May
10

Holding Back Laughter And Other Public Disasters

At a very young age, three I think, my mother sat me down in our living room and handed me a Berenstain Bears book. I don’t remember what it was about. Let’s just pretend it was the one where the little boy bear freaks the actual fuck out because while they were all on their journey toward moral enlightenment, he realized none of them had bothered to but on any goddamn shoes. Yes. I think it was that one.

So my mother sits me down on the couch, hands me this book, and says, “I’m going to teach you how to read.”

It turns out that either she was an actual wizard, or I had picked up the basics prior to our lesson because I read the entire book in one go.Now let me pause here and explain that I’m not trying to advertise myself as some advanced creature. While I started reading at a young age, I reached other milestones at a slower pace, things like walking and, believe it or not, talking. My point is that despite the medical pacing we’ve subscribed to, kids just do things when they fucking want to. I apparently wanted to read young.

My son is much different. Fueled by what can only be explained as demonic prowess, he started walking at eight months. (If you’ve never had a baby, this is fairly early.)  Because we were stupid, my ex-husband and I celebrated this with the unparalleled glee brought to us by ignorant first-time parentage. I will not encourage such a thing next time around. In retrospect, it was a rather unsettling event the first time he walked. He’d pulled himself up using the table (also his first time) and then he just fucking walked off. I imagine you’d feel the same panic and confusion if you walked in on your cat smoking a cigarette.

Anyway, back to the point. As soon as I figured out that I knew how to read, I never stopped. I suspect that this was part of my mother’s master plan for peace. You can’t talk or run or scream when you’re reading. She played a well-executed game of literary freeze tag, and I have nothing but respect for that. Nicely done, Connie.

Here we are now, present day, and I’m on my way to a convention. I forgot to fully charge my iPad last night, so I had to take a trip back to Paleolithic times and buy an actual book with pages and shit in it.

They didn’t have any trashy historical romance novels available (my poorly concealed, highly embarrassing guilty pleasure which may or may not surprise you.) They did, however, have Tina Fey’s book Bossypants which I’ve meant to read for years as I highly respect her sense of humor.

We’re about two hours into a five hour flight and after cheating my way through a crossword puzzle, I decided to read a bit.  The book is a surprisingly easy read. I’m not sure what I expected, but it’s definitely worth picking up if you haven’t already.

I don’t know about anyone else, but when I read…I’m gone. It’s gotten better since I’ve had to constantly listen for the sounds of a small child, but if I know I’m in the clear, I disappear. I’m gone. I don’t know where the fuck I am, what time it is, who in Christ’s name is around me – I basically get sucked into a black hole.

Whilst in my Tina Fey black hole, I apparently laughed out loud a few times. “Out loud” is probably an exaggeration as I was more giggling quietly to myself. I know what I did because I was there with me, even if I was in my black hole. It was more along the lines of a visible laugh, less of a physical one, like when you know someone is undoubtedly amused but they’re not quite wheezing and choking. I don’t know why I’m feeling so defensive about this or why I feel compelled to excessively explain this, but whatever. I digress.

Since I was in my black hole, I forgot that I was sitting fairly close to someone. I was in the window seat, and he was in the middle. He must have arrived at the arm rest auction before the aisle guy and myself because he won all the arm rests. In fact, I wrote this blog post in my journal with my face pressed against the window. I have the marks to prove it.

While I was IRL LOLing, he had begun, unbeknownst to me, to stare at me. I have no idea how long he was staring at me, but I froze mid-shoulder shake when I finally realized. I then turned slowly toward him assuming he’d been trying to get my attention. Maybe he needed to move into my seat since he’d already claimed half of it with his elbow. I tried to be accommodating.

All he did was stare at me. It wasn’t an angry stare. It wasn’t a gaze of admiration. He was merely looking at me like he was silently acknowledging that I was in possession of a face and he’d just so happened to notice it.

He continued to stare even after I looked away. He finally looked back at his laptop a few seconds later and carried on like nothing had happened. I pressed my face harder against the airplane window and struggled to hold back the laughter that would be nothing like the soundless snickers of yore.

Holding back laughter is always disastrous. I tried doing this in the symphony once. I was with Amanda and our friends Joe & Chris who no longer speak to us. We got a case of the giggles and wound up laughing and snorting our way through a particularly sad piece about the death of a young friend. The difference then was that I could blame my laughter on Amanda and I could claim that she was culpable for egging me on. This time I was just a girl smashed up against a plastic partition teeming with all manners of terrific diseases, and I had lost the battle. I was laughing loudly, tears streaming down my face.

I eventually calmed down until I caught him staring at me again. Another round of laughter. He eventually went back to his work.

I still have no idea what about that situation made me laugh. It’s not particularly funny – more odd, to be honest.

Why was he staring at me? I wasn’t being loud. I hadn’t attempted to reclaim the armrest THAT WAS RIGHTFULLY MINE BUT WHATEVER I’M OVER IT. I just don’t understand what he was looking at.

I don’t know, maybe it’s peculiar for people to laugh when they read. I just enjoy laughing and there are obviously unfortunate repercussions when I try to hold it in. (Amanda and I miss you, Joe & Chris.)

I’m not trying to get all ‘Murica on you guys, but I think it’s well within my right to laugh wherever I want. Speaking of that, I concluded that there was no way this man was American. Americans don’t stare at you and make unwavering eye contact with you unless they’re trying to sell you something or they’re going to kill you and turn your skin into a replica Hermes bag.

