tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254894992024-03-07T21:21:27.028-05:00Officially... JennWelcome to the Official Blog for Jenn Sterger...you may know me from the internet as the FSU Cowgirl, or from my TV and Magazine appearances...This is the place where I will update everyone with the things that are happening in my personal and professional life! It's been a wild ride since that 2005 Labor Day game that changed my life forever..so check back often for updates! Thanks for visiting! Please sign my Guest Book at the top so I can keep you informed with new content!Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-75928467084055625582014-05-25T19:06:00.001-05:002014-05-25T19:06:52.132-05:00Finding Nemo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Forgive me guys. It’s been years since I have done this sorta thing. And I honestly never thought anyone would notice. But, for some reason, a lot of you did. I never really realized that I had any sort of audience that enjoyed reading about my personal misfortunes and musings. I wasn’t vain enough to think anyone gave a shit. What really makes my story any different than the next person’s you know? But after countless letters, and notes of encouragement, here we are. I think I might just been your human schadenfreude, but if it makes even one person feel less lonely, well … who am I to deprive them?<br /><br />I can remember the day I stopped writing actually. I would try to write, and it would just be me, staring at my reflection in my computer screen. I would think..“fuck, I really need a facial.” Or “damn, today is an awesome hair day.” I would get easily distracted, close my computer and walk away. This process repeated itself plenty of times over the years, to the point it became a form of writers block. I think I just got tired of writing about life instead of living it. I used to write about all the crazy, stupid things I would do to find love. But I realized the only way I was going to find that person was to go out and actually LIVE life. And so I did. The funny thing is, a lot of the time my blogs and writing were really just public love letters. Things I was sure the other person would read, and they would realize how deep and profound I was by using our situation as a way of exposing some greater human truth .. and immediately want me back. But that, I have discovered was assbwackwards and delusional. Instead, of being some “fearless cartographer of the human soul,” I more accurately resembled the stupid drunk girl, crying in the bathroom stall at a bar over the last guy that broke up with her. Incoherent sentences, broken English.. lot of tears. It wasn’t so much as romantic as it was… pathetic.<br /><br />And then a funny thing happened, you know?.. I met someone amazing. Someone that just, fit seamlessly and effortlessly into my life, that just “got me.” And suddenly, I had no need to pour my heart out in words on a page. Because everything I had been searching for in my measly twenty something years of life, was right in front of me... you know, when you find your Nemo.<br /><br />
It’s true, you really only need two things in life.. chemistry and timing. But timing, is a bitch. People all have their own goals and dreams and ambitions. And when those dreams were put in your heart for a reason, it becomes difficult to imagine doing anything else but that. Of course, people’s dreams can change. I mean, I wanted to be a marine biologist when I was younger, and work at Sea World. After watching Blackfish, I think its safe to say, I chose… wisely. That and I am terrified of fish after an “incident” in 8th grade summer marine biology immersion program. And by “incident” I mean, I literally got bitch slapped by a mom fish for messing with her eggs while sifting on a sandbar. So now, I’m doing much less traumatizing things.. like standup comedy despite having a ridiculous fear of public speaking. Talk about irony. If anyone has a connection to the Beta blocker black market, shoot me a message on Facebook.<br /><br />My new-found singleness got me scared though. Anxious about what my “new life” would look like. Because whether we want to admit it or not, society has some double standards about single women vs. single men. Single men are largely accepted as being career men, and eligible bachelors. Ahem.. George Clooney. Single women are ridiculed as well.. cat people. <br /><br />I won’t lie, living in this world of “Party of One” is scary. Every rejection hurts more than the last, until at some point, you just feel like a masochist. Because you’re just waiting for someone to come along, and drop a house on you. Meanwhile, all of your friends are out there, living their lives.. in the future. They have big plans. Plans for weddings, babies… and I’m just snapchatting pictures of my new boobs. This is ... Just where I am at in life right now. Doesn’t mean I am happy about it. <br /><br />
But all this solitude has definitely given me time to find a new perspective on things. Namely on where my happiness really comes from. You can’t go through life thinking.. well if I just had THIS one thing… I would be happy. Looking for happiness in the next job, or mate, or material possession will only leave you feeling empty. Because its our society’s nature to feel like we never have <br />“ENOUGH.” Instead, you have to BE happy before you can even have whatever it is you are searching for.<br /><br />My greatest happiness and peace comes from just... living in the moment. You can find this odd peace when you stop worrying about tomorrow, and reminiscing and regretting yesterday.. and just live wherever you are.. in that very second. You stop worrying about whether something is going to “hurt” or cause you anxiety or what kind of outcome it will have, and you just react to what the world is giving you right then in that instant. I’m not saying to run around like an asshole, like you’re in the movie The Purge or anything. My life has rules and regulations, namely, don’t break any commandments or state enforced laws… or at least the important ones. Follow those guidelines, and suddenly life gets a lot easier. When you find peace in the moment, you can be whoever you want to be. And when you’re in control of that moment, you’re in control of your life. If you decide to say “FML,” everything you live will mirror what your words say. If you say you’re stressed and overwhelmed, you will become those things. The easiest way out?.. Recognizing what steps you need to take in that very moment towards the result that you want, and beginning to act in a way that will produce those results. You can’t guarantee the outcome obviously, because as they say.. “shit happens.” But you can certainly squash the feeling of doom and gloom you’re experiencing that leaves you feeling helpless and paralyzed. After all, stress is simply resistance to living in the moment. <br /><br />I used to try to plan out every moment of my life. And I still think most people do. They are those people that have “to-the-minute” itineraries planned out for their entire vacations and then wonder why no one likes to travel with them. (Cough::: my parents:::: ) Only now instead of which theme parks and monuments and rest stops to visit, they’re making plans on a much grander scale. They think .. meet someone that can put up with my shit. Get married. Have a baby. Raise child. Kick them out of house at 18. Apply to be a Walmart greeter. Become compost and go kick it with Jesus. Or something along those lines. But they definitely try to structure the way everything is supposed to happen. And honestly, good for them. But in the real world, you’re bound to encounter a wild pitch or two. Because despite what Pedro Cerrano thinks, Jesus Christ can definitely hit curveballs. <br /><br />So ask yourself. Where am I in this moment?... Maybe you’re like me and you feel lost. Anxious. It’s ok to acknowledge it. But don’t dwell in it. My relationship stuff.. as painful as it is it just a fact of life. It doesn’t mean I failed, it just means that maybe there is someone out there that will love me for me, including all the messed up parts. Sometimes old things have to fall apart or change to make way for better things. And no ones to say it’s over til its over. <br /><br />
