I'm a dude with a shredder now, ladies!

If you're reading this, you're probably hankering for some juice on all the Asians my Amazonian self has already traumatized (or at least frightened). Unfortunately, turns out when I'm put in foreign situations, the only pathway my brain has enough resources to retain activity in is the one where I just smile and try to look harmless, but not vacant. It's a fine, fine line, really. Instead, I'll give you a few pleasant anecdotes, all of which will be summarized by the honorable Chuck Palahniuk.

8:00 AM - On the plane to Guangzhou, I gave Sandy the Shoemaker $9 for ¥50. I realize this is a bit much, but she was nice and insisted upon me not paying her anything at all. Turns out the Guangzhou airport is in the heart of good ol' Siberia--or so it feels--and the nice Canadian man, who also recommends safaris in Kenya, btw, recommended the hot chocolate from Blenz to stave off the cold. I figured anybody in 'Nam wouldn't be crazy about me handing them a picture of Mao Zedong, so I might as well spend my monies while I can. Now, Let me ask you one very important question:

how much would you pay for six (SIX) ounces of the best hot chocolate of your life?

How about one of the top five? WOULD YOU PAY $8? ...That's what I thought.

915 AM - Saw my first Asian penis. (Bucket list, check!) When I started visibly laughing, I realized then that I am no longer allowed to pride myself on my maturity and sophistication. There are some things you just never thought you'd see and acid-wash pseudo-denim yoga pants are definitely one of them.

930 AM - This is how cold that airport was: Britney Spears' "I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" comes on my iPod and I contemplate keeping my hands in my pockets and just wrestling the earbuds from my ears with my shoulders and/or teeth. They really need an app that analyzes your listening patterns and throws certain files into a folder called "You're Better Than This".

  ~ "All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring."

 Do you ever sit down and think about why you are where you are? If, left to my own devices, would I be "anywhere"? How much of my life has been merely taking suggestion instead of being intrinsically creative and resourceful?

  ~ "Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known."

This morning I realized I am just about the mental equivalent of a smart toddler in this country. While this is understandable and certainly normal, I just want to use this quote:

  ~ "Today is the sort of day where the sun only comes up to humiliate you."

  Did you know the code name for the microwave while it was still in testing was "Speedy Weenie"? I can see the benefits of this already. Guys, I already used my Speedy Weenie 4 times today! All of which were successful! Unfortunately, my Speedy Weenie sort of smells funny now, after that unfortunate baked bean explosion. Also, my mom says that if you stare at my Speedy Weenie long enough, you'll go blind.

 ~ "If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you slow down? Or speed up?"
     (This one is just straight-up unrelated to my Speedy Weenie.)

 Thankfully, the world of the claymated Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer is fictional.

 ~ "Find out what you're afraid of and go live there."

Scroll down. I just really want to fit this picture in and the layout isn't working right here.

































































Okay. Ready.




 ~ "Did perpetual happiness in the Garden of Eden maybe get so boring that eating the apple was justified?"


Also:


For the record.

You've Got the Swagga' of a Champion

I should fucking write for Cosmo. Here is the first article I'm submitting to them in the parallel universe where both they publish entire articles devoted to sarcasm and where I want my first publication to be hidden below an article on Taylor Swift:

THE TOP THREE BEST DIETS FOR YOUR WAISTLINE--THE WORST FOR YOUR SOUL
(None requires a gym membership!)

Note: I either will or have tried all methods described.

#3: The "My Best Friend's a Histrionic Bitch That Has to Be Skinnier Than Me" Diet



Requirements:
 -- a mean 13 year-old girl
 -- Britney Spears' 3rd album
 -- CD player

This one's a little slow to start. Combine that with the bitter hatred that will engulf your being and this one comes in at a solid #3. However, it's really not that hard to come by; histrionic bitches are always looking for friends and you can probably find Britney's self-titled album "Britney" at any CDs Plus (track 12 is my favorite--written and produced by JT).

Results: slow, but lasting.
Repercussions: Back pain, freezing shoulders, and a rough case of misogyny.
Damage done to soul: Moderate

#2: The "The Guy I'm "Dating" is Homeless and Unemployed" Diet



Obviously, I'm trying to keep the standards for companionship at a doable level for any Cosmo afficionado. I don't know what type of crowd you hang with.

Requirements:
--1 Homeless Man
--Mild Temperament

 This diet is simple and super cheap!