I have no idea what the purpose of this narrative is other than maybe…do what you want. If you want to laugh at the symphony, do it. If you want to start walking really young, have at it. Embrace your inner kid and do things whenever the fuck you feel like it.

And if that doesn’t resonate with you, at least leave with this: I probably sat next to a serial killer on a flight to San Francisco and I lived to blog about it.

May
10

Manufactured Realities

Your baby’s gonna love this ride.

As I mentioned in my last post which I’m sure you’re getting around to reading, I’m in San Francisco this week. I want to send up a hearty high-five to God for pulling a fast one on me and sending a cold front through here during the only days I’ll be around. Well played, God. Well played.

I won’t bore you with the finer details, but I’m here for a marketing conference. I don’t know if I’ve ever explained that this is what I do for a living. I am in an industry that is designed to mislead you for money. I’m part of the problem, just like you. I get paid quite well for it though, so I put on a smile while I pervert your view of the world, then I go home, bury said smile, and criticize you for falling for it all. I get up the next day and do it all over again. And again. And again. And…

Reality is something that’s been weighing on me lately. Do any of us know what reality is? If you live in America, you may have noticed that the vast majority of our lives and our experiences are completely manufactured. Vacations aren’t just about seeing something new, they’re about consumerism. Even if we don’t realize it, we go to the most exotic locations we can afford so we can rub it into everyone else’s face. We take pictures and smile broadly. Look at us! We’re happy! Terribly so! DID YOU SEE HOW FUCKING HAPPY I AM? I POSTED IT ON FACEBOOK!

It used to be that the most poignant photographs were the ones taken when the subject was unaware that they were, in fact, the subject. With a flashbulb flashing, in that one tiny second it took to capture whatever image, we found and froze an emotion: joy, sorrow, anger, defeat. Humanity.

Now we pose ourselves to make it look like we’ve been caught being quintessentially human. Oh! You stumbled upon my lover and me engaging in a playfully romantic romp in a pile of leaves at the park! Haha! I was unaware you’d stumbled upon my husband and our infant son who’s dressed like he’s on his way to a hipster job interview. You found us playing in the fountain, just as any family with a young child does gleefully. Color me surprised, I had no idea you’d captured me as I contemplated my future as a high school senior there in that gazebo. With a whimsical smile playing across my lips, I had been completely unaware that you were capturing one of the most defining moments in my life. I’m glad I spent two hours on my hair and makeup that day.

Who are we taking these pictures for? Us? No, not us. Not immediately at least. I think we’re capturing these falsified images for everyone else. Perhaps we’ve gotten to the point where we can’t believe in our own happiness unless other people believe it too. We’ve come to believe that we don’t exist unless we’re seen. When did that distortion of reality come to be?

Up until I was six years old I thought that it was a law that your family had to take you to Disney World within two months of your birth. I haven’t the faintest fucking idea how I managed to come up with this. I don’t know what I thought would happen if you didn’t go. Maybe you’d turn to dust and all your toys would go to a child who could clearly follow simple instructions? Who knows.

Before I moved to Indianapolis, I lived in Atlanta and I distinctly remember a little girl by the name of Katie who lived at the other end of the neighborhood from me. Half the houses in the addition were under construction, these giant, looming frames with plywood floors and concrete basements. We’d wander through them alone, just the pair of us and our thoughts because apparently our parents were mastering the art of neglect. We were the same age, Katie and me, and we were both resolute in our understanding that if you didn’t go to Disney World when you were born, that was it. Game over. We’d part ways and go back to our enormous mass-manufactured homes and fall asleep to memories of tinier versions of ourselves in line for the teacup rides. Our families had followed the rules; we had gone to Disney World as expected. The world was all ours now.

We moved to Indianapolis when I was 6, and I completely forgot about Katie. I made a few friends up front, girls who reminded me of Katie, children who lived in the same manufactured neighborhood with giant, looming houses that had once been harsh frames and unpolished flooring. At some point I made friends with a girl in my class. She did not live in my neighborhood, she lived in an apartment with her mother, two brothers, and occasionally her mother’s boyfriend (if they weren’t fighting.) I think her name was Misty. She had a mullet and wore her mother’s bra to school a couple times. All in all, she fascinated me.

I went to Misty’s apartment for a sleepover once. We had to sleep in the living room because all the kids shared a bed. I remember her mother leaving us there by ourselves for a few hours while she ran errands. I remember feeling giddy because I’d never not been with an adult before – at least not inside a house where an adult could usually be found. The under-construction houses of my former world with Katie were different. They didn’t even have doors. There was a door on that apartment though, and it had been shut by an adult. I mistook Misty’s mother’s absence as a gesture of trust that we would be responsible while she was gone, and we sure were responsible! Misty made us dinner on the stove – soup. It was like playing real-life house and it felt exhilarating. We watched a movie that night too. I forget what we watched, but I do remember it was on laser-disc  If nothing else sent up a red flag, surely the laser-disc should have.

I was too high on this freedom and this alternate reality, that I didn’t notice how wrong the situation was. It wasn’t until later that night when Misty’s mother and her boyfriend came home and loudly had sex in the room next to ours before getting physical in a more violent fashion that suddenly this world seemed less charming. The next morning was a regular day for Misty, but I was haunted. She made me breakfast (cereal this time) and we ate quietly while waiting for my mom to pick me back up. I felt cold and tingly. My heart ached. I was having what was probably my first panic attack, but I attributed it to being sick.