There is a great big sea out there.. with plenty of fish in it. And one of them, just happens to be my Nemo. But ‘til that day comes, I just have to enjoy the waters I’m in. And above all ... Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.</div>
Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-5753292858477802012012-03-06T07:05:00.000-05:002012-03-06T08:03:44.322-05:00D***<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My 2011 can be quickly summed up with a four letter word that starts with a “D”. While some of you automatically slid into the proverbial gutter……others of you took another route and I am here to inform you, you are both wrong. I would ask you to kindly remember I have a no penis joke policy here. If I can’t make them, then no one can. And, if that was the first thought you had when you read your crossword clue, well.. You have a harder task than I do. I only have to get through this blog without crying<br />
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I've been meaning to write you all for some time. In fact, I've started this blog many times in the past year, only to find I get choked up and can't bring myself to finish it. Again, if you're still associating everything I say with the previously assumed word, then you find my writing extra hilarious. In which case, I'm glad one of us does. But for me, it’s something I've been hurting over for quite some time. <br />
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You see, that four letter word.. is Drew. <br />
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I don't know if you have ever experienced death, but it’s one of the greatest losses one can suffer while still walking this earth. And people sit around and tell themselves that the person that has passed is now at peace, and everything will eventually settle into some "new" normal. I'm here to tell those people to politely "kiss my grits" and give them a courteous middle finger. <br />
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In my 28 years on this planet, I've had very limited experiences with death. I lost a few friends to reckless driving and bullying as a teenager, and my grandfather to a second bout of lung cancer that eventually spread to his brain and then took hold of his spirit. Of those, my grandfather obviously left the biggest wound, because he and my grandmother are such a big reason I am the person I am today. But with older people, especially those who have battled illness for quite some time like my grandfather, you morbidly expect them to at some point... die. It’s just something we are taught. I remember reading E.B. White's Charlotte’s Web, and the teacher trying to explain how the book was so poignant and how the ending *spoiler alert,* where Wilbur's spider friend dies, was indeed a "happy one", to a bunch of six and seven year olds. To this day, I still think she's full of crap. I remember watching Bambi, and not being able to get over the feelings of reckless abandonment the wonderful people at Disney had left my five year old self with. (As you can tell, I was a bit of an advanced thinker for my age.) My parents tried to explain this concept to me even further, with each passing of a pet, most ending up in a towel or a high top Reebok shoebox, and subsequently in a make shift pet cemetery in our backyard. Having seen Lion King, I figured this was merely my dad’s way of making sure I saw my furry friends deaths were not in vain, and also doubled as a really effective fertilizer. And before you ask, No. Sterger is not Jewish.<br />
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But still, I don't think you really come to understand the permanence of death, until it’s someone very close to you. And very sudden and totally unexpected. <br />
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While the rest of the world was sleeping during the wee hours of Jan 12, 2011, I was watching St. Elmo's Fire and the 14 inches of snow New York City was being pelted by, wondering when it would stop. (The snow, not the movie.) Though some would argue, sitting through either one of them is painful. Being a fan of everything made in the 80s, including myself, I texted the only person I knew would be up at that time of night, and asked him "When would this snow effin stop?" On any other occasion, Drew in his usual wit would respond in some snarky Al Roker reference, laugh politely at my retort, and wish me back to sweet dreams. Only this time, there was no answer. <br />
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It continued to snow the whole next morning, and into the early evening hours. I had sent off numerous texts throughout my day, generally about nonsensical things, but that was the nature of our relationship. We lived to make each other laugh and happy. And somehow even with thousands of miles between us, we managed to stay best friends. <br />
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But as the evening hours fell into night, I sensed something was wrong. My texts, my emails, even my phone calls had gone unanswered. I've often been told I worry too much about things. Very stupid things. And more times than not, I tend to agree. Not this time. This man was my best friend, and it wasn't like him to go more than a few hours without talking to me. By six o clock, I had reached for the panic button. With every email, every phone call, every text message going unanswered, I sent off one last email before I called the police. <br />
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"If you're mad at me, if there's something I’ve done... I don't care. I just want to know you're ok." <br />
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Send. <br />
<br />
<br />
Nothing. <br />
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Just... Nothing. I’ll spare you the details of that night, only because most are too painful for me to write down. But after countless hours of phone calls, inquiries, and waiting I was informed that sometime, during the early hours of my brat pack marathon... I had lost Drew. <br />
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I live in a city that is so overpopulated you can't drive down the street without trading paint with someone. Where they can charge you a small fortune for you to live in a room the size of a portapotty, and you're one of the lucky ones if it doesn't smell like it. It’s the type of city that if you're not ready for it, it will chew you up and spit you out like an America’s next top model contestant at a Cici's All-you-can-eat dinner buffet. And she doesn't try to sympathize with you. Nope. New York City is a cold hearted bitch. And at times, I've wanted to quit her, but whenever I got those feelings, Drew was always there to pull me off the metaphorical and sometimes literal bridge. <br />
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Drew and I met in Spring of 2006. "Cowgirl fever" was still in full force at FSU, as my magazines were just hitting the local newsstands, and I was trying my hardest to concentrate on my studies. My true love, college football, was MIA til the Spring game, and even then it was more like Groundhogs Day: Football popped its head up from the turf, said... 4 more months without me…and Goodbye. Tease. But one day, in a heated message board discussion regarding my boredom with baseball, the board’s moderator presented me with an enticing offer. <br />
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"Come and watch an FSU baseball game with the Animals of Section B. We will change your mind."<br />
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So the following week, when we were scheduled to play Florida, I was introduced to “O Canada”, Shannon’s red stuff, Fluffy’s loud and overly drawn out Kkkkkkk time, and Dominic’s Noles cheer. And they all openly welcomed and accepted me as one of their own. Because Drew did. And like that, my new-found appreciation for baseball was born.<br />
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A lot of people will never fully understand my relationship with the man. To outsiders, we were an odder couple than Dennis Rodman and well… anyone who has dated Dennis Rodman. But, we didn't care. We taught each other so many important things in life.<br />
