Oh Romeo

This week, one news story has held the captive attention of entertainment audience around the world, sparking shock, outrage, and sadness. People have taken to news feeds, twitter, and YouTube, posting condolences, teary memories, and even the occasional raging death threat. 

Of course, I’m talking about the affair between Kristin Stewart and that older director no one has ever really heard of, from Snow White and the Seven Huntsmen.

Because, why should we focus on the atrocities committed by a madman during a violent, murderous rampage, when there is young Hollywood infidelity to discuss! (Please not the sarcasm.) 

If you’re not familiar with KStew’s infidelity and RPattz’ broken little British heart, or even know what the heck a KStew or RPattz is, congratulations on not being completely caught up in ridiculous Hollywood minutia and living what I can only assume is a much more rich and vibrant life than my own. For those unfamiliar with the tragic tale of love and cheatery, there are many web sites out there with time/date stamped blow-by-blow (or kiss-by-kiss, as it were) reports of the affair, outing, and subsequent fallout that read similar to a crime spree breakdown, from first treacherous kiss to final public apology, in gory, assumptive detail.  What it basically amounts to is that Kristin Stewart, who plays the bland, awkward, uninteresting main character in the Twilight Saga (and in real life) has cheated on Robert Pattinson, her leading man in the Twilight Saga – and in real life, with the married and much older director of her last movie, Snow White and Seven Huntsmen. The illicit couple was photographed mid-kiss, and the photos surfaced this week on the cover of a US Weekly magazine. Caught red handed in the embrace of her daddy-issuelicious co-adulterer, Stewart chose a very Hollywood attempt to fix the situation, and maybe steal the spotlight from US Weekly - those rotten affair reveals - delivering an extremely public apology through People magazine to “those close to [her] and everyone this has affected,” including RPattz.

Because, nothing says I’m sorry than a written apology published through an entertainment magazine, amirite? 

Here’s the thing…actually, here’s the things, since I have multiple comments on this:

1.     None of us should care about something like this.

2.     We do care, because we lead boring, shallow little lives that demand interesting intrigue that in no way affects us, and we care because they are lovers in real life (or so we are meant to believe) AND lovers in a very bad series of movies based on an even worse set of books that millions of people inexplicably love! They’re like the Romeo and Juliet of our time! If, of course, Romeo’s family ran a multi billion dollar movie franchise and Juliet’s family consisted of millions of screaming and swooning teenage girls and middle-aged women who, instead of calling themselves the Capulets, call themselves Twihards, and IF the two families actually desperately wanted them together instead of desperately pulling them apart, AND IF the poison the lovers drank was actually a 41 year old movie director.

But other than that, they are totally like Romeo and Juliet. (Or so I tell myself so as not to feel quite so ridiculous for reading about the whole thing.)

3.     Did any of us actually believe that the love affair between a 22 year old actress and a 26 year old actor was going to last through the ages? Really? Let’s be honest, we were all silently taking bets on how long it would last, and I was never really even sure I believed they were together in the first place – seemed like a ploy to sell more movie tickets, in my most humble of opinions.

4.     But apparently they were together, though extremely unwilling to admit it. (KStew once told People Magazine that she would never cheapen her relationship by talking about it publicly. No, she would just cheapen it by cheating on it very publicly.) And now poor little RPattz is devastated and heartbroken.

5.     Let’s play another round of let’s be honest…we all kind of thought he would cheat on her before she would cheat on him, didn’t we?

But of course, a little good can come from every bad situation. I think there are a few lessons to be learned here.

1.     If you become an extremely famous actress (deserving or otherwise) and are constantly followed by paparazzi, maybe keep your affair indoors and away from prying cameras…Just a thought.

2.     If you should find that your affair has been outed on the cover of a magazine, admit that it’s true (kinda hard to deny it at that point) but insist it was a one time, momentary indiscretion. It sounds way less harsh than admitting it was an affair that spanned several months, and indiscretion sounds much better than “calculated choice.”

3.     No matter how important privacy is to you, when it comes to your relationship, issue a public apology to your wronged lover through whichever magazine will offer you the most money. After all, a girl’s gotta eat.

