Officially... Jenn

Tap...Tap...Is this thing still on??

2012-01-26T16:03:00.002-05:00

Well,glad that’s over. ..

Where doI even start?

For thoseof you who have come back to this blog time and time again in the past year,waiting for an update.. Well, the time has come.

Wanted tomake sure, before I got back to my regularly scheduled programming, that I getto share with you the awesome stuff I’ve been doing over at Spike TV and for Fox’sThe Daily. And just in case you don’t have Twitter or Facebook, or in the eventyou have a real life (unlike me at times) here’s some links for your viewingpleasure:

Jenn's "The Daily" video episodes

Jenn's Spike TV "Spare Time" episodes

For thoseof you who are new to this space of mine, welcome! You’re officially partof the gang. I can’t promise you my grammar will always be correct. And mostlikely my spelling will be horrendous. But I assure you, every word written onthis blog is heartfelt, deliberate… and brutally honest. So if you’ve come hereto spread hate or troll, be gone!.. or someone will drop a house on you!However, if you’re poking around here out of curiosity or you landed here onaccident thanks to Google images… well, hopefully you will stick around.Because as I like to say … “$h!t is about to ‘get real.’”

Notes on life

2010-08-27T13:49:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I forget that people actually read this stuff. No, make that.. most times I do. Because I've never had to write for anyone but random English teachers or college lit. professors. They'd simply skim the surface; check my grammar, punctuation, spelling, sentence structure... And give me some subjective grade and send me on my way. The paper? Never to be seen again. And the grade? Well, believe me, after the cowgirl thing began at Florida State, and it became harder for me to blend in, the grades got extremely subjective.

But one English teacher stands out in my mind. He was a tiny little man, with fiery red hair and beady little eyes that narrowed at me from behind his frameless glasses that told me "Don't ever do anything that involves writing. Ever. You're terrible at it." Harsh words to say to the youth of America that looks to their teachers for inspiration. Then again, most are getting paid duckets for a thankless job that helps so many.

Believe me when I say, I took that man’s words to heart.

In high school, I went through an identity crisis. I spent so much time questioning my life and was so ridden with teen angst that I would’ve made most John Hughes’ movie plots look like child’s play. Every few days it seemed I would find myself sitting in front of my guidance counselor, Mr. Peak, questioning why kids were so cruel, or why I had to deal with the hardships I faced. To anyone else outside his office, I probably looked like some overly pretentious spoiled brat, looking for a way to "legally" ditch class. But in all actuality, I was learning lessons about life you can't get from reading books or writing perfectly assembled five paragraph essays.

In our sessions, I shared with Mr. Peak the things I was scared to share even with my closest of friends. Like the extreme sadness I experienced watching my grandfather slowly slip away from us before our very eyes. Like the fact that someone took a baseball bat to my car just weeks after I had broken up with a guy on the baseball team… random right? Or like .. Well, there are certain parts of my life I can never bare for anyone to read. But for the few people that will read this, and instinctively know.. Yeah, that messed me up pretty bad too.

But the one thing Mr. Peak always understood about me was my love and passion for music. No matter how big life’s problems got, I always had my music. It was what got me through the other five grueling classes of the day. I knew come 6th period I would be among people that "understood me" and loved to create something as much as I did. I may not have been the best at it, but I poured my heart and soul into it. The 6th period wind ensemble, 7th period "showcase" or as most people in pop culture these days have come to address it.. "Glee." I belonged to the live band that accompanied them, but it wasn't from lack of vocal talent. I just preferred to play piano; after all, it was my one true love. Even on the really crappy days, where I bombed that AP physics exam or when the mean girls convinced my prom date "not to go to the dance with me or they wouldn't be his friend anymore"...I always had my music and it never broke my heart. In fact, I poured myself into variations of song. That is until the end of my senior year.

It was just a mere two weeks or so until our senior day, which I can only describe as a half ass version of the one depicted in "Grease." The teachers had already taught you all they could, the final exams had been taken, and essentially… Well, you were pretty much just going to mail in the rest of your remaining days anyway, so why drag this out any longer? With the end of the year came the end of the year music concerts. It was something I always looked forward to, but this one was special to me, as it was the culmination of four years of hard work on my life’s greatest passion. The band concert always went well, and I usually landed the all the flute solos. I even got to conduct some too, which I found I got as much joy from as actually playing. But then came “Finale”, my show choir’s end of the year performance. I had spent weeks preparing for this event: making a senior slide show, helping people with their solo numbers. I dealt with overbearing stage moms that insisted I was playing in the wrong key when it was really their kid just being tone deaf, then me learning songs in new keys to rectify said problem. And I did this all with a smile on my face. Why? How? Because I loved what I did, but more so the way it made me feel.

That Wednesday night was the big show, and boy do I remember it well. We had finished the final song.. And now came the curtain call. One by one the names of all my fellow band mates and glee clubbers were called until we were down to just me. This is it, I thought, my big moment..

But my name never came.

I looked out into the crowd of people, and found the faces of my family.. My mom, my dad, my grandmother.. All of whom had come to see me. And.. Nothing. The moment I locked eyes with my mom... I lost it. There on the stage, in front of a sold out auditorium, I tilted my head down, and wept. As they say in mean girls... "Gretchen Weiners had cracked."

The next day I came to school in a daze. I was a shell of my former self. My eyes puffy from crying, I tried to put on my best happy face for all those end of the year pictures people take while they sign each other’s yearbooks. Somewhere near 3rd period, I tapped out.

A lot of dark shit went through my head that day at school, but mainly just that my music had failed me. How could it do such a thing after all these years I had been its loyal disciple? How could it break my heart in front of a room full of people like that and rob me of what little self-worth I possessed? I got so angry, and so upset.. I just wanted to pull a fire alarm and disappear into the parking lot so I could jump in my car and blow that popsicle stand. But as it turns out... I didn't have to.

My mom showed up to school mid-afternoon. She had found a note I had written the night before. It wasn't addressed to anyone in particular, just an open letter.. to my parents, to my friends, to my ex-boyfriends, to my music, to God.. To anyone that had ever touched my life in those four years. Before anyone goes jumping to conclusions, it wasn’t “that kind” of note or anything, just more so a list of all the crap I had silently endured over my tenure there. I won't go into all the heart-breaking details, but I can vouch for what happened next. My mother, an employee of the school system herself, marched into the principal’s office... and proceeded to tell them what I had written. They stood there, speechless, unable to pull together one coherent reason why such a bright child, with as big a heart as mine had been treated so poorly in their care. Beyond being forgotten at my own senior finale, and ridiculed by my English teacher, I had had enough.. And my mom had had all she could handle in watching me.

While my music may have failed me, my writing may have saved my life. It wasn't the perfect five-part essay. It was probably filled with spelling errors and sentences fractions. But no one seemed to care. It was written from the broken heart of a girl that wanted nothing more than for someone to understand what it felt like .. To be her... "To want to matter."

My life experiences these past five years have been anything but ordinary. They've often bordered on that territory of complete absurdity and randomness that have had everyone besides Daniel from the dentist asking.. "Is this real life?" Maybe that's why I took to writing. Music, though powerful, is hard to bring along for life’s journey. Sure, there's always the iPod, but it doesn't compare to the feeling I got when I touched the keys of my piano. So my computers keyboard became the next best thing.

I write for myself. I write because it makes ME feel better and keeps ME off a psychiatrist couch when shit in life just gets a little too real. If people want to rip apart my writing style, or my terrible spelling, or crude, mostly self-deprecating humor, then so be it. I am what I am... And whatever that vague, grey area is.. I wouldn't change it for the world. I can't promise you that I will write complete sentences, because I write in stream of consciousness. And that stream happens to be more contaminated than the Hudson River, with raging attention deficit disorder and borderline OCD. I can tell you I will probably never win an award for my writings, nor frankly do I give a damn if I ever do. I don't write to report on things, nor do I claim to be without bias. I would never dare call myself a serious journalist. Hell, I would never use “serious” to describe any aspect of myself. I'm simply a girl, sitting in front of a computer asking you to love her for who she is... a fast talking, southern girl with a big heart, a bigger mouth, and not enough self-censorship to tell her when not to use either of them. If my critics choose to write 2,000 word essays on “Why I suck at life” well… I really just feel bad for them. One, that they had that much time on their hands, and two, that they feel the need to tear others down to validate their own existence. I don't promise you that you'll always agree with me, or even find my humor funny.. But that doesn't say someone else won't. If that's the case, then you simply don't have to read it. No hard feelings. I was writing before you got here, and I’ll be writing long after you're gone. But for those of you that come back time and time again, have “ridden the bus,” and gotten to know me through the years, I thank you for your continued friendship and support. I figure, if life has to drag me through all the ups and downs it has, I might as well share it with whoever wants to read it. Because no matter how crappy life may get sometimes, it’s always better when you've got some company along for the ride.

"Be who you are and say what you feel. Because those that mind don't matter. And those that matter don't mind" – Dr. Seuss.

The Year of the No-No

2010-07-13T18:24:00.003-05:00

Tonight is one of the most anticlimactic nights in sports: The Major League All Star Game. Sure, in theory it’s cool, but this year??.. Eh, I’m expecting an old fashioned pitcher’s duel. Sure both teams are loaded with the best bats from every franchise, but it seems this year.. pitchers are just too damn good. In fact, 2010 has been the year of the pitcher. Even before we headed into this All Star break there had already been four no hitters, two of which where perfect games. Well, there was the Galarraga incident, but I’ll try not to rub any more salt in that wound Jim Joyce. Perhaps it’s the crackdown on performance enhancing drugs. Or even just the fact the pitchers are just that good with the emergence of phenoms like Stephen Strasburg … and, who the hell is this Ubaldo Jimenez kid???... Eh, never heard of him. Could it be the fielders behind the hurlers have gotten better??? Or maybe .. Just maybe we should chalk it up to luck and chance.

After all, you can't be a diehard sports fan without having a superstitious thread or two in your body. Me? I simply believe in karma… and jinxes. Maybe that's why my personal trash talk is so limited. I know the power of the sports Gods is both mighty and swift. And having been a loyal Tampa sports fan for many years, I raise my arms to you and ask, “Haven’t we suffered enough? Did you not SEE my Bucs last year?”

My superstitions not only revolve around my favorite sports teams.. But around my personal life as well. Confused?... Let me explain.

There are certain things in life you just don't talk about. In my small albeit random dating world, I view being in a functioning relationship like pitching the ever elusive “perfect game.” The less you talk about the X’s and O’s, and the sheer mechanics of it, the better chance you have at making it work. Anyone that's been around the Game knows that the jinx is real. I hadn't come close to throwing a perfect game since 2007. And it wasn't a pretty one. It was more of the Edwin Jackson versus the Rays variety. But do style points really matter at that point in the game? Some will say I was still using performance enhancers in the form of my 34Ds. And I while I wasn't trying to write José Canseco tell-all about it, I certainly didn't argue with them.

In 2009, I laid off the "juice" I guess you could say and went back to the basics. I dusted off my heater. Shaped up my curve, and prayed to God that my slider didn't look like Scott Kazmir's. It was small yard ball, the kind you see outside your local YMCA or in sandlots across middle America or small town stadiums in generic Carolina cities. The mechanics weren’t perfect, but the talent was there. And at least no one was winning free steaks from hitting one off of the Bull at my expense.

The funny thing is I wasn’t worried about being perfect or throwing no-no’s I was just simply a girl having fun. That is until one guy dropped the dreaded title on me in public.

"This is my girlfriend… blah blah blah blah blah.”

Once someone had applied the Heimlich, I'm pretty sure I visibly shuttered. When did that happen? Better yet, how had this happened? Miss monogamy? Miss relationship? Miss perfect girlfriend? And all of the sudden I shuddered at the idea of being in a committed relationship. WTF was wrong with me? Here were perfectly good men. Who treated me well. Who I had tons in common with. And I couldn't muster up the two syllables they longed to hear. Boy... friend.

I mean, in the most literal context, they were boys, and we were friends. But, I had tons of male friends. So what made these so different.

I just didn't see the need to define things. Did relationships really need labels and boundaries? Maybe I was hiding from something? Maybe I was just keeping myself from getting hurt. I've never been the one to hide my feelings from people. Shit, I post them in my blog for the ten of you that may actually read my drivel, one of those is my own mom. But for the past year or so I had played my emotions close to the vest. I was that bad ass Angelina Jolie-esque girl. The kinda girl that had made boys cry and showed no mercy doing so. Well, at least publicly. When had I become such a cynical asshole?

Just the idea of being 'Pujolsed’ again made me haul ass faster than Willie Mays. My friends often joked when I'd show up in a new pair of sneakers, that I'd simply run the soles out of the other ones. I won't lie, I'm on my 3rd pair in less than a year... So their observations aren't totally inaccurate.

So for well over a year it seemed I did the dance about the mound. Sure, I struck some dudes out, but my pitch count bordered on insanity. Then this past spring, things were starting to come together. I was seemingly on top of my game. I had been consistent. I had been calm, and collected.. Things were awesome on this one particular day. It was the bottom of the seventh, I was playing it cool.. But then my head got the best of me over this one particular batter.

Next thing I knew there was a meeting at the mound. Self Doubt was playing first base, my emotions were at short, and insecurity was on second. Had one of those ridiculous Fu Manchu mustaches going on. He was forever in an image identity crisis it seemed and during the off season would grow out his facial hair only to shave it into some random configuration in time for team pictures. This look defined ridiculous on his young face as he tried to feign a “devil may care” persona.

Ego played third. He's the type of dude that had a portrait of himself commissioned as half horse, half man. And while we all publicly razz him for it, there's an inner voice in us that says, "Vain, and bordering on some weird Liza Minelli territory or not.. That shit is bad ass."

Each had their own two cents to add on the subject. When Self Doubt brought it up.

“Hey Sterg, you do know you’re in the middle of a …”

“SSSSSHHHH! What the French toast are you doing Self Doubt? Keep quiet,” said Ego.

Effing rookies. Don't you know the first rule of a no hitter..

By the time our meeting adjourned my mind was anywhere but on the mound. At that point in time, I might as well have been Doc Ellis mid acid trip.
“What are you doing? Are you sure you're the only one he's seeing? Don't you need to define what this is?”

“No!” I yelled back. “I don't. Why jinx it?”

I'm sure to the outside world I looked the Grant Balfour, glove to my mouth shouting obscenities at my inner voices, reprimanding them..

"Don't you jokers know.. You don't ever talk about a perfect..."

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

Maybe the time had come when I had to talk about it. This game had gone on for months now between us. And no one was willing to acknowledge what it was we were doing. So.. I did what I thought I had to do.. I broached the subject on the ride to the airport one day. The home stretch. The bottom of the ninth. “At least I would know,” I thought. So I served up what little heat I had left in me.. And..

CRACK.

I not only allowed a hit, but I allowed a solo home run shot. As my friend Billy Zane would say.. "It’s a walk off."

How had I committed a grievous rookie error? C’mon Sterger. Clear the f'n mechanism. You're better than this.

Maybe I had been right to just let things develop as they will and not overthink things as I tend to do. My brain often times had been my own worst enemy calling back memories of that time I’d be Albert ‘Pujolsed’ in front of my friends, my family, and on the airwaves that had watched the drama unfold before our very eyes.

Any kind of experience like that will have even a seasoned vet questioning themselves. Maybe I didn't have what it took anymore. Maybe my Smoltz years had come and gone, and not only had the team I had been so loyal to didn't want me, but I hardly had enough gas to be traded for a pile of used bats, and a half empty box of big league chew. I was doomed to wind up teaching pitching methods to dumb ass kids with stupid nicknames and hooking up with a much younger hotter Susan Sarandon as I faded into obscurity.

Why is everyone else around me pitching perfect games? What do they know that I don't? My stuff is just as good as theirs. I'm just as dedicated. Maybe it really was all just a giant mind f*ck I had put on myself. Being around sports as long as I have been, even I know a pitcher can be his own worst enemy. A few wild pitches, lousy officiating, and you could start second guessing yourself.

My next few starts didn’t go so well. Ok, they were downright disgusting. Finally, I just found myself sitting on the mound for what seemed like months, and waiting for the inevitable: for the manager to stroll out to the middle of the field and give me the business in front of a crowd of people. And put me out of my misery. But a funny thing happened.

He never came.

Instead I looked over to the dugout, and found a team had rallied around me. Mostly the usual suspects, but a few new faces that had joined the team in the past few months for no other reason than they liked me for me. The goofy girl who is far too smart for her own good. The girl who knows no strangers that spends countless hours socializing with random people whom she's never met, yet considers friends. The outwardly cynical tom boy, that's 2 parts bad ass to 1 part Julia Roberts.. all while still remaining open to the idea that the right dude could convince her to change her wild ways. Eh.. Or something like that. I made a rookie mistake that so many guys had made in their dealings with me.. but rest assured I had learned from it.

I'm not saying I'm going back to the horn rimmed glasses or carving patterns in my head that would embarrass Kid n Play.. But I’m definitely going back to the roots of the game.. And the pitch I knew best.

Confidence was crouched behind the plate. He calls all the pitches and knows me best. Sometimes we don't always see eye to eye, but he's definitely pulled me through some tough situations. I think that's the veteran in him.

He's always the first to remind me, "Hey remember that time when... Yeah? Well, this ain’t shit compared to that. So settle down Sterger. You've got this! Give 'em the heater Sterg.”

That's right..

To quote a very wise friend of mine.. Sometimes you just have to step back and look at it all.

Then say..

"I'm Jenn effin Sterger.

“I'm effin in. And they're effin out."

That’s the thing about No-No’s. Sometimes they happen when you least expect them to, but more often when you need them the most. Just don’t try to talk about them. After all, that is what arbitration is for later.

Smurf Ninjas, Panera, & Lessons in Sleepwalking

2010-06-22T13:26:00.004-05:00

My body is blissfully unaware of any actual time schedule. It knows the sun and the moon, and it knows them well. Sometimes we pull the day shift, others the night… and sometimes I have been known to sleep walk between the two.

One such instance was this morning. I crawled out of bed sometime around noon after having been up most of the night, and made my way a few doors down to my usual lunch spot, Panera Bread. For anyone at home that is thinking of chastising me for eating at a chain restaurant… a giant middle finger to you. I love chain restaurants, mainly because most have a standard of excellence. However high or low they may set the bar, it’s been set regardless. So you always know what you are going to get. And I don’t mind that. I am after all like every other human a creature of habit. It’s when I veer from that habit that the Rainman-ness of my day gets thrown for a loop. This is one of those stories.

I rolled out of bed, and proceeded to search for my signature “Lil Ninja Jenn” uniform as my makeup artist Amy has come to describe it. In short, it is an all black track suit. There’s nothing about it that draws attention to it, no crazy neon trim or letting across the ass of the pants to tell people just how “Juicy” my ass has gotten since the last time I worked out. It makes me feel surprisingly strong, stealth, and dare I say it.. sexy… to the point I’m beginning to think I actually have a chance to be cast as the next Lara Croft, or some other gratuitous booby ridden action movie that is NOT classified as porn. I should note I own about 10 pairs of these pants and various formfitting tank tops. I should also note that it has been about two weeks since I have had a chance to pick up my laundry, or drop of the next load of dankness which means two things: I had run out of my signature Ninja Jenn outfits. And 2… If I didn’t claim my laundry in the next day or so, there would be some foreigner going through my unmentionables laughing at the pair of Victoria’s Secret underwear I own with the phrase “IMPRESS ME” emblazoned on the front of my hoohah.

Sadly, with no ninja outfits, I reach for my dark blue tracksuit. It’s not nearly as awesome as any of my black ones, and to be honest, I find quite obnoxious due to the fact it has sequins all across the bust. Sure, I could search for something that with some semblance of an outfit, but damn it.. I’m hungry and need to feed myself before I turn into a diva from one of those snicker commercials. So, I pull on my rap stars girlfriend meets high school dance team ensemble.. and walk right out the door.

Panera is only a few doors down, so I really don’t see the necessity to put myself together. Honestly, they are just lucky I brush my teeth before I go down there, that is how entirely lazy I am. From the moment I walk in, I sense that something is oddly different. For one, babies that had been crying suddenly stopped, and actually looked up at me and smiled. I shrug.. eh.. kids love me. And though Panera’s target demographic is typically limited to people who only have enough teeth to eat soup or large quantities of macaroni and cheese (read… babies and old people), there were a surprising number of decent looking younger guys there this particular morning. Clearly Steven’s has to be in summer session. God bless them.

The table of guys I walk past stare at me, but more of a mouth wide open stare. Hot damn, I think to myself.. I’ve still got it even with no makeup on, and in this awful tracksuit. It wasn’t until I walked up to the cashier to place my order I got the sense that something was terribly wrong.

“Um… Jenn.. you have something on your face.”

“What?”

She does like a hand wiping gesture in front of her face, and hands me a reflective mixer cup that was by her register. I pull up the cup into a makeshift mirror to see what the fuss was about.

The image that looked back at me… was Smurfette.. meets Braveheart… meets avatar.

So preoccupied with getting myself fed, and so thrown from my usual OCD game, I had forgotten to take off my facemask before I left the house. Luckily for me, I didn’t leave home without my sense of humor. So I casually mentioned I may or may not be shooting a Smurf live action movie, I was dressed in head to toe blue. I took my Sierra Turkey (no onion) sandwich and what was left of my dignity “To Go”… and went home.

For those of you that read my blogs, hoping for some enlightenment… on this one.. I’ve got nothing.

Actually wait… that’s not true. Even the best of us can get thrown off our game from time to time. Just gotta learn to roll with the punches... the moral of this story is.. don’t brush your teeth in the dark.

Now if you’ll excuse me.. I need to go pick up my laundry.

Good talk, Russ

2010-06-17T13:43:00.003-05:00

Don’t let the long, dark hair and five inch heels fool you, I’m a card carrying member of the “Boys Club.” I don't enjoy overly girly things like spa days or uber sappy movies like "The Notebook." To me, spending an afternoon at Macy’s in Herald Square is like spending a night with Freddy Krueger. My Worst. Farkking. Nightmare. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a nice pair of heels and a dress every now and then, but it’s usually more for someone else’s benefit than my own. If I had my way, I'd spend my days in boots and a pair of blue jeans or even better, my all black “Ninja” gym outfit, but unfortunately I have to keep up this femininity facade so I don't fall into this odd Samantha Ronson category. Because as often as I get hit on by girls, and it happens more than one would expect, well, I'm just not quite ready to venture into that uncharted territory… yet.

A long, long time ago.. in a suburb far, far away.. while my sister was busy with her Barbies, I was fascinated by my Pow Pow Power wheels and my Dad’s crazy ideas on how to make my bright red Jeep four wheeler go faster than Tyco had ever intended it to. (Of course, it did catch fire one time, but we won't go into that. Lesson learned.) I remember my Dad driving me to school in the ghetto, because they bussed all of us suburb kids there in attempts to either harden us as human beings, or scare us into getting a proper education. He would be cranking Jethro Tull, or The Beatles, or his all time favorite, Billy Joel as we made our way through the maze of pawn stores, liquor stores, and gun shops before we pulled in the parent drop off line. So I sacrificed the 30 minute ride, countless retellings of his “roadie days” stories, and any street cred I could’ve had by exiting the car in front of the cool kids jamming to Dad’s old school tunes. But in the heat of those late August days, that thirty minutes of air conditioning far surpassed spending my afternoons crammed into the faux leather seats in a pool of the kid next to me’s ass sweat.

The truth is.. while some kids are embarrassed by their parents at this particular age… I was actually quite proud of mine. Sure, they had their quirkiness about them, but I think it was more just a generational thing than anything else. After all, it’s why my friends dubbed them Clark and Helen Griswolds. They were the kinda parents any kid would be lucky to have, and I just happened to be one of those kids. While some would argue I was a Daddy’s girl, I would tend to disagree. I think I was an “equal parts” kinda kid. I had my mom’s no nonsense stubborn, independent streak with my dad’s streets savvy and go-with-the-flow attitude. In short, I was the like the “son my father always wanted” trapped in the body of a girl that would later force him to purchase & “load up” many a metal baseball bats with a weight.. making them great for hitting serious line drives or dismantling some kids jaw should he break his daughter’s heart.

My dad will never admit this, but I’m sure some part of him is a little sad God gave him two girls. He has no one to blame but himself though. After all, it wasn’t my mother’s fault.. she was only capable of donating 50% of the kid. The rest was left to chance & God. Karma being the bitch that she is, decided my father needed to suffer for something he did in a previous life, and gave him 2 X’s, which in bowling would’ve been quite awesome. But in the Russian roulette of his little swimmers… well, they have a site to list those kinds of stories.. Fmylife.com. Gone are the chances he had to toss a ball around in the backyard. Forget going to Varsity football games, unless you count being a band or dance team chaperone. And God save us all if mom leaves it up to him to have the birds and the bees speech with us.

“They.. uh.. teach you kids that in school now right?”

“Yup Dad.”

“Whew… Good talk Russ.”

Yup, instead it was Spice Girls, Drum major uniforms, & a crap load of boring piano recitals. That didn't stop him from instilling tom boy like qualities in me. I love fast cars, sports, and anything that causes an adrenaline rush. Unfortunately, I’m just not coordinated enough to play anything remotely cool. And despite the beast of a car I own, I am still a female driver with an extensive accident record and the speeding tickets to prove it. Sigh.

But one thing my dad has always been good for… is advice. After all, if you want to know how the other half thinks, it works best when you can just ask one of their own. Mom’s have a tendency to sugar coat things. They would never want to be the one to make you cry. But Dads? No way. Dad’s are straight-shooting, no bullshitting kinda people. They’ll hand you the answer even if it’s something you would have preferred not to hear.

“Why do guys do this? Why’d he say that? What should I do?..” And the most heartbreaking question I'll ever have to ask him .. “Will he come back?”

Time after time, he’d give it to me straight. Maybe that's because men tend to view their interactions with others as more business-like transactions, while women can't help but get emotional sometimes. We’re just hardwired that way. My father was the captain of the stone faced stare. I think he may have cried four times in his entire life.

One day I got to thinking though.. What if I had really been a boy? If I'd have been a boy, people would have taken my drive to succeed more seriously. Guys wouldn't be shocked when I step out of my Shelby or when I spout off movie quotes. My voice wouldn't blend into the background of conversations, and my opinions wouldn't always be dismissed for those of my male counterparts. My jokes, my sense of humor, and general mischievous perversion wouldn't be so frowned upon, or viewed as social awkwardness. And if I stood up for myself I certainly wouldn't be called a bitch. I'd just be assertive.

More so.. I've always said, if I were a boy, I'd make an awesome boyfriend. It’s not that I'd be some sappy chump that gets turned out by man eating bitches, because I certainly have more backbone than that. But I'd definitely know how to treat a woman while still maintaining my sense of self. Basically, I’d be the same person I am today, only with an Ellen DeGeneres haircut.

Sometimes I think my membership to the fraternity does my brain more harm than good. Because for every promise I’ve had a man keep, I've heard him spout some other bit of absolute bullshit he fell through on. I know their games better than they do. And that being so, I could probably run them if I wanted to. Better than they do. And I'd never get caught. But that wouldn't make it right. Besides, I’m a woman.. I have no penis to “think with” and more importantly… we have consciences. Damn all this estrogen.

The fact my brain operates like a man’s is downright scary sometimes. It creates a ton of inner turmoil. Why? Because the logical or “male” part of my brain tells me one thing, while my inner chick gives me a while different set of instructions. The result? Awkwardness that usually manifests itself in my life as some self sabotaging behavior. I find myself trying to balance two totally different sides of my personality, playing up the one society says will help me be accepted, while banishing the one that shows I do indeed have weaknesses otherwise known as “feelings.”

I’ve had a lot of these arguments with myself lately, both congratulating myself for my professional accomplishments, while calling offensive pass interference on my dating life. 10 yards.. 4th down. How could I keep doing this to myself?.. Was I really saving myself from getting involved with bad people, or was I keeping myself from evolving as an adult. Even if I like a guy, I would be the first to pull the plug if I sense there is any bullshit being pulled behind the scenes. Or I’d make excuses as to why I couldn’t go on dates… “my career dictates my social life.” It got to the point where I valued my quality time with the treadmill over the company of other human beings. That was the most recent predicament I found myself in, weighing my options in my current situation as “complicated” as it already was.

Trying to keep it casual while actually having feelings for someone, coupled by only seeing each other once a month or so, really wasn't cutting it for either of us. So I simply just waited for the other shoe to drop. When it did, I didn't cry or get upset. I actually.. felt relieved. It wasn't that I didn’t care for him, because our times together were like spending days on end in this super "high." It was more so... well, he's just not the boyfriend type, and I'm not the girlfriend type. And neither of us has time for anything messy or remotely complicated. I know what you're thinking... "Jenn.. you're so full of shit." And until the other night.. I would have argued with you. But now.. I'm not so sure.

One night, as I was leaving the gym, I happened to walk through the lobby and discover a brand new piano sitting in the rec room. Sure, it wasn’t my grandmother’s old upright Steinway… but it would do. It’s been so long, I wondered if I even remembered how to play. As I sat down at the piano, years of lessons and performances came rushing back to me. But it wasn't Fur Elise, or Beethoven’s Fifth that came from beneath my fingers. It was something much more familiar.

By the time I reached the chorus, I was already singing along, oblivious to the people that had gathered in the doorway behind me.

"And the waitress is practicing politics

As the businessmen slowly get stoned

Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness

But it's better than drinkin' alone"

Somewhere in the chorus that followed, my voice cracked, and I realized there was a tear rolling down my cheek. I blinked through it as if it had been a technical glitch in my system, but then another tear followed suit.

As my hands rolled through the final chords, I heard the door close behind me. The crowd that had gathered in the door way had dispersed, and all that remained was the quiet little door man. He had to be in his late 60s, and his English was broken.

"You're very, very good," he said, "but why so sad?"

That's a great question, because I honestly had no idea. I think sometimes I go to such great lengths to put up walls, I block everything out. Maybe it’s alright to feel something. To feel homesick, to feel lonely, to feel hurt, to just.. Feel. I’m so used to people disappointing me that I’ve almost become numb to it… like.. emotionally botoxed.

"Please don't tell anyone I was in here.." I asked.

"Don't mention it. It’s no problem"

My time in the city has done a number on me. It’s made me a much more cynical, hardened version of myself, so much so… I really feel like I’ve morphed into my father. He always did his best to protect that my inner little girl for as long as he could, telling me to “grow a thicker skin” or to “toughen up.” And in some instances, I think it worked. I’m sure now he realizes I'm old enough, and have made enough mistakes in love and life to usually handle myself. But every once in a while, my father’s tough exterior will break down, and he’ll show a little compassion to the sensitive side in me, and not the hard ass he's tried so desperately to raise to protect her from boys like his old self.

"If a guy isn't smart enough to realize what he's got in front of him,” he’ll say, “he's not worth hanging on to. Regardless of any of the crap people tell you.. even the best relationships require work. And you are the hardest working woman I know next to your mother. You just have to focus on your career right now, and the rest will happen when their supposed to. Because the guy that's smart enough to see what he's got, will be the one that will never let you go."

The bad ass boy in me thinks he's spouting a crock of crap.

The inner girl in me.. Secretly hopes he's right. But I’ll never let him know.

“Thanks Daddy.”

“Good talk, Russ.”

There's no hugging in baseball

2010-06-07T17:34:00.002-05:00

At twenty-six, I’ve had a good share of men in my life. Some good, some bad, and some.. well.. let’s just say I don’t exactly send them Christmas cards. There have been some extraordinary ones though, that even with their short stays, left lasting impacts on my life and the way I am the way I am today. But no man has left quite the lasting mark... as a boy named Thomas.

During my first two years of college, I spent my off days from school as a nanny to a six year old kid. Some argued that Thomas had a form of a learning disability, but no one really defined what it was. In my non-expert opinion it was probably just a little ADD and an excessive amount of energy from ingesting way too much sugar. Honestly though, Thomas was bright kid with an extreme passion for sports, which I was one of the first to help him to indulge. He could tell me all the names of the Rays starting line-up, and even recite their batting averages. He regularly schooled my ass in Madden, but what kid these days couldn’t? (If you’re saying you’ve never had your ass kicked by a kid with a headset & a hand controller at a video game, well, you sir are a damn liar. Today’s kids come out with ever y cheat code to Modern Warfare Gazillion ingrained in them, like its genetic coding.) Of course, it wasn’t long until Thomas got the itch to play organized sports of his own, which prompted his mother to sign him up for every sport imaginable except for maybe Cheerleading. After all, when a kid had as much energy as Thomas, you certainly didn’t want it to go to waste driving you insane and destroying your house now, do you?

So every day after school, I'd take him Thomas to his little league practice or his games. I was always there to cheer him from the bench, even if it meant getting ogled by the Dad’s and death glares from the Mom’s. But like any new skill set or activity, Thomas still had to learn the rules of the game. And that’s where I came in. I was there to remind him not to hug the kid who tagged him out at second.

“THERE’S NO HUGGING IN BASEBALL THOMAS!!!!”

When soccer rolled around, I was the one on the sideline screaming for him to not sit down in the middle of the field til the ball came back his way, or that he was in fact, about to score a goal on his own team. Or to tell him to stop running in slow motion like they do in replay mode on the NCAA football Playstation game. It was a challenge at first, teaching a kid logistics that some grown ass umpires still don’t even understand. ::cough.. Jim Joyce..cough:: But, once he learned them, Thomas was the greatest stickler for rules.

By the time he was eight, Thomas knew what the rules for every game were. But even more so, he knew the consequences if he broke those rules. He never once tried to cheat at Candyland, or Chutes and Ladders, or anything else for that matter. And that's more than I can say for some of his playmates who were not only older than him, but also some of the biggest shysters the game of Monopoly has ever seen. But don’t think this babysitter let those little bastages get away with it though. If there’s one thing I won’t stand for, its kids that think they can get away with cheating and cutting the rules. Sure, I could teach Thomas to cheat and beat the little snots at their own game. Even I knew how to rig the deck of Chance cards in his favor. But what good would that do?.. I would just be setting the example that it was OK to stoop to their snot-faced little level. So instead, I sent them home to be their parents’ problem. It was “Do not pass Go, Do Not Collect $200.” I’d be damned if I wanted to watch a room full of Dennis Mitchells. Especially if I wasn’t getting paid for it.

At twenty six, I’m still not sure I want kids. I mean, they seem cool and all. And I love all my friends’ kids. But that is because I view them like I do my Netflix subscription. I can keep the ones I like as long as I want, and the ones that suck, well, you just stick them back in the mail and send them back from the movie hell they came from. But when I’m around kids, I certainly try to set a good example and be a good role model. I can have fun, and be the “Cool Aunt” while still showing them I’m a bigger boss than Tony Danza. And the kids generally respect me for it. My friend’s daughter even wrote a paper about me. Did I mention that her teacher “Googling” me also resulted in a parent teacher conference? Oops.

I try to instill in the younger generation what my parents did in me. My parents have always taught me the importance of playing fair even as far back as my Green Acres Preschool days. I remember the boys in the sand box that would constantly throw sand in my eyes and tease me about my curly hair. Or the boys that would cheat at Duck Duck Goose because they knew I was faster than them. That didn't stop them of course from tussling my hair as they went past just to show they liked me. Hell, I admit that I may have tapped one boy’s head harder than the rest.

Though I may have grown since then, I certainly haven’t grown up. And why should I? The games really have never changed. There are still those boys I refer to as the sandbox lovers. The boy that throws "sand," quirky little barbs, and acts way cooler than you just to keep your attention focused solely on them. And the funny thing is.. Nine times out of ten, their methods are absolutely effective. Isn't it ironic how certain guys have the ability to turn even the most confident of girls into bumbling idiots? It’s because even in their adulthood, they still remember how to get under even the toughest of girl’s skin.

