TOOLBAG TUESDAY

I was reading a magazine at the hair salon last month and it reviewed a whole bunch of self-help “breakup” books.

Some of the books were supposed to “heal your broken heart in 30 days” (money back guaranteed!!!) while others sternly broke the news that, “It’s not him, it’s YOU.”

(FML.)

The magazine critiqued each book on its premise and merits and then pulled a few enlightening sentences from each one: “Let go of your past. Live in the moment!” Or a more poignant, “Flush your ex down the toilet and move on.”

One sentence in particular stood out to me: “Whatever happens, remain calm. Reaction with retaliation shows an out-of-control person.”

I read that sentence five times.

While true, it’s probably the hardest piece of advice to follow, since most people ABSOLUTELY react with retaliation when they go through a breakup.

Retaliation feels really good when you feel wronged.
And one could argue that most out-of-control people are ones that recently broke up with someone.

“Reaction with retaliation” could be classified as talking MAD SHIT about your ex to their BEST FRIENDS (or, uh, family members) when you see them at a bar, or bringing someone new to your ex’s known hangout spot or throwing all their things they left at your apartment into the garbage after lighting them on fire.

Some people might even write a Toolbag Tuesday blog post as retaliation.
Ha.
Um, moving on.

“Reaction with retaliation” can be a small gesture, like the guy who mailed me back my college graduation invitation when we broke up with no note, just the return address as: “that guy.”

Others cause property damage by slashing tires. Or putting a dead baby shark under a house. (Clearly an out-of-control person.)

But, the story I heard yesterday wins as the most ridiculous “reaction with retaliation” story ever.
And all the crazy was even broadcast on Facebook (a platform for many out-of-control people.)

Paul and Jaime were married and seemingly happy. So happy, in fact, that they went on a vacation to Greece together. That kind of time and money is a commitment!!
18 hours on a plane together!!?? (I hope they brought headphones. And snacks.)

They arrived in Greece and they updated their Facebook pages so all their office cube friends could be jealous of them playing on stone streets, touring crumbling castles, eating fried cheese and drinking ouzo.

But vacation wasn’t so fun for Paul and Jamie, although it did provide entertainment to all their Facebook friends who logged on and saw a “mobile upload” picture of Paul the next day, without a shirt on, showing off a bloody tattoo he had just gotten on his chest.
In Greek letters.

Paul didn’t look happy in the photo. He looked mad. And the blood and scabs from the new ink was gross.

The tattoo covered his entire chest, from pectoral to pectoral, and the lettering and his facial expression resembled that of a gang member.

Facebook friends were confused. What’s with the tattoo and what does it say? It was too long to be fraternity letters.

And where was Jaime? A quick look on Jaime’s page….

“Jamie is no longer listed as being in a relationship with Paul.”

WHAAAAA!!!

They broke up in Greece?? While on vacation???

I figured something terrible must have happened, because people are usually on their best behavior on vacation. I can’t imagine the breakup was pre-meditated.

(No one plans to dump someone at Disney World, for example.)

But, shit happens. People break up all the time, no matter what hemisphere they’re in.

The trick, no matter what happens, is to remain calm. A reaction with retaliation shows an out-of-control person.

Right Paul?

Wrong.

It didn’t take long for someone more worldly than me to decipher his chest tattoo. It was one sentence:

“Nothing lasts forever.”

...in Greek. WOW

You know what DOES last forever? Tattoos.
And people remembering you as an out of control person.

No more ouzo for him.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

Not too long ago, I was lying around my apartment with Sam — who I met the week before at a party — talking about what we wanted to do that day.

“ Well, where do you live?” I asked him.
“Uptown.”
“Oh yea? I’ve always wanted to live uptown,” I said.

“Yea, it’s cool, but I live with three other guys and it’s really annoying having four dudes living in one apartment,” Sam said. He was 28.

“One of my roommates is a firefighter and his girlfriend is SOO annoying and she’s over almost EVERY night,” Sam continued. “It's come to the point where we all just roll our eyes when we see her car outside.”

“Ah, that sucks,” I said.

“Yea, but I think they’re going to get engaged soon, so we’re all hoping that happens and they move in somewhere together,” Sam said.

I told him that I understood roommate issues. I’ve lived in five different apartments (and one house) over the past ten years, and Sam and I talked at length about shitty roommates and roommates’ shitty significant others.

We hung out in my neighborhood for a bit and then Sam drove home — uptown — and we made plans to go to dinner that week.
He came to pick me up.

It was a very nice, expensive restaurant, one that was so expensive it made me a tad uncomfortable.

