The Artist Formerly Known As JennyMoo

Huh.

Tue, 31 May 2011 17:54:00 -0400

Someone really ought to post something here sometime.

*crickets*

Wherein I am a whiny brat.

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 16:53:00 -0400

You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to go back in time to whenever it was that whoever it was invented McDonalds or TV dinners or corn subsidies or whatever and make them stop. Because at Chick-fil-A today, I was trying to order my moderately-less-deadly Caesar wrap combo, and she asked me what I wanted to drink, and I had this momentary panic attack about whether it was worse to drink the sugar or the chemical fake sugar in my lemonade (forgetting that I could just, I don’t know, not order a combo and drink water instead).

But this just highlights something that I’m bitter about in general: I’m pissed off that previous generations have created all this fake food that is the only thing you can find anymore that it turns out is killing us all, and now it’s MY job to try to avoid it, but I can’t, really, unless I go off the grid and live off the land or something. And I have all this OTHER STUFF going on in my life right now and all this energy I spend on trying to figure out what lurking, genetically-modified, chemically-enhanced NON-FOOD food products to avoid is energy that could be much better-used elsewhere, except that if I do ignore it, I will get fat and cancerous and die. Even if I run marathons.

In conclusion: fuck you, ConAgra. Fuck you right in the eye.

PS: More updates coming soon. I’ve been somewhat preoccupied, mostly with running around waving my arms and bleating uninformedly about the coming apocalypse.

Bandwagon

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 12:40:41 -0400

Vuvuzela? I hardly know ‘er!

(Okay, fine, it only works if you say it like you’re Norm. But still.)

Oh, damn it.

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 21:25:09 -0400

I’m…. finding Tom Cruise attractive in these previews for Knight and Day. I… I really don’t know how to process that information.

Deflated.

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 18:07:51 -0400

I should be enjoying things, I shout, in my head. I’m never going to get this day back! Or the one before that! There are things to enjoy and I am not enjoying them and it’s all your fault!

As long as it’s not my fault.

What is it, girl?

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 11:47:41 -0400

Okay, so… you know, this whole Alvin Greene thing.

Here’s the thing. And it pains me to admit that it’s “A Thing” but the news cycle hasn’t dropped it yet, so apparently it is. Anyway, here’s the thing: It doesn’t matter. Whether the state GOP paid his registration fee or not, whether he won 60% of the primary votes because his name was first on the ballot or the electronic voting machines went hinky or, more conspiritorially (but entirely plausibly, because this *is* South Carolina), because it’s an open primary and you can vote in it whether or not you affiliate yourself with the party in question and hey, wouldn’t that be a hoot, guys?, whether he’s right in the head or not — it doesn’t matter.

Unless the Democrats ran Jesus himself in that race, Jim DeMint was not going to lose.

Now, I believe we should take our electoral process seriously, and I believe if there is any indication that something truly was out of line in this situation, it should be investigated. Just because the result of an election is, barring video evidence and a signed confession from Jim DeMint that he eats babies (and maybe not even then — this *is* South Carolina), a foregone conclusion, doesn’t mean the process should be used as a joke or in perpetrating actual fraud. But all this gnashing of teeth and hysterical finger-pointing on behalf of the SC Democrats is only making the situation more embarrassing for everyone. If there is evidence of wrongdoing, investigate it and bring that to light so that *the system itself* isn’t abused in that way in the future.

But here’s the thing, SC Democratic Party: if you felt the ultimate result was enough of a lock for the other guys that you didn’t want to spend funds supporting the candidate you would have preferred win the primary or the time to investigate the only other guy on the ballot — the random, completely unknown guy on the ballot — BEFORE the primary, it’s a little late now to cry foul now. When the general election comes around, Vic Rawl was not going to win, Alvin Greene is not going to win — y’all need to sit down, shut up, and figure out how to keep this from happening again instead of wasting all of our time blaming everyone else for it having happened this time.

I am a Democrat in SC, and I approve this message.