From the minute the dating puck is dropped with the exchanging of the numbers… it’s game time, bitches. Do you text her right away? Do you wait the standard three days? I guess there are still some no bullshit kinda people out there that will tell you up front that their motives are to either: 1) Start a relationship with you or 2) Have sex with you. Very rarely does a guy who only wants #2 ever discuss #1, but I almost applaud him for his brutal, albeit crude honesty. And as for the guy who states #1 up front, while planning our future together and naming our unborn children.. well, I usually pretend my phone number was mysteriously changed should we ever encounter one another again.

Most of the time, dating is just two people testing each other’s limits, pushing other people’s buttons.. seeing what they can get away with.. and how the other person will react. Reaction shows that you care… to care is to show weakness. And weakness lets the other player know they’re winning.

I remember back when playing games used to be fun. Sure someone would win, and someone would lose.. but at the end of the day it was just a game. It’s not like anyone went home crying about it. Oh, wait.. I forgot about the Little League World Series, my bad.

Back when we were little, and society hadn’t turned us all into completely jaded assholes, we still had a sense that life was fair. That if we played by the rules, all would be well. We also used the phrase.. "First is the worst, second is the best." Who came @#$! up with that crap? Because nowadays, if you ain’t first, you’re last! That’s just how real life is. But if I have learned one thing about myself, it’s that I refuse to treat someone like a priority that only sees me as an option.

What fun is a game when you're constantly watching your back and second guessing someone’s motives? Why do we have to pretend we don't like someone to get them to like us? Aren't we all just playing the same bullshit games we did in preschool, bopping kids on the head, throwing sand in their eyes? And we still expect them to LIKE us? More so, how are we expected to keep up this whole charade while we’re trying to drive our careers and maintain our own personal lives? Who really has time for all the nonsense??... More so, does anyone ever really win?

I want a guy that gets excited over the fact I want to see him, not act like it’s some chore or great favor to ask of him. I want a guy that has the perfect balance of friend time, family time, and significant other time and doesn't define himself by any of those things. I don’t want a person that NEEDS me. I want someone that WANTS me. And if you really want someone.. why chance it by playing games? Risk is only fun when it involves little plastic pieces and a game of chance, not in real life scenarios. Why do you have to wait three days to call someone? Or act too busy for them when they text you? If I like a guy, but he continues to “beat around the bush” in the gumdrop forest (and no that is not a euphemism for sex), then I got news for him. Successful individuals with their own lives going on won't stand for it, and we will simply cut our losses rather than go down with our battleship you just took out. The thing is, I’m just as guilty as most men are. I self-sabotage, I run people off, make excuses, or I simply cut bait with no explanation. I play the same stupid games men do, to keep from committing, to keep others from hurting me. And it’s cost me plenty of opportunity not to mention probably made me miss out on the real genuine men out there. I’ll be damned if I'm not the type to learn from my mistakes.

It’s hard enough finding someone you mesh well with and that “gets you” in this crazy world these days. It seems people will just try to “wife” someone up for the sake of not being alone, instead of really getting to just know the person with no bullshit façades. So when you find somebody that makes your life a little happier by just being in it, why waste each other’s time playing “it cool”… instead of just enjoying each other’s company? After all if you spend your entire life playing games and bending the rules, eventually the rest of the kids at the playground will get fed up with your shit, take their ball and go home.

During one of my trips home, I took Thomas to a Rays game. Nothing beat watching his face light up, as I walked him through the tunnel and out to the cushy seats right behind home plate, where he sat just mere feet from some of his favorite players. I got him some cracker jacks and peanuts, and all the things that make up the ball park experience. One of the Ray’s staff even brought him down a team signed ball. The kid was in heaven. Maybe that's why I loved Thomas so much. Kids in general, well… most of them anyway, are some of the most genuine, honest little people you will ever meet. There are no hidden agendas, there’s no rule breaking, and there’s not a single game played that does involve a ball. Thomas may not have won at every game he played, but he certainly played fair and by the rules. Maybe if adults took a page from their rule book, there would be a lot less miscommunication between the two sexes. And those are the kinda rules I could definitely live by.

BJ Upton hit a walk off home run that night, which set the Trop on fire. Thomas jumped up and down on his chair and cheered. If only all victories in life were that sweet. As I walked him up through the tunnels past the clubhouse to the exit, he spotted Carlos Pena down the way. Like a dog after the postman, he slipped out of my grasp and ran to meet the first baseman, who he hugged as if he had known him all his young life. Oddly enough, Carlos just laughed. And so did I.

:::Slaps forehead::::

Eh kids.. well, at least it wasn’t the kid that tagged him out at second this time.

Beware of the Mom T Rex

2010-05-07T13:05:00.001-05:00

Meeting the parents is reason enough to be nervous. Meeting them under less than ideal circumstances, at a moment’s notice? Well, pass the Valium please. While men would argue that father’s are the most intimidating, I beg to disagree. With all due respect, mothers are always far more intimidating in my case. I can remember the last time the mother of a guy I was seeing. It was not pretty. Funny though, it wasn’t always this way. Maybe that's because before… I was a parents dream.

Well, that was before the boobs. And the whole Playboy thing.

Back in the good old days, I was the girl next door. The kind that didn't set off any red flags. The kinda girl you would let spend the night in the same bed with your boy, and not even bat an eye. I mean, why would you? I'm an angel.

But not after my surgery. With those scientifically engineered breasts and this magnificent bra by Victoria, I may as well have been a terminator. Sent back in time, to f*ck her son’s brains out, and then destroy his life and take the rest of the future with it. Once I had my claws in him, it was hasta la vista grandbabies, unless it involved child support, alimony, and Britney Spears’ divorce attorneys. Yeah, kinda leaves a bad taste in a mother’s mouth after she kisses her sons cheek. After all, I have tainted her offspring.

Oddly enough though, even with the drastically reduced chesticles I’m still a suspect, a mother’s worst nightmare. Or what she perceives to be anyways. I vividly remember the last mother I met. Granted it was some time ago. But damn. That woman stared me down until it burned deep in my soul, like really bad Mexican food. How could someone hate someone so much that they had just met? Or judge me based on simply my looks? It’s not as if I was even dressed as a whore, it was the middle of winter for Christ’s sake! Still, the glare continued. I had been doomed from the get go, set up for failure. By whom, I didn't know, but surely this woman had it out for me.

I so badly wanted to call her on her unfounded beliefs, but I sensed she could smell my fear. So I simply smiled, and went about my business, and involved her in conversation when necessary. And it wasn't that I was even scared of her, I was scared what bearing her opinion would have on my future with her son. After all, blood is thicker than water. And in this case, the woman’s blood had icicles forming in it.

I couldn't blame the woman. She had seen the pretty girls before. The truth was.. “I'm not bad; I'm just drawn that way.” But she discounted me before I had even uttered a word. It would be my pleasure to prove them wrong. But why should I have to? A person’s actions should be allowed to speak for themselves, and I treat people the way I want to be treated. So, she would just have to trust me, or get over it. At the end of the day, it was her son’s heart I was after, and not hers.

Then again, plenty of guys I have dated say that about my mom. Never mind the fact my mother is a good looking woman; she is also a real ball buster. She’s the type of mom that stands at the door and asks potential suitors to submit to a breath/blood/urine testing on the spot. Not really, but its damn close. People have sworn she has a look to her. A look that just screams, "Stay away from my daughters you prick. I know what you're after."

Yet, somehow, my parents were always the cool ones. My mom is so cool she even follows me on Twitter, under her name “MomTrex1.” And if you have ever watched Jurassic Park 2, you know EXACTLY which scene she took THAT from. Still, they were the type of people that would welcome friends and their daughter’s love interests with open arms, at least until they proved they couldn't be trusted. Then, they often felt as betrayed as my sister and I did, and sometimes just as heartbroken. I think we forget at times that when we enter relationships with another person we not only touch their lives, but the lives of everyone involved. So it’s not uncommon for people in their inner circle to voice opinions and concerns. But does that mean we have to subject ourselves and our relationship choices to outsider’s scrutiny. I think, somewhere between the lines of self respect, and disrespect has to lie a happy medium. Otherwise, how can a woman ever come to call another woman “mom” that she has no relation to?

“A mother holds her daughters hand for a while.. but she holds her heart for forever,” she once told me. “Or at least until she finds someone with hands big enough, yet gentle enough to not break it.”

When it comes to relationships and life, I could not have had a better example than my mother. My mother is the type of mom any woman should aspire to be. The kinda mom that will bake treats for your class, but in the same breath will be in the driveway with a baseball bat if some jerkoff dude breaks her daughters’ hearts. She walks a fine balance between a best friend, and a parental figure. But most importantly, she reminds me that even on the darkest and loneliest of days I’m never alone. And really, isn’t that what we all need in life?

Happy Mother’s Day… to yours, and mine. While one day isn’t enough to repay them for all they do, it’s certainly a good place to start. Love you, Mommy.

Memories of March Madness

2010-05-04T14:59:00.001-05:00

The past few years of my life have been so ingrained in the sports world that the word Cinderella has come to mean less about princesses in puffy dresses, and more about a great underdog story. And in the midst of this year’s March Madness, and more talks about NCAA tournament expansion I had become less and less interested in filling out brackets, and more about just wanting to root for the “lil guy.” Not to say they had to be mid-majors or dark horses but more so ..my main thought was… well, “DUCK FUKE.”

It’s been a while since any part of my life had resembled a Cinderella story. Especially, the Walt Disney fairytale variety. No, instead, it’s been a lot more like those shitty German ones, with the not so ‘happily ever afters.’ And people wonder why their kids need therapy? But for those of you keeping up with the news, “I may have finally arrived” as they say in Hollywood. Errr, at least in the sports world…sorta. I'm still waiting on that call back from John Favreau on Iron Man 3, but no promises.

After plenty of brushes with television opportunities and guest spots on various sports programs, I finally had the chance to make something of myself on my new show on Versus... “The Daily Line.” The opposite sex, and my dealings with them had really taken a backseat to the things I was working on. Make that a back seat with no seatbelts and the speakers blown out… and zero action in it. I just didn't have time for all the background noise and drama that dealing with boys brings into my life. So I put myself on a mandatory hiatus. I gave up men for lent, I guess you could say.

It wasn't like I didn't go on dates. After all, I meet interesting people all the time. And no one said I had to marry the guys. (Whew!) But if anything, casual dating was good practice. I did the shoot-arounds, and shuttle drills, and all that stretching that looks more suited for gymnastic porn than really loosening any muscles. But, at the end of the day, I was still talking about practice! Thanks Allen Iverson.

There were a couple of faces that were recurring in my line-up, but they were more like the D-league and less like a five man. And I just liked it better that way. After all, there's no way I was these guys "one and only" let alone their frontrunner, given their “ass options” on the daily. And as I've always said, never make someone a priority that only sees you as an option. So I just kept trucking along, like I always do.

When my show's business brought me out to LA however, something quite unexpected happened. The event was nothing short of a "meet cute," as they call it in industry terms. But, in my head it was more: “we met, and damn, he was actually cute.”

But he wasn't cute in a big muscular jock, frat boy, Jersey shore way that I had become so familiar with in NYC. Nope, it was something much different. It was that disarming charm, quick wit, and a ridiculous sense of humor that caught me off guard. Oh yeah, and his big blue-green eyes didn’t hurt one bit either. All it took was one look and a genuine smile, and I went from man eating bitch to Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman-- minus the whole hooker part. He was confident, but not cocky. And his flirting was ever so subtle. In fact I wasn't even sure he was so much as interested. Maybe that's because he flirted a lot like I do. He was a classic "sand thrower" as I've come to refer to them, as their ancient technique dates back to my preschool days. But like any piece of jewelry you'd find at Tiffany’s, or a good pair of Chuck Taylors.. It never seemed to go out of style.

I can't tell you the last time I asked a guy out. I'd always come from the camp that the dude should always make the first move. But this seemed like a win-win situation. It’s not like I was having huge dating success in NYC, and if it bombed, well, at least there wouldn’t be any awkward run-ins. So I casually told him to look me up if he was ever in NYC, and gave him my number. Yeah, I'm that smooth.

Of course he texted me. I mean, who wouldn’t? We decided to meet up the following night, since I already had plans to meet friends for dinner. Nothing crazy, just some kind of dive bar, as I am really not into that whole club scene.

He played it cool, and kept it casual, and delivered as promised with the locale. It was the perfect dive bar. I’m pretty sure when you Wikipedia the term, this place’s address comes up. It’s the kinda establishment that has peanut shells all over the floor and is unapologetic about it. And somehow, this good old southern girl felt right at home there. With Lynyrd Skynyrd cranking through some rickety jukebox speakers, the two of us just sat there and enjoyed one another’s company. Turns out, he wasn’t just smart, he was actually quite brilliant. And his jokes made me laugh harder than I had in a long time.

Two and a half hours, and with me one and a half light beers deep, we left the dive bar to take a walk down the Santa Monica pier. God, I missed having decent weather. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to actually have a beach to walk down. Besides, the Hudson view only looks great in movies because the scenes aren’t scratch and sniff. The two of us made our way to the end of the pier, and past all the carnival rides that had shut down for the evening, and found a decent bench to people watch from. And eventually, he moved in for the kiss.

It’s not that the kiss wasn't perfect because it most certainly was. In fact it was that "one shining moment" every sports Cinderella story dreams of. The problem was… well, what comes next?.. It had been so long since I had been out on a date with a dude that didn’t seem overly preoccupied with getting in my pants, and that had his shit together, that I didn’t know how to respond. The cool chick in me said to play it cool. The high school band dork that still saw herself in braces and unruly curly hair.. well, she was awkward to say the least. And that’s the part of me forgets that basketball and dating go both ways, unless you play for the nets. The problem lies in the fact I feel like I can never stop playing defense. Especially in the D League when your chance at the five man is on the line. But what’s a girl supposed to do, when you're with a guy, and something amazingly good happens???

Well if you’re gun-shy like me, you diffuse the situation with a bit of humor. You pull back, from an amazing first kiss, smile, and say the first thing that comes to your mind without hesitation or need for filter. In my case, I made a reference to the fact we had an audience of bums that were holding a “fundraising meeting” on the bench next to ours, and then immediately reference some completely asexual movie line.

“Good talk, Russ,” I said.

“You just had to open your mouth didn’t you? You couldn’t resist?.. Had to wreck the moment,” he laughed.

What was he talking about? I’ve had plenty moments in my twenty six years of life. I just like to wave at them as they pass me by, or be the guy driving the truck that runs them over. I'm sure I've felt the foot pop at the end of a romantic comedy kiss or the Roy Hobbes shot at the end of “The Natural.” (The movie, not the book, btw. Yeah, won't even lie, made THAT mistake on an English lit paper once. Luckily I happened to check out Cliff’s Notes before I turned it in. My bad.) SO WHAT??? Besides, since when did guys have moments? Shit, since when did guys have feelings? Well, ones that didn't involve the words, “ooo yeah right there.. Uh huh.”

“You know,” he said, “once you let your bad ass frat boy guard down, you’re actually a big sweetheart. And that’s the side of you I really like.”

I’m sure I opened my big mouth to make some smart ass comment, but I don’t even remember what I was going to say since he cut me off by kissing me. Well, that was one way to get me to shut up. And his technique actually worked.

The rest of the night went rather well, so much so, it didn’t occur to me how late it was. I saw him a few more times before I left L.A. and we’ve talked a bit since, but the long distance crap really does suck when you’re trying to get to know someone. But for now, we’re just making due with texting and whatever forms of technologically advanced communication we can find.

His schedule sucks, and mine does too.. but it’s because we’re both chasing careers that make us happy. So I’m ok with that. I guess I just never once thought I would meet someone, and have to tell him a chance at happily ever after would have to wait. Certain circumstances create larger than life chasms that make reaching the people, places, and things we like even harder than they should be. But then again, if chasing dreams, and careers, and relationships were that easy, wouldn't we all be doing it?
Because let's face it.. Every sports enthusiast loves a good Cinderella story and more so, a happy ending. And maybe one of these days they'll make a glass slipper in a size 6 and a half. Until then, well.. I’ll just have to settle for my silver Ree-Zigs.

A whole lotta bologna

2010-04-27T11:17:00.001-05:00

Some would argue I am a bit of a picky eater. For one, I hate fish... Which being a Florida native, just downright perplexes people. I've always maintained the stance that if it comes from the sea, it ain’t for me. I don't really enjoy tapioca pudding either, not quite sure why, but I think it’s a texture thing. I used to try to convince my grandfather I loved broccoli, and would slip it under the table to the Doberman that served as my four legged trash compactor. Of course, now that I’m old enough to know it’s actually good for you I really do enjoy it…That and my parents called malarkey on my food’s disappearing act a long time ago. But there was one food in particular I just couldn’t stand. And this food had a first name: O-S-C-A-R.

I HATE bologna. Bologna is such a bullshit lunch meat. I’ve never been a fan of it. Ever. I did love me some Vienna sausages, but trust me.. They won't lend themselves well to my story, at least the crowd with a maturity level above that of a twelve year old. After all, they do kinda resemble a jar of pickled baby penises. And what twenty six year old wants anything to do with that? So we will just stick to the “over processed shreds of whatever the hell animal parts are left after they carve out the good stuff”-- for all intents and purposes.

For as long as I can remember however, I have always been a steak girl. Ever since my parents introduced me to the magnificence that is filet mignon well, it’s been love at first bite. And now it’s no different. Don't get me wrong, protein is protein, and I enjoy my chicken, and certainly my pork-- just as much as the next non Jewish/Muslim person anyway. But, nothing really compares to the satisfaction I get from having a good steak.

Unfortunately for me with my busy schedule, and what seems to be a calendar full of photo shoots, I can't really afford to eat my favorite meal seven nights a week, nor do I think my metabolism could handle the crazy process it takes to dismantle it in my stomach. But believe me when I say, if my digestive tract could handle it, I most certainly would.

Before I continue, I guess I should come clean about a few things. I have kinda, sorta been seeing someone. Given my dating history the past few years, and my track record for picking more consistent winners than my show’s numbers guy (note the use of sarcasm), I'm not the type of girl to just jump head first into things. Especially things I seemingly know little about. So I've played it cool with this one. Haven't given away the farm, nor did I place all my eggs in one figurative basket. But I do like the guy. And as far as I can tell, he seems to like me.

That is, unless you live on the internet like I do. The interweb is a crazy place, especially when it seems all of your life and your transgressions can be documented, sometimes even in one hundred and forty characters or less. I know Facebook has been cockblocking me since 2004, and now with programs like Twitter and Foursquare, well, why don’t I just stick a GPS up my ass and get it over with. I don’t really like the fact I can find out what someone is doing on Twitter, which is why I have never followed anyone I had dated, or been interested in dating. I dunno, I just felt like it was an invasion on their privacy and I’m not the snooping variety. But with this guy, he’s been in my feed since well, before the beginning.. so, I wouldn’t want him to feel shafted by me not following him anymore. I actually think he likes it. Besides, aren’t you supposed to show interest in the other person’s happenings? Meh.

Regardless, he’s a single, attractive man.. and I am not exactly bologna. At least that is what my mom tells me. I figured he was well aware I was a prime cut of meat. I mean, I’m 26, gainfully employed; I take good care of myself.. and have a marginally good personality. And if you happen to be the least bit funny, I hear I’m also an easy laugh. (That has instilled much confidence in my costar Reese Waters joke telling abilities.) I dunno how it is for you guys, but that package right there is a tough one to find.

Still, I have found myself time and time again dating guys that are willing to go slumming for some bologna when things weren’t perfect. Were men just that easy to please, or were they just settling for what was readily available? Unfortunately with my busy schedule, I might as well be a steak. I take forever to prepare and season, and half the time you’re fighting with my work schedule just to get a freakin’ reservation to the joint. But I assure you any time they do get to spend with me.. is well worth the wait.

While doing my daily show research in the green room, I happened to stumble across “The Dude’s” Twitter feed. (I’ll call him this for now, because it’s late, and I am entirely too tired to come up with anything remotely symbolically creative. But if he makes it to another blog, I promise I will make it something fairly entertaining.)
So.. back to the tweet.

WHAT?.. It’s a legitimate excuse, and that’s exactly how it happened. This particular tweet that came through my feed was to another female. I’m not the jealous type at all, and I more than anyone understand the plus side of looking single as a means of furthering your career. But that doesn’t mean I don’t take others feelings into consideration before I just start posting things on the web. Because regardless of what men tell you, they do snoop, and they do get jealous.. they would just rather you believe they didn’t.

Being a woman hidden under this frat boy exterior, my curiosity got the better of me. I clicked on her link. And then another link. Turns out.. they hang out. Who knows how regularly, but there were some fairly chummy pictures out there to be found by anyone with half a cyber brain. And he was certainly still entitled to be seeing other people, it’s not like “the talk” had taken place yet. But still… This chick was pure bologna. It wasn’t even that she wasn’t attractive, or that she didn’t have a good personality. I mean, can you really know anything about a person in one hundred and forty characters and an outdated MySpace page anyway?.. But.. really??? What the heck would someone want THAT for.. let alone when he’s got something like me??? My girl brain started to do unhealthy gymnastics… and of course jumped to worse case scenarios. I was hurt to say the least.

I closed out the X’s before my co-stars saw what I was up to. It was lunch time on the playground that is the Daily Line’s studio, and I usually find myself picking on something green, while the boys feast on Wendy’s or whatever leftovers they have scrounged up from home. On this particular day however, I was feeling particularly girly, and in a vulnerable state. Not something I would normally reveal to my male cohorts, but… then something happened that set me off.

Reese pulled out a bologna sandwich. (I can’t even make this shit up)

“You cannot be f*cking serious? Who over the age of nine actually eats bologna? Haven’t you graduated to something a little more.. I dunno.. refined.. age appropriate… something???” I chirped.

“What’s wrong with bologna?” Reese asked.

“EVERYTHING!” I said. “It’s the most bullshit of lunch meat. I would take you more seriously as a food connoisseur if you whipped out a f*cking Lunchable than you pulling a bologna sandwich.”

“Well, damn, then I won’t give you the one I brought for you then,” he said, pulling out a second sandwich.

I could’ve screamed.

“You don’t get it. My entire dating career, I have ended up with dudes that were just fine settling for bologna. Why?.. I get it. Relationships are tough, especially with people like us that do what we do.. but that’s no reason to get rejected for a piece of lunch meat I couldn’t even convince my cat to eat.”

By now, a full out debate had broken out in the green room on the value of bologna and its relevance to my dating life. Several crew members had gathered by this point, as had Rob, and watched on as the two of us did battle. I stood posed in the door way as I defended my stance on men’s inability to recognize a good thing when they see it. And Reese being Reese, flailed his arms around wildly while still managing to hold onto his sandwich. That is, until it flew out of his grip and landed on the floor between us.

It took everything in my power not to laugh. Reese’s shitty lunch, somehow managed to out-shitty itself. But what happens next answered the age long question of why people will settle for next to crappiness and less than mediocre mates.

Reese picked up the sandwich. Removed the slice of bread that had touched the floor, and proceeded to eat the remainder of the sandwich, open faced. The room, myself included, looked on in disgust.

“What?” he garbled with a mouth full of food.

“UGH, men.” And with that, I turned and left the room.

Maybe people settle for things not because they want to, but because sometimes having something better is just too much work. Sure, Reese could have thrown out his sandwich, but .. why waste the other perfectly good piece of bread and mayo-slathered lunch meat. He’s young and can still get away with slumming it every lunch and again. Or maybe he just simply doesn’t realize what he’s missing out on.

The point is.. who knows who this mystery lady was?.. Or what her connection was with “The Dude”? I may never know. While part of me may have been a little jealous, the other part of me laughed. Who was I to judge someone else’s taste in mates anyway?.. Some people will never realize what they are missing until it’s just beyond their grasp. Others will wise up, simply because they figure out they enjoy the finer things in life, and that prime cuts are harder and harder to come by these days. I know I certainly have over the years. One thing’s for sure, I may have settled for a hamburger or two in my twenty six years, but I will never touch a piece of bologna for as long as I live. After all, once you’ve had filet… there’s really no going back.

The Daily Line

2010-04-06T10:59:00.001-05:00

I just wanted to remind everyone to watch The Daily Line, Monday through Thursday from 6:00-7:00 p..m. only on Versus.

Also, if you haven't already, please join my Facebook Fan Page. There will be exclusive stuff posted there that won't necessarily be on my normal pages or blogs.

Chasing butterflies

2010-03-31T11:20:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I think I'm my own worst enemy. I build up the guy I'm seeing in my head to be this Adonis, with this halo around them like they're some perfect, untouchable entity. Like a 13 year old girl in the 80s crushed on New Kids on the Block and cried at their concerts. Ok, maybe not that crazy. But I definitely still get that same feeling I got the day I got my first crush. The problem is that I still see myself in the same light too. As the band geek with the Whitney Houston “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” hair, and the baby fat I hadn’t learned how to shed just yet. And as one half of a relationship, it was no different. I had always viewed myself as the reacher and not the settler. And that is where this pilgrim always gets her heart broken.

More so than that is the fact that I have what some would call relationship ADD. I don’t necessarily get bored, but I find that I lose interest easily. Usually because a lot of the guys that ask me out aren’t all that deep, or interesting for that matter. Sure, they can be smart or good looking.. but rarely are they ever the full package. Add in the “glass shattering” effect, and well.. they are toast from the start. It’s relationship boredom, and it usually sets in within the first couple of months. So I start looking for an exit strategy. “It’s not you.. it’s me,” is far too cliché and no one seems to really buy it. Then there is always the talk of babies. If you want to run a man off, tell him everything you ate that day, that you want to be married with five children by the time you’re thirty and that your biological clock is ticking. Works every time. Before my regular readers start berating me for running off potential suitors, let me assure you I was doing it for their own good.

I find myself in situations where I “used” to feel the flutter. You know, the Butterfly Effect. Where you smile like an idiot every time their name comes up on your phone, or when you spy them from across a crowded room. That high school sweetheart feeling you had for only one person.. your Wendy Peffercorn. Maybe I am just jaded or a tad too cynical, or maybe all my years of thinking like a boy and being treated like one of them have caught up with me. But now the only feeling I feel is.. well, like vomiting. Over anxiety. Over being trapped in something that doesn't fit me the way I had pictured it would. The past few attempts at relationships were more like hemorrhoids. No, make that enemas. They were just up my ass and left me feeling extremely uncomfortable. And oddly enough, I always weighed less once I was rid of them. Hmmm..

I miss the feelings I had in the “beginnings.” Not necessarily the thrill of the chase, because at my age, in my line of work, that shit is really starting to get old. Instead, I miss feeling like I can be "me" and not a "we". Far too often I was consumed by feelings of guilt that I couldn't be everything they wanted because I was too busy fulfilling my dreams. But more so because I wasn’t willing to give up everything I had worked so hard for at the chance of living happily ever after with them. The real problem lies in the fact that no one tells you what happens when that new car smell isn't there anymore. What does it mean when the flutter isn’t there? Is it just a sign of life just getting real and signaling the end of the honeymoon phase or is it God’s way of showing you this isn't where he wanted you to end up?

If living on the island has taught me anything, it’s… go to the bathroom before you leave home, and that the world is really that small of a place. And trying to cut your teeth in my industry, the number of people you are exposed to on a daily basis… even smaller. So to say my dating pool was more like a koi pond, is a vast understatement. It wasn’t unheard of me seeing people I had used to date, or flirt with… some more casually than others. The worst part though was seeing someone after there was no resolution. Your situation just kinda melted, evaporated, or exploded… and there was no conclusion. I found myself in one such situation.

I recently ran into a familiar face that used to do that to me, you may recall him - the Perfect Stranger? Well, since our falling out, we haven't seen each other too much and haven't even really spoken other than an occasional text around birthdays or holidays. And that was fine by me. I think we just realized we wanted different things out of life. Translation: I wanted to date an adult. He wanted to date girls that could barely spell “orange”. He never liked what I did for a living and was always giving me ultimatums about it.

“Would you give up your acting/TV stuff?” ---NO!

“Would you give up your writing?” --- NO!

“Would you give up appearances, the public eye, and settle down and have a family?” -- Hell to the NO.

A guy like him wanted nothing more than a trophy girlfriend. Someone who would give up herself, relies on him financially, and never challenges him… ever. And that girl was certainly not me.

A little over a month ago, I was standing outside a Super Bowl party in Miami waiting on a friend to arrive, when he came out of the entrance with a girl whose shoulders easily could have bench pressed someone my size. Oddly enough however, there was not a single flutter. The deeper down in my soul I searched for a feeling for him.. the emptier I found it to be. There was no butterfly effect, only the feelings they sing about in those Pepto Bismol commercials. Heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea. God, why had I picked such a tight dress? Still, there was no drama. He ignored me, I ignored him.. and all was right with the world again.

Oddly enough, the Stranger’s thinking wasn’t at all original. Same thing happened with my latest companion. I cared about him deeply, but he just never seemed to "get it." His attitude toward my career, toward my opinions, and his sophomoric tone about him always being right were the proverbial can of Raid that laid the whoop ass on my butterflies.

Catching up with friends recently, none of them seemed surprised the latest didn't last.

"Jenn, c’mon. He was a child,” one of them said. “While he was hella book smart, you could have run the New York marathon around him in the common sense category. He was just naïve about life and was more interested in having a piece of eye candy than what was under the wrapper."

"Heh. Isn't that all men?" I laughed.

"Some. Err, make that most. I meant that metaphorically speaking by the way.. not about getting naked. But every once in a while you find one that seems a lil different from the rest and it you let your guard down. Face it Jenn, beneath that tough frat boy exterior, you're kinda a girl. Granted, you keep it a secret from most people, but we’re your friends. So, the jig is up."

My friend was right. Maybe I had been the exterminator in all my relationships by expecting things to always feel “direct from the dealership” fresh. But on the other hand, maybe I was doing myself a huge favor. Maybe I was weeding through all the tired bullshit, the cobwebs and spiders. I was getting rid of all the old cluster of ‘ish in the attic that I had zero use for. And Lord knows I have seen plenty of that. When it comes to relationships, you have to find someone with gumption to stand by you when shit gets tough, and when things aren't perfect. Because the butterfly feeling only last so long. When the day comes and she's barefoot, pregnant, and cursing that day you were in the mood.. well, you still have to love her. And what about the day your balls look less like the prizes of their day, and more like Jose Conseco’s after a cycle? Well, she won't mock you endlessly for it. At least, not if it’s the real deal. The point is, that you have to find the person that you could imagine waking up next to for the foreseeable future and not the one who you lay awake next to plotting your narrow escape before the sun comes up like one of those kids from Twilight.

Some things in life are just worth waiting for. Maybe that is why I have thrown myself into my career. Sure dating can be fun, but finding people of substance is tricky. Because once the butterflies leave, and the moths take up nesting, all you’re going to get are holes in your clothes and a closet that smells like old people. Finding genuine people in this world who can make you laugh, keep you smiling, and make your life a better place to be.. well, it certainly beats that empty feeling you wake up with after a “coyote ugly” experience. After all, while some people settle down, and others just settle, there are still people out there that refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies. This girl just happens to be one of them.

America's Sweetheart

2010-03-21T22:54:00.003-05:00

Very rarely do my blogs ever veer into the pop culture sector of my industry. I figure there are enough Perez Hiltons and Tyler Durdens out there that there's really no reason to inject any more worthless third person opinion into the mix.

But as I ran on the treadmill the other day, I couldn't help but be drawn to the day’s skeezy headline on the TV in front of me.. "Chopper bad boy cheats on America’s sweetheart."

Two weeks ago, Sandra Bullock was on top of the world. She was dressed to the nines and outshining actresses half her age. She was the envy of the gay community for "making out with Meryl Streep." And oh yeah, she won what most would argue is the most prestigious acclaim one could possibly take home as an actress these days.. an Academy Award. Upon accepting her award for her role in “The Blind Side” she attributed her beautiful performance as “Big Mike” Oher's adoptive mother to two very special people. One, the actual woman whose mannerisms and gusto she had nailed to a "T." And a tattooed up garage rat she had affectionately come to refer to as her husband.

Little did she know the shitstorm that was about to become her life. A little over a week later, Life and Style had their people call her people and give her the heads up on the explosive headline that was about to hit the stands. You know, the one where the good girl gets crapped on by the bad boy she is in love with. Figuring the report was just another random bullshit line in tabloid history, Bullock's people denied the allegations. That is, until the sleaze magazine handed over all the evidence, including substantiated reports from none other than the “white power,” tatted up, “classy” broad claiming to have slept with Sandra’s husband. Sandra packed her things and moved out that day.

The whole mess really got me thinking though. Was it some sort of ego trip, or were men's minds really that feeble that they couldn't resist a little bit of “T&A” being paraded in front of their face? I mean seriously. What kind of men cheat on America's sweethearts?

There have been plenty of cases out there in the media world these days of beautiful successful women being cheated on by their "faithful and loving" husbands. Plenty of my friends and women-- that I care about deeply that seemingly had life by the balls-- lives were suddenly thrown into the turmoil dealing with their partner's infidelity. Hell, at 26, my last two long term relationships involved being cheated on with a Hooters chick, and the other to attend a “party.” Did I mention the party was 18 girls 18 boys, no boyfriends, girlfriends, or apparently human decency allowed? Since when did party=orgy??.. So when I learned of the details of this sordid event, it was “Hi ho, hi ho, pack your bags and go” for his sorry, undeserving ass.

That's not to say it didn't hurt like hell to see him go. It most certainly did. But it wasn't even that I loved him, or I thought he was the "one." Hell, I'm not really convinced there is still a "one" out there anymore in this day and age, especially with what I do for a living. No, instead it all came down to a lack of respect and a whole lot of perceived entitlement.

Bad boys are bad boys for a reason. Whether they claim mama issues, have huge egos, or supposed sex addictions, it really all comes down to their own personal character and the choices they make. And it’s our "role" in society as the loving nurturing women we are to want to fix them or save them from themselves. I call this the ‘Danny/Sandy Complex’ because well, every person on the planet has seen “Grease” at least once in their life, even the straight ones. Classic story of bad boy meets sweet girl. Girl falls for his antics. He retreats back to what he always was once school starts up again; he’s around his degenerate buddies. And breaks said good girl’s heart. But what happens at the end downright blows my mind. Down in the dumps about having lost Danny, she stands up in the middle of a disgusting aqueduct, and sings her sad song..

"Sandy, you must start anew. Don’t you know what you must do… wholesome and pure, I'm so scared and unsure. Good bye, to Sandra Dee."

And the next scene.. The grand finale. Its good bye poodle skirts, hello skankwear and spandex from American Apparel’s sex ads. Sure, she’s “the one that he wants”… for now anyway. Roll credits.

What the Sandra Dees don't realize is there's no changing the Danny Zukos of the world's ways, or saving them for that matter, because they are who they are. No one asks a scorpion why its stings people, it’s just its nature. Tigers don’t go crazy, Tigers go Tiger. (I am referring to the animal in this case, but I guess it could apply in several instances these days.) Regardless, you accept it for what it is, and either proceed with caution or go running for the hills. But if you do stick around, understand there's a fine print somewhere that states the potential hazards this relationship could and WILL bring into your life.

So for all the Sandra Dees and the Sandra Bullocks of the world, just continue to do your thing. There's no reason to change yourself or dress like a slut to compete with the women out there willing to destroy someone else’s relationship, just so they can “win” something. Instead, you let them keep their cheap carnival toy they "won" at the expense of you and their own self worth. You've still got your pride, and if you're Bullock, a new man in your life named Oscar.

