Greatest Hits 2006

Best Sports Moment: (tie) Cardinals winning the World Series and Quin Snyder's resignation
Best Reading Material: (tie) Jesus Land by Julia Scheeres, Be Honest, You're Not That Into Him Either by Ian Kerner, and Rich Dad Poor Dad by Robert T. Kiyosaki
Best New Show: My Boys on TBS
Best Break: Memphis (possibly the friendliest city I've ever been to)
Best Quote: Fiscus' "They thought about talking to us for two hours and could only muster seven minutes of conversation. What was wrong with them?"
Best Purchase: My new Sony VAIO (LOVE it!!!)
Best Part-Time Job: Um, the one I stayed at for longer than a month (i.e., the current one)
Best Discovered Drink: Poormosa
Best Part of the Full-Time Job: It paid for me to cross off one of my life goals

Can't Eat Here

Two things you can't find in rural MO:
1. tofu
2. Boca Burgers

Making veggie chili doesn't work out so well without them. Just sayin'.

We Do It Up High and Down Low

Someone please tell me...when did I become the High-Five Girl?

I've always known that I'm a tomboy. I've come to accept that. I know I've got a lot of guy friends. I even have started to accept that I may be someone difficult to show emotion to. But really is the high-five the only thing I warrant from all guys?

Don't get me wrong now...I love a good high-five every now and then. We used to do it all the time when I played high school sports. In college my fellow MU fans high-fived often throughout the football and basketball seasons. Even now, I'll expect a good high-five from a fellow Cards fan when Molina does something amazing on the screen before us. But when it comes to guys I'd like to "score" with (hahaha, couldn't resist the pun), the high-five...I mean what is that?

The first time I got a high-five recently I was listening to this guy speak about his new project. When I asked him a question, I could've sworn we had a moment (or at least a nanosecond) where we locked eyes; I was thinking, "Holy cow, this guy is adorable AND idealistic AND passionate! Wow. That's sexy." (Although he was probably thinking, "Holy cow, this girl is a Teach For America alumni AND thinks what I'm doing is important AND is Asian! Wow. I love Korean BBQ.") But as he left in a bit of a hurry, he decided not to thank each person individually. Still he came by, said something about keeping up what I was doing (or something like that) and walked toward me with a hand held high in the air. I high-fived it. He left. And I've hardly heard from him since.

My current crush must have been at the same "how-to-greet-Jaynar-seminar" and has recently decided that a high-five is a great way to talk to me. Sure, we sometimes talk about sports, but that's not when these hand slaps come about. Oh, no, it's more like, "Hey, how was your weekend? [insert high-five here]" or "I'm back! [insert high-five here]." Still there've been no, "Want to go to *** with me? [insert high-five there]."

And today, I got a myspace invite from a college friend. His myspace headline is "I like you. Do you like me? High-five!" Granted, this isn't from one of my current boys on the side. But still...it pretty much says the same thing to me..."We're friends. Hit me up high, baby!" And I guess what it does is leave me wondering...will I always be the guys' ol' buddy, ol' pal who hits them up high? [Then I think maybe I should stop calling guys "my buddy, my pal, and champ..."]

On 25

Twenty-five has come and gone. At age 24, I was sure that my quarter-century year would be a year of amazing things. Yet, here I am 26, and I did nothing more amazing than organize a friend's birthday lunch over the past year.

And I'm constantly reminded (by myself) that Martin Luther King, jr. was 25 when he led the Montgomery Bus Boycotts. He didn't let his youth stop him. But as my writing mentee once told me, "You can't compare yourself to Martin Luther King, jr." I suppose she's right.

But I still want to make a difference. Even if I'm 26.

Updates from the Bathroom

Luckily the roommate aided in my escape from the shower (see below). Otherwise, I would've been stuck in there until two days ago when the supervisor finally came to tear out the sliding doors and re-caulk the basin. But we now have a freshly-caulked tub and a spiffy new shower curtain/liner. And I won't be getting stuck behind that.

Kramer Won't Get Screwed

Every time an episode of Seinfeld comes on, we tease Heather that she'll be spending the rest of her life with Kramer. See, in the highly revealing game of Marry, Screw, Murder*, Heather, like the rest of the roomies chose to throw George overboard. However, unlike the rest of the roommates, Heather chose to have her one-nighter with Jerry...and marry Kramer! For the rest of us, Kramer's crazy antics were too much to imagine waking up to every day.

Thus, the first time I saw the now infamous Michael Richards video, the first thing I thought of was, "I'm glad I didn't marry Kramer." And even though I know that Kramer and Richards aren't one in the same, I don't care. I know I won't ever be able to enjoy Seinfeld in the same way as I did before. Much like What Women Want and Braveheart make me ill to watch now, I know I'll have that same revulsion to Seinfeld. Kramer simply won't have that enjoyable innocence to me. I won't be able to watch him without seeing the Richards we saw on stage and on Letterman.

