Just a little more good-natured making fun of Jenny Love

There's a handwritten letter inside the CD case for her album Bare Naked. Here it is, unedited:

FAN Thank you!

To anyone with a dream, this record is for you. It is living proof that your greatest dream can come true. Listen to it with hope. "Work like you don't need the money, Love like your heart's never been broken. and dance like no one's watching!" I hope this record follows you from your shower, to the car, to sweet dreams. With all my [heart] - JLH

P.S. Thanks for buying the record!

Me: Oh. My. God. Did you see the handwritten letter inside?

World's Greatest Copyeditor: The handwriting kills me.

Me: It's like my handwriting.

Me: In 8th grade.

Then I picked up The Notebook containing my Bad Poetry I Wrote as a Teenager, walked over to his desk and opened it to a page.

Me: There. 8th grade. Handwriting.

WGC: Oh my God. That looks exactly like it!

NOTE: I don't particularly hate Jenny Love. I just think there are a lot of very valid reasons to poke fun at her today. Plus there's like, nothing going on in my personal life. I'm just spinning my wheels, getting ready to turn 30.

No, J-Love. NO. NO. NO.

Jenny Love Hewitt, she of the unruly cleavage, has done something truly unforgivable. More unforgivable even than Time of Your Life, the ill-fated Party of Five spin off. What act could possibly be more heinous than a clichéd spin off of a show that was unwatchable by the time the last season rolled around?

This.

You'll need sound, and I do not accept resposibility for any injuries or personal trauma caused by what you're about to hear. Listen at your own peril.

Courtesy of my gay boyfriend.

UPDATE: The World's Greatest Copyeditor has informed me that this is not Jenny Love's first crime against music. And bonus! Because he's also a music reviewer, he even had physical evidence of the crime, which I've uploaded just to further torture you. Enjoy!

Happy spring!

Spring is officially here! No, it's not the calendar date that clued me in. No, it's not the sunshine that tipped me off. No, it's not the fact that I went to work with only my thin leather jacket on over my clothes that confirmed it. I know spring is here because I got harassed on the street for the first time today this year.

To the guy that followed me for a block at lunchtime, telling me how beautiful my legs were in hushed tones, thanks for letting me know winter is officially over! And um, if you see me again, don't do that. It was creepy.

Take THAT, False Tabloids!

It would appear that Britney woke up this morning, read the Page Six item about her fine, upstanding husband frolicking with an escourt in Vegas (How did the Post even get that story? I thought what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?) and immediately logged into Blogger (Oh wait, Blogger wasn't working this morning. Maybe because it's never working. Hey Blogger? I know I don't actually pay for this service, but could you make it better? Thanks in advance.) and posted a new letter on her site to the "false tabloids," which reads like a 12-year old who is being picked on by bullies and decides to fight back with really lame comebacks. An excerpt:

I'm really concerned about the people you hire to work at your companies. I'd like them to ask themselves the question, "What am I lying to myself about?" Is it that you are 50 pounds overweight? Is it that your children aren't making wise decisions? Or is it maybe that your husband or boyfriend is cheating on you?

You can read the rest of this unintentionally funny bit of genius here. Britney makes my day when she posts letters, she really does. She needs a new pic on that page, though. Homegirl's looking rough.

Yee haw!

Rock stars, determined ex-boyfriends and hot bouncers may come and go, but retail therapy will never let me down. Thanks Amy!

Hating the playa

When I had a car, I listened to a lot of Rush Limbaugh.

I'd be driving down the highway, engaged in a dialogue with Rush. An angry dialogue. I'd make fun of him. I'd call him names. I'd argue with him. I'd yell. Eventually, in a huff, I'd turn it off, but not until my blood was officially boiling.

Last week, the topic of hating blogs came up. Specifically, hating a blog that you cannot. stop. reading. I have one. I used to read it every day. Then I forced myself to cut down. Now it's pretty much back up to every day. When I read it, I become furious. I copy and paste particularly offensive sentences into IMs to my friends, expressing my rage and begging them to agree with me that this person must be silenced. That the world would be a better place for it. Yet I cannot tear myself away. It's not even a political blog. Or a pop culture blog. Or a news blog. Those blogs express opinions that I can either agree with or disagree with. That would be normal. But no -- it's a personal blog. Another person's personal life incites my rage. I'm not the only person that has one of these blogs, mind you. And I've asked around.

What is it about us that makes us willingly subject ourselves to things that inspire violent thoughts? And more importantly, do any of you hate me and yet still come back day after day after day, fueling your rage? Because that would be pretty cool.

CVS Mike

Sean Conrad has been helping me out with the Cosmo blog a bit. I write about baffling boy behavior and then realize I have no idea why boys do the baffling things they do, so I ask him to clarify. SC is an expert on baffling boy behavior. Anyway, I asked him to help me out with a particularly freakish boy that's new on the scene, and it reminded me of CVS Mike.

I met CVS Mike my freshman year of college. I had recently broken up with Father Mike after he cheated on me Thanksgiving weekend, and was working at the CVS at the Poughkeepsie Galleria through the holidays. One day, I noticed a cute boy I hadn't yet worked with at the register across the way. Near closing, I decided to sweep the floor and swept my way over to his register.