“What do you remember about Disney World?” I asked her, desperately wanting to go to my happy place. She looked over at me, her face filled with confusion.

“I ain’t never been.”

Those words stuck with me not just because ain’t isn’t an actual word, but because Misty had cheated the system. Maybe this was what happened when you didn’t follow the rules. You got to stay home alone and use the stove. It blew my mind.

My mother picked me up and cryptically asked me how the night had been. Looking back, I realize that she probably had a feeling it would be an experience staying with Misty, although I doubt she knew how much of an experience it would be. My parents were far from helicopter parents which is why I have an arsenal of life-changing experiences to refer to. I’m very thankful for that.

I told her everything had been fine and left it at that. I didn’t want to remember the evening, even if it had been euphoric for a time.

Shortly before we pulled into our neighborhood with the precisely manicured yards and the children running through the streets chasing golden retrievers while their parents waved at other neighbors, I told my mom that Misty had never been to Disney World.

Connie seemed nonplussed. “So?” she asked. “Neither have you.”

I still remember the feeling. It was cold and painful. It hurt my stomach. I felt like I’d fallen really hard and had the wind knocked out of me.

“But you have to go,” I spluttered. “It’s the law!”

My mother explained that, basically, I was bat shit crazy. There was no such law. “Why would you take a baby to Disney World?” she mused. “What would you even do with it? Duct tape it to a seat at Space Mountain* and pray for the best?”

That was the first time I started to consider how artificial our lives are. Some of it is because our society plants these ideas into our head about how life should be. Some of it is something we’ve fantasized and struggled in vain to make a reality, if only marginally. All of it is our creation in a way, though. Who are we trying to fool?

Maybe we’re trying to deceive ourselves after all. Maybe that’s the point of life — to mislead yourself until you combust and are forced to face the stark reality.

If that’s true, how much of our current lives are manufactured? And how do you go about figuring out what’s real and what’s not?

And who the fuck would take a baby to Disney World?

 

*Many years later, my family and I went to Disneyworld. I really enjoyed it there, except for one harrowing experience on Space Mountain. I’m deathly afraid of roller coasters, and I get motion sickness pretty easily. My mother told me it was a kid’s rocket ride. I believed her. This was the beginning of a lifetime’s worth of trust issues involving my mother.

May
03

Updates and A Response To A Comment

It’s been a while. I’m sorry about that. Sort of.

I’ve just been really busy which I’m sure many of you understand. I didn’t forget about you or this blog though, rest assured.

And honestly, I haven’t really had anything to write about. I know some people think that if you have a blog you should constantly update it blah blah etc. etc. I, on the other hand, would much rather post something that is significant or meaningful. Working on a posting schedule puts me at risk for blogging about how I got my leg caught in my trashcan, and that’s it. That’s the story. I don’t want to bore anyone any more than I typically do.

So what’s going on with me? Like I said, I’ve been busy. El Tortuga is wrapping up Kindergarten and has recently started sleeping in a box.

 

Looks really fucking peaceful if you ask me.

Jim hasn’t been wearing his Crocs lately, but I have high hopes for their return what with summer being around the corner.

I’m heading to San Francisco next week for a conference. If you live in the area and want to meet up, reconsider.

You may have noticed that the blog looks different. The reason for this is that I was bored. I have a new feature I’m going to start next week. I’ve developed this odd hobby of reading all the comments posted on online news stories. If you follow me on Twitter, you’ve probably noticed an uptick in my posts about them. They are easily the most amusing things in the world. Some of the dumbest, most depraved idiots saddle up to their computer and spew whatever the vitriolic fuckery they can think of in regard to a particular story. I’m going to start sharing them here because they make my day.

Speaking of comments, I never bring up the comments that people leave on my blog. Many personal blogs disable the comment feature for whatever reason, but I vowed to never do that because I want to hear what you have to say. I’ve gotten loads of shitty comments in the past, and they rarely offend or upset me. The way I see it, I have a right to start a blog and post whatever the hell I want on it. By enabling the comments section, I’m acknowledging that you have a right to form an opinion about what I’ve said AND I’m encouraging you to share said opinion. My stance on this is unwavering, HOWEVER, I was caught off guard by a comment posted last month on my infamous McDonald’s post. It read:

Sparky2000: 

I WHOLEHEARTEDLY AGREE WITH forthelulz. YOU ARE HORRIBLE; MORE HORRIBLE THAN YOU CLAIM MCDONALD’S IS. IF YOU HAD A BACKBONE, YOU WOULD TELL YOUR CHILD WHO’S BOSS AND FEED HIM/HER BETTER. MCDONALD IS A TREAT, NOT A REQUIREMENT!!!

P.S. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE YOU, MCDONALD’S!!!”

What in the great glittery fuck are you going on about? I am fascinated by you and would love to have a discussion with you. My first question is this: are you pro or anti McDonald’s. I mean, I saw the “love you” part, but the earlier message seemed to indicate that you were gearing up for a “McDonald’s is a biohazard” rant. Next question: did you actually read the fucking post?

First off, my son is not a hermaphrodite and I think I made it pretty fucking lucid that he is a boy. Son. Male. Not a female. There is no question about his gender. It has been confirmed. Dude’s a boy.

