORCE THAT GODDAMN PIECE OF PLASTIC OUT before they think I’m a Columbian drug runner.
“Have you had anything to drink tonight?” he asks while I’m wrestling with leather and plastic and a three-inch card.

Moment of truth. Kindof.
“I had a beer at a barbecue, about four hours ago.”
Because I can’t lie outright. I just can’t. I did when I was 6, but I thought I was saving my mother from being hauled away. I hand him my license.
He inspects it. I have my old address on it still. OH GOD. I hope I don’t have to deal with that, too. “Do you still live in Kansas City?” he inquires. “Yes.”
Now we’re gettin’ down to business, wherein he will establish that I am not drunk because I have copped to drinking earlier that evening. I continue looking at him, and he bends down further.
“Keep facing me, but I want you to move your eyes and look to the right.” Thank god he moved his hand to indicate that it was to be MY right. I didn’t want to have to have that conversation. (Your right? My right? Ociffer?)
I slide my eyes over, then back.
“OK, you can go, thank you very much, drive safe.”

HUH?
I drove off, happily, of course, and all I could think was: James will know why this is a conclusive test. And he did. I guess our eyes are very fine-tuned when it comes to motor control, and they’re a good indication of how in-control you are. If my eyes had jerked, it would have indicated a lack of control. I did a little search this morning, and lo & behold that particular test even has a name: Horizontal Gaze Nystagmus (HGN). I wonder how many people didn’t pass, and that’s scary, too.

So, I’m glad to say I’m not blogging from the pokey, and I am SCARED STRAIGHT. I’m kind of glad I went through the experience, but I’m really glad I didn’t have to stand on one leg. I’m a big girl, and I don’t do one-legged stuff well. But I’ll admit, I did run through the alphabet real quick-like in my head while I was being waved “into position”. And now, when I feel really out of control, I’m going to go look in the mirror and slide my eyes from side-to-side. At the rate I’m going this holiday weekend, I’ll be in the bathroom until Tuesday.