Steps:

1. Find homeless man.
2. Keep him under your constant supervision.
3. Do not eat in front of him; that'd just be rude.

Results: staggeringly quick; however, they deteriorate rapidly without stringent upkeep.
Repercussions: Loss of healthy metabolism, constant need to do laundry
Damage done to soul: Moderate - High

#1. The "I Went to a Third World Country and Drank the Water" Diet



Requirements:
--Plane Ticket
--Toilet
--Third World Country™ water

Results: Still pending
Damage done to soul: Mild
Repercussions: Self-hate for being a mere mortal with a properly functioning digestive system.

HONORABLE MENTION:

The "My Food Talks to Me But I'm Good Looking So It's Okay" Diet

Ohmigod, Becky, you are, like, so pulchritudinous.

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life.
Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things...
           -- Alfred Lord Tennyson,  from 'Ulysses'




Afoot and lighthearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
From this hour, freedom!
From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute,
Listening to others, and considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the hold that would hold me.
           --Walt Whitman, from 'Song of the Open Road'


 I'm moving across the globe in a matter of weeks. I have too many thoughts (many ridiculous and/or contradictory) on the matter to decide which ones deserve writing; however, one of my relatives had one that could be emblazened on a plaque: "You never got knocked up in high school or college--you deserve this!"

Amen.

I'm Going to Climb Over that Anger Wall of Yours and It's Going to Be Glorious

And thus begins another installment of ‘People Jackie Meets on Planes’. We had the-world-is-gonna-end-I-know-I-work-for-FEMA guy, Noam Chomsky’s old colleague, Heliberto, the ridiculously profound and affluent Merck representative, the photographer, the dude from Michigan whose career I can’t remember, and now we have the dog trainer from LA.

…The dog trainer from LA.

Tell me you’re thinking something along these lines:

Well, you’d be pretty much right. Sarah, the 26-year-old born and raised in LA county, had 4 orgasms in a round of dry humping last week.

Do people do that? Not the orgasms part (hello, self-proclaimed proprietor of the coregasm here) but tell people  strangers these kinds of things? I mean, I suppose that makes more sense than telling an acquaintance – after all, she’s never gonna see me again; what does it matter? And I’m totally cool with it…I’m just a little taken aback, if you will. I thought about plugging her website in here, but I don’t think I gave her the best (or most appropriate) introduction--as much as I yearn for the opportunity to blog, “Does your dog pee on your bedsheets? Can’t take it any longer? If you’re in the LA area and would like the chaos and misery to cease, Sarah is the answer! Perky, audacious, open, fertile, and full of bravado, she can Pavlov the crap outta your pooch (and into a non-toxic, disposable container)!”

Plane ride aside, trip #7 to Californ-i-a was pretty great. I met a bird on the beach. She was super duper hungry. This is that bird, eating the hot dog I made for her:

I named her Sue because her life looked hard. And you know what they say: life ain’t easy for a bird named Sue.

OH. Another highlight I almost forgot about. On Saturday night, my mother and I ventured into the LA metro area to go to Hollywood Grove (super neat). Mexicantown turns into Koreatown seamlessly; after Koreatown, the houses get nicer by the block by the digit until you’re surrounded by…

…

…

Yarmulkes (yamakas?).

Seriously. The average property value of a house on any given block is directly related to the number of yarmulkes within hearing distance. This is when my mom interjected with a racist, yet informative, quip about how, back in the day, they would say, “Can I Jew ya down?” Well, I suppose that depends on if I can Catholic your balls.

And now I’m going to end this post with examples of how goddamn polite I am. I know you were hankering for this moment. Before Sarah and I were speaking, I went to take a little in-flight nappy-poo. I set down the book I was reading (‘Bringing Down the House’—the book version of ‘21’; it’s obviously better than the movie, though I do enjoy the majority of Kevin Spacey’s work.), turned my iPod on and shut the window. Two seconds passed and I realized Sarah was reading (Skipping Christmas by John Grisham) so I opened it back up for her lighting needs (once you damage your retinas, you ain’t gettin’ new ones) and did not get my desired rest (but I did, however, get to learn about her sex habits).