Secondly, I have a backbone. I probably have too much of a backbone. It’s absolutely fucking mysterious how I haven’t been arrested given the excessive amount of times I’ve unnecessarily started an argument with someone in public. My son asks me for shit all day every day. You know what I say 90% of the time? No. Part of that is because the things he wants to do are both time consuming and illegal. Regardless of my motivations, rest assured that I am in complete control of my household, but I appreciate the advice.

Last question: WHY ARE YOU YELLING? WHY ARE YOU SO UPSET THAT I DON’T LIKE MCDONALD’S? DO YOU WORK FOR MCDONALD’S? CAN I GET SOME COUPONS FOR HAPPY MEALS?

Anyway, Sparky2000, my e-mail is up yonder in the contact section. I’m completely serious: you fascinate me. I’d like to hear more about you. I’m not even mad at you, I just want to hear how you came to all these mind boggling conclusions.

Onward!

My friend Amanda sent me a picture from a website called Extreme Advertising. I nearly pissed my pants. Here are a few posts from said site. If you choose to visit, please be aware that they use strong language, although you’re probably okay with that if you’re on my fucking website. Enjoy and have a whatever weekend.

 

 

Mar
19

Mad Men Internet Shorts

“Betty, Joan, and Peggy go shopping together.”

My friend Chris and I are huge fans of the television show Mad Men. Instead of just letting it be what it is, we spend our conversations deconstructing the characters and plots, reimagining their significance. Last night, Chris mentioned that he’d love to see a bunch of Mad Men Internet Shorts and the titles started flowing from us. Because neither of us can manage to be sincere ever, not a single one of these is serious.

“Pete gets kicked out of an adult bible study.”

“Betty finds a wrinkle.”

“Pete tries on Trudy’s hats.”

“Ken and Bert write a pirate novel together.”

“Lane: Zombie Financial Advisor.”

“Henry Francis takes Sally to a Beatles concert: is bored.”

“Glen Bishop attempts oral sex on a stuffed animal.”

“Harry Crane does something creepy.”

“Peggy and Pete unknowingly hire their love child as a model.”

“Bobby Draper comes face to face with his five clones.”

“Don punches Dean Martin in the face, apologizes and gallivants about town with the Rat Pack.”

“Learning French Canadian with Don Draper.”

“Conrad Hilton asks Don to play two-person solitaire, berates him for not having the ingenuity to know how to win.”

“Pete wins big at the clubhouse cribbage night.”

“Hollis burns down the building.”

“Roger is escorted from the trading floor of the NYSE.”

“Bobby Draper has an existential crisis. Doesn’t talk for a year. Nobody notices.”

“Bert Cooper has a flashback in Chinatown.”

“Cynthia Cosgrove dissolves into a puddle of metallic liquid, solves crimes.”

“Roger buys a unicycle.”

“Joan falls in subway, 5 men die saving her.”

“Ginsburg buys anti-Semitic cat.”

“Peggy tries pants.”

“Sal Romano performs show tunes in the middle of a public restroom.”

“Dr. Faye Miller does a study on why men leave women for their FUCKING SECRETARY DON DRAPER YOU SON OF A BITCH.”

“Freddy Rumsen buys skinny jeans.”

“Harry Crane’s pet bird dies.”

“Megan Draper gets an acting job. In a Secor Laxatives commercial.”

“Pete is pleasant for a solid ten minutes.”

“Don’s juice cleanse.”

“Drunk Roger is turned down by the army enlistment office for Vietnam.”

“Bobby asks for a typewriter for Christmas. Don asks, ‘who are you again?’”

“Bobby falls in love with his stepmother. Sally mails the package of love letters to Betty. Betty asks, ‘who are you again?’”

As you can see, Chris and I have too much time on our hands and overactive imaginations. What Mad Men Internet Short would you like to see?

 

Feb
12

Awful Valentine’s Day Ideas

A steaming bowl of bitter resentment.

I was driving in to work, and I heard on my local radio station that there’s an Italian fast food chain (Fazoli’s, if you must know) that will give you free spaghetti for a year if you propose in-store on Valentine’s Day. Brilliant, I thought.  You’ll need that free spaghetti for all the nights you’ll inevitably spend alone after she says, “are you fucking kidding me? No.” Nobody loves spaghetti that much.

Naturally, I started to imagine some other shitty ways to spend Valentine’s Day. Here’s your guide.

 

Take her skydiving. Conveniently forget that she’s terrified of heights.

Make an appointment at a local funeral home. Purchase burial plots. Argue in favor of having matching caskets. Consider one of these. ‘Til death do us part.

Join a cult together.

Take her to get in touch with God at the Westboro Baptist Church.

Reveal that you’ve planned a romantic international vacation for her to Mogadishu. Bon Voyage!

Blatantly disregard her assurances that she’s violently allergic, and get her a cat. Fuck it, make that five cats.

Get her a sexy bikini. On the inside of the card, write, “Maybe you’ll look good in this someday lol.” Bonus points if you add a winky face.

Get drunk and throw up on her at Applebee’s.

Set her car on fire. Provide no explanation.

Take her to the most busy location in your city. Get down on one knee. Break up with her. Give her an apologetic slap on the back before you leave her there.

If this is a long distance relationship, send her dead flowers via www.deadflowers.org.

 

Feb
07

The Day I Almost Got A Dog

I wish dogs could drive.

