being jennifer garrett
Every day an adventure in mediocrity
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Saturday, August 30    

Wedding belle
Seeing American Wedding today actually got to me. (No, it's not a quality flick. Was it better than Le Divorce? Hells yeah.) I've reached the stage in my life where a lot of my friends are married off or entering that process. I'm happy enough being single, and I've never been one of those girls who dreamed of her wedding day all her life, blah, blah, blah. I've never actually wanted to get married -- if someone I was in love with presented a compelling argument, I'd think about it, but for the most part, no thanks, I'm all set.

But that doesn't mean that a movie like American Wedding can go and appropriate my song. Michelle and Jim danced their first dance to Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic." Now if I do ever end up getting married, I'm totally screwed. I've got no song. I haven't even considered a backup, seeing as I don't spend much time contemplating these things. Another nail in the marriage coffin. (That's right -- you'll never get to see me in a poufy white dress. Count your f-ing blessings.)

  posted @ 9:56 PM |

Friday, August 29    

Lesson learned
Namely: Trust your instincts. Le Divorce was le crap. I haven't been that tempted to walk out on a movie in a long time. I didn't exactly have high expectations, as Kate Hudson hasn't been good in a movie since Almost Famous, but I thought it would at least be non-offensive fluff for a summer afternoon. Alas, no. When the Naomi Watts' character just shrugged off her suicide attempt as a "bad patch" (mind you, she was 7-8 months pregnant), I wanted to throw things at the screen. I didn't think it could get worse until the vomit-inducing angles and shifting perspectives of the Eiffel Tower scene proved me oh, so terribly wrong.

I'm supposed to hit American Wedding tomorrow (gotta catch up for time lost during vacation). My faith in summer movies is steadily being eroded. F-ing Gigli couldn't have been worse than this tripe. Because J-Lo's ass could have out-acted this shit. Hell, Ben's poufy fucking hair could have out-acted this drivel.

  posted @ 11:32 PM |


Adventures in dining
As promised, we went to Tasca's last night for Jen's birthday. It was a good time -- at one moment, I felt like we were on some single-women-in-the-city television show, as I looked around the table of six women making bold comments and drinking sangria. (Sangria is up there with margaritas and Mountain Dew on the list of beverages of which I can drink unlimited quantities.) And then it happened: A challenge. I insisted that Maria try the patatas bravas as they were amazing, and she replied, "Only if you try the escargot." I never walk away from a challenge, so you heard it here first: Last night I ate a snail. And it wasn't disgusting. It was kinda chewy and tasted like nothing except the sauce it was cooked in. I'm not saying I'll eat it again, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

  posted @ 12:36 PM |

Thursday, August 28    

Time waits for no woman
Today is my dear roommate's birthday. She's old like me now. She doesn't like it when I sing to her in public, but I usually do anyway. So, if you're at Tasca's tonight, and see a strange woman bust out with the copyrighted lyrics to "Happy Birthday," please join in.

  posted @ 3:37 PM |

Wednesday, August 27    

Puppy love
While I was bemoaning my lack of e-mail, voice-mail, and site love to Jen, Sam jumped up and gave me love. Damn smart dog. I'm just sayin'.

  posted @ 6:42 PM |


Short changed
I'm not a tall woman. I'm not quite short enough to be all cute and "petite," but I generally need to stand on things to get to shelves, and I can't change a light bulb in my "hey-dontcha-love-Boston-and-its-big-ass-ceilings-and-drafty-winters" home without a ladder. Today I'm wearing my heeled boots and thinking, wow, this is what the world looks like to everybody else. Then I had a moment where I felt bad for guys, because they can't legitimately wear such things to improve their stature; then I realized that, in general, even short guys are taller than me, so I stopped feeling bad.