Sam waited until I took a big bite of salad before saying, “I lied to you. I actually live with my parents.”

I coughed on dressing and lettuce and looked at him like he must be joking.
“What?” I said.

“Yea, I just moved back to New Orleans a few months ago and didn’t have anyone to live with, so I’m living with them for awhile.”

I swallowed.

“So…the whole story about the four roommates….and the firefighter….??” I asked, dumbfounded.

“I dunno…I was really embarrassed and made up something quick,” he said.

QUICK?? He QUICKLY came up with a massive elaborate lie?

I mean, here I was actually feeling sorry for his poor firefighter roommate who was going to propose to his girlfriend who sucks.

(Um, someone sucks.)

I debated whether I should find it endearing that Sam lied because he wanted to look good in front of me, or find it disturbing, indicative of a pathological liar.

I took another bite of lettuce, goat cheese and candied pecans to think it over.

Sam must have seen the confusion in my face, because he said quickly, “I mean, my parents DO live uptown, so I DO live uptown.”

Ha! As if that made it all better! Like, he didn’t lie completely because he kept it all in the same zip code.

“Well, you should have just said you live uptown, period,” I finally said.

Because we were at a nice restaurant and we were having an elaborate dinner (that he paid for), I was never able to appropriately call him out on his HOUSE of lies. It wouldn't have been classy. Emeril would have been mad.

I wanted to say,
“Look, saying, “I live uptown with friends” would even be forgivable. But dragging your fake FIREFIGHTER friend into the mix and telling me specific details about how you and your roommates ALL ROLL YOUR EYES when you see his FAKE girlfriend’s car outside your FAKE house is quite another thing.”

What other elaborate lies would Sam tell?

I fast-forwarded to if we were seriously dating, and imagined he’d make up something ridiculous like being in a comedy improv group and had to practice every night, when really, he’d be cheating on me.

“Well, I WAS in the French Quarter,” he’d justify, which in my head is where both the fake comedy group and mistress would be located.

But I kept my mouth shut on the matter. After dinner, I committed to just having a nice time listening to good music with someone who was good-looking and a good dancer.

And, after several vodkas, I began to think, what’s wrong with a little lie anyway?
I mean, my driver’s license says I’m both taller and thinner than I really am.

Really, what’s the big deal? (Oh how my drunk mind turns on me)

When the show was over, Sam dropped me off at my very own (parents free) apartment.

“I’ll call you later,” he said, and I actually hoped he would.

But no. He lied again.
I never ever heard from Sam again.

Alas! Our short-lived relationship went up in flames.

Too bad all the firefighters I know are fake.

-Jenny

Beach dreams

I’ve long said that New Orleans would be perfect if it had a beach.

A nice, BIG beach, preferably facing the Atlantic Ocean so cute boys on surfboards can flock, and dolphins can surface at sunset with their dorsal fins.

But, I don’t live in South Carolina anymore. I live in New Orleans, perhaps the only big city in America surrounded by water that’s not pretty or swimmer-friendly.

It was 80 degrees last Saturday, and I did the next best thing to going to the beach: I wore a bikini top in City Park near water. A man-made lake.
And I saw a SWAN!
Take that, ocean.

OK, so it wasn’t the same at all. Nothing is better than the beach in the summer.

To make matters worse, I got a picture text message from my twin sister, Joy, who still lives in South Carolina. It was a picture of her ON THE BEACH. Just to piss me off.

“BASTARD!” I screamed at my phone, sitting at the park, confusing children riding on the train about why a crazy person was wearing a polka dotted bathing suit NOT on the beach.

Not to be upstaged, I sent Joy back my own picture message: Me at the park (with the lake!!!) drinking the deliciousness that is Abita Strawberry.

Try finding THAT at a Piggly Wiggly grocery store in South Carolina!

Haha, I thought. I’ve got her good. I smugly waited for her response.

My phone vibrated a few minutes later.

“Enjoy the pigeons.”

Haha. BASTARD TWICE!!!

“Enjoy the sand gnats,” I wrote back, which is the only thing that’s annoying about the beach.

(Sand gnats are like mosquitoes and fleas combined, but you can’t see them to squash them, and they take advantage of all your available exposed skin.)

I also wrote to Joy:
“I ENJOYED Mardi Gras.” ZING!

I decided a long time ago that if I won the lottery or was lucky enough to be able to work remotely, I’d live in South Carolina from June-August and New Orleans the rest of the year.

South Carolina in the winter is blah (aside from all the OYSTER ROASTS) and I hear New Orleans in the summer is blah, which is why it’s so hard to get on a kickball team here (It may very well be the only thing going on.)