As Lady Gaga once said, “Some women chase men, I chose to chase my career. A career won’t roll over one morning and tell you it doesn’t love you anymore.” Maybe under all that make up, the wigs, and masking tape, that girl isn’t so nuts after all. In fact she is absolutely right. After all, no man should ever rob you of the things you create and make happen …

Especially when you do it on your own.

Gone (fantasy) fishing

2010-03-08T12:57:00.002-05:00

It’s that time of year we've all been anxiously waiting for… NFCB!!!

(And right THERE... 1500 red blooded young American men just stared at a screen. Blinked. And said.. WTF is this girl talking about?)

But for the hundreds of thousands of other guys out there.. The kind who can sympathize with Leroyyyy Jenkins... The kind who when you say "rotisserie", they don't think chicken... And the kind of guy who waits for Baseball Prospectus to come in the mail.. The kinda dudes that understand what positional scarcity and ADP actually are (and are all too happy to explain it to you. For hours. Without anesthetic.) All just simultaneously said... Yes!!!!!..

Let me explain.

It’s National Fantasy Championship of Baseball. Seriously, some of these guys have fantasies that don't involve me and my girlfriends. It's usually David Wright .... which I get ... but for me. Not you.

There are several types of baseball fans. There are guys that love to go to the games, drink beer and are simply spectators. There are guys who sit in foul ball territory with gloves like eight year olds. (Yes, that was me laughing at you last season on the third baseline at 'New Yankee'). There's the kind of fan that gets taken out of the stadium in handcuffs while their kids watch on, for telling Alex Rodriguez to do something to his mom that I couldn't quite make out, but apparently the cops did. (We will skip them.) Finally, there are the types of fans that sit patiently in front of their laptops and watch a computer generated baseball dude as he swings at red and blue dots. Even when it’s a shitty team whose entire season has practically been blacked out (sorry Pittsburgh), they'll do it just to see how one player’s individual stats may affect his chances at being a fantasy Joe Maddon.

Well, this blog’s for you.

I tried fantasy baseball a few years back. Didn't really like it. It was just so time consuming. Kinda like a marriage; you had to work on it every day adjust for injuries and line ups because they play so many games and most of it is so day-to- day. Way too high maintenance. So I eventually found this genius guy to pretty much run the team for me after I drafted. He was the pool boy I hired to keep the wife busy while I attended to the rest of my life.

Now fantasy football. That was something I could get behind. It was more like the hot girl you called up once in a blue moon at 3am on a weekend and all you had to text was.. "?"

Yes. That actually works on some of the dumber ones.

But then one day, one of my friends came in bitching about his fantasy league. His.. Fantasy fishing league.

No, I'm not joking. Note the lack of LOL’s.

I sat there perplexed.

“So wait. You chose a line-up of fishermen.. To sit on boats all day and catch fish by pure dumb luck.. And you call this a sport?”

He nods enthusiastically.

“So how do you choose how to sit or start??”

“Well...” he began.

“No, WELL. I mean. Do you actually strategize about it? Like… Well, I gotta sit Bob this week he got wasted off some Nati Light, puked, and then passed out. So his opponent Frank caught a shark off his chum and my buddy Mark's team won because of that. I mean, do you sit in front of Versus all afternoon long and listen to dudes with such thick southern accents they sound like Boomhauer on ‘King of the Hill’ reruns? Do you yell at them and cheer for them like you would at an MMA match or a football game? Really?”

But how can you call something a sport, let alone devise a fantasy league around it if it’s fate rest in the hands of the Gods and whether or not a fish is smarter than you are?? Fishing is really all about luck. You just put your rods out there, see what bites.. And decide what to toss back. Pretty much how most men I know date. They just set a couple of rods out there.. And see what they can snag as it swims by. Hell, I've watched guy friends of mine do it in one bar on a single night. I'm pretty sure it’s called a catch and release program.

But what happens when you get multiple bites? How do you know which line is worth all the effort of reeling in? Is it the one of least resistance? Or the one that makes you work for it?

The couple times I've gone fishing I've been quite successful. I always caught the biggest fish, with the least amount of effort. Shit, I didn't even take the hook out of them; I let the boys do all the dirty work. But they were usually cursing me the entire time, because they hadn't caught a damn thing. Maybe that's because I fished with the real thing. Good old fashioned worms.

Sure, they were gross and I hated touching them, but damn did they work better than that stupid artificial crap the boys were raving about.

And when it comes to dating I'm the exact same way. I put my real self out there, and if they like what they see, hopefully the right fish will come along and take the bait. But I by no means use any trickery.

Me? I'm gullible .. I fall for shiny things. Get hooked. And then it’s too late. Hook. Line. Sink “her.”

Despite my success, there was one thing I couldn't get past with fishing. It was boring. Sure, some people may call it relaxing, but if you can sleep and do it at the same time, well.. it’s not exactly multitasking. Personally, I found it a waste of time, as I do the whole initial dating process and the games. But girls I know insisted it was the way to go.

So I cast myself a few lines into the water to see what I'd find. Problem is, when you're fishing in the Hudson real fish are hard to come by. You're more likely to catch garbage, a mutated three-eyed monster, or maybe even a finger or two of Jimmy Hoffa that wasn't buried at Giants Stadium. However, when my friends would inquire about my dating life, and I'd just say “I was dating,” the guys got a little indignant about it. But I figured, if men are allowed to keep their rods out there, well why the heck shouldn't I? One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. Each line had something different to offer, and that made choosing the right one like looking at the menu for Cheesecake Factory when you're beyond famished. Good luck with that.

But it got me thinking...

When is it time to reel in your catch and call it a day??

Maybe we should fall for a lure not because of how it looks, or its glossy appeal, but fall for it because in all honesty, it looks like the real thing. Until that day happens for me, at least at the end of the day..

My mom says “I'm a catch.”

But 'til then.. I've gone fishin.'

Admin Update: Jenn Sterger joins new Versus show

2010-03-04T09:33:00.004-05:00

USA Today
3-4-10

Keith Jackson returns; Jenn Sterger joins new Versus show

http://www.usatoday.com/sports/columnist/hiestand-tv/2010-03-03-keith-jackson_N.htm

Versus vs. Sportscenter. Versus will today announce its first daily live studio show —The DailyLine— that will debut April 5 at 6 p.m. ET, opposite ESPN's SportsCenter.

But, says producer Andy Meyer, the show isn't meant to be any kind of knockoff. "Most shows have the same formula, with hosts in suits in front of a plasma screen showing highlights," he says. "This show will curate what's happening all over the Web that day. … And we don't want to have a lot of people shouting about sports, there's already too much of that."

Instead, says Meyer, the show will continually field tweets, texts, calls and emails from viewers and use them on-air. With the show having an "unscripted" feel, he says, "we're hoping we'll hear from viewers that take us in new directions during shows. … The only master we're serving is what fans care about."

Figuring out exactly what such a master wants could be daunting. But ESPN2's afternoon SportsNation already takes a stab at that by incorporates lots of viewer feedback and online elements — the show has about 650,000 Twitter followers.

Meyer says The Daily Line— which, despite the title, won't offer betting tips — will "have a huge presence of material from blogs, more than any other show."

The show's four on-air people, all new to Versus, includes Jenn Sterger, whose public profile was launched when she appeared in a crowd shot on a 2005 Florida State home football game and announcer Brent Musburger said, "1,500 red-blooded Americans just decided to apply to Florida State.

"I always felt sports TV was a bunch of guys in suits yelling at me," says Sterger, who's been an online columnist and host for SI.com and the New York Jets, has appeared in Maxim and Playboy, wears lingerie on her YouTube videos and has been the only female spokesperson forDr Pepper in both U.S. and non-U.S. markets.

"Other shows don't exactly know how to use social media and the Web," says Sterger. "Since I'm practically living on the Web, I've got a pulse on what going on out there. … And I'll be personally accessible to the audience, except for my personal phone number."

Down the rabbit hole

2010-03-03T12:28:00.001-05:00

......I’ll start my story by telling you all that this particular blog is not one of those happy go lucky, feel good blogs. It’s a blog full of what people these days would call “brutally, honest truth.” And while it may not be pretty, sometimes putting your own thoughts and pain out there may help someone else as much or more than it helps yourself. I’ve come to realize in these past few years you can either put the real truth out there… or you can let people spin it into whatever sick story they want. I choose to be honest with you because whether you’re new to my blog, loyal followers or just stopping through… I want you to know that you’re getting the real me. The Good, The Bad, The Ugly… but always ME. We’ve been through a lot together over the years so… no secrets now right?

I don't want this to come across as soap boxy or a public service announcement or the episode of Saved by the Bell where Jesse Spano becomes addicted to caffeine pills. And be forewarned, this blog’s style is a little different from the usual.. so don’t fret if you don’t like it as much. I’m simply telling a story the best way I know how, in the best voice I know how. And hoping that maybe by writing this down I can help others know they aren’t alone. So without further ado, I give you..

Down the Rabbit Hole.

As I sat in a dark room on a dreary winter evening.. I couldn’t help but ask myself..

“How did I allow myself to get here?”

For anyone that has fallen down the rabbit hole, you know what it feels like. That sickening feeling of weightlessness and helplessness just waiting to see where you land. I’ve fallen down here once before and somehow managed to find my way out, but it wasn’t without the help of my family and friends. As anyone that has seen it will tell you… It’s a dark place, that rabbit hole. Once it sucks you in, you wind up in this whole different world with its topsy turvy views of how people in society should not only look, but how they should act as well.

When my journey began almost five years ago, I was thrown into an entirely different world. Until then, I was used to my daily routine, with my small, close family and my real friends. My normal friends. Not supermodels, or baller athletes, or movie stars, or public figures, or hanger-on’ers trying to get ahead. They were the people that loved me as I was. But they don’t belong in this other world, and nor would they want to.

I exist in a world that in order to get ahead, you have to take one pill to get your body smaller, and another to…. well, get your body smaller. So much so, I began to treat my body like an iPhone. Need to get skinny? Need to have Abs? Need to poop? Well, there's a pill for that. Their world tells me a size zero isn't small enough. And would prefer me to look like a Bratz Doll than an actual human being. It’s a sad place where one bad photograph or one wrong angle, robs you of all the beautiful moments you've had. But all these pills made it hard for my body to know how to function on its own. It only knew them. It needed them.

It was hard competing in a world that was seemingly always on the move. I had always lived a fast paced, busy life. Downtime was unheard of to me. I was the queen of “To-Do Lists” and mine seemed to go on for days, but I didn’t mind. But once my magazines came out, those lists seemed to multiply into books that seemed to multiply into editions, until I found myself in the middle of a library. To say I was overwhelmed, well.. that’s an understatement. Still, I smiled, because there is no frowning... not on the outside at least, and certainly not in this world. So I continued to run, faster and faster, chasing the white rabbit that is my career… and NOT a metaphor for illegal drug use.

I’ve met a lot of characters along my journey back. Most just kept me from moving forward, and so they were quickly discarded. But some managed to hang around, and some for far longer than they should have. The latest was a charming guy. A guy with a great grin and big ideas. But a tad misguided and certainly naïve to how real life works. His small town upbringing had kept him relatively grounded, but something was still not right. He talked of good values, and family, and his future… and of small government and being patriotic. Yet he worked for arguably one of the more hated and corrupted companies on the planet. How well he treated someone was measured in receipts from his credit card and gifts I really had little use for. Not to say I wasn’t grateful, but it seemed to me he really missed the boat as to what I was all about. To him, in his mind, in his world.. his ways were perfectly sane, but through my eyes he appeared just downright… “mad.” And even though I cared about him, I just couldn't continue to exist in his world and maintain sanity in my own.

His fun and games that I once found charming began to wear on my psyche as he could never understand why someone in my position would be “down.” And our once riveting conversations had morphed into debates, and then grueling knock down drag outs that would make Pacquiao Mayweather look like an undercard fight. So we parted ways, and my one true ally I had in this crazy world was gone. We both may say it’s for the best, but deep down we know differently. And when things go down the way they did, there's no going back.

Getting into the hole was easy, but getting out was always the hard part. The time before I was surrounded by my friends and family back home, but current circumstances prevent me from just picking up and going as I please. But one face reoccurs in my life, whose role is very much undefined. We’re both comfortable at an arm’s length away, but mutually appreciate one another’s quit wit and sarcasm. I’ve met him in the rabbit hole several times, and his wisdom has normally helped me see the way out.

So late one night, as we walked through the streets of New York, I asked him.. “Have you ever felt THIS way???”

It was dark outside, but I could still make out the features of his face. He looked back at me with a big bright smile and inquisitive eyes...

"No. But, you and I are similar creatures Miss Sterger, your heart is just way more exposed than mine. We substitute our work for our personal relationships with people. It’s why I admire and appreciate your drive. You’ve been down here before, and you’ll get back up. You’ve got an amazing journey ahead of you and it’s about to get started. So no use in letting your today, bring down your tomorrow. I’ve never understood the concept of sad. I know what it is; I just don’t ‘get it.’ I don't act like the world spins on its axis for me or any one person in particular. So whatever it is I may feel will pass.. and I just keep plugging along. Being sad is unproductive. So just channel it into what you do. And never look back."

Hmm, maybe he knows something I don't. Or maybe I still had an ally in this foreign land.

A few days later, a very close friend sent me a text..

Alice- "Well in our country you'd generally get to somewhere else -- if you run very fast for a long time, as we've been doing."

Queen- "A slow country! Now, here, you see it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that."

“What’s that?” I asked her.

“It’s a quote, from Alice and Wonderland,” she said. “I read it, and thought of you. It’s a beautiful description of ‘our’ lives.”

How right she was. The world is a rat race enough alone, but to end up in a city like New York and an industry like mine.. Well.. Ha, you do have to run twice as fast.

Her text didn’t draw me a road map to the bright red exit signs or anything, but it did let me know that there was someone out there that had seen the darkness of this dreary place too. And if she had made it out to help someone else, I had to do the same. After all, how does a girl who falls… no… actually jumps willingly down a rabbit hole into chaos, come out unchanged? Well, she really doesn’t. All you can hope for is to come out on the other side in one piece, a little bolder, little wiser and in a better place. And if you're lucky.. with someone who is brave enough and strong enough to accompany you on your next big journey.

The Fluffer

2010-02-16T14:18:00.001-05:00

There's nothing worse than being the one before “THE ONE.” I'm sure there are women out there that are reading this that are standing in the exact same pair of shoes I found myself in this past weekend. And I'm not talking about some sick Jimmy Choos. And by now, most of the men that have begun reading this have realized they've been duped by a cleverly crafted title, but are too stubborn to stop reading because well: 1) They're men. 2) They've already committed and must finish the task.

Maybe that's how I found myself in this situation this weekend, when I found out that I had in fact, been a “Fluffer.” But I'm not referring to the stand-in they use on porno sets or :::cough:::: Major League clubhouses. I'm talking about being the girl that comes before the girl that turns out to be “the one.” This particular ex really hasn't even bothered me in quite some time. In fact, it’s rare I even think about him, and honestly, I wish the guy all the best. Well, as much as you can for our given circumstances. But when I heard the news of his recent engagement to the girl he cheated with, and then left me for.. Well, I couldn't help but feel a little.. Confused?

The reason I say confused is.. I really can't describe what it is I felt. It was a mixture of closure, and resentment with a touch of … WTF Factor. Even Coldstone Creamery couldn't have thought that ‘ish up. And it’s not that I even wanted him back or was jealous that she won. It was more the thought that I had invested so much time and energy into something with zero pay-off. That my life with him had eventually morphed into some sick and twisted "bit." And now, he was blissfully happy, and I was still dancing to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.”

Still, who was I to judge? The new girl was in fact beautiful, and from everything I had heard about her, seemed like a genuine human being. Then again, so was I before I got involved with him. As good of friends and sparring partners as he and I were, we just weren’t compatible from day one. But when something is fresh, people tend to have their blinders on. I had my blinders on for the greater part of a year and a half or so, like those idiots that wear those stupid Kanye West glasses in the club late at night. Things ended, then didn’t end, then ended, and didn’t end.. then enter: new girl. And.. well, the story just kinda drug on and morphed into one long, melodramatic Lifetime movie.

Still, I don’t really miss him. He was an important part of my life and all, but now just a piece I see that could never really fit into my finished picture the way I imagine it. But his decision to tie the knot did get me thinking. Why had he chosen this particular girl, after such a short time?.. I had done my hard time, and so had the poor sap before me that gave him a good five years of her life (six if you include the meddling she did throughout my relationship with him). And then it dawned on me.

Maybe men don’t marry the woman that is best for them; so much as they do the woman they find at the best time for them. His post college sweetheart didn’t have a chance in hell up against his career ambitions. And as for us?.. Well, aside from chemistry issues, the timing was just all wrong. After all, he was a few years older than I was, but still in denial about that. But when a few of his friends started getting married and making babies, I guess even the most stubborn of bachelors figures out he won’t be a spring chicken forever.

Anyone that's followed my blog for more than a few months knows it a mix of trials and triumphs. Life is hard. After all, it eventually kills you. So I don't paint my life to be any prettier than it really is. But I do use an amazing palette of color commentary and self deprecation to tell my stories the best way I know how.

Upon revisiting some of my old relationships, and near misses, I came across this eerie theme that seemed to be present in more than a few of them. I was their "What if Girl."

For those of you wondering what a “What if Girl” is, let me explain. They aren't necessarily the kinda girl that gets the guy. In fact, in most cases we aren't even first runner up, which regardless of how glamorous and noble the pageant world paints it, still means: “You freaking lost!” Instead, the “What if Girl” is that Miss Congeniality of Life. We’re fun, easy going, vivacious.. The kind of influence anyone could use a little more of in their life. We have a pretty optimistic view about life, and all its possibilities simply because, even after all the shitty things people have put us through, we still believe in the "good in people."

Aside from being a life cheerleader for those around them, the “What if Girl” has a giant flaw or blessing that she brings to most people she meets: The “What if” factor. It’s the “What if” factor that makes even the most secure guys question their own life paths and sometimes even their choices in partners.

It’s a pretty well documented fact that guys I have dated or hung out with often ended up marrying or finding the girl of their dreams shortly after I entered their lives. In essence, I was “Good Luck Chuck.” I was the warm up act to a Jerry Seinfeld. The Pussy Cat Doll to Britney Spears. The fluffer to.. Well, scroll up. The point is.. I was the set-up girl, whose ending was always an awful punch line. I always brought them a step further in the evolutionary process so they could be everything a girl wanted. And the next girl in the batting order reaped all the benefits.

I've tamed wild animals and playboys. Thrown blinders on the usually wandering eyes. I taught a man that just because I have boobs doesn't mean I'm without my own opinion. I've taught them that karma is a real live force not to be f*cked with, because she will show you what she’s made of. And made even a gay man question his sexuality. And it has NOTHING to do with sex. It simply has to do with the presence you have in someone’s life. I’m a balls-to-the-wall kinda girl, even though I don't own any of my own. I defend my favorite sports teams the way I would my friends and my family. I'm the most loyal person you'll ever meet, only to a fault because it ordinarily sets me up for some kind of disappointment when they can't return my sentiments.

So if I'm all these things and more, you're probably wondering why I'm still single??? Well, that makes two of us. The fact of the matter is, maybe I just haven't met a man that has the balls to keep up with me. I'm not calling out any of my past suitors, it’s actually quite the contrary, I have the utmost respect for most of them. Their influences in my life, no matter how good or bad they were, brought me through the evolution of Sterg to be the person I am today. But then again, most of them still ride their bikes of life with the training wheels on, scared to fall in front of the rest of the world. Being scared, making excuses, not taking chances, and playing it safe gets you absolutely nowhere in life. It’s like riding the “People Mover” at Disney World. LAME.

Sure I could have settled plenty of times, with what was familiar, or what was easy or convenient. But the people that settle are also the same ones that cheat, get divorced, or end up in a relationship they really get nothing out of. People never said finding the real thing would be easy, but they did say it would be worth it.

So if you ever find yourself asking why a certain person is in your life, think twice before discounting them. And ask yourself the real questions.

What if you took off the training wheels?

What if.. they’re your “What if” moment?

Think long and hard or you’ll end up just like the rest of them, sitting on the sidelines… wondering if going for it on “Fourth and DUH” was such a crazy idea. But, don’t feel too bad for them though.. I'm sure someone’s still hiring a water boy. After all, the position of “Fluffer” has been filled… for now anyway.

99 Problems

2010-02-10T21:55:00.000-05:00

I still remember the name of my after school care bully.

Ella.

She was 10 and might have been close to 5 ft tall, but to me, she could’ve played in the WNBA, or possibly tight end for the Cleveland Browns. She made fun of the fact I hadn't developed any boobs, (mind you I was like 8?..) and that I still hadn't mastered the best dismount on the double bars at gymnastics class. And she always knew how to make me cry.

It’s not even like Ella was the most beautiful of girls in our class. Come to think of it, she wasn't even popular. The other kids were just nice to her out of pure fear.

Who knows why Ella picked me to be the recipient of all her pent up hostility. It wasn’t like I was the prettiest, or the ugliest kid. I was more in the middle of the pack. Maybe it was the fact that like most wild beasts, bullies can smell fear. And my poor little eight year old self esteem reeked like the overzealous sale lady at the perfume counter.

Ella wasn’t even the prettiest girl at school, or the skinniest. She was just the meanest. Me? I was a tiny girl, and generally pretty nice to everyone. My mom swears the reason Ella picked on me was because she was jealous. Even today, I insist the reason most women are so catty to one another is based strictly on envy. Jealousy, while sometimes productive, is generally an awful thing. While sometimes it may productively breed competition, it’s more likely a disease that just eats away at your insides and turns you into a mean and conniving version of yourself. Or worse, it downright consumes you.

Females are without a doubt the most judgmental of all creatures, not to mention the better majority of our judgments are superficial. At times, it almost makes me ashamed to be one. You don't hear guys around the water cooler talking like us.

"Oh my God, did you see Bob? Looks like someone put on the freshman 10 and then some."

"It’s totally the suit Chris. It’s just cut wrong. I mean, who wears a six button suit besides Craig Sager?"

"I don't care; he still looks like a fat cow."

"Yeah, but did you hear he's dating Susan in accounting?"

"No way. How is that possible? She's so way prettier than him. God, she must be pretty desperate to go harpooning on that level."

It’s disgraceful really. The way women relate to one another. We’re constantly judging, constantly criticizing and for what?

As someone who Dustin Hoffman would say has dabbled in.. One word.. ”Plastics”... over the years, I would say that 80 percent of the time women get plastic surgery to impress other women. To compete with other women. Men in all honesty could usually give two $hits about how big your boobs are. They're just happy you let them see ‘em every once in a while.

We spend so much time tearing each other down, that we've taught men it’s ok to treat us this way. They’ll judge our bodies, our opinions, and belittle us. I mean, aren’t we doing ourselves a huge disservice by pulling each other’s hair and showing the cavemen we’re still down with that sort of thing?.. Furthermore, how can we expect to be treated with respect when we have none for each other?

I recently had a chance to go back to my alma mater and attend a football game, and though things at the good old Doak Campbell have turned a little sour and may I add bitter, I still wanted nothing more than to go back just to take in the sights and sounds. Nothing makes my heart beat faster on a Saturday morning than hearing the Warchant in person, or the roar of the crowd when the team takes the field. Well, almost nothing. ;)

Still, when I booked my weekend home, I was upset to find out that one of the new Cowgirls had something to say about it. Mind you, these girls wouldn’t even be in the position they are today had I not decided five years ago to wear a cowboy hat and some glitter to a football game. Yet, she still protested. She said I would detract from them, and what they are doing now.

WHAT?.... That’s like Britney Spears telling Madonna she can’t sing ‘Like a Virgin’ in her cone bra. I made “The Cowgirls” biyatch. Are you SERIOUS?... One of them even went as far to start name calling and character judgment. To which I say, Pot, Kettle.. nice to meet your acquaintance.

Still, I decided the petty high school drama just wasn’t worth my time or energy. There would be other games, hopefully with better outcomes than we have come to see these past few seasons at Florida State.

I ended up spending that weekend at home with some girlfriends, at our usual hangout 717 South. We sat at our usual table, in the center of the madness. And while Ashley may bogart the cheese bread, it’s always our favorite time to sit around and catch up on the who, what, when of everyone’s lives. Apparently in my absence a few new girls had also joined the ranks of our little group, ones I didn’t really know all that well. So imagine my surprise when the ballsiest one of the group started ripping on an absent member of our clan. My end of the table got very silent, as I sat back to take in the scene that was unfolding in front of me. Girls were ripping on other girls, ripping on others girlfriends, and the accused were nowhere in sight to defend themselves. I tried to laugh at their jokes, but couldn’t help the immense amount of guilt that crept over me.

Had I become one of THEM?

The kind of girls I had dreaded my entire life. The mean girls. The bitches. While I may have moved up in the pecking order of life in the past few years, I had always prided myself on never having evolved into a Queen Bee. And granted, I still haven’t. But my inability to stand up for the girls they were picking on didn’t make me any less guilty by association. I was one of her minions. And boy was I ashamed. What was next?.. Banning someone from the cool table for not wearing pink, or for being friends with one of the “non-cool” kids?

In my years since spending high school afternoons shoved into lockers, and being mocked endlessly for my now removed braces, I have come to believe there are girls out there, whose sole purpose in life is to make other women feel bad about themselves. It’s pretty pathetic that they derive so much pleasure from tearing someone else down. But it’s to these women I simply smile, nod, and in part, feel sorry that they have little else to do with their lives. It’s why I pray to God.. Whenever I do decide to procreate I’ll make a call to the bullpen and bring in the lefty.. Or maybe just a guy with a penchant for throwing Y’s. Because I don’t know that I can handle picking up my daughter from school in tears over some other girl calling her fat, or flat-chested, or whatever else girls are ripping each other for these days. Besides, women aren’t getting any nicer, even as we get older.

One day after my meetings, I stopped into my favorite sandwich shop in the financial district. Apparently the high school across the street had just let out, as the tables were filled with kids loitering and grazing on a few community bags of potato chips and cookies. I sat down at my table to enjoy my honey bourbon chicken, when I overheard a conversation that was all too familiar to me, even after all these years.

“Seriously, why don’t you just go cry into your training bra? Or beg your parents for a nose job?

I spun around in my chair to survey the situation.

There she was, the queen bee, the Ella to my Sterg. She was tall, blonde, and gorgeous with an ego that was bigger than the perfect blowout she sported. She was clearly of an affluent background, as was evident by the name brand designer everything she sported from head to toe. And she clearly had parents who had never taught her the value of being good to others.

And there SHE was. A girl that was so reminiscent of my awkward years that I cringed for her. The Ella teased her for her braces, and her unruly curly hair, and her long legs she just hadn't grown into yet. And the boys all laughed and joined in on the crucifixion. The poor girl ran out of the sandwich shop to lick her wounds and wipe her tears.

I sighed. Some things never change. Still in my full hair and makeup, and dressed to the nines from my meeting, I had noticed both the “Ella” and her harem of suitors giving me the once over… multiple times. The boys stared at me like some wet dream they had just seen in real life. But to the “Ella,” I was probably a threat, because even after my reduction surgery, I’m not exactly a 12 year old Russian gymnast. And as for my unruly curly hair, well, thanks to the miracle that is the CHI flatiron and advancements in hair care, things have clearly evolved for the better. I gave the high school bullies my coldest stare. Then, smiled warmly at them.

“You know,” I said, “this may come to shock you. But years from now, when you’re out of school, and out in the real world, where your parents can’t feed you from silver spoons, and you have to work to become who you are, you’ll realize the things and people you thought were so cool and important in high school were really peanuts in the grand scheme of things. And the kids you picked on and tormented will go on… and become much greater things because of the things you did to them. I should know because I was THAT girl.”

I pointed to the girl now sitting on the bench, who had still yet to collect herself.

“Sure, your blonde hair and good looks and mommy and daddy’s money may make you feel good about yourself now.. but what about ten years from now?.. You’re a beautiful girl.. but it’s a shame you are so empty on the inside that you have to tear down others to assert your own worth. It’s a sad life if you think about it.”

I stood up, threw away my trash and walked towards the exit. Then turned to face the kids.

“And just in case you didn’t catch the moral of the story… let me spell it out for you…

Be nice to the dorks.. You never know what we will become.”

The kids all sat there, silent and ashamed. As I left the restaurant, I stopped by the girl on the bench.

“Don’t let people like that pull you down. There will always be bullies and mean girls and bitches. You just have to rise above them and be the best version of yourself you can. That scene was me… 10 years ago. And just believe me when I say that while things may not get easier and people may not get nicer, know that things will get better. And when that day comes when you’re successful, and people see the real beauty in you..do yourself a favor and don’t ever become her. Because for every mean girl out there, is another one crying on a street bench somewhere. Stay warm and keep smiling. The braces are worth it.”

We both laughed, and I continued my walk down the street.

Maybe I would never be able to stand up to the real Ella, but in some way, it felt good standing up for someone else who needed it. I’ve come to realize in my adult life, there’s no need or room to resort to name calling and hair pulling in today’s girl world. It’s already a cruel enough place as it is. We do however need to start showing a little respect for one another, because regardless of social hierarchies, and popularity contests, at the end of the day we’re still all humans with feelings. Life is complicated enough without being jerks to one another, so why add to all the stress of the day to day dilemmas.

The mean girls were never invited back to our table at 717, and now Ashley gets even more cheese bread. My life may still not be a vision of perfection, and I still encounter my fair share of mean girls now and then, but my experiences with them have only made me a stronger, more compassionate, and more rational adult. And while I may still have 99 problems, at least now I can really say, a bitch ain’t one.

Hmm. J Maybe Jay-Z had it right after all.

Come hang out with me this Thursday night!!

2010-02-02T20:53:00.001-05:00

Hey guys!! If you are in or near the Tampa, Fl area this Thursday night the 4^th, come see me at The Slug Wine and Spirits Bar…It’s one of my favorite places to hang when I am back home. I’ll be there from 9 till 1am, and during that time, I’ve talked my friend Chris into $1 drinks for ladies and $5 call liquor all night! So start your Super Bowl pre-game partying early, and come by The Slug! Hope to see you there!!

The Slug - 12950 Race Track Road Tampa, FL 33626

Glass Shattering

2010-01-21T08:16:00.005-05:00

Everyone knows about my obsession with How I Met Your Mother, and the fact that I would probably have Neil Patrick Harris' babies.. if he were into that sorta thing...but the main reason I'm obsessed with something that rivals my other love, Monday Night Football - is how much of my real life I see in its characters and their plight as they try to find themselves.

Your mid twenties is a scary, yet exciting place in your life. You're trying to cut your teeth in the real world, make a voice that's totally yours, and some of us... are still looking for that special someone, all while attempting the aforementioned feats... This.. is one of those stories..

My friend Brandon had moved into a brand new home in a sunny little suburb in Texas when I came to visit him last spring. It was a beautiful house, with a pool, and an entertainment room that would be any man’s dream. So imagine his surprise while sitting at breakfast the next day when I told him about my horrible night’s sleep.

“Your air conditioning must have woken me up a gazillion times last night. Every cycle it came on sounded like I was on the set of “Twister” and I’m not referring to Helen Hunt’s voice, dude. Sure once it got revving, it would blend into the background noise. But between the stark quietness of the time it wasn't running and the instant it would kick on... Well, the difference was night and day.”

Brandon laughed and looked at me like I was absolutely crazy. That is, until breakfast the next morning when he could barely keep his eyes open.

“What's wrong?” I asked

Brandon looked up at me from half-drowning in his bowl of cereal.

“I hate you,” he said. “You ruined this house for me.”

Turns out, he had finally heard it too. :::Glass shattering:::

I've heard the sound of glass shattering far too many times to count. It’s the noise you hear when you fall in love with a pair of jeans you saw in a magazine, and then you try them on only to realize they give you a ‘pancake ass.’ Or when you buy a beautiful car and can only see that scratch on your fender some a$$hole left at the supermarket one day. But the absolute worst is when you're out on a date, or even worse, beginning a relationship and you hear that sound.

Simply put… glass shattering is the kiss of death.

We've all had that one person, place, or thing that we idolized. That shiny new toy that we just couldn’t get enough of. It was the new pink, or the “best thing since sliced bread.” Whether it was a new car, a new city, new friend, or new lover… there was just something about them that only made us want more. Until someone showed us … why we shouldn’t. Through the eyes of our friends, family, outsiders, and sometimes even our very own, the object of our adoration is transformed into something we wish… would simply go away.

The trouble with glass shattering is, once you see the flaw.. It’s all you notice, all the time.

I remember one boyfriend who ate like he was from a third world country, which made dinners beyond awkward as I was often left eating by myself. Another date of mine couldn't put a complete sentence together if his life depended on it, or prefaced every statement he made with, “I’m just saying.” Luckily for me, his catch phrase was never turned into a drinking game, or I would still be in meetings. One guy didn’t let out a single laugh at my favorite Broadway musical. It’s not like he spoke another language or that the material sucked, or that he didn’t like musicals… he just didn’t get it’s social commentary and jokes, most of which floated right past his brain and gave him the finger as they passed. I remember thinking to myself… Was he REALLY that dense? And after surveying the guests around me, half of whom didn’t understand a lick of English… and were still laughing.. I came to a sad conclusion.

Yes, yes he was.

I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me. Maybe my perception of things was totally off. Maybe I was making mountains out of molehills, and DD’s out of bee stings. But when I asked my guy friends over some beers and basketball, if they had ever heard “the noise,” they all shuddered in unison.

“Dude…What about that one girl’s laugh? Seriously, this laugh that made me wonder if Woody Woodpecker and Fran Drescher had a secret lovechild.”

Or the buddy who told me about a date he went on where the girl did nothing but flare her nostrils the entire time, like a bull ready to charge some poor drunk dumb enough to run with them. It was all he could stare at, even three sake bombs later.

“What about the really sloppy “I love me some Scotch and know way more about sports and fast cars than you do’ girl?” one of them chimed in.

The table grew very silent, and I felt all eyes turn in my direction.

“WHAT?” I asked indignantly. The table erupted into laughter. “Moving along, nothing to see here… Hey bartender… would you mind turning the sound down on the game???”

“WHAT?... Jenn Sterger wants the volume of the basketball game turned down?” my buddy asked mockingly. “What is this world coming to?”

“Well, it’s not that I don’t like basketball, or even Brent Musberger’s announcing abilities. We know I have nothing but love for Brent, but…. The noise.. the sneakers against the court, the whistles… it’s like someone called the Pied Piper and his mice to happy hour.”

My friends all paused and listened intently. “UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH,” they moaned. “Thanks Sterg, you just ruined basketball for us.”

My bad. But at least our convo had shown me, that maybe I wasn’t the only one casting stones.

Why is it we try to spend so much time changing someone or learning to accept them? Maybe we are holding ourselves and the rest of world to much too high of a standard. Or maybe there are too many people out there compromising for something that isn’t quite right for them, just for the sake of not being alone. So they invest themselves in a relationship that wasn’t a good fit from the start, and find those flaws harder and harder to look away from until even the blindest of eyes realizes it’s never going to get better. It’s like that scene in Austin Powers… a mole, is a moleeeee… is a moleeeeeeeeeeeeee. It’s not going away any time soon. You can either accept a person’s quirks and flaws, or do one better… and possibly find that one person that finds our flaws and their rough edges beautiful.