On my next flight, I got to my seat before my seat buddy. I’m reading my book, I’m totes hogging the arm rest (armrest?), I’m having a good time, and then my seat partner arrives so I systematically move my arm to establish a peaceful treaty and make her feel welcomed. And, lo and behold, that bitch takes full advantage of the opportunity to relax her elbows. She bogarted that 9-inch block of plastic like it was her first-born son and she just ran out of lamb’s blood. I’m not saying I wanted the whole armrest (arm rest?), but sharing is caring, kids. Just because I’m not using it doesn’t mean I enjoy bearing the burden of supporting the weight of my right arm, thanks. Which brings me to an episode that happened on the flight back from A*dam: I’m chilling with Jim Henson. I get my vegetarian lasagna while Jim Henson remains foodless. And foodless. And still foodless. I’m waiting. The lasagna is getting cold. The stewardess comes up to tell Jim what’s taking so long and notices that I’m not eating and offers to take my food to warm it and bring them both out simultaneously, which I gratefully accept. Sans hyperbole, Jim seemed a little creeped out. He kept on going about how no one does that (Jim and I do have a very odd dynamic, sure, but we’re ‘friends’ nonetheless) and that struck me as super weird.

That is how polite I am. I personally think I sound like an awesome seat-buddy. If you would like to take me on any flights with you (destination permitting, though I’m pretty open minded), just give me a week’s notice or so. The only thing I require is the window seat.

My Wallet's Too Small for My Fifties and My Diamond Shoes Are Too Tight

Part One: Si Hoc Legere Scis Nimium Eruditionis Habes

I think life would be better (easier/happier/more fulfilled) if we could remember all the little awesome things we do. Since I might as well be amnesiatic, this may not apply to everyone. Maybe normal people do remember these things and build their self-esteem off of them. Either way, I was thinking about this after a friend had to remind me of this story; I was sad I had forgotten it:

In January, I went on this cruise. Of course, all I remember now was not really having a good time. I was broke (this means no excursions and no drinking. If you don’t take excursions on cruises in the Western Caribbean, you get a six-hour self-guided walking tour of the ghetto) and with people whose itinerary for Honduras was finding the closest bar and chatting up the bartender (from St. Louis). Believe it or not, this is building upon my point. To get to that bar, we got a cab. The cab provided a guide. The guide, of course, was a 13 year-old, 80 lb. girl. After my strawberry margarita (1 of 2 drinks the entire week) that tasted like jam (which was a-okay by me), I became restless and discontented. I decided a much better way to utilize my time would be practicing my Spanish with the guide girl, who was sitting by herself on the other end of the bar. I asked her what she liked to drink; she just shook her head. Orange? Grape? Coke? Finally, she mustered a shy nod to a Sprite. When I handed it to her, it felt like a band of carebears couldn’t’ve made her happier. After she laughed a few times at my lackluster Spanish skills, she took me to tour the shops, rarely leaving my side for the rest of the day, even after the other 6 joined us. Sometimes, I rock. Sometimes, I don’t. The ‘don’t’ instances are so much more salient; it’s relaxing to remember a non-‘don’t’ occasion. That story makes me simultaneously happy and sad. Those might be the best kind.


Part Zwei: Du Redest Zuviel Von Dir.

J: “If you could have your wedding anywhere, where would it be?”

A: “…You wanna know what I first thought?”

J: “Oh, God…Mordor?”

A: “Why would I want to go to Mount Doom?! IT’S IN THE LAND OF SAURON!”

J: “…”

A: “I’d pick Rivendell.”

J: “…”

A: “You?”

J: “Fictional?”

A: “Sure.”

J: “…Hogwarts? Nah, I can do better. …Heaven!”






Part Three: Would You Like a Piece of Mr. Hitchcake’s Cock?

That’s a line out of Lucille Ball’s biography (a recommended read, by the way. Unrelated, but I just went from trashy to classy in about 1.3 seconds). Funny how the habits your parents have rub off on you. My dad gave me that book, for example. But to make my daily inappropriate comment (this title) (I use parentheses a lot, did you notice that?) viable, I’ll tell you what I’m doing right now: I’m watching ‘Alfred Hitchcock Presents’ (a TV show from the 50s, hosted by AH, not written). My dad, in the closest he ever got to child abuse, would always force me to watch this stuff. And now I’m doing it voluntarily!!1!one!! ( <-- joke) This also adds weight to my ‘I’m-gonna-get-divorced’ theory; I have 14 aunts and uncles and I don’t currently feel like explaining it. I’m sure you can infer the information from my aptly titled theory name. If you pick up the habits and life practices of your elders, I wonder if that means I’ll develop an affinity for black men and/or Don Knotts. Boy, I hope so.

I interrupt this informative commentary to provide you with a word from the wise:

 
Thank you, Mr. Waters.

