Fear Factor

For years, I've defined myself as the guy’s girl. I can eat like the boys, drink like the boys, talk like the boys, and certainly keep up with the boys. I live for the thrill of the wind in my hair, the rush of adrenaline through my veins, and the occasional bump or bruise I may get in the process.

But, I haven't always been this way. If you had asked my mother 10 years ago to describe her daughter, she’d no doubt come up with tons of adjectives: creative, sensitive, caring, selfless, introverted. But she'd have never come up with bold, physical, or daring.. And certainly not fearless. I was tentative about big presentations, speeches, playing sports.. You name it. Except for bowling, and music.

Aside from physical traits like my asthma and sheer lack of coordination that kept me from bending it like Beckham, I think the real barrier I encountered was fear. Fear of embarrassment, failure.. You name it. So I was constantly playing the role of benchwarmer and wallflower. I wasn't the girl that "got the guy," I was the best friend that just wanted them to be happy. It just felt safer. I was already an outcast at school, the type of girl the popular kids used for their personal amusement.. But that's another blog.

The past few years though, I've come to realize just how little I do in terms of pushing myself. I was so used to playing it safe I was depriving myself of life altering experiences. So one day I had enough, and decided.. If I've only got one life to live, I better do this right. I worked out harder, took chances, dared to be bold.. both emotionally and physically. White water rafting, stock car driving, the ‘bolder the better’ became my motto. And I've been pushing myself ever since. My two most recent fear factors were much more psychological barriers, but it didn’t make conquering them any easier.

I was recently cast in this horror film to be shot in and around NYC. The director is also an amazing self-taught effects artist that also happens to have a niche in cinematography. I took the role mainly because it’s a really well written script, and an extremely physical role. Lots of fighting, lots of gore, lots of running-- less screaming. I didn't want to play a victim that just sat there as she was disemboweled or gutted like a fish. Sorry Drew Barrymore. Instead, I wanted to play a fighter. A strong woman who uses her emotional issues in her day-to-day life as a way of combating the supernatural evils she encounters on when else.. Halloween.

And then, there were clowns. Ever since I was in second grade I have had a ridiculous fear of clowns, chainsaws.. and anything that went bump in the night. I think it stems back to my parents taking me to Halloween Horror Nights when I was far too young to appreciate the artistry that went into the scaracatures makeup, or understand that it was in fact.. Faker than Donald Trump's comb-over. Instead of enjoying the Halloween festivities, I spent the majority of the night perched on my dad’s shoulders like the lookout muskrat-- in charge of pointing out predators in masks waiting to scare unsuspecting park visitors. Pretty traumatizing experience to say the least.

So, imagine the shudders that went down my back when I arrived at set and my co star was already hours deep in the makeup chair. I had never met Sid (that’s his real name) before, and now the person looking back at me through bloodshot yellowed eyes.. Was “Art.” And boy was he a piece of it. Bloodied and bruised down to the fingernails, covered in scabs and cakey clown makeup we sat face to face. I won't lie. Taking pictures with him was downright painful, I even considered calling my therapist. And this was before we stepped foot on set. We still had to work together. It was going to be a long, long day.

Because of his prosthetic rotted teeth, Sid was unable to speak to me. There was no fun playful set banter. Just the creepy stares and even creepier smiles. As we wrapped for the day, Sid and I returned to our respective dressing areas to remove our makeup and costuming. An hour later, we both emerged our regular street clothes wearing selves. He was a simple kid from Brooklyn, with a passion for scary movies. But Sid was certainly nothing to be scared of.

My second round against my fears came early Thursday morning. I recently signed on with a major beverage distributor as a national spokesmodel. These roles are typically saved for big time baller athletes with sick dance moves and bad ass personas, but these guys chose to go a different route. They reserved the bad ass athletes for use in their particular regional markets, and instead wanted a strong bad ass sports-loving girl as their main face, the one they'd use in their commercials and all their nationwide print ads. And they chose.. Yours truly. I was beyond ecstatic and flattered and jumped at the chance to work with such a reputable and huge name like theirs.

Then, I got the call.

"Hey Jenn, we were wondering.. You're not by chance afraid of snakes are you?"

Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes? I can deal with the dangerous, the poisonous, the sharp toothed.. But the creepy crawly??

My inner team player though agreed to put on my best gameface and give it a shot. Suit up Short Round. Were off on an adventure!!!

The next day I touched down in Dallas, and was ushered away to my photoshoot.

Apparently I wasn't the only one shooting my part of the campaign that day, as I was greeted by a few members of the Dallas Cowboys and an entire staff of hair and makeup and creative assistants. There in the middle of the room against a grey backdrop was linebacker Demarcus Ware, giving the camera his best mean face imaginable.. Which I found quite comical given the fact Demarcus was a remarkably polite and soft spoken guy. After tons of introductions I was sent to hair and makeup, where I was doused in more hairspray than John Travolta in drag. An hour later when I emerged, I was no longer Jenn Sterger ‘girl next door ‘in her tracksuit. I was Barbarella 2.0 with hair to match. Just when my nerves had finally settled, my co-stars arrived.

Their names were Aussie and Neon. Aussie was a Australian tree climber of some sort, while Neon was an albino boa. I watched as people passed them throughout the studio, and let them crawl and wrap themselves around their necks, arms, waists.. You name it. They seemed calm and relatively docile, but me? I still wanted no part in this. Damn it! Why I hadn't I put Valium on my Rider??

If there is one thing I pride myself on, it’s being a girl of my word. I promised them a bad ass snake picture and damn it. That's what they were gonna get.

I started with Aussie, figuring he would be the easier one of the two. But I soon discovered this was not so. Because he was a tree climber, he was not content just sitting there. He was constantly looking for higher ground. And for me that meant... In my face. I was fine with him around my shoulders or wrapped on my arm.. But my face?? C’mon man!!

I tapped out when I felt Aussie's tongue touch my cheek. So I asked we replace him with his other friend Neon, who by the way happened to weigh about 75 pounds and could easily have eaten my cat. I tried to zone out as they strategically wrapped neon around my legs and brought the rest of him up to my arms. Neon was much more content just chilling… for a few minutes anyway. Then, I felt his tongue against the inside of my leg. I shrieked.

“Um excuse me.. Neon! That's third base! I don't even know you like that... We're not on that level!”

2 hours of Britney Spears greatest hits later, we had our shots! Sexy, yet strong. And just the look they were going for.

I had survived my snake encounter, my face to face with a clown. But could I match my scariest opponent yet? My own feelings.

Many times I've found myself in certain scenarios that dare me to be bold, and while I may have become better at conquering physical fears, I still have not mastered my emotional ones. If you read my last blog, you know that I was in a state of turmoil over this friend of mine, Hmm Hmm, who I had discovered I had feelings for. After reading through all of your advice, it dawned on me that I was really scared of nothing. So what if I got rejected? At least I would know where he and I both stand. So.. I told him the truth...

But, again… that, is for another blog.

Sometimes we really have nothing to fear but fear itself. And we hype up all of these insecurities and flaws we have for no reason. For so long I was afraid to live my life to the fullest, but I'm working to change all that. I've learned so much lately, all because I was willing to take a chance. I learned that clowns are people too, just with really overzealous makeup artists. I learned that snakes are something to respect, but certainly not be afraid of. Unless it's the John Voight/JLo variety, in which case you’re on your own buddy. And I learned that sometimes you just gotta go all in and take a chance on someone. Sometimes you'll go belly up, but other times you'll take the house. Regardless though.. You took a chance, and showed your fears (and Tony Danza) who's the boss.

And that has made you all the stronger. I had conquered my demons... And lived to tell about it. Now, it’s your turn.

When Jenny met Hmm hmm

Shakespeare once said… “All the world is a stage, and we the men and women are merely players.” But what happens when you put a bunch of people on a given stage for the rest of the world to observe, participate, and criticize… with no script, no plot, and no direction as to what is about to happen to them. Maybe that is why it leaves most of us wondering… are we living in a comedy or a tragedy???

I have had my shares of ups and downs in life, just like the rest of us. And despite all the BS I have been subjected to, I still remain fairly optimistic. Don’t get me wrong, I am still cautious as all hell, but I am also the one that isn’t afraid to take a chance every now and then on a wild card. After all, those are the kinds of decisions that can lead to tons of fun… or absolute disaster. Unfortunately you have to let all the plans unfold before you can decide what it is.

I choose to believe my life.. is a comedy, and a romantic one at that. Part adventure, part chaos, with all the Kraft cheesiness your stomach can handle. Maybe that is because I am one of the many women that gets sucked in to believing that the Matthew McConaugheys, the Tom Hanks, the Richard Geres of the world are in fact real live sample sizes of the general population. You just have to be lucky enough to find one.