"Hi," I said. "Are you new or have I just never worked with you before?"

He looked at me as though I had just said or done something completely vile and spat out, "I'm new." I gave him an "okay buddy, whatever" look and swept back over to my side of the store.

Always the masochist, I tried two more times to chat him up and was equally unsuccessful. So I gave up. Then one night we found ourselves in the back hallway together.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I replied, glaring at him. Then I walked away.

"Hey!" he called after me. "Your hair looks nice today!"

I looked back over my shoulder, face wrinkled up, puzzled.

"Freak," I mumbled and punched myself out.

So of course we ended up dating. Then he went to London for a month and I got back together with Father Mike. Then I dumped Father Mike again. Then CVS Mike and I became good friends. He liked to take his penis out at inopportune times and ask me how it was, size-wise. I'd cover my face and yell, "Put it away!" Our friendship fell apart when he may or may not have had sex with my best friend Julie the night of my college graduation party. He got married in Vegas. We were supposed to get married in Vegas if we were both single when I turned 30, on the conditions that we wouldn't have to have sex or children. He used to leave notes at my apartment that said, "Recognize the handwriting?" because we were both freaks for the movie Heathers. We wrote a screenplay together, and entered it in to the Hudson Valley Film Festival. We did not win. We got in a huge fight once because he was flipping through one of my notebooks and saw, "CVS Mike told me he masturbated for like 700 days in a row" written in black marker. He thought the funniest thing in the world was me asking him if I had food in my teeth after we'd eat something and giving him a big scary grin. CVS Mike was one weird dude. I kinda miss him.

Doing PR for The Roommate

Hey kids, if you aren't doing anything Saturday night, you should head over the Slipper Room around midnight to celebrate a big chocolate bunny dying for your sins. And how to celebrate? Why, naked chicks of course! And The Roommate, the delightful Creamy Stevens, will be one of them! Here's the info:

For your reading enjoyment (hopefully)

There won't be any other Friday posts, because I'm busy, yo. Instead, you can read this article I wrote comparing dudes to wines, should you so desire.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume VI

Looking back, I honestly don't know where all this angst came from. Or why it had to manifest itself in such a disturbing fashion. This one is also untitled.

Helpless thoughts and hopeless dreams
Invade my mind tonight
Loneliness is all around
Everything is black and white
And I, alone, am grey

My hand aches to hold one stronger
So my trembling will cease
My ears wait to hear kind words
To give my heart some peace
And end the war within

I reach out with both hands for only
Pain from those I love
How I wish I could just fly away
As a soft white morning dove
And leave that pain behind

Previously:
Volume V

My review of The Ring Two

Last night, I saw The Ring Two with Linus, Sheila and Curly. I didn't go in with big expectations, as I'm usually suspicious of sequels and it's gotten some truly bad reviews, save for the one in Salon (Stephanie Zacharek? I generally like you but, uh, did you drop acid before you saw it? Because I think you dropped acid.) Here are some thoughts, which I am tacking on to Sheila's and Curly's and if y'all have a problem with spoilers, you might want to stop here.

This movie was crap. It wasn't even craptastic, it was just crap. I liked the first one. A lot. It had a plot that you could follow. It wrapped things up. It scared the shit out of me, which is really the most important part. I will overlook a lot of film flaws if it's scary enough. The Grudge? Terrible movie. Scary as hell. Good enough for me. The Ring Two had a couple of scary moments, but they were completely overshadowed by how utterly ridiculous the rest of the film was.

Sheila mentioned an early line from the film. "Have you ever seen a movie that's so scary that all you want to do is show it to someone else?" Okay, the actual film the corpses-to-be watch is not all that scary. It's like a Nine Inch Nails video, really. It was probably the least scary thing about the first film.

The scene with the deer. It was bad. Even worse when it was invoked later in an effort to bring everything full circle. Except it doesn't wrap up anything. Samara liked to hack off deer antlers? Her parents were deer killers? What? Don't show us a million deer antlers hanging in a basement and not tell us why. Obviously Samara or her kin did something that caused quite a stir in the deer community. Give us the freaking story, already! Or cut the scene!

Curly mentioned the ease with which Naomi Watts trespasses and otherwise breaks the law without ever getting caught. She climbs into the coroner's van to look at the body and no one stops her? Then the van starts moving, and in the next scene she is sitting in her car. How far did the van go? Did anyone see her? Did she have to take a cab back to her car? We will never know.

Halfway through the movie, the creepy son gets a bout of hypothermia. He ends up in the hospital and the staff suspects Naomi Watts of abuse. I thought it was an interesting direction to go in at first. Then Creepy Son gets possessed by Samara, kills the shrink and just walks out of the hospital and goes home. This is never resolved, people. We finish the movie with a dead body in front of Naomi Watts house, a dead shrink in the hospital, a kid who ran away and a mother suspected of abuse. These things don't just work themselves out on their own!