And I have to say that now, if we were to play Marry, Screw, Murder, I'd definitely be screwing George.



*For those who've never played Marry, Screw, Murder before, the premise is this: You're on a boat with three guys (or girls), and you have to throw one overboard in order to save everyone else. Out of the remaining two, you have to have sex with one, and spend the rest of your life with the other. It's a horrendously fun way to get to know people on long road trips -- or ones that last from Watts to Exposition Blvd.

It Can Only Get Better

You know your week is all uphill when you wake up on a Monday morning and get stuck INSIDE your shower.

Parlez-Vous Useless?

One semester in 8th grade. Two years in high school. Two semesters in college. You'd think that was enough to teach someone something.

But no. After years of learning French, I know nothing. I knew my francais was rusty, but I wasn't aware of just how much until this past week. After trying to talk to a 2-year-old French-speaking child, all I could ask was "What's your name?" I racked my brain for an hour trying to remember how to ask her how old she was. I finally gave up. I never found out.

Then when a 7-person group from France came into job #2 this week, they ordered coffee, hot tea, and espresso. When they thanked me, I couldn't even recall how to say "you're welcome." Nor could I ask if they wanted to keep the check open or closed. So, I just brought it out.

But although my lack of French has me frustrated, I've also been thinking about everything else I've learned in life. How much else have I forgotten? What other things in life did I swear would be useful but have turned out to be quite useless? And what other things was I forced to learn that I would never need?

Oddly enough History of Baseball wasn't one of them. But I don't recall a whole lot from Calculus. Or The Warm Little Pond. Or Human Sexuality.

Another One Bites the Dust?

I just had another friend get engaged on Wednesday (Granted, I didn't listen to the message until Thursday). And even I was surprised at my reaction. I gasped. Then smiled. I was truly happy for her.

People (myself included) have come to think I'm abhorrent to the idea of love and marriage. But my reaction to said friend's engagement defies that conclusion (I even bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate with them). My reaction was much like it was to my two fellow married bloggers' wedding news years ago. So after a week's worth of reflection as to why my reaction to wedding news varies so much, I've come to a few of my own recent conclusions.

It's not the idea of marriage that disturbs me. But it's getting married to escape an unhappy life that disturbs me. It's marrying someone because you're afraid to be alone that disturbs me. And it's marrying someone to use them (or be used) that disturbs me.

I freak out not because I hate the idea of marriage. But because I think so highly of it.

Oh, No

I have a hard enough time humoring guys that I'd rather not humor. It's gotten easier recently; the second job has kind of forced me to remaster that skill.

Still, though, I'd rather spend my time interacting with people I like to talk to. So, when a not-so-interesting guy and his friends come up and interrupt a conversation with a friend, said guy is already starting out on the wrong foot. When one of them makes a comment that I look like Sandra Oh, I cringe, yet still try to forget how annoyed I am that these schmucks are comparing me to someone a decade older and not all that hot.

When said not-so-interesting guy keeps making comments and joking that I work in a hospital, yes, I'm going to cross my arms, lean back, and stop responding with multi-word responses and questions. I've got my limits.

New Pics

So, it's been a while since you've seen any photos of moi. Here are some. They're from as way back as July. And as recent as Saturday night (when the roomies came to visit me at job numero dos).

Check 'em out if you're bored...

ph Balanced for Jaynar

Why is it that we get such great satisfaction out of keeping secrets? And then another type of satisfaction by finally divulging them? If both are so satisfying, why keep secrets in the first place?

Hmmm...well, I've got a secret. Can't decide yet if I want to tell anyone, though...

Really, Ron, that's not 24

Working 75+ hours a week you discover many things about the world around you. For instance, you realize that McDonald's is a downright liar.

The Mackers off the 405 in El Segundo has signs everywhere that advertises itself as a 24-hour establishment. Why, then, was the drive-thru closed when I tried to go there Friday night? According to the man cleaning the sidewalk, it's closed every morning from 3-3:30. Um, yeah, 24 hours minus 30 minutes doesn't equal 24 hours. That's only 23 and a half.

Toy Meets Girl

Being in the same room with Rider Strong and ending the night with a vibrator -- that was pretty much my fantasy at age 13. (Well, except for the vibrator...maybe just some hand holding or some heavy petting...) But tonight I had that, and all I could think about was how Rider was so far away from where I was 12 years ago. So when I left the launch party for a new book (with memoirs about the upscale sex industry in LA) -- and was then handed a goodie bag with a vibrator -- all I could think about was how unstarstruck I had been (and how weird it was to get a vibrator as a parting gift).

