Sometimes I Wish You Didn't Beat That Cancer, Frank.

I've been searching the depths of my brain for something bloggable. Some random event that I could turn into something super ridiculous and, possibly, incorporate another picture of Hillary Clinton into. I suppose I was lucky to find that instance just once. Then, I realized, my blog is more like Seinfeld. Seinfeld...with more Jesus.

Maybe God is trying to tell me something. I mean, this stuff is just too much to ignore. First, in a sheer moment of brilliance, the idea of Bible Character night comes to my head (I know, right?). Then, my cat (or Jesus?) finds the froyo coupon (see previous posts) and the cats-to-bipeds/or-is-it-just-Jesus theory arises. Thirdly, my boss just discovered the parable of the Good Samaritan last Sunday; I spent a solid half hour contemplating whether I was just naive in my lackluster religious knowledge or rather that my boss was just another C & E Christian that, ultimately, is no different than I am. BUT THEN, the un-ignorable happened.

As I was walking into my workplace, my top split wide open.

Right now, I'm googling 'bad show choir outfits' to show you what my cocktail waitress uniform looks like. Alas, all I'm coming up with is (apart from the first 3 pages of Glee pictures--what was show choir before Glee, anyway?):





My outfit looks nothing like this first one, but you get it. This one's lacking in sparkles in comparison. I feel bad for the kid who got stuck with the flute.

It must be noted that 1)it was the zipper that just let 'er go, 2)I have not gained any weight (yes, I'm sure), and 3)after I struggled to keep my top on and went to the dressing room it eventually zipped back up and ceased to cause me more trouble. Conclusion: God thinks public nudity is funny. God also wants you to know He exists...but only in the clever, meaningful ways.

Completely off topic, but worth saying: I forgot to mention one of the absolute highlights of my Europe trip. My dad and I ditched out of the goodbye reception to go take the Eye (love you, Dad. I don't think he really wanted to, but I did. For the record, I was right and it was awesome) around 930 at night. We had to take the subway, obviously. We're all swankified and he turns to me and says, "You know, I'm sorry to have to tell you this...and I never thought I would...but I bet all these people think you're a hooker." You go, dad. You. Go. Is your dad that awesome? In a roundabout fashion, this is connected to the title of this post. Sometimes people say things that you hope you never forget (no, not like "I luv u soo muchh babi" or "Whose is it, bitch?" or "righty-tighty, lefty-loosy"). Like last night. With my top completely on, I witnessed my roulette table cheering outrageously (my roulette table happened to be the reason I made roughly $35 an hour last night--and I'm quitting?!) and I was all,
"Man, I love it when they do that!!!"

Adara looks off into oblivion and mutters, "...I love it when they cry," in what I can only assume is her best Clint Eastwood impression.

The cancer comment was only a few minutes later. I read something where an English woman used the word 'awesome' all the time to sound American and this one sad, sad article about how the only adjective we'll use in 50 years is 'awesome', but man, that moment was...fantastic.

On a much more educated note, I recently finished Malcolm Gladwell's 'The Tipping Point'. If you haven't read anything by him, DO IT NOW. All his books are fascinating and super-easy reads. The way he writes is like talking to an intelligent friend who doesn't require you to respond with witty asides. Along with all the other concepts, he states that:

"The success of any kind of social epidemic is heavily dependent on the involvement of people with a particular and rare set of social gifts."[4] According to Gladwell, economists call this the "80/20 Principle", which is the idea that in any situation roughly 80 percent of the 'work' will be done by 20 percent of the participants."

This 20% is divided into three categories:

--Connectors: People with lots of different friend groups, that link us to different worlds. These people spread things the quickest.

--Mavens: Information specialists; information brokers that share and trade what they know. I would call Megan Moore a Maven. At least a pop culture Maven. =]

--Salesmen: "Persuaders", charismatic people with powerful negotiation skills, an 'it-factor' that you can't really place. Aka Peter Jennings.