College Love Stories of the Damned

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 21:45:00 -0400

So, later last night, I ran across the prequel to the journal entries I started transcribing last night; I think I can date these things better now. Last night’s entry was actually from sometime around the middle of my sophomore year of college, so probably late 1996 or early 1997. The one that follows chronologically appears to be from the spring of 1998. I was not a very dedicated diarist, apparently only feeling the need to record my PAIN and HEARTACHE for posterity when things were going badly between me and ol’ John (or rather, when they were going exactly as theatrically badly as I could have wished). I’ll post the “prequel” next, which will lay a little bit more groundwork for the horrors to come.

See, I had enjoyed a long and happy relationship in high school that lasted about three years. My boyfriend was a great guy — he treated me like a beautiful and special princess snowflake, brought me flowers, and suffered through ballet performances. We went everywhere together and wrote each other schmoopy notes and had long telephone conversations (“Are you asleep?” “No, are you?”) when we weren’t together (which was pretty much when we were either in class or I was in a ballet rehearsal). Of course we fought occasionally about stupid teenager-y things, but he was cute and athletic and the whole thing was hearts and rainbows and, eventually, a good bit of fumbling and awkward, but ultimately sweet… physical experimentation. His parents travelled a good bit and his older brother was away at college, so we had the house to ourselves a lot. Also, he had a pool.

The other thing is that I was a pretty solitary kid in a lot of ways. If I wasn’t over at my boyfriend’s house engaging in… physical experimentation… I was either at school or at a ballet class, or I was reading. Oh, I had friends and we hung out some, but I was a voracious reader. I graduated from high school having consumed a steady diet of the likes of Gone With the Wind, Anya Seton, L.M. Montgomery and Elizabeth Peters.

In other words, I had no idea how a real relationship worked. There wasn’t any particular Event that broke High School Boy and I up, unless you count Life and College and the fact that we were really only kids playing at being grown up. But the relative idyllic perfection of that relationship left me completely emotionally unprepared for messier quasi-adult relationships. I hadn’t experienced any angst yet! I didn’t know I was supposed to! After all, I had been A Girlfriend for years, I had that deal down cold. I would just have to pick a likely prospect — and why shouldn’t they all like me? I was great!

So that was pretty much my emotional landscape by the time “John” and the other college guys joined the picture. And for the most part, I wasn’t terribly off the mark; if they weren’t actually falling at my feet and pledging undying devotion, it wasn’t particularly hard for me to get a date. John — John was the enigma. His recalcitrant refusal to prostrate himself obediently before the altar of my Girlfriendish perfection, despite all that we seemed to have in common and what appeared to be a clear sort of affection and friendship between us, utterly confounded me and, at the same time, entranced me. Finally, this was something deep and true — it must have been, because that was the natural progression of all the romantic stories I had read; of course the hero and heroine encountered obstacles, but those obstacles would only ultimately prove how right they were for each other. He wasn’t unattainable, he was just unenlightened. I refused all evidence to the contrary; I was utterly miserable at times, and realize now that I enjoyed all the misery and drama for all it was worth. He was an irresistible challenge, the heroin to my romance-addicted little heart. I was Scarlett O’Hara, and John was my Ashley Hamilton.

I which I bare my adolescent soul: Part The First.

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 00:09:00 -0400

Okay, I made a butt-cringingly embarrassing discovery tonight and I’m starting a new series of entries, because it’s too rich not to share. I was rooting around in the basement looking for a box I never did find, because I ran across some old journals and papers from college and before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor, reading and laughing at my poor, 19- or 20-year-old, extremely angst-ridden self. Extremely angst-ridden.

As very minor background, I dated this particular fellow off and on during college. Apparently, during one of our “off” periods, I took to journaling (old skool pen and paper style — this was the mid-90s, please remember) my PAIN and HEARTACHE. It’s kind of sad, actually, how wrapped up I was in this non-relationship, and how convinced I was that what we had was DEEP and TRUE and, oh, it’s just all so tragic. To assure you (and, more honestly, myself) that I’m not quite the romantically-challenged asshole that these will make me appear, I did date other people in college. This lucky guy was the only one that drove me to writing utter drivel, though.