When I found myself back in the dating game most recently, I tried to put the dreaded “noise” where it belonged.. in the background at one of my favorite restaurants. As I sat across the table from him, I didn't analyze his every move, or the way he ate his food, or his laugh.

And then..

CRASH!.... ::: GLASS SHATTERING::::

My eyes grew like a baseball right before batter makes contact at home plate. Did I REALLY just hear THAT? Just when I thought things were going well..

Then, I saw it. The new trainee, nervously brushing up the broken pieces of an empty margarita glass as her trainer looked on in frustration. I half laughed, not at her misfortune, but just the irony. Turns out, maybe you can still hear glass shatter and have a good night. My mind returned to the conversation already in progress… I found myself laughing at his jokes, and smiling back at one of the first genuine smiles I had seen in a long time.

After some amazing food, we said our goodbyes and I left him with a nonchalant kiss on the cheek. Always leave them wanting more, I say.

I turned and began to walk down Fifth Avenue with a huge grin on my face. Mid stride down the block, I stopped, closed my eyes, and took in the world. While I heard all the bells, and horns, and many sounds the city makes in the night.. the one noise I dreaded most was MIA. Hmm. Maybe this one had potential. I turned around and looked down Fifth Ave. He was still standing there. Smiling right back at me.

I beamed, but quickly spun around and continued my walk.

Damn it, it woulda been so much cooler had I not looked back.

How the Sterger stole Christmas

2009-12-23T21:33:00.002-05:00

Some would argue NYC is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, a man-made marvel of metal meets skyline. Looking down however, it’s a third world country with a concrete floor. And at Christmas time, the place is nearly sickening. All the money spent on elaborate decorations and bags filled with expensive gifts for their loved ones, the people here seemed to be far from spreading Christmas cheer. The stores were jammed with women arguing over the last few small sizes, Century 21 was the very personification of greed and overindulgence, and the no one even gave the Salvation Army bell-ringer a second glance. For a city boasting one of the biggest trees and lighting spectacles in the world, I still couldn't help but feel.. Empty. That’s because I don’t live in Whoville, but a Grinchopolis full of Grinches.

Maybe that's because there were no "Merry Christmases”, no ‘Happy Holidays." It was "here's your receipt now get the f*ck out." Bah hum bug indeed. Sure, people could blame the economy or the painful cold, but in reality the city had no one to blame but itself.. I'm living in the most Christmas-like city in the country, maybe even the world.. but is it the kind of Christmas anyone really wants to be reminded of? Where happiness isn't measured by the family and friends and love in your life, but on your gift giving abilities. Somewhere in some bible passage, the Three Wise Men are shaking their heads in disgust.

Christmas has always been a rough time of year for me. And in NYC, especially tough. Sure it sucks being away from home, but there is a completely different reason I dread it. You see, as I've grown older, I've outgrown most of my childhood ailments. Once, a horrible asthmatic, I had come to control it to the point where I could exercise without getting winded, and even run outdoors. But there are some things it seems I will never outgrow. Arguably by some standards, two of the happiest things on earth besides maybe Disney World are my Kryptonite.

I'm allergic to pot, and Christmas trees.

Many a Christmas concerts in the Gulf Coast Girl Choir found me keeling over in the middle of “Silent Night” like a soldier that had locked his knees a tad too tight. And the other? Well, that’s a story probably better left out of the blogs, but it certainly was a science experiment gone bad let's just say that.

So, when my roommates were toying with the idea of buying a Christmas tree for the holidays, I had a few words to say about it. Not only would I end up spending more than the twelve days of Christmas in the Emergency room, but I wasn’t about to be the lucky a$$hole that got to clean up all the pine needles those things leave behind. Maybe they could get a fake one I, I suggested. But, they weren’t having it. They had always had real trees growing up, and insisted that a piece of plastic would never compare to the real thing. As if!!! I argued that fake trees were not only cleaner but a lot more cost efficient. They told me I was, “being Jewish.” Regardless, the lines had been drawn, as my roommates swore I had waged an all out war on Christmas. I warned them that if they brought a tree in the house, they would come home to a vacant living room. I’d take everything: the big screen, the couch, the tree… all of it. I would even take the roast beast. It wasn’t that I was trying to be a Grinch, but I had to put my foot down sooner or later.

The next day, City Hall was putting on a local outdoor Christmas production, with a fairly good lighting display. On my way home, I was texting and carrying an armful of bags, not to mention trying to make my way through the crowd of onlookers that had gathered in the streets. The guy’s voice on the loud speaker was way too cheerful and way too annoying for my tastes, especially given the long day I had just spent in the city.

And if there is one thing I can’t stand.. Its NOISE, NOISE, NOISE!!!...

Not really paying attention to where I was going, I tripped over a large power cord. I really didn’t think twice about it - until I realized all the lights on stage had gone off. The music had also stopped. And the entire crowd was staring in confusion. Turns out that one cord led to the generator - the power box that lit the whole damn thing. And my amazing grace and Clark Griswald-esque genes had disconnected it from the hordes of electrical sockets it was powering. I looked around to make sure no one had seen my transgression, and promptly hauled ass. I had just killed Christmas.

I felt guilty. But more so, because I hadn't even stopped. It was a drive by Grinching.

Is this what I had become?

With weeks leading up to the main event, I was working 60 hour weeks and sleeping maybe 4 hours a night. So when I finally had a day to myself, I decided to get out of the house and crash a Christmas party. My Partner-In-Crime has become my right hand man in these kinds of situations, because we always seem to know how to enjoy ourselves in even the crappiest of conditions. But this party? This would be our biggest challenge yet.

Maybe it was because this party was hosted by a "friend" of a friend of his.. Whom I shall refer to as Ebenezer Scrooge to protect the less than innocent. And I call him this with good reason. The weird thing is that the guy is the very personification of Christmas in NYC and possibly the greater United States.

Everyone had heard his name and knew it. Hell, if you played a word association game, the word Christmas and it were synonymous it seemed. But that's all it was. A name. A facade. In reality he was a shell of a man that desperately needed a visit from the ghosts of Christmas past present and future.. to show him just where he was heading. At this rate, even Jim Carrey couldn't bring humor to this ending.

After the awkward meet-and-greets with various members of Ebenezer’s inner circle, I mingled around the room popping in and out of conversations. Or lurked just far enough outside that I could still make out the ridiculous malarkey these people were talking about.

"Well, I'm currently conversing with Jake right now, but I will be over shortly to continue our extensive discussion on... "

What? Was this a joke? Who talks like this besides maybe Sheldon from Big Bang Theory? I did my best to contain my outright laughter and eye rolling. While people sat around discussing their 401Ks and having occupational circle jerks, I continued to try my best to simply blend in. But being the only girl in the room not wearing tights, or sporting a giant stick up my ass, it became clear my efforts were to be fruitless.

Then one of the guys sporting a sweater ensemble that would have embarrassed Mr. Rogers put his glass down on the table. The condensation ran down the sides, and began to pool at the bottom.
Me, the queen of movie/TV/pop culture references says.. in my best Larry David impersonation I could muster.. "Sir, do you respect wood?"

My "P.I.C." burst into laughter, while the rest of the room stared at me rather indignantly. Tough crowd. I promptly grabbed my glass, my sense of humor, and left the room. Just then, I bumped into Mr. and Mrs. Scrooge, Ebenezer’s parents themselves. The sad thing was, the Scrooges were anything but. They were good, hard working, modest people. So how had their son come to be such a ruthless jerk? When did they decide to change his name from Damien?

As I watched in disgust at the way the youngest Scrooge treated and looked down upon others, I couldn't help but pity him. While he probably had more money than God, his soul was empty. And through his designer suit which probably cost more than my parent’s mortgage, his insecurities began to bleed through its rich material.

Just then, as some Whos would say .. “My Grinch heart grew three sizes that day.” Of course it was more likely just a good bra. But that hardly sounds magical. There was still a definite shift in my mood.

Maybe Christmas meant something more.

I spent the next couple of days lost in my soul, searching. That, and the 16 or so inches of snow we were being pelted by. I couldn't help but feel like I was trapped on some sick reality show, like, "I'm a Southern Girl.. Get Me Out of Here."

So with suitcases in hand, I made my way to LGA and bid the city and the miserable slush farewell. And 2 and half hours later, I touched down to 70 degree weather, and my smiling parents who met me at the airport.

Walking into my old room, it’s hard for me to imagine how it used to be. A treadmill now stands where my computer desk was, the very place I did all my work for Sports Illustrated for back in the day. My bed had been replaced by one of those quirky “Get Abs quick” machines, whose effectiveness remained to be seen thanks to my grandmother’s excessive holiday baking. And on the wall where my old high school band picture once hung, was a giant flat screen TV. Well, I guess not ALL changes are bad. I dropped my bags on the floor, and pulled down the Murphy bed my parents had assembled in my room. As I laid down on the “bed in a box” bedspread, my cat Vegas jumped on the bed as if to ask.. “well, where the eff have you been?” But then, he quickly snuggled in next to me.

Finally. I was home.

Sometimes the things that mean the most to us are the things that are simply the most familiar. We take comfort in them, and the security they provide us with. It comes without ribbons. It comes without tags. It comes without packages, boxes, or bags! I’m sure one day I will be able to bear the coldness of New York and not resent it for holding me captive in the long winter months. But until then, Lutz is.. and will always be home. We may not have a Fifth Avenue, or a Macy’s the size of a theme park, or all the bright lights of the big city. But, I still have the Sterger family Christmas lights, the country bar, and the Beef O’ Brady's. And that all suits me just fine.

And being home, and with the people I love most in this world???.. Well, that’s the best present money can’t buy.

Doppelgängers and Woosels

2009-11-19T15:49:00.001-05:00

I'm still convinced the easiest way to meet people in NYC is through mutual friends. It’s nice having a set of references out there to put your mind at ease about the caliber of company you're keeping. And, it sure as hell beats hanging out with a guy that only wants to f*ck you or eat your brain with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti. So one night, a good girlfriend of mine took me out for a night on the town with some other friends of ours, who brought along some of their friends-- who happened to be very attractive males.

So the first of the bachelors, being a true gentleman, comes and picks us up in the car to spare us from the heinous weather. It was one of those dreary days between fall and winter (which I have come to call “shwinter”.. you can decide why). In shwinter, it does nothing but rain and temps hang out in the low 40’s. He was a good looking successful dude, just a tad older than we were. At least he was fun to be around and hot, in a very rugged Hugh Jackman way. We girls sprinted to the SUV in our five inch heels (WHAT?? I will take every spare inch I can get!) and cocktail dresses. Luckily I have practically become an expert at sprinting in stilettos, so aside from the occasional flipping of the umbrella I was practically Jackie Joyner Kersee. There in the car, the three of us were laughing and catching up on the gossip of our mutual friends when we arrived at Bachelor Number 2s place.

In the dark and dampness of the night I couldn't make out many of his features. That is, until he got inside the car. He was manpretty, but even more shocking to me: His close resemblance to my very first boyfriend. I had just met my first doppelganger.

In a city as big and vast as NYC, it’s not uncommon to see slight variations on people you know. That girl that used to make your life hell in grade school. Your best friend from college. But this one for me??.. The very first boy to break my heart.

You always remember your first true love, that is if you're even old enough to remember it. Some people argue at that age, you're too young to know what love is. Looking back, I'm still not sure I did then, or even now. But I do know at 16 years old, with hormones raging it’s hard to not get wrapped up in all the emotions of a relationship.

Phillip was everything to me. He was my best friend, my bowling buddy. And the first guy to ever really treat me like a girlfriend. Don't get me wrong, we were both still very young and ridiculously retarded when it came to understanding the opposite sex. But, we genuinely cared for one another.

He had big brown doe eyes and a genuine smile, not to mention a good old southern boy tan that had only been achieved with many hours of manual labor in the hot Florida sun.

But this guy? The doppelganger??.. He was different.

His eyes were big and round, just like Phillips. But his soul was empty. His smile screamed mischief more than s genuine friendliness. And his tan? Well, more than likely.. The result of countless hours in a tanning bed and good genetics.

The doppelganger flirted shamelessly with me in a sandbox like fashion. You know, the kind of flirtation that involves throwing insults and backhanded compliments at a girl like we did back in preschool. But when my southerness and big feelings got in the way, he quickly moved on to his next prey. I watched as he whored himself out to all the different girls in the room to make me jealous. Really? C’mon dude, what is this.. High school? I was far beyond the stage of playing games.

He was evil Phillip, as all of the crappy qualities in Phillip had seemed to have manifested themselves in THIS guy. Suddenly, all of Phillips shyness, introversion, and naivety didn't seem so bad.

"You know, you're a ridiculously attractive guy,” I said, “But your personality downright disgusts me."

"So.. Can I call you?"

So he was both evil AND delusional. I got out of his car and haven't spoken to him since. Sure from first glance he had looked like a man I once cared about, but all looks aside, he was no one I'd want to trust with my feelings.

I guess it’s okay to have a type, but dating a doppelganger is downright dangerous because while they may look familiar you're dealing with a totally different beast. And evil Phillip was not a beast I was willing to deal with.

Maybe that's why I've had so much trouble dating in NYC. The cultural barriers I am trying to overcome are just vastly different from anything I'm used to from that good old southern charm. Instead its brash statements and humor laden put downs.. And I'm supposed to swoon?

I don't THINK so.

A few weeks later, my girlfriends and I were out at a bar on a Saturday trying to catch a few college football games. I was scouring for a table, when I happened upon one with seven empty chairs. The eighth one was occupied.

"Excuse me," I asked, "is this seat taken?"

The man spun around to answer me. And my jaw dropped.

My head did one of those double takes you only see in sitcoms. Sure he was good looking, tall dark and handsome.. But that wasn't what garnered my reaction. In fact, there's plenty of tall dark and handsome running around New York. The problem is the better majority of the ones I've encountered have been assholes. No, the reason my jaw dropped was the fact I found his features eerily familiar.

He was a doppelganger for the Perfect Stranger.

For those of you wondering whatever happened to the Stranger? Well, even I really can't answer that. We really just never worked out. He was far too career focused, and perhaps even a little lost in life to even dream of pursuing a relationship. And to be frank, I'm pretty sure the perfect stranger was less than perfectly honest. But, aren't most men?

I sat down at the table, and kept the new doppelganger company as he waited for his friends to arrive. The two of us were both huge college football fans, so we had plenty of fun exchanging barbs over a few beers.

Sure the first may have been a total asshole, but this one almost seemed like an improvement on the Stranger. He wasn't guarded, or jaded, he just seemed like a good Midwest kid that just loved life. Turns out, "Iowa" was a transplant to this cement jungle just like me, and having just as hard of a time adjusting.

After a long day of college football and a few too many beers, I made my way back to Hoboken. In two days, I had met two strangers resembling two different people I had found at two different stages in my life that couldn't have been more polar opposites. Turns out you can find all sorts of things in NYC, including stunt doubles of our very own selves brave enough to take on this tough city. Maybe doppelgangers really aren't all that bad. Maybe they're what we choose to see them as: foils to compare one another with, to really see the good and bad in people. They teach us you should never really judge books by their covers, because while they may look similar from the outside, the stories they can tell will be completely different. And who knows. Maybe this one was just beginning.

Jenn on ESPN's Page 2

2009-11-17T12:48:00.001-05:00

Admin Update

Instead of a usual blog this time, Jenn wants you to go check out the interview she did with Lynne Hoppes over on ESPN's Page 2.

Jenn goes into a variety of topics ranging from her college days up to the December Cosmo issue.

Click here to read the full interview

The Legend of the Lone Ranger

2009-11-11T13:27:00.002-05:00

Humans are without a doubt creatures of habit. No matter how hard we try to break our patterns and predictability sometimes the results are just inevitable. The same applies for relationships. No matter how hard we try to move on or get past someone, sometimes were just drawn to individuals more so than others. Even if we got burned the first time, most of us are too sentimental and too optimistic to not want to give things another shot if the opportunity presents itself. I like to call this the “Mosquito Lamp Theory.”

Even though we have mosquitoes and such creepy crawlers in NYC, they're still not nearly as prevalent as they are south of the Mason Dixon line. They make spending time outdoors an absolute nightmare on those hot summer nights. I can't tell you how many Fourth of Julys I spent covered in insect repellent, and smelling like Deep Woods OFF. Not only was it greasy, to the point you spent most of the night covered in shreds of grass, but it was also highly flammable. Come to think of it, yeah, we weren't very bright back then were we? So we used to also have these great inventions called mosquito lamp. I'm not sure exactly how or why they work, but supposedly it has something to do with the varmint’s attraction to the light. It’s just so shiny, and bright that they can't help but go towards it. The problem for the bugs lies in the fact that once they touch the light they meet their untimely demise.

Personal friendships are no different. Once we reach a certain point in our lives, barring an extreme geographic relocation, we have probably already met the greater majority of the people we will call our friends. Sure there are exceptions to the rule and a random addition every now and then, but for the most part our social networks are pretty stable.

What about romantic relationships? Well, those are pretty predictable too. We encounter the same people over and over again even in our dating cycles. It’s really the same series of people making cameos throughout our lives in different capacities and roles. Even the ones we wish would just go away for our better well being, still manage to hang out on the outer rims of the circle. They enter orbit at various times, make their presence known, and then disappear again until the next time the planets align. It’s the circle of strife. That no matter how hard we try to avoid certain individuals, there are certain people that have inexplicable influences over our lives and draw us to them. Thus, the “Mosquito Lamp Theory.”

No matter how shitty the break up, or how messy the outcome, for some reason or another, with or without marital obligations, children, pets or baggage, we can't help but encounter these people.

There have been numerous times that I've dealt with this cycle, most of which I concluded didn't deserve a second glance. But there are those people you just can't help but fall for over and over again, no matter how poisonous they were the first go around. We forget their bites, their stings, and their ability to crush us to the very core because of certain electricity we can't deny that draws us back in.

Sure we can blame our past failures on bad timing, meddling third parties, or simply bad decisions, or you can go with the fact that sometimes people just don't know how to treat one another. But if you remember how badly it stings and what it felt like to get burned, are you willing to take the chance on something again just because you remember how awesome it once was? My friends talk about how jaded I am in terms of relationships and trusting men in general. It’s not to say I'm damaged goods it’s just that I've seen too many of them get burned by the opposite sex.

There have been numerous blogs written about a certain “ex” and I that just can't seem to avoid each other. Not only are our industries intertwined, but we generally have always had good chemistry with one another. Too bad were also complete commitmentphobes. Me-- the girl that leaves before dawn, like I'm one of those vampires from True Blood. And him-- well the quintessential Playboy. He's the kinda boy your mom loves to death, but only because you've spared her the stories of the heartbreak he’s caused. He.. is the cowboy. The guy that rides into town, wins over the townspeople, gets the girl, only to leave again and ride off into the sunset. He means no harm. It’s just his nature. He's untamable, except maybe by the one girl that gets him. That one girl.. is me.

So when John Wayne called me up the other night, quite unexpectedly, I was flabbergasted. It was one of those phone calls, where you try to string together a complete thought, and instead emerge with a bunch of random nonsense syllables. How on earth did this kid have this kind of power over me? Still, after all these years??
Turns out he’d called to tell me that he would be in town that weekend.

And had a relatively open schedule.

And he wanted to see me.

Preferably over dinner.

John and I have been here before. I have had dinner as both a date, and as a Wingman. And the second one nearly broke my heart. Then, there was last May’s walk in the rain. And that was the last I had seen of him. So why now? After all this time? Had the boy finally come to his senses and seen what was in front of him? Or was he still out gallivanting with his random conquests and reaching new western frontiers as cowboys tend to do? I marinated on his invitation for the rest of the night and barely slept a peep. Part of me still hated him for stringing me along all these years, all while singing my praises to everyone, including his own family. The other part of me couldn't help but see some small flame still flickering between us.

Now the only question remained.. Did I dare go towards the light??

After playing out the different potential scenarios in my head, I decided to take John up on his offer. My typical date night attire was jeans and a t shirt, but this particular night I had had events to attend and was still done up to the nines. Sure, I could’ve slipped into my blues and some cowboy boots, but part of me wanted him to see me like this. Too many nights in a ball cap and jeans were what had landed me in the “friend zone” in the first place I decided. It was time for John to realize what he’d left behind.

That night I ventured out to our meeting place: a quiet spot, for the two of us to not be seen or harassed in public, because well.. he gets harassed by creepy old dudes far more than I do. There, in the candlelight of the softly lit restaurant, I quietly sipped my wine. And waited and waited. And waited. An hour later, and no sign of the cowboy.. I finally had had enough. I paid my check, and went home.

The next morning, my phone erupted with texts from John, explaining that something had come up at the last minute, and that he was truly sorry for standing me up the previous night. And that, he “would love to see me that night.”

Dare I respond?

I sat on those texts the rest of the day, and debated with myself.

What to do? What to do?

If I continued to allow him to do this to me, there was no chance he would ever respect me. Here was a man I had grown to see as one of my closer friends, as someone who got me. But in reality, maybe he only "got" him, and I was the only one that got “us.” Still, I agreed to his terms and told him I would meet him that night. As dusk turned to darkness, I sat on my couch and watched the Yankees game. 10 pm rolled around and still no word from the cowboy. He had done it again.

That’ll do Jenn.. That’ll do.

I had had enough. It had been since my senior year prom that I had been stood up. But even as an adult, I still don't think rejection hurt any less.

Since that incident, John and I have exchanged a few texts but I have really just allowed things to lie. I don't need an explanation or an excuse, though I'm sure he’d find one. No, instead, I just ignore it, and let the chips fall where they may. While some of you may disagree with my course of action, I still stand by my decision. Besides, it was only a matter of time before he would mosey through town again. Only next time, I wouldn't give him a hero’s welcome. I still care about the kid, but I’ll be damned if I'm just going to sit around and pine over something I can't have. Rather than sit around and let the same relationships orbit around me, perhaps it was time for this cowgirl to discover her own new horizons, to find new uncharted territories. That's not to say I’d have to write John out of my story all together. But I definitely knew it was time to close his chapter. And by all means, learn from his story’s example.

And the moral is..

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Because you'll never know whose heart they'll break.

Are you there God? It's me, Jenn

2009-11-09T11:01:00.000-05:00

When we last saw Hewlett, my beloved laptop, he had been having many a technical difficulty. He was forever giving me the blue screen of death, the waiting hourglass, and sometimes just downright shutting down. Still, I never gave up on Hewlett and he never seemed to give up on me. No matter how many times I rebooted him, or turned him off in an effort to preserve his memory.. He always came right back to me.

Sure, he was a little slow at times, and his "G" key had ceased to stop working, which is quite problematic btw if your last name is Sterger. But.. I loved him anyway.

Then one night, as I finished my latest writing assignment, Hewlett finally gave up the ghost. His screen went black, and then.. He was gone. For those of you wondering where all the new pictures and blogs have been, I have a confession to make.... I've spent the past three months or so, not necessarily in hiding, but more so taking the time away to get to know myself again.

You see, sometimes things happen in life that we don't expect. Not every situation goes as planned. And the events surrounding August 7th, 2009 have left me in a real state of discontent and worry.

In an effort to reinvent myself, in a cut throat industry that was becoming more and more competitive the deeper I swam, I made the decision to go against the grain and remove my implants.

For reasons I explain in the upcoming December 2009 issue of Cosmopolitan magazine, it was a difficult, yet necessary decision. And true to form, life handed me several curve balls along the way.

The article was the final collaboration between my Hewlett and me, our grand finale of sorts. Given our time together these past few years it only seemed appropriate that he close this chapter of my life with me. Some may say I'm being overly sentimental over just a piece of hardware. Some would even argue that I shared the same sentiments about my breasts. They wouldn't be entirely wrong. But we can't help the things we find an emotional attachment to, even if to some they seem just an ordinary material object.

I recently recovered many of the files I thought I had lost when Hewlett crashed. Only now, I realize that they were just that: files. Memories I had just carelessly filed away never thinking I would ever need them the way I do now. I made an adult choice to get rid of the very things that were perhaps the only reason I started out on this journey. I then decided to bare that decision, along with my confusion and my soul for the public to bare witness.

Will I catch flack? Of course. Will the haters attend my public tar and feathering? Without question. But will a select few readers actually take the time to get to know the real me, the girl behind the boobs, now that I've again shared my greatest secrets and fears in a most vulnerable state? Well, that's what I'm hoping for.

For the real story, the real heartbreak, and finding the real me among the ruins, be sure and check out the December 2009 edition of Cosmo magazine, on stands now. And as always your comments are welcome.

And to my many online fans, thanks for your continued love and support. I am, and always have been eternally grateful.

Perfect on Paper

2009-11-06T11:49:00.000-05:00

I guess a lot of you are wondering why my blogs are no longer about my romantic life. Due to a series of unfortunate events, my romantic life has taken a back seat to my own personal health, well being, and career. Things which will all reveal themselves in due time I suppose. That's not to say there haven't been any developments or people of interest in my life; it’s just that I've just decided to take things at a “Less than Medium Pace,” Adam Sandler.

This is the tale of two guys. One was the perfect man on paper. You know the kind… they are seemingly perfect in theory, but the kind you would inevitably lose interest in for a thrill with some dude who wears graphic t shirts that are far too tight for him, rides a Ducati, and keeps LA Looks in business with his excessive hair gel usage. This ‘Perfect on Paper’ guy’s “Manfax” report was impeccable: A good upbringing, a solid family. A self made man, who owned his own business. He could've probably retired at 35 if the economy quit crapping the bed. He was extremely good looking with chiseled features. All in all a great catch. But, something wasn't there.

He didn't laugh at my jokes, or even get my sense of humor. His palms were always drenched in my presence. The only response he could usually muster was the word “cool”.. even if it was a statement regarding a recent hypothetical root canal. And he was always trying to find a reason to "stay the night." Um, sorry dude. But with the issues I've got going on I'm bout as asexual as a lamp.

We went on a few dates, but they were more awkward than enticing. There just weren't any fireworks. Sure, he could easily be the Ken to someone’s Barbie dream house, but for a girl like me.. Well, it just wasn't going to happen. The Ken doll and I eventually just faded into obscurity, what with my busy schedule and his. I just feel like the whole situation was too forced. It was one of those; I should have feelings for you because you're hypothetically the perfect guy. And the truth is.. He really is. Too bad, the person he is perfect for.. Just isn't me.

Then, there was the quiet guy. The kinda guy that goes out of his way to make you feel like you’re the only woman in the room that he even notices. He doesn't want anything or expect anything in return. He loves you on your bad hair days, and even your "bad brain days" as I've come to call them when you just have to shut yourself off from the world. His concern for you exudes everyday… your good days and all the ones in between. He gets what you do and who you are but would be just as happy if you taught high school band for a living so long as it made you happy. The main problem I had with the good guy was his glass half empty life. It seemed he always needed reassurance that I wanted to see him, that I wanted to spend time with him, that he was good enough for me. For a guy with so much to offer and so much genuineness.. Good grief! Why was he so insecure?? He was Charlie Brown.

The truth is I liked him. And liked him a lot. He was a good man, that Charlie Brown. But the timing was all wrong. As callus or brash as it may sound, I don't have time to solve anyone else’s crises. I'm struggling enough just dealing with my own. Thankfully, I have amazing friends and a supportive family to get me through everything. It was unfair for me to drag someone through the mess that has been my life. If you can't give someone everything they want, then why make them waste their time on some dream that may never come to fruition. After all, if I wouldn't subject my cat to it, why a human being?

I called one such friend on a less than perfect night, to give them the update on my situation in NYC. After listening to my stories about Ken and Charlie, he unloaded a barrel of truth on me that hadn't been done since my days with the Perfect Stranger.

"Jenn, can I be honest with you?” he asked. “And I mean this, in all sincerity. You're a real douche. You date guys that don't deserve you. One cheats on you, one lies to you, one leaves you for a Hooters waitress and another uses you as a replacement girlfriend til his old one comes back. You date down, Jenn. And why?? You're an amazing girl, with a lot to offer someone. I just hope one day you find yourself in all this mess and are happy. You're like Anna Scott, dude. You spend all your time dealing with these schmucky high profile guys and stupid fist pumpers that are either intimidated by you, don't deserve you, or are too damn immature to understand you. Why won't you just find your Hugh Grant already? The boy standing in front of a girl, well... You know how that goes. Instead you go for what everyone expects you to and not what makes you happiest. You're like the quarterback who dates the cheerleader just because it’s practically an arranged relationship."

The sad thing was, my friend was right. It’s sad when the things that make us happiest don't make any sense. Not to the people around us. Or .. Anyone for that matter. But if I was going to be completely honest with myself, how happy was I… REALLY? I shouldn't have to defend the decisions I make, nor will I. Mainly because sometimes we can't explain why were drawn to certain things over others. Girls will always chase what’s bad for them, just for the thrill. Until one day we wake up, and maybe the games aren’t so much fun anymore.

I still don't think Charlie Brown understands why we can't be anything more than friends. Aside from a minor misunderstanding, there was no blow out, no fight, it just ended. It’s not like I found someone else or just wasn't that into him. In fact, he's an amazing guy. And in turn, he deserves a great girl. And under different circumstances, that girl very well could have been me. But under the strains of the real world and the hand I have been dealt, I'm just a less than ideal version of myself. And if I can't give someone my best, than I would rather give them nothing at all other than my unconditional friendship. But, once feelings are hurt and exposed, let's face it.. There's no going back to “just friends.” He wanted so badly to try and save me from my problems, and situations that are just better left for me to deal with on my own. What Charlie never realized was I didn't need him to be some knight in shining armor. I didn't want him to ride up on his white horse and treat me like a princess. I mean, that's all fine and dandy. But at this stage in my life, I just want someone who is willing to stand next to me and remind me that I'm not alone, and roll with whatever adventure life hands us.

Until I get my life straightened out, there will be no happy ending, no prince to ride off with. But if I have learned anything these past few years, it’s that sometimes the journeys that teach us the most in life are the ones where we go it alone. Only then, do we come out stronger and better versions of ourselves.

Death to snuggies

2009-10-27T12:42:00.002-05:00

For as long as I can remember, I have never been a fan of sleepovers. I was that annoying kid that never wanted to stay over at anyone else’s house. I always left early at slumber parties. And I never, ever wanted to stay over at my boyfriend’s houses. It had nothing to do with them seeing me the next morning or the fact I'd have no makeup on and a terrible case of dragon breath. No, actually it had to do with the fact I couldn't sleep next to someone. I couldn't sleep in the same room with someone. I was a snugglephobe.

The sleep disorder didn't just apply to boyfriends. It went so far as friends.. And well, anyone. Except for my cat, Vegas, but that's because she minds her own space too, and typically just sleeps on her designated blanket. Personally, I just hated lying next to someone, even if that someone was my significant other. But that doesn't make me a frigid bitch. Maybe when I'm ready to sleep I want to actually sleep. But if I'm next to someone I feel like I have to be conscientious of my space and respectful of theirs.

When I go to sleep, it’s like a showdown at the O.K. corral. And this bed ain’t big enough for the two of us. Maybe I just like my space. I can't explain my weirdness or the logistics of it. I just enjoy being able to stretch out and lay where I want, without feeling like I'm intruding on someone else’s personal space.

It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't always end up with a cuddler. No matter how big or how bad ass the guy, I always seemed to get stuck with the kid who had once been the runt of his litter or had mommy separation issues. You know, the kind that doesn’t sleep next to you, but practically on top of you. Maybe I could sleep stomach to someone, but why the need for full body contact? They were like puppies that weren't properly weaned from their mother. I mean, I'm laying next to you. Isn't that enough? Why hump my leg? And given the size ratio between the guy and me, it was only a matter of time before they rolled over and it was.. Bye bye Jenn.

Most people can trace their phobias back to a certain point in their life. And while this one stems back as far as childhood, I remember an instance more recently that totally put my snugglephobia in full throttle. A few years back, I had dated this guy for a few months when we ended up staying out late and drinking at a club for a buddy of his birthday. I had been the designated driver of the group, so drinking was kinda out of the question. I was also dead tired when we rolled out of the club in the middle of the night. Not wanting me to drive home by myself in the dark, he insisted I stay at his place and just leave in the morning.

So I snuggled into his giant king size bed and relished in my ability to finally get off my feet. He slipped his left arm under my neck, and the two of us quickly dozed off to sleep.

But not for long.

You know how a dog has those super vivid dreams? The kind where they twitch in their sleep in hot pursuit of a cat or possibly a mailman? Well, apparently, I was dating Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn because his left arm not only quivered in his sleep, it heaved a mid nineties heater just behind my shoulder blades. 3 1/2 innings later I was beginning to lose my patience with this starter. His strike zone was a little high. And he liked to pitch around the outside corner. I laid there watching the clock tick away at the early morning hours, praying they'd call this game on account of rain, wet dreams, or something.

Finally, at 5 am, as the sun began to peak through his bedroom shades, I had had enough. 6 innings, 5 K, 96 pitches later.. I called him out. I grabbed my shoes, my purse, and took my base. And I didn't walk, I ran. That would be the last time I slept next to someone for a long, long time.

Not having a steady boyfriend, these have been moot issues. If I have gone on dates, I've made it perfectly clear that the date ends when I'm ready to go to sleep. And said sleep will take place in my own bed, and no one else’s. Guys have farted. Guys have peed on me. Hell, drunk girlfriends have peed on me. People have sweated on me like they were participating in that weird hot room yoga session. Not to mention, it’s quite disgusting to wake up in someone else’s discarded dinner from the night before, post-digestion of course. If people have so little respect and awareness of their space and actions in their sleep, it made me wonder what I was doing in my dream state of mind.

What if I was bitch-slapping people? Or kicking them senseless like I was in that old school Street Fighter game?

Sleep is the one time a person has zero control over their actions, and also has zero recollection of them. I found this out the hard way, when I was prescribed Ambien a little over a year ago. For one, sleep eating became a real problem, especially when my roommate made his amazing pumpkin pie. I woke up the next morning, and he was less than pleased. I'd watch entire television programs, but couldn't remember anything past the opening credits. It made me very thankful for my DVR.. And some nights, I'd sleep walk butt-ass naked through my apartment. Luckily, no one but one of my girlfriends witnessed this.

Maybe I could train myself to sleep next to someone, with a Snuggie or a body pillow? But as I soon discovered, Snuggies are really just weak sauce backwards robes. And if anyone saw me wearing it, they’d swear I'd joined a cult. But the body pillow seemed to have real potential.

As I laid down for the first night in my bed with my surrogate sleep partner, I said my prayers and hoped for the best. There in the darkness of my room, I tried my best not to toss and turn. But something in the back of my head didn't seem to want to relinquish our sleeping quarters, even if it was only to a giant pillow. 3 hours of wrestling and unrest later, I tossed my fluffy sleeping experiment onto the floor. Sleep comfort my ass! And finally drifted off to sleep.

I know what you're thinking. How on earth have I ever been in a long term relationship? Or had slumber parties? Or ever survived band camp?

The answer is.. I dunno.

But last week, after spending countless hours on set and commuting, it finally happened. A buddy of mine offered to let me crash at his place. It was some god awful hour in the morning and I was really dreading the early morning commute back to work. So he told him he was more than willing to stay on his couch and pony up his bed for me that night.

One problem. By the time we made it back to his place it was probably 4 am or so and there were what appeared to be two dead bodies on his couch. Turns out a few of his roommates’ friends had just had one too many and didn't feel like trying to trek it home. After surveying the situation, we came to our conclusion: We'd have to sleep next to one another. I debated with my inner self about actually going home, but cabbies make a practice of ripping people off in the middle of the night, especially if you're going to Jersey. And forget about taking the trains! Only the most derelict and blacked out drunkards took the train back to 'Boken after midnight. So it looked like I was stuck there.