That said, I did hide behind my coat for most of the movie, yelped once and kept my eyes closed through the entire shrink murder scene because it was that horrifying. But not horrifying enough. My final thought is this: Naomi Watts' hair looks awfully pretty in the film, and I think mine could do that if I had the right product.

A day late

I didn't write about this yesterday because, well, I was feeling lazy and there was a lot of linking involved.

On Tuesday night, Curly, Katie, Sean Conrad and I got our nerd on and attended the WYSIWIG Talent Show at P.S. 122. The show runs once a month and consists of bloggers telling stories around a theme. This month's was "New York, The City That Never Shuts Up." Say what you will about blogs and the narcissists who write them – blogging has revived storytelling as entertainment and personally, I think that's pretty fucking cool. That said, you'll never catch me doing one of those shows because I'm shy and socially awkward. Ahem.

All of the performers were excellent, although Curly and I went primarily to see Joe. My. God.. JMG was awesome and hilarious. We were also meeting Katie in person for the first time, after reading her blog and emailing her for a long time. She's rad. We remarked about how it's strange to meet someone who's personal life you read about every day, and not know basic things like what they do for a living. Or as Katie so eloquently put it, "I was just thinking about how you guys read about how big my boyfriend's knob is every day." And Sean Conrad went, well, because Sean Conrad likes being the only guy hanging out with a bunch of girls. Can't say I blame him.

After the show, we headed over to the bar where Hot Bouncer works because it was two blocks away and I was under the mistaken impression that he doesn't work early in the week. Yeah, "mistaken" was the most important word in that sentence if you missed it. We chatted about all sorts of bizarre and random things, like guys sharing underwear, pantyhose sizes, the word "lover" and the phrase "make love," the people who use either or both and aren't kidding, and more.

If you haven't been to WYSIWYG, you should go to the next one. Maybe I'll be there. Say hi.

Some things you may not have known about me

Via Googlism.

Jessica is Satan.

Jessica is a horny blonde bitch screaming for cock.

Jessica is Britain's choice for Eurovision.

Jessica is never afraid to say "Hi" to whomever crosses her path as she makes her way through her first year of middle school.

Jessica is just as picky with her men as she is with grammar.

Jessica is like a rocket ship headed for the stratosphere.

Jessica is decidedly uncomfortable with the conversation.

Jessica is mesmerized by the virtual playground filled with stars from fantasy land movies and all the people at Big Burger.

Jessica is not a real zombie.

Jessica is reviewing the house personnel in an attempt to discover a traitor.

Jessica is right about stalkers.

Jessica is now 'Lady' Jessica.

Jessica is ready to take her clothes off for us.

Forever yours, thanks to the invention of text messaging

There comes a time in every girl's life when her last relationship has been over almost as long as it lasted and she gets yet another text message from the ex after two months of silence. At this particular time, the girl wonders if it will, in fact, ever end.

Or if she'll be 80, and the neighborhood kids will be over listening to her tell stories of taking ecstasy at Internet company parties and telling hot bouncers how adorable they are after eight or so gin and tonics and the kids will laugh and ask her why she never had her own children and she'll explain that it's because she hates babies. Suddenly, the old bird's cell phone will vibrate across the room and she'll ask little Timmy from down the block to retrieve it because her arthritis is acting up and she'd prefer to stay in her rocking chair. Little Timmy is happy to oblige.

New Text Message, the phone will say, and a much older Jess will put on her reading glasses to see what it says.

From: The Ex
Message: Are you ever going to talk to me again?

"What do you think?" Jess will ask the children. "Should I respond?"

"Nah," they'll say. "Tell us about that one night stand with the doctor instead."

Okay, maybe that's not a time in every girl's life. It might just be me.

I worry about that too, Zach

Just got an email from my good buddy Zach. Here's an excerpt:

What is it with you and these three day romances? I certainly want you to be happy, but I fear that if you were, the blog might suffer. I am caught in a bind.

Here's another excerpt, which is completely unrelated to my love life -- I just think it's funny.

I'm off to take a muscle relaxer and drool on myself.

Yet another boy break

My hiatuses from obsessing over boys are frequent and short-lived, but I'm on one again.

Rock Star has blown me off, which is fine because the absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder theory really didn't hold up as the days added up after he asked to reschedule our last dinner and then, well, didn't. The silver lining? Come on, there's always a silver lining. I was starting to think that The Breakup of 2003 had completely destroyed my ability to really dig someone. Turns out that's not the case, which was a very positive realization to have. Yes, I even make myself sick with the shiny optimism sometimes, in case you were wondering.

After the Hot Bouncer debacle, which in actuality was much worse than I let on here because Jean inquired as to his relationship status post-drunk declaration of lust ("Seeing someone" but it's "not serious," whatever that means), I left the bar with a nice boy I'd been talking to. While I didn't leave the bar with him that way, it certainly must have looked like it. So basically, Hot Bouncer probably thinks I'm an alcoholic whore now. Awesome.