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A lot of people have been quick to judge me these past five years, but not Drew. The man saw me for who I was, a little girl with big dreams and a knack for just wanting to entertain people. Whenever people would attack me personally, Drew was one of the first to defend me. Whenever a boy would break my heart, he was the first paramedic on the scene. Whenever something amazing happened in my life, Drew was one of the first to know it. We shared so much of our lives with one another. My wins were his wins; my loss was his loss...<br />
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Most people’s internal compasses point north. But mine points south. South… to a place, where for me, times were simpler. You see, I’ve traveled all over this country the past few years, all because of a small twist of fate. And no matter where I was, I never felt alone. That's because I had Drew. With him I was never lost. That's also because Drew was, more often than not giving me directions to somewhere! Hell, he and I joked that he probably knew the city better than I did since he had virtually walked so many blocks via Google Maps on the phone with me. And while most would feel a bit claustrophobic, I always seemed to feel alone. But not with Drew. He’d walk countless city blocks with me, at all hours of the day and night. And while some people may find this a bit odd, we didn't in the least. Because no matter the time, or place, we always were there to share our lives with one another. Even from thousands of miles away. I took him to faraway places with me. He brought me to a place that felt like home!<br />
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One of the first times I hung out in Hollywood, I was at a meeting with this director. We were at a Starbucks discussing a film he was working on when his phone went off. I asked what he was grinning at -- and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t a baseball game recap from Drew. He didn't know that I knew Drew personally, and I was soon to tell him, but he told me how those emails always made him smile. Like me, he lived 3,000 miles and a world away from Tallahassee, but every time he read about what was going on at Dick Howser, part of him was 12 years-old again. The part that was still a kid, sharing sunny spring days with his dad and not knowing how desperately he'd cherish those lazy Sunday afternoons and wished he'd appreciated them more before his father finally succumbed to his battle with cancer. Drew gave that to him. His emails brought him back to Howser. To a time and a place that's long since passed, but is so deeply engrained in his soul that it is encoded into his DNA. Drew’s gift was one that no one could put a price tag on. But what Drew did brought this joy to countless Noles.<br />
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<br />
Since the night Drew passed on, I've only written a few things. None were as difficult as this, except for maybe his eulogy. And as much as part of me wanted to just do that on the fly, I knew the rest of me wouldn't be able to muster through it without bursting into tears. For the record, I made it further than I thought I would. The reason none of my writing has been posted however, is that Drew was the only person I trusted with my unfiltered thoughts. An interweb sieve, if you will, of the right mix of edgy yet politically correctness. (I think that's a real word, if not, just pretend it is for the sake of this blog.) A lot of people, even those I trust with the raw format of me, cringe at the way I express myself sometimes. It’s because I'm brutally honest to a fault. After all, I am the reigning champion of the “Says what everyone else in the room is thinking but doesn’t have the balls to say award.” For me, the cathartic part of the writing process isn't the writing, it’s the posting and responses I get from the people who actually take the time to read it and empathize. So for the past year, that process has felt like a relatively empty transaction for me. <br />
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Until now….. <br />
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I know what you're thinking.." A year plus of silence and blank pages from this girl.. And THIS is the shit I get to read??" I know, I know. I've given you nuggets of goodness and hopefully a few laughs via twitter and other sources, but this is the heart of my internet presence, where you find out who I really am. And much like the pages of my blog, the events of 2010 and beginning of 2011 left me in what I would term... Survival mode. I was merely fighting to stay afloat. Suffice to say, the rest of 2011 is a bit of a blur. I don't really know where it went or what I did, though I'm sure I will unravel some of it here in these next few blogs. But this is where I had to start. It's a story I needed to write down for my own selfish reasons. So I could write again, so I could live again. So I could one day look back on my friendship with this man and not see it as something stolen from me but something that made me stronger and a much better person. Someone doesn't become such a huge part of your life and just vanish like this ... And have it not absolutely destroy you to the core.<br />
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You can look back on your life and stare at your hardships and wonder, Why? Why did this happen?? And often times, the answers don't necessarily present themselves the way we'd hope they would. I'm still trying to figure out why this happened. I think a lot of people are. I think it’s best to accept that we may never know WHY it happened, only that it did. It’s taken me months to grasp this. Losing Drew was one of the hardest things I have ever had to deal with on my journey through life. But having him IN my life was more rewarding than anyone could imagine. He was what I would call a "lifechanger." He's one of the few people I can honestly say made me a better me, who saw me not as a girl in a sparkly bra and cowboy hat, but as a fellow band nerd and best friend. <br />
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I've gone through the whole range of emotions one is supposed to experience when dealing with death. Well, all except acceptance. It’s hard to think he won't be there at the end of that text message, that phone call, that email. And for that very reason I can't bring myself to delete him from my phone or Google chat. Because that would mean he is truly gone. It pains me to think that FSU baseball's greatest ambassador won't be rooting on our Noles every season as they take the mound. And worse yet.. He wasn't around to see me make it out the other side of the terrible rabbit hole that 2010 sent me down. <br />
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I guess it really hit me while I was sitting in another random airport one night, ALONE. Except this time I was really alone. With no one to call at that crazy hour of the night, I instead picked up my blackberry and started typing this…..<br />
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Of course when I got to the end, I instinctively hit send.. Only to realize I had sent it to Drew.<br />
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Which makes me wonder? Do you think they get Gmail in heaven? My guess is with Drew there, they most certainly will now. And if it could make it through the clouds, I know he’d write me back just to tell me how amazing it is. He's up there right now looking down on all of us. Maybe a tad flattered, a little embarrassed, and so grateful to have touched so many lives in his 37 years in this world. So now when the marching chiefs take the field, he will make sure their formations are straight. He was always a stickler about that. When the Animals demand to "take some guy out of this ball game," there will be a faint echo that returns back to them. Because no one was a bigger sports fan than Drew. And now, he really does have the best seat in the house. And in our hearts.</div>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-30436281949627195422012-01-26T16:03:00.002-05:002012-01-26T16:03:47.098-05:00Tap...Tap...Is this thing still on??<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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glad that’s over. ..</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Where do