(NOTE: Do I think he’ll see this and know it was him? Highly doubtful, particularly since only about three people who know me in real life know about this blog and he is not one of them — nor does he have contact with any of them, as far as I know. And if he does find this — oh, well. More mortifying things have happened in the 13 or 14 years (Years! My God!) since these were written. Maybe he’d be flattered to know that he inspired me to such heights of crap all those years ago. More likely he would just shake his head and thank whatever it is he believes in that he avoided the psycho. Honestly, if this is what I was like that year, I’m surprised I had any friends left by the time summer came around.)

And, so, without further ado, Part I. I believe this was written the summer of 1997? 1996? I didn’t actually date these things, so I’m guessing. But this appears to have been written at the start of a school year. Spelling and punctuation is as was originally recorded. Commentary by Present Me is in bold. Names have been changed to protect the truly innocent — which would be everyone except me in this farce. “John” is the star player here.

*****************************

Well … hmmm… I’m in a sort of a … funk right now — I guess that’s what Charlie would call it anyway — thinking too much, perhaps? Just thinking things like — what if I never find anybody? [Seriously? You’re what, 19?] I’d always thought it was pretty much a given that I would. But right now I just don’t feel close to anyone — I see Andy and Christy, Mark and Anne — it makes me sort of jealous, because that’s something I don’t have. [It’s ok, give it a few years, and you may end up marrying one of those other guys. Bless your heart.] I used to feel pretty close to John, but that seems to have retreated somehow. [Yes, some dates and some making out = lasting, undying devotion. Of course.] I just don’t understand — why can’t I have someone I feel totally at one with? Someone I feel like cares so much about me and wants to spend all their time with me. [Oh, so young.] Instead, I feel like I do all the pursuing, all the talking. I guess deep down inside I just want someone to love me. That I can love back. It’s hard waiting for that, not knowing if it will ever come. It makes life seem awfully long. [Nineteen! And you just broke up with one of the five people you dated the past year! Who ARE you?]

I guess I’m finding that trust and committment are very important to me… maybe more important than I realized. [Not as important as spelling, apparently. But now we’re getting to the meat of the issue. Shockingly, “John” didn’t return my fierce passion and, after a summer away from my charming clinginess, wanted to date other people. Granted, he didn’t actually come right out and *say* that, he just sort of went ahead with that plan. He probably realized I would have collapsed on my fainting couch and had a fit of the vapors before murdering his bunny rabbit if he had actually told me that. Good grief. Nineteen.] Makes me feel pretty lonely - - - I know I have people I can talk to, but no one I feel really connected with. Do you actively forge those connections, or are they just there with certain people (who I obviously haven’t met yet)? [Or have I? Dun dun, DUNNNNN.] Or it is a combination of the two? [Fairly insightful, you blithering idiot. You still haven’t learned this lesson as well as you should have by now.]

*************************

End of Part I. I really need to come up with a catchy title for these. Next time — John and I are apparently back together. OR ARE WE?

eep.

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 11:27:00 -0400

So, today, once I pick up my pants from the alterations lady, I’m placing myself on emergency spending lock-down. In going over my bank statement, I realized that, instead of my account information having been compromised and all my money spent by unscrupulous hackers on hookers and blow as I first thought, it’s actually that *I* have spent it all. Me. On stuff. And things.

The way I discovered this is a cautionary tale in itself — I logged on to pay some bills which are due tomorrow, only to discover I do not presently have enough in my account to cover them. Oh, sure — I get paid tomorrow and will pay the bills then and so there’s no real problem, and I’m not going to bounce anything. I do *have* some money (I won’t say how much) but it’s decidely Not Much, and is, I believe, the lowest account balance I’ve had in years. I like to have a bit of a cushion, because I’ve been there before (hello, student years!) and few things terrify me like running out of funds.

This is all just particularly embarrassing in this New World of Frugality and Conservative Spending we all seem to be living in at the moment. I know that there are a lot of contributing factors in my own case — and that a big part of it is actually a bit of a cry of help in response to all the things I don’t have any control over right now on a global level and in my own personal life. My hope is that seeing that scarifyingly low) figure today and saying “enough” is my own answer to that cry — a recognition that I need to actually slow down and deal with my reaction to all that seems to be spiralling out of control, to find a healthier, more productive outlet for these emotions than pure acquisitiveness. I know that instead of continuing to self-medicate with shopping, whether it’s books or clothes or wine or paint, whether I pay full price or get it on such a good deal that it would be crazy to pass it up, all I’m going to be left with is a pile of crap I don’t want or need, a hangover, and debt — and that’s just going to feed the other demons. It’s time to stop making jokes about single-handedly propping up the economy and get real with myself about why I’ve let it get this far.