But it’s not summer yet. It’s flowery, and crisp, and spring, so according to my fantasy life, I’m right where I want to be.
And I’m going to ENJOY Jazz Fest next month. SNAP

But, after getting a taste of life without a beach, I can’t say I’m looking forward to June, when I’ll start hauling a baby pool out to the backyard.

(Some New Orlenians insist that you can swim in Lake Ponchatrain and not have your skin burn off, but I still remember when pollution was so bad and gross that our elementary school art class spray-painted stencils on all the sewer drains in the neighborhood with the message: DO NOT WASTE, DRAINS TO LAKE.
People dump God knows what into those drains. Car engine oil? Battery acid?? Dirty diapers?!?? No thanks.

Also, the Mississippi River here is more “industrial” than “Tom Sawyer,” and swimming in it will actually kill you in one of three ways: dangerous currents and undertows, mutant SIX-FOOT-LONG catfish, or getting hit by a barge.)

So, I’m stuck either crashing hotel pools or sitting in a baby pool. By myself. All summer long.
At least there’s kickball.

And no sand gnats.

-Jenny

What I dressed up as for Mardi Gras

I know loyal followers of this blog are just DYING to know what I dressed up as for Mardi Gras, after I threatened to be a giant latex egg like Lady Gaga last month.

No latex needed! I did not dress up as an egg.

I decided to dress as a Pinot Grigio wine grape (although too much Pinot Grigio can LEAD to the need for a latex…um, nothing mom).

I don’t remember how I came up with the wine grape idea (probably while drinking wine) but I figured it was a broad enough costume to get my friends to dress up as grapes, too.

I wanted a “krewe,” see, and my genius Harry Potter “Mudblood Mardi Gras” idea was universally panned.

I brainstormed for two days about how the Krewe de Wine Grape was going to work, and I had grand plans to carry a sign with “KREWE OF NOTHING TO WHINE ABOUT” because I’ve been trying to look on the bright side of life these days, and, I like puns.

I wanted us each to drink the type of wine grape we dressed up as ALL DAY, and eat cheese and crackers.

And then, to make it even more expensive hilarious, I came up with the idea to buy a violin and play it in a screeching manner very loudly if anyone whined that day (i.e. the “tiniest violin in the world.”)

I bought the violin off Craig's List for $10 which I thought was the deal of the year, but then it cost $17 to restring and add a bridge so it could play. And the bow costs $8, so...dammit.

Moving on.
I knew I was going to pin green balloons to a nude dress to make the grape costume, because it's easy and cheap. Ok, so it was really a nude Spanx dress. (I'm easy and cheap).

I went to Party City and bought a pack of green “kiwi lime” colored balloons and then raided a Michael’s-type craft store for anything grape-related.

And then I didn’t do anything until Mardi Gras day, because that’s how I roll: procrastination-style.

It took about an hour of prep time the morning of Mardi Gras to get the balloons blown up (halfway) and pinned onto the dress Spanx, and my very kind and patient friends had to help “balloon” me in places I couldn’t reach.

Unfortunately, I didn’t plan the logistics of the balloon grape outfit in advance. I realized very quickly that there are many everyday things you can’t do when you’re covered in balloons.

Like bend over.
...To put on your own shoes.

Yes, my friend (fellow wine grape, of the Pinot Noir variety) had to HELP ME PUT MY SHOES ON because I couldn’t bend over or else I’d poop pop myself.

AND I wore tennis shoes, so my friend had to HOLD THE TONGUE OF THE SHOE UP while I wiggled my foot into it. (She’d be a good mommy.)

Really, the whole day I felt helpless, like a child.
(Only, a child drinking mass quantities of wine.)

My friends had to help me put the shiny green accessories into my hair, shove my “grape leaves” into the back of my Spanx and attach fake grapes to my shoes.

Oh, right, and carry all my things for me, all day.

BUT GUESS WHAT?? MY GRAPE COSTUME LOOKED AWESOME!!!!


Seedless.

And everyone LOVED it! As my fellow wine champagne-dressed friend pointed out, “people respond really well to balloons.”



hahahaha. (He's my friend, y'all.)

On the way to the French Quarter on Mardi Gras day, I was stopped no less than SEVEN times by strangers asking to take a picture with me. (MISSION ACCOMPLISHED).

Although, an on-duty police officer did get all pervy and ask me if he could “pick my grapes.” And I was referred to several times as the “Fruit of the Loom girl” and “Grapes of Wrath.”

No matter; I was so excited about all the attention that I didn’t care that people got my outfit wrong (PINOT GRIGIO PEOPLE!!!)