I mean, I could've been the president of the Rider Strong fan club during middle school. Now, though, nothing. Much like the thank-you-for-coming toy that I got, my uninfatuation with Rider was evidence that I've apparently matured -- or at least changed. Gone are the days of my crushing on long-haired rebellious types. Gone are the days of lusting after a teen heartthrob. Gone are the days of getting caught up in the leather-jacket-wearing guy. Gone are the days of getting a Barbie Doll as a parting party gift.

But then, I crawled into bed (without even wondering what it would be like to snuggle with him under the covers) and saw my childhood teddy bear on the center of my bed. It's been with me for 25 years. Maybe I haven't matured that much after all.

Sleep Is a Funny Beast

All day long all I could think about was coming home and crawling into bed and snuggling up before falling asleep. So, why is it that now I'm home all I want to do is check my e-mail and watch Married with Children? Geez. I'm like a kid on coke.

Pain Is There for a Reason

That's what Meredith (and all the other characters) told us tonight. But is that true?

My little brother who had leg surgery this week has been in pain for days. But the break has been fixed. Why is the pain still necessary?

And when we fail at something in love or life, it often takes us weeks, months, or even years to heal. The pain stings us, and eventually, it dulls. But when it takes so long, does it make us a better person? Does it protect us from getting hurt or from making the same mistake over again?

No. Despite multiple bloody knees and scraped ankles, I kept getting on my bike. And despite failing in love and life, and despite not knowing exactly why things hurt, I'm sure I'll get back on the seat again. I mean, I've already figured out what I'm doing with the rest of my life...what's a little pain to go along with the plan?

Which Golden Girl Are You?

You get four guesses which one I'm most like...and the first three don't count.

For those who hate guessing, it's Blanche. (And I'm sure it's no coincidence that I'm like Samantha's original older Sex and the City character, eh?)

To find out who you're most like, go to the Lifetime Golden Girl's page.

If You Actually Care

So, yeah, it's been a while to say the least. The highlights to catch you up:
1. I'm working double-time...working hard to make my "dreams" a reality.
2. The Tigers are No. 25 in the AP poll.
3. The Cardinals FINALLY won tonight.
4. I met the son of the writer to It's a Wonderful Life.
5. I watched the Rockstar: Supernova finale with the cousin of the winner.
6. I found another gray hair on my head.
7. My legs were waxed last weekend.

I'd Be a Sports Writer...

It was only a month into classes. And that day I had the lecture portion of my class at The Missourian. I didn't have cable in my bedroom, so as I pulled on my (probably pink) clothes, I listened to the pop radio station. In between songs, they had vague announcements of some airplane accidents in New York. It wasn't until I was just about ready to leave for class that things became clear to the DJs. The planes hitting buildings in New York was no accident. Someone meant to do it.

After watching replay after replay of the incident in Alicia's room, I sped off to class. The teacher took random attendance, so even though there was a major terrorist event, I knew I'd better get to Lee Hills Hall. But there was a note on the door...for us idiot "journalism" students who hadn't thought of reporting to the newsroom the second we heard of the attacks, we were all to report there immediately.

As my magazine friends and I made our way into the frenzy of MU news ed students, we were informed of where the school's "poster children" were. BJ was already at the Columbia airport -- and I can't remember if Nina and I actually found out that he was on his way there before calling the newsroom to see what they needed, or if we just made it up. But actually, it didn't matter. He was there, and I wasn't. Thus, that was the day I realized I would never win a Pulitzer. That was the day that I realized that there are some people who live for telling the amazing story. But that wasn't me. I needed the time to talk to people. To mull things over. To call my one New York friend (who was actually still in Australia) and see if her family was OK. I was not on my way to CoMo's tarmac. I was sitting in a cushioned spinning seat with my eyes glued to the TV.

And as the rest of my classmates/reporters buzzed around trying to do the story they'd been assigned, me and the rest of my beat sat around lifeless. We were the sports geeks, and we had nothing to do that day. Or for the rest of the week. Games were cancelled. Sports were put on hold. And as I clawed my brain for some story that I could do that would relate sports to the attacks, I began to see that it was a little fruitless. Sports was a game. It simply didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

Sure, I went on to get an internship in sports, and I still write sports stories today. But since that day, I've never thought it mattered.

So Not LA

OK, it happened during every 10-minute break at MU. It happened when I went to the mall in St. Louis. And it even happened when I was eating at an outdoor cafe in New York City. But in LA? Never.

But yesterday it did. I unexpectedly ran into an old friend in the city. I was in K-Town getting my hair cut (and it's SO short!), when I heard my name. Turns out she was getting her hair cut that day, too. It had been over a year since we talked, so the four hours there flew by.

Crazy.

On a sidenote, after my roommies saw my new hair they told me I looked like an Asian Shirley Temple. SO not the look I was going for.