Contract sports

Last name redacted; nobody LinkedIN me

My mom emailed me this bizarre typed “contract” I signed in high school that she found buried in a file cabinet, in which I agreed to be in bed by 10 p.m. every night or else I couldn’t go to the next morning’s 5 a.m. swim practice.

My parents were constantly making me and my twin sister Joy sign “contracts” all throughout childhood about all kinds of things—about being home for dinner at 7 p.m., about drinking milk, not smoking, doing chores.

One time we had to sign a contract that Joy and I wouldn’t laugh at the dinner table because it was “disruptive” and no one could hear how our brother Franklin’s day was.

HAHAHAHAHAHA

F.Y.I. Franklin never had to sign any contracts.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Anyway.

After I was done scratching my head about why my parents still have this piece of paper, it got me thinking about sacrificing things for sports.

It’s good timing, because I’ve been obsessively watching the 2016 Olympics in Rio.

Since I grew up in New Orleans, many of the high school sports I played were “Summer Olympics” sports: Swimming, track and field, soccer. Even gymnastics, from elementary school through high school.

I was never good enough at any sport to play at a high competitive level (outside the Catholic all-girls high school competitive level, in which I RULED), but I still gave every sport all I had, 100 percent.

And I still remember the feeling of competition like it wasn’t 15 years ago (UGGGHHH).

The starting line of an early morning cross-country race, on the starting block at a Saturday morning swim meet, a 3 p.m. track meet after school, green aluminum relay baton in hand, already gathering sweat from my palm before I even start.

Maybe that’s why I’m so hooked on watching the Olympics. I think I’m in it for the start of the race.

Remembering the jittery stomach flips as I waited painfully for the 400 meter starting gun to go off, knowing that any second my relaxed state of being was going to fall to heavy breathing, fatigued legs, LOWERING MY SHOULDERS AWAY FROM MY DAMN EARS, COACH, darting eyeballs to my peripheral vision to see if any runners were coming up on either side.

Controlled stress building up in my chest as I concentrated on nothing but the starting gun and the patch of red rubber track five feet in front of me.

And let's not forget the icy cold pool water hitting my face and I dove in at the start of a race, enveloping me like a body bag.

Concentrating on the black lines painted on the bottom of the pool, fuzzy through my goggles, as I got closer and closer towards the end of the lane designated by a “T” horizontal line. Watching the top of the T get closer and closer.

There was a time in high school where I went to swim practice every morning at 5 a.m., went to school and then went to track practice after school. And I loved it.

Maybe that’s why I’ve played so much kickball in my adult life; I've been trying to re-create the feeling of success in an athletic event.

The feeling of catching a fly ball. Sticking a landing. Reaching the wall of the pool first. It’s immensely satisfying. 

It can not be duplicated, except with more athletic endeavors.

Even watching Olympics commercials about “early morning practices” “late nights on the field” and “unwavering commitment” makes me tear up.

Hearing what the athletes give up, what they sacrifice to be at the Olympic Games.

(Hint: It’s way worse than being forced to go to bed every night at 10 p.m. when you’re almost 18 years old.)

If you’re like me and can’t fast-forward Olympics commercials because you’re cheap and have an antenna, you’ve probably seen or heard the commercial where athletes say thank you to their parents.

Images of athletes being dropped off at practice by their parents (in a Toyota), picked up from practice by their parents (in a Toyota), waving to mom on the rain-soaked bleachers from the field.

They strangely don’t include the situation where the athlete is old enough to drive herself, but still needs her mom’s good sense to convey the importance of taking your sport seriously enough to get at least seven hours of sleep.

Or the sense of commitment that once you sign up for something, or, in our case, sign your name on the dotted line for something, you better take pride in it.  

So thanks mom.

(Uh you can throw that contract away now.)

Signed,

Jenny 

I Heart NY

To an outsider, we appeared as we do every summer: our whole family’s annual summer vacation to visit our brother Franklin.