I just like thinking about it. Who are these people in my world? Am I any of these to anyone else? Are you 80 or 20? Anyway, read his stuff. 'Blink' is even better in my opinion.

One last thing before I end this pointless post: this woman called the box office today and proceeded to chat with me for a solid ten minutes about absolutely nothing. However, something she said struck me as quite...saddeningly poetic. She was talking about her perfect Saturday night and she said, "I like to gather up last week's papers, sit down, read all the bad things, and know everything got resolved."

If you haven't already seen this picture on my fbook (or if you have, one more time won't kill you), let's lighten the mood:



=].


P.S. -

Mais ce soir, nous sommes dans Paris.

DISCLAIMER: This post recounts my travels in a not-so-readers'-digest-fashion. Leave now before you get disappointed and/or cannot time commit.

This one's for you, Stephanie. You whore. You excuse for a cocktail waitress, you. You said I would hate London--the food would be bad and the people are mean. Well, guess what, loser? The food was more than fine and the men were ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL. I'm sorry if they don't like you but that's your fault.


As most of you know, I've spent the last ten days in Europe. Specifically London and Paris, with side trips to Bath, Stonehenge, and Versailles. It's been my dream since I was a little girl to go, and I finally did. My dad (in all his glory) married up (can I get a 'hallelujah'?) and his wife 'wins' these epic trips through her employer, Edward Jones, every 6 months or so. This is the third time they've been gracious enough to let me tag along. It is only recently that my exploits (though there may be many, what with California and all) have involved planes and swanky hotels. Let the detailing commence:

Day 1: Getting back to the hotel and getting a room took a greater part of the day. Edward Jones always has their employees stay in these super duper nice hotels; however, because of this, the clientel of these hotels could give a rat's ass when they check out. They'll check out when they want to, be it another $500 or what have you. That being said, most of them are rich, old, Arab men. If I've walked away with anything from this trip (aside from 350 pictures, a sweatshirt, and a couple of mugs (man, I love mugs), it's a newfound fear of old, fat, Arab men behind tinted windows in their 2014 Italian-imported sports cars. I don't mean this offensively or stereotypically...it's true. They're everywhere, and I don't think very many of them appreciate where they are. Including their five-year-olds with their iPhones. Having said that, once we did get in (the flight was epic. IcelandAir is pimpin'. They had this game where I started learning Greek and Tagalog. I suck at any language that doesn't use latinate symbols. More importantly, the stewardesses were all required to wear funny hats.) my dad and I went to Harrod's, got some brioche, and sat in Hyde Park, which is conveniently across the street. If this picture doesn't imply it already, my dad is awesome.



Hey, dad. Sup?

Which brings me to the finer point of this day: just as the Macarena was the theme song for California, June 2010, the theme song for this trip is Justin Bieber's 'Eenie Meenie Miney Mo Lover'. Or whatever the hell it's called. I know this may seem crazy, and I hope many of you have higher hopes for me than this, but

Justin Bieber is just better in Europe. I don't know why. But it's true! BEFORE YOU JUDGE ME...try it for yourself. It may be because the only other video they seemed to play on whatever show I was watching when Eggheads wasn't on (seriously the best game show ever. These way smart old people take on whoever is brave enough to take them on and answer questions about EVERYTHING and know EVERYTHING and always kick the visiting team's ass because they know EVERYTHING. So educational. No frills, no girls, just old balls to the wall.) was JLS' "The Club Is Alive".

This d-bag samples THE SOUND OF MUSIC. THE FREAKING SOUND OF MUSIC. Not some random clip no one's going to know, but ONE OF THE MOST FAMOUS AND CLICHE REFRAINS IN ALL MUSICAL HISTORY. Take a look for yourself: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-w6cYoEu_P4. He really puts Gwen Stefani to shame. It's better than yodeling, I suppose. Also, all BBC is good television because of their accents. Moving on.

