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November 11, 2008
LEST YE FORGET
Things are a happenin'. As they tend to do. Fall came, went, and came again in the meantime. It's on its last legs now, even if the calendar says different. I know better. I can smell the winter.
If you've been reading, you know I went to Vancouver for MJ & Kathryn's weddin'. Many future jokes will now have to be made about "keeping up with the Jones." I can hardly wait. Here's me and my homegirls at the reception and me with Craig, who served as my date. Note that I busted out my ten year old prom dress. Believe it!
What else? My girl Kaye had a birthday and we celebrated with gluten free cupcakes. So here's a shot from that.
And of course, Halloween happened. My favourite of the demon holidays. I dressed up as a Newsie. As in, a Christian Bale, Disney movie, circa 1992 Newsie. It was ... amazing. We partied with Cubans, as the pictures below may show.
There hasn't been any karaoke lately, which is sad, but with the end of the fall softball season looming, that may change. (Yay!)
And, of course, I continue to appear on the MTV After Show and to say inane things and funny things and things that have the audience booing me. It's fun, and nerve wracking, and lots of other things as well. I guess I should feel lucky. I guess I do.
Anyway, there's your visual update. Consider yourselves informed. Go out and take a whiff of the winter. It's coming. It comes.
Love and Pixels, Jen
November 6, 2008
IF THE LOVE THAT YOU GIVE AIN'T THE LOVE THAT YOU'RE GETTIN'
Fact: I hate concerts.
This is something few people would admit. It flies in the face of all things "cool." To hate concerts is to hate youth, and fun, and the urban and the now. It's much worse than hating hipsters and urbanity and the pretentious (all generally accepted forms of urban, pretentious, hipsterified hate). To hate concerts is - if the criticism I generally receive is to be believed - to hate music. It's like hating ice cream, babies, kittlens and puppy dogs.
If you hate concerts, people think you're fucking nuts.
Well... I hate concerts.
I'm sorry. I just do. I LOVE music, but (and?) I hate concerts. I'd rather go to the symphony than a traditional rock show. I'd rather go to the effing opera. I just hate concerts so much. I hate the mash of people. The way they bump into and elbow me and breathe on me and stomp on my feet. I hate not being able to see (and I never can because I'm only five four and the venues suck and aren't stepped). And I hate the venues! I hate the dingy, smelly, lame-ass, overpriced venues, with their stenchy, swampy bathrooms and bad-natured staff who scowl at you if you order a water (even if you tip). I hate the eye-rolling bouncers and the lines. The lines! Oh how I hate lines. I never want to wait in line, even when and where a line is relatively appropriate, let alone when it's for NO REASON in the blistering cold.
Dear Venue Bars, Hi. I don't mean to be a douchebag here, but if you don't want me in your bar, then please, don't make me wait in line. Don't want my hard earned money for your overpriced, watered-down drinks? That's fine. I can go somewhere else. Just TELL ME THE TRUTH.
I mean, if there's no one in the bar, then WHY is there a line??? There shouldn't be a line. And if there are people in the bar, if the bar is, say, legitimately full, then THERE SHOULDN'T BE A LINE. Please, Bouncer-Men, tell me the truth. Just say "Sorry, miss. We're full." I'll smile and be on my way, I promise. You don't even have to call me miss.
SIGH.
It's sad, really. The fact that concerts are, in my opinion, so often awful. Awful 90% of the time, actually. Because I really do love music. Music I can hear. Music not played at an obscene volume and steeped in feedback. Concerts are a problem for me more often than not because they taint the musical experience rather than enhancing it. Thanks to the environment, the myriad of problems associated with venue bars, and city life, and selfish and obnoxious show-rat attendees, more often than not, I leave shows LESS inclined toward the band or artist I went to see in the first place. And that, my friends, sucks. It sucks balls. It sucks the bag. Big time.
So what's a girl to do? Suck it up, I guess. I may hate concerts, but no one else I know does, and I love my friends. And I love the sorts of little indy bands that play at the venues and in the environments I abhor. So I suppose I'll just keep going. I'l wear earmuffs in the lines and earplugs inside. I'll invest in steel-toed boots. I'll get over my physical space bubble issues. I'll touch strangers for long periods of time without panic. I hope.
I've seen some decent shows lately. Even considering the headaches, they were okay. I saw this country-type band One Hundred Dollars at Sneaky Dees last week (after a freezing two-hour wait in line). And I saw a friend of a friend's band - Key Witness - at The Horseshoe over the weekend. The music was good even if the overall experiences sort of blew. I like the idea of supporting small groups. So I suppose in the end, despite all my reservations, I am a person who goes to "shows" (as the cool kids say).