Meanwhile, at Pizza Ranch, the pictures on the wall and the napkins on the tables are ridden with typos (read: 3 ½, and that was experienced in only one sole dining experience; imagine the plethora to be discovered!). “Ya’ll come back!” Are we fortune tellers now, in addition to pizza mavens? I mean, I get trying to relate to your target demographic, but violating our sacred mother tongue is just taking it a step too far. I think France has it right with their language police. LMAO is in the mother-effin’ dictionary now, people! We must do something about this! If you would like to be added to my list of phone contacts that I send pictures of public typos to, please, do not hesitate to ask. And, yes, you can receive the archived photos as well.

Also, I am super cool, you’re right.

Trying to get my Usher on, but I can't let it burn.

GENIUS. That lyric is brilliant. BRILLIANT, I TELL YOU.

Amazing. Nelly is back, kids. It feels like nearly a decade since we so gratefully shook our tailfeathers and now the boy from the 'loo has returned. Man, sometimes black people rappers pleasantly surprise you. Take Eminem, for instance (not black) (I said that just so your face would look that way, ps). He also is full of pleasant surprises.

"Now you get to watch her leave out the window; guess that's why they call it window pane."

Man, guess you gotta grow up in Detroit to write shit that deep. I bet Marshall didn't have the semicolon in there, though.

I really have nothing to blog about; I only really really really really really really wanted to use that Nelly lyric as a title. I thought about using (every time I go to type the word 'use' or a form thereof, I type 'you' and have to erase it--I wonder what that says about my language centers) that as my facebook status, but that would make me a giant hypocrite and homie don't roll that way. I hate Emo facebook stati (?) and absolutely positively refuse to do it, even in a comical fashion or with the band-aid of a '=]' afterward.

Let's try to give this post a point, shall we? Maybe to differentiate it from the others.

I just booked my 6th California trip (for $195! I had a voucher for the time my flight was canceled.) (I did not pay for it. Still broke.) for late October. Not a day goes by where I don't ask myself (and someone else asks me) why I'm not there. I can give you a million reasons, but none of them are very good. I wonder how many mediocre reasons a person needs to not do something. Part of me wonders if I could just go and not come back. They have a solid public transit system, right?

The world needs more theories. Here is my pea-sized contribution: you know how kids have the "terrible twos"? I propose that that phenomenon repeats itself (only so I can use the cleverly alliterated name) two decades later. The "terrible twenty-twos", the "villainous vingt-deux", the "zoetic (I totally had to look that shit up) zweiundzwanzig". Let me explain: 22 is the postmark date of the pre-midlife crisis. Up until that point, life was like 'The Giver'. While under this sparkly, voluptuous umbrella of naivete, life will always be like 'The Giver'. Here is the designated, default timeline of Plan A:

14: go to high school.
18: go to college.
22: get a real job.
24: get married.
26: pop out a cute kid.
28: (optional) pop out an even cuter kid.

[the previous four steps have all been while simultaneously bettering your career (neglecting smaller, albeit important, life events, like buying a house and/or a car)]

30-65: (35: get divorced.) (40: remarry.) work your ass off.
65+: retire.
70: vacay in Florida.
80(ish): die.

22 is when you realize that NONE OF THIS WILL HAPPEN. At least, not on your handy-dandy schedule. You'll probably get married, have kids, and (if you live in America) you'll probably get divorced. 22 may also be the point when you realize you don't really want it to [happen like that]. Where did being conventional get anyone ever, anyways? However, the alternative (Plan B) schedule is this:

14: go to high school.
18: go to college.
22: (optional) find a job.
23: start paying off loans.
23-80: (30: (optional) marry. 32: (optional) pop out an average-looking kid. 35: (still optional) get a divorce.) work your ass off. Still paying off loans/mortgages/that bet you lost about Dakota Fanning ever becoming hot/ex-wife's/husband's/children's debts.
80(ish): die.

I totally get that this does not apply to everyone. Does my pessimism offend you? (Why are you beset with gloom?/'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells/Pumping in my living room.) If so, get off my blog. And I totally get, now, that I don't want it to apply to me. I don't want to marry the first dude I screwed in college. I don't want to work behind three walls, next to Toby, at a failing paper-supply company (unless Jim is there). I don't want to get a house 7 1/2 blocks from the one I grew up in. Not that any of these things are bad; I just don't necessarily want them for me. Not right now. Maybe later (but I doubt it). At the same time, a life plan would be nice. Does Northwestern Mutual sell those? Can I get the one where I'm an international spy  (until I decide to settle down on some oceanside cliff; after that, I'll write my autobiography.) whose most difficult decision is to decide which passport to use on my assignment to threaten the Pope? Obviously, I was picked for this assignment because of my proficiency in Latin. Duh. Gratias ago.