This year, however, we didn’t fly to Los Angeles. We flew to New York because Franklin and his girlfriend Allison are living there while he edits several episodes of the second season of an amazing TV show called Mr. Robot. (WATCH IT!)

And in that way, everything was different.

But that wasn’t the only thing.

My twin sister Joy has a husband now.

My mom is officially retired.

And I have a boyfriend!

!!!!!!!!

I’ve been meaning to write about my boyfriend, Daniel, for months now, and what better introduction than how he was thrown head-first into our loud, boisterous family’s annual vacation last month??

“Did he read your other blog posts about our family vacations?” my mother asked nervously when I asked if he could join us.

“Does he know it will be all of us? And that five of us will be sharing an AirBnB, including your Aunt?”

Joy and I laughed.

It turns out Daniel had read my other blog posts and, because he lives in New Orleans, had already met my whole family and didn’t blink twice at booking a flight.

In fact, he was the only one who appreciated our mom’s constant stream of emails leading up to the trip entitled “tentative itinerary.”

Since our family has always had an affinity for loud productions, it was fitting that our first night in town, we all saw a Broadway play.

Joy played her part exceptionally well when she took the wrong subway, got lost, and arrived at the play with one minute to spare, hungry and yelling at everyone.

Hahaha

And then our mom gave us the expected side-eye when we ordered double vodkas at the theater bar. 

The play Fiddler on the Roof (thanks mom and dad!!!) was the most memorable play I’ve ever seen. 

I didn’t get lost following the play ONCE and enthusiastically gave it a standing ovation.

(I then Googled the lead actor Danny Burstein when I got home because I have never seen anyone command a stage like he did.)

Hmm maybe it was the double vodkas…

After the play, we walked up the street to Times Square, a landmark which never changes, unless you count the changing number of chain restaurants.  

On the “tentative itinerary,” our mom had listed: “Take family Christmas photo at Times Square.” 

Drunk on theater, I felt like leaping there, like the Russian dancers from the play.

We quickly realized that we didn’t need a flash for our photo, as Times Square was literally lit up like a concert.

Beautiful models, iconic logos and other American consumerism shone down on us as we took group pictures but then Franklin got annoyed with the “same photo being taken over and over,” my mom sang show tunes, Joy re-announced that she was starving, and my dad and Allison snuck off to buy ice cream cones from a truck.

And in that way, everything was the same.

The next day, we went to the Natural History Museum, which I hated because it somehow made dinosaurs boring.

Joy laughed at me.

“Where is the skin? Where are the scales???” I asked staring at skeleton after skeleton.

I didn’t know which ones were actual bones or reproductions of bones.

(Most of the real bones were behind glass cases.)

“So WHAT is hanging from the ceiling? Plastic???”

Joy’s husband, who has his masters in biology, was not impressed at my ignorance.

(Also a “water giraffe” is not the proper name for an ancient platypus, nailed to the ceiling.)

Anyone wanna race me around the display?? #michelletanner

A photo posted by Genevieve (@jennyjenny504) on Jul 3, 2016 at 11:38am PDT

At the museum, we sat in a planetarium show narrated by Neil De Grasse Tyson about the universe which was also the most boring thing I’ve ever heard, and I promptly fell asleep in the dark theater with stars over my head.

Thankfully, Daniel still held my hand, despite my snoring in the theater.

:)

Joy and I laughed again when our mom kept quizzing us on what “black matter” is after the show and Joy fielded every question to me knowing full well I was in R.E.M. cycle.

Fresh from a nap!! 

Daniel and I then paired off, and I found out something NEW I like about him—his navigational abilities.

There’s a simple comfort in following someone around aimlessly, not having to navigate for yourself, knowing you’ll get where you’re going safely.

:)

(It’s also hard to concentrate on what’s ahead of you when you’re too busy looking up at the tall buildings and pausing to clap for subway performers pole dancing in the train cars.)