All I'm really saying here is this: In an ideal world, all concerts would be at places where we could sit comfortably and drink comfortably, and see comfortably, and hear comfortably. There'd be no bleeding ear drums, no sweaty elbows to the breast, no broken toes. Concerts would be less cool and more fun. Is that really so much to ask? In an ideal world?
Since I'm wishing, maybe I should start with something a little more important, eh?
Curmudgeonly Yours, Jen (apparently, a 98 year old woman)
October 17, 2008
GOT TO BUILD YOURSELF A LEVEE, DEEP INSIDE
Being in Vancouver again is strange. On one hand, as I stepped off the plane and into the airport, I felt a bit like I was nearly home. On the other, ever since I made it into the city proper I've distinctly felt like the home I had has been sold. Or burned down. Or occupied by squatters. And like if I knew what was good for me, I'd just head right back to the airport and the hell out of dodge.
I never know what's good for me.
A couple of year ago, when I was still living in Vancouver, I wrote a stupid little story for a stupid little magazine called Vancouver View (advertorial CITY) about Vancouver's Identity (or rather, lackthereof). It was a chatty little piece called Vancouver (Un)Defined, largely opinion based, and if I remember correctly, after the most cursory research imaginable, I pounded it out in less than an hour. (I was fast, man.) Anyway, I just reread it (you can read by clicking the link above) and it occurred to me that I was completely wrong. I said Vancouver was changeable, that it had a little of everything. And even though I think that was/is sort of true, my perspective on what that amounts to is totally different now. Vancouver isn't changeable, Vancouver is still. Not stagnant, but calm. Unchanging. Steady.
Despite the proliferating glass towers, the impending Olympics, the seeming diversity of the landscape, Vancouver never changes. It's comforting, this sameness. This mild weather that rides an undulating low wave season to season, this endless construction, this city of evergreens, ever green.
I'm here again and it's like I never left, which makes me all the more relieved that I did when I did. I might have been hypnotized here forever.
My friends MJ and Kathryn are getting married tomorrow up at UBC. I'm technically a bridesmaid, but they're not pretentious people and the wedding party doesn't have to match. I plan to wear my prom dress. My (more than) ten year old prom dress. This may or may not be the best/worst decision ever. I'm just so excited that it fits me again.
And I'm a cheapskate.
ANYWAY.
Being in Vancouver is making me think about a lot of things - like what home means, and who I am now in relation to who I was then and what it means to "be yourself." In 2004 when I was living in Vancouver and still relatively happy here, I saw the movie Garden State and heard the following in regards to home (and I know, I know, it's sort of overrated, but still):
"...When you move out it just sort of happens ... you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist ... You won't have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start. It's like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place." - Large
Ten years before I saw Garden State I was in love with the TV show My So-Called Life, and I remember hearing the following in regards to the second thing (the thing about self):
"People always say you should be yourself, like yourself is this definite thing, like a toaster or something. Like you can know what it is, even." - Chase
So that's what I'm thinking about. It's oppressively overcast and wet here, which is what strangers expect from Vancouver, but which I wasn't prepared for. I never felt it rained as much as people said it did. I'm foolish, I guess. I didn't pack the right sort of clothes and I'm cold pretty much all the time. I miss my new home, actually. As much as I wanted to come.
Oh well. The wedding will be fun, I'm sure. MJ & Kathryn are great, and that will make it great. That's how these things work.
Love, Prom Fashions Barbie, Alias: Jen
October 16, 2008
IN AN AEROPLANE (not) OVER THE SEA
Things I did on my annoyingly long flight to Vancouver included, but are not limited to:
Drinking (a cesear “spiced up”)
Watching a little bit of the US Presidential debate (horrendous)
Listening to Neutral Milk Hotel (one song, over and over and over)
Eating (overpriced sandwich and free bits and bites)
Thinking (about dehydration, mostly)
Blogging (right now!)
Staring (at the window at my reflection)
Winking (just for practice – left eye, right eye)
Reading (ALL of Augusten Burroughs’ book Magical Thinking)
In regards to the last item on the above list, which is, I suppose, the most substantive thing I did on the flight, I have this to say: Is it not crazy that it took me a literal MONTH to get through the last book I read, and just a few HOURS to get through this one? I think it is. Crazy, that is. That’s not to say that I liked this one more. In fact, I probably liked the last one more. Lots more. But I’m still disturbed by the time difference. Do the math!* I mean, it took me like, three hours to read Magical Thinking. It took me like 6000 hours to read Disturbances in the Field. That doesn’t even seem POSSIBLE. Conclusion? Math is no good.