Day 2: This day we took a tour of London (seeing everything tourist-y) with Edward Jones. Afterwards, we went to the original Hard Rock Cafe and went into their vault. It's awesome until the guy asks you for 10 pounds to sit on Jimi Hendrix's couch. Apart from this, two main things happened this day:
1) As we crossed the Thames, I almost started crying. In all seriousness...it was a moment that meant a lot to me. It really was achieving a bonafide dream. Words cannot describe it.
2) However, words can describe this asian/laotion/who knows girl who had her dress tucked into her panties. This, my friends, was upon exiting the London Eye ticket office. I'm sure you can surmise that there's about a bajillion people there; she had to have walked past a solid 15 or 20 before exiting. I totally broke the girl code. Man, racism seems to be abundant in this post. The main reason I didn't tell her was because I was afraid she wouldn't understand me and it would be awkward. And this is in England where the national language is English, which I speak quite well. And I was nervous. Nervous. There were easily 500 people withing 1000 yards of the door I saw her walk out of. I'm still sort of angry at myself. I suck sometimes. At least I don't tuck my dress into my underwear?

Day 3: The breakfast at the Grovesnor House Hotel in London (in Mayfair, arguably the nicest area) is a piece of shit; however, on this day I noticed that it cost more than the outfit I was wearing. And I don't wear t-shirts and Soffees in London, kiddies. I thought the apple chassons were decent, but this is before Paris. On this day we did:

1) The National Gallery. It was here that I got to see one of my all-time favorite paintings, Jan van Eyck's "The Arnolfini Marriage". Speechless.
2) Indian food. When we asked the English lady that Edward Jones provides for a good restaurant, she replied with, "Oh, I didn't think Americans liked Indian food." Sucker.
3) Phantom of the Opera. Chills. More tears.
4) I looked for a barber shop on Fleet Street...there are none.
5) $10 goes to the person that recognizes this restaurant. It was seen in one of the biggest recent movies ever:



It's beautiful. On the tables is a little card that talks about all the famous people who've conceived their visions there: Winston Churchill, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, H.G. Wells...the list goes on.

Day 4: Bath and Stonehenge; I overheard, on several occasions, teenagers saying, "I don't get it. Why would I want to see a pile of rocks?" Verbatim. Oh, the youth of America. The attitudes weren't much different for the Roman baths, both of which I thought were encroyable.

Day 5: Man, I'm getting tired of blogging. Okay.
1) Climbed to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral. Bitchin'. Sad, but the whole time I kept thinking how much easier it would be to be Catholic when surrounded by such beauty. Pretty things are nice to be associated with. When St. Paul's was being bombed in WWI, citizens of the town spent nights on the roof putting out fires. I can see why; it was one of the most beautiful places I've ever experienced. In the dome is a whispering gallery, where you can hear the whispers of the person all the way on the other side, as it carries along the wall.
2) A brief stint at the Museum of National History. Lots of DINOS!!!!!!
3) Royal Albert Hall. An incredibly beautiful venue. The main reason we went was because it was showcased in Alfred Hitchcock's 'Frenzy' and my dad is a big Hitchcock fan, but I'm super glad we went, because it was super neat. Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria, wanted to build a place where all peoples could appreciate art. RAH still keeps that notion today, having tickets for as low as 5 pounds to their BBC proms. It's very similar to the personal mantra I have in my career aspirations.
4) The British Museum. The Rosetta Stone, mummies, other cool things that I can't remember right now...but I do have written on my iPod (I have the memory of a goldfish, so I took notes) that it was epictastic.
5) Fish and chips at a legit English pub with mushy peas and John Smith Ale.

Day 6: This blog is so long even I'm losing interest.
This day we did the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Westminster (also super beautiful), Thames rivercruise, and thank God, the London Eye at night. This is the last London day, so I feel it is appropriate to tell you that my libido is alive and kicking in this town. So alive. Dear God. Yes, please.





"Gentil papillon, va dire lui que je l'aime."

