An open letter to Ryan Seacrest

Dear Ryan Seacrest:

I realize my blog is in danger of becoming The American Idol Blog, and to tell you the truth, I'm okay with that. I may lose some or all of my readers, but that's okay. Know why? Because I'll still have a place to rant and rave about American Idol and at this particular time in my life, that's all I need. Of course, if I were actually getting laid, my priorities might be different, BUT WE'RE NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT THAT SO STOP HOUNDING ME, RYAN SEACREST. We need to discuss your heterosexuality, or completely obvious lack thereof.

I noticed something utterly fascinating this week, Ryan Seacrest. As I watched the night where it was the boys' turn to sing (Chris! Call me!), I noticed you, quite literally, had your hands all over the boys. Especially the young ones. A hand on the small of the back. A lingering handshake. A reach-around to the opposite shoulder, where you'd lightly rest your hand there for much longer than was necessary. And you did it with every single one. Even the Barry Manilow lover. Even the little Grandpa in the 16-year-old body. No one was safe from your gentle yet incessant touch.

As I watched this, I thought to myself, "Did he do this with the girls, too?" I couldn't remember, so I went back and watched. Would you like to know the extent of your girl touching? There was one awkward arm grab for Stevie Scott and one for Katherine McPhee. That is all. You totally groped 12 male contestants and awkwardly touched two, count 'em two, female arms. Many of the female contestants even attempted to molest you to varying degrees, but you would not be sullied by the touch of a woman.

The thing is, Ryan Seacrest, no one's buying it. And furthermore, no one cares. I mean, clearly I care enough to write you this letter, but that's mostly because I don't get to use the phrase "sullied by the touch of a woman" as often as I'd like. Just quit it with the constant gay jokes at Simon's expense, okay. It makes you look like an assmunch, especially when you can't stop fondling teenaged boys.

Love,
Jess

A conversation with a now-friend who I once had a very brief, very stupid thing with

Me: He's equal parts amused, intrigued and frightened by me.

Him: I think all men are.

Me: All men are NOT afraid of me.

Him: I was.

Me: Yeah, but you're a pussy.

Him: Remind me to beat you the next time I see you.

Me: Oh come on. That was funny.

Him: Yes. And it will be funny as I beat you.

Today in Chuck Palahniuk

It's not every day I get to say that. Anyway...

1) They paged Tyler Durden at the Portland airport, where I'm currently stranded until NYC is less windy.

2) The people sitting behind me are currently having a discussion about Fight Club.

3) The Roommate sent me this bit of genius.

4) I checked out The Angry Comic's Myspace profile today, and he'd swapped out his pic for one of Edward Norton in Fight Club.

Freaking weird, right? Let's hope it's not a preview to a Survivor-like flight home.

On being mortified, but probably not as mortified as most people would be in my situation

I'm not easily embarrassed. If I were, I wouldn't blog about my sex toy collection, my foot-in-mouth syndrome or my propensity to fall down for no apparent reason.

I did, however, turn a few shades redder when I emerged from my hotel room this morning to get coffee with Portland D in tow, only to run into my Other Work Half, who has been my coworker for exactly one and a half weeks.

Because nothing says, "I'm like totally professional and stuff" quite like taking a guy home on a business trip with a coworker next door. That said, Portland D's pretty adorable in the AM.

American Idol: This week's thoughts

First, some Jess/Curly texts, even though we watched the show three hours apart (time difference and all that):

Me: I adore Paris Bennett.

Curly: All the white girls sing boring songs. But I like The Pickle.

Me: I cry every time The Pickle is on camera.

Curly: I want to be her friend… even though her dad is a con.

That said, I'm doing this every week until either 1) The show is over or 2) The Apprentice starts and I lose interest. Incidentally, I won't be doing this after the boys perform tomorrow night (Ace! Chris! Call me! I have a big bed in the hotel room and three pillows!), because I have plans with one Portland D, who, despite the fact that I met him in a drunk mania at a party in Hoboken once, still wants to trek across town to hang out with me. Did I mention he's also a cutie? Anyway…

Ayla Brown: She's one of those over-achiever girls you secretly hated in high school, but also wanted to be her friend because you hoped some of her brains, talent and ambition would rub off on you before you accidentally threw her in front of a bus. I don't think she'll get the votes.

Becky O'Donohue: Ridiculously hot, which will probably carry her through for another round or two. However, sang Black Velvet at her audition, which kind of makes me want to set her on fire.

