It’s Just Four Doors and a Couple of Axles, But To Me It Will Always Be Me*

This weekend we celebrated Laurie‘s 35th over on her gorgeous patio, with Karman & Shannon, Penny, Gwen, Faith, and Amber in attendance. There was plenty of wine, girl talk, and righteous indignation. At least on my part.

You see, Laurie was telling this story about this harmlessly nefarious character from her past, not letting her drive his car because, OMG, it had a SPOILER. Because girls can’t drive cars with spoilers.

And anyway, I pipe up, “My car has a spoiler!”

And Karman is all, “Yeah, a spoiler. But a spoiler on a granola-eating, Birkenstock-wearing car.”

I GOT SO OFFENDED. In fact, I was embarassed later about how all sorts of LOUD and offended I got. BUT THAT IS MY CAR.

Yes, it is a 2000 Subaru Outback Impreza, but it is an Outback Impreza SPORT, people! There is like one of those scoopy, drafty things on the front to draw in air for when I overheat it in a race! The Subaru wins the rally championship practically every year!! How many more exclamation points should I put to indicate my outrage??!!!

Bollocks.

Driving is a Big Deal in my family. My dad races vintage cars for a hobby. That’s him:

The time your family spends around the table talking about the weather or movies or whatever your filler conversation topic of choice is? Is the time my family talks about bad drivers and the latest car models. Your car is WHO YOU ARE.

LA just exacerbates this familial oddity. What do you drive?

So when Karman told me I was the equivalent of a Volvo driver? I FREAKED.

Poor Karman.

Little did she know that a lot of my freakdom came from the fact that my car hit 90,000 miles a few weeks ago. And that I’m starting to realize I’ll need a new one. At least I will after I graduate.

So I drive along the highways of LA, to Laurie’s in the Valley, across town to work and back. I peer into people’s windows. The Honda CRV, the Prius, the BMW wagon, the Toyota 1983 Land Cruiser, what will I be? Will I pretty? Will I be rich? Here’s what they said to me: Que sera, sera.

I thought that by 30 I’d have it all figured out. But nope, I’m just 6 months shy and still don’t know what I will be.

But dammit. It will be rockin’. And so will my car, whatever it is. Que sera, sera.

*That line, BTW, is adopted from one of my favorite movies ever, Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House, with Myrna Loy and Cary Grant.

Judge Not, Lest Ye Suddenly Remember Ye Also Wore Formal Shorts

Last weekend Laurie, Amber, Gloria and I all went to The Mayan for a little salsa-ing and hip-hop. And we were all appalled, APPALLED, at the number of formal shorts, often bemoaned by the GFY girls.

We were getting all righteous and all sorts of bothered until, um, oops! I remembered that just a few (well, 7) years ago, I WORE THEM MYSELF. OUT OF MY HOUSE. TO BARS.

Oh, Jen, you’re saying to yourself, it’s OK. It was the late 90s. Everyone thought the world was about to end. It’s OK, really. A little formal shorts were called for! Party like it’s 1999, baby!

Only.

It gets worse.

Sometimes I would pair my short shorts with A TUBE TOP. Egads. And I wonder why I rarely met any quality men when I was younger?? Perhaps it’s because I was dressed AS A STRIPPER. Sheesh.

I do not have any evidence of the tube top WITH the shorts. In fact (thanks be to jeebus) I don’t even really have photographic evidence of the shorts. Only the above photo, shot in New Orleans, for my friend Katie’s brother’s (on my right) wife (my left) thirtieth birthday.

But two inches below the bottom of that photo? Began my pale, unclothed legs. Ending in a pair of strappy wedges.

Ooh, and here is the tube top! Halloween 99.

That is my boyfriend at the time, Alec, dressed as the Ghostbuster/Inter-Galactic Beastie Boy. I believe he is measuring the light emissions from my sparkly tube top. And perhaps reconsidering whether to introduce me to his mother.

All I can say is thank goodness I lived in NY, when it was too cold for shorts 3/4 of the year. Can you imagine if I had lived in LA? The chances of photographic evidence of my couture-al missteps would have been much higher.

Ack. Can you BELIEVE the atrocities I once committed?

This is the part where you say, why, yes, Jen, I can. Here is the crime against couture I once committed, and it is much, much, worse.

Also, if you could, please just pretend you don’t notice I have a flip WITH BANGS? And that apparently I thought it was such an attractive hairstyle that I fashioned my halloween wig to be the same? That would be great, thanks.

Just Call Me Quasimodo

I don’t know about you, but I am transparent. A horrible liar. Every emotion I have reads on my face and my body like, well, a book. For me, apparently a book in which I am not saving Esmerelda from her fate in the streets. No, just a mundane story in which my body gives away my stress.

I start out the day with my shoulders where they should be, perpendicular to my nose. And slowly but surely, they inch up to be around my ears. In meetings I have to constantly remind myself to lower them.

BTW, if you haven’t seen yourself videotaped in meetings? Watch your shoulders. See what happens when you’re being confronted by difficulty. They’re like the high-school-prom-date-do-the-Humpty-Dance-of-stress, man. Aw, takes me back.

Anyhoo, the psychologically back-breaking part of working again sucks, to be sure. But the REAL back-breaking part of working again? THAT IS MY FAVORITE EVER. My firm is split up onto three floors, and the library is on the floor up from me, and hail be to SOMETHING, there are STAIRS! And after every project, I get to haul up about 15 pounds of books back up to the library. I LOVE IT.