Day 7: Chunnel to Paris. We just so happened to arrive in Paris on Bastille Day, of all days. As luck would have it, our apartment that we rented from AirBnB.com is about 30 seconds from the top half of the Eiffel tower and 5 minutes to the whole thing. Also, on Bastille Day, Paris has fireworks. Who woulda guessed? Paris fireworks is no Reinbeck fireworks show, my Iowa friends. For some reason, firework shows are a common theme in my travels--in our trip to Vancouver in 200...8, we caught the International Fireworks Competition between China, USA, and Canada. Oh, this day was also Notre Dame and un croque monsieur.



Day 8: Sacre Coeur, Versailles, l'Arc de Triomphe, champ de Mars...





Turns out drinking alcohol in public is illegal in France; selling is not. So, after we bought some, popped 'er open, and got accosted by the police, we (read: Dixie) started telling all the foreign, creepy men trying to sell us more, "WE ARE THE POLICE!" =] I got into a fight with one in French! Who knew my education would ever come in handy?! I was surprised at how much I used it, but moreso very happy. Every morning, my dad and I would go shopping for the day's food (because we are tres Francais) and I did all the dirty work. But man, it paid off. Those apple chassons from Poilane are duh.lih.shush. Anyway, the only thing that ruined the Eiffle Tower (and several other landmarks) were the sad solicitors.

Day 9: Cheese shopping at un fromagerie. The guy did not speak English and I tried my hardest with my broken French. We also did a Seine river boat cruise, going from the Eiffle Tower to the Louvre and the Musee d'Orsay. Those effers are huge. At night we went up into the Eiffle tower and it took my breath away. I also ordered a hot dog and made conversation (IN FRENCH) with the hot dog guy. Never a word of English. I'll leave you with a few photos of that night:





Oh, and the guy that I sat next to on the plane from Reykjavik to Minneapolis worked with Noam fucking Chomsky.

OMFG.

Fate.

I'm Johnson; this is Special Agent Johnson. No relation.

Part Un: Slothfulness Begets Coffee Cake

So it may be a mortal sin--arguably the most boring of them all (insert Gwyneth Paltrow's head [here])--but being disorderly apparently has its perks. Listen closely:

I'm poor. Unfortunately, this is nothing new; I just recently took a serious look at my budget instead of living in the land of unicorns and dandelions, where student loans don't have to be paid back. It's a fantastic place, most definitely, but it's just not practical. This makes this story ten times more awesome than what it actually is (which isn't that awesome, but read along anyway). Because of this, I have recently learned to depend on the kindness of others (Stelllla!), and man, do others rock. Turns out being poor is full of useful little tidbits of life lessons. I digress.

Anyway, it's any normal day, and I decide to go to Starbucks. Again, I know what you're thinking,

"Jackie, you just prefaced this with an unnecessary paragraph about you being broke. What gives?"

Relax, mon frere. I had a giftcard. I pick my friends wisely (aka for money-grubbing reasons. And friends that have stashes of giftcards that don't drink coffee. These kinds are the best kinds, regardless of what your parents told you). I get my grahnday iced coffee with nonfat milk and a shot of vanilla and decide upon some reduced-fat coffee cake (read: 107 grams of fat as opposed to 110) because the only foods I have in my house are year-old s'mores Pop Tarts and the brown rice I once soaked my iPod in 7 months ago. Turns out, the former is sort of delicious and the latter, not so much. I proceed to the window where the girl takes my card, swipes it, and makes an exceedingly extensive amount of conversation with me. She eventually hands me my coffee, bids me 'adieu' and I'm all,



"Uhh, bitch. Where my coffee cake be at?"

And she's all,



"Oh, I didn't realize that. May I see your card again?"

And I can't find it, and I can't find it. During this time, she gets impatient with me and goes to get the coffee cake (she was not Hillary Clinton; I would've mentioned this). I still can't find it. When she comes back, I say, "I think this is God telling me I don't need coffee cake today (funny how my new-found half-agnosticism lacks in certain areas of my life)." She leans over, hands me it, and tells me not to worry; I thank her with a very grateful smile, drive off, and see the giftcard two seconds later on the floor.