Nice Boy wanted to walk me home, and after My Sharona collected his last name and cell phone number, we were on our way, despite the fact that I told him he would not be getting invited in and it was a long walk. We walked, we chatted and then I gave him my phone number, not because I thought we should date but because I wanted him to be my new best friend. When he called on Sunday and left me a voicemail, I realized that plan was probably not going to work and I have not yet called him back because I don't know what to say, thereby upsetting my future romantic karma. (Or possibly balancing it out, since Rock Star blew me off? Hard to say.)

It was all very overwhelming, and now I'm going to grab my eye makeup remover and my sweatpants and spend some quality time with my girls until after my 30th birthday, at least. Or, you know, until I change my mind.

A very important announcement

I've been tormented by something for days now. It's kept me up nights. It's haunted my dreams. Do I or don't I? Do I or don't I? I've weighed all the pros and cons, done extensive research and drawn diagrams. Finally, I have arrived at a decision.

I like Britney's new hair.

Ain't no perks to being Eminem's bitch, yo

When I woke up yesterday, I lay in bed for a bit and pondered the dream I'd just had.

My dream took place at the office, which was disturbingly also my home. I lived and worked in that home with my boyfriend Eminem. We made out a lot. We also had a cute little thing we'd do from time to time. He'd point out a body part, and I'd grab a pen and write the first thing that came to mind on said body part.

We were all snuggled up in our cubicle/bedroom and he said, "Yo, Jess" and lifted up his shirt a little and pointed at his stomach. I grabbed a felt tip pen and after planting a kiss on his bare skin (I bet you really loved that visual), I wrote the following Jane's Addiction lyrics:

We saw shadows of the morning light
the shadows of the evening sun
'til the shadows and the light were one

"What's that?" asked Eminem.

"Jane's Addiction."

"You got the CD?"

"Not here."

Eminem suggested we ask around to see if someone had the CD so he could hear the song. I sighed and followed him for awhile and then got whiny.

"Em, why don't you just download it and listen to it on my iPod?"

"Because your iPod is pink." I rolled my eyes. "And those IT guys have all the computers set up so you can't download music."

I've had a long held belief that, even though I adore Eminem's music, I don't think he'd be very much fun to hang out with. I can only assume this dream is my confirmation.

Why Jess doesn't drink liquor much anymore

Because when I do, I say things like this to Hot Bouncer:

I'm only telling you this because I'm drunk, and next time I see you I'm going to pretend I didn't, but I think you're totally adorable.

Then I giggled and walked away while he sat there, mouth agape.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume V

This is the first of my rose poems. I have pages and pages of rose poems. Crap about getting cut by thorns, petals wilting, etc. etc. You know, like, really original stuff. Anyway, I didn't put initials next to this one so I can't be certain who inspired it, but most of my "love is pain" poems were about my first boyfriend Satan, so I'm assuming this one is as well. It's untitled.

A fool will nurse a dying rose
Believing the beauty will stay
Religiously, the vase is filled
As the petals fade away

Such fools will salvage a dying love
As if they do not know
That when hearts do slowly wither
Then the love will cease to grow

Volume I
Volume II
Volume III
Volume IV

Tangents

For some bizarre reason, I watched Spanking the Monkey on television last night. Again.

I actually own this movie. I keep it right next to Flowers in the Attic and The House of Yes because I love me some hot incest. Kidding. I don't really own Flowers in the Attic or The House of Yes, but I do own Spanking the Monkey. Besides, they took all of the hot incest out of Flowers in the Attic anyway when they adapted it for the screen. V.C. Andrews was one dirty lady, yo. I didn't buy Spanking the Monkey, though. Back in the days when I worked in the merchandising department of a very large, very evil entertainment distributor I got a lot of free music and movies. It's also why I'm the proud owner of Snowed in: The Hanson Christmas Album today. I actually have a mention of that album in my Nerve profile and the boys that write to me always comment on it. I even got some free weird foreign gay porn one day. We had a margarita and gay porn party at Julie's and my apartment. I'm pretty sure Rich lived there too, then, but I don't remember if he was around that night. My friend's fiancé really dug the gay porn. More than the margaritas anyway, which Julie made too strong. He wanted to watch it every time he came over afterward. There was an odd scene involving forks, which were maybe supposed to symbolize something but we never figured out what. It was arty weird foreign gay porn.

So yeah. I watched Spanking the Monkey last night, and I still feel dirty today. And not in a good way, either.

Wherein I abuse my blog to further my exploration into credit card debt

Here's the thing about retail therapy. If you can't find what you want, the benefits are not as therapeutic. And what I want is a pair of solid-colored turquoise cowboy boots. If anyone has seen them anywhere, and would like to let me know where, I'd be much obliged.

Britney gets like, totally political and stuff

It's good to see Britney-Ms.-Spears-if-you're-nasty-and-she-is fighting the good fight for social change. I particularly like the quote at the end.

High school poll

I shamelessly stole this from the spinster because 1) I have nothing else today and 2) thinking about my high school self cracks me up.