I even start?</span></div>
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of 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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
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make sure, before I got back to my regularly scheduled programming, that I get
to share with you the awesome stuff I’ve been doing over at Spike TV and for Fox’s
The Daily. And just in case you don’t have Twitter or Facebook, or in the event
you have a real life (unlike me at times) here’s some links for your viewing
pleasure:</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="goog_1618174847"></span><br /><span id="goog_1618174848"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/WatchTheDaily/search?query=jenn+sterger" target="_blank">Jenn's "The Daily" video episodes</a></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.spike.com/video-clips/8i8e3j" target="_blank">Jenn's Spike TV "Spare Time" episodes</a><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">For those
of you who are new to this space of mine, welcome! You’re officially part
of the gang. I can’t promise you my grammar will always be correct. And most
likely my spelling will be horrendous. But I assure you, every word written on
this blog is heartfelt, deliberate… and brutally honest. So if you’ve come here
to 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 on
accident thanks to Google images… well, hopefully you will stick around.
Because as I like to say … “$h!t is about to ‘get real.’”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
</div>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-18351837669522375922010-08-27T13:49:00.002-05:002010-08-27T14:10:00.779-05:00Notes on life<strong>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Believe me when I say, I took that man’s words to heart.<br /><br />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.</strong><a href="http://sectionb.com/saraugo/16.jpg"><strong><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 250px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 340px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://sectionb.com/saraugo/16.jpg" /></strong></a><strong> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.</strong><a href="http://sectionb.com/saraugo/flute.jpg"><strong><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://sectionb.com/saraugo/flute.jpg" /></strong></a><strong> 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.<br /><br />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..<br /><br />But my name never came.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />The next day I came to school in a daze. I was a shell of my former self. </strong><a href="http://sectionb.com/saraugo/gretchen.jpg"><strong><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 256px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 134px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://sectionb.com/saraugo/gretchen.jpg" /></strong></a><strong>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />My mom showed up to school mid-afternoon. She had found a note I had written the night before.</strong><a href="http://sectionb.com/saraugo/handwritten-note.jpg"><strong><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 168px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 217px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://sectionb.com/saraugo/handwritten-note.jpg" /></strong></a><strong> 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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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. </strong>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-40714939962573627602010-07-13T18:24:00.003-05:002010-07-19T18:24:02.911-05:00The Year of the No-No<strong>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.<br /><img align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/bull-nuke.jpg" width="314" height="234" /><br />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?”<br /><br />My superstitions not only revolve around my favorite sports teams.. But around my personal life as well. Confused?... Let me explain.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><img align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/bull.jpg" width="385" height="260" />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.<br /><br />"This is my girlfriend… blah blah blah blah blah.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><img align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/perfectgame.jpg" width="232" height="336" /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />Each had their own two cents to add on the subject. When Self Doubt brought it up.<br /><br />“Hey Sterg, you do know you’re in the middle of a …”<br /><br />“SSSSSHHHH! What the French toast are you doing Self Doubt? Keep quiet,” said Ego.<br /><br />Effing rookies. Don't you know the first rule of a no hitter..<br /><br />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.<br />“What are you doing? Are you sure you're the only one he's seeing? Don't you need to define what this is?”<br /><br />“No!” I yelled back. “I don't. Why jinx it?”<br /><br />I'm sure to the outside world I looked the Grant Balfour, glove to my mouth shouting obscenities at my inner voices, reprimanding them..<br /><br />"Don't you jokers know.. You don't ever talk about a perfect..."<br /><br /><img align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/bears.jpg" width="218" height="285" />“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”<br /><br />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..<br /><br />CRACK.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />How had I committed a grievous rookie error? C’mon Sterger. Clear the f'n mechanism. You're better than this.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />He never came.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <img border="0" align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/powers.jpg" width="253" height="347" /><br /><br />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.”<br /><br />That's right..<br /><br />To quote a very wise friend of mine.. Sometimes you just have to step back and look at it all.<br /><br />Then say..<br /><br />"I'm Jenn effin Sterger.<br /><br />“I'm effin in. And they're effin out."<br /><br />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.</strong>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-23153528825164546122010-06-22T13:26:00.004-05:002010-06-22T13:39:42.880-05:00Smurf Ninjas, Panera, & Lessons in Sleepwalking<strong>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.<br /><br />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<img align="right" src="http://wond3r.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/avatar-movie-poster.jpg" width="276" height="330" /> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><img align="left" src="http://www.tombraider4u.com/pictures/smurfette.jpg" width="201" height="237" />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.<br /><br />“Um… Jenn.. you have something on your face.”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The image that looked back at me… was Smurfette.. meets Braveheart… meets avatar.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />For those of you that read my blogs, hoping for some enlightenment… on this one.. I’ve got nothing.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Now if you’ll excuse me.. I need to go pick up my laundry.</strong>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-56503258178413613232010-06-17T13:43:00.003-05:002010-06-17T13:48:25.006-05:00Good talk, Russ<strong>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.<br /><br /><img align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/jandl.jpg" />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.. </strong><a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vRm15bGlmZS5jb20="><strong>Fmylife.com</strong></a><strong>. 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.<br /><br />“They.. uh.. teach you kids that in school now right?”