Summary: I'm awesome. I just scored free coffee cake because I'm disorderly (read: awesome). I will now proceed to use this tactic in other similar useful domains like the Olive Garden, the LaPorte Road Adult Emporium, and the drive-up liquor window on 5th. I will be sure to fill you in on my successes.

PS - The usage of 'all' as a quotative fell out of common usage around something like 1999 to be replaced with 'like' (I might have inverted this), which was, in turn, replaced with 'all like'. Apparently I'm a decade behind major linguistic trends (at least among 'young' people. Or maybe I'm just old.).

Part Deux: OPEN CASTING CALL

ARE YOU HIP?

ARE YOU INTO DEFYING GENDER NORMS?

ARE YOU COOL WITH INNOCENT RELIGIOUS MOCKERY?

DO YOU HAVE WAY TOO MUCH FREE TIME ON YOUR HANDS?

DO YOU LOVE WEARING WOOL AND SANDALS?

BETTER YET, DO YOU LOVE JESUS?

BETTER STILL, DO YOU LOVE ZOMBIE JESUS?

Before you ask, I'll tell you how this went down:

JK: [discussing Joseph & the Amazing Technocolor Dreamcoat] Man, you guys really need more theme nights.
ES: Tell me about it; those used to be so much fun.
JK: ...Bible Character night.
ES: ...
...
...
I CALL JESUS.
JK: Hold on; this is important: alive Jesus,



dead Jesus,



or resurrected Jesus?



ES: Zombie Jesus.
JK: Asian, female, zombie Jesus.
ES: Facebook event?
JK: ...Documentary.

If interested, please create your own costume and show up in my basement sometime in the next three weeks. Preference given to gingers and cross-gendered roles. Sorry, at this time the role of FEMALE ASIAN ZOMBIE JESUS has already been filled.

Thank you.

PS - None of the aforementioned is intended to be offensive. I, myself, think Jesus was probably the bee's knees.

Thank God For Jay-Z.

Some people are just gross. You might say, "gee, Jackie, I think that is rather obvious, don't you?", to which I will retort, "yes, of course; however, it isn't often that I get mad at others' grossness/rudeness. Their grudeness , if you will.

Last night at work, the clock struck midnight, so all glass must immediately become plastic. This woman really wanted a lemonade, but was not satisfied with her plastic cup. She opted to just dump the plastic cup into her previously attained glass. The problem: now she has two straws.

So what does she decide to do?

Because RIVERSIDE CASINO AND GOLF RESORT's lemonade (read: sugar and lemon flavoring out of a generic-branded box) is apparently just so finger-lickin' good (alert the presses), she proceeds to lick the straw up and down, full 360, (needless to say) blow-job style (sorry, Ma), and hand it to me.

Now, I'm sure you're thinking, oh God, did you vom all over her? You'll be sad to know I did not; though looking back, I sort of wish I would've. I think this makes me awesome. Not only did I take her goddamn straw (which I should've just demanded she put on my tray herself), I did it with a smile that could elicit rainbows from grumpy leprechauns.

The broad didn't tip.


Later on, I had to tell myself that I was better looking and more educated and she probably just couldn't handle it. I'm sure this doesn't seem like a big deal; we've all done grosser things. Just let me revel for a bit and dream of one day using my degree.

After a day like that, sometimes the only thing that can make you feel better is a little Jay-Z. I mean, seriously, that man is turning into a legend. It's like I woke up one day and understood why Beyonce is into that. It's 2010 and I'm still wiping the dirt off my shoulders because ladies is pimps, too. I hope that advice is bestowed upon my unborn children. Kids, listen to mommy. Now gon' brush yo' shoulders off.

I am not trying to seduce you.

Maybe there is a god...

...because sometimes weird shit happens. The alternative theory is that all cats (and dogs) turn into bipeds whilst humans are away. Or maybe just cats (and dogs) with human names. I don't think you get it. The Reader's Digest version goes a little something like this: my mom and I were talking about this froyo coupon she misplaced.