I want this dog.

His name is Tonik and he’s in Mishawaka, IN at a shelter for animals rescued from kill shelters. He also looks like the saddest, hairiest man in the world.

Unfortunately, it sounds like Tonik isn’t too keen on kids. I can’t say I blame him; kids are messy, they smell like hotdogs and generalized filth, they don’t know how to speak at a respectable volume, and they tell jokes that make no sense.

My son is really good with animals in that he knows how to treat them with respect. I considered this for a moment, but a terrifying image of my son on the roof with a startled Tonik (who I would’ve renamed Prozac or Sir-Sad-A-Lot, by the way) quickly dashed any dreams that this would work. Both of them would be wearing capes, naturally. I’d get them off the roof, and Tonik would kill both of us in our sleep. The end.

After the crushing disappointment subsided, I decided to go on a mission to figure out what was dragging that poor little guy down. I mean, he’d just been rescued from a kill shelter. Escaping euthanasia would be pretty fucking spectacular in my opinion

So I did what any 27 year old female with a vivid imagination would do, and I called him up.

Shelter: Thanks for calling, how can we help you?

Jenna: Yes, I’d like to speak to Tonik.

S: Pardon?

J: Tonik. The dog. I’d like to speak to him.

S: Um…hold on a sec.

I thought for sure the receptionist was running off to find the manager, but a few moments later I heard someone pick up the phone and a deep, gruff voice spoke.

Tonik: …hello? This—this is Tonik.

Jenna: Hi there! My name is Jenna. I ran across your picture online—I know that sounds really creepy. Sorry. Anyway, I wanted to call you up because you’re the saddest man-dog I’ve ever seen in my life.

T: Are you with a newspaper or something?

J: No, no, I just have this shitty little blog that I post on occasionally. I just wanted to find out why you’re so sad.

Tonik paused for a moment and let out a heavy sigh.

T: My girlfriend left me.

J: Seriously? That’s it?

T: Jenna, I put four long weeks into that relationship. She was the love of my life. I mean, she didn’t even give me a reason. She just stopped returning my texts and I came home to find all of the squeaky toys I’d given her in a trash bag on my lawn.

J: I get that, totally.  Breaking up is hard, but keep your chin up. There are plenty of other fish in the sea.

T: Yeah, well, I’m a dog, and I don’t think I even have a chin.

J: Good point. It was nice talking to you, though. Sorry about your girlfriend. Maybe we could grab a drink sometime?

T: Probably not. I’m on this flea medication and I can’t really drink on it. I also can’t drive anywhere, because I’m a dog.

J: Right, I get that. Well, good luck with everything.

Now we all know why Tonik is depressed. I sincerely hope that someone adopts him, preferably someone with a female dog that is ready for a serious commitment and shows little to no signs of flightiness.

Godspeed, Tonik. You are my spirit animal.

**Disclaimer: None of this actually happened. If you think I actually called up a dog and life-coached him over the phone, then you’re crazier than a girl who fantasizes about calling up a dog and life-coaching him over the phone.**

Jan
04

My Interpretation Of The Law

This is a good bill.

My good friend is an attorney, and she and I share a fondness for reading Supreme Court appeals because it’s her job to do so and I have no good reason other than that I’m strange and I don’t feel like I should have to explain that anymore.

The other day, however, she was kind enough to introduce me to some of the bills that are up for consideration in the Indiana General Assembly. Here are a few. I’ve added my commentary/explanations for your reading pleasure.

Senate Bill 0104

DIGEST OF INTRODUCED BILL


Wild animals on airport runways. Allows the manager of a public use airport, or the manager’s designee, to chase or take at any time, without a hunting license, a wild animal that is located on the airport’s property that contains the runway or apron.

Note that it said “chase or take,” not kill. Basically, you’re given permission to kidnap any and all lions you find at Indianapolis International Airport. IF they’re on the runway. If the zebra is grazing off to the side however, you’re out of luck. You’ll have to find a different zebra.

 

Senate Bill 0050

DIGEST OF INTRODUCED BILL


Civil War flags fund. Appropriates $500,000 from the state general fund to the Civil War flags fund to be used by the Indiana war memorials commission to restore and preserve Civil War flags.

For a mere $500k, we can preserve some old ass flags that represent America’s war against slavery. Additionally, we can display them proudly in a state that nobody ever visits.

Other ways to spend $500k: buy that zebra you missed out on at the airport, purchase a ticket to Mars, secure 10 meetings with Oprah, rake together 5000 $100 dollar bills, light pile on fire.

 

Senate Bill 0023

DIGEST OF INTRODUCED BILL


School prayer. Allows the governing body of a school corporation or the equivalent authority of a charter school to provide for the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer at the beginning of each school day.

If this actually passes, I’m submitting my bill to allow the governing body of a school corporation or the equivalent authority of a charter school to provide for the recitation of the lyrics to Baby Got Back at the beginning of each school day. It’s a history/music lesson.

Senate Bill 0020

DIGEST OF INTRODUCED BILL


Use of unmanned aerial vehicles. Provides that a person who knowingly or intentionally uses an unmanned aerial vehicle to monitor a person, property, or thing without the written consent of the subject of the monitoring commits a Class D felony. Provides that images or communications obtained through the use of an unmanned aerial vehicle are not admissible as evidence. Provides that a person who possesses an image or communications obtained through the use of an unmanned aerial vehicle commits a Class A misdemeanor. Prohibits the use of public money to purchase an unmanned aerial vehicle.