What year was it?
1989-1993

What were your three favorite bands (performers)?
Pantera
Jane's Addiction
Mucky Pup

What was your favorite outfit?
The Jane's Addiction T-shirt that Mrs. F bought me for my birthday with my long black see-through skirt (leggings underneath) and my combat boots

What was up with your hair?
For the first half of high school, it was big and blond. For the second half, it was long and wavy and purple and not at all big.

Who were your best friends?
Julie and Mrs. F

What did you do after school?
Either went to the mall or to work, which was at the mall

Where did you work?
Arby's

Did you take the bus?
I did until I turned 16 and Mom bought me a 1986 Pontiac 6000LE named Merv. Then I spent the rest of high school carting everyone else's asses around.

Who did you have a crush on?
Tony Siler. Jock, guido, popular guy. He had no idea I existed.

Did you fight with your parents?
Yes. Mostly about boys and grades.

Who did you have a CELEBRITY crush on?
Nikki Sixx. I had a whole wall devoted to him in my BEDROOM.

Did you smoke cigarettes?
Nope. I didn't start smoking cigarettes until I lived with a Texan named Robin freshman year in college. She smoked like a chimney, had the biggest breasts I'd ever seen and said "fixin'" a lot.

Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker?
No

Did you have a clique?
I suppose I was part of the burnout clique, but I was definitely on the fringe.

Did you have "The Max" like Zach, Kelly, and Slater?
Rollerama, baby. We'd go there on Friday and Saturday nights, rollerskate for a couple of hours and then hang out in the parking lot and the car wash next door drinking beer with the boys.

Admit it, were you popular?
If by popular you mean often the subject of ridiculous and cruel rumors, then sure!

Who did you want to be just like?
My cousin Lisa

What did you want to be when you grew up?
A poet

Where did you think you'd be at the age you are now?
Married with kids, living in New York City, famous. Hey, one out of three ain't bad.

UPDATE: Jake and Tanya went to high school, too.

After party

Me: So are we cool?

K: I knew that was why you were calling.

Me: Am I that predictable?

K: Yes.

Me: So are we cool?

K: Of course. Why wouldn't we be?

Me: Well, after all the drunken Saturday night drama...

K: Yes, Jess. I hate you because you wouldn't let me come home with you.

Me: You are such a punk.

K: If you want to make it up to me, you can invite me home next time I'm town.

Me: You're a riot.

K: Why do we always find ourselves in dramatic situations?

Me: I'd hardly call twice in eight years "always."

K: Good point.

I am Nyquil's bitch

Anyone who knows me in real life or has read me for some time now knows that sleeping is not exactly my forté. When I'm not having horror-flick quality nightmares or sleep-showering in my slippers, I'm a good old-fashioned insomniac. Red wine helps, but it also gives me migraines and I'm quite sure alcoholism isn't the best solution for my nocturnal difficulties.

I've been plagued with flus and colds and upper respiratory infections this year. I blame my office environment – it's germy here. The one bright light at the end of my mucousy tunnel has been that little red bottle, promising me nightly relief from my coughing, aching, stuffy head and fever – thereby allowing me to rest. That rest has been glorious, but it's also given me a big bad Nyquil habit.

I suppose there are worse things one could be addicted to. Heroin, Crack, Peaches & Herb. Last night, I was determined to get myself to sleep by 11:30. The Roommate cracked open a bottle of red, and after I did my nightly chores I had one glass. I then did some relaxing yoga poses to try to wind down. I got in bed around 11 and waited. Two cigarettes, some web surfing and one romp with ye old magic wand later, I still couldn't sleep. At 12:45, I succumbed to the siren song of my Nyquil and fell asleep almost instantly.

On some level, I know that I can't pound shots of Nyquil every night before I go to bed. I know I need to quit. And I will, just as soon as this bottle runs out. Or maybe the next bottle...

Happy Pi Day

Those of you who are not my best friend Julie, and therefore not lunatics and hardcore math geeks, may not know that today is Pi Day. For weeks Julie has been talking excitedly about Pi Day. When she first mentioned it and I inquired as to when it was, she sighed and said, "Duh! 3/14 at 1:59pm!"

In addition to whatever torture she will be inflicting on her students in math class today, she has sent out Pi Day ecards to everyone she knows. Here's mine. I am a firm believer that anyone who uses comic sans font is insane, which is why I don't mind when Julie does so.

Our lengthy Pi discussions as of late have included Julie's recitation of the numbers she's memorized so far, her Pi Day party plans and the following exchange:

Julie: You know what's awesome?

Me: No, what?

Julie: Albert Einstein. Was born. On Pi Day. Can you believe it?

Me: Wow Jule. Does that just like totally blow your mind? Can you even handle it?

Julie: No. I really can't.

Saturday night

Hanging at Bull McCabe's last night with the class of '97 Sig Eps was much like hanging out at Rennies or Night Cap or Noah's with the class of '97 Sig Eps. There was drama. There was hooking up. There was attempts at hooking up. There was trash talking. There was drinking. And there was Dan Bianchi. It's always a party when Dan Bianchi shows up.

When I emerged from the bedroom this morning, the first thing The Roommate said was:

When I saw the pizza box on the floor and the potato chips thrown around, I had a pretty good idea of what shape you were in when you came home.