Brenna Gethers: If I were in the audience, I'd throw tomatoes at her. All ego, no talent, and only still in the competition because Simon has a hard-on for her.

Heather Cox: I can't even remember her performance – it was completely forgettable. Also, she's one of those girls who should be pretty, but for some bizarre reason isn't.

Katherine McPhee: Talented, adorable, likeable, I totally want to go shoe shopping with her. However, when Simon said she was the best vocalist all night? Um, no. Not even close.

Kellie Pickler: See text messages above.

Kinnik Sky: Eh. Gorgeous, but I wasn't blown away by her voice.

Lisa Tucker: More talented than KMcP, more adorable than KMcP, more likeable than KMcP, but I don't want to buy shoes with her as much. Seriously, though, the girl's talent is unbelievable, and she's only 16. At 16, I was writing bad poetry and listening to speed metal.

Mandisa: I didn't think she rocked the Heart song as much as everyone did. But she's sassy and I like her voice. I do think think the judges are being extra-nice to her because Simon made a fat joke and she called him on it. And they probably should be. But she needs a better song selection next time.

Melissa McGhee: Who? Oh, right. The not-cute chick with the pretty shirt. Wait, she sang?

Paris Bennett: See text messages above.

Stevie Scott: Oh Stevie. Stevie, Stevie, Stevie. When the judges are deciding your fate, it's okay to go all weird and falsetto and opera. When it's time for the 13-year-olds to start calling in, sing something they can relate to. That said, I think you're adorable.

There you have it, folks. Maybe I'll post more this week. Maybe I won't post until my American Idol recap next week. Who knows?

Today in Portland

My other work half and I were driven over to the office which houses our HR people. The older woman who was in charge of explaining our benefits began going over the company drug policy. As she explained it, we are allowed to do all the drugs, illegal or otherwise, that we so desire, provided we are not under the influence on company premises.

When the HR orientation was over, we called the office to get picked up. My boss arrived in her jeep shortly thereafter. When we opened the doors to the jeep, "Everybody Must Get Stoned" was blasting from the speakers.

I love this company, and I love Portland.

Greetings from Portland

I'm writing to you from the inn @ northrup station, where I'll be stationed for the next five days or so. It's my first business trip, ever, and so far, I'm loving it. I haven't actually seen Portland yet -- we got in around midnight last night and I unpacked and went to bed. My room, however, is nicer than my apartment. Huge bed, funky design, full kitchen, lounge area and TWO, count 'em TWO TVs. I think I'd like to stay here, oh, forever.

If I remember to buy batteries for my digital camera (which is about a 50/50 chance), I'll take lots of pictures and upload them to Flickr. If not, I'll just describe a lot of stuff. So far, I've got a brunch, dinner, trip to Powell's and plans to hang out with a cute boy I neglected to tell y'all about. Oh yeah, and I'll be working, too. Somewhere in there.

Genius

Me: I had a brilliant idea this morning.

Jake: Hit me.

Me: Well, next week's Portland rendezvous got me thinking…

Jake: Of?

Me: Well, maybe I should just get an assortment of guys scattered around in fun cities. That way I can get some action when I want it, but I don't have to deal with a relationship or have anyone bugging me in NYC.

Jake: My darling, you've just struck the bootycall motherlode.

Me: I really have.

Jake: "A port for every storm" is what I've often called this philosophy.

Jake: I've used it to great effect for much of my life.

Me: If I get lonely, I just hop on a plane. That way I get a fun vacation AND sex.

Jake: You have seen the light, my darling.

Me: I have.

Jake: You're like Led Zeppelin, with a groupie in every town you visit on tour.

Jake: Now we need to find you some Ithaca ass for your visits here.

Me: Yes we do.

Jake: We'll have a casting call next time you're here.

Me: "Jessica's Ithaca Ass, Take One"

Jake: I like it.

Some thoughts on American Idol

- I've never actually heard the Josh Groban song, "You Raise Me Up." However, it's stuck in my head 24/7 because of American Idol. The Roommate and I sang it a billion times, loudly, last night, and I'm pretty sure the neighbors hate us. The Roommate, incidentally, has an uncanny ability to impersonate bad singers. You should hear her do Bai Ling.

- I want to be in an Ace Young/Chris Daughtry sandwich.

- I wish Taylor Hicks would dye and cut his hair and buy a new wardrobe so he doesn't look like my grandpa, because I love love love his voice.

- I am so glad those bitchy twins are gone. Can you imagine what it must have been like for their parents?