My dad loaned me the Burroughs book, probably because I got him onto David Sedaris earlier this year and the styles are remarkably similar. Shockingly so, actually. Upon loaning it to me, he (my dad) remarked that he thinks the three of us (Burroughs, Sedaris and me) write similarly, actually.
I don’t know about that. I really doubt it. I know that I write an inane and sometimes insane little blog about things I’m thinking and things I’m doing and every once in awhile, I’m funny. Or you’re touched. Or whatever. That’s cool. But never have I drowned a mouse, nor have I an alcohol addiction problem, but that’s just me. I’m also not a caustic gay male, prone to rhapsody about the 1970s.**
Sure, I went to Catholic school (which will fuck anybody up) and I was jealous of my sister and I spend many years being profoundly unhappy. I also have some obsessive compulsive tendencies and a need to be liked, but I’m nice to almost everyone and you can’t write a memoir and be nice at the same time.
I see niceness as a sort of life philosophy for myself, and if you’re nice, you can’t always be honest, and if you can’t always be honest then you can’t write a good memoir. That’s just the way these things work.
Not that I could write a good memoir anyway. It’s utterly pretentious to write a memoir in your 20s anyway. Nothing’s even happened to me yet. So were I to write a memoir it would be one of the following two things:
Made up. Utter rubbish.
Land, you stupid plane. LAND. Love, The Flying… Jen
* Note: this math is not actual math. **Which isn’t to say I disliked any of Sedaris or Burroughs’ books. I didn’t. They’re great.
October 15, 2008
FLIGHT OF THE NAVIGATOR
So I’m sitting on an airplane, somewhere over Minnesota (nearish to Duluth if the West Jet LiveMap is to be believed, which of course, it isn’t,since the illustration of the plane is about 1/10th the size of the illustration total, which makes it seem like I’m on a jet that’s at least the size of Lake Superior – or something – which I am not, but I digress).
I’m here, on this plane, winging my way to Vancouver and thinking about the fact that it’s been hours since I ran my last errand, and about the fact that this trip is supposed to be fun, and about the fact that I’ve had two drinks (one at the airport, one in flight) but have yet to relax, which is pretty telling when you think about it. Clearly, this adrenaline/starbys thing has gone a little far. I mean, clearly my life has gotten away from me a little bit.
I figure I can spend the next four days in Vancouver getting back on track.
Now, before you start thinking that this post is going to degenerate into some kind of Emo Elf’s Lament (what?), I should make a few things clear:
1. I’m actually not complaining. 2. I actually LIKE being this busy. 3. Whenever it sounds like I’m complaining, I’m really (most likely) bragging.
I really am. I really do. I’m really not. Facts, the lot of ‘em.
Ultimately, being this busy (and to a lesser extent, blogging about it) makes me feel capable and powerful and on-top of everything. And when I say “makes me feel” what I really mean is makes me realize. Or rather, remember.
I may seem diffident and self-deprecating (particularly in person and maybe to a fault) but I think I’m like that in part because being like that masks a truer and less appealing truth about me, which is that I really think a lot of myself.
I mean, if I’m telling the truth, the fact is: I think I’m pretty fucking awesome.
And for all of my prostrating and apologizing, the real truth about me is that I rarely actually believe I’ve done anything wrong or made any real mistakes. All of my anxiety stems from the fact that I’m extremely concerned with you. All of you. And the idea that you might THINK I’ve done something wrong (WRONGLY, on your part, of course – egregiously so, because I HAVEN’T). And I really want you to like me. And so, I become concerned. But it’s not really for the reason you think it is.
Dig?
These are commonly referred to as “issues” – as in “Jen Selk has issues.”
I do. I know I do.
So. Yeah. I may be (and most likely am) mentally unstable, but at least I’m self aware, right?
Anyway. The awesome LiveMap is now telling me that the disturbingly massive cartoon plane I'm sitting in has crossed the state line into North Dakota, which is relatively believable considering that there is a lit patch of city with a mottled edge like the meandering and asymmetrical border of a malignant mole blighting the night below. I’m guessing it’s Fargo. Or maybe Grand Forks. Or even Bismark. (Stupid LiveMap. I hate it.)
Regardless, I think it’s time to stop blogging. My hand is cramping anyway. And there’s a long weekend ahead. Must conserve emotional energy.
Vancouver looms, if not literally, then at least figuratively, and along with it will come the charred wasteland of my former life.
The question is not so much about if you can (or can’t) go home again so much as if you should. Particularly considering the napalm.
I’m going to listen to some Neutral Milk Hotel on my ipod and wait for wisdom. I’m not wise, but the right answer might come to me anyway. I’m lucky that way. Whatever else I may be, I’m that.
xo, Jen
October 9, 2008
I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW
I know. It’s been a month. What can I say? In my last post, I expressed fatigue, didn’t I? A certain fedupedness?