I also had to get over the fact that I couldn’t put my arms down completely all day.
(Shoulder muscle group, welcome to the Mardi Gras!!)


Feel the burn!

The violin was fun. I got to play it several times because I heard people say they were tired of walking. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.


(THE DEVIL WENT DOWN TO...MARDI GRAS)


And there was cheese!


nom nom nom nom nom


The only thing that didn’t play out in my original vision was the “KREWE OF NOTHING TO WHINE ABOUT” sign, which never happened because I ran out of time and money.

(But I wouldn't have been able to carry it anyway, as my arms were completely useless.)

For anyone considering covering themselves with balloons for a costume, be warned: it’s not an easy costume to wear all day, especially when trying to fit in tight spaces among groups of people. I've never been so aware of how much space I was taking up.

I believe my word of the day was “cumbersome" (or "clumbersthome" depending on how much wine I had consumed.)

I had to deal with the balloons being squeezed and popped (sometimes on purpose, sometimes by accident) and I had to detour around big groups of people on the street because I couldn’t fit through them, while my fellow non-ballooned wine krewe had no problem getting from point A to point B.

By the end of the day, more Spanx was showing than kiwi lime balloons.


STOP LOOKING AT MY SPANX!!


But, my krewe helped keep me together and decent-looking, and I adore them all for dressing up with me and...uh, tying my shoes.




Yay for friends!!! Yay for wine!!!

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go re-sell the violin on Craig’s List for double what I paid.

And pour myself another glass.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

It’s common knowledge that men give women flowers because they either did something really, really bad or she did something really, really good.
Wink wink

However, Scott got it all wrong about the appropriate way to give a girl flowers.
Because last I checked, saying, “let’s break up” with a vase of tulips is confusing.

“He dumped me!” said my friend Rachel, as she pointed to the flowers sitting on the dining room table.

“Wait, woah!” I asked. “Who dumps someone with flowers?”

“I know! I was all excited to see them at the door after work... and then I read the note,” she said.

I picked up the two-page note sitting next to the flowers, which was written very neatly on his company’s letterhead paper.

Scott took his time to write this note carefully. There were no scratches or line-throughs or mess ups or anything.

He poured his heart out over how he likes her too much and he doesn’t feel that she likes him as much as he likes her and he’s going to have to end it now before someone (him) gets hurt. Have a nice life, it read.

P.S. I think you’re beautiful

AHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Rachel and I spent the next several minutes laughing and I repeated, “what!” as I continued to read the note front and back.

It was hysterical.
Scott and Rachel had been on THREE dates exactly, and two of those were group dates.

Breakup notes of this nature usually come after months and months of courtship and steak dinners and at least one holiday where someone’s gift falls flat.

Scott hadn’t even spent the night!!!
This was all very premature.

Rachel figured that it was all the St. Patrick’s Day parade’s fault. She had invited Scott to go with her to the parade, and her mom also happened to be at the gathering.

Scott had thought that this was the “meet the parents” moment, on the same level as an intimate family dinner on a Friday night.

NOT AT ALL. It was loud and drunken and they had to avoid getting hit by cabbages the whole time.
And her dad wasn’t even there!

Later that night while eating dinner alone (still date three) Scott told Rachel how much he appreciated meeting her mom and how special it was.

“Oh, it was just a parade,” Rachel said. “No big deal.”

Scott dropped her off after dinner and Rachel thought everything was fine.

“It really bothered me when you said it was no big deal to meet your parents,” Scott’s note read, attached to the tulips, less than 24 hours later.

Could this not have been addressed with a phone call? Was her not thinking that meeting her mom was a big deal an indication of how she felt about their entire three-date relationship?

P.S. I think you’re beautiful

Bahahahahhahahaha.

“Dude.” is all I could say when I finished reading the note, and Rachel nodded.

She called Scott to ask him a big WTF.

He started off repeating what the note said, but then admitted that no, three dates is not enough time to figure out what you want out of a relationship.

And no, he never actually asked her how she felt about him or the relationship, so he really couldn’t back up his claim that he liked her WAY MORE than she liked him.

Maybe it was because he was so apologetic — even embarrassed — when she called him out on his crazy flower/note delivery; maybe it was because he somehow knew tulips were her favorite flower.

Nonetheless, Rachel told Scott that she’d forget the whole flower thing and they should just move on.

Right? Wrong.

Today, I got a picture message from Rachel. Scott had a DOZEN ROSES delivered to her WORK.
Before lunch.

“…these are from Scott with a note that apologizes for being crazy,” she wrote.

Bahahahaha!