You walk differently when you feel tall, and maybe it's just the boots, but I want to kick things. Perhaps it's best that I'm short most of the time, and, at worst, could only kick people in the shins, instead of the Charlie Angels' moves I'm envisioning.

  posted @ 9:29 AM |

Tuesday, August 26    

It's still ... me
I don't know why, but people have expressed a greater interest in calling me now that they can call me on my cell phone, as if, by using the fun technology, they can now reach Jen 2.0. I hate to break it to y'all, but it's still me whether you call me at home, at work, or on my cell phone on Rt. 9. (Okay, work-Jen is slightly more civilized than home-Jen, and Rt. 9-Jen is slightly more homicidal than any other version of Jen.)

I'll let you know when we release the latest beta, and then you can call. (I kinda like the sound of Jen Jaguar, but then, I am a Mac chick.)

  posted @ 3:46 PM |


I can't believe it's butter
As I may have mentioned, I went to the Ohio State Fair while I was visiting the family. I have a weird fascination with the fair -- I never was much of a farm girl (despite many misconceptions of Ohio), but I love to check out the livestock. Not to mention ride the tilt-a-whirl until I want to die, throw money away on games I never win (until this year! I won my niece a stuffed dog. I'm very proud), and eat an enormous variety of food on a stick. It was unbelievably hot the day we went, but we persevered and saw not only the amazing butter cow, but many goats, sheep, pigs, chickens, llamas, and even a kangaroo. When I get around to creating a little photo gallery, I'll show you all of them. For now you must be satisfied with the wonder of the butter.

  posted @ 9:48 AM |

Monday, August 25    

Doesn't that need to be toasted?
Nope. Raw tarts.

Just like I like 'em.

  posted @ 2:52 PM |


An apology
To: Miss Moss, second-grade teacher
Re: Handwriting

Dear Miss Moss,
I must apologize for doubting that your schooling on the way to print properly was ever anything less than vital. To this day, I cannot print without slanting to the right and running down the page. How different my life would have been if I had only listened.


  posted @ 10:35 AM |


Last night, Robert Redford was in my dream (not current-day Bobby, but Way-We-Were Bobby plus a few years). It was strange because he was there (I don't frequently dream of celebrities, except this weird pattern with Ben Affleck, with occasional appearances by Matt Damon. Kinda like Project Greenlight). It was also strange because we were driving somewhere, and he wanted me to drive his Jeep Cherokee because it was a standard. This amused dream-Jen, but she played it cool and didn't mock him mercilessly for not being able to drive a stick (which should be your first clue that this was a Dream. I never pass on the opportunity to mock someone). Then he was giving me directions but completely last minute, like "of course you take a left here." I wanted to scream, "I don't know where I'm going!" which should be obvious to everyone by now.

  posted @ 9:15 AM |

Sunday, August 24    

Safe haven
Last night, I went out with the friends. (For a Saturday night, this was big for me. I was voluntarily giving up Trading Spaces with no possibility of booty in return.) We headed to Davis Square for the always amazing Mexican at Picante and then we trooped over to the mysterious and wondrous island that is the Sacco Bowl-Haven. I don't know if it's that this place hasn't changed since 1952, but we always have the best and weirdest time there.

I don't like candlepin bowling myself -- I was raised in Ohio, where not only have we never heard of candlepin bowling, but we take gym classes in regular bowling. Said gym class is what gives me my amazing form, because I must admit this to you, gentle readers: I suck at bowling. But I love to go anyway. It's just so ridiculous, it's fun. Amazingly enough, I suck at candlepin even more than I do regular bowling. Which is why when the horde of locusts (aka Tufts' freshmen) arrived at the Bowl Haven, I no longer felt like Sacco had my back. They were everywhere and suddenly I was overly conscious not only of how bad a bowler I am, but also of how incredibly old I am. We quickly finished our game (during which one of the aforementioned freshmen managed to pitch his ball across his lane and into mine. He didn't even have the decency to hit a pin while doing so) and then made for the hills. I think we old people will have to hit the haven a little earlier in the evening from now on.

  posted @ 2:35 PM |

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