As we laid down on his ginormous bed, I practically drew a line down the middle.

"Look," I said. "I have a real big problem sleeping next to people. I'm doomed to live in a house that is set up like the old 1950's ones. You know, with the two beds. I just have this thing about my personal space. I know it sounds nuts, but I haven't slept next to someone in ages. So I apologize if I kick or scream or rattle off random bits of my deepest darkest secrets in my sleep. And as for you. Just.. Keep your hands and feet in your space and we will be just fine."

He gave me an odd look and laughed at my awkwardness.

"Just go to sleep ya nut job. We both like boys, so this shouldn't be an issue."

I'm pretty sure he was lying about the second part, but I laid down nonetheless.

I put my head down on his comfy pillow and began my staring contest with the being I had come to know as my archrival.

"So. We meet again ceiling."

I gave the textured ridges of the hardest stare of my life, but finally conceded my defeat.

Then... I woke up.

Rays of sun shone through his blinds, and I knew I had done it. I had actually fallen asleep! I hadn't kicked anyone, or punched anyone. And let's face it; girls don't fart, so I hadn't embarrassed myself there either. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

As I did the walk of shame home in the previous days clothes I couldn't help but laugh at myself. What had I been so crazy about? I had survived a night in bed with another human being, and given the cold weather - I think I almost liked it.

What?... This Southern girl still needs a space heater. ;)

Splenda

2009-09-23T16:24:00.001-05:00

Being from the south, I've grown accustomed to the sweeter things in life. Sweet potatoes, sweet corn, and of course sweet tea. Down south, even in a city as urbanized as Tampa, they serve their tea so sugary sweet you need something salty on hand just to avoid going into sugar shock. I'd drink the stuff until I was sick.

Then, Sharon Richter, my nutritionist told me how many calories I was ingesting in beverages alone. It was like being told Santa played Satan in the off-season. Or that the Easter Bunny’s favorite hobbies included boiling his own kind. Or that the Tooth Fairy may have left you dollars under your pillow, but she also farted on it for good measure. (No wonder I was always getting pink eye.) In short.. I was devastated.

Then I discovered this amazing thing called Splenda. I had used the stuff on occasion before, but never really took a liking to it. They say if it sounds too good to be true it probably is. A zero calorie sweetener? That did the same job as sugar without the fat ass? Rigghhht. What was the catch? I’ll come down with some incurable cancer, or maybe a thyroid disorder? But, everyone I knew was praising its greatness, so, why not?

Before long I was putting Splenda on everything I ate. I mean things that don’t even warrant Splenda… like… vegetables. I figured if a little was good, a lot was even better. It became an ongoing joke between my old roommate and I about just how much I would go through a day. He’d spill some while baking… then wipe it into a nice little line and asked me if I wanted to “hit it.” That is when I realized, I had a real problem.

My name is Jenn, and I’m a Splendaholic.

HI JENNNNNNNNNN.

This city is so cold, cut and dry with zero compassion it seems. Its not that the people here take delight in others misfortunes, they simply just don’t care either way. So for an outsider, this town can come across as very cynical.

Me? I’m a brutally honest girl, but even that doesn’t stop me from sugar coating things every now and then. Some people up here seem to appreciate it, while others loathe its usage entirely. Now I'm all about being real with people, but being a pessimistic hard truth a$$hole…is just not what I had in mind.

Up here, there is a girl in my circle of friends we’ve all come to affectionately refer to as.. Eeyore. Despite having lost a ton of weight recently, and getting a new hair cut, she was still one of the least confident and albeit most miserable people I know. She’d go on dates with men, and report back to us the next day….

Us: How’d your date go?
Eeyore: It was fineeeeeeeeeeeee.

Us: Well, what did you do?
Eeyore: Went to dinner. Had some wine. Prolly
never see him again. (Oops, I lost my tail. Thanks for noticing meeeeeee…….)

Ok, so I made up the last part. But, you get the picture. It was just a slew of man-hating and socially destructive patterns we had come to expect from her. The problem was… Eeyore didn’t hate men. The person she was really unhappy with was herself.

People who shoot down hope, the cynics, the people unhappy with their own existence yet… doing NOTHING proactive about their situation, well… I just don't need them. I prefer to think of myself as one of life’s cheerleaders, only without the outfit or any dance skills. After all, sometimes we could all use someone to reassure us that everything will be ok. Do you think Obama got elected by telling people how $hitty the next four years of life in America would be? Of course not. He got elected because he promised “change.” He calmed our fears. He told us that while things may seem bad, they would inevitably get better. And what else could he really do?.. He kind of inherited this mess. While kids used to dream of being the President of the United States, now we have ten year olds who are like… “No, that’s ok. I’d rather be a florist instead.” How were we supposed to know that an eight year ruling by an oil tycoon would send this country into such a downward spiral? I mean, he could hardly run the Texas Rangers, he knew jack shit about the internet and we expected him to be the leader of the greater part of the free world? I don’t THINK sooooo. Maybe Robin Williams was right: “Some men achieve greatness. Others get it as a graduation present.” Though you can't blame one man, you can certainly blame the administration.

So in a world overrun by negativity and bad things happening to good people, what are we supposed to do?...

Have faith. Have hope. Be positive. You have to have hope. Just remember, that no matter how bad things are, they could always be worse. My parents have always said that I was never “just a little kid.” I was a little adult. I wanted to belong in their conversations, their world. Well, the real world as I came to discover… really sucked. So my mom taught me how to play the “Glad Game.”

“You have to tell me 3 positive things, or things that make you happy, before you can launch into whatever nasty barrage you were about to pummel me with,” she said.

And sure enough. It started to work. It became a part of me and my mother’s rituals. Sometimes the lists came rather easily, other times .. not so much, but we always seemed to manage and it made the day so much easier.

So when things got a little more than I could handle recently, I decided to bring back the “Glad Game.” It not only made my days easier, but it improved my interactions with others as well. The business people who liked to play the close-minded devil’s advocate all the time. The girls with their man-hating sessions. (Guess what? You’re just as crazy as men are. Why do we kid ourselves?) And the coworker that just can’t seem to be anything but a Debbie Downer. They now had to either list of three GOOD things about the day, about life, whatever or you just don't pick up their call. It’s not about being a Pollyanna or being delusional. It’s about having a good relationship with yourself and being able to cope when life throws you some massive curve balls.

After coming to grips with my addiction to Splenda, I’ve really toned down my usage of the stuff. After all, there is still a lot that we don’t really understand about it yet, and the critics and nutritionists are still pretty skeptical. I guess like most things in life, artificial sweeteners are best used in moderation and with managed expectations.. Whether you’re sugar coating your oatmeal, your ice tea, or just a bad day, it’s always best to use it sparingly, because who knows when the day will come you may need that little something extra. So when the cynics, Debbie Downers, Hard asses, and curveballs come your way, just smile, nod, and take them with a spoonful of Splenda. At least then you can still fit in your favorite pair of jeans.

And that’s proof that a little sugar really does help the medicine go down.

In a most delightful way.

HIMMR

2009-09-14T14:18:00.000-05:00

Kids, ever since I moved to NYC I've made no bones about how the city could change a person. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.. but like Alice down the rabbit hole, you always emerged from the other end a whole new you. As I reflected over the past year of my life, I reminisced about the roller coaster ride it had been. I won't lie. It kind of resembled an E ticket ride at Disney world. However, through all that turmoil and excitement, I had never really grown to love the one place I was supposed to call home.. my apartment.

Don't get me wrong, it was a beautiful space, with a view they'd show in most movies. And while people would tease that I lived in New Jersey, I would always counter them with a glance at my unobstructed view of the NYC skyline. And that they, those stuck up Manhattanites, no matter how great their view was.. Still had to look at NJ. I think it’s safe to say the joke’s on them.

A funny thing happened though when I started to pack away all my pots and pans. I almost felt a little.. sad. Sure my ‘Super’ was anything BUT super, not to mention a real bitch on wheels. In fact, at one time I’m pretty sure I threatened to pay my rent to her in one dollar bills just to watch her count them all. Or all the times it looked like a bomb went off in my kitchen because my cheftastic roomie decided to ‘kick it up a notch.’ Or the fact that my door guys were usually so blitzed they barely knew who was coming or going. But it was still the only home I remotely knew.

Piled knee deep in work projects, moving day arrived rather quickly. I watched as three men with an assist from my best friend and my father loaded my life onto a truck and sent it to its new destination: a mere mile away. But far more practical, and convenient in location than my previous apartment. And in this economy, who can really blame me? Besides, when I look at my upcoming schedule I'll be on the road more than I'll be in New York. It looks like it’s the gypsy life for me. Much to my father’s dismay, Vegas, my cat is still a refugee at my parents’ house where she pretty much rules the roost over the three Dobermans and countless other critters. And has the undivided attention of both my sister and grandmother who have to take turns watching her eat. What can I say?? She’s used to being an only child.

I thought when I left Florida I had rid myself of things like stifling heat, nasty humidity, hurricanes, and tropical storms, but true to form, Mother Nature kept me on my toes that weekend. The truck had barely parked in front of my new place when the rain arrived, introducing Tropical Storm Danny. Lord, I thought, please don't let this be a sign of the things to come.

My new roommates were all at work, so I was free to unload my stuff without disrupting them. I unlocked the door and was greeted by Rex, a dog the size of a bedroom slipper with bladder control issues. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a huge animal lover, but having been raised with big dogs, I'm definitely a bit biased. Besides, once dogs get small and start fitting in purses, they are more fashion accessories than anything else. Rex and his excitability would take some getting used to. But until then, I put him away in Alicia’s room so he wouldn't get stepped on by the movers, or worse.. loose on the streets in Hoboken.

I watched as the first of the boxes came in. Things were actually moving along quite smoothly until we got to the box spring. While my older building had had the convenience of an elevator system, the new place was a good old walk-up. On any given day the extra set of stairs would be a nice edition to my workout, but on moving day these stairs were a real bitch. After finagling with the stairs as much as they could, my father and the movers made their decision. It would have to come over the balcony.

One problem: my room didn’t have a balcony. That left us no choice but to go through Rapunzel’s room. I call her this mainly for her princess-like mannerisms, Pollyanna mindset, and the excessive amount of hair this woman has. Real or fake, she’s pretty much the envy of most women around her for it. She is the Jenn Sterger antithesis.. in short.. the girly-girl. The kind you would swear still owns a collection of dolls, the variety of which “guy’s girls” like me would love to do nothing more than microwave just to see how tolerant plastic was of low volume radiation. The mere fact she has a balcony only makes this analogy even more accurate.

My dad walked down the hallway and opened the door to the princess’ sleeping chambers when he was greeted by a less than pleasant site.

There, sprawled out in the middle of the bed was a man face down in the sheets. Oh yeah..

And he was also butt naked.

My father quickly shut the door.

"Holy shit," he said. "Someone's in there. And he's definitely not wearing anything."

My dad knocked on the door several times, and called out to the man, but there was no answer.

"I think he's dead," said my dad.

I shook my head and opened the door. Sure enough, there lay the Naked Man in all his glory. Where most people would call his nudity a flagrant foul, I’m going to use this as more of a time out to explain WHY there is a naked man in my apartment. You see, Naked Man and Rapunzel have been dating for several years now. I’d seen him over at the place many times; he just usually wasn’t modeling the Emperor’s new clothing line. But since he was in the off season his schedule was much more relaxed and his wardrobe apparently just followed suit. I walked into the room and threw a blanket over his Seth Roganesque hairy bare ass to save my stomach contents from seeking their nearest exit. Then, I tapped his foot.

"Um, Naked Man? Yeah…… hi. Were trying to move my things in today and were going to need to use Rapunzel’s balcony since some things won't fit up the stairs. Really sorry to wake you, but I was kinda under the impression everyone was at work."

I finished my diatribe and threw Naked Man his drawers. A few moments later, he emerged from the cave and went about his walk of shame to his own apartment down the street. I had just survived my first encounter with the Naked Man.

I wasn’t the only roommate moving in that weekend apparently. Enter Craig. We’ll call him that.. because well, that is where Alicia and Rapunzel found him: On Craig’s List. Finding roommates online is almost as intimidating as online dating. Wait… actually.. it's worse. After all, you have to share a living space with these people. The guy that used to live in Craig’s room we affectionately referred to as Borat, only because none of us could really understand how to pronounce his name. He traveled a lot though, so he more used the space for storage than anything else. Never mind the fact Alicia had gotten nosey one time while he was out and found ice picks, duct tape and rope in his room. We decided he was either a guy with an affinity for rock climbing, or perhaps was a serial killer in training. He turned out to be the former, but also ended up moving out to live with his girlfriend. Craig was his last minute stand in. I’m still not quite sure how I feel about the whole situation. But as long as he isn’t a complete slob or an ax murderer I think I will be ok with it eventually.

The rest of the furniture made it in rather quickly and easily. Then the real fun began.. Unpacking.

Sara and I unloaded all my bedding and linens, and then began the arduous task of finding homes for all of my clothes. We started piling away my shirts and underwear into drawers. But something wasn't quite right. For some weird reason, my drawers kept slipping out. Just then a bottle of shampoo fell off my dresser and began to roll across the floor, rapidly gaining speed before it stopped at the opposite wall. I picked up the shampoo bottle and walked it back over to the dresser. Why on earth had the bottle rolled clear across the room?

Just then, it dawned on me.

"FML." I said.

"What?"asked Sara as she approached me. "What's wrong?"

"Sara. Look."

I put the bottle back down on the floor and watched as it once again rolled across the floor and slammed into the wall.

You know that moment, when your picture perfect dream of your new place, new car, new girlfriend… when you discover their secret, giant flaw that forever would haunt your image of them??.. Well, this was that moment. If I had been born with one leg vastly shorter than the other, or perhaps had a budding career in skateboarding or any other extreme sport for that matter, my discovery would have been beyond exciting and awesome. But I was none of these things. So instead, I heard the sound of glass shattering as I came to the ugly realization…that I was living in a crooked apartment.

“Jenn, it’s not the end of the world.. it will just take some getting used to. Well, that and a few wedges and blocks of wood from Home Depot. So 9 blocks of wood and 4 door stops later my room was brought to a happy equilibrium.

The next few days were spent cleaning, painting and sprucing up the place. And if I must say so myself, just the addition of a little bit of color and elbow grease has taken the place from a 3 … to at least an 8. It certainly is no high rise renovation, but it definitely has character. Now it’s cleaner than it’s been probably since Bush Sr was in office, and W was still destroying a baseball franchise. It’s got more layers of paint on it than the girls on “Rock of Love,” but it’s still a work in progress. Just like life. You can analyze all the cracks, and nicks, and dents… or you can accept them as just a part of the process. A home and life are simply what you make them. And with a little hard work, effort, and love… well.. the results can be priceless.

And that kids… is how I met my roommates.

The Couch

2009-09-09T09:27:00.002-05:00

It’s no secret that athletes are some of the most superstitious people you’ll ever meet. They’re the guys that won’t shave their beards in a run for the Stanley Cup. They’re the guys who step over the first base line when they take the field. And of course the guys who won’t wash a jock strap or some other vital uniform part just to not jinx a winning streak. They are not only willing to compromise their own personal hygiene, but also the olfactory senses of those around them, just to perform these repetitive acts that any doctor with the proper training would say border on the diagnosis of some form of OCD.

But to say these behaviors and fears are unfounded might be a tad naive. Just ask the Boston Red Sox. After selling off Babe Ruth for a Broadway Musical, they and their fans endured 85 seasons before winning their next pennant. And what about the Cubbies?.. Haven’t their fans suffered enough? They have a sign in the outfield of Wrigley that says how many games since their last championship, and sadly enough just watch the numbers tick away every season. And then.. there’s poor poor Cleveland: the city that simply can’t catch a break in any sport it seems and where the phrase “taking the Browns to the Super Bowl” is more fitted for bathroom jokes than sports headlines.

So it’s no surprise that athletes’ superstitions have rubbed off on their fan bases. After all, when you eat, sleep, and breathe a certain team you can’t help but revel in their wins and mourn their losses. My father is no exception.

When I transferred to Florida State in 2004, my parents sent me up to Tallahassee with a washed up old living room set. It wasn’t in awful condition, but it certainly wasn’t fresh from the showroom floor of a Havertys. It was one of those beat up old couches that had seen the wear and tear of having teenage daughters with obnoxious parties, weaning a pair of Dobermans through the “puppy stage” and a clan of cats who were seemingly always marking their territory. After countless shampooing and sewing sessions later, the cushions had definitely seen better days. The ottoman, though easily moved on wheels, sagged in the middle because it was one of the dogs’ favorite sleeping spots even though her ass would barely fit on it. And the pillows?... Well, they were a rag-tag set of whatever was left, and a few editions after a run to Pier 1.

Even with all her beatings and markings, this couch still possessed powers much more far reaching than any of us could have ever predicted. That is.. until Sept 5, 2005. While some of you may recognize that as the date I was discovered on national television, my father will forever remember it … as something else.

The day the Miami Hurricanes fell to the Florida State Seminoles.

For years, this was always a day that was circled on my parents calendar, as they were both die hard ‘Canes fans. My sister and I were products of the Butch Davis, Dennis Erickson, and Larry Coker eras. I’m pretty sure we even had cute little Miami outfits our parents would dress us in to attend games. With all this Green and Orange pumping through my family tree, one would assume I was the black sheep of the family by attending Florida State. But after I showed Mom and Dad the potential cost to attend the “U” versus the Free Ride I had been offered by the ‘Noles… my Dad decided to let that slide. No word yet on whether or not I will be left out of his will though. Once I was on campus, it wasn’t hard to fall in love with the ‘Noles. And boy, did I fall hard. My wardrobe began to consist of whatever the newest tee was at the bookstore, and those obnoxious gym shorts with ‘Noles embroidered across the ass. And like that, the transformation was complete.

Fast forward to September 5, 2005… that fateful Monday night. Though it was hardly an offensive display of talent, the game proved to be like any other match up between these two teams - a bitter fight to the end. Only this time, for the first time in five years the outcome was different. After a dynasty of Wide Rights, a Wide Left, and a Bowl Game for good measure, the ‘Noles finally defeated the mighty Hurricanes. Some ‘Noles fans would say it was simply our time. But not me… I knew the real reason behind our victory: the green couch. For years my dad had insisted, that as long as his ass was on our green couch, the ‘Canes could not lose. He even found this to be true while on the road. If the ‘Canes were in a crunch, he would tear apart the entire ‘A’ Terminal of Hartsfield International Airport looking for a green chair, which he usually found in Delta’s crown room. Should said chair be occupied, even by a mammoth of a human being, my dad would throw down for that piece of furniture. And what about attending games in person??.. Well, I’m pretty sure he even had a green stadium cushion he brought along. While all this may seem a little crazy and over the top, you could trace everything back to… the green couch. Maybe… just maybe he was on to something.

The next year’s match up was a repeat of 2005, only this time in the Orange Bowl… a stadium I so fondly remembered from my childhood that had clearly seen better days by the time I was in my early twenties. The teams 2007 meeting resulted in a Miami win at the arm of a kid named Kirby Freeman. Yeah, the same Kirby Freeman that would complete 1 of 14 passes, for 86 yards, and 3 interceptions against NC State the following week. So how did Miami pull off the upset at Doak??... Simple. The Couch was back in Tampa, as I had brought it home to my parents while I was on the road working for Sports Illustrated and Sprint.

The following year, my parents added an extension to our house so my grandmother could come live with us.. and with her.. came all her stuff. Including a nicer, never-been-pissed-or-chewed-on furniture set. But her couch was flowery, and what you would expect your grandmother to own.. and blue of all things. Come to think of it.. maybe that’s why the Gators were on their National Title streak two out of the last three years. Remind me to move that damn thing the next time I go home. And as for the ‘Noles/’Canes outcome, well… with the Green couch shoved deep into the corner of a climate controlled storage center… well, the ‘Canes were simply no match for the Seminole Nation.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. My buddies and I were all settled into a little booth at our favorite sports pub taking in week one of college football, when my phone’s text message alert went off. I still can’t decide whether teaching my mother to text was either the smartest or dumbest thing I’ve done, but she’s actually gotten quite good at it as a means of secondary communication. Though I’m sure there may have been a few punctuation or spelling errors, the text read something like this.

YOUR FATHER IS BANNING ALL GARNET GOLD BLUE AND GATOR ORANGE FROM THE HOUSE TIL FURTHER NOTICE.

PS. WE ARE TRADING OUT THE GOLD FURNITURE FOR THE OLD GREEN STUFF IN STORAGE.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe there was something to all this hocus pocus. I guess I would find out soon enough.

As it turns out, finding movers on short notice over a holiday weekend proved to be a much more difficult task than previously thought. So the couch would remain there, in the cold corner of the storage room for one more match up. When Monday night rolled around, I texted my mother: IF THE CANES GO DOWN TONIGHT, MY FATHER WILL HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT HIMSELF. AND HIS ASS FOR NOT BEING ON THAT GREEN COUCH.

Four quarters, a turkey burger, and two beers later… I knew the answer. As I crawled into bed at my Hoboken apartment in dismay, my father was singing a different tune down in Tampa. He walked into the bedroom where he awakened my mother and three sleeping Dobermans in their bed.

“Well,” he said, “I didn’t need my couch.”

And like that.. the curse was over.

Maybe all this karma crap really is just a bunch of hocus pocus. Or maybe it’s just our way of explaining why certain things in life happen the way they do. It doesn’t explain how bad things still happen to good people and how others reap what they sew, but it goes to show you that maybe life is just in the hands of fate. In reality, were really all just being tested. Our wills to succeed, prosper, survive. But some aspects of life and their outcomes we simply can’t explain. So we use Karma as our virtual scapegoat. Sure, she can be a real bitch, but she can also bring you a little luck too. And like the saying goes, sometimes I would rather be lucky than good. So maybe it doesn’t take a green couch, or an unwashed jock strap, or a crazy prophet with a goat (Google it)… maybe all it really takes is hard work, faith, and luck. After all, couldn’t we all just use a little more of that???

The green couch still resides in a climate controlled storage space off of Bearss Road in Lutz. If any 'Nole fans happen to own a large truck, and are attending next year’s match up.. I might be able to get you the access code to the unit. I’m not saying I believe in all this junk.. I’m just saying.. I have a score to settle. :)

(To Be Continued… 2010)

Admin Update: 1-900-BALL-TLK -- Hot Sports Chat with Jenn Sterger

2009-09-02T20:51:00.001-05:00

Yes, Jenn's alive and well. She's just busy rebooting. :) She'll be back blogging soon though.

This video from 12 Angry Mascots ought to tide y'all over for a little while longer:

REBOOT.

2009-08-05T10:16:00.003-05:00

I was in the middle of another romantic epiphany blog when it happened again. Kings of Leon’s “Use Somebody” suddenly went into an impromptu techno remix that only played one note, my mouse no longer worked… and then.. there it was.

The Blue Screen of Death.

I first saw the Blue Screen of Death last November. I didn’t really think too much about it. Just figured it was one of those buggy things that PC’s got every once in a while. So I upgraded my firewalls, upgraded my virus protection, and went about my own business. But then it happened again sometime mid February. And again in April. The Blue Screen of Death was becoming far too regular a visitor to my beloved laptop.

Ordinarily, I would just take Hewlett (my computer), to my buddy Erick and let him tinker with him until he was back in working order. But, I wasn’t in Tampa, and had no plans to travel in the immediate future. So I took Hewlett to the boys over at the Geek Squad to see if they could figure out what was wrong with him.

The diagnosis was bleak.

Hewlett was simply running out of memory and running out of time. Sure, I could buy an external hard drive and milk him a little while longer, but there was no telling when he would surf his final web page or simply give out on me. Here I was, a girl born and raised from the grassroots of internet message boards, and I could barely keep a solid WIFI connection, let alone multitask without sending Hewlett into an electronic seizure. And with all the craziness I had coming up in my schedule, I couldn’t afford to be caught on the road with no access to cyberspace. It was time to face a harsh reality. Hewlett had simply become outdated.

Hewlett and I have seen a lot of adventures (and misadventures) over the past few years. I got him as a Christmas gift from my parents the year I started writing for Sports Illustrated, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. He has seen me through the good times, the bad times, and all the ones in between.

How was I supposed to part with something that had been such a huge part of not only my professional success, but my personal life over the past four years?? Sure his “G” key was a little busted, his speakers were a little rusted, and his memory was at times a little fuzzy, but he always got the job done. We knew the airport security drill like the back of our hard drives, and had become masters of pirating our way through random WIFI connections. But what now?

Hewlett wasn’t the only one feeling the strain the past few years had put on our lives. Between my shooting schedules, upcoming projects, charity work, and meetings, I barely have enough time to sleep let alone take care of myself. And that’s while I was single. My relationships over the past few years had been even more draining, some of course far more than others. I dunno, maybe Hewlett was trying to tell me something. MALFUNCTION: NEED INPUT. Maybe I needed something else in my life. A change, a fresh… something. Maybe it was time.. to say goodbye.

I’m proud of the things I have accomplished in the short four years since that fateful Monday night. People can say I haven’t accomplished much, or downplay the victories I have had, or better yet attribute all my success to cleverly crafted cleavage… but I think they’d be shortchanging me if they did. As some of my colleagues have pointed out on numerous occasions, I wasn’t born into this industry. Nor did I have any real formal training. People work their entire lives to do a fraction of what I have done merely a few years. I was thrust into it overnight, by luck. Ran with it, by chance. And never looked back, with hard work and dedication.

That’s not to say I haven’t had a few missteps along the way. After all, with no fancy publicists, agents, or managers until recently.. I’ve done most of it by myself and the help of a few trusted friends and family. Sure, I will put my foot in my mouth a time or too but I’ve always said I am so much more eloquent on paper. Hewlett has spell check.. grammar check. And a backspace key. Really, what more could a girl ask for?

My parents arrived this week to help me get things in order and make final preparations for the big things ahead of me. After I coerced my dad into reprising his role as Tim the Tool Man Taylor and installing a new air conditioner in my future apartment.. I gave him an even bigger task: One last ditch effort to save Hewlett. My dad is pretty nifty with computers, but something in the back of my mind said this job was just too big for any of us to handle.

As we backed up all of Hewlett’s memories, part of me couldn’t help but get a little nostalgic. There I was…. meeting Brent Musberger in Eugene, Oregon. Shaking & Baking with Tony Stewart and the boys of NASCAR. Falling in love and touching the Ivy on the Walls of Wrigley. There were pictures intermixed of boyfriends past. The ones that were better off friends, the ones that got away, and the ones I couldn’t seem to get .. to just go away. Then, there they were. The infamous screen captures that started it all: The birth of “The Cowgirl.” I couldn’t help but laugh at how things had changed in the past four years. From short shorts and cowboy hats, to power suits and couture dresses. The ‘lil Cowgirl was all grown up. I guess we all have to at some point, right?..

While perusing through the photos I stumbled upon a folder name I didn’t recognize. GHSMB2002. Hm.. that’s weird. I opened the folder.

Sure enough, it was the old me. The one before the plastic surgery, the one before all the heartbreak. The girl who was a hopeless romantic, a prolific piano player, and had one of the biggest cheese grins you have ever seen.

Then it dawned on me.

WTF was I thinking?!?!?!?! I couldn’t disassemble Hewlett. He had served me well, and I was just willing to throw in the towel.. just like that. I don’t think so!!!

NO DIS-ASSEMBLE HEWLETT!!!!!!.........

So, countless hours later, with a new partitioned hard drive and lord knows what other miracles my dad had worked on the operating table, we managed to buy Hewlett a second lease on life. It wasn’t quite starting over per se, because we’d always have our memories and the occasional glitch here or there. But at least we had a fresh blank screen to work on.. a new hard drive. External hard drive for the old memories.. but a place to start anew and keep the good times coming. Then I thought, maybe it was time to shut down my own operating systems for a little while, and reboot myself too.

Sometimes you just have to start life over with a blank screen and leave the past right where it belongs… behind you, whatever hardships it may entail. Otherwise, you could look around one day and find yourself.. well, extremely outdated. I wasn’t about to tear apart all the hard work I had done in the past five years, only tweak it so I could build upon it to start a new chapter. The road ahead wasn’t going to be an easy one.. but I was prepared to do just that.

Please Stand By Ladies and Gentlemen…..

Jenn 2.0 is LOADING.. .. .. .. ..

Funny Girl (special bonus at the end)

2009-07-28T22:31:00.003-05:00

Ever since I was five years old, I wanted to be a star. I would watch Annie on continuous loop, and knew every word of every song. So much so, that I'd subject my family or anyone that would listen to my impromptu performances, complete with several wardrobe changes in and out of my grandmother’s old fancy dresses. There in front of an intimate audience of about five or so, I'd belt out the words of "Tomorrow" from one side of my mouth. Once I was old enough to reach the sustain pedal, and under the tutelage of our family’s foreign exchange student, I started to play my own accompaniments and even write my own music. With formal lessons, I'd say I had become pretty damn good. Even before I entered kindergarten, I was landing the leads in my preschool’s plays.. All except for Alice and Wonderland, for which I was passed over for not being a blonde. I'm not bitter about it though because the script was absolute crap anyway. Then one day I realized my absolute favorite thing to do while riding in the car on my way to Saturday morning bowling league. My father was driving and had made some off hand comment on something that just hung out there like the perfectly pitched curve ball. So I did what only seemed natural, I swung for the fences. The entire car erupted in laughter. I had made my first legitimate funny.

Turns out I had always been the goofy kid. Always making off-the-cuff remarks to anyone. Some even landing me in the principal’s office after school, like the time I called the boy in preschool a ‘silly ass’, because I had heard Mary Martin call one of the Lost Boys that in Peter Pan. But as my mom was quick to point out.. Peter Pan also didn't have a mother to answer to. Touché.

Quoting TV shows and my favorite movies, I was pretty much unstoppable. Especially if I found the one-liners entertaining and able to improv from. To those who knew me best.. I was the "funny girl."

Twenty years later, I'm still the first one to "go there," sometimes regardless of whether or not the situation is appropriate. After all, life is too short to not spend every minute loving it. And if science is right, I'llsave a ton of money in the future on Botox the more time I spend in stitches now. I was the type of girl who found the humor in even the most serious and inappropriate of situations. Whether with a quirky one liner, or a misplaced metaphor, I'd find ways to make the people around me smile. It was just my way of life.

Then about a year or so ago, I dated a guy in the industry who had an issue with funny women, particularly me. He didn't understand how women could possibly be as entertaining as men, or think they could get as many laughs. He’d criticize my sense of humor and quick wit til no end, all the while telling me.. “Don’t to take it personally.. Girls just aren’t funny.” He’d say I was an "easy laugh," which I found fairly ironic coming from a dude who made his living making fart jokes, song parodies about erectile dysfunctions, and making his poor producer (and my roommate) the ass of his social science experiments. In all honesty, I didn't find his humor as genuine or funny as others, simply because he was never willing to be the ass of his own jokes. Then one day, I overheard a line on the radio that sounded vaguely familiar as the voices around it burst into absolute hysterics.

That bastard had stolen my line. Apparently, I was dating Carlos Mencia.

People all the time cringe when they hear there is a female stand up comedian in the line up. That's total bull$hit. Not all girls tell menopause, “I'm fat,” and baby jokes. No… we tell boob jokes too. We aren’t all brutish, or unattractive either. The more successful female comedians are the ones that are willing to break societal rules and skirt the edges of political correctness. Unfortunately for me, people take my sense of humor as lack of personal awareness in social situations. In which case I say to them.. Lighten the @#$! up. So many women are afraid to go "there," that only a select few will tread the fine line of indecency.

But the thing about comedy no one seems to understand.. particularly women, is.. comedy is ugly. You can't be afraid to be the ass of a joke, whether you're the one telling it or are on the receiving end. I'm a big fan of self deprecation, it keeps you humble. After all, if you can't laugh at yourself, how are the rest of us supposed to without looking like huge a$$holes?

Some people argue that women aren’t funny because they don’t have to be. For men, being funny is ingrained in their evolutionary process. Simply put, men HAVE to be funny. Especially the ones that are less than good looking. Sad, but true. Men have to be funny, to get the girl. Girls simply have to have a sense of humor, to match the guys. So a girl.. with her own sense of humor, her own well of laugh material. Well those girls, are just special I guess.

My main point of contention with the ex was that women and men had different senses of humor. Its just how were wired. Don't get me wrong, I love bathroom humor and will chuckle at a stupid fart joke, but at some point you've gotta get newer more mature material if you want to keep them rolling in the aisles.

What makes a person truly funny is people’s ability to relate to them and the situations they face. They're called sitcoms for a reason. You have to be able to tell a story where your audience will say.. Damn, that's definitely happened to me before. The days of slipping on banana peels has long come and gone. Even living in a city like Manhattan, where every day is arguably a driver’s test road course where anything can and will happen… I dunno that I've ever run across THAT scenario. Ever.

Now you want to talk about sitting on the toilet to do an embarrassing deed and realizing mid-act there's no toilet paper? Now, that's eff my life material. It’s gotta be something we've experienced. Humiliation is best when it’s shared with everyone else. It’s what makes us human.

In order to be a funny girl, you have to be willing to strip away your inhibitions, your looks, and your dignity. Lucille Ball may not have been an absolute sex symbol, but boy could she make us laugh. The reason the country fell in love with Jessica Simpson wasn't for her singing as much as it was her lovable goofy nature and the fact she was willing to reveal her shortcomings and embrace them. At the end of the day, no one cared if it was chicken or fish, because she wasn't afraid to put it all out there for MTV’s cameras.

While it may have cost her her marriage, it endeared her in the hearts of a nation of viewers. Women like Tina Fey and Anna Farris have forged into new territory where women can get just as many laughs as men, as long as they commit to the cause. And as for the brilliance of Judd Apatow style comedy… well, it just proves behind every funny man, is a funnier woman. Just ask his wife and star of Funny People, Leslie Mann. These are the women I love. I love their comedic ugliness, their “go there spirit,” but most of all.. I love their brutal honesty.

To be funny, you have to take chances. You have to not worry about failures, but most of all, you have to be yourself. Bare your soul in its entirety, even the parts that are just downright awkward and disgusting. My life hasn't been all rainbows and kittens, but it has been a wildly entertaining, and fun ride. I often say that my life is one sick joke after another, often starring me in one less than favorable situation after another. Where anyone watching would cringe, yet empathize, because well, we've all been there at one point or another. That's why I don't mind sharing my embarrassments, my triumphs, my laughs and defeats with you all. I'm only human. Sure I've made my fair share of mistakes and goofs, but that's what makes my stories endearing to people I've never met. Besides, who wants to be perfect anyway? Perfect is so ugly. I'm the kinda girl that gets the hiccups at least once a day from laughing. The type of girl who loves a good bathroom scene in a movie, and won't lie I've probably had more than one in real life. (Sorry to ruin the illusion, but girls poop. Were just far more discreet about it.) I'm the kinda girl who stumbles on her own two feet and nothing else. I wear my sunglasses into the club, not because I'm cool, but to mock the a$$holes arrogant enough to think they are. I don't hesitate to laugh when a guy gets punched in the nuts, but that's only because I don't own a pair. I'm guilty of loving a little schaudenfeude, but only because I expect my misfortunes to bring others a tad bit of comic relief every now and then.
Even in our darkest days, there's still always a reason to laugh. After all, it’s when people take life too seriously that they have trouble making it out alive. Girls can be funny too, and I just so happen to be one of them.

Knock, knock..

Just kidding.