Save the flower deliveries for Valentine’s Day, Scott!!

P.S. I think you’re beautiful


-Jenny

Mardi Gras parades 2 ways

2001 vs. 2011

I’m home on a Friday night planted on the couch catching up on Jersey Shore and Office episodes because I’ve been to Mardi Gras parades for seven days straight.

SEVEN DAYS STRAIGHT!

So on the eighth day, I rest. Take that GOD.
(Ha, uh, just kidding. No lightning please.)

Having just moved back to New Orleans from South Carolina after being away for 10 years, I was curious to see if the parades would be the same.

It’s like when you go back to a childhood vacation spot and get all excited about a sense of nostalgia, and you either find it wonderfully the same or disappointingly unfamiliar.

In high school, all the cool kids would gather at a spot on the corner of St. Charles Avenue and Seventh Street for Mardi Gras parades.

It got so popular and crowded at that corner that a woman who lived on the street wrote a letter to the editor in the newspaper about how all these “underage students from very prominent high schools” were partying in a shocking manner.

She wrote that this behavior included – no joke, I remember this verbatim - “fornication, urination, defecation” on the STREET, and she invited ALL parents to come out and see for themselves.

My mother was concerned.

“Is THIS where you are watching parades?” she asked me and my twin, sister, Joy, while holding the newspaper. “Seventh and St. Charles?”

We told her that we didn’t see anyone pooping, so no, that didn’t sound like the corner at all.

(Although, it was a pretty scandalous corner. I remember cops on horses came by once and hauled away all our alcohol in our coolers because we were 17. How annoying!)

That was my last memory of parades in New Orleans: Fornication, urination and defecation with fellow Catholic High schoolers who should know better.

I moved to South Carolina right after high school, and while I came back for several Mardi Gras celebrations during spring breaks, it was never long enough to see all the parades leading up to Mardi Gras day.

So, this year was my first full Mardi Gras season in ten years.

I stocked up on vodka.

One of the things different about watching the parades at age 17 and watching parades at age 27 is that now, I have several options of where and how to watch them.

I don’t need to go to the same corner (SEVENTH AND ST. CHARLES!!) each night to get free beer and/or stalk the cute guy a grade above me.

No! At age 27, I have now friends with their own apartments on the parade route, and I don’t have to get dropped off by my mom.

My first parade of 2011 was on Wednesday, the Krewe of Druids, and I saw it with my friend Bailey.

I drove to her house in my very own car, made my very own vodka drink, and rode her extra bike to the route.

It was just us two, and we caught so many beads we had to put them into the bike baskets.

Literally every person on each float that rolled by enthusiastically threw us beads when they saw us.
This never happened on the busy corner in high school.

(And I was too busy stalking the cute guy a grade above me to wave for beads.)

On Thursday, I saw the Muses parade with my mom, something that would NEVER happen in high school. I was way too cool for that. Haha

My mom, roommate and I had an awesome time and there was no fornication, urination or defecation.

It was fitting to watch The Muses parade with just ladies since it’s an all female crew.


Work it girl!!


Fancy woman shoe!



MAMMA!


On Friday, I saw the Krewe D’Etat parade at a fancy hotel in downtown New Orleans. (CALL ME FANCY PANTS!)

I scored a ticket for their STANDS --- not on the street!!! --- through the city’s press association that I am automatically a member of since I work for a newspaper here. (JOURNALIST PERKS! FUCK YEA!)

I’ve never seen a parade from an EAGLE EYE before, so I RSVP’d immediately. High school students were certainly NOT invited.

Again, I caught a lot of beads, because I was at the same level as the float riders, and let’s be honest: throwing beads completely horizontally can get you the best aim when you see someone (me) waving their arms like a crazy person.


Throw me somethin' (horiontally)!!!


I love beads!!

On Saturday, the Endymion parade was cancelled because of rain, which was a bummer because I live in Mid-City where the parade route is. I could have had people over at MY apartment before the parade.

(I hate rain. I’m pretty sure every single person has at LEAST three instances in their lives when rain has ruined something.)

But I got lucky. My friend Jessica invited me to the Endymion ball that night, so we was able to see the floats before anyone else.

I never knew what happened at Mardi Gras balls until the Endymion ball. People talked about them, I saw pictures in the newspaper, but I never thought about regular people going.

So, I enthusiastically agreed to be Jessica’s date, and I did think about how the last time I went to an event where a floor-length dress was required was prom…in 2001.

At the ball, everyone sat at big, round tables and you could BYOB and BYOF.