4.     If you are an angst-ridden teenager girl who puts more stock into the relationship between fictional characters than you do into your own relationships, by all means, post tearful pleas on YouTube for the couple to get back together, or insist that you will hunt down and kill the cheating fool who would break that the heart of such a hunky piece of man meat.

That always helps to right the wrongs of the world.

Do You Know the Way to San Jose...

So, I traveled to California for work last week – San Jose, to be exact, to attend a mobile learning conference. The conference was great. I spent my days in little, windowless rooms of learning, soaking up as much information as I could, and my evenings wandering around downtown San Jose, which offers a very interesting mix of shiny new glass buildings and scruffy, smelly pan-handlers.

The hotel, itself, was very nice. I had a lovely view of the pool, there was a beautiful spa where I indulged in a relaxing massage after a long day of air travel, and my bathroom had a telephone in it. I find that last detail to be very intriguing, especially in this day and age, when we all have cell phones. The phone was mounted right next to the toilet and I couldn’t help but wonder who is making calls while sitting there? What is so important that your call cannot wait a few more minutes? And who is using a hotel land-line phone these days? The only thing you really use it for is to ask for a wake-up call or to order room service. So, either people sit down for a bio-break and suddenly, realizing how tired they are, decide that they must at that very moment, call the front desk to request a wake-up call, or they are sitting there thinking, “Hmm, I’d really like a burger and some fries – Might as well call room service and order it up right now!” Or, is the hotel just extremely worried that you might fall from your perch, injuring yourself, and need a phone mounted just high enough to not be able to reach from the floor, to call for help?

I always find it interesting to go to places like California or meet people from areas of the country that are incredibly happy with and proud of where they live. If you meet someone from California they will almost always say something along the lines of, “Oh, it’s a wonderful place. I just love it there.” I’m from Buffalo, and we don’t say things like that. Now, I’ve lived in a few different places – Rochester is great, I really do enjoy living here, Atlanta is a fun place to visit and spend some time, but I was born and raised in Buffalo, and when you start out in Buffalo, you’re always from Buffalo, no matter how many years you’ve lived somewhere else. The thing is that no one proudly proclaims that they are from Buffalo. They look down and dejectedly mutter, “I’m from Buffalo,” and wait for one of three inevitable responses: Oh, you get a lot of snow up there, I love buffalo wings, or how about them Bills?  And we’ll grouse and complain about Buffalo, rejecting it as a boring, politically disastrous little city, but the second someone else has a negative word to say about it, we will defend the honor of our homeland like a proud, angry lion. We will gallantly proclaim ourselves Bills fans, despite our four consecutive Super Bowl losses and the following two decades of painfully bad seasons. We will adorn our cars in Sabres decals and still shake an angry fist when one anyone yells, “No goal!” And we will insist that buffalo wings in any other part of the country are not real wings at all. 

We are a proud people – but only when defending the city we always dreamed of leaving. 

Of course, visiting and living in other parts of the country, I and many other Western New Yorkers eventually realize that our area is not so bad. Sure, our winters can be freezing cold and snowy, but when you look at other areas with wildfires, tornadoes, hurricanes, and earthquakes, suddenly a little (or a lot) of snow doesn't seem so bad. Our biggest problem tends to be fighting each other for snacking supplies at the grocery store only to find out that the big storm they predicted side stepped us and hit New York City instead.

Always a Bridesmaid...

This Saturday my one-and-only little sister will be getting married. It’s a small, non-traditional wedding, in every sense of the word, which I kind of love – I’ve never been one for traditions, and at the end of it all I will have a brand-new, wonderful sister-in-law…Yes, you read the correctly. We live in New York State, which thankfully is legally progressive enough to officially allow such things and I couldn’t be happier or more proud. Love is love is love…

All that being said, I have once again been thrust into the role of Bridesmaid, although, since we are going non-traditional, right down to the very private ceremony in the middle of a park, my sister has insisted that I am not a bridesmaid or a maid-of-honor. I am her witness, which is just fine by me – people smiling at you with pity in their eyes and saying “Always a bridesmaid never a bride,” gets old really fast. There’s no mortifying or demeaning saying for a witness, but I’ll let you in a on a little secret – being a witness is still basically the same thing as being a Maid-of-Honor. I still have a dress from a bridal shop, I will still carry a little bouquet of flowers, and I still have to hold the bride’s dress while she pees. Some things just don’t change. 