<br /><br />“Yup Dad.”<br /><br />“Whew… Good talk Russ.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><img align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/jenncar3.jpg" />“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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />By the time I reached the chorus, I was already singing along, oblivious to the people that had gathered in the doorway behind me.<br /><br /><i>"And the waitress is practicing politics</i><img align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/piano.jpg" width="335" height="251" /><br /></strong><i><br /><strong>As the businessmen slowly get stoned<br /><br />Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness<br /><br />But it's better than drinkin' alone"</strong></i><br /><br /><strong>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"You're very, very good," he said, "but why so sad?"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Please don't tell anyone I was in here.." I asked.<br /><br />"Don't mention it. It’s no problem"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />The bad ass boy in me thinks he's spouting a crock of crap.<br /><br />The inner girl in me.. Secretly hopes he's right. But I’ll never let him know.<br /><br />“Thanks Daddy.”<br /><br />“Good talk, Russ.”</strong>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-45582618285085199812010-06-07T17:34:00.002-05:002010-06-07T18:17:54.930-05:00There's no hugging in baseball<b>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. <br><img width="231" height="224" border="0" align="left" src="http://www.gamewornuniforms.com/catalog/images/RaysBPhomppic3.jpg" /><br>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?<br><br>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.<br><br>“THERE’S NO HUGGING IN BASEBALL THOMAS!!!!”<br><br> 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.<br><img width="391" height="291" border="0" align="right" src="http://adambowker.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/candyland1.jpg" /><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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. <br><br>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.<br><br>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. <br><br>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. <br><br>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.<br><img width="400" height="300" border="0" align="left" src="http://www.sfgate.com/blogs/images/sfgate/techchron/2006/05/24/dating_game400x300.jpg" /><br>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.<br><br>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?<br><br>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.<br><img width="400" height="320" border="0" align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/jenn+thomas2.jpg" /><br>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.<br><br>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. <br><br>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. <br><br>:::Slaps forehead::::<br><br>Eh kids.. well, at least it wasn’t the kid that tagged him out at second this time.<br><br></b>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-18626981810426406002010-05-07T13:05:00.001-05:002010-05-07T13:06:23.999-05:00Beware of the Mom T RexMeeting 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. <br><br>Well, that was before the boobs. And the whole Playboy thing.<img width="304" height="304" border="0" align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/mothers.jpg" /><br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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. <br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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." <br><br><img width="281" height="234" border="0" align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/trex.jpg" />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?<br><br>“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.”<br><br>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?<br><br>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. <br><br>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-50747454735703236522010-05-04T14:59:00.001-05:002010-05-04T15:01:30.829-05:00Memories of March MadnessThe 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.”<br><br><img width="207" height="285" border="0" align="left" src="http://www.everafterbridal.co.uk/images/photos/cindarella/cindarella.jpg" />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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<img width="313" height="175" border="0" align="right" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs366.snc3/23577_399693514602_391936154602_5057096_1142520_n.jpg" /><br><br>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.”<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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. <br><br>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. <br><br><img width="303" height="202" border="0" align="left" src="http://www.planetware.com/i/photo/santa-monica-pier-santa-monica-ca186.jpg" />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. <br><br>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???<br><br>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. <br><br>“Good talk, Russ,” I said. <br><br>“You just had to open your mouth didn’t you? You couldn’t resist?.. Had to wreck the moment,” he laughed. <br><br>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.”<br><br>“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.”<br><br><img width="268" height="178" border="0" align="right" src="http://cdn.wn.com/ph/img/9c/8a/0018d9124858b4964267cb6e8401-grande.jpg" />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. <br><br>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. <br><br>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?<br>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.<br><br>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-20699939558912182552010-04-27T11:17:00.001-05:002010-04-27T11:44:50.722-05:00A whole lotta bolognaSome 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.<br /><br /><img align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/bologna.jpg" />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><img align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/viennasausages.jpg" /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.)<br />So.. back to the tweet.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><img align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/sandwich" width="285" height="213" />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.<br /><br />Reese pulled out a bologna sandwich. (I can’t even make this shit up)<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“What’s wrong with bologna?” Reese asked.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Well, damn, then I won’t give you the one I brought for you then,” he said, pulling out a second sandwich.<br /><br />I could’ve screamed.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“What?” he garbled with a mouth full of food.<img align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/filet_mignon" width="252" height="167" /><br /><br />“UGH, men.” And with that, I turned and left the room.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-7254290131225147572010-04-06T10:59:00.001-05:002010-04-06T11:02:31.134-05:00The Daily Line<p align="center"><a href="http://www.versus.com/blogs/the-daily-line/the-daily-line-cast/"><img style="WIDTH: 275px; HEIGHT: 200px" border="0" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs366.snc3/23577_399693514602_391936154602_5057096_1142520_n.jpg" width="401" height="226" /><img style="WIDTH: 244px; HEIGHT: 170px" border="0" src="http://hphotos-snc3.fbcdn.net/hs440.snc3/25287_391951559602_391936154602_4993632_6032569_n.jpg" width="312" height="207" /></a><br /><br /><br /><img border="0" src="http://blogs.kansascity.com/photos/uncategorized/vs_logo_whole.png" width="193" height="134" /></p><p align="left">I just wanted to remind everyone to watch <a href="http://www.versus.com/blogs/the-daily-line/the-daily-line-cast/">The Daily Line</a>, Monday through Thursday from 6:00-7:00 p..m. only on <a href="http://www.versus.com/">Versus</a>. </p><p><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: 400"><span class="UIStory_Message"><span style="font-size:100%;">Also, if you haven't already, please join my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/jennifersterger">Facebook Fan Page</a>. There will be exclusive stuff posted there that won't necessarily be on my normal pages or blogs.