We met my NYC friend and walked to Daniel’s friend’s apartment, the chic-est apartment I’ve ever been to in the inappropriately-named DUMBO neighborhood 

(inappropriate because no one who lives there is dumb).

You could see the Statue of Liberty from the living room.

We all walked along the DUMBO waterfront, where thousands of people were out playing beach volleyball, basketball, cooking out, dancing, biking, running, walking dogs.

I especially appreciated the Hasidic Jewish family playing beach volleyball, a father mother and son, all dressed head to toe in traditional garb, not caring about rules or points in the game, just rolling up their pants and playing around.

That is not something you see in South Carolina. 

Or in Fiddler on the Roof.

We ended the night at Franklin and Allison’s Brooklyn apartment, where we had drinks overlooking the New York City skyline from their balcony (swoooon!) and when it got late, I followed my navigator boyfriend back to our Air BnB, without taking my eyes off of him.

:)

The next day, July 4, I decided that I wanted to get a milkshake that I discovered on social media.

It was at a restaurant called Black Tap and there was a big line and the only person who humored me was my mom.

Some people (Daniel) don’t LIKE MILKSHAKES, other people like Joy got on the subway late and made us wait in line longer.

But my cookies and cream milkshake was perfect and I have never had a frozen treat so delicious and, yes, I’m including Dairy Queen blizzards.

We then all walked to Chinatown, and saw fascinating, unidentifiable fruits and vegetables and what appeared to be green onions that were so long and heavy that a vendor was slapping them onto a table from out of a box, like tentacles.

We saw fireworks from Franklin and Allison’s apartment (number “4” on the itinerary) and even though it was raining, we all squeezed in to their kitchen and talked about everything and nothing at all.

The rain stopped right as the fireworks started, almost as if it was just for us.

(Our dad watched the fireworks on the TV inside hahahahahahha)

Seriously...that view! Swooooon

The rain started again after the show and we walked home soaking wet, me feeling very much like a character in a TV show or movie set in New York, brownstone after brownstone passing as I hooked arms with Daniel and my mom.

On our last day in New York, we explored Brooklyn by foot, my boyfriend's idea, and the one who led me and my aunt to the cutest little restaurant I have been to in recent memory.

There was something quite magical about sitting in the café, eating breakfast at noon on a Tuesday, the buzzing of the barista making coffee drink after coffee drink, watching people through the window heading towards a little park.

…on their way to something, on their way back from something, having the best day, having the worst day— talking to themselves (in several languages.)

I felt that sense of anonymity too, even though it was a significant holiday for me.

If anyone looked over, no one would have known that it was our last meal of a special vacation for our family, one where everything was the same, yet different, and wonderful, all at once.

And I didn’t have to worry about finding my way home.

-Jenny

In favor of my working mom

I listen to Dr. Laura, this on-air therapist, on my way home from work every day and I'm on board with most of her advice except one: about how "stay-at-home moms" are better for their children than working moms.

Because I had a "working mom" and I appreciated every single panty-hosed visit to our school growing up.

Peeking out from behind the thick, velvety curtain on stage at various elementary school plays, I felt it was extra important that she was able to squeeze a visit on her lunch break.

...A leather bound file folder balanced in the crook of one arm clapping as we got presidential medals, first grade graduation certificates, etc.

The other stay-at-home moms were always the ones in jeans and Keds sneakers looking way too calm in the front row, arriving early, smelling like cookies.

I remember my friends who had stay-at-home moms, which I now understand to be a job in itself, but their presence at school functions, gymnastics meets and soccer games seemed less meaningful since they weren't doing anything else.

LOL

DON'T SHOOT ME MOM BLOGS.

I admired having such a hard-working mom. 

Someone who was so important she got work calls at 8 o'clock at night after dinner, or after a particularly seething ten o'clock news segment about the New Orleans Public School system, where she worked.

I also remember how important we found it that our mom took two weeks off for vacation every summer to be with us, no leather folder to be seen.

"What about your meetings?"

"This is more important."