(For the record, froyo places are as abundant here as herpes in the bars of Iowa City, but less abundant than donut places. If you wanted a pie chart, it'd go donut places, froyo joints, herpes.)

Blah blah blah, can't find the coup, yadda yadda yadda. I thought she said she needed some tupperware right now so I get some out. Turns out she didn't. So I set it on the counter. We leave. We get back.

What's on top of the tupperware?

THE FROYO COUP.

So, like I said, either there's a god or cats can walk and talk (and find froyo coupons) just like the rest of us. I've heard crazier theories before. If it turns out there be a god, I don't think he'll give me very many brownie points for replacing his existence with the metamorphosis of cats. Ah, well. You win some, you lose some.

I'm not sure anything can really top that. Maybe Point Dume. Say it after me, "Point DOOOOOOOOM". But, alas, it is pronounced Point [du'meI], or doo-MAY. It would be totally cooler if it were pronounced like the former, but it's not. Luckily, it's still bitchin'. Like oceans up to your eyeballs everywhere you look bitchin'. Free stuff is always the best stuff. Like Snapple. Only Snapple isn't free and they stopped making the best kinds like, 10 years ago. Kiwi-strawberry? Fruit punch?!

Oh, Point Dume is a point in Malibu. It slightly resembles the cliff I have in my head that I want to get married on. No groom jumping jokes here, please.

I think, once I return, one of the highlights of this trip will be the insane number of times I heard the Macarena on the radio (read: 2. May not seem like much initially, but seriously think about it.) I am awed and frightened by you if you knew this title was from that song. Do you guys remember sixth grade? When we would do it in music class? ...We were awesome.

I am also turning over a new leaf. I will never have a bonfire in someone's backyard again. Because once you go beach bonfire, you never...come back.

And why does no one like mushy french fries? I love mushy french fries.

I rescued a duckling.

I'll admit it, the only reason I'm really doing this is because Ashley's doing it. I'm caving under the peer pressure. I think I started one of these when I was twelve and emo; didn't we all? Hopefully this one will be a bit more polysyllabic and a lot less angsty.

On that note, my dad got a Facebook. Don't get me wrong, my dad is awesome (read: friend my dad RIGHT NOW if you know him), but I'm pretty sure he's the type to go through all my pictures and ask me what I was doing on the night of January 27th, 2008. I don't know how you people with tech-savvy 'rents put up with it. I messaged him the other day; he's been on several times since and never gotten back to me. I never thought I would be paranoid about my own father's facebook activity. Change is good, I guess.

I've been in California since...Wednesday. What a debacle that was. One canceled flight led to $30 in food vouchers (because I'm awesome/ever fungry? Some people got $6--suck on that, Delta.), $100 in travel vouchers (not enough), and a solid three hours waiting in line. Lines, actually. If I woulda actually had things to do I would've been incredibly frustrated and angry (like the French woman next to me. Hot.) like I get in the middle of traffic jams when I'm late. In the words of Barney Stinson, "Hell, I'll punch a baby."

Yesterday, all these ducklings were stuck in the pool at my mom's place. After the gardeners couldn't get them out, I figured I'd give 'er a shot. I got one out (!!) but of course he quacked around in a circle for about 15 seconds before he just jumped right back in to join his siblings. It was sort of funny; once I got up to try to rescue them the couple of others in the pool joined me. Bystander effect, or what?

Man, my transitions suck.

What else? Oh, I'm in love with Bradley Cooper. He speaks fluent French and graduated from Georgetown in HONORS English. Don't say I never taught you anything. I know Renee Zellweger was Roxy and all in 'Chicago', but I'm sorry, the girl ain't hot. Her and Cameron Diaz. For different reasons, but same category. I give it six months before he finds a CZJ.

I applied for my second job in California. I don't know if I actually want it. But, to quote another beautiful man, "Risk nothing, gain nothing." I hope he's right.

Oh, and here's a picture to brighten your day:



Enjoy. =]