MMM HUMMUS

I brought a whole bunch of Abita Strawberry beers and Girl Scouts Thin Mints, because those cookies are FIT for a ball and are the most exclusive cookies in town, ThankYouVeryMuch.

So, after everyone drank and ate (cookies) and danced to a house band for awhile, the parade rolled right through the party in an L-shape route, and everyone gets a front row seat.

My new goal after Saturday’s ball? Holy sh*t I need to win the lottery.


Just another Saturday night, dahling


I spent the night in the French Quarter at Jessica’s house and it felt magical waking up and walking out on her balcony the next morning, the Sunday before Mardi Gras.

(And since I’m not 17, I didn’t even have to call my mom and ask her if it was OK and have her talk to Jessica’s mom about it.)

It was a big day; the Endymion parade was rolling on Sunday to make up for being rained out the day before, which meant there was going to be five hours of parades that night.

I had to get picked up by my parents from the French Quarter on Sunday (Hello 2001!!) because cabs in New Orleans are a joke on Mardi Gras and their phone lines are always busy and they are never around. (Seriously…two thumbs DOWN)

For the five hours of parades, I drove to uptown New Orleans, not too far from my old stomping ground on Seventh Street and St. Charles.

I hung out with my friend Meredith’s friends from high school, and the entire group was so carefree, it reminded me of high school.

Maybe that was because some of the people who I was watching the parade with I actually did watch parades with in high school.

There were no parents, but there was a keg that they rolled (in a city trash can!!!) right out to the parade route.


Drinking from a keg, legally


DANCE PARTY

Monday night’s parade (Lundi Gras for us New Orleanians) was watched under a bridge, which made the bands in the parades sound amazing, see?



It was a secret spot, one that I heard about just this year, and a spot that NO high schoolers were at, at least none that I could see other than those in the bands. They all stopped right under the bridge and gave everyone a special show.

I didn’t see any underage drinking under the bridge in fact no activity of any kind that ended in an “-cation” except for my friend Katie, who was visiting from Boston on VACA-tion.
(No fornication. Swear.)

So, yea, this year’s Mardi Gras was a good one to break my 10-year absence. Everyone threw me beads, I got to see parades in wildly different settings and heard a lot of marching bands.

And there was no drama about who my friend’s homeroom crush was hitting on. And no cops took away our alcohol.

OK so there is something to be said for being 17 and having a ton more energy to keep going seven days straight and having OFF ALL WEEK for spring break.

(Now that I’m an office drone, I only had Fat Tuesday off for Mardi Gras. UGH.)

But, YOU KNOW WHAT, I ROCKED it, and that’s why on this Friday after Mardi Gras, I am home and in saggy sweatpants doing laundry and watching DVR backlogs.

I think I’d probably have more fun at Mardi Gras with Snooki when I was 17 and Dwight Shrute now.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

Happy Mardi Gras!!!!!! It’s FAT Tuesday!!!! The best day of the year!!!

Unfortunately, creepers celebrate too.

Have you ever dealt with a creeper? Vince Vaughn refers to these people as “stage five clingers" when talking to Owen Wilson.

So was the case for me and my friend Jessica at the Endymion ball this past weekend.

Endymion is the best Mardi Gras parade and has the most elaborate floats and I had the great fortune of being invited by Jessica and her family to the BALL, Y'ALL!!

I had to wear a fancy dress (a bridesmaids dress I wore for a friend’s wedding three years ago...Score!) and all the guys had to wear tuxes!!! I’ve never seen so many tuxes in one room.

So, we’re all standing there drinking and eating and the float marches right through the party and we all get a front row seat.

I’m not kidding about the floats being GORGEOUS.

See, look at this one, a homage to Edgar Allen Poe



RAVEN!!!

Or this…


WALT DISNEY!!

Oh, and I was a peacock!!!


nice to meet ya!


Yes, well, everything was GREAT and we were having the BEST TIME dancing to Pat Benatar and Train (Hey Soul Sister) when a guy with shoulder length hair and pimples asked me to dance.

“Sure!” I said. I never turn down a dance.

BAD MOVE on my part.

He was a good dancer and all, but…a stage five clinger. A young one.

“What school did you go to?” I asked, when he said he was also from New Orleans. He said a big, all-boys Catholic school.

“Yea? What year did you graduate?”

“2009,” he said. (Um, I graduated college in 2005).

“WHAT!!” I said loudly. “How old are you, 19?”

“21.”

Damn. baby. After the dance, I went back to our table and sipped champagne. When I turned around again, Mr. Long hair was back.

“Wanna dance again?” he asked, to the very next song.

“No, I’m OK for now. Thanks though,” I said.

