Beware of the Mom T Rex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memories of March Madness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good talk, Russ,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A whole lotta bologna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could’ve screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Daily Line

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

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

Chasing butterflies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

America's Sweetheart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially when you do it on your own.

Gone (fantasy) fishing

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

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

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

Let me explain.

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

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

Well, this blog’s for you.

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

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

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

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

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

I sat there perplexed.

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

He nods enthusiastically.

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

“Well...” he began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it got me thinking...

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

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

My mom says “I'm a catch.”

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

Admin Update: Jenn Sterger joins new Versus show

USA Today
3-4-10

Keith Jackson returns; Jenn Sterger joins new Versus show

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Down the rabbit hole

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

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

Down the Rabbit Hole.

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

“How did I allow myself to get here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?” I asked her.

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

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

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

The Fluffer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if you took off the training wheels?

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

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

99 Problems

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

Ella.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had I become one of THEM?

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

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

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

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

I spun around in my chair to survey the situation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come hang out with me this Thursday night!!

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

The Slug - 12950 Race Track Road Tampa, FL 33626

Glass Shattering

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

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

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

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

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

“What's wrong?” I asked

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

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

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

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

Simply put… glass shattering is the kiss of death.

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

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

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

Yes, yes he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How the Sterger stole Christmas

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

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

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

I'm allergic to pot, and Christmas trees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is this what I had become?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe Christmas meant something more.

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

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

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

Finally. I was home.

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

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