All I’m saying is that you should have expected this. In addition to being fairly uninspired of late, the bottom line is that woman cannot live on adrenaline and Starbucks alone. Sometimes, something has to give. And in this case, the something that gave was the blah-og. I’ve never been very regular at it anyway. I never promised you anything. (Did I?)
It’s been so long, I can’t remember.
So. What’s new. Nothing really. Or everything. I can’t tell. LET’S MAKE A LIST!
1. I’m still tired, but I’m happier about it.
2. I’m still on MTV about once a week (links at the bottom).
3. I’m still playing softball only once a week, but I’ve begun playing volleyball again and my knee stopped hurting, so that’s all sorted.
4. I’m teaching all the time. That’s kind of a weird thing. I like it more than I thought I would.
5. I’m going to lots of shows and events and being wildly social, despite resolutions to the contrary.
6. I’m watching lots and lots and lots of The Wire.
7. I’m reading the same book I started a full month ago (which is insane, because I could have read eight times as many in a regular month, but hey). Love it, but it’s heavy.
8. Nathan Phillipsquare is as taciturn as ever. I continue to feed him, regardless.
This is the result of a combination of things, not the least of which being that I made a resolution at the end of last year to ‘say yes to everything’. It was a great idea in theory, and initially a great idea in practice, but I feel like it’s starting to catch up with me.
Actually, scratch that. It’s already caught up with me. It’s passed me. It’s lapped me twice. It’s kicking my ass.
I’ve also had houseguests for the past two and a half weeks and work is busy and nerve wracking and I am going to be on MTV again tomorrow night (The After Show, MTV Canada, 7:30 and 11:30 pm, FYI) and I still don’t know what I’m to wear. And (and this part is just me complaining and having a little pity party, and I don’t really mean it, but…) it feels like everyone wants something from me. They want something, but they’re not necessarily giving anything. And I may be making a lot of bad decisions. And my knee has been hurting for over a month now and though it’s been a bit better since I stopped playing softball three nights a week, it’s not better enough to actually make me happy to not be playing softball three nights a week. ☹
Like I said, I’m tired.
Beams started circulating at CERN today, in the Large Hadron Collider (the world’s largest particle accelerator) which is something I feel I’d like to blog about. It smells like a good metaphor. I don’t really know much (or, okay, ANYTHING) about particle physics or the LHC, but I know it has something to do with the origin of mass, and with dark matter and dark energy and big bang cosmology, and all of that seems like really good material. I just don’t think I have it in me at the moment to write about it. Ironically, the bottom line – which is that dark matter and dark energy are things nobody really understands (hence the “dark”) but which account for nearly all the mass in the universe – makes for the best and most basic metaphor, anyway.
I mean, there’s all this … STUFF, right? And we can’t see it, and we don’t get it, but if we send the stuff we CAN see rushing around in circles fast enough and long enough there will eventually be some sort of collision and that will help us figure it all out.
That works, doesn’t it?
I can’t even tell. I’m too tired to think about it.
Don’t mind me. I’ll be okay. xo, Jen
September 5, 2008
LIFE USED TO BE LIFE-LIKE. NOW IT'S MORE LIKE SHOW BIZ.
I have been remiss, guys. I know this. Things have been SO busy lately (though I know that's no excuse). Despite what my spotty posting habits may imply, I love you. You are my web-footed friends. Forgive me for being absent.
OK. The truth is I really shouldn't even be writing this post, so it won't be a long one, but I will give you the big news of the past few weeks. It really boils down to one acronym: MTV.
In the past few weeks I have become a "friend" on the "The After Show", which used to be this pop-culturey talk show about the show The Hills, but which is now not only about The Hills but about other aspects of pop culture and celebrity gossip as well. It's on live on Monday nights at 10:30pm in both Canada and the USA, and from Tuesday to Thursday live at 7:30, repeating at 11:30pm in Canada only. I've been on twice so far (yesterday, September 4th, 2008, and last Thursday, August 28, 2008) chatting and/or arguing with the hosts and the other "friends" about deep issues like if Daniel Radcliff is hot, if Heidi Montag's new music video is tragic, and if Sarah Palin is a horrible person. (Hint: the correct answer to all three of those questions is YES.)
I've also been blogging about The Hills a little on the MTV.ca website. I've written about Hills Characters Off The Hills and Hills Fashion so far. In the second post, a line has been added to my writing. It's something I would never write or say. See if you can spot it.
Editors. They're not always good.
Anyway, that the nooze for the moment. I promise a better update soon. It's September. Back to school time. I'm teaching. There's a chill in the air and I'm going to the beach this weekend. Things are pretty good.