I’m very lucky. I’ve never had to deal with a bridezilla, and my sister has been even more easy going than most other brides. It’s a little bit interesting to navigate the wild world of wedding planning with two brides instead of one, especially when they have different tastes and ideas of what they want, but for the most part, it’s been smooth sailing. The other witness and I don’t have matching dresses, I didn’t have to have my shoes dyed, and I won’t be put through an awkward wedding-party dance – which, let’s face it, would be extra weird for this wedding party, which consists solely of two straight, female witnesses.

How many of you are now singing Marvin Gaye’s Can I Get a Witness in your head? Just me? 

Now, typically, a post on my blog about someone’s pending nuptials would be fraught with slightly amusing, self-depreciating lamenting about going to yet another wedding sans date. I’ve actually never gone to a wedding with a date, which sounds a bit pathetic, but it’s really equal parts bad timing and the fact that I’d rather go solo than drag a male friend to a wedding where he won’t know anyone and I’ll have to field questions about the nature of our relationship all night. So I’ve gone solo and moped through the slow songs and told myself that I WILL have a date for the next wedding. 

Well, that date and day have finally arrived, and I have to say, more than anything, it’s just a huge relief. Instead of feeling sorry for myself or wishing I could share such a wonderful day with someone, or pretending that I am completely fine with being a strong, single female (which I was and am, by the way) I can focus on all the other tiny bits of crazy that lead up to the big day. 

The dress – for instance. The other witness and I shopped for an entire day (I’m talking over eight hours straight of trying on dress after dress after dress) trying to find complimentary dresses, so that we wouldn’t match, per say, but we wouldn’t completely clash either. Finally, exhausted and unwilling to zip up one more hideous frock, we decided to get the first ones we tried on, bridesmaid dresses in the same style but different colors. I didn’t love the dress, but I didn’t hate it as much as I hated the idea of putting myself through any more changing room try-ons, so we put in our orders.

Several weeks later, my dress arrived and it wasn’t exactly the color I was expecting. Instead of the soft, light purple in the catalog, it was a bright, shiny purple tent. Yes, a tent. A giant, triangle-shaped tent – I guess most tents are relatively triangle-shaped, aren’t they? I laughed when I saw it, and immediately made an appointment with a tailor to get it fitted – surely this giant, shiny purple tent would need to be taken in, a lot. It was the size of a house, and though I am never described as anything close to twig-like, I am definitely not house-sized. 

So, a few days later, I went to the tailor and stepped into the dressing room to try it on for the first time. “It’ll have to be taken in on the sides, a lot,” I yelled out to the sweet little old Italian lady as she patiently waited on the other side of the door. “It’s huge!” Then I slipped it on and zipped it up, and promptly wanted to cry.

It fit.

It fit like a freaking glove.

You’d think that would be a good thing, right? You’d think so, but you’d be wrong. Not only did I suddenly feel like the world largest woman, since the tent-sized dress fit me, but the thing stuck out from my sides in an inexplicable fashion. Even the tailor tried to figure out how to bring it in on the sides without completely compromising the fit of the dress, but alas, it was not to be. So I had it hemmed up, because it’s also tea-length, which, for my male readers, means it comes to mid-shin, which also means it made me look about two inches tall, and then went on my way.