We beamed.

That role model hard-working attitude has been duplicated in the 12 or so years us children have worked full-time.

My twin sister Joy once flew back to Charleston, where we live, ON MARDI GRAS day to finish a project that suddenly had a last-minute deadline.

I had five jobs simultaneously in the three years I lived in New Orleans. 

I don't think we even saw our brother Franklin from 2007-2010 due to his workload. 

Last year at Jazz Fest, I had to leave the set of my favorite band, Johnny Sketch and the Dirty Notes, because I had a work emergency that I needed to solve.

I sat in the back row of the children's tent, by myself, furiously checking my work email.

"One year I had a work emergency, when your grandfather was in town visiting for Jazz Fest," my mom said to me. 

"But back then, we didn't have smartphones and I had to leave and go home to get on the computer. And you have to buy a whole new ticket to re-enter."

Other people might have ignored it, feigned bad reception at Jazz Fest. But there I was, typing away. 

Mamma raised me right.

Of all the great qualities I've inherited from my mom—brains, compassion, a really cute nose—one of the least acknowledged is how us children inherited her desire to work hard for your passion. 

Such as...cold-call walk into the office of a community weekly newspaper fresh off of college graduation and pitch being a freelancer and do so well that they hire you full-time three months later.

In New Orleans, it was learning how to create my own job. I had just gotten laid off and thanks to my mom's connection at an arts nonprofit, I was hired as a lowly receptionist.

Spoiler alert: I'm a terrible receptionist.

That's when my mom told me to "grow where you're planted," which is code for make the job you want, not the job you have.

(Kind of like "dress for the job you want, not the one you have," only less sexist.)

During my stint as a "receptionist" I forced my way into being the organization's email blaster, grant writer and, at my mom's recommendation, I started teaching newspaper to kids after school, which still today, was the most rewarding job I've ever had.

Thanks mom.

When I decided to move back to Charleston and miraculously got a job interview for a business magazine, my mom drove 12 hours with me to take the interview. 

Taking time off of her own job to do it.

Now that I understand how hard it is to juggle a full-time job with a needy DOG, I am even more impressed that mom was able to juggle so much, so successfully, with three needy kids. (Well, two needy kids and Franklin.)

And I'm that much more appreciative of the time she made for us. 

She still continues to be a role model.

My new life goal is to be immortalized with a surprise half-hour long tribute when I retire. 

Yes, in the middle of a work luncheon for something unrelated, my mom was surprise honored by an entire room of people for all her years of hard work and all the lives she changed.

New life goal: To have co-workers BEG me not to leave when I stop working.

Oh and have a dedication in a book:

 

#LifeGoals

  

Certainly, that beats staying home in Keds, baking cookies.

DON'T SHOOT ME MOM BLOGS.

Today it's fitting that I’m exhausted because I stayed up until after midnight several nights this week to write a complicated article for the business magazine where I still work. 

But I don’t mind one bit.

Because I was taught to work hard for my passion.

Besides...that’s what my mom would have done.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY MOM!!!

-Jenny

Five lessons Hurricane Katrina taught me

1. Buy real estate following a disaster. Houses in New Orleans are now being sold for HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA amounts of money, houses that you wouldn’t even walk by ten years ago. Empty lots have STARTING bids at $80,000 at auction. Think about that during the next major natural disaster in your town!

2. You don’t need home insurance. Katrina showed us that it doesn’t matter if you put money every year into home insurance, flood insurance, disaster insurance, etc. everyone got paid out (or bought out) from the government. And what didn’t get paid out, religious groups came down to fix it for free. ‘MERICA!!!!!!

3. Keep an ax in your attic. Before Katrina, I certainly didn’t consider the possibility that anyone would have to exit their house from the roof. And a roof does not have a human-sized door. Keep an ax in the attic so you can hack your way out in an emergency, or, you know, if a serial killer was lurking below.