My favorite of all these films has to be without a doubt.. When Harry Met Sally. It was one of those films my dad would constantly mention in regards to a guy friend I had growing up but I never got his references. He always insisted I was “girl who thought she was low maintenance, but was actually in fact high maintenance.” He said, “it took me twenty minutes to order a sandwich.. and that ‘on the side’ is a very big thing for me.” I simply said.. “I’m a girl that knows what she wants and how she wants it.”

It wasn’t until I was much older, and having my tonsils ripped from my throat that I was bored enough to actually sit down and watch something that was made when Billy Crystal still had hair, and Meg Ryan did not yet resemble a fish. Two hours later… I was left with a whole new repertoire of movie quotes to choose from… and an even bigger question in life.. “Can men and women really just be friends.. or does sex always get in the way??”

I’ve always been a firm believer in the fact that men and women can be “just friends.” Sure, sometimes there can be awkward undertones of unspoken feelings, but I can honestly say that I have a key group of male friends that are just that and want nothing else. Just the girl they have come to love and respect like a little sister, who knows her sports, loves her beer, and can’t get enough buffalo chicken wings. And then…. There is the other kind.

I once had this amazing friend named.. Hmm hmm. We met in the most random of ways, and began a friendship that was almost as random. He was super smart, funny, and boyishly charming. But the thing I admired most about him was his overall selfless concern he seemed to have for me. He looked out for me, offered advice when he could, but was really there as a shoulder when I needed something to lean on.

But like any good foil, we were total opposites. I was much fierier, while he was laid back. My idea of a good time was white water rafting, or spending time outside, his involved sand and an outdoor Tiki bar. He loved to gamble, while I was frugal as hell. He was sarcastic and biting, while I tended to be a bit of a goofball and oversensitive. Yet somehow, this oil and water mixture made us perfect sparring partners, and instant friends. It was nice to have someone to talk to that “got me” and could keep up with my banter.

We hung out together, quoted the latest episodes of How I Met Your Mother together, and just genuinely enjoyed being in each other’s presence. Even when we weren't together, we were constantly texting or drunk dialing each other with our random life stories.

Then, something happened. I'm talking about the kind of something’s that only happen when two reasonably good looking, fun loving individuals have one too many cups with the Captain, or Mr. Grey Goose.

We hooked up.

It was like that awkward scene from When Harry met Sally, where the two of them know so much about each other, except how they react in such a situation. Because we knew each others war stories and horror stories, there was that awkward silence of.. What the hell were we supposed to do now? We didn't want to act like the guys and girls we complained to one another about. The “Why didn't you call me girl?” The “Emotionally unavailable dude.” The “I’m scrapbooking pictures of our future children” girl. The “wait three days to call her guy.” Between the two of us, we had seen it all, and we definitely didn't want to be THOSE people.

For days we acted like nothing had changed. But let's face it. We both knew it had. We didn't know how to act around each other. I couldn't possibly tell him bout my ex giving me problems, because now, he had a vested interest. Or at least I hoped he did. And I didn't want to hear his war stories from his latest trip to Vegas.. because there's a reason what happens there stays there… so people can keep their relationships and their self respect.

And then it dawned on me.

$hit. I LIKE Hmm-hmm.

I’m majorly, totally, butt crazy, head over heels for Hmm-hmm. But now I have no idea how to act around him. I couldn't strut around in my cute little outfits, or talk to other boys to try to make him jealous. I mean, its Hmm-hmm. He knows what makes me tick. How I operate. It was like he had been a spy in my world this whole time, and all it took was a little liquid courage to bring his true feelings to the surface. It was a weird tension. You know.. Where you're afraid you like them more than they like you?? I began to find myself in midst of a power struggle. The laid back buddy in me saw it as something casual, just a random thing that happens between friends. But the other side of me saw something completely different. The other side of me said.. maybe, just maybe.. “there may be something there that wasn’t there before.”

Was I just supposed to ignore the fact that I found someone that I could genuinely be myself around, because the friendship was already there??.. For once, I was actually speechless. So I just played the game. I said the things a girl in my position is supposed to say, and found myself more lost than when I started.

Revert to Plan B.—TELL HIM THE TRUTH. I mean, we were friends before the incident, why not after??? You can revert back to your old friendship if things don’t work out, or he’s just not that into you. Right?.. (Buzzer)

It was a winless situation, and instead, I took a cue from Charlie Chaplin and stayed silent. He would drop hints that he didn’t want me “seeing” other people, or that he was jealous, but maybe this was all just some playful banter. The longer this dialogue exchange took place, the more I realized I was not willing to give up my personal freedom, for someone who wasn’t respectful enough to do the same.

Til this day, the situation remains unresolved. There are so many questions, so many things I would like to say to him that I simply couldn’t find a way to put to words. Maybe that’s because I value what we have enough to stay silent and just let it be. After all, he’s become too important to me to risk losing him as a friend.

I guess that’s why were torn between living our lives as comedies or tragedies. Because while life may present you with the answers to all the things you were looking for, it may also put them just beyond your reach. So for now, I’ll continue to just toil away at my career and just let life come at me as it will. I’ll laugh about the comedy, overcome the tragedy, and just soak up the moments in between. Because while the storyline may be a little vague, at least I know the person holding the power to write it.

Triple Word Score

Maybe it was just sheer curiosity of what their life was like before us, but for some reason people can't help but wonder about their "present’s" past. Who came before us? What were they like? Why didn't they work out? Then somewhere our curiosity gets the better of us and we're bound to destroy our future before it even gets its legs. Looks like the cat wasn't the only thing that bit the big one. Unless you've only encountered one person since you left the womb, odds are you have a past and a few skeletons in your closet. For me though? The only thing in my closet is a crap-load of shoes and some Jets gear.


Time after time again, as relationships try and fail (as they sometimes do) I've always tried to remain cordial with exes. Hell, some of them are my best friends. Others.. Well we are friendly, but it’s just better for us to not be active in each other's lives. Usually for unresolved issues, questions about would we or wouldn't we in a different place or time, sometimes you just realize you and the person really had zero in common. Whatever. We all have our reasons. It just always was better to move on, and send a postcard. After all, you can't have a perfect future if your past is always present. How's that for a grammar lesson?
If you dig deep enough you could find dirt on just about any one. But why soil your chance at a legit future? Particularly the question of "numbers."

So this buddy of mine comes to me in a panic over the girl he has been seeing because he finds out she was bragging about..uh.. "played Scrabble" with a lot of people in Collegetown, USA.

I know you're all thinking, well.. Of course she's played Scrabble before, we all played Scrabble as a kid. Well, of course, we all played silly games like Scrabble when we were younger.. But when you're an adult there's this whole new kind of "Scrabble" you get to play. A game where the words aren't quite as important so much as the letters you choose to make them with. The more letters you use, the more "rare" the letters, the more points you have. As a kid when you played games it was the person with the highest score that won. But as an adult, the higher your Scrabble score.. Well, the people you date begin to think you're a Scrabble whore.
I know you're probably saying.. “Dude, Scrabble is just a fun game. Everyone’s doing it.” Yeah, of course everyone's doing it, it's just one of those basic instincts that kicks in during our teenage years, and becomes our addiction for years to come, the Holy Grail in a quest to find the perfect Scrabble opponent.
Some search their entire lives for the "one" worthy Scrabble opponent, while others will play with just about anyone for fear of being lonely, or to get their rocks off.

So that night, when Cliché A$$hole BBM’d me (that would be ‘Chasing Amy’). Our conversation went something like this:

Cliché A$$hole: So I asked her what her “number” was.

Chasing Amy: Bro… what were you thinking??... :::slaps forehead:::

Cliché A$$hole: I dunno dude. But.. she admitted it. So, we broke up.

Chasing Amy: Could it have really been that bad dude?.. Was it worth breaking up for? I mean, no one is perfect…

Cliché A$$hole: She made me look like an amateur, and I’m not exactly a saint. She definitely holds the high score on this one.

Chasing Amy: "High score? What does that mean? Did she break it?” Sorry.. couldn’t resist man. I really think the two of you just need time to think this through. Is this really worth losing her over???

But for C.A., there was no thinking. He had already made up his mind. Repulsed by her awesome Scrabble playing abilities, he calls her a few choice words. She returns the favor, and minutes later.. Game over...

I began to ask myself.. was knowing the truth really all that important? Was knowing her number what defined her as a person? If he loved the girl, he'd love her unconditionally, no matter what her Scrabble high score was.

One thing’s for sure, one is still the loneliest number. While you always want to think you're different or special to your Scrabble opponent, you also have to remember they are human beings with egos, with vulnerability. No one's perfect, and if you're waiting around for the person that's still a scrabble virgin, well good luck with that. They only get harder to find as you get older.

So until you do, practice safe Scrabble, and always play by the rules especially when hearts are involved. Who knows.. That heart may one day be yours.

The Road Runner and The Coyote

Ah, the thrill of a chase. In LA, it’s customary for people to stop what they are doing in their everyday lives to watch a car be pursued by the police. They weave in and out of traffic without a thought to the lives around them and we all stop to take notice. Why? Because in each and every one of us, there is some sick morbid curiosity of how it will all play out. Will he get away, will he be apprehended, or worse, will he crash???..