For the first day or two, I was okay with it. It’s my sister’s wedding. I’m not going to make a fuss about the dress. Then the reality that I would have photos forever of me in the giant bright shiny purple triangle began to set in, as did dread and a bit of panic. Finally, I told my sister about the dress and how it looked and she explained that she didn’t want us to match in the first place (remember, we are witnesses, not bridesmaids, and apparently witnesses do NOT match), and she insisted we go on our lunch break, that day, back to the bridal shop, and see if we could find something on the racks, in my size, in the right color. That is a much more difficult task than you would think. We grabbed about twenty dresses of different colors, lengths, and sizes, and I had about fifteen minutes to throw them all on, get them zipped up, decide that I hate them, and move on to the next. All the while, my sister, calling and texting random vendors about wedding plans, was nudging and rushing and pushing me through the processes in a way that had my heart racing and my anxiety at lethally high levels. At the end of the most rushed and sweaty dress shopping experience of my life, I finally left with a dress. It was the last one I tried on. My sister hadn’t seen it. It was dark grey. I loved the way it looked. She determined it was too close to the black of her dress. So, after work, back I went, returning the dress, and dragging another friend (Hi, Rachel!) through the shop, grabbing twenty more dresses to try on. Luckily and thankfully, one of the first ones we grabbed was a winner. I got the double bride approval, it fit perfectly, it did not in any way resemble a tent, and off I went.

I still have to go back to the tailor to pick up the hideous, shiny purple tent, but I’m in no hurry to get that and add it to my collection of bridesmaid dresses I shall never wear again – I’m starting to build a collection akin to the one in the movie 27 Dresses. 

The wedding is in two days. My hair has been cut and dyed. The shoes have been bought. I have prepared a bag of emergency necessities for the brides that include things like a sewing kit, scissors, bobby-pins, and band-aids. My nails have been painted – incidentally, my toes are the same blue as my dress, which only makes me look a little like a corpse, when you look at my pale legs and blue toes. Tomorrow I will try spray tanning for the first time, to fix the pale leg problem, and I am taking every precaution to not look like Ross from Friends after his tanning mishap. I will not be in a booth and there will be no counting Mississippily.* I will be airbrushed. It will be interesting. Maybe they can airbrush in a six-pack on my stomach, just for fun. 

I joke and complain and poke fun at the preparations, but the truth is that I couldn’t be more happy for my sister and her fiancé. It will be a perfect day, a beautiful ceremony, and hopefully I will avoid getting hit by bird poop as I stand witness to their love in the park. 

*Sorry about the Friends reference. Couldn't help myself.

Am I a Mean Girl?

I make fun of a lot of guys a lot of the time on this blog…but I think I’m relatively kind about it…I never call people out or write about anyone that would be easily recognizable by the readers. Nevertheless, I realize that I can be a little mocking and biting from time-to-time. I was keenly reminded of that fact the other day when someone that I am newly dating informed me that he’d found and read my blog and my first thought was not “how did he find it,” or “did he like my writing,” but rather, “Uh-oh, does he think I’m a mean girl now?” I’d like to think that most people would understand and enjoy the humorous tone that my blog is written in, but you never know how someone will take it, and I realize that not everyone appreciates sardonic or sarcastic humor. 

In this case, however, we were out to dinner post-reading, so apparently he didn’t mind the level of snark that exists on Another One Bites the Dust. I’ll bet it was a bit of surprise when he found it, though.

So, in a shallow attempt to atone for a bit of my man-mocking, I thought I’d regale you, instead, with a few recent blurbs in which I was actually the one deserving of some mockery.

As I mentioned, I am dating someone new, and so far it’s actually going really well. No big red flags, no little issues. I say that almost hesitantly, because I can’t believe how well it’s actually going. Every time I mention it to someone I get a big stupid smile on my face, and I find myself bringing him up in conversation just to talk about him and smile more…which is so incredibly annoying of me! And while a part of me is enjoying it immensely, the jaded part of me that has slowly eaten away at the naïve romantic is being cautiously optimistic. Plus, every time I call my mom I can tell that she’s nervously answering the phone, waiting for me to say another one bit it. 

But, so far so good. I’m smiling, I’m enjoying myself…and unfortunately I’m also embarrassing myself, over and over. Suddenly, the smooth, suave, self-assured serial dater has morphed into a stumbling, bumbling, silly girl, a la every bad romantic comedy you’ve made the mistake of sitting through. 