That girl from the teevee, Jen
August 18, 2008
EVERYTHING GROWS AND GROWS
"It’s an Ailanthus, known also as the Tree of Heaven. A persistent and resourceful little tree that was brought to New York years ago from Asia, and thrives in urban environments. A tree that can sprout in a crack of the pavement and under porches and decks and apparently, in cars. Dave’s plant will keep growing until it is nearly sixty feet tall. And at the end of every summer it will produce small yellow-green flowers. And in the early fall the flowers will be followed by beautiful, ruddy fruit, bearing seeds with little wings ... like maple keys. Its leaves will come late in the spring and every spring Dave will think his tree has died, until suddenly it comes alive. Every spring a miracle. And every spring when the leaves finally come, Dave will stand in his backyard and think of this summer and the tiny seedling he found in his car. And he will look at his tree and think … that things survive. Even without his presence. Even without him, life goes on. Life has a will of its own and he needn’t worry. His job isn’t to worry or do things. His job is to watch and wonder."- From Stuart McLean's Tree of Heaven
"She bought some Feverfew – a plant that looks like a daisy – and she gave it to him to plant in his box. It’s an herb people say can cure fevers. A pretty little plant and the leaves smell good when you work around them and best of all it seeds itself, which means it will grow again next summer. Tough little thing. But you need to be tough to live in a concrete box all winter along with the Coke bottles and the straws. And the Feverfew is tough enough for that and not without dignity. And last weekend when she was grocery shopping Morley spent another five dollars. She bought a box of grape hyacinth bulbs and she planted them one night last week when Emil had left for the night, thinking as she scraped at the hard dirt in Emil’s box, that they’ll come in the spring and they’ll surprise him. Thinking about something she had read by Rohinton Mistry. Something about that fine line between compassion and foolishness, kindness and weakness ... wondering always about how firm to stand, how much to bend." - From Stuart McLean's Emil
"Everyone knows about the tree. Everyone knows that Eugene grew it from a cutting that he brought from his father’s farm in Calabria, wrapped in a piece of linen and hidden at the bottom of his trunk. And everyone knows that every October, before the first frost, Eugene digs a trench in his backyard, three feet deep and three feet wide and thirty feet long. And when he’s finished digging the hole, he carefully bends the branches of the tree close to the trunk and ties them in place, and then he digs around the roots until they are loose and free of the earth and then he pushes the tree over and lowers it into the trench with ropes. The leafless, bound tree looks like a skeleton lying in the hole. The root ball looks like a giant head, Eugene like a grieving relative as he covers it first with planks and then with warm earth. He buries the tree. And when he’s finished, except for the disturbed earth, you wouldn’t know anything was there. And there is where his fig tree spends the winter, bound and buried, underground and out of sight. If he left it standing it wouldn’t survive the frost. So it winters below the frost. Until the warm April afternoon Eugene digs it out and stands it up and cuts the branches loose." - From Stuart McLean's The Fig Tree
AND AND AND ... that's how it goes.
Jen
August 15, 2008
THESE ARE THE DAYS OF MIRACLE AND WONDER?
Apologies for the ugliness.
Stupid fucking website is stupid fucking messed up. Hate technology today.
Argh. Jen
August 14, 2008
TAKE IT, TAKE ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE OF MY HEART
Five facts about horcruxes:
* A horcrux is a receptacle in which someone has hidden a shred of his or her soul for the purposes of attaining immortality. * A horcrux can be made of any normal object, including living organisms. * There is no limit to the number of horcruxes a person can make, but as the creator's soul is divided into progressively smaller portions, natural humanity is degraded and the individual becomes more and more unstable. * A horcrux can be sealed within another living human without that person's knowledge. * Horcruxes are extremely difficult to destroy and are impervious to convential means of destructions (smashing, breaking, burning, etc.)
I suggest you go off and think on that for a bit.
In other news...
Here are five things people have said to me in the past five days: * "Yeah, 'cause when I think Jen Selk, I think STREET. You're the streetest person I know." * "I wish you could come to the stagette. I am not going to do any of the stupid things people think I should do. 'Fuck you, party girl! Go lick your own stranger!'" * "I love men. I also love you." * "Boys have problems. This is what I've learned." * "What's this Jelmo business? It's cute."
Here are five things I've said to other people in the past five days: * "I could never look prettier than you. Unless I decided to kill you and wear your skin like a coat." * "Before you say anything, let me define the moment. This is not a tough love moment. This is not a teasing moment. This is a 'I love you, and everything you do is magical and perfect and you're not bad to look at, either' moment." * "When you throw something away, you can't expect it to hang around on your porch indefinitely, but that's what I do. The garbage man rolls by and I'm all like, 'It's cool. I'm just gonna chill here until those idiots inside realize their mistake.' It's a problem." * "All babies are cute. Even the ugly ones." * "I'm Jelmo because there's always room for ME."