Let's face it, no one goes to NASCAR races to watch rednecks make left hand turns all day. They go for the start, finish, and the fiery crashes in between. Hell, Vin Diesel has made an entire career out of driving fast, blowing stuff up, and quirky puns and catch phrases. The thing about the chase that is so mesmerizing, is that crazy feeling of uncertainty.

One guy chases the girl of his dreams, the best “girl” friend that chases the hot unattainable guy. Both parties have to know their role, and know the rules. If one chases the other, and never catches it then the race is fruitless. But, if the guy in the back just throws his hands up and says eff this, the power shifts and so do the roles. This process seems to me like it is never-ending in the world of dating. We are all merely road runners and coyotes simply out to catch that one thing it is that we are all seeking.

Maybe I'm reaching a stage in my life where I find the whole premise of the chase somewhat, dull and unamusing. Or perhaps I just get tired of feeling I'm going after something I’ll never catch. There's no harm in walking away, and saying I'm done chasing my own tail, and you! I’ve come to find the so called “pretty boys” are quite possibly the worst, as they are overly cocky ones. There's some sense of power and entitlement in the getting the woman to chase you, that makes them treat the opposite sex like they are dispensable. I come from the school of thought, that in a functioning healthy courtship, people don't chase one another, they run along together. There's nothing worse than investing your feelings and heart into something with no pay off. After all, if you're constantly on the run, when do you get to ever just enjoy the other persons company, the fruits of your labor?? Playing hard to get, simply gets old. To the point where even Wile E Coyote holds up his sign that says, “F@#$ this.” Then, the giant boulder that inevitably falls on his head shortly thereafter. Luckily for me, there aren’t too many boulders where I live, or I would have needed to find new health insurance by now.

I had a short forty-five minute layover in Atlanta the other day. Atlanta Hartsfield is by far one of the busiest airports in the country. So imagine my surprise when I passed by the Sam Adams bar in Terminal C and low and behold I find.. My road runner. Of all the airports, in all the world, he somehow ended up in mine.

Ah, the one that got away. He's a beautiful specimen let me tell you, and our personalities are beyond electric together. But we were also both stubborn asses who were used to being pursued by the opposite sex, and neither one of our prides was about to back down to a friendly challenge. Our courtship, though fun, was a relentless game of cat and mouse, innuendos, and dirty jokes, but combined with the distance factor. Well, it was simply a case of wrong place, wrong time.

A lot you may think my blogs are all about the blame game and only paint me as the victim when in fact you couldn't be further from the truth. When I'm wrong, I’ll be the first to admit it. And in this particular instance, it was 90% my fault. All this time, I had pinned him to be the road runner, when in reality the only one running was me. I'm a true romantic at heart, but I was all too familiar with the impact that distance can have on even the sturdiest of relationships. I had been there, done that; I had so many of those "I survived this relationship” t-shirts that I just wasn't ready to open myself up to that kind of vulnerability again. Sure, not all situations are created equal but the countless hours spent on a plane certainly gets monotonous, as do the constant questions about your whereabouts when you're not in each others lives. And there’s always the “where is this relationship going” question. And we all know the answer to that. Nowhere. Absolutely, nowhere.

But here we were again, just the two of us in a sea of people looking to make their connections, while the two of us were wondering if “our” connection was still there. Our eyes met from across the bar, and suddenly we were the only two people in Terminal C.

With less than ten minutes before we boarded our separate planes to our very separate lives, it was like nothing had changed. We still laughed, we still smiled, and there was still that sense of... Wow. If I didn't know any better the screen of our movie went from color to black and white, and we were now standing in the middle of our very own Ingrid Bergman/Humphrey Bogart movie. As I turned my head to blush and laugh at his jokes and his cute lil southern drawl... He grabbed my cheeks and pulled me in for a good one. While unexpected, it was certainly welcome, and oh so familiar. Had we just revolutionized long distance relationships with layover dating? Maybe not, but it didn’t make the moment any less enjoyable. No sooner had our lips parted than they announced final boarding on his flight.

"Well, I guess… here's looking at you kid.." he laughed, as he threw his bags over his shoulder and ran off.

And just like that. He was gone again. This time, it was me that was the coyote: holding up my “?” sign, more confused than ever. Had I made a mistake of running too far ahead that my coyote simply gave up? Or, when it was my turn to chase him was I simply just too stubborn and dug my heels in, instead of just buying a better pair of running shoes?

Maybe I'd never have all the answers, but we’d always have Terminal C, and that right there was enough to make me stop and think... And smile.

Meep Meep,

Game on bitches.

Oh crap, I have a flight to catch.

The Subway and the Odyssey

I've seen a lot of crazy things in my life, but nothing could have prepared me for the insane adventure I had last Saturday, as I braved the New York subway system. I must say, I am no Homer. My adventures won’t be nearly as poetic as the Iliad and the Odyssey, but I assure you the events you are about to read are 100 percent factual. This is my story:

That day, I was on my way out to Brooklyn for an audition, so I made sure to allow plenty of time so I wouldn't be late. Future employers don't tend to look too kindly for people that run on their own schedules. So around 2 PM, I gathered my belongings, and set off on my journey.

The PATH ride into the city was relatively uneventful. Its 13 minutes to 33rd street where I would brave the masses of tourists and people who live for Macys 30% off sales in order to get to Penn Station about two blocks away. That much I knew, as I had done it a thousand times before. But I soon discovered that getting to the other borough would prove a little more difficult.

After “Terry Tate office-linebackering” my way through the bustling mess that is Penn, I found the “2” train, that would supposedly take me into the heart of Brooklyn. Only problem was the “2” wasn't running on this track today. Instead, I had to cross the platform and wait for the train on the other side. A small monkey wrench, but it seemed simple enough.

25 minutes later, and still no train, no heat, and no cell service. The last of those conditions proved devastatingly painful as I was waiting for score updates on the FSU-Duke basketball game and neither text nor ESPN mobile worked in these dungeons. Three trains came and went, and still no “2.” I had reached the point of impatience where I was prepared to get on whatever train came next and take my chances, when lo and behold, along comes the “2.” And my journey continued.

Apparently half of the greater part of Manhattan had been waiting for this train, because the minute the doors open, they flooded in like college kids at an open seating sports event. It was a downright free-for-all, a stampede of epic proportions, into the mass of cattle already aboard the train. There we stood and sat, scrunched into the tiny cars, each hoping the person next to us had at least had the courtesy to shower and brush their teeth. Otherwise, this was going to be one LONG train ride. The crowds finally began to dissipate as we neared the last of the Manhattan stops. At least now I would have a place to rest my arse. You try standing in a pair of 4 inch stiletto boots for thirty minutes straight. Brutal.

It seemed like forever before we emerged at the first Brooklyn stop. The seediness in the train had gone from like a 3 to a 9 almost instantaneously. Where the hell was this train taking me?? Bored out of my mind, and still with no cell service, I began to engage in the only other sport I may be good at besides bowling and air hockey… people watching. There was the single dad with the two little girls, who took great pleasure in torturing one another and destroying their brand new pairs of tights while their pop wasn’t looking. There was the group of gangbangers that walked from car to car like they were straight out of “Adventures in Babysitting.” Then, there was… a Carebear. Not the children’s stuffed animal variety, but a human size theme park rental Carebear. The bear sat on the opposite side of the train, with his legs crossed for most of the ride, and even pulled out his blackberry. Wait. The Carebear had a blackberry???.. And service?.. Maybe he would know the score to the FSU game??.. I tried to engage the bear in conversation, but he just continued to work on his Careberry and ignored my advances. Clearly, this bear was of the New York born and raised variety, which explained his standoffish attitude. So much for shiny dispositions and cute rainbow tummies. Jerk.

At the next stop, a drunk kid stumbled on to the train clutching a bag of McDonalds and what remained of his dignity after an apparently very happy happy hour. A groggy mess, he made his way to an empty seat two spots away from me. The smell of the dollar beers, the dollar menu, and greasy fries wafted towards me, and I found myself both repulsed and suddenly hungry. Snap out of it Jenn. We haven’t had McDonald’s since those late nights in Tallahassee, no sense in starting now. He began to rummage through the bag, and pulled its contents out onto his makeshift table-- the lap of his Diesel Jeans. The scenes that followed resembled something out of a Hannibal Lecter movie, as he devoured his double quarterpounder with cheese like one of those lions on National Geographic. I sat and watched both in utter disgust and sheer amusement as ketchup smeared across his face. He had little or no regard to the attention his bad table manners were drawing, and continued to enjoy his drunk eating binge.

The train pulled into its next Brooklyn stop, and a man with a long white beard and a cane hobbled on with a bag full of home-printed literature. I watched as he steadied himself and walked about the moving train surveying its passengers. One by one, he eyed them up and down, until he stopped in front of Ronald McDrunkerson, and pointed his cane directly in his face. McDrunkerson stopped mid-chew, and stared at the old man with drunken bewilderment.