For instance, our second date – I had a great time, good conversation, laughed a lot, listening to good music, had good food and drinks. Then he drove me back to my car (at the first venue of the evening). He said he had a good time, I concurred and thanked him. He asked for another date, which, incidentally, got him extra bonus points. (Take note, guys, securing the next date while still on the previous date is a good move.) And then he leaned in for the good-bye hug. Only I thought he was going for the first kiss…so I went for the kiss, and only realized at the last second that I had misread his move. By then he realized I was going in for the kiss, but I turned my head away as he turned in, and I pretty much ended up smacking the side of my face into his lips. Very romantic. We laughed, he insisted he was trying to be a gentleman, and I turned ten shades of red and felt like a big old hussy. He tried to salvage the moment and kiss me, but by then I just felt ridiculous and couldn’t stop laughing. 

A few days later, while driving home from work, I tried to use Siri on my iphone to text my friend Rachel (Hi, Rachel!) and let her know I would pick her up at 7:30 instead of 7 for a concert that night. Seri recited my message back and then confirmed that it was sent…only she didn’t send it to Rachel, she sent it to Him! I’m not sure why or how, but the digital bitch sent it to him instead, and immediately, in the middle of rush hour traffic, I found myself trying to do damage control. His quick response was, “Ha! Where are we going?” and my main fear was that he would think I was texting another guy – which, incidentally, I think he did think, but for the record I was not. Not a big deal, and certainly not the end of the world, but definitely not something cool, suave dating girl would do. I am much more technologically-savvy, especially when it comes to dating protocol, but sadly Siri was not in my side that day. She can tell me about the weather, and find a nearby store, but clearly she knows nothing about the etiquette of dating.

Speaking of technology mishaps, the following weekend he came by my house to pick me up for our date. After giving him a quick home tour, we stopped in the kitchen and I showed him my new work phone – a fat little thing that looks like something I would have used five or six years ago. Now, I know, I’m spoiled with my iphone, Siri aside, and not everyone has fancy smart phones…though once you have one it’s hard to understand why everyone doesn’t, and I worked for a cell phone company in the hay day of the new technology, so I may be a bit of a mobile device snob, but really, the little phone I got for work, which is mostly for texting and making calls while traveling, is a sad little piece of mobile electronics. So, I held it up and showed him the ridiculous graphic menu and how tiny the screen was. Then he held up his phone, a funny look on his face, and I realize he had the exact same phone that I was making fun of. 

Come to think of it, I’m not entirely sure why this guy is still dating me. I’m kind of a jerk. I mean, I’m awesome, most of the time, but occasionally, I can be a real jerk!

Of Geese and Men

I’m baaaaa-ack. 

It’s been brought to my attention that I have not yet blogged in 2012, and I’m sure you’re all missing my great and wonderful musings…all three of you that regularly read this blog. And may I point out that my mother, who I have given the blog link to on multiple occasions, and who is a big proponent of me and my [non-existent] writing career, is not, in fact, a regular reader. I think that maybe she’s afraid she’ll glean a bit too much tawdry information from one of my date stories, tarnishing the “good girl” image she has of me, but I think that we can all agree this blog is not a catalog of sex-capades, a la Sex in the City. Maybe I would have more readers if it was…or if I didn’t go three months without posting…but alas I never kiss and tell – unless it’s really funny.

So, what have I been doing these last three months, you ask? I’ve actually been quite busy for someone who usually hibernates through the winter months. I’ve started a new job, where people are simultaneously very friendly and very segregated into their own little groups (and most of my group is not at my location), and where each morning I am forced to access the building via a gauntlet of honking, hissing geese and the subsequent piles of goose poop. There are, and this is not an exaggeration, several hundred geese currently occupying the pond behind the building and the lovely, park-like surroundings. It must be the beginning of mating season because they seem to be doing their little mating dances and pairing off.

Goose mating appears to be much easier than the human version. Maybe we should dispense with our dating rituals and take a cue from the geese. They are monogamous and mate for life – no cheating or divorce for the feathered Canadians, though I feel bad for the female who chooses the loud, aggressive asshole gander – she’s stuck with him. Courtship consists of a female seeing a male goose across the pond and dipping her neck up and down. Eventually, after the males have all shown off enough, the female chooses who she wants. It might take the male a little while to realize he’s been chosen (I guess male geese are as clueless to signals as male humans) but eventually he’ll figure it out. That’s when they get into showing off a bit, extending the neck, rolling their heads in an alluring yet demure way (she is still a lady, after all), and then lifting the wings and flapping (but she knows how to get wild).