This is the video of the skit I did at a recent 12 Angry Mascots:

The F*ck-It List Part Three: The Hangover

2009-07-19T08:35:00.003-05:00

In case you missed them:
The F*ck-It List Part One: Summer of Redesign
The F*ck-It List Part Deux: Baseball, Beer, and Blackouts

There is no mistaking that feeling you get after a night on the town and one too many adult beverages. The distinct dryness of your mouth that resonates down the back of your throat like you swallowed a mouth full of cinnamon. The red, puffy eyes that actually make you contemplate whether or not that stupid cucumber trick really works. The pounding sensation that you can only find in the frontal lobe of your head or a club of fist pumpers. Oh yeah, and the fact that if you breath just hard enough, you just might make the people around you blow a positive on a breathalyzer test. You may have had your fun last night, but now … not so much. Damn, I needed some Pedialyte, stat.

As I wandered from my hotel bed and made my way to the bathroom, I tripped over the explosion of girl products and clothing that happens any time two or more women share a living space. My hands fumbled through the darkness for the bathroom light and I braced myself for what the light would reveal. Squinting, I surveyed the bathroom half expecting to find Mike Tyson, a tiger, and a chicken looking back at me. I turned to the mirror at what was left of my night of randomness. My brilliant make up artistry had been reduced to something that looked like it had been created by a five year old. Yesterday’s perfect curls looked more along the lines of Russell Brand’s. And I’m pretty sure if you looked up Hell in the dictionary you’d be staring at my reflection.

After marveling at the results of the previous evening, I crawled back towards the bed. Alicia stirred in the second bed, and gave me the one-eye once over.

“Dude, you look like death.”

“You’re no Monet yourself whore,” I laughed. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

I threw on my brand new Sox hat and my favorite pair of Marc Jacobs, and the two of us proceeded to do the walk of shame down to the hotel lobby to find the nearest breakfast buffet. The upside to hangovers is your total lack of care as to what you ingest. I just kinda threw a little bit of everything on a plate, animal fats and all, and positioned myself on the bar stool next to Alicia. As the two of us sat there, trying our hardest to put some kind of actual nutrition into our bodies, and double fisting water glasses, a weird feeling of sadness began to creep over me. It must have crept across my face too, because it wasn’t long before Alicia noticed.

“Dude, Sterg… What’s wrong?.. “

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I mean, yesterday was probably the most fun I‘ve had in a long time. I got to explore a new city, with amazing friends, make new ones.. and maybe even found someone I am fairly intrigued by. But something just feels like its missing. You know what the problem with having fun is Alicia?? That feeling you get when you have to go back to the real world. It’s like coming off of an extreme high.. it's like…. A hangover. I won’t lie and say I remember everything that happened last night. Because in fact some of it is a downright blank. But, I get this pained feeling that I did something or said something stupid that’s going to.. “
My voice trailed off, as I looked down to find my phone flashing. One new message.

Ruh Roh.

The worst part of not remembering bits of your night is having people fill in the blanks for you, like a bizarrely messed up mad lib. And since my life follows in the grand form of Murphy’s Law, last night apparently had been no exception. I’ve always said that alcohol is one of the greatest tools man has when it comes to getting to know someone. It lowers inhibitions, loosens the mood.. but more so.. it’s a natural truth serum. As texts rolled in, pieces of last night began to fall into place. And the picture they were painting wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t really a fight, so much as a giant misunderstanding and far too much of the sauce. He called bull$hit on a lot of things, but mainly on how I choose to sabotage any relationship I seem to run into. It’s not like it’s the first time I had heard this. But coming from someone I saw as my equal, someone who ‘got’ my situation, and got… “me” made it sting all the more. I suddenly remembered the tears rolling down my face. Not because of him or anything he had done, but because he was absolutely right. This has been a reoccurring theme in my life for some time now. It was the same movie over and over again, only my co-stars changed: The heroine in search for herself, her place in the world, and possibly someone to share that place with. Instead of a happy ending though, the credits always rolled on her finding herself all alone and still lost. It was one of those movies you sit and stare at a black screen for a few minutes to digest, before you scream out.. W.T.F. Who the hell directed this piece of crap?.. I was supposed to be the leading lady, the superhero in my own life. Instead of being the Supergirl I was, I was actually more like Rogue, where any relationship I touched turned to crap.

Maybe I had the definition of hangover completely wrong. Maybe a hangover is that sinking feeling you get, when you know that you’re making all the wrong moves now, based on experiences you’ve had before. Regardless of how far I’ve come in finding myself, I’m still too guarded and protected to really let anyone in. So I do the only thing I know how to do. I shut the world out. Maybe I had met my match in this guy. He seemed just as guarded and just as jaded as me. And now we had both slammed our doors on one another, but for some reason hadn’t walked away. We just stood there, each of us behind our doors, unsure of what to do next. We could stand there and continue the stand-off, or maybe take the chance and let each other in. So I did the only thing I knew how to do… I walked away.

I remember the hurt in his eyes, the confusion as I assumed the stance: hands in the pockets, head hung down so the brim of my hat would hide my shame and embarrassment. Jesus Jennifer. What the @#$% is wrong with you?!!?.. How do we always end up here?.. Was it really all bad timing, or the wrong guys, or some fatal flaw within myself??... I consider myself a pretty positive person, and I always try to find the good in the less than sunny situations. But what was I supposed to do now?.. What are you supposed to do if you like someone, but you can’t get forget your past experiences enough to make new ones? Or worse, what if the other person was in the same boat as you. The S.S. Misery had taken me and my romantic life on much more than a 3 hour tour, and damn it if I wasn’t sick of it.

Then, I came back to the list. Wasn’t that the whole point of this trip… to make new memories?.. Maybe that was why I had such selective memories from the previous night. Taking in the sights of the city from the top of the Prudential building, people watching at the Salty Dog, dancing in the streets with five year olds at an outdoor concert. How bout the thrill I got from the crack of the bat as I watched the ball fly over the Green Monstah for the very first time? Or the warm feeling you got when he took your hand in the street, like no one else was there? I didn’t want this story to end the same as the others. And maybe it still has a chance.

A few hours later, Alicia and I found ourselves in a cab back to Hoboken. Our stomachs were still pretty unsettled and our heads were still banging, and the cabby’s driving really wasn’t helping matters. As I held my head to the window for some fresh air, Alicia rummaged through her purse and presented me with her camera.

“Here,”’ she said. “I think you need to take a look at these.”

I scrolled through the pictures of our adventure that read like a story book. Two crazy girls, in a cab in the wee hours of the morning. Flying on the small shuttle plane, and making friends with anyone who would talk to us. The top of my drink at brunch. Ok, my stomach turned a little on that one. Us at the Sox game with Short Round in the background. Or swaying to Take Me Out to the Ballgame and Sweet Caroline. Then.. there they were:

Pictures of the Perfect Stranger and myself.

“Do you know what I see when I look at that?” asked Alicia. “I see a real smile. Not the phony ones you have to flash when you’re ‘on’ or out in the spotlight, or the game face you put on to make sure no one knows when you’re really hurting. I see real happiness. Something I haven’t seen from you in a while. You just have to quit being such an @$$hole and start letting people in. You gave our friendship a chance, doesn’t this guy deserve the same from you?”

Sure enough, she was right. The smile was the most genuine honest smile I have seen on my face in a long time. It wasn’t a picture that I posed for, it was two people enjoying each others company. In that one moment, I saw what the rest of the world saw.

Sometimes we can’t explain why God brings certain people into our lives. We can’t explain or predict the timing, because everything really does happen for a reason. If we never had our hearts broken, never got lied to, never experienced pain, how would we ever know what it was like to be alive?.. Maybe sometimes life has to be a little ugly so we can truly appreciate how beautiful it can be. For Alicia and I, the list was the sign of a new beginning, a chance to do things right the second time around. Alicia had not only reinvented Boston, and Fenway, but she even rewired the way she felt about the Wingman’s real name. It was no longer a name that brought back pain and all those times of disappointment. It was a name that made you almost laugh out loud at his lovable antics and sense of humor. In short, it was a great start in the Summer of Redesign. And even I had been won over by the Wingman and his overtures. Maybe sometimes all you really need in life is a second chance. If I was willing to give cities, and places, and people second chances, who is to say I wouldn’t have a second chance at whatever this was with the Stranger?..

Alicia and I parted ways as we came out of the PATH tunnel, and I headed back to my place. Ah, home swoot home. For now anyway. I dropped my bags in the kitchen, and poured myself a big glass of water. My hangover was still in full effect, not so much from drinking, but from the sense that my fun-filled weekend was over. Looking back though, I really had made some amazing memories with equally amazing people. And just because I wasn’t in Boston, and they weren’t here, didn’t mean that the good times had to end. “Fun” really is kinda like a hangover, you just have to have to keep drinking up those wonderful moments that life hands you so you don’t forget those times when they can’t be there. As they say, the best cure for a hangover is hair of the dog. Maybe life is no different.

In which case I say… I’ll drink to that.

The F*ck-It List Part Deux: Baseball, Beer, and Blackouts

2009-07-16T10:15:00.007-05:00

In case you missed it:
The F*ck-It List Part One: Summer of Redesign

Like two kids who were going to Disney for the very first time, Alicia and I barely slept. In fact, we met up so early that I think we even beat the Dunkin Donuts guy to work. One train and two cab rides later (it’s a long story…) we ended up at LaGuardia’s Shuttle Terminal. By all appearances, the terminal was in need of some major updates and didn’t exactly instill a sense of confidence in their flying abilities. In fact, I was beginning to have flash backs of that South Park episode when they’re flying to Canada to get Ike back. Regardless, we boarded our plane and an hour or so later, we touched down in Boston.

By ten thirty, Alicia and I were out in our weekend best, and ready to take on the city of Boston. Earlier in the day we had begun a scavenger hunt of things we wanted to do or take pictures of while we were in the city. You know - a group of sailors (that I’m pretty sure spoke zero English), a Yankees fan brave enough to wear their colors in rival territory, and a midget. If he’s foreign, we got bonus points. We accomplished half of it even before we reached Faneuil Hall, where we parked ourselves on some prime people watching seats at the Salty Dog. I ordered my usual water and Chicken meal, to which Alicia snubbed her nose at.

“Sterg, come on. You’re on vacation. Live a little.”

She was right. For those of you that don’t know me on a personal level and from what you read in my blogs, I maybe drink once a month. And when I do, I’m like a kid at Guitar Hero; I achieve straight rock-star status. I just try to do all things in moderation. That, and I’ve honestly been too busy to deal with the repercussions that come with a long night out. But Alicia did have a point, I was on a quasi-vacation, and in the city of Boston no less. To not have a drink it seems would be almost sacrilegious. And so we ordered up the first of many rounds of the day. This would not end well.

Alicia handed me her fork from across the table with some odd smelling breaded substance on it.
“What the hell is that?”

“Just eat it .. you’ll like it.”

“Right, that’s what he said. No way dude, that looks like fish. I don’t do fish. You know what I say, if it lives in the sea, it ain’t for me.”

“First of all it’s not a fish. It’s a Mollusk. Two… Come on, honestly. You’re not eight years old anymore; you can’t snub your nose at the finer things in life just because they might have a little seafood in them.”

I grimaced, but took her fork from her just in an effort to shut her up. I closed my eyes, took the bite, and marinated on it for a second. I then swallowed it as fast as humanly possible before opening my eyes. Much to my surprise, I was still alive. I had just tried clam “whatever the hell it was.” Now where was that barf bag?

About midway through lunch, I looked down to find my phone flashing with a New Message. I guess this is the part where I should probably fess up: I was meeting up with the Perfect Stranger. Yep, remember him from about two months ago? Well, as tough as our schedules are to coordinate, he had somehow ended up in Boston for the weekend, and my shoots had been postponed. So I figured… “What the hell, we’re only young once right?? Road trip.” (It also didn’t hurt that I had business in the area to tend to either, but we will skip that part for the sake of not ruining the party.)

The Stranger wouldn't be alone. We had each brought along our own teammates to keep things fair and less awkward. He brought along his best buddy, the Wingman, whom I had explained to Alicia was quite man-pretty, but had one giant flaw: He had the same name as her ex that had sent us on this journey in the first place. Besides that, if you want the real truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? The Wingman and I had met on less than great terms, mainly because he hadn't been too fond of some of my business associates, and the feeling had definitely been mutual.

When we stepped off the elevator at the top of the Prudential Center, there stood the Stranger, flanked by the Wingman, and several others. I didn't know the rest of the group, but the introductions certainly didn't take long. In fact, they welcomed us to their group with open arms. I found out one was a native Bostonian, and in charge of planning the day’s festivities for the group. And the other, a retired soccer player, who was still built like an ox even though his playing days had ended.

The entire group was hysterically funny, except for the Stranger who would interject every now and then, but more so just seemed to be taking in the situation and watching the interactions around him. Much to my surprise, it was the Wingman who impressed me and dare I say grew on me during our afternoon festivities. How on earth was this the same guy I met two months ago with his buddy in Indy?.. Sure, there had been plenty of alcohol flowing that weekend (on his end not mine), and he didn’t know me from Adam, but this time he was a whole different person. Now that he knew I was one of them, I saw him in an entirely new light. He was funny, charming, and surprisingly considerate. How on earth had I gotten such a bad vibe our first meeting? I felt like such a fool for having such awful impressions of him. Even better, he and Alicia seemed to really be having a blast too.

As we parted from our afternoon of sight-seeing and drinks, the boys headed off to go shopping, while Alicia and I retreated for a power nap. As usual, it looked like Alicia and I weren’t even the ladies of the group. The plans were to meet up sometime around 6pm and head over to Fenway. I was beyond ecstatic. Ever since I was little it seems, my Dad had always made it a point to take me a ball game when we were out of town, on vacation, on work, whatever. In the past few years especially, it has definitely become one of our bonding rituals. I had seen the ivy on the outfield fence at Wrigley, and Monument Park of the old Yankees, but I had never seen the Green Monster live and in person. So to say I was a little giddy would have been an understatement.

Of course, I still had my poker face on as we walked the last few blocks to the stadium. I’m a big proponent of having to act like I have “been there,” but sometimes I just can’t help it. Moving through the sea of Sox fans, we stopped along the way so the Stranger could buy a hat. The two of us perused through their selection before he finally settled on his choice. Then he turned to me.

“Yeah, you definitely need a hat too. Which one are we getting?..”

Really?.. The stranger was going to buy me a hat?.. As dumb as it seems, I am not really the type of girl to want or ask for much. I’ve just always been a huge fan of the “little things.” So often guys will make these huge grand gestures to win girls affections, when in reality most of us would just be happy to know you were thinking about us for a split second out of your day. I guess that’s because in my ripe old age I’ve discovered that sometimes it’s the little things that people do for one another that seem to really mean the most. Maybe that, or I’m just a huge romantic sucker. Regardless, I guess the Stranger was right. The natives here were awfully restless and I was about to step foot in their house, so I had to do my best to dress the part and blend in. I found an old vintage beat up hat that was just my size, and put it on over my loose curls and sunglasses. I looked up to the Stranger for approval to which he nodded. I’ve always loved how I looked in baseball hats (maybe because they camouflage the “five head” I sport nicely) which is why I wear one pretty much a daily basis. Now, I was dressed and ready for action.

The six of us made it down to our seats: Not too high, not too low… and unfortunately very close to the nearest beer stand. The Stranger and I ended up sitting next to one another, while Alicia and the Wingman ended up on the end of the row. I often bitch about being short and the fact it forces me to wear shoes that would make even the Spice Girls shake their heads, but being pocket-sized does sometimes have its advantages. And in old stadiums like Fenway, the advantage became completely obvious. Alicia and I seemed to be the only ones who didn’t have problems fitting into our seats. The guys on the other hand looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger sitting down in a plastic chair for show & tell in Kindergarten Cop. So, having the clear advantage, I scooted over best I could and gave up my leg room.

Throughout the game, the Stranger and I would bump knees and such the way two kids on a playground would harass one another. I know, we’re real mature. We’d sing along to the songs on the loudspeakers, and even befriended the guy sitting in the row next to us, who eerily resembled the kid Short Round from the Indiana Jones movie. It wasn’t until the 4th inning or so that things turned a little serious.

“Just curious.. but why do you blog so much?” he asked. “I mean, isn’t it a little weird putting it all out there for people. I mean, I kinda prefer my privacy. Especially when it comes to dating.”

“I dunno, I’ve been doing it since I was in college. People were like, she always writes about sports. She loves sports; she must be the perfect girl. So why is she still single?.. So one day, I decided to open up and write about some things that were going on in my personal life, and people seemed to really relate. I feel like if I give people a glimpse into what I am really feeling and seeing.. and what my life is really like.. not all push up bras and cowboy hats, maybe people will get to see the real me and not be so quick to pass judgment. Besides I never out the people I am talking about. I write the story as it happened, or as much as I can, while keeping the people I care about safe, regardless of my standing with them.”

“That’s true but.. it's just.. Jenn, I think you’re an amazing girl.. you have so much depth but no one gets to see it because you’re so guarded and worried about everyone having preconceived notions of you.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said as I tilted down the brim of my hat and stared out into the eyes of the monster. “I’ve just always thought that if people are going to go around talking crap, I might as well make sure the truth is out there at there if they want it. Plus, I’m just.. I’ve just never been the type that was good with words. When given the opportunity to say something brilliant whether at work or to a guy I like.. nine times out of ten I will probably put my foot in my mouth. That’s why I write: there is always a backspace key, a second chance.. hell.. as many chances as I want to get it right. Besides, blogging is my therapy. If more people put down their thoughts on paper, psychologists would probably be out of work.”

Just then, the crack of the bat brought the two of us back to our reality. We jumped from our seats, just in time to watch David Ortiz’s ball sail into the depths of the outfield, and over the Green Monster. The crowd erupted with applause and cheering as our row did our own victory dance, with high fives all around. I’m pretty sure I even gave Shorty one too. The rest of the game went by rather slowly, because at this point we had two games going on: the one on the field, and musical chairs for bathrooms and beer. We stayed until just after the 7th inning stretch or so. Long enough to sway to take me out to the ball game and of course some Sweet Caroline. Bah.. Bah.. Bah..

As we walked down the ramps and exited Fenway, Perfect Stranger grabbed my arm to steady me in my four inch heels. But when we got to the bottom something weird happened.. He didn't let go. Walking through the streets, through a sea of curious onlookers, where some guys would have retracted, he didn't. I looked down, and PS's hand was in mine. I really couldn't help but smile.

Most of us hadn't eaten since noon, and were starved to say the least. Me on the other hand? Not so much. Still, we ended up at a restaurant, seated around a giant circular table. The guys had me in absolute stitches as they did things with breadsticks that would make the girlier kind of girls blush. But not Alicia and me. Instead we dove right down into the gutter with them, until we were practically falling out of the booth in laughter. Maybe it was the ballpark beer, or perhaps those wonderful butterflies I hadn't felt in so long, but the food as delicious as it appeared really had no appeal to me. So I really just sat and drank and reveled in the great company. This was probably the fatal error of my evening.

And then the screen went to black.

(End Transmission)

The F*ck-It List: Summer of Redesign

2009-07-13T11:50:00.002-05:00

Meeting good people in a city like New York is like winning the jackpot. You encounter so many people on a daily basis from different walks of life that finding a kindred spirit is often a daunting task. I had been spending most of my time either on set or in meetings, so I really didn't have time to notice how dismal my social life had become in recent months. The only people I had had any contact with were the ones I had been working with, and I've recently become a big proponent of not crapping where I eat. It had been months since I'd been home, or seen my cat who I sent home before my last excursion to LA, and the loneliness was really starting to set in. Then one night, on an errand to the tanning place, I met Alicia.

Alicia was in her mid-twenties and worked days at a local hospital. She only worked at the tanning salon as a favor to her friends that happened to own place (that.. and meet people in an environment that didn’t involve alcohol). That night while I was waiting for my airbrushing session, we both found ourselves engrossed in an NBA game on the lobby’s television. It wasn't until a ref made a lousy call for which she expressed her severe disdain with a certain hand gesture, that I realized this girl was a legitimate fan. The two of us got to talking and realized we had tons in common. We were both Florida transplants that came to New York for work and love, the latter part not working out so well. We’d crack jokes about our NYC dating horror stories and the random guys that would come into the tanning salon just to try to score a date with her. Soon my 10 minute spray tan appointments became full blown gossip sessions. And a friendship was born.

Alicia and I were sitting around at brunch one afternoon when we realized that before we’d met one another, we had been living the exact same story in the exact same town. We were two smart, marginally attractive girls who let their lives go to $hit over boys who cheated on us with simple girls. I think everyone has had the experience of breaking up with someone and drastically changing their outside appearance. After Alicia’s most recent, and probably the most devastating of breakups, she lost 10 pounds, stopped tanning, and without a second thought cut her gorgeous blonde hair to her shoulders and dyed it black! Waking up the next morning looking like a combination of Snow White and Kate Moss on heroin somehow still didn't make her feel any better.

Recently turned blonde again, Alicia is still figuring out life. Like me, all the self exploration and internal sole searching she’d been doing left her doubting herself. So she started allowing friends hook her up. That disaster ended with a huge realization that she didn’t have any idea what she wanted. She doesn't have a type. We are supposed to get more insight and intelligence with life and all its experiences. But the truth is we know less about ourselves now than we did when we were 18.

Walking down the street after a gluttonous meal, we realized that we both had come to hate this town simply because there were too many bad memories here. That particular day however, the weather was beautiful, not a cloud in the sky, and all of Hoboken was out at the parks and walking their dogs in the fresh air. In short, it was the perfect day.

"You know," I said, "Some days.. I think this town is almost livable."

We both stopped dead in our tracks.

Alicia turned to me, and said, "I was just thinking the same thing. There were days where I would lay and bed and want to wake up when it’s over. And then.. one day you start meeting good people and you think.. maybe, just maybe I could make it here."

So we decided right then in there that we were going to reinvent this town, and do over the past few years of our lives. We'd make lists of all the things we have to do to get rid of the old crappy memories and make newer, funnier, and better ones. We coined it our “f*ck it” lists.

We’d each make lists of five places that we wanted to redo. We'd go to these places with the new awesome people in our lives; take lots of pictures, hell maybe even video. and erase the times we had spent with people who had caused us enormous amounts of pain.

The concept of the f*ckit list really had nothing to do with boys. It was really about two girls living very similarly unfulfilling lives that came to find kinship with one another and decided to take matters into their own hands. You can only be victims of circumstance for so long before you decide to be proactive and do something about it.

So thus began the summer of re-design! The first thing we needed to do was decide on locations! See it's not about the building or that particular night, but the person you were with who disappointed you so greatly in the end that the mere thought of the place left such a rancid taste in your mouth! So when I got the call from a friend that he would be in Boston this past weekend, I couldn’t resist. Besides, Boston and I had never formally met and I had always wanted to go to Fenway Park. But for Alicia, Boston was a ghost town of bad memories and was definitely one of the top priorities on her list. And like that, the two of us packed our bags, and began the first of our many adventures to come.

After all, as Henry Miller once said, “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things." And that is exactly what we needed.

Training Camp

2009-07-07T21:28:00.002-05:00

I couldn't believe I was actually going on a blind date. Is this what my social life had come to? Going to meet up with virtually a perfect stranger? Ok, so it wasn't a totally blind date as we had met once before and exchanged a few texts here and there, but my general knowledge of the guy was pretty vague. He came with a decent amount of references through mutual acquaintances of ours, but some part of me still remained skeptical. You can’t believe everything you here, and people wear different “hats” when it comes to the way they behave around friends versus potential romantic interest. And how much can you really gauge someone during a first date anyway? After all, first dates are kinda like training camp: both parties bust their ass to prove they're better than the rest, survive the cuts, hope they fit the system and live to see another date.

So I went into this meeting like I would the trenches, preparing for every scenario possible. I even brought a deck of cards along, just in case his company completely sucked.
While I generally find random dates to be complete disasters in the making, one shouldn't discount their usefulness. They may not be Mr. Right but they were definitely good practice in case I happened to run into him at some point. It had been months since I had been on a date, so I had nearly forgotten how I was supposed to act on one.

Snaring a boy had not been an issue for me since my sophomore year of college. While I’m not the type to just hook up, I’m a shameless flirt, and take pride in my ability to work a room, and catch whomever’s attention it is that I'm seeking without being overly obnoxious or fake. In short, I just pride myself in being personable and genuine. It’s what happens next that always throws me for a loop. As it turns out, I’m the Terrell Owens of dating. I was more likely to bobble, or drop the pass than I was to catch it. I remember one first date that began with the tail of my dress getting caught in his car door, and ending in sheer embarrassment. Or another time, when I brought dinner over to a guy’s place. I had laid out this amazing spread from one of my favorite restaurants, “717” to surprise him. Then, my usual klutzy self attempted to sexily lean on the edge of the table. Turns out my lean was more Fat Joe than it was sexy. I soon discovered the importance of using all the screws in the IKEA box, and that the top of his table wasn't properly secured to the legs. The entire spread of food came crashing into my ass and all over his floor. Or there was the time I ate it on a slick floor in a pair of 4 in heels I had insisted on wearing, in front of an entire restaurant full of people. And in perhaps my worst scenario, I knocked the specials menu into an open flame at the table sending it into a small inferno before my date’s very eyes. He must have still found my Julia Robertsesque dinner manners endearing though, because I still got a second date. Needless to say, when it came to actually carrying out the deeds of dating, the perfect pass catch was usually just beyond my fingertips.

But then there were those beautiful moments, those one handed grabs right in the far corner of the end zone that remind me why I still play this game in the first place.

I spent what seemed like an entire week planning the perfectly crafted date. A cool place for dinner, a fun social event for afterwards (no not that you perverts), and an appropriate yet stunning outfit to match. My typical fashion ensemble consisted of a ball cap blue jeans and a beat up pair of cowboy boots. But thanks to the help of my manager Phil and my newly appointed stylist, Orly Shani, I was beginning to look more like a grown up, and less like one of those porn styled Abercrombie and Fitch catalogs.

So I had the outfit, the plans, now all I needed was a date. But apparently JetBlue had other plans. To prove my life is the true definition of Murphy’s Law, my date’s flight never left its gate. All flights.. Cancelled. Which left me all dressed up with no date “to go.” (Thanks a lot JetScrew.)

The funny thing is.. I really wasn't even mad. Sure, I had wasted a perfectly good outfit, had to cancel reservations, and had spent hours getting dolled up. At least, I still had an amazing time out with good people I’ve come to call my “New York family.” Somehow all that effort still seemed worth it. Maybe because for the first time, I felt great about myself and nothing else. I had spent so much time worrying about fitting into someone else’s system, and “making the cut” that I forgot that I was still a pretty awesome commodity myself. So me and my previous “Tony Romos” hadn’t meshed well. So what?.. Maybe I had just been playing for the wrong team (and not like that). Certainly, there has to be someone, somewhere looking for the talent and everything else I have to offer, that is willing to have me come workout, and give me a chance to prove myself. Hopefully for the sake of this Florida girl it’s not Buffalo.

The point is I had “suited up” and met my challenge head on. And that was really all that mattered. So maybe my game got called on account of weather? Who's to say we couldn't reschedule for another day? At least I knew I was ready for whatever this crazy dating game would throw at me. That’s what dating is for anyway… PRACTICE. After all, practice is everything. It may not make perfect, but it definitely works out the kinks. Who knows? Maybe I would find a team worthy enough to call my own. Besides, its only July and we’ve got a long season ahead of us. No excuses. Play like a champion today.

Oh, and I bet you're wondering if I ever got that date?? Well, some things are just better left a mystery.

Introducing Cherry Bomb

2009-07-06T09:54:00.002-05:00

Admin Update: Introducing Cherry Bomb

Cherry Bomb is sexy, smart, confident, and above all, extremely motivated. Director Kyle Day and writer Garrett Hargrove didn’t just want an actress that could play the part, they needed an actress that actually embodies those qualities that define Cherry. She needs to be a woman that stands out in a crowd of thousands… and then kick everyone’s ass if necessary. We found just that kind of sweetheart…..

Jenn Sterger stood out in a sea of 50,000 people at an FSU game, and once she made her first impression on the world, she has not slowed down. Voted by E! as one of the 20 hottest women on the web, a talented writer for Sports Illustrated, featured in Maxim magazine, and with a huge online following, Jenn is one badass woman that now is taking on feature films with that same tenacity that made her a success in every other arena. With two pictures already under her belt, she gave us an audition that showed an incredible range of character and it left no doubt in our minds that Jenn Sterger is the woman capable of taking Cherry along her wild journey.

Cherry Bomb logline:
Its 1984. An exotic dancer named Cherry has just watched the five men who assaulted her walk free with the help of a corrupt police force. Seeing no justice coming from within the system Cherry enlists the help of her brother and they take the law into their own hands and seek justice on their own terms… one bullet at a time. But with a professional hitman after them and the police closing in, Cherry is forced to put herself and her loved ones in harm’s way to satisfy her need for revenge and her desire to end the corruption that is plaguing the city.

Cherry Bomb

“Well .. What does THAT mean?”

2009-07-02T18:01:00.001-05:00

It was a Sunday brunch not too long ago, where a few of my girlfriends and I sat around trying to decode a five word text from a boy, as if we were the archaeologists who had just discovered hieroglyphics weren't intricate finger paintings. I mean, it was a simple five word text: “I had a great time.”

“It means what it says it means,” said Stuart, our brutally honest window into the not so pretty world that is the male psyche. “Why are you women always reading into things?”

“But that is so generic. I mean, he could just be being polite,” my girlfriend countered.

“Hmmm. I don’t think so.”

“How do you know he’s interested?”

“Oh.. He's interested.”

“How can you tell? Because if he wasn't he just wouldn't text you back anything.”

Stuart was right. Here we were three intelligent girls, sitting around, reading texts that were written at a first grade reading level, and we could barely comprehend their collective meaning. The guy might as well have written her in wingdings.

With all the different means of communication we have available to us, why is the gap between men and women getting seemingly larger?... Cell phone companies pride themselves on fave five plans and unlimited texting, (and my ultimate vice of Blackberry Messenger--BBM), but really humans are doing far less effective communicating, and only adding a lot more confusion to an already baffling dating world.

I too am absolutely guilty of using technology as a crutch, mainly because… I hate talking on the phone. It’s a well documented fact I have awful phone etiquette. It’s nothing I do on purpose, and I actually am quite embarrassed by it. Maybe it’s my ADD, or my inability to multitask while having a conversation—I tired chewing gum once, big mistake.. huge. It’s certainly become a huge issue when it comes to conference calls, too. My usually dynamic personality is reduced to single syllables, some of which aren’t even in the English dictionary. “Mmm-Hmm mmm-hmm. Ok. Goodbye.” 2 years of public speaking classes, down the drain.

And don’t get me even started on voicemails. I leave voicemails like John Favreau in Swingers, progressively more awkward, and not sure how to end the one sided conversation I have ended up having. And that is sober. Throw in some a night at the pub with my buddies and transient Southern accent, and you’ll swear Daisy Duke is drunk dialing you from knee deep in Uncle Jesse’s moonshine stash.

Sometime during the 9th grade, I believe I discovered texting, and my parents discovered unlimited texting plans. SMS Texting was such a brilliant idea. It eliminated the need for the awkward phone call, it made sending stupid number codes through pagers obsolete, and it killed time during those brutally long hours of Mr. Stookey’s Physics class. With texting, I was unstoppable. I was poetic, I was composed. I was less of a bumbling idiot, and that really seemed to help me with the boys.

One night, Alicia and I found ourselves eavesdropping on the group of guys’ conversation at the table next to us. They were debating whether or not to drunk text these girls they had met earlier that night, and strategizing what to say.

"Put a winky face dude. Chicks love the winky face."
(The male brain ladies and gentlemen.. Hard at work.)

REALLLLLLLLLY guys?? Were we women really that easy to figure out? I laughed at their rationalizations and returned to my plate of syrup drenched pancakes. Ah. Boys. Alicia and I knew a few boys like this. One in particular with an affinity for the internet slang term “LOL.” His use of the word while texting was beyond incessant and the greater majority of the time was completely inappropriate. We’re not even sure he knew what LOL even meant.

“Hey what's up? Lol.”
“Just got fired form my job. Lol.”
“Dropped a weight on my foot at the gym. Lol.”

To which, I say, “No sweetie, that’s not LOL, that’s FML. “

Besides that, men text like they are being charged by the letter while women text like they're trying to win a Pulitzer. I asked my guy friends why this was. They explained they text for basic functions in life, to get to the WHO, WHAT, WHEN, and WHERE. They don’t need details or cute little stories. If you have them, just pick up the freakin' phone. Which brings me back to our original conversation and the five word text. Women are always looking for answers, hidden meanings to things guys text. We can’t help it; It’s how our brains are programmed. Guys are much more willing to accept things at face value. If you say you’re cool, you’re cool. There’s no tone or body language to set off alarms otherwise, so why worry about what you might have meant. Maybe that’s why sometimes men just don't grasp a woman’s constant excuses as to why they can't hang out, no matter how ludicrous they may seem are really just the girl’s way of saying.. I'm just not interested.

And the worst part of texting?.. There is no UNSEND button. You may spend twenty minutes crafting that response to the date of your dreams, hit send... then realize. Damn. That was quite possibility the dumbest text ever transmitted. But it’s gone. There’s no turning back. You have to just pray the person on the receiving end of it has a sense of humor, or doesn’t mistake you for some wacko. This also applies to drunk texting. See www.textsfromlastnight.com.

I think when it comes to communication; nothing beats a “face to face.” Maybe that's why we should all just cut through the BS, look each other in the eye whenever possible. “I like you, you like me.” It’s really as simple as that. Besides, it’s so much easier to read the other person when they're standing right in front of you. Heck, with Skype, even long distance face to face is completely possible. (Men are visual creatures anyway.) You can see the person, you can see them react, their mannerisms, and just as importantly, they can better read you. Body language however primitive is still probably the most telling form of communication. Hell, if cavemen could figure out this whole mating thing, surely there must be hope for modern civilization yet.
>
If we can learn anything from the technology at our hands, it’s that nothing still beats a real meeting of minds. That way there’s no second guessing, no misinterpreting, and no awkward pauses. None of this.. “well, what does he mean by that?” Because if he is standing right in front of you, odds are you know the answer already.

And if you still insist on texting, remember one thing…

Chicks dig the winky face. ; )

Admin Update: Jenn Sterger performing at 12 Angry Mascots in NYC

2009-06-24T09:37:00.004-05:00

12 Angry Mascots - NYC's Only Sports Comedy Variety Talk Show!

All-original sports-themed stand-up and sketch comedy hosted by Scott Rogowsky and Neil Janowitz.

***FEATURED GUESTS THIS MONTH: FSU Cowgirl and Playboy model JENN STERGER along with Ryan Grant - Running Back for the Green Bay Packers!***

Opening: Myq Kaplan (Live at Gotham, NY Comedy Contest Winner)

Sports stand-up from Pat O'Shea (Ed Sullivan On Acid)

12 ANGRY MASCOTS is the Tri-County Area's only variety/talk show devoted to that touchstone of all humankind endeavors: sports. Scott Rogowsky (The Onion) and Neil Janowitz (ESPN) welcome the Eastern Seaboard's finest sketch actors and comedians to mock the jocks and spoof the sports scene in a grand slam-packed show that culminates with a celebrity guest athlete interview. This show features live Wimbledon updates, NBA Draft coverage, sexy sports babe Jenn Sterger, and one pissed off Boston fan. These mascots aren't angry for nothing.