“This is the face of gluttony!!!.. Of sin, of Greed!!!”

Well, at least he got the gluttony part right. But don’t hate the man for loving his fast food.

He continued to wander down the row until he stopped in front of me.

“And you,” he said. “You are the face of Temptation and Lust.”

To which I replied, “Easy there Gandalf. Don’t you have a ring to save or something??”

My fellow passengers chuckled.

Clearly, missing my Lord of the Rings reference, he moved on to the next victim. One by one, like some scary Wizard from World of Warcraft, he pointed to different passengers on the train and cast out their sins and weaknesses. God, where was Leroy Jenkins when you needed him?... He proceeded to tell us about the plight of the Jews, and how there were no “real” Jews left anymore except for the ones in Israel. The rest were Orange Jews, Apple Jews, and Cranberry Jews. I snickered under my breath. Gotta appreciate a crazy person with a sense of humor. Finally, when he reached the end of the car, he turned around to face us all, threw up his hands in some utter gibberish… and closed his eyes as if he had disappeared. Um, no… sorry sir.. we still see you. He turned back to the door, to move to the next car, and slammed the door behind him. The entire car erupted in laughter. It wasn’t exactly a Saturday afternoon church service, but it was as spiritual as a subway ride gets.

Half way through Brooklyn, and still no where near my destination. The train had nearly cleared itself out. The drunk had wandered off after finishing his meal; though I’m pretty sure he had no clue where he was heading. The Carebear had vacated his seat and moved to another car when Merlin came through. Now all that was left was me, a cute boy with one of those trendy haircuts, and a homeless guy. Well, maybe he wasn’t homeless, but he certainly had a phobia of showering.

The cute boy had situated himself in the seat next to me, which was a welcomed change from the Drunk Cannibal. He introduced himself. His name was Ryann, with two N’s. We spent the next several stops exchanging commentary on the day’s events. This guy was totally vibing me. He laughed at my jokes, my cute little quips, and seemed generally interested in our conversation. Then, I asked him if he knew the FSU score which he quickly denied. Turns out, he really wasn’t much of a sports fan, but he could name the entire cast of Gypsy. Hmm.. Something wasn’t quite right.. this boy.. was just “too pretty” and too put together. He matched everything down to shoes perfectly. He had one of those trendy messenger bags instead of a Jansport. And he even…. Knew my bag was the new Coach line. Jenn. Wait. Your subway car named “Desire” is gay. Damn it, another one bites the dust.

The next stop was the last for my new shopping partner. We exchanged Facebook invites, and went our separate ways. Now, it was just me… and the Ablutophobe. And here is where my adventures took a turn for the worst. The train was now deep in the heart of Brooklyn, and there was no one getting on or off. Or so I thought.

Apparently, Metro Transit of NYC was doing work on the 2 Line that weekend and that meant they had extended delays and stops along the track. I felt like I was at Disneyland, trapped on “It’s a Small World,” while they retrieved some kids mouse ears from the lagoon in the Hawaiian room. So there we sat. Me and the human form of Oscar the Grouch. I kept my head down and focused on my blackberry and made no eye contact with my fellow passenger. He on the other hand, watched me intently, following my every move. The train came to a dead stop. We weren’t at a stop, or even in a well lit area. The lights on the train flickered. What the hell is going on?.. Is this out of some kind of horror movie?..Was I being punk’d? What ever it was.. I wanted out. When the lights came back up, Oscar was sitting across from me, like the “Me Scusie” guy in Eurotrip…. with no pants on. Turns out I wasn’t being punk’d, I was being junk’d.

There he sat. In all his 60-something-year-old glory, or what was left of it. He stared at me, expressionless waiting to get a reaction out of me, but I gave him nothing. The train suddenly started moving again, and within minutes we had reached the place where the subway turns around. When the doors opened, I leapt from my seat, turned to Oscar and said…”Maybe try it in the summer, not so much shrinkage.” And then, I ran. Reaching the top of the stairs proved to be like digging a huge hole in a bad cartoon, the kind where you emerged on the other side and a Chinese man was staring at you eating fried rice. I was in an entirely different country, but at least I had survived my journey.

It turns out that even with my crazy adventures; I still managed to make my audition time. I slated for the camera, gave them my best smile.. then was asked to do improve about a day in my life.

“Boy do I have a story for you… “

The ride home was far less eventful than the trek to Brooklyn thank god. After I had finished refilling my subway card at Penn, I noticed a family of tourists struggling to figure out the card dispensing machines. The dad was flailing his arms around, while the wife watched in embarrassment while trying to keep tabs on her two kids in the busy subway platform. Hoping my act of kindness would inspire others; I walked over and showed them how to buy a Metrocard for their stay. The two parents thanked me graciously, as they herded their kids through the turnstiles. As I turned to walk up the stairs they asked.. “Hey, by the way.. do you know how to get to Brooklyn??”

I smiled. They had no idea what they were in for.

Confessions of a Cliché A$$hole

This past weekend, I spent lounging on the sands of South Beach with some of my favorite people in the whole wide world: my girlfriends. No worries, no drama, no internet, but most importantly… NO BOYS ALLOWED. That’s right.. we were on a “Mancation.” You see, even though its been months since Average Joe kicked up a shit storm in my life, I’m still picking up the pieces like FEMA. With boys, comes the inevitable drama: of ex girlfriends, new girlfriends, and just pesky girls with nothing better to do. So, to avoid all the nonsense and hoopla, we decided to stick to the boys we already know and love.. the Boys of Summer.
Er, uh… Spring Training.

Night before I left, I checked my emails and Facebook as I was about to do something I hadn't done in years: be without the internet. It wasn’t like South Beach didn’t have technology, but my girlfriends and I had made a pact to not log in to Facebook, MySpace, even our own personal email. It was the best way to avoid any exposure to any outside drama. Besides, a vacation is supposed to be an escape, and how the hell can you escape if you are updating your status messages. Rifling through all my unread messages on Facebook is quite a task. Most are just random “Please Add Me’s” and notes of encouragement, but every once in a while one note sticks out from the rest. This time it was the title that caught my eye. “Confessions of a Cliché A$$hole.” Intrigued, I opened the letter, and began to scroll through his opening paragraph. He first apologized for the length of his letter, as it seemed to scroll for days. Then, went on to tell me a little bit about himself. He was 20-some-odd years old, a New Yorker born and raised, now living in the south, and as he so eloquently described himself… a “cliché a$$hole.”

Though it bruised his former fist pumping ego to admit it, he told me reading my blogs had become his new secret guilty pleasure, but he personally related to one in particular… Average Joe. The reason he reached out to me… was Cliché a$$hole was a reformed cliché a$$hole. He pulled the same maneuvers, used the same lines, and did the same dirty deeds as Average Joe. At first I thought I was being punk’d. I mean, was this Joe himself, or one of his mutants, or maybe it really was just some random stranger. Turns out the kids in high school were right; the answer really always is “C.” The next few paragraphs that followed were nothing short of a serious case of déjà vu…

“This is going to be the closest thing to the truth you've ever heard about dudes: Every guy is born a nice guy that wants to meet a girl and fall in love. Somewhere along the way, one girl ( just one) who he thinks is perfect for him, that he opens up to, buys flowers for, pulls chairs out for -- all that good stuff guys do at age 21 - 29 to get a girl in the sack... only this time he wasn't trying to get in bed-- he was for real. That girl f@#$ed him up - cheated on him, dumped him for some dbag she hooked up with the next day, rejected him with no explanation---any of these plus hundreds of other possibilities. The only thing that matters is somehow she broke his heart and made it look like she didn't care because girls, as I'm sure you know, can be heartless bitches at times. I stress 'at times', because they aren't by nature but do it maybe once or twice. Guys have a hard time forgetting those one or two times, and girls just tend to be a hell of a lot more forgiving for the sake of a relationship. For a guy, it takes one girl to f@#$ it up. Once that one girl comes along, ‘home base’ is to be an a$$hole.”

He continued on with this National Geographic “Life Among the Gorillas”-esque look in to the inner workings of this Northeastern breed of the male species. Though parts may have been slightly varied, probably to protect his own reputation or ego, the main theme of “home base” continued through out the letter. Any time the damaged guy got close to something that might feel right, might feel effortless, it was his natural animalistic reaction to respond in a vicious recoil and return to “a$$hole.” It’s not like he really meant to hurt the girl, its just that he wasn’t prepared to let go of the damage done to himself just yet, and he knew it was only a matter of time this new girl would have the ability to hurt him. There it was. In black and white. The answers Joe never gave me. It was the most brutally honest piece of truth I have read in a long time. And with that, I closed my lap top, and began my journey to paradise.