4. Kids need therapy. When I was a newspaper reporter in New Orleans after the BP oil spill in 2010, I wrote an article about how BP was paying for therapy for all the children on the Gulf Coast who were traumatized by the spill. An excellent PR move and wholly important. And I’m sure there were some therapy programs for kids post-Katrina, but nothing that springs to mind. And now the “kids of Katrina,”—not the ones who were born ten years ago, but those who were impressionable 10-year-olds then who are 20 years old now—just may be EFFED up. I have no way to prove a correlation, but New Orleans has a major problem right now with teenagers and 20-something young people shooting, stabbing, terrorizing the French Quarter and beating people senseless for no apparent reason. I can’t help but wonder if these are children of the storm.

5. It forced you to care about your ex.  No matter how much you hated them in the end, after Katrina, you got in touch with your ex, asked them where they were, if they were OK and even asked them about their mamma. 

...Even if they were a toolbag.

-Jenny

All in the family

I just got back from a trip to Los Angeles for the July 4^th weekend—61 hours to be exact—and 60 of those hours were spent with my entire family: mom, dad, older brother Franklin and twin sister, Joy.

It was very much a family vacation in that we spent every single minute together, all in each other’s business with no closed doors or privacy, but that’s how we always are. 

And it’s just a few times a year we all get together with my brother living on the West Coast, Joy and I living on the East Coast and our parents in the middle in New Orleans.

“Are we like the family from that movie, While you were Sleeping?”  Joy asked.

She was currently getting yelled at for taking a shower too late and now didn’t have enough time to blow dry her hair before we had to leave for a baseball game. 

“NOBODY CARES IF YOUR HAIR IS BLOWN OUT!” my dad said, and Joy yelled at everyone but herself for why she was running late and I was laughing acting like I was ready to go, but then forgot my glasses on the nightstand as everyone was out the door.

(Our brother was thinking more along the lines of “Meet the Fockers”)

I would consider us a “communal family,” constantly talking about everything and nothing all at the same time, refilling wine and beer glasses, louder than most, a testament to our New Orleans roots.

For three days, we rolled five deep, plus Franklin’s girlfriend, Allison, and John, our longtime family friend who also lives in Los Angeles, accomplices to our While you were Sleeping cast. 

We all went to a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball game, just like last year.

And even though they lost horribly we all watched mesmerized at the 90-mile-per-hour pitches, the bright blue and white clothing and HOW CAN THE OUTFIELDERS CATCH THOSE POP-UPS IT’S SO HIGH I’M GETTING DIZZY LOOKING AT THE TOP OF THE STANDS.

“Look at his batting average—it’s .22,” my dad reported to me. “That means that for every ten times at bat, he only hits two balls. Can you imagine if at work you had 10 things to do and you messed up eight times, and you still got paid a million dollars?”

Hahahahaha

“Who’s on first?” my mom chimed in. 

Then: “How come they don’t broadcast the whole game on the jumbotron?”

Ahahahahaha

The next day was spent together again, squished into the backseat, as we drove to the “most Los Angeles” restaurant our brother could find, as per Joy’s request.

It was a ridiculously delicious, ridiculously fresh and healthy menu that had the word MACROBIOTIC repeated over and over, which from my understanding means they only serve soy and almond milk options.

We then all squished into the backseat again to go to a photography exhibit and drove down Wilshire Blvd through BEVERLY HILLS to get there.

Joy and I squealed at the fancy clothing stores and kept our eyes peeled for movie stars.

“Movie stars leave town for the fourth of July,” Franklin said, ruining all our fun. “You’re not going to see anyone this weekend.”

“I DON’T MIND A D-LISTED CELEBRITY!” I said, craning my neck out the window.

“Where can we get yogurt where you add your own toppings?” Joy piped in from the back seat.

Frankling sighed loudly.

Hahahahaha

The photography exhibit was free, and was SO awesome and we saw the work of photographers from all over the world (many younger than Joy and me, my dad pointed out repeatedly, DAD WHAT IS YOUR POINT), photographers who take pictures of war-torn nations, crab fishermen in Alaska, portraits of black fathers in the Bronx.