It really is my dream in life to be a sherpa. I don’t know if it’s the martyr in me (thank you, Mother), the Napoleon in me, what. But I LOVE me to carry something that looks ridiculously unmanageable. If you are local, ever need to move? Dude, call me up! I will haul 80-lb TVs until I can’t move.

Speaking of broken (my back), though, can I tell you what has broken in the last few weeks?

• My car
• One plate, spontaneously in the microwave, to the shock and chagrin or Fred, the microwave stalker
• One shoe, to the shock and chagrin of its wearer
• My computer, which hates iTunes
• A pillow
• Two Swell duvet covers, damn you Cynthia Rowley and Ilene Rosenzweig
• A pair of sunglasses
• My heart, j/k, how can something made of reinforced rebar break?

I am just grateful all this breakage occurs when I have a job that pays for it all. But if this is just the beginning of the onslaught, if I’m about to be mobbed by everything that’s been waiting for me to have a job to be able to pay for it?

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

Realization of a Dream, Maybe Two, Maybe Even Three

Finally I finished the photo gallery for Jeffie’s wedding.

Two, I got the Comcast version of TiVo. AND I hooked it up by myself, no boyfriend required. This is a major accomplishment for me.

Three, tomorrow is TFGIF. I added a new letter to that acronym, which suits how I feel. Being a pseudo-lawyer is hard. I haven’t had one day yet where I didn’t have a stress headache by 3 pm. I now understand Gloria‘s tale of her friend who didn’t drink, but after his first summer at a firm, started drinking vodka doubles, straight up.

Stickin’ It to The Man, 1/16 of a Gallon and One Toilet Roll at a Time

Today I had to rent a car while my A/C got fixed. Which of course turned into the power steering being broken and my brakes being replaced and suddenly, whoops, $1600 later I’m picking up practically a brand new freaking car at the dealership.

BUT, I got my revenge. It was only 11 miles to work and back from the rental place, and I did not get any gas! And they didn’t notice!! Eleven miles of FREE GAS, people. I know I saved my self at least, you know, a DOLLAR. Somehow, this made me feel better.

Also, this has nothing to do with anything, except I was cleaning my bathroom this weekend, using my brand new disposable toilet scrubbers, which I know, are bad for the environment but they make me so happy, and I threw in a toilet roll switch-out for good measure. And I remembered this time when I was YOUNG and STUPID. You know, three years ago.

I was dating this awful chef, and he told me that one of his pet peeves was people who put the toilet roll on backwards, so it rolls out going up instead of down. At the time I thought it was an odd pet peeve considering global warming and irresponsible people like me eating off paper plates, but whatevs. I hate board shorts. Whatever floats your boat, gets your goat and so on. And again, I was YOUNG and STUPID, so I nodded and was like, “Oh, yeah, me, too.”

He ended up coming over one unfortunate evening, and I’d forgotten all about my faux-peeve. But then after half a bottle of wine I had to visit the powder room, and, you know what’s coming. Paper rolling out and up. %#%^$@. I didn’t say anything, just switched the roll around and came out hoping he hadn’t noticed earlier. But I could tell by his smirk he had checked and was enjoying watching me squirm. Prick.

So now every time I switch the roll out I have to remember how once I was YOUNG and STUPID. But that’s OK. Because sometimes I let it roll out and up, baby! Just because I can. I’m stickin’ it to The Man, one roll at a time.

Sweatin’ to the Oldies

My car AC is broken. Broken.*

Tomorrow I take the car in, thank goodness. Until then, it’s HOT in LA. So I’ve mastered the best “my AC is broken” driving position. Namely, all windows open, pitched forward into the steering wheel (avoiding back contact with seat), arms akimbo (avoiding arm contact with torso, also providing nice airway under ‘pits (yes, I am so genteel)). And at every stop light, propelling myself up off the seat as far as possible to ensure some air flow under my ass. Lovely, lovely.

Anyway, I’ve been driving around, all sweaty-like, fine-tuning my new summer mix, figuring out what songs I skip through and what I hanker for as a replacement. And a fair number are oldies but goodies. Throw-back songs that get you in the mood for a long, hot summer. Not “Gonna Make You Sweat.” Not Keith Sweat (egads, no). And definitely not like the actual songs from Sweatin’ to the Oldies. But definitely something that makes you want to get your (slow-ish) groove on with a G&T or whatever your summer drink of choice.

So now’s your last chance. It’s June, as I predicted it’d be before I sent them out. I already received a few e-mails. If anyone else wants a copy, they’re going out this weekend. E-mail me at jen@sundayundies.com if you want me to mail you one!

*p.s. Is it wrong after I wrote this I thought of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman with her opera glasses? I tell you, that movie is haunting me these days for some reason.

Weltschmerz

I don’t know if ABC understood the irony of what it put on TV tonight. First, the national spelling bee, where one little genie lost on the word “weltschmerz.”

Pronunciation: ‘velt-“shmerts
Function: noun
Usage: often capitalized
Etymology: German, from Welt world + Schmerz pain
1 : mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state
2 : a mood of sentimental sadness

Then, a special on our foster care system. Which really, anyone encountering would be filled with weltzscherz. Our lost children. 500,000 who don’t have the curse of over-concerned parents coaching them through the dictionary, nagging them through the Ws.

Verdammen weltschmerz.