If you’ve purchased yourself one of those fabulous little remote control helicopters and affixed a camera to it, you can’t fly it over your neighbor’s fence to ensure that they’re not burying bodies in their backyard (which would probably bring down your property value, so I don’t really blame you.)

Basically: this isn’t Home Alone, so sit the fuck down, Kevin.

 

Senate Bill 0106

DIGEST OF INTRODUCED BILL


Lifetime senior hunting license. Establishes a resident senior “hunt for life” license for individuals who are at least 65 years of age.

My issue here is with the “lifetime” part. So what you’re telling me is that you believe that a person who’s over 65 has clearly proven that they should have a hunting license forever?

Just because you served in the Revolutionary War doesn’t mean you should be able to waltz out of the retirement home with a musket and fire at what you believe to be a bear, but what is actually a large woman in a fur coat.

 

Senate Bill 0112

 

DIGEST OF INTRODUCED BILL


Parole eligibility for certain offenders. Provides that a person is eligible for consideration for release on parole if, before the criminal code was enacted in 1976, the person: (1) was sentenced to more than one term of life imprisonment without parole upon conviction of more than one felony; and (2) committed kidnapping for at least one of the person’s felony convictions.

 

I don’t know the background on this one, but basically the hope is that anyone who was sentenced to MORE THAN one term of life imprisonment AND committed kidnapping for AT LEAST one of the felony convictions BEFORE 1976 should be ELIGIBLE for PAROLE.

Right, so I don’t actually care how old you are – if you managed to snag yourself more than one life sentence AND you have a kidnapping charge, you should stay right where the fuck you are.

I don’t think it’s fair that you should be able to walk the streets with a lifetime hunting license like the rest of the aged.

Senate Bill 0120

DIGEST OF INTRODUCED BILL


Cursive writing in school curriculum. Requires each school corporation and accredited nonpublic elementary school to include cursive writing in its curriculum.

2013: The Year That Incomprehensible Writing Was Saved

Dec
14

Perspective

I got a call from my son’s school that he’d thrown up, so I picked him up from school and brought him to my office for my dad to pick him up. While I was in the restroom, he pushed two chairs together and made a nest using coats and various clothing items he had scavenged. By the time I got back, he was fast asleep in his makeshift bed. For those of you who don’t know him, the dude snores. Loudly. He sounds like a feral animal growling.

Just as I was thinking, “this is really distracting,” I saw the news about the shooting. Early reports say that many of the children who are dead were Kindergarteners. My son is a kindergartener.

I suddenly love the sound of snoring and am thankful that I had the privilege of cleaning vomit out of my car today instead of getting a phone call that no parent ever wants to get.

I’m not going to tell you to go home and hug your children or to give them extra kisses or whatever. How you choose to show your child how much they mean to you is your call. But you should do something. Because, as sad as it sounds, we’re the lucky ones.

Nov
06

Jenna’s State of the Union

I will wear this with a mixture of pride and apprehension.

My fellow Americans: We are fucked.

It doesn’t matter who wins the election today, solely because the change we want to see in our country will never actualize. We elect these people (mostly men, but I’ll save that for another day) to sit in a room together and make decisions on our behalf. It reminds me of my experience at fast food restaurants, because one of two things always seem to happen:

We order something and it’s never given to us, or

We get our order, take it home, open it up and realize, “This isn’t what I ordered AT ALL.”

Here’s the thing – I don’t have the solution. In fact, I don’t think anyone does, to be honest. But we all seem to agree that this situation is fucked, and we need to stop merely acknowledging it and find a solution FAST.

Americans are filled with a sense of entitlement. Every. Last. One of us. This isn’t me trying to disparage my fellow citizens – this is a wakeup call. A call for us to take a step back, look in the mirror, and really get honest with ourselves. We have to change our attitude. You know that trite little quote, “Be the change you want to see in the world?” There’s a reason it sticks around.

It’s true.

If there is anyone reading this right now thinking, “I think our government works. I think things are fine,” then you live in a blissfully ignorant state of mind, and this doesn’t apply to you.

However, if you’re reading this and nodding your head, then stand up with me and let’s find a solution. I’m tired of merely acknowledging a problem. I want to fix this problem, and you should want that too.

Tonight we’ll all huddle around our televisions and either watch the past four years repeat themselves or watch someone reverse all the changes that have been made in those past four years.

Make a promise to yourself today that this will change. It starts with you. It doesn’t start with Obama or Mitt Romney or whoever the fuck bothered to run for the Libertarian party (Gary Busey?)

I’ll put it as eloquently as I can manage: Let’s fix this shit.

Starting RIGHT NOW.

Oct
22

The Scary Side of the Internet

Scary things happen in there.

I know it’s been a while, and I usually keep it light here, but I thought it was time to share my story of cyber-bullying in an attempt to bring light to a serious problem that I refuse to tolerate. I’ve always witnessed it from the sidelines and found it disgusting, but it didn’t affect me much – I mean, nobody was calling me names, so why get emotionally invested?

Things changed in August of this year. I met and subsequently started dating a wonderful guy who happens to be an actor with quite a bit of recognition in his country. He warned me from the get-go that many of his fans are female and could get aggressive. I laughed it off, but mentally prepared myself for the possibility that I’d gain some enemies simply for existing. I can’t say it hasn’t happened before.