She can often guess how drunk I was the night before by the number of popcorn kernals on the floor, on top of the stove or in my chair. I also had to make a phone call to Rock Star this morning, explaining that I just didn't realize it was four in the morning when I decided to call him back. He explained that despite my drunk accusation, his one in the morning phone call to me was not a booty call. Well, not entirely.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume IV

I took a break from writing atrocious sonnets for a time to work on my acrostic poetry. If you've never studied poetry, an acrostic poem is one in which the first letters of every line form a word. I give you…Winter. Apparently, I felt some sort of tragic kinship with snowflakes. I was probably grounded at the time, or something.

Winds are coming cold
In the air, and in my heart
No one came to drive the cold away
Today I watched the snow fall
Each snowflake, isolated and alone
Reaching the ground without a chance to fly

Volume I
Volume II
Volume III

At least there will be more room for my shoes now

My good friend Jake frequently accuses me of being a closet hopeless romantic. He claims that my tough-girl façade is, well, a façade. I've long suspected he may be right, but have thus far rejected the idea of admitting it to anyone.

I've got a bit of an upper respiratory infection, so last night I decided to order in sushi, my favorite sick food, and watch a movie whilst swilling Nyquil. The movie I decided on? Win a Date with Tad Hamilton. If you don't know the premise, I'll explain.

Rosalee (Kate Bosworth) and Pete (Topher Grace) have been friends all their lives. For most of that time, he's been in love with her, but afraid to tell her. Rosalee wins a date with Holly wood star Tad Hamilton (Josh Duhamel, and um, YUM) and is, naturally, very excited. Tad Hamilton decides she's a good influence on him and decides to move to her small town to get his priorities straight. Pete is not happy about this development.

So I'm watching. Sure, it's enjoyable but it's not blowing my mind. Then there's the scene. The one where they're at the bar, and Tad Hamilton needs to go to the bathroom (and yes, when he went into the stall I said to myself, "Number 2 in a bar? Really?"). Anyway, Pete busts in on him and starts grilling him on Rosalee's little quirks, none of which Tad has noticed.

He starts a speech that begins with, "Do you know Rosalee has six different smiles?" and then goes on to explain each one. And folks, I melted. Into a big, sappy, messy, gooey puddle. Sure, it was over-the-top, but it was cutie-patutie Topher Grace and dammit, I want someone to notice how many smiles I have. No, I'm not going to buy the movie on DVD, but I'll probably watch it on TNT some weekend afternoon.

After all of these years, I'm finally out of the closet. I am, and probably always will be, a hopeless romantic.

Free naked pics of Kelly Rippa! Free naked pics of Rachel Ray! I give up.

The rather unfortunate consequence of writing about a celebrity you despise in your blog is, from that day forward, anyone looking for (naked pictures of) information about said celebrity will inevitably wind up at your blog, thus fueling your rage every time you look at your site statistics. It's like a black fly in your Chardonnay, really.

Gee thanks Page Six, I just threw up all over my desk

Action hero Bruce Willis got some action of a different kind after the screening of his new blood-and-guts flick, "Hostage." At an after-after-party at the Peninsula Hotel early yesterday, Willis, who turns 50 this month, and teen queen Lindsay Lohan, 18, enjoyed a mutual gropefest. "At one point, Bruce had Lindsay's pants down far enough to reveal a tattoo that said 'La Bella Vista' (The Beautiful View) on her right cheek," says our spywitness. Eventually, Willis and a few friends, including Lohan, took the party upstairs to his suite.

This one's for you, babe

Hodoz requested a list of inanimate objects I'd like to make sweet love to, in the comments of this post. So here goes, broken down by category:

Automotive:
Mini-cooper, dark blue with racing stripes

Cleaning supplies:
OneSweep broom
Swiffer Wet-Jet

Electronics:
Pink mini-iPod
Motorola camera phone
Glue gun
Power drill

Health and Beauty:
Lush's Silky Underwear body powder
Brown Sugar Body Polish

Misc:
The high-tech wine bottle opener The Boyfriend of the Roommate bought us

If y'all have any other requests, I'll take them.

Everything fun has to happen on the same night

I dedicate this post to Linus.

I just received the following email from Summer, sent to myself, My Sharona and Jean:

The Boyfriend is going away this weekend. Which means...

Girls only drunken slumber party at my house on Saturday night. There will be ice cream, booze, and Madonna. Go ahead and tell the boys there will be pillow fights in panties.

Who's down?

I am so down, but my good college buddy Kyle's in town from Denver this weekend, and instead of a drunken slumber party with the girls, it will be a drunken night out with the Class of '97 Sigma Phi Epsilons. Oh well.

Note to self: weather on the 1's comes every ten minutes

These boots were not made for walking...



...in the snow, and with my propensity for falling down, I think my chances of a safe trek home are slim.

An open letter to Rachel Ray

Dear Rachel Ray,

I know you come from humble beginnings, because I was there when you got your first TV job at WRGB News Channel 6 in Schenectady, NY. I sat around your table on camera and ate your 30-minute meals that were never as amazing as your over exuberant facial expressions would imply. Never in a million years did I think you'd be wasting valuable Food Network airtime someday.