Did he leave after that? No, no he did not. Social clues be dammed!!!! He continued to follow us around the dance floor for the next set, even as Jessica and I danced exclusively together and inched away from him.

I told him that Jessica had a boyfriend, but he still snuck in when he could behind her (and me) to feel our butts and stomachs through our dresses while we danced.

UGH. Creeper HAND alert.

It got so bad that Jessica had to pretend she was going to throw up so we could go to the bathroom and get away from him. She put her hand over her mouth and was like..."bathroom..now."

(Genius idea…I would never have thought that, since I don’t throw up.)

So, even after WE PRETENDED TO PUKE, the dude STILL found us a half hour later on the other side of the dance floor.

It was sad and annoying, and he wouldn’t let up, and at the end of the night, I had to give him a fake phone number.

“How about I’ll just see you around town when I see you?” I first proposed when he asked for my digits.
“Maybe I’ll see you at Jazz Fest or something," I said.

“NO!” he said, shoving his phone in my face. “This is fate. I need your number now.”

It wasn't fate, but it was late and I was a bit buzzed and I was losing patience with the long haired pimply guy.

So I just started typing numbers until I reached seven digits. (perhaps it was 867-5309…jenny jenny..hehe)

So, OK, please fellas, take a hint when you’re trying to hit on someone. If you ask someone for their number and they say NO, move on. If they move away from you on the dance floor, take the hint.

Don’t make them give you a fake number.

Nothing ruins a party/dance floor like a creeper.

Makes girls want to PUKE. haha

- Jenny

Interviewing Charlie

Every time I see people being interviewed on TV, I always scrutinize the TV reporter.

Were you analyzing Charlie Sheen’s crazy last night? Oh, I was looking at Andrea Canning.

I wasn’t just grading her on her line of questioning.
Rather, one of the more challenging things about being a reporter (she TV, me newspaper, it’s all the same) is your reaction during interviews.

You have to keep a straight face even if the person says something so retarded that it would be perfect on a T-shirt.

“Crack is whack” anyone??

I think Andrea deserves an A for her job last night, although her shoes deserve a D.
Hello! Is someone color blind in the wardrobe department??

It’s hard to keep your cool, especially when everyone else watching the 20/20 interview was cracking up at Charlie’s admission that he is a “winner” and that infamous rock stars are like “armless children” compared to his drug and women use.

Canning had to nod encouragingly, like “I understand. Keep talking.”
Which she did.
And he did.

(If you didn’t see the 20/20 interview last night, it’s OK, just read your friends’ Facebook status updates. It’s viral, y'all.)

But there was no laughing for Andrea. She had to react as if it made total sense when Charlie said the only drug he’s on is called “Charlie Sheen,” and taking it "would melt a normal person’s face off and your children will weep over your exploded body."

She had to be serious when interviewing his two “goddesses” -- nanny/girlfriends/former strippers who live in his house and take care of his children.

(They must have seen too much Girls Next Door growing up and regarded Charlie as some sort of Hugh Hefner. He even made a reference to Big Love, the polygymist TV show my roommate DVRs.)

Andrea asked which one sleeps with Charlie at night.
“We don’t have a set schedule,” one of them said, giggling.
Andrea nodded. I understand.

“Do you want to marry Charlie?” Andrea then asked them with a straight face.
(I would have added a BAHAHAHAHAHAHA.)

Andrea did ask some good questions about Charlie’s troubled life and the future of his TV show, and she even called him out — something I’d be too afraid to do after his admission that he has “Adonis DNA” and “tiger blood” running through his veins.

She called him out about his angry attitude.

He said the producers of the show Two and a Half Men mistake his “passion” for “anger” and that’s why they cancelled the remaining episodes of the season.

(It also may have had something to do with the drug-induced binger that a prostitute recalled first-hand on Howard Stern, which had many worried about his safety and the safety of others.)

“I’M PASSIONATE!” he said.

“But, you’re coming across as angry right now,” Andrea said.

Charlie got all bug-eyed and looked like he wanted to kill her. She sat there calmly.

But, no interviewer is perfect. Andrea got called out twice. (Hate when that happens.)

The first one was by Charlie himself (haha embarrassing) who said the “escort” he brought up to a hotel room was a liar for saying he choked her and threw a lamp at her.

“IF I HAD DONE THAT, THERE’D BE PICTURES OF HER BRUISED NECK AND I’D BE ARRESTED.” Charlie said, furrowed brow.
“READ THE POLICE REPORT! READ THE FACTS!” (oh, he totally used the F word. Haha)

Andrea didn’t have the police report, and sat there in silence.
Come on girl that’s public information! Get you a copy!