Four and a half some-odd hours later, we arrived at Hotel Victor on Ocean Drive. And may I say.. it was nothing short of perfect. The five of us ran around the rooms like high school girls on their first Spring break, checking out all the amazing amenities my buddy Landy, and the hotel had set up for us. Amongst the many picture taking, the claiming of the beds, and bits of unpacking, I just fell on to the bed.. and listened to the ocean. I… was home.

Part of being from the great state of Florida is getting a sneak peak at the upcoming baseball season. Sure, it’s Spring Training.. so none of it really counts, and it has no real relevance to how the season itself will REALLLLY pan out… but it sure as hell beats sitting around waiting for March Madness to get going.

So, on Saturday afternoon my girlfriends and I loaded ourselves up into my Shelby, rolled down the windows, and blasted some Britney spears as loud as my speakers would allow.. And made our way to Jupiter. No, not the planet, but Jupiter, Florida where the Florida Marlins have their spring training. My buddy Dan had promised me a day in the sun, and a good game of baseball. And he didn't disappoint. It had been months since I had worn a pair of shorts, so long I had almost forgotten what my legs even looked like. The temperature wasn't too hot, or too cold, it was just right. When you’ve spent the greater majority of the past few months of your life holed up in your apartment, wavering in and out of moments of self pity. You forget those simple things that made you smile.. Kicking back in the stands at a baseball game, eating a ridiculously gross ballpark hotdog that you pray doesn't have too many crazy animal parts in it, laughing at your girlfriends as they drink beer from a straw... Or your one friend that despite her diminutive stature has the lung capacity to make her earnest attempts at heckling heard throughout the ballpark. I believe her exact words were... Knuckledragger?? I had forgotten that the sun does remember to show its face when its not cockblocked by 10 inches of falling snow, and like every year, spring did keep its promise and show up on time. I used to think fall was my favorite season of the year, because well, fall meant my other favorite season had arrived.. Football season. But when fall came and went over a single weekend in October, and left me with this awful freeze, I couldn't help but feel a tad bit shafted. All it took was a few days in the south Florida sun to realize... That like most things in fashion, fall suddenly seemed “so last season,” and spring, was in fact “the new fall.”

As I sat on the first base line, my mind couldn’t help but wander back to Cliché A$$hole’s words. Maybe he was right. Men didn’t mean to be bad; they weren’t even born that way. They simply evolved as a means of survival, as a means of getting past that one “Molly Connelly” in their life. It certainly didn’t make their behavior excusable, but it did shed some light on an otherwise dim situation. Maybe Joe was just returning to whatever was familiar, regardless of how it hurt him before and the damage it caused. We all know how that story will end, because rarely do people really change. But, if chasing that “what if” helped him sleep at night, and feel like he gave it a shot then.. so be it. Who was I to be the girl standing on the third base line blocking the plate?.. The answer was.. I wouldn’t. Sure, I could put up a fight in a “pickle” and throw the ball between home and third, home and third.. but all I would be doing is playing little league ball. And let’s face it, I’m just too old and too uncoordinated for that crap. If being an a$$hole was what kept him feeling “safe,” then so be it.. but I didn’t have to subject myself to it. I'd take my ball, and go home. I’d play my own game, one where you didn’t have to be an a$$hole to protect yourself… because you don’t get involved with people you have to protect yourself from in the first place.

The rest of the weekend was a blur. The kind of stuff legends are made of. I can’t divulge all the crazy details, but I can tell you that it was Legend.. wait for it.. DARY. As we sat around Sunday brunch reviving our livers, the conversation turned from giggles, to sentimental. It had been such a long time since we had all come together, that this weekend had come at the perfect time. We were all either over worked, overstressed, or overly heartbroken. Our time in the Miami sun had certainly lifted our spirits, but more than that… it had rebuilt our friendships. All the time I had spent in the miserable cold with no real friends to hang out with had left me feeling like Carrie Bradshaw with no girlfriends, and certainly no Mr. Big. I needed my voice of reason, my party girl enabler, my bodyguard, and my personal comedian. All of my friends have their different roles, and to me… it makes them an irreplaceable part of my life.

As I touched down in NYC on Thursday, I was greeted by a burst of bitter cold air on the jet way. Sigh. Home Swoot Home. A short cab ride later, I plopped my bags on the floor, and booted up my computer. There in my overloaded inbox… was a letter.

“Hope you had a great time on your trip… and you’re looking ahead to bigger and better things.
Best,
Cliché A$$hole.”

I guess Cliché A$$hole wasn’t such an a$$hole after all. The funny thing is… he was right.. I was looking ahead for once. And for the first time in a long time, I was happy about where I was heading.

Average Joe

Since that fateful day in September of 2005, my life has had its ups and downs. It’s hard enough being a single girl in today’s mean dating pool. My mother tells me every day she doesn’t know how I do it sometimes, how I put myself out there the way I do. For those of you that read my blog on a regular occasion, you have been there with me, through the good dates, the bad dates, and the ugly dates. Many of you write me comments, or personal notes about your own similar situations, that I take a lot of comfort in receiving. I may not be able to answer all of you, simply due to the sheer volume of messages I receive on the daily, but I assure I read every single one of them. Some of you tell me I am dating the wrong guys, and that may be partially true. Some of you say I date jocks, or guidos, or narcissistic pretty boys… and I am sure there have been one or two of those archetypes in my dating resume, but it is by no means fair to lump them all together. I won’t lie. There have been quasi-celebrities, sports figures, and various public personas hidden in my thinly veiled relationship blogs, but I have always respected their privacy, and certainly never ousted them no matter how badly things ended. But intermixed with the familiar faces, were the regular guys, the everyday guys, and the “Average Joes.”

This is one of those stories.

I had been seeing this guy for quite a while.. well, especially when most NYC relationships last about as long as the small sizes on a sale rack at Bloomingdale's. He was seemingly an amazing guy, who was the true definition of what any man should be: he was kind, considerate, and prided himself on doing right by others. He wasn't really my type physically, but, it didn't stop us from hitting it off from the moment we meant. We’ll call him Joe. Joe was the kind of guy that just didn’t care what people thought. He was going to party, and be the life of it. Some people can walk in, and just own a room. Well, Joe was the electricity that kept the lights on.

He was so much fun to be around it almost made me forget the months of misery I have endured in the past year. Unfortunately, we were both fresh out of mentally and emotionally abusive relationships, so neither of us was quite ready to make the jump back into the fire. So instead, we decided to take things as they came to us, and just wait and see what evolved. We began spending a ton of time together, to the point where even my door guys eventually stopped interrogating and frisking him upon his arrival. I guess most people around us just assumed we were dating. But you know what they say about assuming.. “It only makes an ass out of you and me.”
Apparently in this case, it was just me.

We were out at dinner one night, when Joe brought up the subject of relationships. He knew my theories on giving things official titles. I've always been from the school of thought that if you don't label it, it has a better chance of survival. He on the other hand, was familiar with my dating history and was slightly intimidated by the roster of predecessors. Not like there weren't plenty of average decent guys on there, but there were also a few names that came with that certain edge of intimidation. Joe was always scared that he couldn't be everything I wanted and that I'd inevitably “one up” him when something better presented itself. He said he felt like I was ashamed of him, when in reality, he couldn't have been further from the truth. I liked the fact he was normal, unpretentious, and didn't seem to be easily phased by the attention I received. I liked the fact he did something noble with his life and worked with underprivileged kids in bad neighborhoods. I think it made him more of a compassionate, understanding individual. It kept his party boy persona in check.

I guess somewhere along there, between leaving his job with the kids, and accepting a new position doing something far less noble, he forgot the reasons why I liked him in the first place. He became someone else, someone I wasn’t quite sure I even “liked.” He was like Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde. Only, Dr. Jekyll began making fewer, and fewer appearances.

One night Joe and I had made plans to have a nice dinner at home together. I had spent all day shopping and planning this elaborate Italian meal, including learning how to make an amazing meat sauce, as I have been informed that serving sauce out of a jar in this part of the country is considered blasphemy. It started to get late so I texted him, asking “where he was, if he was okay,” as this was generally out of character for him. No answer. So when midnight rolled around, and I still had no date, I arrived at the saddening conclusion.. That I had been stood up.

Every bit of that dinner went bad, as I had suddenly lost my appetite.

Fast forward to a week later. I was out on the town, at one of Joe and my normal haunts when I was confronted by a blond girl.. I had no earthly idea who the girl was til she launched in on me regarding my “relationship” with Joe. She told me she was his “ex girlfriend, whom he still regularly asked to get back together with.” And that she “had no idea I even existed.” She then proceeded to tell me how I had “never mattered to him, and that I was insignificant.” Then she dropped this bomb..

“Sweetheart, did you honestly think you could compete with what we had?? That a few months could surpass everything we have been through??.. Aww.. you did, didn’t you?.. That is sooooo sweet.”