Click here to buy tickets
ADVANCE TICKETS - $10
DAY OF SHOW TICKETS - $15

Role Models

2009-06-14T23:56:00.004-05:00

Having spent the past few years amidst members of the sports world, I've seen my fair share of sports lates, greats, and just down right embarrassing. I make no bones about the fact my niche in sports lies mainly in color commentary, first person perspectives, and behind the scenes stories. After all, not too many men want their play-by-play handed to them by a woman, just like I don't want fashion advice from Deion Sanders or Craig Sager. My stories, whether they’re articles or special interest pieces for broadcast, have always been about the people behind the numbers on their backs.

After all at the end of the day, athletes are really just people who happen to be better at a particular skill than the average lot of us. That doesn't stop some of them from creating this huge, larger-than-life persona about them though. No matter how big or small the star, I've always found it interesting the way they seem to handle themselves both in a professional and public arena. Part of being a superstar is accepting the responsibility of becoming a role model, someone kids and sometimes even grown men can look up to and admire. That's not to say that they aren’t allowed to make mistakes, after all we’re all human. It does mean however, they should hold themselves to being a higher caliber of human being.

When you get to superstar status, you get to make superstar salaries. You see paychecks some people would see as downright extortion all for your talents and abilities at your particular sport of expertise. This opportunity breeds more opportunity for endorsements, exposure, etc. Hell, people may even make puppets that look like you! (I’m still waiting on mine, Nike!) But one thing I can’t stand is when an athlete adopts a cause in the forefront, while not standing up for its ideals in his real life. I can't tell you how many times I've sat in front of a television and watched a commercial for anti-tobacco campaigns where a team’s marquee “faces” all deliver a “mmm drugs are bad, mmmkay” message, only to later spot them lighting up in public. Now I'm not judging anyone, but isn't that just a tad hypocritical? It was enough to make me want to throw my bowl of popcorn at the screen and shout.. “LIAR!!!!!”

Since moving to NYC, I've lent a hand to various charities as a means of trying to immerse myself in the community, meet new people, and just feel more proactive in my own life. Problem is, it was hard to find any cause that allowed me to be as hands on as I wanted to be. It seemed all these charities were all about throwing these big elaborate expensive dinners that only the likes of Donald trump and NY royalty could really afford. What about the people who wanted to get their hands dirty and actually “do work” in the community? Then, my management team at PR/PR and one of their clients, NY Giants Offensive Tackle Dave Diehl, introduced me to Project Sunshine. And like that, I had found my home.

Growing up, my grandparents were always very involved in my life. They were the kind of grandparents that were at every awards ceremony, every Friday night football game (to watch the band of course), and every bowling tournament I ever participated in. I still largely credit my grandfather for teaching me how to bowl, as he was the only one capable of removing my head from my ass when I was having an off day. He was forever an inspiration to me, always about making other people smile, and never knowing a stranger. In short, he was my superhero. Even when he was diagnosed with his second bout of lung cancer. Having watched my grandfather fight and eventually lose his battle, I knew all too well all the hardships patients with the disease face: losing hair, weight, and some their will to live. All things that come with grueling chemo treatments, invasive medical procedures, and extended hospital stays. Not to mention what it did to my grandmother and my mom. After all, cancer doesn't just affect the patient; it touches their families as well.

Sometimes cancer patients and those facing other life-threatening illnesses, especially young children, would find themselves enduring extended stays in hospitals. The overnight stays in hospital chairs, and lobby couches can take their toll even on the most doting parents. They simply can't afford to live day and night there or they'd lose their jobs, their sleep, and possibly their sanity.

That's where Project Sunshine comes in. P.S. started as one college aged kid’s dream to make children’s stays at hospitals a little less scary. To be that one thing every day a kid could look forward to: a new face, a new playmate that was there solely for the sake of making their day better. You’re not only putting a smile on a kid’s face, you’re helping a parent know that they’re not fighting this battle alone. I've made numerous trips to various hospitals with Project Sunshine, and attended their banquet dinner they held to raise money. I’ve seen first hand the far reaching effects P.S. has not only had in the NYC community, but in their satellite branches as well. And out of all the amazing experiences I have had in the past five years, I've found helping these kids to be the most rewarding.

And I’m not the only one. Recently, I learned of a Project Sunshine success story that really hit home. Literally and figuratively. New York Yankees centerfielder Brett Gardner recently volunteered to escort Babe Ruth’s granddaughter, Linda Ruth Tosetti, to read to kids at a local New York hospital, where he befriended an 18 year old girl, Alyssa, who had been awaiting a heart transplant since January. The girl often watched the televised games from inside her hospital room as well as the lights of the New Yankee Stadium from her hospital room at night. So she was beyond ecstatic when she learned a real live Yankee would be coming to visit the hospital.

That day she gave Gardner a P.S. bracelet and told him… “Keep this you’ll hit a homerun.” Gardner just kinda laughed and graciously put on the bracelet. Even he thought to himself, “but I don’t hit homeruns.” In fact, Gardner wasn’t even scheduled to be in the line up that night.

But fate, as it often does, had other plans. During the third inning, Johnny Damon was ejected from the game, and Gardner was sent in to replace him. And with Gardner’s first at bat that night, he hit the very first ever inside the park homerun in the new Yankee Stadium.

Unfortunately, Alyssa did not get to see it.

That’s because that very night after waiting over 100 days, Alyssa received her new heart. The following day in the recovery room, Alyssa’s parents replayed the game for her, and showed her Gardner’s at bat. As she watched him run the base path, she smiled at the TV and said, “he’s running for me.”

That night, Brett Gardner became Alyssa’s superhero. But more importantly she became his.

People faced with medical issues, particularly young children, are some of the bravest people you will ever meet. That was certainly the case with my grandfather. Even when he lost all the weight, and much of his strength, he never lost his will to put a smile on others faces with his quick wit, his sarcasm, and his never ending pranks. I’m still convinced my grandfather held on as long as he did, because he knew we were fighting with him. I would go over to my grandparent’s house and feed him Ben & Jerry’s “Phish Food” ice cream every day after school in his final weeks. And while he really couldn’t stand the sweetness of the stuff, he enjoyed my company and seeing my smile.

Then one Friday night I had to stay after school to perform in a concert, the first function of mine my grandfather had ever missed. Turns out, he didn’t. My grandfather passed that evening. I’m still convinced he saw me play that night, and knows how incredibly awful I felt that I wasn’t there with him. More importantly, I know he knows I loved him more than anything. I haven’t been able to eat “Phish Food” since. That day I lost my superhero. But it made me become one of my own.

If my grandfather taught me anything, it’s that you don't have to be a 6'5 300+ pound superstar, or hit 30 homeruns a year to put a smile on someone’s face. You simply have to show you care… you have to give them someone to believe in. He was one of the most selfless men I have ever met in my life, and I hope that he’d be proud of the person I’ve become and the work I do for others today.

Maybe if we all found a role model within ourselves, the world would be a much different place. All it takes is YOU. Whether its volunteering your time at a soup kitchen or signing up to become a Big Brother or Big Sister, we can all make a difference. I promise you won’t end up with a kid like the ones from “Role Models”, and the experience will not only enrich your life, but those of the people you help. If you have to ask how much difference one person can make, then ask a child. After all, children are some of the most brutally honest people you will meet. And believe me when I tell you that they'll say the difference… means the world to them.

For more information on Project Sunshine please visit www.projectsunshine.org

Home is where the __________ is

2009-06-05T22:18:00.002-05:00

This week, I had a short interlude from my busy shooting schedule in NYC for a quick jaunt down to my hometown of Lutz, and it couldn’t have come a moment sooner. I had reached one of those breaking points, the kind where I found myself snipping at others, arguing with my close friends… heck, I think I may have given a guy who was harassing me on the street THE finger. Southern hospitality had long escaped my nature, and that was totally uncharacteristic of my usually sunny disposition. I had to get out.

The weird part was that I had already spent a lot of time on the road the past few weeks with the Venom campaign getting ready to kick into full swing, random photo shoots, time spent working with Project Sunshine, various charity organizations I had pledged my efforts to, and long nights on the movie set… I really hadn’t spent that much time in NYC. Yet, I had somehow come to loathe it once more. There were days I would walk through the city and the weather would be beautiful, and I think to myself, “Wow, I could actually make it here.” But then there were the other kinda days where I would look outside at the ominous clouds.. and think.. “Check Please.”

So after a long day of shooting, I boarded a plane for home. My dad greeted me at the other end of my journey with open arms, then immediately launched into questions about work, my apartment, etc. etc. etc. Didn’t I leave NYC to get away from all this????.. I quickly changed the subject to my time in Indy, and he seemed none the wiser. Whew, dodged that bullet for now.

Upon walking into my house, I was attacked by my three dogs, two of which are fairly young puppies, and seemed to have absolutely no clue who I was. They sat there and barked at me, as if I had come for the televisions, the Wii, and fine jewelry. In their defense, I was dressed in all black, but still. I took off my baseball cap and greeted them in one of those high pitched voices one greets animals and small children. Then, they finally calmed down with some sense of recognition.

Monday was spent mainly with friends, some of whom I hadn’t seen in a while, for more reasons than my busy work schedule. I had allowed selfish deceptive people into my life, and had turned my back on some of them based on misinformation. So, I manned up, faced my faults, and apologized for any part I had had in excommunicating them from my life. They admitted that they had taken the grudge a little far as well… but in the end it was just us, getting back to us. The two girls that could laugh at just about anything, make up hand gestures and horrible dance moves to pretty much any song imaginable, and of course share our desserts. Besides, I was tired of eating them all by myself, and it was beginning to show in my jeans.

Tuesday I decided to partake in something I couldn’t really get up North… some quality time on the Florida beaches. I know you’re saying, well.. don’t you have the Hamptons and “The Shore” up there??.. And the answer is.. of course we do, but neither of those two places have my dearest and closest friends near them to goof off with. That particular day I was with my girlfriend and her two kids, whom had had their fair share of less than sunny days lately given the fact that my girlfriend and her husband were fixing to get embroiled in what looked to be an awfully messy divorce.

The five year old boy seemed relatively unaffected. After all, to a kid that young all divorce really translates to is.. “YAY… two Christmases!!!!”

But the ten year old, she knew what was up.

As we sat in the shallow water and let the waves wash up on us, I asked her about how things had been going. How’s your dad?.. How’s your mom???.. But most importantly… how was she holding up???..

She just looked down and picked up a handful of sand and let the waves take it from her, as she shrugged.

“Are you happy???” I asked her.

“Sometimes,” she said. “At least there isn’t any fighting. That got really old. But I do miss my family. I’ve talked to my teachers about it.. and they’re right. The divorce isn’t happening because my parents don’t love me, its happening because they forgot how to love each other. My house is still my house, now there are just two of them. Sometimes I get frustrated with mom and dad bickering back and forth about money, but at least I don’t have to fall asleep to it anymore. And at least I still have my house. It’s still my home, it’s just a lot quieter now.”

Yeah, she is only ten years old… going on 40. For as long as I have known this little girl, she has always been wise beyond her years. Sometimes her know-it-all-ness is a pain in the ass, but she’s still one smart little cookie. Sometimes embarrassingly so… because she will call “it like it is.” How is it a ten year old, in the midst of what was going to be one of those Tyson-Holyfield matches of the century divorces had a better sense of what “home” was than I did?? I am twenty five, cutting my teeth in the real world, and learning that it’s not all its cracked up to be, and really couldn’t be more unsettled than ever. The past five years of my life had sent me to Tallahassee to Oregon to California, and somehow I landed in one of the biggest cities in the world. I had gone from being Shamu and star of my own show, to Nemo in a big ocean… and believe me, there were plenty of sharks circling waiting to make a meal out of me. After all, this city has a way of taking a bite out of even the strongest of psyches.

Standing in the middle of the girl explosion my room had become in the last few days, I began to pack my things and listen to the Rays game on the television in the background. My mom came back to survey my progress and let me know my dinner was ready.

“If you don’t get out here Dakota is going to eat your steak,” she says. “This can wait til later.”
For the first time in weeks, I can honestly say I wasn’t hungry.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, unenthusiastically as I stuffed the last of my clothes into my suitcase.

My mom sensed something was wrong, as all good mothers tend to do.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I stopped my packing and just kinda sat there. After a minute or two I looked up at her with tears in my eyes.

“I’ve spent so much time away from here, and out on my own, being pulled in so many directions, I just don’t know where I belong anymore. I come “home” to get away from it all. And it doesn’t feel like “home” anymore. Sure, my cat is here now with you guys… but that doesn’t really make it my home. Just makes it feel like a half way house. None of my furniture is here. Hell, I’m just waiting for daddy to take out my bed and turn this into either a workout center or “The Naked Room” he keeps joking about. (Which, quite honestly, I find mortifying.) But then I go to NYC, and nothing really seems to stick there either. I have very few close friends, because they all have such vastly different lives than I do. They all have boyfriends, hell, even my guy friends have boyfriends.. and I am left playing the third wheel on their tricycle. It’s really gotten old. I don’t have Vegas (my cat) up there anymore, but it wasn’t fair for me to keep leaving her while I was on the road. All I come home to is an apartment full of furniture, my roommate’s latest concoction in the kitchen, some DVRed episodes of How I Met Your Mother, and an empty bed. The only human interaction I really get these days is on set, or when I am arguing with the guys from PTI about how ludicrous some of their statements are. But, at least they don’t argue back.”

My mom tried her best to laugh at me, though she could tell I was genuinely upset. “The point is mother, all the places that should feel like home to me, don’t anymore. I come to Tampa, and I feel like I am in everyone’s way or “just visiting.” I go to NYC, and I feel like it’s just some temporary stop on my journey, so I don’t get too wrapped up in meeting new people. And I certainly don’t date anyone, because for as diverse of a city as NYC claims to be, it really and truly is the same cookie cutter guy, just in different outfits. The whole idea of courtship and building something takes a backseat to just “having fun.” And you KNOW what I mean. And… I’m better than that. I guess I am just looking for some sign… something that says THIS is where I am supposed to be. Wherever THIS is. Sure, work has come leaps and bounds these past few months, because I have found good people, with good intentions, that actually believe in me… but I want something more than that. I want some stability. And no one can seem to tell me how to find that.”

My mom thought about it for a second. “Jennifer, you know you will always have stability here, it’s just hard to give you advice or point you in the right direction because your father and I have no earthly clue how your industry works. As far as boys… I don’t honestly know how you do it. I would never want to try to date in today’s world. The things you girls have to deal with and worry about, they are downright scary. If I didn’t have your father… well.. I’d be single.. the rest of my life. I know NYC gets lonely, but you’re up there for a reason. You’re making waves, and people are about to see what you are really capable of. I want so badly for you to succeed, and you know your father and I will support you however we can.. emotionally .. of course. But, we can only do so much. I think you’ve just kinda outgrown us….”

“Ha, I haven’t outgrown any of you…” I laughed, “just the daybed in my room. Between Vegas and I… well.. it’s a tad on the full side.”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “Just know, that we haven’t given up on you, and… you shouldn’t give up on you either. Don’t stress the one thing you don’t have. Instead, focus on all the amazing positive things you have coming up. And know.. that you can always run here.”
By this point in the conversation we were both trying to be hard asses and not cry, but we weren’t doing all that great of a job. So, I changed the subject, gave her a hug and put off packing the rest of my suitcases til after dinner. I left part of this title blank for a reason, maybe YOU can help me answer. I spent my whole life trying to leave “home” and now it seems I will spend the rest of my adult life trying to find a way to get back to it, whatever that may mean. Maybe that is because I’m still figuring out what makes a “home.” It’s not the “people,” as the ten year old put it, because her parents had split. It’s not the furniture or four walls, because well, I had that in NYC, and it was still missing something. And it wasn’t Tampa, because while I had people that love me there, I couldn’t pursue my dreams the way I wanted to. What makes us come to call a certain place home anyway?...

Maybe home is a place for you to just.. “belong.” Some place where you just fit, like a great pair of shoes, that you can walk around in and not get blisters or sore feet. It’s a place to take shelter from all the storms in our life, no matter how tumultuous they get. It’s perfectly natural for us to go through periods of life where we feel lost, maybe this is one of mine.

The next few months of my life will be hectic ones, and definitely roads less traveled by. I’d become a regular gypsy, and no Mr. Borat, you may not “have my tears.” While part of me is scared senseless to begin this journey, the other part of me says.. “Bring it on.” If there is one thing I have learned from my adventures and my misadventures at that, it’s that you can never be sure who you will meet along the way. Who knows??.. Maybe you’ll find someone to bring along on the ride. Which leads me to ask… Which one of you is coming with me?...

I may not have all the answers now, and maybe I never will, but I have the utmost of faith that someday I will end up right where I belong. At the right place, the right time, with the right person. And until that moment comes, at least I know my family will always leave the light on for me.

“Home is the one place in all this world where hearts are sure of each other. It is the place of confidence. It is the place where we tear off that mask of guarded and suspicious coldness which the world forces us to wear in self-defense, and where we pour out the unreserved communications of full and confiding hearts. It is the spot where expressions of tenderness gush out without any sensation of awkwardness and without any dread of ridicule. ~Frederick W. Robertson”

Perfect Stranger

2009-05-28T20:37:00.002-05:00

After a long weekend of partying and all that being around a race weekend in Indy entails, I was walking through the newly built Indianapolis airport when a stained glass window caught my eye. Even amidst the afternoon thundershower that had rolled through, the window’s bright coloring still seemed to light up the terminal. But it wasn’t the colors that really drew me to this particular window more than the rest. It was the words written on it that really caught me off guard.

I will bring you a whole person
and you will bring me a whole person
and we will have us twice as much
of love and everything

I be bringing a whole heart
and while it do have nicks and
dents and scars,
that only make me lay it down
more careful-like
And you be bringing a whole heart
a little chipped and rusty an'
sometime skip a beat but
still an' all you bringing polish too
and look like you intend
to make it shine

I will be bringing you someone whole
and you will be bringing me someone whole
and we be twice as strong
and we be twice as true
and we will have twice as much
of love
and everything.

I later learned that it was a poem called Celebrations written by Mari Evans.

There was more of the poem written on the pane, but I only needed to see that particular part to have a moment of “Eureka” regarding the past few months of my life. Time and time again, I have come to my blog as a place to find solace in the craziness that is my life’s journey, and you have all been an amazing audience and dare I even say a shoulder to cry on from time to time. While I may change the names to protect the innocent and (in more cases than not..) the LESS than innocent, I have also been nothing but brutally honest with the incidents that have occurred. You have seen parts of my life that some would call heartbreaking, others would call ironic, and some.. well, were just downright humiliating. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I guess if we are really going to understand this epiphany, we need to retrace my steps this weekend. And those steps begin the minute I stepped foot in Indianapolis. For those of you who are familiar with my stories, Indy has always had a special place in my heart. It’s been my sanctuary in times of turmoil, my place to retreat to gather my thoughts, and a place to remember what really mattered in life. In short, Indy always brought me.. back to me. This weekend was no exception. Well, sorta.

For weeks I had been planning to meet up with this reoccurring figure in my life, that you all have come to regard as the Roadrunner. I call him this for various reasons, but the main one being the obvious: he enjoys the thrill of the chase. Rarely were the two of us ever in the same city at the same time, but this particular weekend we just so happened to be. I had forgotten to factor in one thing.. there is a reason I call him the Road Runner.

He is one of those ridiculously pretty boys that has never really had to work hard to catch a girls attention, sometimes… multiple girls in fact. He loved the thrill of the chase and almost always seemed to think the girl should chase him. This weekend was no exception. It was always.. come meet me here, come see me there. But for some reason this particular weekend, when the entire theme was built around “the chase,” I found this game extremely unamusing. Though until now, I really didn’t understand why.

That’s because this weekend, I ran into a Perfect Stranger, that as Kenny Powers would say, “f*cked me up with some truth.” I wouldn’t call him a stranger, because I definitely had known who he was for some time, given both of our backgrounds. But what little I did know about him I knew only from the internet, and if I have learned anything in the past few years it’s that the internet isn’t always the most reliable of sources.

I don’t mean he was “perfect” … because well, no one is. In fact his faults are brutally scrutinized. But I mean.. his “timing” was perfect. Not too long ago, I began to realize that so much of what happens in our lives.. the places, the people.. are all based on timing. We meet certain people, at certain times, for certain reasons none of us really understand. Any later or sooner, and well.. the outcome of our lives would be vastly different. Or at least, that is what Doc Brown said in Back to the Future. Sometimes these events are subtle, while others might as well be decked out in neon lights like “Girls, Girls, Girls.” Or something like that. This may very well have been one of those times.

Anyone that has met me on a personal level will be the first to tell you, I’m quick with my one-liners and barbs. Well, the Stranger went toe to toe with me, and then some. He was quite the antithesis for the brand I had come to associate with his “kind.” The complete opposite of a fathead… you know?? The type of guys that are fun to look at, but aside from that they serve no real use other than to hang on your wall just to root for your favorite sports team. But not this one. He was different. He didn’t use lame pick up lines or cheesy gimmicks. In fact, I’m not sure he was really trying to pick me up at all. He threw my one-liners back at me with the quickness of a line drive that would’ve had most pitchers riding the pine pony unable to recall their own names for days.

After a good amount of nonsensical banter, we soon realized the two of us shared more than a deep love for sports in common, with our similar histories, similar philosophies, and similar outlooks on our given situations… especially in the dating category. For some stranger reason, this kid seemed to “get” me. And I “got” him. A few adult beverages into my encounter with the stranger, things took an interesting twist.

“You Ms. Sterger are quite an enigma. I’m not sure what to make of you. On one hand… you seem very genuine and very much one of the guys. You play the ‘I’m a cool single chick’ role real well. But part of me thinks it’s just an act. I think … I think you’re scared,” he said.

I nearly spit out my drink. No one, and I mean… NO ONE calls me chicken. Especially not you, Mr. Stranger.

“Oh really, is that so??” I cocked my head slightly, intrigued by his overall observation of me.

“Sure, well, if you’re this cool… why don’t you have a boyfriend??.. “ he asked.

And that my newfound friend.. is the million dollar question. For months now I had been picking up the pieces from a tumultuous relationship that had left my life in complete shambles. I had gone on countless dates, with all kinds of people.. but nothing really seemed to stick. I always just assumed I was too picky, or when I did pick something it was all wrong for me. As it turns out, the Stranger had been in a similar situation, though he didn’t divulge a ton of details. From what I gathered, he was just too young, and too in denial that they wanted different things that he wasn’t willing to admit that they had grown apart. Since then, he too had made a few missteps, and just like me.. watched them play out for everyone else’s amusement.

“You want my opinion??? For what it’s worth??..” he asked as he took a sip from his Guinness. “I don’t think you have the slightest clue what you want. You had something, you lost something, and since then, you’ve devoted so much of your time looking for the right thing that you probably wouldn’t know it if it hit you in the face. Trying to have a career, a life, and a love life?.. Forget it. Something has to give. You’ve spent your greater adult life, always with someone else, that you don’t know YOU anymore. And you’re too scared to admit it.”

I sat there stunned. Silent. This guy… this stranger.. that knew me for a mere few hours was calling me out. Who did he think he is??... Just because our lives overlapped in some aspects did not mean I suffered from the same lost boy syndrome he did.

Or did it?

That night, the two of us ended up roaming the streets of Indianapolis by ourselves. Not as a couple of drunken kids looking for a corner to make out in, but as a couple of guarded lost souls that just realized.. maybe for the first time, they weren’t alone after all. By him calling BS on me, he had in turn forced himself to confront his own façade he had been hiding behind. And as they say in crappy old heist movies… the jig was up, pal.

The next few days went by rather fast, as I had a ton of professional obligations and appearances to fulfill, but the Strangers words stuck with me. It wasn’t that I was stuck on my ex, because I could really care less as long as he is happy. Maybe I just hadn’t been alone long enough to really put myself back together again. So every failed date, every misadventure broke humpty dumpty into more and more pieces… to the point I had no clue where to start. Where were all the king's horses and all the king's men???

That’s when I realized… I really didn’t NEED to be with anyone. For once, it felt okay to be alone. I needed to figure out who I was again as a person, not a pair. Months of therapy, years of blogging, and it only took one chance encounter with another lost soul for me to figure out what my life was missing… Me.

I never did meet up with the Roadrunner. And part of me thinks, maybe it was for the best. He would have only filled my head with false hope and just perpetuated this nasty cycle I had caught myself in. Instead, I spent the rest of the weekend figuring out myself, and getting to know me again. And while I’m far from the finish line, at least I made some good headway.

Which brings me back to the window….

A whole person. Such a novel concept. It was something I hadn’t been in a long time. I need to quit bringing this guarded, self censored version of myself to the table, and bring back the real “Jenn.” She may be flawed, and have a few bumps and bruises, but those scars are what make her the unique sensitive individual she is today. The one beneath the tough girl exterior she presents to the rest of the world… her poker face if you will.

The next time I decide to take the plunge, I will bring everything. . I wouldn’t be in something just out of need, but I would be in something because I WANT to be in it. Not the baggage of relationships past, just the lessons that it taught me How was anyone supposed to get to know the real me if my guard was always up???.. It wasn’t fair for me to keep dating from the other side of the wall. If the Germans had brought that ‘ish down, maybe it was time I did the same.

I never did get a chance to thank the Stranger for the lesson he taught me that weekend, but something tells me he’ll keep in touch. I promised him I’d keep his identity a secret. And that I shall. But I think the lesson he taught me needed to be passed on to others. I’m convinced God brings certain people into our lives for a reason, to teach us things as he sees fit. Maybe this was one of those instances. It just goes to show you that timing really is everything. If I hadn’t gotten lost, hadn’t made a wrong turn or two… I wouldn’t have met such an interesting person. Our chance encounter taught me it was ok to laugh again, taught me first impressions aren’t all that they may seem, but most of all it taught me… if you’re going to get lost, at least get lost together.

Must Love Dogs

2009-05-27T04:33:00.003-05:00

Not too long ago, I got to talking about relationships with an esteemed colleague of mine. He conceded that reading my blog was one of his new guilty pleasures, mainly because I was so brutally honest, even to the point of self-deprecation. Well, what did he expect?.. I joked that after the heinous past few years of dating experiences; I was a mere few seconds away from joining Match.com or some other random dating site under an alias. Clearly, there had to be some way of wading through all the “getting to know someone” BS, and while I wasn’t sure a mathematical formula was the answer… well, it was better than taking blind stabs in the dark at it.

The true romantic in me always assumed that the right person would simply fall into my lap at the right time. After all, that’s how it happened for my parents.

Where the hell is MY Prince Charming?

That’s when I met.. the Survey. My buddy seemed to swear by it. The survey, while relatively simple asked all the important questions you should always ask yourself before pursuing someone. Writing it all down… really analyzing it all makes you realize what's really important to you in a relationship and a person. Thus, making it easier for you to make clear-headed decisions. You might be intoxicated by someone's good looks or the way they talk or their extensive knowledge of wines, sports, food.. whatever their niche… but if they don't fit your standards, then maybe it’s not worth chasing. After all, no one likes to feel they’ve wasted their heart or time on someone.

List six "musts". These are the absolute essentials you need in a partner
This part was relatively easy, and I felt like most were “givens.”

1) I want someone with a good head on their shoulders that that is decisive and can make sound decisions.

2) And while they may not come from a perfect family ( I mean.. who really has one of those these days??), they should definitely have a good sense of family values.

3) They should have some kind of faith (whether they be catholic, Baptist, Buddhist, Taoist… whatever), and be relatively passionate and consistent about it. No one wants to date an absolute hypocrite.

4) I want a man who has solid career goals, and his own life ambitions… knows where he has been, where he’s going.. and appreciates every step of the journey to get there.

5) I want someone to see me as their equal. After all, relationships are all about partnerships. There shouldn’t be power struggles.

6) Make me laugh. I have a guilty pleasure for funny men. They aren’t necessarily the best looking man in the room, but they are the ones that keep a smile on my face the longest. Life it too short to not spend it smiling.. so why not find someone that keeps you in stitches all day long?.. I’m a nerd, and love to speak in movie quotes and references. I want my equal in that respect.

List 10 things that are important
These are qualities that you value, but aren't necessarily mandatory.

1) They should want to try new things, and never be satisfied with their knowledge of the world. I’ll try anything once, maybe twice if it doesn’t kill me.

2) They don’t have to be Emeril, but it would be nice if they could cook something other than a microwave dinner or boil a hotdog.

3) I really value physical fitness. So while they may not be an athlete, they should at least take care of themselves. This also means no smoking. I mean, part of having a life with someone means making sure that lasts as long as it can. Unless you’re Al Bundy..

4) Honor each other's past, but not live in it. I think it's crucial that you both understand where the other comes from, and where they have been. Our pasts are what make us who we are today. But they are just that, the past. Don’t dwell on them, don’t let them interfere with our future.. and move forward..

5) I want a man who can handle himself in public. One who knows you can’t talk like Kenny Powers in a nice restaurant. Someone who can handle himself at a cocktail party or any other social situation that presents itself. It’s not so much about manners as it is people skills. They don’t have to own the room, but they should be comfortable enough to stand on their own.

6) You may not like the same things I do, but at least look remotely interested in them. I don’t expect them to love sports or cars the way I do. But I better not have to explain to them who Deon Sanders or Joe Namath is either. If a guy thinks Babe Ruth is a candy bar.. guess what buddy???.. You just struck out.

7) Someone who knows how to have fun. Anyone that has been around me knows I am the biggest goofball ever. I have an affinity for knowing all the dance moves to music videos, and shamelessly admit to knowing all the words to pretty much any Britney Spears song ever recorded. If you are easily embarrassed, and won’t partake in dancing or having a good time, or have the party personality of a wet mop, need not apply. I don’t expect you to be Frank the Tank, but I do want someone that knows how to have a good time. After all, you shouldn’t take life too seriously, or you will never get out alive.

8) I love spontaneity. It keeps things fun and new. Try new things, go new places.

9) The Little Things principle. As gay as it sounds, even the coolest of girls likes it when her guy does something “just because.” There is no special occasion, no motivation behind it, he does it simply because he was thinking of you. An occasional text, flowers for no reason, or some random stupid trinket you saw and immediately thought of them. Even in a crappy economy we’re all still capable of doing something a little out of the way.. just to show we care. So why don’t you??

10) I want a guy that “tries” just as hard as I do. Let's face it, even the best relationships require a little bit of effort. I don’t think a girl should have to spend all of her free time chasing a boy, or vice versa. I think they should both chase each other. Meet the other in the middle… that’s how real relationships function even under the most strained conditions.

Five must-nots. Anything on this list is a deal-breaker
When I asked a few random women in my life this question, they came back with some blatantly obvious answers… must not cheat, beat.. etc. etc. Upon hearing these answers, I just cocked my head to the side as to kinda say.. “well, DUH.” I think that thing goes without saying. But maybe some of these are a little less obvious.

1) Don’t put down my beliefs or my opinions on things. We may not always agree, but we can agree to disagree. If a guy doesn’t want a woman with opinions, there are plenty of Barbies out there to give them the “smile and nod treatment.” I will not be a Stepford wife.

2) They can’t be overly vain. I once dated a guy that got in a hissy every time I left the house in a baseball cap and sweats. Apparently I am supposed to go to the grocery store, the diner, everywhere in 4 inch heels and full make up. Who the F@#$ do you think you are, Prince?.. Until you are cool enough to replace your name with a freaking' symbol, then you have no business telling me how to dress on my casual day to day life. It’s just shallow.

3) Laziness. I hate unmotivated people. A guy should have their own goals, their own ambitions, and I refuse to ride your ass or play your mother to get you to do them.

4) Do NOT compare me to your ex. Under any circumstances. That ship has sailed, and gone down like the Titanic my friend. You don’t want us doing it to you, so why even go there??? Don’t punish us for their mistakes or make us live up to their standards. Just because your ex used to go everywhere in full make up and hair doesn’t mean I have to. Judge me based on my standards and mine alone.

5) Do not betray my trust. Don’t go through my things, don’t go through my phone, my email.. whatever. It’s password protected for a reason. Even when two people share everything they should still be entitled to some privacy. If you don’t trust the other person enough to not go snooping you have no business in a relationship anyway.

6 Bonus Points
These are added bonuses. Not necessary, but it would enhance your life, make your time together more fun.

1) A man who knows how to fix things is sexy. I’m not saying you need to be the next Bob Villa. Hell, I will settle for Tim the Tool Man Taylor. But, know how to screw in a light bulb, or fix a toilet. And for God’s sakes… don’t be that metro pretty boy that doesn’t know what happens when you put rice down the drain. I wouldn’t say it if it hadn’t happened.

2) Compliments go a long way. And not the backhanded variety. Telling a girl her hair looks better than it did yesterday is not a compliment, it’s a putdown. She should look beautiful to you every day. That way when you’ve knocked her up, she’s 50 pounds heavier than when you met, she won’t be giving you the finger and cursing your existence come that day in the delivery room. She is beautiful all the time. No ifs ands or buts.

3) PDA is underrated. I’m not talking Paris Hilton-Doug Reinwhore make out sessions. I am talking about simple hand holding, a peck here, a hug there. If you are with a girl, be PROUD to be with her, and let her know it.

4) Take one for the team. A guy that is willing to see that chick flick just because I want to scores major points in my book. Because lord knows, I will be the first one to return the favor.

5) I’m a huge animal lover, and have been raised with big dogs all my life. A dog that resembles a bedroom slipper is not a dog, it is a fashion accessory. I have a place in my heart for every kind of animal though. And so while you may not fancy them, at least have compassion for the fact I do.

6) Create your own traditions. Make experiences for the two of you to share that are yours and yours alone.

Five scenarios
Five things you can imagine doing with the person you want to be with.

1) I am the biggest kid at heart. I love riding roller coasters, and rides, and going to Theme Parks. If you are too cool for the tea cups or Space Mountain, you are too cool for me.

2) I’ve grown much more appreciative of the outdoors in recent years. I really want to go white water rafting again, possibly down the Colorado. Men without balls, need not apply.

3) My dad and I have made it a point to visit as many ballparks as possible in our travels. You better plan on getting in on the action. I still haven’t been to Fenway and so many other great sports venues.

4) I am a huge supporter of charity events and volunteer work. Have a heart to help others, not for the publicity in it.. just because it makes you feel good at the end of the day. I would love to spend time with someone that has the same passion for helping others that I do.

5) My favorite date night.. is staying in. Making dinner, and watching a movie on the couch. After all, then you can just be yourself… talk.. and get to know what one another is really all about. I hate having to be “on” all the time, so this is when someone gets to know the real me.. the one behind the big hair.. the make up.. and all that nonsense.

After filling out the list, I went back through it, one article at a time. It wasn’t a list of likes and dislikes. It was a living breathing ideal person on paper. Comparing it against my past, all my failed relationships seemed to make so much more sense. It didn’t necessarily excuse their behaviors or the way they may have ended things, but it certainly explained why certain situations would have never come to fruition. The list was simply a way of saving me the time and agony of chasing something that wasn’t right for me anyway.

I wrote my colleague back and thanked him for sending the list to me. It really had a way of putting the past few years of my adult dating life in perspective. He reminded me that the list was not a be all end all, but it was certainly a great place to start searching. And as he so pointedly put it...

“The good thing for you is you have looooots of time.”

That Darn (Amazing) Cat

2009-05-17T20:10:00.009-05:00

Growing up as a child, I was raised alongside two Doberman pinschers. Even as an infant, I showed no fear of these massive dogs that at the time I could have ridden around the house like horses. In fact, sometimes my sister and I did just that. As the years passed, my family became almost a safe house for sick or abandoned animals. Give us your tired, your poor... We turned no animal away. Soon, the roster under our roof began to resemble Dr. Doolittle’s patient records. Two dogs multiplied into multiple cats, none of which my dad was fond of.. But he tolerated them simply because they made my mom happy.