I didn’t realize before what a wide variety of photography there is—I mean, I DID know, but now that it was all on display in front of me, it was crazy the variations of the same skill: citizen journalism, posed shots, warped images that put a red neon lightning bolt over the Nevada desert, glamour shots of ice cream for ad campaigns.

(Fun fact: Many of the photographers became really popular thanks to Instagram, and right there at the museum I started following a few of them.)

“What is an Instagram?” my mom asked.

We then went back to my parents' Air BnB and got ready to go see Smoky Robinson at the Hollywood Bowl.

Do you know about the Hollywood Bowl? It’s a large outdoor amphitheater with circular wooden seating all facing a stage and it looks like it’s from a movie set, which is fitting.

They let people bring in their own wine and food and there were mountains in the distance and I still couldn’t get over how gorgeous it all was.

The Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra  opened for Smoky Robinson and they played all songs American—the Star-Spangled Banner, America the Beautiful, the Star Wars theme song.

Then they played a compilation of each song from branches of the military (“they have songs???” Joy and I asked) and the conductor asked people who served in the respective branches to stand up when their song was played and Joy and I got embarrassingly teary-eyed seeing them stand up and wave to the crowd of 5,000 who were clapping for them.

“How come there’s no song for the Peace Corps?” my dad asked loudly. “I was in the Peace Corps. That was service.”

(Haha dad)

Then Smoky Robinson came on, in a green leather suit and he KILLED IT!!! He danced and sang for almost two straight hours with the philharmonic behind him. 

He’s 75 years old, an inspiration to my dad who is 73. My parents got all of Smoky’s references to old records and 45s and A-tracks.

There was another fantastic fireworks show, but this one had NO bangs, just swooooshing sound as lights and stars lit up the sky, and they emblazoned a Statue of Liberty that was built on top of the amphitheater in fireworks.

We then walked to dinner at California Pizza Kitchen and our server had to tend to our seven-person rowdy table in which Franklin kept repeating the “I’M STARVING” line from SNL at me because I was crabby and hungry.

Perhaps that was because I said aloud (instead of in my head) that I was ordering an entire pizza to myself and not sharing with anyone.

“I’M STARVING!!!!!!!” Franklin said, looking at me, which didn’t make me any less crabby or hungry.

“WELL, I AM STARVING,” I said, and Joy laughed and sipped on her sangria which was as big as her head.

(Our mom gave her disapproving eyes when it arrived at the table. “Ummm excuse me...”)

AHAHAHAHAHAHA

We gathered together the next day at the Air BnB (seven deep) and watched the U.S. Women’s Soccer team dominate Japan although Joy, my mom and I hated to see Japan’s goalie crying at the end.

“Why do they keep showing that???” we asked. “Now I want to cry!!”

Franklin sighed loudly.

We then took a walk around Echo Park Lake, took another identical photo as last year, and us siblings had some sibling time at Franklin's apartment while our dad cooked dinner.

Joy and I were taking the red eye flight out of Los Angeles at 12:54 a.m. that Sunday night (3:54 a.m. East Coast time...yikes) and had some time to kill.

So we played UNO as a family.

“I can’t tell which ones are green and which ones are blue!” our dad kept saying, as we tried to find brighter lights.

“NO ONE THROW DAD ANY GREEN OR BLUE CARDS!” we said.

“UNO!”

And then we all laughed and I laughed the hardest because I won, and then suddenly it was time to pack and head to the airport, and our krewe of seven turned back into a krewe of just two.

“Miss you already,” my mom texted four minutes after we left (seriously).

Hahahahaha

And then life went back to normal. As quickly as vacation started, before we knew it, we were back on the East Coast, back in the humidity, back in the non-mountainous Lowcountry.

Just like that, normal life returned on the cross-country overnight flight.

While I was sleeping.

-Jenny