Death to snuggies

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not for long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The answer is.. I dunno.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So. We meet again ceiling."

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

Then... I woke up.

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

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

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

Splenda

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

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

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

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

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

HI JENNNNNNNNNN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a most delightful way.

HIMMR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he was also butt naked.

My father quickly shut the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just then, it dawned on me.

"FML." I said.

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

"Sara. Look."

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

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

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

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

And that kids… is how I met my roommates.

The Couch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And like that.. the curse was over.

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

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

(To Be Continued… 2010)

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

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

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

REBOOT.

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

The Blue Screen of Death.

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

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

The diagnosis was bleak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it dawned on me.

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

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

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

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

Please Stand By Ladies and Gentlemen…..

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

Funny Girl (special bonus at the end)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knock, knock..

Just kidding.


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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dude, you look like death.”

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

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

“Dude, Sterg… What’s wrong?.. “

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

Ruh Roh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pictures of the Perfect Stranger and myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just eat it .. you’ll like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then the screen went to black.

(End Transmission)

The F*ck-It List: Summer of Redesign

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

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

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

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

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

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

We both stopped dead in our tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Training Camp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Introducing Cherry Bomb

Admin Update: Introducing Cherry Bomb

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

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

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

Cherry Bomb

“Well .. What does THAT mean?”

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

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

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

“Hmmm. I don’t think so.”

“How do you know he’s interested?”

“Oh.. He's interested.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chicks dig the winky face. ; )