Back to real life:

And maybe some of you came to this conclusion much, much earlier. Maybe some of you never will. Those of you that are living Plan A to the fullest, hats off to you. In my world, you are the minority. I have so many friends that are in such similar situations that I honestly feel like some supernatural force (...grandma?!) is trying to get me to notice something. Or, at least, grant me the solace of knowing that I'm in good company. I blame technology and the Industrial Revolution. More on that later.

Maybe...just maybe there's a secret, awesome, secretly awesome Plan C. MAYBE THAT'S MY MISSION. I am off to find it (I acknowledge that it can't really be 'found'). I will find it whilst simultaneously using my degree to be a waitress. To which my father's response was, "Yeah, you and a million other people, Jackie." Dad, you're awesome, I get it, but shut up. Allow me to live my revelation in peace, damnit.

Let's liven up the mood:

Superhero Pickup Lines

    My metal suit isn't the only reason they call me Iron Man.

                  Ever hook up with a god? Didn't think so.

                                              I'm Batman.

I was going to be finished, but it's my blog and I change my mind:

Only Sold at Wal-Marts in China

Crocodiles.

??

Wal-Mart Brand alcohol. $0.15 equivalent.

Gross.

I don't want to end this blog on a box of ribcages.

Better.

Can I get the hotel room in cornflower blue?

To mom and dad - sorry I told you otherwise.

To my facebook friends that know my dad - I'm trusting you.

Now that the disclaimer is over with, the following is based on a true story:

I AM JACKIE'S MIND; I GO CRAZY, I COMMIT JACKIE.

I had this giant blog that spelled out all the details saved in a Word doc (my internet likes to be fishy since it's stolen, I guess) but then I realized that that's boring (and boy, do I hate being boring, as the following will elude to) and no one likes reading large chunks of text anymore (oh, the youth of America), so here is the abridged version of my fairly awesome story.

Chapter 1: Bros Icing Bros

Friend (from here on deemed Jim Henson (if you don't understand, don't worry about it)): Dude, let's go to Amsterdam.

Me: ...nope.

[Jim and I sit for a while. Jim exits room, closes door behind him.]

[I get up, open door. Am presented with a Smirnoff Ice (I think it was grape, but that defeats the purpose of BROS ICING BROS)]

[I get down on one knee and chug, as is my duty.]

Jim: So. Let's go to Amsterdam.

Me: ...Okay.

Jim: Leave tomorrow?

Me: Okay.

[Jim makes phone call to book flight. Success.]


Chapter 2: You know why they put oxygen masks on planes?

[Jim and I flew business class, standby. The nuts were warm. There was champagne and Bailey's everywhere. When you ran out of warm nuts, you were presented with nuts that were even warmer. The seatback ahead of me was so far away I couldn't reach it WITH MY FEET.]

Chapter 3: My God. I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.

It rained pretty much the entire time. I bet the prostitutes didn't much care for that. The Red Light District is creepy. The city is absolutely gorgeous. The people are pretty neat and laidback.

However, it was the opening of the cultural season and 30598 things were going on; of the 37,000 hotel beds, all of the ones less than 200 Euros in the city center were booked. We got a hotel by the airport and decided to leave early.

Chapter 4: How's that working out for you? 'What?' Being clever.

We get there two hours early and still miss our flight. We passed through 5 people without actual boarding passes. They told us we 'weren't allowed on the plane' but no one would tell us why until it was too late. Oh, Schiphol airport.

Chapter 5: If you wake up at a different time in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?

So we have to get ANOTHER hotel out by the airport. Only this time...this time the hotel is in

CORNFLOWER BLUE.

I hate cornflower blue. It's easily my least favorite crayon in the 64 Crayola coloring box.

Chapter 6: Single-serving sugar, single-serving cream, single pat of butter. Single-serving friends.

I did, however, meet a guy that claimed to be on the Yorkshire cricket team. I think he gave me a fake first and last name. It's okay, I did the same.

Chapter 7: Life insurance pays off triple if you die on a business trip.

We flew business on the way back. Still pimpin'.

Chapter 8: What kind of dining set defines me as a person?

I forgot to mention we went to the Anne Frank house. For those of you that are not familiar with 'Icing', here is the perfect video for this trip. It's only funny because it's pertinent. Anne Frank is the new Helen Keller.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuzCGkusqYg

Chapter 9: Shatner. I'd fight William Shatner.

Proof I'm not making it up:





See those? Those were the warm nuts!

They were so warm.