Then one November during my sophomore year of high school, this black stray cat came wandering up to our front door step. He had a purple collar and a name tag that only read: Clayton.

Turns out he belonged to a neighbor of ours. But since the break up with her boyfriend (the one that got him for her), she had dumped him out of the house and made him an outdoor cat. Clayton began to wander the streets and do whatever it is outdoor cats do all day long. But his favorite place to hang was on the roof with my dad as he hung Christmas lights and listened to the Beatles’ greatest hits. Anyone who has seen my house at Christmas time knows the ordeal that goes into the Sterger family Christmas display. It’s a labor of love (for my mother anyway) that usually takes my dad anywhere from 3 days to a week not including the weekend prior of yard work. Spending all this time outside, my dad had plenty of time to bond with this cat, who did nothing more than keep my dad company and chase an occasional bug or two.

It wasn't long before all of us had a chance to bond with Clayton, who seemed more human than any of us could have imagined. That's because there was something different about this cat. He had this amazing personality that for an independent character was still somehow personable. He was playful and even dare I say funny. He loved to be bounced on his stomach, yet was the first to snuggle up to you when you needed comfort. My sister would sit outside and play with him. My mom would put out food for him in the morning.

The cat had everything but the roof over its head. And that was about to change.
One day when my dad was out of town on business, my sister snuck Clayton into her room. She figured, we had enough cats, what was one more?

Much to our surprise my dad didn't seem to mind the new refugee. He actually welcomed him. His only concern was whether or not Clayton's owner would give him up. So my mom and my sister walked down to the neighbor’s house, to ask her for the cat. The lady nearly laughed at her request and said if she wanted the mangy thing, it was all hers. And like that, Clayton became a Sterger.

Several years, and some stray additions later, Clayton began to act funny. I don't remember why we first took him to the doctor, but I think it was these sores he would get in his fur. We figured he probably just had some kind of dermatitis or something from his frolicking sessions in the backyard as he watched my father build a new shed. Turns out it was something far worse.

Clayton had AIDS.

Most people think AIDS is something reserved for humans and monkeys, but actually cats have developed their own type of immuno-deficiency disorder, FIV. We don't know how long he had had it, but we figured he got it in the few months the previous owner had dumped him on the street.

We were faced with the tough decision of whether or not to put Clayton down. The thing is, aside from the blisters, Clayton really had an amazing quality of life. He was already neutered so.. We didn't have to worry about that. While he was playful he was far from aggressive so he wouldn't be fighting anyone either. And if he was going to expose any of the other cats to it, well.. The cat was beyond out of the bag at this point.

My mom called my dad who was once again on the road and asked him what to do in this situation. Like any patient with AIDS, Clayton would need constant medical attention and treatment, including Depo Medrol shots and two years of Baytril pulse therapy…So after some discussion with our vet, my parents vowed to do everything they could to ensure quality of life for this animal that had become the glue that held this family together. They also promised that if that quality of life ever dimmed to nothingness, they would do the right thing and end his suffering.

Two years later, we had tackled 30 or so depo shots and had seen our share of ups and downs like anyone that has a serious illness like Clayton's. The smallest cuts or infections needed to be tended to like medical emergencies simply because his health was beyond compromised. But he was still Clayton, even on his down days. He’d do funny things to make us laugh, sit outside with us on the swing when the weather was nice, and cuddle with us when life got tough.

Then the other day, my mom noticed Clayton wasn't touching his food. Not the canned stuff, the carved turkey. He even snubbed his nose at the bite of filet was offered. So my mom loaded him up and took him to our vet.

This time however was different. He didn't necessarily look sick, just tired. His heart rate was a little off, but he still looked like Clayton. The vets ran a bunch of blood work to test all of his levels and make sure the depo shots hadn't thrown off any of his systems’ functions. They monitored him for a few hours, and when all seemed fine they sent him home.

That night however, things turned for the worse. Clayton had made a bed for himself in a pile of jackets he found in my dad’s office and seemed reasonably content. Until sometime in the middle of the night when he let out a loud shriek, and bolted from the room. His cries woke my mother who found him shaking uncontrollably and seemingly scared beneath the dining room table. She picked him up and wrapped him in a towel, and held him close. She knew this was not good.

She went and got my father, and told him to come quick.

Clayton was dying.

The two of them sat there, in the dark of night holding their adopted son until he took his last breath.

He was gone.

Since I've been working long hours on my movie, and sleeps been fairly elusive, my mother sent me a text telling me what had happened. I didn't find it til an hour or so later, when I checked my phone.

Tears began to roll down my cheeks, and I excused myself from the set. Seeing how upset I was, the director called our shoot for the remainder of the night and said we would pick up the next day. I went home, sat in my bed, and cried.

My sister and my grandmother both found out in the morning when they woke up to my dad digging a hole out in the backyard. Clayton had loved to be outside, and to hide in the shed while my dad did yard work, so next to the shed seemed only appropriate.

That day we laid to rest one of the most influential members of our family. We had played Russian roulette of treatments 33 times, and the 33rd was our last. We fought every step with him against an illness he got through no fault of his own, only that he had been originally placed with a crappy owner. But at least his misfortunes with her, led him to meeting us. Otherwise we may have never have been fortunate enough to have a chance to love him.

My family has seen its ups and downs through the past few years, but Clayton was one of those hems that kept things from falling apart at the seams. Because as much as Clayton needed us for treatment, we needed him to be a part of our lives more. He touched even the most stoic of hearts in my father, and somehow got him to see beyond his cat loathing ways. He was the goodwill ambassador of cats. The guy that kept the peace between the rest of the feline brood and my dad, that really wasn't all that big of a fan. He had this weird way of sensing our moods and knowing how to cheer all of us up. I think that's why he held on as long as he did. He loved life, outdoors, and sliced turkey. But more importantly he loved all of us. If Clayton taught me anything in my adult life, it's to cherish every moment you have with someone, man, woman or pet. Because pets aren't just animals, they become family. Maybe that's why this one hurt so badly. Clayton wasn't just some cat. He was a brother, a son, and a companion even despite all his hardships.

Some things in life you just can't replace. Clayton will always be one of them.

Timing

2009-05-14T14:23:00.003-05:00

I've dated plenty of amazing people since my first date at 15 years old. Hell, I didn't get my first kiss 'til I was 16. By today’s standards, I think that makes me a late bloomer, or possibly just extremely prude. Whatever, I went through an awkward stage, don't judge me!

Now, 10 years later.. I'm celebrating my ten year anniversary. My reunion of boyfriends past. There have been plenty of amazing candidates that, given a different circumstance -- a different time, a different place-- they'd have made excellent life partners in crime. But for one reason or another they simply didn't work out.

I have my dating ups and downs like anyone else, but the last major relationship I had really opened my eyes to something. Maybe that's because he thinks this new girl he is seeing could be "the one."

I'm not sure I believe in the whole concept of "the one:" the idea that there is only one person out there that we’re supposed to mesh with. So if you don't find them, you're doomed to wander the Earth the rest of your years.. alone.

In fact, I come from the school of thinking that it’s all about timing. Men don't necessarily marry the best woman for them, more likely the woman at the best time for them. The high school girlfriend may have put up with you and varsity football practice for four years. Your serious college girlfriend endured countless drunken mishaps with you for two. I mean, these women paid their dues. But unless the guy is at the point in his life he feels he can honestly settle down, then it’s really just time wasted.

I can think of one instance in my own life where this case is more than likely true. You may remember this guy from another blog I wrote last November… “The 27 Dresses” guy. He has since been dating the girl I selflessly helped him score. And I haven’t seen him since.

To better understand the situation, I have to give you a little bit of background. The way things ended with the two of us was.. Bizarre. Because they didn't necessarily end, they just went on an extended vacation without notice. Luckily enough for him I'm not the kind of girl to hold grudges, so we remain close friends. I’d be lying, however, if I said I didn't get a little messed up every time we ran into one another. That's because there's still a ton of lingering feelings and tension. For both of us. Too bad were both too career focused and busy to ever really put forth a concerted effort to ask questions or try make it work. When we lived in the same town, it had a chance, but now that were a two and a half hour plane ride away? Well, $hit was nearly impossible.

So imagine my surprise when I found out he was in town this past week and wanted to catch up. Sounded innocent enough. I mean, we were after all friends. That is, until I saw him coming down his hotel escalator, grinning from ear to ear. He had actually managed to put on a nice collared shirt, which for him is practically dressed for a gala at the Moma. And damn him.. He looked better than I remembered.

Then the little voice inside my head bitch slapped my subconscious.

Easy Sterg. We've already been here before, and he's broken our heart more times than the Mets (which in this case is somehow, ironic).

So we set off on our night’s quest: to find the last few minutes of the Houston/Lakers game, and grab a few drinks. Only neither of us knew Times Square. What was supposed to be a quick walk under awnings, turned into a long walk in the rain. At least I had been smart enough to bring my hoodie. Him on the other hand?? Well, I never said he was a brain surgeon.

There we were, running in the rain, dodging puddles, and trying our damnedest to find some obscure sports bar with the game on. But everything within walking distance had closed. So we ended up at a random bar, in a random part of midtown, with no sports scores to distract us. And then, things got awkward.

It’s hard to put up a poker face when the person staring back at you is just as capable at playing the same games you can. They’re just as capable of pulling the same BS, and they know your next move sometimes even before you do. We were just like Rocky and Apollo. We made for great sparring partners, trusted companions, and sometimes.. Even lovers. (Ok, well.. Maybe not the last part, but you totally understood where I was going with that. Then again, there was that one weird beach workout montage. :::shakes head to erase image:::)

First, comes the small talk: about jobs, about family, about pets. And then, about dating. He informed me he was still seeing the girl I helped set him up with, but wasn't really happy. The girl he had built up in his head as some dream girl was proving to be a colossal headache. I, on the other hand, was still single, and while I wasn't happy, I've just been entirely too busy to date anyone. As the alcohol flowed, he quickly began to unload his baggage on me.

"She picks fights with me in public and you know I can't stand my business out there like that. She gets obsessed with being seen, and the drama, and.. don't get me started about money. I dunno Jenn. You were just never like that. You were the kinda girl that was content with blue jeans and a baseball hat, and a six pack of beer. We never had to impress each other. And you enjoy your privacy as much as I do.”

"So, why stick with it if you're not happy?” I asked. “It’s not like you're the kinda guy that has trouble getting girls. You just tend to fall for the wrong ones."

He nodded shamefully and took a swig from his Jack and coke.

"You’re right. I need a girl that has her own thing going on. This one just has too much time on her hands, and she's driving me crazy. I mean she tried to move in with me! I got news for her, $hit ain't happening. I mean, I don’t want to date someone whose only ambition is to be a club rat. Sometimes Jenn, I just dunno if I want a girlfriend. Other times I think, maybe this one just isn't the one."

I'm thinking. Well, duh you moron. He never seemed to know what he wanted. He just always wanted whatever he thought he couldn’t have. But, part of knowing someone the way we know each other.. is understanding the parts of the person that no one else sees. He really needed someone that understood him, his quirks, his obsession for Guitar Hero, and his demanding career. He and I have been down this road many-a-times. He just always ended up being distracted along the way, too much to see what's been right in front of him all along.

I could see the wheels in his brain turning, and the poor hamster doing its best to keep up.

“So,” he asked, “what about you??.. Any new developments in the love life department?”

"HA. Hardly. And if it makes you feel any better,” I conceded, “you were right about THAT guy too. He was clearly just out for a piece, but at least you warned me before it was too late."

"Yeah, I'm sorry Jenn. It’s just, you’re genuinely a good person. I just didn’t want to see you get hurt again. People talk, and I had heard a few things. I just felt like you should know what you were getting into. I felt like $hit telling you. But, its better you found out now before it got serious, right?"

"Yeah, I guess"

He clearly had more to say, but he’s never been the greatest of communicators. Then again, what men really are??

Last call came and went rather quickly, and the two of us walked back to his hotel. The silences were long.. And again, very awkward. I mean, what are two people in this position supposed to say?

Finally, I'd had enough of the bull$hit.

I turned to him and said, "Look, we both know there is something there. We end up in this same place, same predicament every time, with the same result: both of us messed up in the head. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different outcome. I’ll always be there for you, but I'm tired of being your life coach while some other girl reaps all the benefits. So we can continue to pretend like this conversation never happened if it helps you to sleep at night, but me? I'm tired of denying the obvious."

I kissed his cheek, wished him well, and turned to walk away. He just stood there, once again dumbfounded. I continued my walk home in the rain by myself sans umbrella, but for some strange reason I didn’t really mind. In the course of your adult life you’re bound to encounter a storm or two, you just have to learn to dance in the rain. Here I was, just embracing it. After all, life isn’t just about the things you do, but the things that simply happen to you. I’m not saying you can’t take action to affect the outcome, but I do know that on any given day you can step out your front door, and your whole life can change. That’s because the universe has a plan for all of us. And that plan is always in motion. It’s scary how all these seemingly little things all add up to make sure you end up at exactly the right place, at the right time… right where you we always supposed to be.

My time in New York may not have worked out exactly the way I had planned, but it was all leading me to my next journey, right? Life had thrown me a couple of curve balls, but I was somehow still in the game. And there was no doubt in my mind that this would not be our last at bat. It was simply the end of another inning. There would always be a next time. And who knows?? Maybe then things would be different. Maybe it would be the right place, and the right time… where things would all make better sense. For both of us. Because it’s really all about the timing, isn't it?

Fear Factor

2009-05-09T05:56:00.004-05:00

For years, I've defined myself as the guy’s girl. I can eat like the boys, drink like the boys, talk like the boys, and certainly keep up with the boys. I live for the thrill of the wind in my hair, the rush of adrenaline through my veins, and the occasional bump or bruise I may get in the process.

But, I haven't always been this way. If you had asked my mother 10 years ago to describe her daughter, she’d no doubt come up with tons of adjectives: creative, sensitive, caring, selfless, introverted. But she'd have never come up with bold, physical, or daring.. And certainly not fearless. I was tentative about big presentations, speeches, playing sports.. You name it. Except for bowling, and music.

Aside from physical traits like my asthma and sheer lack of coordination that kept me from bending it like Beckham, I think the real barrier I encountered was fear. Fear of embarrassment, failure.. You name it. So I was constantly playing the role of benchwarmer and wallflower. I wasn't the girl that "got the guy," I was the best friend that just wanted them to be happy. It just felt safer. I was already an outcast at school, the type of girl the popular kids used for their personal amusement.. But that's another blog.

The past few years though, I've come to realize just how little I do in terms of pushing myself. I was so used to playing it safe I was depriving myself of life altering experiences. So one day I had enough, and decided.. If I've only got one life to live, I better do this right. I worked out harder, took chances, dared to be bold.. both emotionally and physically. White water rafting, stock car driving, the ‘bolder the better’ became my motto. And I've been pushing myself ever since. My two most recent fear factors were much more psychological barriers, but it didn’t make conquering them any easier.

I was recently cast in this horror film to be shot in and around NYC. The director is also an amazing self-taught effects artist that also happens to have a niche in cinematography. I took the role mainly because it’s a really well written script, and an extremely physical role. Lots of fighting, lots of gore, lots of running-- less screaming. I didn't want to play a victim that just sat there as she was disemboweled or gutted like a fish. Sorry Drew Barrymore. Instead, I wanted to play a fighter. A strong woman who uses her emotional issues in her day-to-day life as a way of combating the supernatural evils she encounters on when else.. Halloween.

And then, there were clowns. Ever since I was in second grade I have had a ridiculous fear of clowns, chainsaws.. and anything that went bump in the night. I think it stems back to my parents taking me to Halloween Horror Nights when I was far too young to appreciate the artistry that went into the scaracatures makeup, or understand that it was in fact.. Faker than Donald Trump's comb-over. Instead of enjoying the Halloween festivities, I spent the majority of the night perched on my dad’s shoulders like the lookout muskrat-- in charge of pointing out predators in masks waiting to scare unsuspecting park visitors. Pretty traumatizing experience to say the least.

So, imagine the shudders that went down my back when I arrived at set and my co star was already hours deep in the makeup chair. I had never met Sid (that’s his real name) before, and now the person looking back at me through bloodshot yellowed eyes.. Was “Art.” And boy was he a piece of it. Bloodied and bruised down to the fingernails, covered in scabs and cakey clown makeup we sat face to face. I won't lie. Taking pictures with him was downright painful, I even considered calling my therapist. And this was before we stepped foot on set. We still had to work together. It was going to be a long, long day.

Because of his prosthetic rotted teeth, Sid was unable to speak to me. There was no fun playful set banter. Just the creepy stares and even creepier smiles. As we wrapped for the day, Sid and I returned to our respective dressing areas to remove our makeup and costuming. An hour later, we both emerged our regular street clothes wearing selves. He was a simple kid from Brooklyn, with a passion for scary movies. But Sid was certainly nothing to be scared of.

My second round against my fears came early Thursday morning. I recently signed on with a major beverage distributor as a national spokesmodel. These roles are typically saved for big time baller athletes with sick dance moves and bad ass personas, but these guys chose to go a different route. They reserved the bad ass athletes for use in their particular regional markets, and instead wanted a strong bad ass sports-loving girl as their main face, the one they'd use in their commercials and all their nationwide print ads. And they chose.. Yours truly. I was beyond ecstatic and flattered and jumped at the chance to work with such a reputable and huge name like theirs.

Then, I got the call.

"Hey Jenn, we were wondering.. You're not by chance afraid of snakes are you?"

Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes? I can deal with the dangerous, the poisonous, the sharp toothed.. But the creepy crawly??

My inner team player though agreed to put on my best gameface and give it a shot. Suit up Short Round. Were off on an adventure!!!

The next day I touched down in Dallas, and was ushered away to my photoshoot.

Apparently I wasn't the only one shooting my part of the campaign that day, as I was greeted by a few members of the Dallas Cowboys and an entire staff of hair and makeup and creative assistants. There in the middle of the room against a grey backdrop was linebacker Demarcus Ware, giving the camera his best mean face imaginable.. Which I found quite comical given the fact Demarcus was a remarkably polite and soft spoken guy. After tons of introductions I was sent to hair and makeup, where I was doused in more hairspray than John Travolta in drag. An hour later when I emerged, I was no longer Jenn Sterger ‘girl next door ‘in her tracksuit. I was Barbarella 2.0 with hair to match. Just when my nerves had finally settled, my co-stars arrived.

Their names were Aussie and Neon. Aussie was a Australian tree climber of some sort, while Neon was an albino boa. I watched as people passed them throughout the studio, and let them crawl and wrap themselves around their necks, arms, waists.. You name it. They seemed calm and relatively docile, but me? I still wanted no part in this. Damn it! Why I hadn't I put Valium on my Rider??

If there is one thing I pride myself on, it’s being a girl of my word. I promised them a bad ass snake picture and damn it. That's what they were gonna get.

I started with Aussie, figuring he would be the easier one of the two. But I soon discovered this was not so. Because he was a tree climber, he was not content just sitting there. He was constantly looking for higher ground. And for me that meant... In my face. I was fine with him around my shoulders or wrapped on my arm.. But my face?? C’mon man!!

I tapped out when I felt Aussie's tongue touch my cheek. So I asked we replace him with his other friend Neon, who by the way happened to weigh about 75 pounds and could easily have eaten my cat. I tried to zone out as they strategically wrapped neon around my legs and brought the rest of him up to my arms. Neon was much more content just chilling… for a few minutes anyway. Then, I felt his tongue against the inside of my leg. I shrieked.

“Um excuse me.. Neon! That's third base! I don't even know you like that... We're not on that level!”

2 hours of Britney Spears greatest hits later, we had our shots! Sexy, yet strong. And just the look they were going for.

I had survived my snake encounter, my face to face with a clown. But could I match my scariest opponent yet? My own feelings.

Many times I've found myself in certain scenarios that dare me to be bold, and while I may have become better at conquering physical fears, I still have not mastered my emotional ones. If you read my last blog, you know that I was in a state of turmoil over this friend of mine, Hmm Hmm, who I had discovered I had feelings for. After reading through all of your advice, it dawned on me that I was really scared of nothing. So what if I got rejected? At least I would know where he and I both stand. So.. I told him the truth...

But, again… that, is for another blog.

Sometimes we really have nothing to fear but fear itself. And we hype up all of these insecurities and flaws we have for no reason. For so long I was afraid to live my life to the fullest, but I'm working to change all that. I've learned so much lately, all because I was willing to take a chance. I learned that clowns are people too, just with really overzealous makeup artists. I learned that snakes are something to respect, but certainly not be afraid of. Unless it's the John Voight/JLo variety, in which case you’re on your own buddy. And I learned that sometimes you just gotta go all in and take a chance on someone. Sometimes you'll go belly up, but other times you'll take the house. Regardless though.. You took a chance, and showed your fears (and Tony Danza) who's the boss.

And that has made you all the stronger. I had conquered my demons... And lived to tell about it. Now, it’s your turn.

When Jenny met Hmm hmm

2009-04-27T12:41:00.000-05:00

Shakespeare once said… “All the world is a stage, and we the men and women are merely players.” But what happens when you put a bunch of people on a given stage for the rest of the world to observe, participate, and criticize… with no script, no plot, and no direction as to what is about to happen to them. Maybe that is why it leaves most of us wondering… are we living in a comedy or a tragedy???

I have had my shares of ups and downs in life, just like the rest of us. And despite all the BS I have been subjected to, I still remain fairly optimistic. Don’t get me wrong, I am still cautious as all hell, but I am also the one that isn’t afraid to take a chance every now and then on a wild card. After all, those are the kinds of decisions that can lead to tons of fun… or absolute disaster. Unfortunately you have to let all the plans unfold before you can decide what it is.

I choose to believe my life.. is a comedy, and a romantic one at that. Part adventure, part chaos, with all the Kraft cheesiness your stomach can handle. Maybe that is because I am one of the many women that gets sucked in to believing that the Matthew McConaugheys, the Tom Hanks, the Richard Geres of the world are in fact real live sample sizes of the general population. You just have to be lucky enough to find one.

My favorite of all these films has to be without a doubt.. When Harry Met Sally. It was one of those films my dad would constantly mention in regards to a guy friend I had growing up but I never got his references. He always insisted I was “girl who thought she was low maintenance, but was actually in fact high maintenance.” He said, “it took me twenty minutes to order a sandwich.. and that ‘on the side’ is a very big thing for me.” I simply said.. “I’m a girl that knows what she wants and how she wants it.”

It wasn’t until I was much older, and having my tonsils ripped from my throat that I was bored enough to actually sit down and watch something that was made when Billy Crystal still had hair, and Meg Ryan did not yet resemble a fish. Two hours later… I was left with a whole new repertoire of movie quotes to choose from… and an even bigger question in life.. “Can men and women really just be friends.. or does sex always get in the way??”

I’ve always been a firm believer in the fact that men and women can be “just friends.” Sure, sometimes there can be awkward undertones of unspoken feelings, but I can honestly say that I have a key group of male friends that are just that and want nothing else. Just the girl they have come to love and respect like a little sister, who knows her sports, loves her beer, and can’t get enough buffalo chicken wings. And then…. There is the other kind.

I once had this amazing friend named.. Hmm hmm. We met in the most random of ways, and began a friendship that was almost as random. He was super smart, funny, and boyishly charming. But the thing I admired most about him was his overall selfless concern he seemed to have for me. He looked out for me, offered advice when he could, but was really there as a shoulder when I needed something to lean on.

But like any good foil, we were total opposites. I was much fierier, while he was laid back. My idea of a good time was white water rafting, or spending time outside, his involved sand and an outdoor Tiki bar. He loved to gamble, while I was frugal as hell. He was sarcastic and biting, while I tended to be a bit of a goofball and oversensitive. Yet somehow, this oil and water mixture made us perfect sparring partners, and instant friends. It was nice to have someone to talk to that “got me” and could keep up with my banter.

We hung out together, quoted the latest episodes of How I Met Your Mother together, and just genuinely enjoyed being in each other’s presence. Even when we weren't together, we were constantly texting or drunk dialing each other with our random life stories.

Then, something happened. I'm talking about the kind of something’s that only happen when two reasonably good looking, fun loving individuals have one too many cups with the Captain, or Mr. Grey Goose.

We hooked up.

It was like that awkward scene from When Harry met Sally, where the two of them know so much about each other, except how they react in such a situation. Because we knew each others war stories and horror stories, there was that awkward silence of.. What the hell were we supposed to do now? We didn't want to act like the guys and girls we complained to one another about. The “Why didn't you call me girl?” The “Emotionally unavailable dude.” The “I’m scrapbooking pictures of our future children” girl. The “wait three days to call her guy.” Between the two of us, we had seen it all, and we definitely didn't want to be THOSE people.

For days we acted like nothing had changed. But let's face it. We both knew it had. We didn't know how to act around each other. I couldn't possibly tell him bout my ex giving me problems, because now, he had a vested interest. Or at least I hoped he did. And I didn't want to hear his war stories from his latest trip to Vegas.. because there's a reason what happens there stays there… so people can keep their relationships and their self respect.

And then it dawned on me.

$hit. I LIKE Hmm-hmm.

I’m majorly, totally, butt crazy, head over heels for Hmm-hmm. But now I have no idea how to act around him. I couldn't strut around in my cute little outfits, or talk to other boys to try to make him jealous. I mean, its Hmm-hmm. He knows what makes me tick. How I operate. It was like he had been a spy in my world this whole time, and all it took was a little liquid courage to bring his true feelings to the surface. It was a weird tension. You know.. Where you're afraid you like them more than they like you?? I began to find myself in midst of a power struggle. The laid back buddy in me saw it as something casual, just a random thing that happens between friends. But the other side of me saw something completely different. The other side of me said.. maybe, just maybe.. “there may be something there that wasn’t there before.”

Was I just supposed to ignore the fact that I found someone that I could genuinely be myself around, because the friendship was already there??.. For once, I was actually speechless. So I just played the game. I said the things a girl in my position is supposed to say, and found myself more lost than when I started.

Revert to Plan B.—TELL HIM THE TRUTH. I mean, we were friends before the incident, why not after??? You can revert back to your old friendship if things don’t work out, or he’s just not that into you. Right?.. (Buzzer)

It was a winless situation, and instead, I took a cue from Charlie Chaplin and stayed silent. He would drop hints that he didn’t want me “seeing” other people, or that he was jealous, but maybe this was all just some playful banter. The longer this dialogue exchange took place, the more I realized I was not willing to give up my personal freedom, for someone who wasn’t respectful enough to do the same.

Til this day, the situation remains unresolved. There are so many questions, so many things I would like to say to him that I simply couldn’t find a way to put to words. Maybe that’s because I value what we have enough to stay silent and just let it be. After all, he’s become too important to me to risk losing him as a friend.

I guess that’s why were torn between living our lives as comedies or tragedies. Because while life may present you with the answers to all the things you were looking for, it may also put them just beyond your reach. So for now, I’ll continue to just toil away at my career and just let life come at me as it will. I’ll laugh about the comedy, overcome the tragedy, and just soak up the moments in between. Because while the storyline may be a little vague, at least I know the person holding the power to write it.

Triple Word Score

2009-04-23T18:09:00.002-05:00

Maybe it was just sheer curiosity of what their life was like before us, but for some reason people can't help but wonder about their "present’s" past. Who came before us? What were they like? Why didn't they work out? Then somewhere our curiosity gets the better of us and we're bound to destroy our future before it even gets its legs. Looks like the cat wasn't the only thing that bit the big one. Unless you've only encountered one person since you left the womb, odds are you have a past and a few skeletons in your closet. For me though? The only thing in my closet is a crap-load of shoes and some Jets gear.

Time after time again, as relationships try and fail (as they sometimes do) I've always tried to remain cordial with exes. Hell, some of them are my best friends. Others.. Well we are friendly, but it’s just better for us to not be active in each other's lives. Usually for unresolved issues, questions about would we or wouldn't we in a different place or time, sometimes you just realize you and the person really had zero in common. Whatever. We all have our reasons. It just always was better to move on, and send a postcard. After all, you can't have a perfect future if your past is always present. How's that for a grammar lesson?
If you dig deep enough you could find dirt on just about any one. But why soil your chance at a legit future? Particularly the question of "numbers."

So this buddy of mine comes to me in a panic over the girl he has been seeing because he finds out she was bragging about..uh.. "played Scrabble" with a lot of people in Collegetown, USA.

I know you're all thinking, well.. Of course she's played Scrabble before, we all played Scrabble as a kid. Well, of course, we all played silly games like Scrabble when we were younger.. But when you're an adult there's this whole new kind of "Scrabble" you get to play. A game where the words aren't quite as important so much as the letters you choose to make them with. The more letters you use, the more "rare" the letters, the more points you have. As a kid when you played games it was the person with the highest score that won. But as an adult, the higher your Scrabble score.. Well, the people you date begin to think you're a Scrabble whore.
I know you're probably saying.. “Dude, Scrabble is just a fun game. Everyone’s doing it.” Yeah, of course everyone's doing it, it's just one of those basic instincts that kicks in during our teenage years, and becomes our addiction for years to come, the Holy Grail in a quest to find the perfect Scrabble opponent.
Some search their entire lives for the "one" worthy Scrabble opponent, while others will play with just about anyone for fear of being lonely, or to get their rocks off.

So that night, when Cliché A$$hole BBM’d me (that would be ‘Chasing Amy’). Our conversation went something like this:

Cliché A$$hole: So I asked her what her “number” was.

Chasing Amy: Bro… what were you thinking??... :::slaps forehead:::

Cliché A$$hole: I dunno dude. But.. she admitted it. So, we broke up.

Chasing Amy: Could it have really been that bad dude?.. Was it worth breaking up for? I mean, no one is perfect…

Cliché A$$hole: She made me look like an amateur, and I’m not exactly a saint. She definitely holds the high score on this one.

Chasing Amy: "High score? What does that mean? Did she break it?” Sorry.. couldn’t resist man. I really think the two of you just need time to think this through. Is this really worth losing her over???

But for C.A., there was no thinking. He had already made up his mind. Repulsed by her awesome Scrabble playing abilities, he calls her a few choice words. She returns the favor, and minutes later.. Game over...

I began to ask myself.. was knowing the truth really all that important? Was knowing her number what defined her as a person? If he loved the girl, he'd love her unconditionally, no matter what her Scrabble high score was.

One thing’s for sure, one is still the loneliest number. While you always want to think you're different or special to your Scrabble opponent, you also have to remember they are human beings with egos, with vulnerability. No one's perfect, and if you're waiting around for the person that's still a scrabble virgin, well good luck with that. They only get harder to find as you get older.

So until you do, practice safe Scrabble, and always play by the rules especially when hearts are involved. Who knows.. That heart may one day be yours.

The Road Runner and The Coyote

2009-04-03T21:17:00.003-05:00

Ah, the thrill of a chase. In LA, it’s customary for people to stop what they are doing in their everyday lives to watch a car be pursued by the police. They weave in and out of traffic without a thought to the lives around them and we all stop to take notice. Why? Because in each and every one of us, there is some sick morbid curiosity of how it will all play out. Will he get away, will he be apprehended, or worse, will he crash???..

Let's face it, no one goes to NASCAR races to watch rednecks make left hand turns all day. They go for the start, finish, and the fiery crashes in between. Hell, Vin Diesel has made an entire career out of driving fast, blowing stuff up, and quirky puns and catch phrases. The thing about the chase that is so mesmerizing, is that crazy feeling of uncertainty.

One guy chases the girl of his dreams, the best “girl” friend that chases the hot unattainable guy. Both parties have to know their role, and know the rules. If one chases the other, and never catches it then the race is fruitless. But, if the guy in the back just throws his hands up and says eff this, the power shifts and so do the roles. This process seems to me like it is never-ending in the world of dating. We are all merely road runners and coyotes simply out to catch that one thing it is that we are all seeking.

Maybe I'm reaching a stage in my life where I find the whole premise of the chase somewhat, dull and unamusing. Or perhaps I just get tired of feeling I'm going after something I’ll never catch. There's no harm in walking away, and saying I'm done chasing my own tail, and you! I’ve come to find the so called “pretty boys” are quite possibly the worst, as they are overly cocky ones. There's some sense of power and entitlement in the getting the woman to chase you, that makes them treat the opposite sex like they are dispensable. I come from the school of thought, that in a functioning healthy courtship, people don't chase one another, they run along together. There's nothing worse than investing your feelings and heart into something with no pay off. After all, if you're constantly on the run, when do you get to ever just enjoy the other persons company, the fruits of your labor?? Playing hard to get, simply gets old. To the point where even Wile E Coyote holds up his sign that says, “F@#$ this.” Then, the giant boulder that inevitably falls on his head shortly thereafter. Luckily for me, there aren’t too many boulders where I live, or I would have needed to find new health insurance by now.

I had a short forty-five minute layover in Atlanta the other day. Atlanta Hartsfield is by far one of the busiest airports in the country. So imagine my surprise when I passed by the Sam Adams bar in Terminal C and low and behold I find.. My road runner. Of all the airports, in all the world, he somehow ended up in mine.

Ah, the one that got away. He's a beautiful specimen let me tell you, and our personalities are beyond electric together. But we were also both stubborn asses who were used to being pursued by the opposite sex, and neither one of our prides was about to back down to a friendly challenge. Our courtship, though fun, was a relentless game of cat and mouse, innuendos, and dirty jokes, but combined with the distance factor. Well, it was simply a case of wrong place, wrong time.

A lot you may think my blogs are all about the blame game and only paint me as the victim when in fact you couldn't be further from the truth. When I'm wrong, I’ll be the first to admit it. And in this particular instance, it was 90% my fault. All this time, I had pinned him to be the road runner, when in reality the only one running was me. I'm a true romantic at heart, but I was all too familiar with the impact that distance can have on even the sturdiest of relationships. I had been there, done that; I had so many of those "I survived this relationship” t-shirts that I just wasn't ready to open myself up to that kind of vulnerability again. Sure, not all situations are created equal but the countless hours spent on a plane certainly gets monotonous, as do the constant questions about your whereabouts when you're not in each others lives. And there’s always the “where is this relationship going” question. And we all know the answer to that. Nowhere. Absolutely, nowhere.

But here we were again, just the two of us in a sea of people looking to make their connections, while the two of us were wondering if “our” connection was still there. Our eyes met from across the bar, and suddenly we were the only two people in Terminal C.

With less than ten minutes before we boarded our separate planes to our very separate lives, it was like nothing had changed. We still laughed, we still smiled, and there was still that sense of... Wow. If I didn't know any better the screen of our movie went from color to black and white, and we were now standing in the middle of our very own Ingrid Bergman/Humphrey Bogart movie. As I turned my head to blush and laugh at his jokes and his cute lil southern drawl... He grabbed my cheeks and pulled me in for a good one. While unexpected, it was certainly welcome, and oh so familiar. Had we just revolutionized long distance relationships with layover dating? Maybe not, but it didn’t make the moment any less enjoyable. No sooner had our lips parted than they announced final boarding on his flight.

"Well, I guess… here's looking at you kid.." he laughed, as he threw his bags over his shoulder and ran off.

And just like that. He was gone again. This time, it was me that was the coyote: holding up my “?” sign, more confused than ever. Had I made a mistake of running too far ahead that my coyote simply gave up? Or, when it was my turn to chase him was I simply just too stubborn and dug my heels in, instead of just buying a better pair of running shoes?

Maybe I'd never have all the answers, but we’d always have Terminal C, and that right there was enough to make me stop and think... And smile.

Meep Meep,

Game on bitches.

Oh crap, I have a flight to catch.