Did everyone remember to wish Harry (Potter) a Happy Birthday a couple of weeks ago? It was on July 31st. He turned 28. Same as me.
I'm just sayin'.
This post has been brought to you by the number 5 and the letter J, which stands for, Jelmo
August 11, 2008
I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE, SOMEWHERE OUT THERE
Man howdy, but the Internet is strange, ain't it?
Case in point: search strings. Here are some of the search phrases that have brought new visitors to my site recently:
"What does it mean when you wake up in the morning and see moving things in the walls or ceiling that resemble leaves or worms?" "What happens when you drink three beers and take one asprin?" "Expensive fancy pendants ladybug bootie." "Dorkhead? You lash me with your words." "Wooo Wooo Wooo Wooo Woo. Too many sleepless nights." "Science misconception on cartoon spongebobsquare panteroony." "Dance selk bum." "Can't stop shivering, sick, vomit, sleeping a lot." "Dope smoking monkeys." "I caught a softball with my ungloved hand. Ow ow ow."
And my very favourite:
"Gay selk suck movies."
Seriously, guys. I'm not making any of this up.
In other web-related news, I got a fan mail the other day. It was kind of nice to get. Some fellow wrote me the following message:
"Hi Jennifer - i don't know you but i love you! read your script on the cruiser culture & thought the world of it. talk 'bought a noble cause ... it's nice to see someone leading the charge on the bike front media, you go girl! you've got your teeth into something bigger than you know! or maybe you do! cheers from california! -kev"
That's sort of adorable, don't you think? I mean, I so prefer to get fan mail than hate mail. (Was that an obvious thing to say? I think maybe it was.)
Speaking of fans, my girl Kaye has been mentioning me a lot in her blog lately, which is also kind of sweet. She's been doing book-themed posts, which I think is working for her. That girl reads like no one else I know. It's pretty impressive. And it's nice that she thinks so much of me. I've also been feeling a lot of love from my friend Kathleen lately. She sent me a surprise bouquet of flowers at work on Friday! WHO DOES THAT? It was amazing. The card was hilarious. Clearly, the person who took it down had no idea what she meant to say because it read, "Because of you too cool. i Rate to see you sad." No signature. For a minute, I thought I might have an illiterate secret admirer. It wasn't disappointing to find out I didn't. It's nicer maybe, and safer, just to have friends. My urban family hasn't failed me yet. Anyway, that's another story. My point is this: Look at me! I'm foolin' people into lovin' me all over town. SO THERE.
That's the good side of things. The bad side of things is the creepy side. For example, I currently have a mystery web-stalker who works at Aon Reed Stenhouse Inc. I know nothing about this person other than the fact that they seem to check my site daily, and tend to spend a significant amount of time loitering, which doesn't make much sense to me, since most of the content is static. (Who are you, mystery visitor? Why are you so interested? Do I know you? Are we friends? If so, why don't you just email me?) I'm terribly curious.
Questions to ponder:
1. How can something resemble both leaves AND worms? 2. What DOES happen when you drink three beers and take one asprin? 3. Do you think the person who was searching for "gay selk suck movies" was searching for me or someone related to me, or that selk was just a typo?
This week is, as usual, all about softball. And MTV. More on that later.
The Perdeids Meteor Shower will be happening tonight. If you're out and about and you think of it, look up. I might be looking up too. And make a wish, okay?
Love from the inter-ether, Jen
August 5, 2008
WE’RE ‘BOUT TO OVERDO IT
August, by the numbers. In the last five or so days I have:
Purchased 28 books (almost all from the $1 bin at BMV) 6 CDs (also from BMV, including the soundtrack to 90210) 1 dry salami (delicious)
Read 1 teen novel (The Hunter’s Moon) 1 comic book (Astonishing X Men: Gifted) 1 nonfiction journal (Arden) 1 really touching blog post
Watched 4 plays (Avenue Q, The President, Belle Moral, After the Dance) 13 episodes of The Wire 1 movie (When Harry Met Sally)
I’ve also had 3 conversations with Nathan, a manicure, and 2 bowls of pasta. I’ve made 2 decent catches at softball, been promoted, told a lie, and been out in the evening 4 times in the last 5 days. And last night, I got 14 new mosquito bites.
Am I overdoing it? I think I might be overdoing it.
I’ve also been losing lots of keys lately. I don’t know what that means, but maybe I’d be better off with things that can’t be locked at all.