So. Off to pick up my pants, start restringing my monetary safety net, and actually address some problems. Boy howdy, admitting to yourself that you have issues is exhausting. Anyone know a good therapist?

Today

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 13:26:40 -0400

Plagued by vague yet stultifying hangover. There may, perhaps, have been a leeeetle too much wine at dinner last night, after several weeks of near teetotalism.

General enthusiasm for life: desultory, at best.

Whinge-o-meter: 11.

Fun New Game I Have Just Invented

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 23:11:20 -0400

Guess the theme of Lady Gaga’s next video.

My guess:

She will have actual sex with a pony wearing a priest’s cassock, while Richard Nixon’s ghost, attired in S&M gear, holds a pelican and watches impassively. Sofas are on fire in the background.

Your turn!

My Year Of Everything: YES

Mon, 07 Jun 2010 21:49:33 -0400

My Year Of Everything: YES:

So here’s the deal: one single audition fundamentally changed just about every aspect of my life for the better, allowed me to do what I love for 12 years and counting, still gets mentioned to me every single day, and I almost skipped it.

I’d moved to New York right out of college, with an entry…

Not that it matters, but I voted for Dave. From three phones.

Dear Internet

Mon, 07 Jun 2010 14:27:45 -0400

Re: Sites that won’t let you go “back” to the site that took you there in the first place.

Please stop.

Hey, Tom's makes wedge heels.

Sat, 05 Jun 2010 21:43:00 -0400

Hey, Tom's makes wedge heels.:

THAT’s what I’ve been looking for.

Don't ever change, Asheville.

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 22:48:00 -0400

So, I drove up the mountain to Asheville tonight to go to Joshilyn Jackson’s book reading and signing for her new novel, Backseat Saints. It was a little bit of an adventure actually getting to the bookstore. First, there was an accident on 26 — on the southbound side, as it turns out, but the scene was epic enough to slow the northbound side to a crawl. It turned out to be a U-Haul truck on fire — or rather, the crispy skeleton of a U-Haul truck that had recently been on fire. It was still perpetrating little wisps of steamy smoke. Anyway, so there was that, and then there was getting *off* the highway. Unbeknownst to me, there was a Loretta Lynn concert tonight at the Asheville Civic Center. Which is about a block off the highway. And the bookstore is just another block away. So, I sat in this insane traffic snarl for about 40 minutes. No one seemed to be going anywhere, it was like everyone just converged on the spot in their cars and sat. Eventually, I managed to get to a side street and since I’m quasi-familiar with the city, I struck off to find a not-too-sketchy parking spot. I finally found a pay parking lot on the other side of downtown with some empty spaces, and managed first to park in two of the only “reserved 24-7” spots in the entire lot before finally parking somewhere legal.

The upshot of all of this is that by the time I staggered all crazy-eyed into the bookstore, I had missed Joshilyn’s reading entirely and apparently missed *her* by actual seconds, according to the sympathetic bookstore people. Oh, well — I got an autographed copy, at least. And then they felt so sorry for my bumbling ass, they threw in a glass of wine and a free book by another Southern author. So, you know, that was nice. Malaprop’s Bookstore — if you’re in Asheville, pop in. If you look disappointed and/or crazy enough about having driven an hour and missed the event you were trying to attend, they give you wine and free books; this is my kind of bookstore.

So I browsed around a bit and drank my consolation wine and ended up buying yet another book I’d been curious about. Then I remembered seeing an Urban Outfitters on my harried trek to the bookstore, so I wandered back down that way and tried on some ill-advised hipster clothing (ill-advised for me, I mean — actual twenty-something hipsters look fine, it’s just, honestly, who am I kidding?). The cigarette jeans were particularly hilarious. Sing it with me now: Mistaaaaaake! (I’m pretty sure a tenor in a tuxedo popped up in the dressing room.)

I did find a cute shirt and felt compelled to buy it so that I wouldn’t feel completely old and lame. Please allow me my illusions.