The other time, Andrea was called out by a psychiatrist, who for some reason they made watch the video of Charlie being interviewed for an informed opinion about what the EFF is wrong with him.

There was a clip of the doctor watching my favorite Charlie quote of the night: “So what if I’m bi-polar? What are they gonna do? Make me take medicine so I can be EXACTLY LIKE THEM????”

“Well, doctor?” Andrea asked. “What do you think his diagnosis is?”

“Well, I can’t diagnose someone by just watching them on TV,” he told Andrea. SNAP!

(If she was screaming “EFF YOU” to the doctor in her head, you’d never know it. She just nodded. I understand.)

But, everything else Andrea did was good, even the cliché “What would it say on your tombstone?”

I mean, does anyone EVER know what it’s going to say on their tombstone?

(I don’t remember what Charlie answered but it probably included the word “winner.”)

During the interview I envisioned what I’d ask Charlie Sheen if I somehow got to interview him for the newspaper I work for.

I would have asked about the claims the prostitute made on Howard Stern about his RIDICULOUS cocaine usage.

I’d ask him what makes for a good prostitute.

I’d ask him if he’s ever been to Mardi Gras.

I’d nod, look concerned and/or interested in what he had to say.
And I’d make sure my shoes match my outfit.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

There comes a point in the dating scene when it’s hard to find people without baggage.

You’d be hard-pressed to find, for example, someone hovering around the 30-year-old mark who hasn’t already lived with an ex, envisioned marrying an ex, maybe even proposed.

Some people even have children with their ex.

THE PURITY IS GONE, PEOPLE!! It’s no one’s first time at the rodeo anymore.

But, it’s what you DO with that baggage (ideally: drop it like it’s hotttt) that determines whether you should be dating other people or not.

Oh, you’re still in love with your girlfriend from college a gajillion years ago but she’s living with her new boyfriend now?
Cool. Stop texting her.

Oh, you’re scared that your baby mamma is going to go ape shit that you’re dating someone new so you instruct your son to say that your new girlfriend is the “BABYSITTER??”
Cool. Grow some balls.

The thing about these “baggage people” is that they appear very normal and then you realize during date FIVE that they’re hung up on someone else and unable to give you their full attention.
It’s a complete a waste of time.

I used to think this only applied to guys I met in college, who more often than not had a high school girlfriend attending college in another state who was their Rushmore.
(OH, ARE THEY? Sorry. Wes Anderson humor.)

But, no. Baggage runs deep into people’s 20s and 30s.

My friend, Stephanie, didn’t need to wait until date five to realize that Jon had baggage. On date TWO, while driving her home, Stephanie sat in the passenger seat in shock while Jon made a date with his ex-girlfriend on the phone FOR LATER THAT NIGHT.

“I just don’t want to hurt her feelings!” Jon said (ignoring Stephanie’s feelings) when he hung up.

Jon had said he and his ex’s off-and-on relationship was OFF at the moment. Stephanie had actually met the ex in question at a kickball game or two.

But when they broke up, Stephanie moved in on him. She had liked Jon for awhile and he told her how OVER his ex he was. Stephanie didn't realize that he was lying.

When the ex called, Jon had actually turned the radio down in the car and Stephanie had to sit there in silence and hear their conversation from two feet away.

“She asked what he was doing and not wanting to piss her off with my existence he said ‘I’m doing nothing,’ and set up a date with her,” Stephanie said.
Ugh
Liar.

She was completely shocked, her mouth dropped open listening to every word.
She mentally slapped herself on the forehead for sleeping with him that past weekend.

“I can’t believe you made a date with her with me sitting in the car!” Stephanie said.

Jon replied, “What was I supposed to say? That I couldn’t meet her tonight because we are sleeping together? I can’t do that to her.”

She mentally slapped herself twice for sleeping with him that past weekend.

“Right, of course,” Stephanie said. “God forbid you hurt her feelings.’”

When he turned onto her street, Stephanie got out of Jon’s car as soon as possible only to hear a feeble, “I care about you” through the open window.

Oh, you care about me?
Cool. Next time let it go to voicemail.

Why are these people OUT THERE dating like they don’t have previous hang-ups?

Why lead someone on when, really, you’d drop them on a dime if an EX called? Just stay home on the couch and wait with bated breath.

(This is sort of like toolbags who keep girls they are in love with around as “friends” when the girls really sabotage all their future relationships.)

It’s a terrible waste of time trying to date someone whose head is the clouds over someone else.

I wish there was a way to spot these people and ignore their romantic advances.

It would be helpful if those saddle bags made them walk funny.

-Jenny