Anxiously, Jen
July 31, 2008
WE DO ALL THE THINGS THEY SAY WE CAN'T DO
What exactly is a Pseduo? You webheads have been asking that question incessantly since my last post (in which I called Craig my Number One Pseudo). And I’m nothing if not accommodating, so here’s a (fairly long-winded) answer.
Fake Boyfriends and Why They’re Fabulous
an explanatory treatise on the Pseudo phenomenon
Linguistics
Pseudo is a shortened version of Pseudo Boyfriend, a phrase I started using (and feel like I coined) back in 1998 when Craig and I first became friends. Craig was not my first Pseudo, but if we’re going to have a linguistic discussion about the relationship between the signifier and the signified, then I think it’s important to note that he is linked to my adoption (creation!?) of the phrase.
The Pseudo Boyfriend (or, if you’re feeling like an inclusionist today, the Pseudo Relationship) despite what you may think, isn’t negative. The word pseudo may seem inherently critical in that it means fake, false or not genuine and is often adopted as a negative modifier, but I don’t believe the inauthentic is necessarily bad. It means not genuine, which isn’t the same as disingenuous, if you see what I’m sayin’.
I think, as an adjective, the tone of the word pseudo is directly and inextricably related to the noun that follows it – in this case, boyfriend or partner. And a partner, if you ask me (and you did), isn’t a bad thing to have. As for Pseudo Partners, well, in some instances, they’re even better.
Some Pseudo Nostalgia
I adopted the word pseudo into my personal lexicon in the mid-1990s after a boy at my high school (who I particularly liked) began a yearbook quote to me with something along the lines of:
“There’s little beyond pseudo-depth that one can write in a yearbook, but…”
Oh man. Did I think he was sophisticated? Yes. Yes I did.
That boy’s name was and is Todd. (He’s actually a “facebook friend” now, and I’m sure will be shocked (and potentially amused) if he reads this.
He was older than me by, I think, five years. A boy who’d transferred to my school as a Senior to finish up after taking “time off”. I liked him right away. I didn’t have a crush on him exactly, but not being familiar with the Pseudo vibe, I just assumed I did. I had a tough time that year. Felt a little heart break. A lot of social pressure. And out of nowhere (and maybe as a result of that angst) developed this strange friendship that basically involved me and this relative stranger having three-plus hour conversations in which I’d pour my poor little teen heart out, which led to philosophical chatter about the ways of the world. It was oddly comforting.
I met Todd when I was fifteen years old, on the day after Labour Day, 1995. I remember because it was the first day of school. Since then, the truth is that we’ve only had a handful of real conversations. Less than ten, I’d say. But I credit him both with charming me with the word pseudo and maybe even with being my first actual Pseudo. I never wanted to date him. (I considered a five year age difference to be an absolute show stopper, which is pretty ironic when you think about what’s happened since, but whatever.) In the end, my friendship with Todd was essentially vague and distant. We were never truly close. But I liked it. And when the opportunity arose to have that again with someone else (and to make it better) I jumped at the chance.
Here Comes Your Man
Craig is far and away the best friend I made at Queen’s. He is fun. He gives me a hard time when necessary and is a fan of tough love, but also refuses to fight with me about anything, ever. (Which is to say, he never lets me pick a fight with him if my feelings are hurt, which is frankly the best and only smart way to deal with me.) We annoy each other at times (who doesn’t?) but I am never worried that we’re suddenly going to stop being friends, or that I can’t be straight with him about things, even if he isn’t going to like them (which, I find, is an absolute indicator of a good Pseudo Relationship). Craig is charming when he wants to be and makes a good date to weddings and formal work functions and other horrible events requiring dates. And he is one of only a handful of people (maybe five in the whole world) who has seen me absolutely lose-my-shit-fall-apart. He’s since admitted that he found it terrifying, but he’s still here. That’s Pseudo Love. My parents assume he’s either gay or that we’re eventually going to “realize” what’s actually going on and get married. I suppose that’s a possibility, but I doubt it. Know why? Because…
Pseudos Never Hook Up
Yeah. Never. Never EVER. The Pseudo Relationship is inherently platonic. It’s more than a traditional friendship, yes, but a Pseudo is NOT under any circumstances to be confused with any of the following*:
A friend with benefits.
A huckleberry friend.
A fuck buddy.
*with apologies for the use of fairly stupid and vulgar terms.
That’s the whole POINT. Pseudos are NOT THE REAL DEAL.
Hooking up is (literally?) the kiss of death to a Pseudo Relationship. On occasion, you can have an effective Pseudo pairing with someone you used to date. (I have one going right now with the boyfriend who caused the aforementioned teen heart break.) But if you’re crushing on your Pseudo for real, in the now, you’re probably in trouble. Real romance just brings too much drama into the Pseudo sphere. It takes the comfort out of the thing and lowers the relationship to the level of any generic dating drama. And that ruins it. Pseudos are, inherently, something more than all that. Something better.