I could feel my face flushing, and my eyes beginning to water. There were stood, in a crowded room of people, all of whom had gathered to watch these two trains that were gunning for a collision that was my life. I was on the verge of a breakdown, while she sat there… and SMILED. Why had no one stepped up yet?.. Why had no one pulled her off of me?.. What kind of REAL woman operates like this? Furthermore, what kind of man, if you can call him that allows his ex to do this to the girl he has been seeing?? I gathered my things, and what was left of my self esteem and soul and left the bar, without so much as a word to Joe.

My dating experiences in NYC have really been enlightening. They just make me feel incredibly sad for this generation of guys that don’t realize when they have found that one person who is so great, and they f*ck it up. Most just walk away and continue to live their lives as if the other half never existed, while there are others that return and try to make it all better after the fact. I guess it’s just youth, because when you’re young it is so easy to look ahead to the rest of your life. But then, there comes this one moment of clarity when you get older, when you realize the defining moment that changed the outcome of your life. Then, you spend the few years you have left torturing yourself on all the really stupid decisions you made...especially on the good people you let slip out of your life.

Sometimes we need to stop analyzing the past, stop planning the future, stop deciding exactly what we want, and just see what happens. Why had an Average Joe’s past come back to haunt me?... Until he and I had started talking, the ex was a non issue. She only wanted him back, once she realized he had in fact found something better… something that wouldn’t cheat on him, lie to him, or sleep around. The circumstances surrounding her confronting me that night were all wrong. The fact, I was just an innocent bystander in their unresolved issues. Then I realized, the two of them were still living in the past, still living in the hurt… while causing a world of pain in my present. It’s always been my belief that people who live in the past generally are afraid to compete in the present. I've got my faults, but living in the past is not one of them. There's no future in it. Unfortunately, with my career goals, and my drive… I’m perceived as a bit of a gamble, even despite my other endearing qualities. But, he knows how their story ends… she was a sure thing, a safety net. Sure, it hurts, but maybe its all for the best. I will always be the Anna Scott to his Average Joe. He just couldn’t handle being with something like that regardless of the fact it just “worked” effortlessly.

I haven't seen Joe since that night, though I did get an email from him, that simply said "not a day goes by I don't think about you."

If only that were really true.

Who's Number 1??

ADMIN UPDATE: OK, ya, these last few posts by Jenn are a little late...sorry...I'll get better...:)

It’s 20-some-odd degrees outside right now. Earlier today, we had this winter mix crap roll through, which for those unfamiliar with northeast weather terminology… it sucks. It’s kind of like snow, but enough like rain to leave you soaking wet and miserable. Why on earth did I even bother leaving my house???..

Though, this was not my first winter in NYC, it has certainly been the least interrupted one. I haven’t made as many jaunts down to Florida to visit my friends and family. And that alone has left this Southern belle feeling a little down in the dumps. How else are you supposed to feel when every day you look out your window it’s gray, murky, and misery? Even when the sun rolls in, it’s really only a farce to lure you outside long enough for you to realize that it is in fact.. still 20 degrees. Sucker.

While football is kicking up, and your days at Jones Beach are dwindling, more and more people are coupling up and setting in for a long winter’s… “something.” It was during a weekend afternoon, commonly referred to as Sunday Funday that I was introduced to the theory of “Winter Number 1’s and Winter Number 2’s.” The theory behind this “ingenious” idea was that you paired up with a designated someone of the opposite sex, in order to have a cuddle buddy for the rest of winter. A guy picks a girl they don't mind spending time with, so long as it’s freezing outside and bar hopping with their buddies is a lot less appealing. Once summer’s warm temperatures roll in, and you all report to your summer houses of debauchery along whatever shore it is you prefer, your relationship status becomes null and void. Many women up here are totally familiar with this dating concept. In fact, up here, it appears to be much of a standard procedure. – And for those of you playing the home edition, you may be asking yourself, why is there a Winter Number 2??.. Well, everyone needs a back up plan.

This whole notion of winter relationships though has one giant flaw. People, real people, have feelings. At some point, between the bar crawling, weekend afternoons of awesomeness, and huddling for warmth, something no one expects happens. You have that one moment where you stop and think to yourself, this could actually be perfect, this could be something more. That’s the difference; More times than not, its fairly easy to dismiss certain people or random dates from our lives because, there was never that moment of “clarity.” In fact. I usually have just the opposite. I have that, “well, this will be fun while it lasts” moment. But, with the real deal, you discover you have created actual memories about specific events the two of you have shared. Thus, the whole premise behind Winter 1’s and 2’s is severely flawed, unless you can find a girl that is a willing participant in your shenanigans. But, odds are if she is willing to take part in your games, then she is probably playing her own, Milton Bradley. And is that the kind of woman you really want to have a relationship, let alone a physical one with anyway?

For me, it’s hard to wrap my head around the idea of someone being disposable just because of a change in seasons. It’s that very naivety that may have actually made me a victim of this foreign concept a time or two myself. I’d try to play like I understood the rules of the game, when in reality it was much more like a kid trying to play rugby that had spent most of his life playing American football. The balls may look similar, but that is where the comparisons end. I’d try to be lighthearted about the fact I knew this relationship would last as long as a newly bought carton of milk in my fridge, but in reality the idea of knowing how this story would end was quite disheartening. I once joked that I would have my lawyer draw up standard papers for our imminent divorce, to which everyone would just smile and laugh, but in reality, I was like a clown at the circus: laughing on the outside, crying on the inside.

Part of being one of the guys is unfortunately saying things you think men want to hear, or that make you appear to not be the glass case of emotion so many women are. You are constantly thinking like a man, and in his lifestyle, that you often lose track of why he may have actually liked you in the first place. Maybe that is why I constantly find myself trapped in the friend zone. Because while guys may respect a woman for being an independent, Angelina Jolie-esque, “I don’t need a man” bad ass, it often leads to nothing more than a few good nights of debauchery with the guys. Some would argue my outlook on life would make me a perfect candidate for a winter girlfriend. I’m fun, outgoing, can hang with the fellas, but in reality they couldn’t be further from the truth. Behind the ballsy tough girl exterior, is a super sensitive Southern girl, with larger than life feelings. And girls with feelings, well.. we just don’t make good Winter girlfriends.

When I told some of my friends down south about this “Winter 1’s & 2’s” theory, most just seemed baffled. Don’t get me wrong, my guy friends down south are far from angelic, and have done their fair share of slimy things in their day, but this whole concept of having girls be willing participants in this game, was just mind-blowing. And don’t get me started on my girlfriend’s opinions on the subject. They hated the fact that the relationship was essentially dead in the water from day one, because its days were precisely calculated with the changing of the seasons. Some argued whether or not a winter girlfriend could ever become something more. But one brought up the interesting hypothetical: “If someone told you how your relationship would play out from beginning to end, would you still go through with it?” It was one of those questions that sparked a lot of heated debate amongst the girls, simply because as cynical as I may appear, I am a true romantic at heart and I want to believe that anything is possible. But, when someone tells you there is absolutely no future possible between you two, is the juice really worth the squeeze??

Can Winter Number Ones and Twos ever evolve, or are they destined to be just that? It would be a shame to never see the full range in dynamics of a person in the different seasons. Think of all the cool things you'll miss by not seeing this scenario really play out: Opening day at Yankee stadium, Fourth of July fireworks, the public drunkenness of a Hoboken St Patty’s day.. I mean, you haven’t even seen them in a swimsuit yet. The point is, for all the special memories you can create in winter they'll never compare to the potential ones you could create in the warmth of summer. Like many, I'm a happier person in spring and summer and parts of fall only because I don't cope well with winter, when seasonal depression is in full effect.

If two people turn out to be truly compatible, well... they're only cheating themselves by putting punctuation at the end of a relationship that isn’t complete yet. I guess, at some point, you have to be ready to draw a line in the snow and say I want more than this. If they aren't willing to pony up, then maybe Winter Number 2 will. Besides, baseball season is only weeks away… a new season, a new start, and everyone starts off with the perfect record.

How I survived another Singles Awareness Day

ADMIN UPDATE: OK, ya, these last few posts by Jenn are a little late...sorry...I'll get better...:)

It seems every day I am mystified by the behavior of men around me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am definitely “one of the guys” when it comes to my way of thinking, but still.. their inability to really understand and cohabitate the earth peacefully with the females around them astounds me.

Take for example, my roomie Christian, who you guys may affectionately know as “Spot.” He has spent the past few nights streaming live video feed from our house, with no real premise or agenda. He’s just capturing his day to day life, whatever that may be. The other night, he spent his time on “Spotcenter” cleaning the inside of his shower, while 80 some-odd people watched. REALLY?.. Is this what life has come to when we are watching a 28 year old dude clean his showers so as to not disgust his girlfriend during her upcoming visit?.. I felt like I was watching the gorillas at the zoo, in their “natural habitat,” or as natural as one can act when they know they are being watched. (Please, don’t tap on the glass... he tends to get very angry.) Or maybe you caught his Valentine’s Day special where he stole one of my pink bras and stamped a red heart on his cheek just to be “festive?”