- I have a totally creepy Mrs. Robinson thing for Will Makar.

- Both Paula's sanity and wardrobe seem to be much improved, but Simon needs to do something with the hair. It looks like a hedgehog.

That's all for now. I'm sure I'll have more next week.

Almost. Worst. Sex. Ever.

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all! As I mentioned earlier, I decided to forego anything romantic in lieu of WYSIWYG's Worst. Sex. Ever. Anti-Valentine's Day show. And it did not disappoint. In fact, it was quite hilarious. And then I remembered that I, in fact, do have a worst sex ever story, although it never quite got to the sex part. I actually want to rewrite it, but I've spent at least 14 hours editing crap over the past few days, and I'm tired as all hell. So in its messy entirely, I present to you, The story of Gummy. And as an addendum, I found out later than Gummy likes to be peed on. Just thought I'd mention that.

Ask the straight girl

Curly and I recap our night at Cubbyhole on the phone:

Curly: I can't believe you gave a bunch of lesbians directions to Rubyfruit.

Me: I can't believe I'm the only one who knew where it was.

Curly: You're the gayest straight girl ever.

Me: I know. What have you done to me?

Curly: Oh please. You were the gayest straight girl ever when I met you.

Your questions, answered

Q: What happened to Tango? Why haven't you mentioned Tango? What's up with you and that guy? What's his name again? Tango?

A: All right, all right. The thing is, I was a little more relationship-focused than he was, and we mutually agreed that it wouldn't be a good idea to keep dating when we weren't on the same page. We also agreed to give the friends thing a try, and I hope we do. That is all. No mess. No drama. No funny anecdote.

No guys named Joe, either

The Roommate: How was the comedy show?

Me: Funny! Rob was great. I was totally crushing on the cute little emcee, but then he started making a few too many jokes about being emotionally unavailable.

The Roommate: That's what's called a red flag.

Me: In my experience, being a comic is a red flag. I swore them off a long time ago. Along with musicians. And Italians. I better find someone soon before I eliminate any more categories.

The Roommate: No left-handed Armenians. Or shortsighted sous chefs.

Me: Dude, my tattoo is a man magnet. I had guys approaching me all night.

The Roommate: Wow, anyone good?

Me: Well, this one really tall guy with long hair and a thick accent came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder and said, "You have a beautiful tattoo."

The Roommate: Was he cute?

Me: HOT. But Italian, though. He might as well have been an emotionally unavailable comic.

Flamingo love

It's surprisingly hard to take a picture of the back of your own neck. Luckily, I'm a yoga girl, which means I'm bendy.

I spent the afternoon over at Inkstop Tattoo on Avenue A, where Jose, who is a motherfucking genius, inked me up.

Flamingo tattoo

Flamingo tattoo, close-up

Special thanks to mejack and Musician Friend for the recommendation.

Girl, you'll be a woman soon

Up until my late 20s, I had the body of a 12-year-old boy.

I was skinny and flat-chested and there was no junk in this trunk. All through college, my curvy, buxom roommates made fun of my stick figure. (Although I was the only one laughing when babydoll dresses were all the rage.) I bought Wonder Bras and shirts that would give the illusion of a chest, but to no avail. My breasts barely filled out an A-cup and my ass barely filled out my size 4 jeans.

Sometime during my 26th year, however, that all changed. It felt like it happened overnight. Suddenly, I had an ass. And hips. And thighs that were actually bigger than my ankles. Suddenly, I was popping out of all my training bras. I hit Vicky's and came home with some 34Bs, which I've been wearing ever since.

Well, ever since that study came out last month about 80% of women wearing the wrong sized bra, I've been meaning to give myself a measure and see if I'm actually a 34B. Then I kept forgetting. Until today.

Here's how the math works, if you don't know. You measure right underneath your breasts. Then you measure around the largest part of your breasts. Then you subtract the first number from the second number. For every inch, you give yourself a cup size.

According to my calculations, I'm actually a 32C. Not bad for someone who used to be taunted for having no boobs.

Dream a little dream of Ed Asner

Me: So I had a dream last night that I bought goldfish, only they were little people, and one of them was Ed Asner.

The Roommate: Ha! Oh my God, I love it.

Me: What the fuck does it mean?

The Roommate: I don't know. Maybe you want to own an older, pudgy bald man.

Me: Who won't live very long.

The Roommate: Wow. That's a good one!

Me: He had a suit on. In the fishbowl.