</span></span></span></p>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-43576936510813527772010-03-31T11:20:00.001-05:002010-03-31T11:21:26.487-05:00Chasing butterfliesSometimes 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.<br><br>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. <br><br><img width="252" height="282" border="0" align="right" src="http://i172.photobucket.com/albums/w29/smajic409/The%20Sandlot/Picture17.png" />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.. <br><br>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?<br><br>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.<br><br>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. <br><br>“Would you give up your acting/TV stuff?” ---NO!<br><br>“Would you give up your writing?” --- NO!<br><br>“Would you give up appearances, the public eye, and settle down and have a family?” -- Hell to the NO.<br><br>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. <br><br> 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. <br><br><img width="513" height="271" border="0" align="left" src="http://www.bing.com/fd/hpk2/MonarchButterflies_EN-GB1476101004.jpg" />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.<br><br>Catching up with friends recently, none of them seemed surprised the latest didn't last.<br><br>"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."<br><br>"Heh. Isn't that all men?" I laughed.<br><br>"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."<br><br>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. <br><br>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.<br><br>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-6748985873826118152010-03-21T22:54:00.003-05:002010-03-21T23:53:55.523-05:00America's SweetheartVery 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.<img border="0" align="right" src="http://images.eonline.com/eol_images/Entire_Site/20100123/293.bullock.sandra.award.lc.012310.jpg" width="179" height="289" /><br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><img border="0" align="left" src="http://image.guardian.co.uk/sys-images/Arts/Arts_/Pictures/2007/02/27/grease460.jpg" width="275" height="179" /><br />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.<br /><br />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..<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />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.<br /><img border="0" align="right" src="http://www.comicgenius.com/DiscoFever/disco_profiles/grease/images/danny_and_sandy.jpg" width="236" height="251" /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 …<br /><br />Especially when you do it on your own.Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-34792535814565327722010-03-08T12:57:00.002-05:002010-03-08T14:15:50.900-05:00Gone (fantasy) fishingIt’s that time of year we've all been anxiously waiting for… NFCB!!!<br /><br />(And right THERE... 1500 red blooded young American men just stared at a screen. Blinked. And said.. WTF is this girl talking about?)<br /><br /><img border="0" align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/fantasybaseball.jpg" width="298" height="302" />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!!!!!..<br /><br />Let me explain.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Well, this blog’s for you.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.. "?"<br /><br />Yes. That actually works on some of the dumber ones.<br /><br />But then one day, one of my friends came in bitching about his fantasy league. His.. Fantasy fishing league.<br /><br />No, I'm not joking. Note the lack of LOL’s.<br /><br />I sat there perplexed.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />He nods enthusiastically.<br /><br /><img border="0" align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/fishing.jpg" width="315" height="208" /> “So how do you choose how to sit or start??”<br /><br /> “Well...” he began.<br /><br /> “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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Me? I'm gullible .. I fall for shiny things. Get hooked. And then it’s too late. Hook. Line. Sink “her.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><img border="0" align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/lure.jpg" width="290" height="191" />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.<br /><br />But it got me thinking...<br /><br />When is it time to reel in your catch and call it a day??<br /><br />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..<br /><br />My mom says “I'm a catch.”<br /><br />But 'til then.. I've gone fishin.'Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-65683841450467266622010-03-04T09:33:00.004-05:002010-03-04T12:17:32.967-05:00Admin Update: Jenn Sterger joins new Versus showUSA Today<br />3-4-10<br /><br /><strong>Keith Jackson returns; Jenn Sterger joins new Versus show</strong><br /><a href="http://www.usatoday.com/sports/columnist/hiestand-tv/2010-03-03-keith-jackson_N.htm"><br />http://www.usatoday.com/sports/columnist/hiestand-tv/2010-03-03-keith-jackson_N.htm</a><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />"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."Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-18232484916753890912010-03-03T12:28:00.001-05:002010-03-03T12:28:32.275-05:00Down the rabbit hole......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? <br><br>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.. <br><br><img width="400" height="300" border="0" align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/hole.jpg" />Down the Rabbit Hole. <br><br>As I sat in a dark room on a dreary winter evening.. I couldn’t help but ask myself..<br><br>“How did I allow myself to get here?”<br><br> 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. <br><br>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. <br><br>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. <br><br>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. <br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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. <br><img width="229" height="221" border="0" align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/cat.jpg" /><br>So late one night, as we walked through the streets of New York, I asked him.. “Have you ever felt THIS way???” <br><br>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... <br><br>"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."<br><br>Hmm, maybe he knows something I don't. Or maybe I still had an ally in this foreign land. <br><br>A few days later, a very close friend sent me a text.. <br><br>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."<br><br>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."<br><br>“What’s that?” I asked her. <img width="300" height="188" border="0" align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/exit.jpg" /><br><br>“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.” <br><br>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.<br><br>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. <br>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-33671954571778894402010-02-16T14:18:00.001-05:002010-02-16T14:22:23.976-05:00The FlufferThere'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.<br><br>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?<br><br><img width="248" height="248" border="1" align="right" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ZPcQbwUVcDPnaesEJphGOQTpIb3NrvBerv5WUgO6bNWWOivqP1u4bE6p572mtu0ERfOZAZh0qFJjcbnoo97t3MRdLOOR6XEPi2_wWZSvYXuSx2Q-ynomKoZ_p0rvTFR39ii9/s320/BeyonceSingleLadies.jpg" />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.”