Then there is my buddy Mike, who decided as part of he and his live in girlfriend’s “fitness theme” of 2009, decided to buy her a treadmill as a Valentine’s Day gift. REALLLLLLLLLY Mike?.. A Treadmill?... Why don’t you just dangle a box of chocolates from a fishing line in front of her attached to a gift certificate for liposuction?.. Way to go buddy.

Then, there are a number of my other male friends that pride themselves on being “AWESOME.” Everything in their lives revolves around having the best time humanly possible. Think “fraternity” with no dues, no rules, just a good old time. Much of being awesome revolves around getting “faced” (intoxicated) and picking up girls. That’s why the majority of them are still single and celebrate Valentine’s Day every year with their own tradition, “The Lonely Hearts Club.”

Don’t get me twisted, I see nothing wrong with being “awesome” and having a good time. In fact, that statement pretty much sums up my entire college experience. But, at the same time, I know when it’s last call for awesomeness, and time to grow up. After all, is it worth being awesome, if you will always be alone???..

Society has expectations for men to behave a certain way, a dangerous and break-up provoking combination of overly macho and extremely juvenile. We live in a world where doing nice things for girls makes a man a “pussy” or "gay". Newsflash! It’s not gay: I'm a girl. You’re supposed to go out of your way to be sweet, and polite, and a tad chivalrous every now and then. It’s not about opening doors and laying your nice coats in puddles, it’s simply about being a good human being. So while watching Music and Lyrics and Notting Hill may not be your idea of a good time, it shows your ability to sacrifice watching Bruce Willis blow up shit for two and a half hours with Carl Winslow-- all for the sake of making your woman happy.

Instead of spending Valentine’s Day with some random date for the sake of not being alone-- that and the fact I was coming down with a nasty bout of the flu made me a terrible make out partner-- I decided my time was better spent playing matchmaker in my own sick twisted way: picking up a shift at my buddy’s bar. Sure I wasn’t matching people “based on more than 26 points of their long-term compatibility” like Match.com, but I was certainly doing my part by helping hapless saps find romance on a night where being alone, plus drinking equals… the second highest rate of suicides, next to “Holidays.” And THAT, my friends, was reason enough for me.

Valentine’s Day has forever ranked in my mind right up there with getting a tooth pulled, or possibly the girl equivalent of the old “turn your head and cough” routine. It was pure misery. A disaster waiting to happen. It seemed somehow, someway, no matter how perfect life and relationships seemed to be going, something was bound to come along and screw it up. This theory dates way back to my days as a lonely fourth grader. You know, the age where boys stopped having cooties, and suddenly weren’t the disgusting mutants you and your girlfriends used to throw sand at on the playground. Now, kids in my grade were having boyfriends and girlfriends. Unless you were me that is. I was a chubby cheeked, ringlet wearing, Curly Sue stunt double. Though a bit of a nerd, I was always the sweetheart and hopeless romantic.. hoping that if I let my crush, Kyle (as we will call him for all intents and purposes) copy off my spelling test, he may sit next to me at the lunch table, or better yet, leave a Valentine for me in my Valentine’s Day mailboxes we had all fashioned out of our parents crusty, old shoe boxes. Of course, when Valentine’s Day rolled around, and the cards had been handed out and counted, somehow Kyle’s Valentine to me.. was no where to be found. Never mind the fact, all the pretty girls like Megan, and Ashley got cards from Kyle. Somehow.. the mailman must have lost mine, either that. or perhaps Kyle was just too “awesome” and cool to be bothered with someone like me. I guess that’s why they call it a crush. If it didn’t hurt so much, they’d call it something else.

Nearly fifteen years or so later, I am still plagued by the same problem: Always picking the “awesome” boy, the Barney Stinson’s of the world, over people who may really be worth it. Maybe that is because I think I can change, or save them. Or because I think I see something in them that no one else could. Both of these could be entirely accurate, or maybe it’s the fact that I just have spent the past twenty years of my life making the same mistakes in my choosing of Valentines.

So this year, I sacrificed my own single awesomeness for the greater good, and joined my own lonely hearts club aimed at helping other lonely hearts.. not be so lonely. A ‘rum and coke’ and a ‘gin and tonic,’ may not give you the same warm and fuzzy feeling a real life Valentine will, but a couple of Jaegerbombs could certainly heat things up a little. Two by two the patrons seemed to leave in pairs til finally we closed the bar. Everyone it seems… went home happy.

I may not have built lasting marriages and unions, but Jenn Sterger helped find someone’s Mrs. right (now) that night. Sometimes people need a little help from their friends and friendly neighborhood bartenders to get past their “Kyles” and demons, and get back out into the dating pool. And I had seemingly accomplished just that. I left the bar sometime after three AM, and spent the rest of the evening on my bathroom floor, hugging the toilet, and battling my flu. Ugh. It may not be a boy, but hey.. at least it was something to kiss.

That kids, is how I survived another Valentine’s Day in the trenches. After all, love is a battlefield. And while we may not win every battle, we will certainly win the war.

867-5309

Last night, I spent roughly two hours on the phone with T-Mobile, trying to choose a new phone number. I know it seems petty, but I’ve become pretty attached to my ten digits over the years. The excessive texting to my girlfriends over the latest boy, updating my Facebook status 24-7, giving out wrong numbers to fist pumping guidos I’m just not that into. Yeah, we’ve had some good times together me and these digits.

Many a phone I have lost to death by drowning… be it a glass, a pool, or the ever disgusting toilet. Yeah, I left that one there. But the numbers, the “digits of my being” persevered. So when it came time to choosing a new number, a new number that would be the new ten digit code to “ME,” it proved to be a relatively difficult task. I mean, these would be the numbers that people would come to associate and memorize as me, and there is a reason I have had the same number since high school… IT’S AWESOME. Easy. Simple. Repetitive. It’s no 867-5309, but it is MINE.

Sure there is the argument of all the contacts I could possibly lose, but with all the new waves in technology, surely they are only a Facebook, Myspace, or email away. But what if a casting director or producer I had met along the road suddenly found a role of job I was perfect for? Most of them really don’t have the time to bother with Google searches on the internet. So… job opportunity lost.

Then again, there are all those bad numbers. You know the ones in your phone. They usually are like “John Rogue bar” or “Kelly Nail Place.” The ones you have to write where you met the person just to have the faintest CLUE who they are in your phone. My personal favorites are the DNA's — AKA, the Do Not Answers. There is usually a reason a person is labeled this is in your phone, thus the explicit instructions in their name registry. Those are the hanger-ons, the guy at the bar that insists he sees his number register in your phone even though you have made it pretty clear you are not interested (YEAH, that happens), and the occasional stalker or dreaded ex. To date, I have about 7 DNA’s in my phone, and probably another 10 that still retain their actual names, but should have those instructions next to them.

Stalkers and ex’s are by far the biggest reason to get a new number, because unless your phone is one of those with the convenient individual block feature, some people will keep calling and texting long after you have told them to stop. Then there is the coffee call, and the random drunk texts on Valentine’s Day, the… "Hey, just wanted to see how you were" text. “I’m fine, or I was five seconds before I got this text. “

Sometimes even when it says “DNA,” our hearts simply can’t hit the red button, the one I affectionately refer to as the @$$hole button. Instead, we open ourselves up to a barrage of nasty texts, confusing conversations, and heated arguments over things that are no longer relevant in our lives. A number doesn’t validate who I am, and besides, I have changed a lot since high school. The people that were so relevant and important to me back then… well, aside from my best friends, most have just become Facebook friends, and people on the list I send Christmas cards to.

So it was time for Jenny to get a new number, and a new life. For those that receive my new number, I hope they will be wise about passing it around. Because a great new number, is a terrible thing to waste.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go memorize my new digits... Tommy Tutone style.

Jenny, I got your number,
I need to make you mine.
Jenny, don't change your number,
8-6-7-5-3-0-9 (8-6-7-5-3-0-9)
8-6-7-5-3-0-9 (8-6-7-5-3-0-9)

The Substitute

We have all had that one teacher that sticks out in our head. That one miserable individual you think came to school simply to torture little children for a few hours away from her normal bunny-boiling schedule. Sick twisted individuals that never got hired as real teachers, probably because they'd be better suited to be on Dateline NBC with Chris Hanson than putting smiles on young faces. I remember my nightmare substitute teacher well. Even remember her name, even though I can't remember the name of my best friend from that particular grade. For the sake of not calling out this individual, that surprisingly still has a job in the education system, let’s just call her Ms. Blah Blah.

Of course, she was unmarried. I mean, who would want to spend the rest of their waking life with this woman?.. She was the only teacher I had, whose icy cold stare alone had the ability to make me burst into tears. She even took away my star on the award board. My STAR!!! What kind of heartless bitch WAS this woman???.. I was a straight A student until I was in high school, never caused any behavioral disturbances in my entire educational career. And this woman was hell-bent on making me cry in front of the class.