I remember when we, the Channel 6 crew, got wind of the debut of 30 Minute Meals. I remember someone saying, "Who did she sleep with to get that gig?" Not that, you know, I would ever imply you've gotten any television gig by sleeping with anyone, because I'm not in the business of slander. In any case, it was but one show out of many, and I was content to let you slice it up any way you desired.

When $40 a day debuted, I started to get concerned. Frankly, Rachael, it was starting to be too much. Suddenly, I couldn't watch a single Food Network program without seeing your mug promoting this or that during the commercial breaks. Then somewhere, somehow, men across America suddenly came to the distressing conclusion that you were hot. You could have simply said "Thank you, men of America" and continued cooking up bland meals and gushing about how wonderful they were. But no, you had to take it a step further and pose for dirty pictures in FHM. I am forever traumatized by these images, Rachel Ray.

Now you are hosting yet another Food Network show, Inside Dish, where you go to celebrities houses and, I presume, gush over the food they cook. Gushing is a big thing with you, Rachael Ray. So is EVOO, which for the uninitiated, stands for extra virgin olive oil. If you would just call it extra virgin olive oil, I swear I would not want to inflict bodily harm upon you. But I do. Ditto on your garbage bowl.

Now my gay boyfriend is reporting that you recently appeared at the fourth annual South Beach Wine and Food Tasting Festival, where you "cooked a SoBe inspired meal in a bikini." And that, Rachael Ray, has brought us to the end of my rope.

Stop, Rachael Ray. Just stop. You have already procured at least four times more fame than you are deserving of. You are pushing the limits of my sanity. You are no Giada De Laurentiis. Your cooking is mediocre and your personality is grating. Why I can't seem to stop watching you boggles my mind. Kindly reverse whatever witchery you've visited upon the American people. Thank you in advance.

Love,
Jess

Lunch haiku

Depressing salad
Wilted leaves, rancid dressing
I want McDonald's

Noteworthy

The Roommate and I did our spring cleaning Saturday. The kind of cleaning where you get down on your knees and scrub the floors. The kind of cleaning where you need a manicure afterward. We are now the proud owners of a One Sweep broom. I want to make sweet love to it.

This was our cleaning soundtrack.

Ace of Base, Happy Nation
Pantera, Vulgar Display of Power
Madonna, The Immaculate Collection
Alice in Chains, Sap
Hole, Live Through This

I laugh at myself whenever I sing along to Pantera, especially when Phil belts out "No! More! Head! Trips! AAAAAHHHHH!" in This Love. Julie dated a drug dealer in high school. That was their song. Romantic.

I stayed in Saturday night after cleaning and watched Open Water. Horrifying.

I got this text from Linus Sunday. "Paris Hilton in a monster movie. Does it get better than that?" I suppose that means House of Wax is on the horror flick agenda.

I woke up unusually perky for a Monday, and danced around my bedroom to Britney's Lucky in my Muppets underpants.

After 21 episodes, I finally understand what's going on when I watch Carnivale. Did they dumb it down this season, or did I get smarter?

I fed the crew pork chops with sage and prosciutto in a white wine sauce and an asparagus and gruyere tart last night. The Roommate made cupcakes. I drank too much wine and fell asleep on the floor. When I woke up, Azee was gone. The Roommate and Li'l Suzy are coming to Paris with Azee and I in the fall, at least I hope they are. We were drunk when we decided.

Rock Star - the final chapter

I've given Rock Star access to my little corner of cyberspace here, which means I can't write about him anymore. Unless he does something really funny. Which he might, he's a funny dude. How was the date? Good enough that I'm letting him read all my little secrets, dirty or otherwise. We had dinner at Tenement last night. You should go. Try the duck.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume III

I had it bad for Edna St. Vincent Millay when I was a teenager. From the first time I read "I, being born a woman and distressed," I was smitten. Of course, I wasn't satisfied to simply read Edna St. Vincent Millay, oh no. I had to emulate her. And how did I do that, you ask? By writing painfully bad sonnets, stretching the limit of iambic pentameter as far as it could go.

A smile is painted over lonely tears
Alone at night, those tears are often cried
And these are tears that wash all dreams aside
But without dreams, what's left is only fear
In time the wounds and pain will disappear
But to the scars the heart is always tied
And all the pain is hidden deep inside
Those lonely nights turns into lonely years
Now sorrow's tears fall from those lonely eyes
Just like the drops that fall in summer rain
Behind the foolish pride the pain is real
Inside the heart the mem'ries never die
And even through the happiness that's feigned
You cannot hide forever what you feel

Volume I
Volume II

Wardrobe consultation

I asked The Roommate and Jake for help with a Rock Star Date #2 outfit. Here are some excerpts:

The Roommate: I think you should go with hot pants and a crash helmet. Maybe some clogs.

Me: No, he'd never let me go home without a snog if I showed up in that.