<br><br>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. <br><br>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. <br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br><img width="216" height="320" border="1" align="left" src="http://www.impawards.com/2007/posters/good_luck_chuck_ver5.jpg" />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."<br><br>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."<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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. <img width="213" height="185" border="1" align="right" src="http://lib.store.yahoo.net/lib/radioflyer/36.jpg" /><br><br>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.<br><br>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. <br><br>What if you took off the training wheels? <br><br>What if.. they’re your “What if” moment?<br><br>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. <br><br>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-55947471763455250692010-02-10T21:55:00.000-05:002010-02-10T21:56:36.362-05:0099 ProblemsI still remember the name of my after school care bully.<br><br>Ella.<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br><img width="295" height="295" border="0" align="left" src="http://www.maine.gov/education/bullyingprevention/images/girlleftout.jpg" />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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>"Oh my God, did you see Bob? Looks like someone put on the freshman 10 and then some."<br><br>"It’s totally the suit Chris. It’s just cut wrong. I mean, who wears a six button suit besides Craig Sager?"<br><br>"I don't care; he still looks like a fat cow."<br><br>"Yeah, but did you hear he's dating Susan in accounting?"<br><br>"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."<br><br>It’s disgraceful really. The way women relate to one another. We’re constantly judging, constantly criticizing and for what?<br><br>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.<br><br>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?<br><br>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. ;)<img width="255" height="231" border="0" align="left" src="http://www.spokesmanreview.com/stories/2008/feb/18/mean-girls_fea18_02-18-2008_AVCO6KR.jpg" /><br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>Had I become one of THEM?<br><br>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 <img width="221" height="260" border="0" align="right" src="http://www.americascuisine.com/siteImages/florida/tampabay/717.jpg" />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?<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>“Seriously, why don’t you just go cry into your training bra? Or beg your parents for a nose job?<br><br>I spun around in my chair to survey the situation.<br><br>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. <br><br>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. <br><br><img width="306" height="442" border="0" align="left" src="http://movingfilms.files.wordpress.com/2008/11/mean_girls_movie_poster_linsay_lohan.jpg" />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.<br><br>“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.”<br><br>I pointed to the girl now sitting on the bench, who had still yet to collect herself.<br><br>“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.”<br><br>I stood up, threw away my trash and walked towards the exit. Then turned to face the kids.<br><br>“And just in case you didn’t catch the moral of the story… let me spell it out for you…<br><br>Be nice to the dorks.. You never know what we will become.”<br><br>The kids all sat there, silent and ashamed. As I left the restaurant, I stopped by the girl on the bench.<br><br>“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.”<br><br>We both laughed, and I continued my walk down the street.<br><br>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.<br><br>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.<br><br>Hmm. J Maybe Jay-Z had it right after all. <br>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-31772375512154207282010-02-02T20:53:00.001-05:002010-02-02T21:10:03.355-05:00Come hang out with me this Thursday night!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/30/m_8c79678dd37e754feab114a564a18647.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 191px;" src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/30/m_8c79678dd37e754feab114a564a18647.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Hey guys!! If you are in or near the Tampa, Fl area this Thursday night the 4<sup>th</sup>, come see me at The Slug Wine and Spirits Bar…It’s one of my favorite places to hang when I am back home. <span> </span>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!!<br /><br />The Slug - 12950 Race Track Road Tampa, FL 33626Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-29247771436105881942010-01-21T08:16:00.005-05:002010-01-21T21:49:15.451-05:00Glass Shattering<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh86YHoVL1ZCt-wKB4TnnJxBDTPGD4JeCK8ybUxKf9WxlzIN4BOAmGBNbBPG01BoO-yipofka6RtGjtBaBDgrylKu59PYfDCh24YdbT_5VgY2L5hokSTPF0hyk5xRecYQPTwpmxQQ/s1600-h/neil_patrick_harris.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 116px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429181830884649330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh86YHoVL1ZCt-wKB4TnnJxBDTPGD4JeCK8ybUxKf9WxlzIN4BOAmGBNbBPG01BoO-yipofka6RtGjtBaBDgrylKu59PYfDCh24YdbT_5VgY2L5hokSTPF0hyk5xRecYQPTwpmxQQ/s200/neil_patrick_harris.jpg" /></a>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. <p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal">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..</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“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.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“What's wrong?” I asked</p><p class="MsoNormal">Brandon looked up at me from half-drowning in his bowl of cereal. </p><p class="MsoNormal" align="right"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdo8ElIT4X1bwiyyUkq2G_pgOjMFhUBg6MoNskRBMqCOe1tAG7EdSRIc31H1EsztiQiGLspWXy4bakAYCayuEXmwJLWsNIwfjdQrMb6_nVjPY6A0hIeODRCGl8CBw0B31UwY5yw/s1600-h/2230577144_f4729dcd3e.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 133px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429182206120847538" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdo8ElIT4X1bwiyyUkq2G_pgOjMFhUBg6MoNskRBMqCOe1tAG7EdSRIc31H1EsztiQiGLspWXy4bakAYCayuEXmwJLWsNIwfjdQrMb6_nVjPY6A0hIeODRCGl8CBw0B31UwY5yw/s200/2230577144_f4729dcd3e.jpg" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">“I hate you,” he said.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>“You ruined this house for me.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">Turns out, he had finally heard it too. :::Glass shattering:::</p><p class="MsoNormal">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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Simply put… glass shattering is the kiss of death.</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">The trouble with glass shattering is, once you see the flaw.. It’s all you notice, all the time.</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Yes, yes he was.</p><p class="MsoNormal">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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">“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.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">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. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmD84O2gDaM0o6sOmZuw-mesGXd3jYNLwGJZlS-EFqvwO_C4QyZJRQj0hRlYPRswDCoBx1pylhKnr_8YItKuTZyKCHE773ROHhlFHKdKihPR-M13u_eACZrlS93-JVJmp93ZTwg/s1600-h/laminate-glass.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 192px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429182023698168594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmD84O2gDaM0o6sOmZuw-mesGXd3jYNLwGJZlS-EFqvwO_C4QyZJRQj0hRlYPRswDCoBx1pylhKnr_8YItKuTZyKCHE773ROHhlFHKdKihPR-M13u_eACZrlS93-JVJmp93ZTwg/s200/laminate-glass.jpg" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">“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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">The table grew very silent, and I felt all eyes turn in my direction. </p><p class="MsoNormal">“WHAT?” I asked indignantly. The table erupted into laughter.