So What’s The Real (Not Real) Deal?
Pseudos are people you go on dates with. They can be either gender depending on your preference (but to be a Pseudo, one must be of the gender you prefer with exceptions for bisexuality). They are not your best friends, neither are they the sorts of people you hang out with in groups, see at parties, and enjoy, but don’t particularly connect with. Pseudos are basically people you like MORE. They are people who, under other circumstances, you might have dated, but didn’t and don’t and won’t.As a result, they are people you just … talk to.
The Pseudo Relationship is traditionally a one-on-one sort of thing. Pseudos have a lot in common, or at least a sympathetic understanding of each others' ideals and world views. Each finds the other endearing in some way. And most importantly, as already stated, Pseudos meet for traditional date-type activities (coffee, dinners, long-walks, etc.), but ultimately, it’s the quality of the interaction that counts. Pseudos are people you share secrets with. You discuss real stuff that might otherwise be reserved for actual relationships (serious personal history, family, heart break, deep and abiding views on pop culture, etc.). You see what’s appealing in each other, sure, you just don’t want to go there yourself. Maybe it’s weird, but it works.
Speaking Of Weird, Some Wild Card Issues (Flirting, Set-Ups, Etc.)
I want to make one thing absolutely clear, because I think there are a sticking points where people might pause on the road to buying the whole Pseudo concept: flirting is permitted. Innocuous flirting, I mean. Nothing that might truly be misinterpreted, nothing too aggressive. (Sidebar: I’ve often been told that I am a big flirt, which isn’t fair, really, since I think the judgment is based entirely on the fact that I giggle and smile a lot, both of which are protective/defense mechanisms and neither of which I reserve for men, but I digress.) Some Pseudos are flirtier than others. My friend Nick, for example, is a flirt. That’s just who he is. But he’s a non-threatening flirt who uses silly, canned-lines for comedic value, and spreads that vibe among his friend-circle fairly indiscriminately. Craig, alternately, is actually not much of a flirt. He tends to reserve his flirting for women he’s actually interested in dating and/or hooking up with.
Strangely, I’ve found that flirting is most common with Pseudos not when both sides are single (which is what you’d expect) but when both sides are firmly linked to other people. I think this is because, if both people in a Pseudo Relationship are single, there’s really nothing definite keeping them apart, and flirting might therefore give rise to scary questions like “why aren’t WE together?” But if both Pseudos are with other people, if you carry the certainty that you’ve both (or even just one of you has) definitely chosen something else and therefore, the certainty that there is absolutely no potential for you as a real couple, Pseudos can partake in a little flirting with no pesky what ifs nosing their way in to ruin the vibe.
And while we’re talking about vibes and what ifs, I think it’s worthwhile to mention that Pseudos often go through a period where they try to set each other up. I don’t know why. I think it’s an anxiety thing. It tends to happen early on, when the Pseudo Relationship is new and maybe unsettling because, let’s face it, many people aren’t particularly accepting of opposite gender friendships. Deep down, a lot of us are Harrys (as in, Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally) who don’t believe men and women can ever truly be friends. As a result, many new Pseudos pass through a period where they try to prove that they are NOT interested in the other person “that way” by pimping each other out.
In my experience, Pseudo setups rarely work out. Pseudos tend to be good at supporting each others respective Real Partner choices, but terrible at picking those people themselves. I think the mistake made most often is that we pick potentials for our Pseudos who are either just like us, or exactly the opposite, neither of which makes much sense. Nick and I discussed this the other day because he is my only Pseudo who’s never tried to set me up. When I asked him why, he was predictably cute about it. “Because I want you all to myself,” he said. “I don’t want to share you.” (See the Flirt Factor, mentioned above.)
The Oh at the End of Pseudo
In the end, all I’m really trying to do here is explain what a Pseudo is. And before you start thinking me a big pseudo slut, let me say this: I don’t actually have a lot of these relationships. I have a few. At the moment, I also have a couple of male friends you could say I’m Pseudo Dating, but they are not (yet?) actual Pseudos. It’s a small circle. It takes a lot to get in. I love these men because they are kind to me in a way the men I’ve actually dated have certainly never been. They’re steadfast and into the fidelity of friendship, which I love. And most of all, though I expect a lot of them, they never let me down. That’s the criteria. I guess it’s a lot to ask, but if you can get it, why wouldn’t you?
Pseudos are seriously good stuff.
Anyway. Asked and answered. You brought this on yourselves.