What I was unprepared for, however, was how sneaky and cunning people can be. I befriended a woman who I mistakenly assumed to be a friend of my boyfriend’s. She seemed very nice, kind even. I really enjoyed talking to her, but then I got it – you know, the funny feeling in your stomach that things aren’t adding up. That’s when I started asking questions.

My first question was directed at my boyfriend, something to the effect of “how well do you actually know your friend?” Come to find out, that “friend” was a bit of a stretch. He thought she was a nice enough girl, but felt that, if anything, their relationship was of a professional nature as she just so happened to run fan accounts on Tumblr and Twitter that focused on his work. He had never met her and his only interactions with her had been on Twitter in the form of a few tweets here and there.

Around this time, the woman started dropping hints. They were very subtle at first…suggestions that perhaps she had romantic inclinations toward him…suggestions that maybe he felt the same way about her…but she felt like it hadn’t really taken off because he’s a shy, private person. He was afraid to give her his number because of this shyness and a fear that the number would somehow be hacked or leaked.

None of this matched up with the energetic, outgoing man I knew who had made a really bold move in order to gain my attention. I maintained a friendship with the woman regardless, because I didn’t think it was fair to completely cut off someone because you had a funny feeling about them.

I felt like I was fairly upfront about my relationship with my boyfriend. She asked a lot of questions about our status. I told her the truth. We liked each other very much, but we live in separate countries. She took this honesty as an opportunity to then ask my advice on how to get his attention. At first, I assumed she wanted a friendship with him. Surely you don’t ask a girl who is dating a guy who has also admitted to you that he’s interested in the girl in question advice on how to form a romantic relationship, right?

Wrong.

I’ve spent a lot of time going through those conversations in my mind. Had I not been clear? Beside that, it seems pretty shitty to me to talk to someone who had admitted to having a relationship with someone and then you yourself continually press on about how deep your feelings are about said man. I didn’t steal him from anyone. I didn’t even get to know the girl until AFTER he had started talking to me. I spent weeks and weeks in a state of confusion. Was this girl my friend? When I said that we were together, had I typoed and maybe said we were NOT together? Had my iPhone autocorrected “Yes, we’re in a relationship,” to “I was thinking he’s better off with you. Can I be a flower girl?”

Things really took a nosedive when one night I tweeted to a friend that I’d be going to London to see my boyfriend. Then the onslaught of texts. She seemed very confused. “Is he your boyfriend?” she asked accusingly. Yes, he was. I hadn’t hidden that from her, nor had he hidden his feelings about me from her. It was all so bizarre, like talking to someone with amnesia. That feeling in the pit of my stomach that things were not well at all. I was absolutely baffled and this woman was making me out like I had done something wrong. And then, just like that, she was back to her normal self. She was happy for us, all that fun stuff. It was then that I realized that there had only been one reason that she’d talked to me, and it was to get closer to him. I could see her struggle…she was trying to decide if it was better to hate me or better to keep in my confidence. It was a struggle that would continue until she finally exploded.

She built up to her explosion, quietly, methodically. It started by her making a fake account to tweet me about my boyfriend.

you are (name redacted)’s new gf? he’ll cheat on u just like he did with your look a like (ex-girlfriend’s name redacted) <link to ex-girlfriend’s website> …and others.

the press will be reporting about it all and you very soon. good luck. ta.

Those were some of the messages I woke up to one morning. They startled  me. They didn’t hurt my feelings or offend me, they just shocked me and, to be honest, scared me a bit. Why did anyone care that much? WHO would care that much?

I immediately texted a screen cap to my boyfriend who left rehearsal to call and check on me. Was I okay? Yeah, I suppose. He had warned me that this might happen. He was very apologetic, which was unnecessary. Thankfully he calmed me down and that gave me the opportunity to think. There was something extra odd about the tweets. Seriously, who cares that much to harass me?

And the thing about the press…what was that all about? I stewed on it for an hour or so, and then these red flags popped up. I had told very few people about my relationship, mostly just close friends. And her. The “friend.” I told her about my relationship, and I had also told her something I had only also admitted to my best friend.

I was absolutely terrified about my personal information or my son’s personal information getting into the press. It was way too invasive, and despite my persona on Twitter, I’m a pretty private person. I understood that there was a possibility that would happen some day, but I wasn’t prepared for it at that moment. The relationship was young. I just wanted to enjoy it.

On a hunch, I texted the screencap to her and said, “Do you know anything about this?” What I meant by the question was that she had been following my boyfriend for years. Had she heard about it happening to other girlfriends? What was her take on it?

Instead of replying with, “I’ve never heard about that happening,” or, “That’s horrible!” she responded as though I’d accused her of 9/11. Her behavior was really suspicious. She was very cagey. I decided once and for all I was going to figure out what was going on. I messaged two friends who are very good at tracking internet related things, and they both came back with information that pointed very heavily in her direction. Throughout the day she continued to ask me if I had gotten the information back from my friends, as I’d told her I was going to find out who it was. These weren’t casual inquiries. They seemed frenzied.  Slightly manic. Finally she flipped and went off on me about how she felt that I was accusing her of being this person and she had never been anything but nice to me. It depends on what your definition of friend is. She had never actually admitted to me that she ran fan accounts for my boyfriend. She had always maintained that they had some form of relationship, one which, confused, my boyfriend had denied.