The Roommate: Of course he did. What else does Ed Asner wear?

The Roommate: Even his underwear has little suits printed on it.

Me: It would have been funnier if he were dressed like a sea monkey. With like, a cape and crown and little staff.

The Roommate: You need to lay off the Nyquil.

When friends hook up

Via text message:

Me: I'm totally going through the stuff you left here.

Him: Don't touch my cock puppet underwear.

Me: Ha ha. So I guess we'll talk about last night when you get back tomorrow?

Him: Yeah. Unless you want to call me later.

Me: Nah. I'd rather wait, so we can be all weird and awkward in person.

When murder isn't an option...

Jean: What am I going to do about [her ex-boyfriend]?

Me: Tell him one more time that you absolutely do not want to see him again. If that doesn't work, start ignoring his texts and emails.

Jean: I'm not sure if I trust The Jess Method of getting rid of exes. It took you, like, two years to get rid of yours.

Me: Hm. Good point. What would [My] Sharona do?

Don't be my Valentine -- I'm busy

So I'm glad I don't have to do the Valentine's Day thing this year. Why? 1) Valentine's Day is fucking stupid and 2) I'd rather be at WYSIWYG's Worst. Sex. Ever. show. If y'all live in the area and don't have plans, you should go. Say hi to Curly, Roxy and I if you do.

If every jackass I ever slept with didn't read this blog (Hi guys!), I'd commemorate the occasion by posting my own Worst. Sex. Ever. story. Unfortunately, I'm not so lucky. So no secretly-rolling-my-eyes-behind-the-blindfold story for you.

Lesson learned by way of brunch with the RC Girls

Kinko's and Duane Reade can be not only tolerable, but almost pleasant, provided you have six or seven peach bellinis beforehand.

The cavefish prepares for inking

Remember how I said I was going to get a tattoo when I got a job? Well, I whipped up this little design today, and next week I find someone to make it a permanent fixture on the back of my neck. Like it? Picture two more bent legs -- my Photoshop skills aren't that advanced.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXVII

This is actually a much longer poem, but I think I wrote it in the dark because I cannot for the life of me decipher what comes after this. Anyway, here goes. I'm not entirely sure who it's about, but if I had to wager a guess I'd say Not Trent Reznor. And um, I'm not sure why no one told me that it's not actually "writing poetry" when you're blatantly ripping off Cure lyrics.

Your name rolls off my tongue
like warm honey
Sweet nostalgia
A testament to our failure
Two hearts, rotten and dead
Dragging each other further into the deep green sea
Where we could drown
Alone or together, it's all the same

If that didn't quench your thirst for angst, here's Volume XXVI.

Wise words from My Sharona, and the joke that doesn't appear to be getting old any time soon

I hope your date was amazing...or at least funny. I think if he didn't say "poo" and you didn't press on his anus then you're already way ahead.

What's cookin'?

Last night, I went to an open house at The Natural Gourmet Cookery School. I haven't figured out timing yet – I have to wait until I get my first paycheck at the new job so I can work out a long-term budget -- but I'm definitely enrolling in their part-time Chef's Training program. Once that happens:

1) Become freelance food writer
2) Bang out a cookbook or two
3) Build multimillion dollar healthy baked goods empire

You know, I'm not setting my sights too high or anything. Wouldn't want to be disappointed.

An open letter to Judith Light

Dear Judith Light:

I owe you an apology. Last month, I wrote an open letter to the Lifetime Movie Network questioning your sex appeal. Over the past couple of weeks, an alarming number of people have arrived here via Google, while searching for pictures of you sans clothing. This leads me to believe that you are, in fact, someone that strangers on the Internet want to have sex with.

So maybe it isn't so unbelievable that your psychiatrist, played by one Judd Hirsch, would want to do funny things to you while you were under the influence of a powerful sedative in Betrayal of Trust. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on that.

I still find Lady Killer hard to swallow, however. I mean, Jack Wagner? Convincing your daughter Tracey Gold he was in love with her, so he could score an invite up to your desolate house in the mountains in the dead of winter, where he could stalk you after your brief affair? I'm not buying it. Not Jack Wagner. Not Frisco.

It's worth mentioning that no one has left me nasty comments or sent me hate mail yet for questioning your sex appeal. This leads me to believe that, unlike the Rachael Ray freaks, the people who want to see you naked prefer to remain nameless.

And while I'm spending all of this time on IMDB, what is Against Their Will: Women in Prison and why haven't I seen it yet?

Love,
Jess