So then it was almost 9:00 and dark, and I decided I should probably head back for the car in semi-defeat before it got too late for me to be staggering around downtown Asheville by myself. (Defeat was only semi due to sympathy, free wine, free book and possibly cute shirt that I don’t really need.)

That was when I stumbled into the most surreal scene I’ve encountered in a while, and I just got back from New York. It was in the little triangular park at Patton Avenue and Haywood Street — this crazy hippy drum circle mosh pit outdoor rave thing, with tom-toms and chanting and dancing and dreadlocks and a big guy with a glow-stick-ified tambourine, and people who looked like they’d just shown up with their own drums (you know, like you do, but I really think these people probably do) and kids hula-hooping, and tourists milling around eating ice cream, and some girl painted like William Wallace, and these drunk Spanish businessmen trying to pick up college girls, and everyone was jumping and dancing, it was all very sweaty and steamy and tribal-thumpy and so completely ODD and AWESOME. I think there was a naked guy. I’m positive there were controlled substances. It was like a minature Southern Appalachian Burning Man festival. Tell me, Asheville, do you do this every Friday night?

I think I’m just going to imagine that you do.

Dear Internet

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 11:18:10 -0400

Re: Ads with audio that automatically start playing.

Please stop.

Adventures in Extreme Gardening

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 09:38:00 -0400

So, did you know tomato plants can regenerate themselves? Are tomatoes actually annuals? (Or is it perennials? I can’t ever remember which is which. Like how to spell weird — is that an exception to the “i before e” rule or not? Weird? Wierd? They both look right to me.) Anyway, speaking of weird, I was weeding a few weeks ago and had these “weeds” that looked suspiciously tomato-plant-y and moreover, smelled suspiciously tomato-plant-y (and if you’ve ever grown tomatoes, you know exactly the smell I mean). So I shrugged and left them there to see what would happen, and then last weekend I slapped some cages around them, because they were doing so well, and now I’ve got two extra tomato plants. No idea about the variety, as I can’t remember what all I planted last year (there were some big ones and some little ones), so we’ll have Tomato Roulette in our garden this year.

The oddest thing is, they’re growing in a part of the garden that has never had tomatoes. So I’m guessing that some bits of old tomato vine or roots or something got tilled into the soil and … sprouted? I mean, obviously, but nothing I’ve read about tomatoes has indicated that could happen.

Factoid: I was looking up “roulette” in Webster to make sure I spelled it correctly (yes, in an actual physical dictionary, because I’m quaint and old-school like that), and flipped past “take a powder” on my way to the Rs. Apparently, it means “to leave hurriedly,” which is not what I thought it meant at all. Yay for dictionaries and unexpected learning!

PS: Yes, I also looked up weird.

Mike stocks your liquor cabinet...

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 17:09:17 -0400

Mike stocks your liquor cabinet...:

With tha CRAZY KNOWLEDGE.

Highly recommend this series by Mike of Choosy Beggars (go there for some wicked good non-booze-related recipes as well from Tina) that explains everything you ever wanted to know about why some hooch sucks and why sometimes it’s worth it to spring for that dusty bottle by itself in the “premium” section of the liquor store. Start here for vodka, and check out parts 2, 3 and 4 — rum, gin and tequila.

Because it's all oily.

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 12:31:46 -0400

When you don’t have a cold, you forget how soul-crushingly awful the feeling is. And which feels worse on your tender, abused nose: regular Kleenex, which may as well still have the bark on it, or Puffs with lotion, which sounds better in theory but feels like you’re rubbing the Gulf of Mexico across your notstrils.

(Current-event-tragedy worked into self-indulgent moping, huzzah!)

I need to get some actual “work” accomplished so that I can go home and creep back under the covers, but instead I’m sitting here staring at the first page of a document I’m supposed to be revising and thinking about what a goofy word “joinder” is. Joinder. Joinder joinder joinder. See?

Where I've been.

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 11:13:00 -0400

Cue obligatory “Empire State of Mind” snippet here. Because, holy mother of pearl, is that song everywhere. It’s like the “Do You Believe” of 2010. That’s right, I just compared Jay-Z to Cher.