The Roommate: Didn't you have some fringed shawl thing you wore once tied on your hip? That was hot.

Me: The sheer black one? You really thought that was hot?

The Roommate: I did. And big earrings, because you look good in them.

Me: Shawl thing only works with jeans, and I wore jeans on the first date.

The Roommate: Oh, scratch that. Have any miniskirts? Dudes love miniskirts. With tights and the suede boots.

Me: You don't think the mini with the suede boots would be too much? Like "fuck me now" too much? The boots have a serious heel.

The Roommate: They do? Oh, no then. Too bad you don't have the red boots in brown or black.

Me: I definitely don't want to look slutty.

The Roommate: No. But you DO want to look sassy.

Jake: It's dinner in the LES -- cords, boots, and tits are the order of the day.

To ink, or not to ink

In honor of my upcoming 30th birthday, I've decided to get a tattoo.

Because he's staunchly anti-tattoo, and I like to annoy him, I told Sean Conrad first. After unsuccessfully trying to talk me out of it, he suggested I run a poll. So here goes.

Should Jess get a tattoo?
	Sure, why not?
	Ew, no.
	As long as it's not cheesy.
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Rock Star, continued

The thing about first impressions is that sometimes they get away from you.

Rock Star and I met for the first time at a little neighborhood bar for drinks. I arrived early, like I always do when I'm on a first date, so I could grab a drink, fluff the hair and throw up if I had to. I get nervous, you see.

As I was coming out of the bathroom, an obviously drunk older man stepped into my path and slurred, "How old are you?"

I thought to myself, don't encourage him but I can never resist the opportunity to respond to that question with, "How old do you think I am?" He thought I was 22. I laughed and sat down at my table. He followed and stood next to me, talking about summer camp. A lot.

I started to panic a bit, as Rock Star was sure to arrive any moment and Drunk Guy didn't seem like he was leaving any time soon. I scanned the crowd and saw Rock Star reading the drink menu on the wall. I made eye contact and waved. He looked from me to Drunk Guy and then back to me, a slightly confused look on his face. He came over and sat down. I was relieved; sure that Drunk Guy would leave me to my date.

Nope. There were more summer camp memories that needed to be shared. I gave Rock Star a silent apology. He laughed.

"We met at summer camp," Rock Star said. "She was a camper and I was a counselor. Very scandalous."

I giggled. Drunk Guy asked Rock Star where we went to camp. Rock Star looked to me for help.

"The Catskills," I said. I then rattled off the name of a town and then Drunk Guy announced he was leaving, but asked that if I see him around the neighborhood to please say hello. He shook my hand, held it longer than necessary, and then finally made his way out of the bar.

On the one hand, you definitely don't want your date to arrive while a drunk guy is hitting on you. On the other hand, it certainly gave us a lot of material for conversation and laughter. Second date Friday – dinner.

A what?

As I was leaving this morning, The Roommate's bedroom door opened and she walked out, bleary eyed and holding a towel.

"Thank God I woke up," she said. "I was a foreign exchange student in Germany and I didn't know any German. I was staying with a host family, and their dog was a 40 year-old man."

Then she walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Why I will never become a parent

Because I will be this kid of parent. Replace "FATHER" with "jess."

Macaulay Culkin's mucking up my murder mystery

It's not that I don't like to read a book after I see the movie. I'm just physically incapable of it.

And I've tried. I tried to read Jesus' Son. Couldn't do it. Wonder Boys? Nope. Fight Club is the only book Chuck Palahniuk has written that I have not read. Before I let myself watch House of Sand and Fog, I made myself read the book.

When I read, I like to imagine the characters in my own head. I don't like to see Jennifer Connolly while I'm reading about a character that, by description, looks nothing like her. It's too jarring.

A couple of years ago, my block was shut down because they were filming a movie. I looked on the post in front of my building and saw that the film was called Party Monster. I went upstairs and looked it up on IMDB. Macaulay Culkin? Marilyn Manson? Seth Green? Seth Green! I told The Roommate and we hatched a plan to kidnap him and chain him up in the apartment. We like the Seth Green. Alas, we never saw any of the cast members, but I eagerly awaited the film's release.

It wasn't too long ago that they showed Party Monster on the Sundance Channel, and I caught it one night. Jesus was that a bad flick. There's something about the way that Macaulay Culkin delivers lines that just makes me…uncomfortable. I felt the same way when I saw him in Saved. Like, you get the feeling that the kid's just not right. Like, he's a sociopath or something. Which actually made him an almost-believable club kid/killer Michael Alig in Party Monster.

Party Monster was based on James St. James' book Disco Bloodbath: A Fabulous But True Tale of Murder in Clubland. I'm ever so fascinated by James St. James, so on a recent Amazon spree, I bought the book. I started trying to read it today, and it's killing me. I know I could enjoy this book if only I could get Macaulay Culkin out of my head. If only I could picture the real JSJ, and not Seth Green. If Dylan McDermott wasn't hovering over me, delivering lines in a monotone, wearing a stupid eye patch. And don't even get me started on Chloë "It was an art film, I'm not a porn star" Sevigny.