Actually, if you think about it, goose mating isn’t really all THAT different from what we do. Think of, if you will, a dance club. You have the ladies on the floor and the men strewn around the perimeter. She locks eyes with one she likes and starts to throw him signals. Eventually he realizes she’s digging his jive and he heads toward her to dance, or in the case of uncoordinated white boys, sway awkwardly with a sheer lack of rhythm while trying to shout small talk over the deafening thump and screech of the music. She might tilt her head, roll her neck a bit toward him, and she’s definitely flashing a bit of what’s hidden under the feathers. Then, eventually, they pair off on their own, leaving the leftover singles to continue the ritual or perish alone in the harsh winter.

So, apparently, one of the things I’ve been doing over the last three months is learning way too much about Canadian Geese.

Another thing I’ve been spending a lot of time on is volunteering on a committee to organize a great event for one of my favorite non-profits – Gilda’s Club Rochester’s Third Annual Bachelor Auction – Gilda’s Guys. I’m going to plug this event for a minute, so bare with me…The event itself is fantastic, and keeps getting better with each year. We have 25 very good looking guys, who are all actually interesting to talk to, as well. On March 29 we will gather at Harro East Ballroom in Rochester, NY, dress these wonderful, single guys up in tuxedos and auction them off, one at a time, in front of roughly four to five hundred women. They range in age from low twenties to upper fifties, and the winning bidder will get a one hundred dollar gift card to a local restaurant, as well as some other goodies like theater tickets, baseball tickets, and a little pre-date primping at a local spa/salon. Best of all, every dollar that we raise goes directly to Gilda’s Club Rochester, a fabulous organization that provides free support and services to cancer patients and their families. They offer support groups, play space and events for children, special events for teens, a library of research and support books, cooking and craft classes, and so much more. If you’re not familiar with them, check out their site - http://www.gildasclubrochester.org . And hey, if you’re a single woman in the area or you  really enjoy a fun night out with some fantastic people watching, you can buy tickets to the event or just donate to the cause on the site, as well. 

Now, you’re probably saying, hey Jen, why don’t you just buy a guy there? And sure, that sounds like a great idea, but the truth is that I actually have this horrible, perhaps semi-irrational fear that if I did buy a bachelor he would look at me and go “oh crap!” I know, I know, I’m being too hard on myself and assuming the worst, and these guys are all so nice that I’m sure none of them would think that…or at least they wouldn’t let on that they think that, but I suppose it’s best that I leave the bidding up to the other ladies. I will admit I do have my eye on one or two, but I will, no doubt, be running around working the event all night and be far too busy [afraid] to bid. If I have any friends out there, though, [hint hint, nudge nudge] that want to come on down and buy me a date – I welcome and encourage it!

Besides the new job and the auction, I’ve been doing a few other things too, like participating in a two-month fitness challenge, indirectly causing a pretty big traffic back-up on a local expressway, and I’ve been on a couple of dates…but you weren’t really interested in that, were you? Truthfully, the dates themselves weren't all that interesting. I went out with a guy from the old job a few times (after leaving said job) before he suddenly pulled a disappearing act (something that I was more than okay with) on the same day that a crazy girl contacted a friend of mine to get the skinny on my situation with him and insist that he had a girlfriend (which I actually don't believe was true). Can we say drama? She wanted to warn me off, and though I didn't bother with a real response, I wanted to say, "girl, you can have him." Then I ran into him again a few weeks later, and he spent more time hitting on my guy friend than talking to me, which was really awesome on so many levels. So, then I let my sister pick out a guy, who seemed nice, at first, but with whom I ended up feeling like I was in a constant verbal boxing match with after only two dates! No chemistry, almost nothing in common, and flirty banter that got way too aggressive and combative - just what everyone is looking for in a date. 

And so, for now, with the budding of spring and the onslaught of wonderful, warm weather, the search for Mr.-Not-Completely-Horrible continues.