She eventually apologized to me after I told her I wasn’t accusing her of anything. I never told her what the results were. She dropped the subject and wound up sending a number of manic direct messages to my boyfriend. Uncomfortable with her emotional badgering, he unfollowed her, effectively cutting off her ability to privately talk to him. She’d text me in a panic. Had he mistakenly unfollowed her? What was going on? Could I ask him? I avoided the topic, hoping it’d die off. It eventually did, but not for weeks. There was a period of quiet.

And then I went to London.

It took me a few days to realize what she was doing. She and I followed each other on Twitter, so I could see her tweets, but frankly I was just happy to be in London, so I didn’t pay much attention. Then one night, as we were on our way to his play, I took a moment to scan my feed, and there it was. A tweet that, after a moment, I realized was directed toward me. And there were others. So many more. Here’s a sampling:

“Watching someone live my dream they stole makes me want to vomit. Such bullshit. I can’t wait for the crash and burn.”

“Ladies, some advice, never tell another female about a guy you like. Unless you’ve got good health insurance for back and heart stab wounds.”

“Just because you constantly share and brag about your wonderful life and experiences doesn’t mean you still aren’t a huge cunt.”

And my personal favorite…

“Being a shitty person and a shitty parent go hand in hand. In your case you’re also an opportunist whore. Congrats on the accomplishment.”

I would like to remind you that this woman never met my boyfriend. She only knows him as a character on television. To say that I stole anything is a bit of a reach.

Regardless, baffled as to what to do, we chose to ignore it. It continued relentlessly with it eventually tapering off when I left London.

The weekend after I got back, on my dad’s 71st birthday, I got a series of tweets about how I should “go kill myself,” and about how I was “such a huge slut.” I can’t confirm that these were from her as the account was deleted before I could even access the tweets, but it seemed to match up.

A while back, when things had started getting hairy, she had created a fake account to tweet my boyfriend. It was very innocent stuff, but she was trying to get him to talk about her, and he and I decided to ignore it. Still though, I knew it something was up and had it traced. Sure enough, it was coming from the same place as the ones directed to me about the press had been. As it was all fairly silly, we forgot about it.

Flash forward to last Thursday. One of my friends had been passively monitoring the situation for me, and he messaged me to alert me to the fact that an account had tweeted to both my boyfriend and a charity he’s heavily involved with that “your gf is vile. terrible taste. She makes fun of mental illness & disabilities classy. & you’re an ambassador for (charity name redacted.)

Let me just step in here and make something very clear. I have never, nor would I ever make fun of someone with a mental illness or a disability. When I was 16 I was a lifeguard at a cub scout camp where I also taught swim lessons. As I guarded the smallest pool, very often my students would have disabilities. Down’s Syndrome, Autism, Cerebral Palsy, you name it. Those kids were the most amazing, loving, brilliant children I’ve ever had the honor to meet. As for mental illness, I’ve suffered from depression on multiple occasions throughout my life. I use humor to get through those times. I would never make fun of or mock someone who feels alone, dark, miserable. I’ve been there. Nobody deserves that.

This was the final straw, to be cliché. There were more subtweets from her. A local reporter posted a video of me doing an interview about my mother who I walked a charity runway for in her memory. She clearly watched it and vehemently declared that I’m both a “shitty person” and “sound like a bimbo.” Shortly after posting about going to a concert to raise awareness for cancer she made a cryptic comment that “Fingers crossed your misfortune is genetic and passed on to the next generation. I’m starting a prayer group.”

Out of context, it makes no sense, but let me interpret this for you. What she’s saying is that she hopes my misfortune (my mother dying of cancer) is passed on to the next generation. That’ll be me. That’ll also be my son. She wants us all to die of cancer.

You know what else is like cancer? Hate. Hate is a powerful feeling, and it’ll eat away at you. I’ve hated people before. It didn’t make me any happier. In fact, I think it made me worse. I don’t feel as though I hate people anymore. I woke up one day and decided I didn’t like the negativity of it. I dislike people, absolutely, but hate is something I can’t subscribe to. I can’t even hate this woman who has lied to me, harassed me, maligned me, and gone out of her way to make me miserable.

This post isn’t going to stop people from attacking other people online. This post doesn’t change the fact that a tiny part of me wonders if she’s ever going to act out on her blatant hatred of me. Am I scared? Yes, quite frankly I am. She lives just a couple hours from me. There’s a high likelihood that she knows where I live. Do I actually think she’s going to show up at my door step and do something to me? Not really. But there will always be that fear in the back of my mind, and I’ve lost sleep over it.

What this post does, I hope, is shed some light on the scary side of the internet. I hope this says to anyone who’s been attacked or bullied online that you’re not alone. Don’t back down! Protect yourself as best as you can. Follow your instinct. And know that while the words can hurt, while the fear can keep you up at night, the person or people attacking you are not a representation of the world we live in.

Nobody deserves to be treated this way, yet they are every day. It probably won’t end, but we’re under no obligation to tolerate it.

When you feel like you can’t take it anymore, the harassment, the vitriol, take a good look around you. I’d be willing to bet there’s something or someone amazing in your life that reminds you that there is still some humanity lingering.

And if you need a friend, I’ll be your friend. As long as you don’t lie to me. Or make a fake account to harass me. Or publicly mention how you hope I die.

Just don’t do those things and we’ll get along just fine.

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