It all started in kindergarten. She subbed maybe once or twice for my teacher that year. I spent naptime on my plastic cot with one eye open around this bitch on wheels. Then, she appeared again in first grade, when, if I am not mistaken my teacher got half the year off on maternity leave, so I was forced to deal with this heartless mutant. And then again in third grade. Sheesh! How does this woman still have a job??.. Are their no better candidates in the substitute pool than HER???.. It was always the highlight of my miserable days with her, when the bell would ring signaling the end of her reign.

When I graduated elementary school, I thought I had finally rid myself of Ms. Blah Blah. Then, one fateful day, as I strolled into my eighth grade algebra class, there she was. I had finally had it. I threw my hands up, excused myself to go to the clinic to get tested for Ebola or something crazy… and left. Never to see Ms. Blah Blah again.

That is the thing about substitutes. They are only supposed to be for a limited time. To fill in for the original, because lets face it, nothing really compares. In fact, I honestly believe in life that there are substitute people. I’m pretty sure I have even been one of them. We’re simply there to hold the place between the real thing and the next real thing. People treat us poorly, and do things to us they know damn well they could never get away with under normal circumstances… in a REAL relationship.

Some people may refer to such individuals as rebounds. I wouldn't necessarily use that term, because rebound would imply they helped me get past something. (And it’s never been my philosophy to get under someone to get over someone.) Instead, I think of them more as transition people to get us our next journey in life-- kinda like an Interim coach. They’re there during a crisis situation to fill in for the big guy til the next big guy gets hired. Still, what if you thought all along you were up for head coaching job, just to be passed over when that person was ready to take the next step? There’s nothing worse than being a substitute and not knowing it. It ranks up there with being the ass of a bad joke, or outside the circle of trust. Because there’s nothing worse than thinking you’re up for promotion, then getting fired.

Then again, sometimes if substitutes do really well… they ARE the next big guy. Same thing when a player gets injured. Take, Wally Pipp, first baseman for the Yankees in 1925. Legend has it he sat out one game with a terrible headache, and some kid subbed for him. Some kid named Lou Gehrig. Gehrig went on to play in 1,925 consecutive games. The streak only ended when Gehrig was so debilitated due to amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), or as it's commonly known now - Lou Gehrig's disease. And that is how a substitute… became a legend.



I guess at some point, we’ve all been the substitute, or the kids who wreak havoc while the real teachers away. There’s nothing wrong with either role, so long as all the players know their part. Who knows?.. With a little patience and understanding, maybe you’ll be the substitute turned superstar.

As for Ms. Blah Blah, it was years down the road, my senior year of high school to be exact, when she walked into my band class sporting a huge rock. That’s right, Ms. Blah Blah was now Mrs. Blah Blah-Blah. Sure, she was just as miserable and mean as I remembered, but now.. I was a hell of a lot stronger and wiser than I had been in our previous run-ins. Besides, I loved band class, and there was no way in hell I was letting some bitchy substitute rain on my marching parade.

Mrs. Blah Blah-Blah currently resides in Tampa and still substitute teaches in Hillsborough County. Those poor, poor children…

Sucks to be them.

Your girl is lovely, Hubbell

No matter how many relationships we have, it never seems to get any easier. It’s not the break up part that really cuts you to the core. It’s seeing the face of the new girl. Your replacement that sends your world into pieces.

It seems to me there are two types of girls. There are simple girls. And Katie girls. No, I don’t mean girls named Katie, but more… just the thought of what a “Katie” girl represents. For those of you not as well versed in the film career of Miss Barbra Streisand, she and Robert Redford starred in a movie about complicated love. Barbra’s character, Katie falls in love with a boy (Hubbell) she knew from college years before, and the two begin this long and torrid on and off relationship. They soon both find themselves sacrificing parts of their own identities and dreams, til Hubbell begins an affair on a pregnant Katie, and leaves her after their daughter is born. Fast forward years later, when the two encounter one another face to face. They both realize they are still very much in love with each other, though they are now with two very different people, Katie with a new man, and Hubbell with the stereotypically pretty girl. The two have a brief conversation and remember the “They way they were.” Then, Katie turns to Hubbell in the movie’s final moments, and tells him, “Your girl is lovely, Hubbell.” It’s at this point in the movie that Hubbell realizes he still loves Katie, but that they could never be together again, because he could never live up to her standards of him. And the two part, and go their separate ways.

We all know these types of relationships. They are the kind that no matter how you try, things are just never simple enough, and they never get easier. The problem with these relationships is that they often seem to be the most fulfilling and dynamic. The highs are high. The lows are low. Yet at the same time they’re the most destructive, because by the time you realize they are not going to work, it’s too late. For everyone.

So in the end, you each move on to your next relationship. Some take time to heal, while others just jump in to whatever comes there way next. It’s just something inevitable we will all face. Enter: the new girl. Until now, she has had no face. She was simply an “idea.” The “idea” that he had in fact moved on. But, now… she has a face and the rules of the game change. Now, she is real. She is blonde, pretty, and perfect. Everything you are not. You knew this was coming all along, so why does it hurt now that she has a face??.. Now there is no denying you two were never meant to work out, because you simply couldn’t be all he wanted. You weren’t up to his standards, as vain and unrealistic as they were at times.

She is the “Simple” girl. The one that requires no “getting to know” because, well.. that’s really not the priority at hand. She’s gorgeous, yet simple. She hasn’t had the worldly experience you have had, because she’s the younger, hotter model… to your vintage classic. She’s young, indecisive, easily owned, because she just doesn’t know any better. She’s by no means dumb, but she’s hardly as diverse, well read, or eccentric as you. You were arm candy with your own opinion, when he can still help mold hers. That’s because you’re the “Katie girl.”

If you’re a woman reading this, and wondering what realm you fall into, then let me elaborate. The real difference between the “Simple girls” and the “Katie girls,” is the Katie girl is far from perfect, but she’s perfect in her imperfection. It’s her imperfections and her different views on life that make her the unique spirit that she is. She isn’t high maintenance necessarily. She’s just unwilling to change who she is for anyone. She’s been there, done that, and lost herself. She’s wild, unpredictable, yet… charming to almost all those she meets. Why?.. Because she is “real.”

I'm the Katie girl. I wouldn't say I'm hot, I'd say I'm unique. The ugly duckling that got a lil less ugly, grew into her awkwardness, and is still learning to love herself. Quirks and all. I’ll never be the girl that can wear white and not get it dirty, which is why I live my life in bright colors. My nail polish chips, because I am not afraid of getting my hands dirty. I wear ball caps not to make fashion statements, but because of how effortless it is in my busy life. My hair is naturally curly so no matter how many times I hit it with the straightener, when I get caught in the rain, I'm Julia Roberts all over again. I hate punishing myself at the gym, just because I have a sweet tooth, a salt tooth. Damn it, I'm just a foodie. So what if my jeans fit a little tighter after the holidays. I just want to be comfortable in my own skin. I want my life to be validated by more than pictures of me in bikinis and underwear, or by having the “hot boyfriend.” I'm a freckle factory, but that is what airbrushing is for. My tan comes off in the shower, but at least I will look great when I hit 40 by staying out of the sun. I have my opinions on sports, life, and politics, and just because they aren’t his doesn’t make them wrong, it simply makes me… myself. I think instant replay doesn’t belong in baseball, and professional athletes should be held to higher standards of behavior as role models. My views on politics don’t make me a “dumb redneck” they just mean I was raised with different values than his. I believe in manners, in “please” and “thank you.” I’m a big hearted southern girl, and if my larger than life feelings make me a little sensitive at times, then so be it. I am myself, and no one else.

I’m sick of people comparing me to this girl or that girl, especially when “that girl” came after I did. Comparing apples to oranges, oranges to cantaloupes or whatever produce is in season just isn’t fair, because we all have something different to offer. I know I have probably been the subject of comparison to another woman at one point or another. After all, every girl has “the girl” before them and unless they meet their soul mate, there will always be “the girl” after them.

It takes a lot to admit when you’re just not right for someone, but it takes a lot more to be happy for them for moving on. Part of you wants them to hurt, and feel the same pains you did, when in fact your feelings are your own and no one elses to experience. It’s not like you will all be able to sit down and all shoot the shit together, because there are too many open wounds there. Too many what if’s. It’s not fair to her or me. I’ve always been a good loser. A good miss congeniality of life. Maybe that’s because I can admit that I deserved better. Why should I change the person I am, the person he fell for, just because he couldn’t keep up?... Maybe, just maybe I am better off finding someone that is right for me. A person that fits my wackiness, my fun-loving spirit. The guy that isn’t afraid to sit with me at the diner in our pajamas because we’re hung over from the night before. The guy who will show up at the airport with a home made chauffeur sign to welcome me back. The guy that isn’t afraid to make an ass out of himself just on the off chance it might make me smile. The guy who will go that little extra because they realize the simple girls are a dime a dozen, and that Katie girls are one in a million.