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>“Moving along, nothing to see here… Hey bartender… would you mind turning the sound down on the game???”</p><p class="MsoNormal">“WHAT?... Jenn Sterger wants the volume of the basketball game turned down?” my buddy asked mockingly. “What is this world coming to?”</p><p class="MsoNormal">“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.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">My friends all paused and listened intently. “UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH,” they moaned. “Thanks Sterg, you just ruined basketball for us.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0;"></span>My bad. But at least our convo had shown me,<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>that maybe I wasn’t the only one casting stones.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">And then.. </p><p class="MsoNormal">CRASH!.... ::: GLASS SHATTERING::::</p><p class="MsoNormal">My eyes grew like a baseball right before batter makes contact at home plate. Did I REALLY just hear THAT?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Just when I thought things were going well.. </p><p class="MsoNormal">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…<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I found myself laughing at his jokes, and smiling back at one of the first genuine smiles I had seen in a long time.</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I beamed, but quickly spun around and continued my walk.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Damn it, it woulda been so much cooler had I not looked back.</p>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-69319127935169806462009-12-23T21:33:00.002-05:002009-12-24T01:45:34.398-05:00How the Sterger stole ChristmasSome 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.<br /><br />Maybe that's <img src="http://sectionb.com/jenn/grinch.jpg" align="left" border="0" height="288" width="384" />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I'm allergic to pot, and Christmas trees.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <img src="http://sectionb.com/jenn/tree.jpg" align="right" border="0" height="352" width="264" />Grinch, but I had to put my foot down sooner or later.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />And if there is one thing I can’t stand.. Its NOISE, NOISE, NOISE!!!...<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I felt guilty. But more so, because I hadn't even stopped. It was a drive by Grinching.<br /><br />Is this what I had become?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Well, I'm currently conversing with Jake right now, but I will be over shortly to continue our extensive discussion on... "<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />Me, the queen of movie/TV/pop culture references says.. in my best Larry David impersonation I could muster.. "Sir, do you respect wood?"<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Maybe Christmas meant something more.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><img src="http://sectionb.com/jenn/vegas2.jpg" align="left" border="0" height="256" width="320" />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.<br /><br />Finally. I was home.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />And being home, and with the people I love most in this world???.. Well, that’s the best present money can’t buy.Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-33990687165113092702009-11-19T15:49:00.001-05:002009-11-20T10:53:28.267-05:00Doppelgängers and Woosels<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Crfinger%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Calibri; 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font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">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--<span style=""> </span>who happened to be very attractive males.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>We girls sprinted to the SUV in our five inch heels (WHAT?? I will take every spare inch I can get!) and cocktail dresses.<span style=""> </span>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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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 <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Florida</st1:place></st1:state> sun.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But this guy?<span style=""> </span>The doppelganger??.. He was different.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">"You know, you're a ridiculously attractive guy,” I said, “But your personality downright disgusts me."</p> <p class="MsoNormal">"So.. Can I call you?"</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I don't THINK so.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Excuse me," I asked, "is this seat taken?"</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The man spun around to answer me. And my jaw dropped.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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 <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>. 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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He was a doppelganger for the Perfect Stranger.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>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 <st1:place st="on">Midwest</st1:place> kid that just loved life. Turns out, "<st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Iowa</st1:place></st1:state>" was a transplant to this cement jungle just like me, and having just as hard of a time adjusting.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After a long day of college football and a few too many beers, I made my way back to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hoboken</st1:place></st1:city>. 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.</p> Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-27387424081655689312009-11-17T12:48:00.001-05:002009-11-17T12:52:20.823-05:00Jenn on ESPN's Page 2<b>Admin Update</b><br /><br />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.<br /><br />Jenn goes into a variety of topics ranging from her college days up to the December Cosmo issue.<br /><br /><a href="http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=hoppes/091117">Click here to read the full interview</a>Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25489499.post-48868310598615751292009-11-11T13:27:00.002-05:002009-11-11T19:48:35.526-05:00The Legend of the Lone RangerHumans 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.”<br /><br /><img border="0" align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/lone1.jpg" width="141" height="204" />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><img border="0" align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/lone3.jpg" width="141" height="176" /><br />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??<br />Turns out he’d called to tell me that he would be in town that weekend.<br /><br />And had a relatively open schedule.<br /><br />And he wanted to see me.<br /><br />Preferably over dinner.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Now the only question remained.. Did I dare go towards the light??<br /><br />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.<br /><img border="0" align="right" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/lone2.jpg" width="123" height="203" /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />Dare I respond?<br /><br />I sat on those texts the rest of the day, and debated with myself.<br /><br />What to do? What to do?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />That’ll do Jenn.. That’ll do.<br /><br />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.<br /><img border="0" align="left" src="http://www.sectionb.com/jenn/lone4.jpg" width="150" height="173" /><br />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.<br /><br />And the moral is..<br /><br />Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Because you'll never know whose heart they'll break.Jenn Stergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642711412531688640noreply@blogger.com2