the pieces of my life

I’m not sure if Boston is just that different from Seattle during the holiday season or if I’m merely feeling a holiday overload because for the past three years I’ve spent the majority of the holiday season working in a windowless warehouse or sleeping in a hotel, but wow. The holidays are here. Part of me suspects that Seattle just doesn’t play the holiday game like they do here in the Northeast. After all, the weather is never wintery this time of year. Here, the wreaths and bows are a startling contrast to the bare trees and the lights look beautiful on a snowy night. So few trees lose their leaves in Seattle that the holiday foliage blends in. Walking into Wilson Farms this afternoon, the smell of pine was overwhelming, and the wreaths, trees, ornaments, centerpieces, poinsettia dominated the store, making it difficult to find what I was looking for, mainly parsnip and jalapenos (for two separate recipes, thank you). (You know, I just tried to work obfuscate into that previous sentence just because I’m digging that word today, but I realized it wouldn’t work there. Just wanted to mention that.) Christmas is here with a bang. The strange thing is, the Boston area has such a larger Jewish population than Seattle, but it feels like an unusually gentile town. Maybe because Seattle’s was smaller we banded together more so our presence seemed stronger. It’s too diffuse in Boston. The smell of pine trees is the only think I’m jealous of the Christmas-celebrating folks about. I love the smell of pine. I’ve tried pine scented candles, but it’s just not the same, and there’s no way I’d hang a wreath or anything in our house. I’ve thought about secretly hiding boughs of pine somewhere in the house, but it just seems a little to weird. And I guess the other bad thing about being a Jew at Christmastime is it’s one less event that I can be Martha about. In retaliation for the Christmas overload, I went to the other extreme. I had homemade chicken soup simmering all day, so now the house smells even less Christmas and even more Lower East Side. And that’s a good thing.

The CWITs are looking for partners to work admit weekend. Hmmm, this may be the job for me. I could tell the wives what it’s really like. Maybe I should form my own partners club for disaffected wives who are trying–and failing–to fight the Stepford-wife-like domination of the CWITs. We could do things like cigar and martini nights, write newsletters that don’t have egregious typos, and not spam the members on a thrice-daily basis. While the partners do their case night (“just like what they do in a class!!”), we could get stoned and see if we can still pick up men. During mommy and me events we can rally for NARAL. We’ll be just as crafty: while the partners are scrapbooking, we can make “Pussy Power” t-shirts. Our events could actually be fun, stuff like “pedicures and politics,” an evening of debate and pink passion nail polish. I think I’m on to something here. Who’s with me on this!

Everyone is making a daily visit to the Hunger Site and clicking away on all the links, aren’t they? Every click you make donates food, saves the rainforest, funds a mammogram, helps a child, or saves an animal (visit all their sites) on this advertising-supported Web site. It’s the easiest donation you can make!

Has anyone else noticed that it’s way past my bedtime and yet here I am, still futzing on the computer? That’s what happens when Adam isn’t here to remind me it’s way past my bedtime. And where, you might ask, is Adam? Why off at a bachelor party. At midnight. On a Thursday. Yes, folks, this is what HBS is all about. Good night and sweet dreams. Or, as the Tweedle Twirp would say, Sweet gerbils.

A reversal: after a life-time of pseudo-early-adapterness, I’m taking a step back. Why pseudo-early adapter? Because my parents held me back. I wanted my MTV in 1981 (ah, 1981. When ketchup was a vegetable, HBO didn’t go on until 5 p.m., and Nutra-Sweet was new. I remember that year well. The Reaganites wore gray, I wore blue… leg warmers, that is. They went well with my feathered hair), only my parents didn’t deign to give it to me until 1985. I wanted an Atari when they were still cool, but didn’t get one until I was practically shipped off to college. I wanted a CD player the moment I heard of its joy and saw the pretty shiny discs, but didn’t get one until I bought one with my own money when I went to college. You get the picture.

Now, a brief history of my on-again, off-again relationship with technology. As a child, my family had one of the first computers on the block. Granted, at the time, my family lived in the foothills of Boulder, Colorado, and technically speaking, we were the only family on the block, but I think you understand what I mean. Have I blogged about this before? I’m having blog-a-vu. Oh well, can you ever blog enough about your first computer? Our first was a cassette-loading TRS-80 Model III that we got because my father asked me, the twelve year old, “Should be get the Model III, which we can get RIGHT NOW or should we order an Apple III, which could take up to two months to get here? What do you think? Model III, RIGHT NOW? or Apple III, at some point in the future?” Does anyone else here think he was using his wee children to justify making the less logical and yet more instantly gratifying decision? So, we had a computer before anyone else. And I was a wiz, writing programs such as:

10 CLS

20 PRINT “Jenny the Greatestestestestestestestestestestest”

30 GOTO 20

“Jenny the Greatestestestestestestestestestestest,” of course, being the only name I would answer to in those days.

Digression from the digression: Does anyone else miss the orange button of death on those old Trash 80s? I think my life could use one. When I don’t like something, boom! Orange button of death. You would walk by big gaping holes in the earth, and if someone mused, “Wow, wonder what happened here?” you could tell them, “Ah, that was just Jenny and her orange button of death. Must have been another CWIT-related fatality.”

Okay, so we had the computer early on. I had a CD player and a DVD player the minute I could afford one. My father gave me an MP-3 player before most of my friends knew what they were. And then I became a true early adapter by marriage, when the Replay-owning, Mac-worshipping, “Why can’t I have the tablet laptop” boy moved into my house.

Is anyone else here besides me wondering what the point of all this was? Oh, yes, it comes back to me. I’m giving up my PDA and returning to the land of the handwritten calendar. I’m bringing my Day Runner out of retirement. Only this is for keeps and not some Michael Jordan “I’m out, I’m in, I’m out, I’m in” kind of return from retirement. The Visor is just too much of a pain to use, so I end up ignoring to-do lists, forgetting birthdays, and losing my notes. I mean, for goodness sake, I can’t even remember to turn the stupid thing on every day, so when I finally do break down to look up a phone number or something, I get five minutes of “reminders” of events that happened months ago. Sheesh. So I am no longer PDA compatible. My one concession is I’ve gotten a Day Runner case that has a spot to hold the Visor, so if I’m ever jonesing for a round of Minesweeper, it will be there for me.

Question for all the marketing MBAs out there: Why does every appeal letter (and we are getting tons of them this holiday season. Give! Give! Give more!) repeat the request in a P.S.? I mean, if you’ve made it that far, you’ve already got the point. Do they think that most of us will read the letter and lose our stream of thought halfway through, get to the P.S. at the bottom and then say, “Oh, yeah! They wanted money! I totally forgot. Let me go find my checkbook.”

Does anyone else miss the cents key? Are we really so far gone that if it’s less than a dollar, it just doesn’t count?

I was going to write a long entry about how unmotivated I feel of late, but then I realized I really wasn’t motivated to do it. So I won’t.

I’m feeling bad because my sweetie is the only one not to get a shout out on his birthday. But yesterday, Adam finally hit thirty (as my father said, “This is distressing. Now there are no more children in this family in their twenties).

I want to make note of just one thing from yesterday: We had breakfast at Renee’s Cafe in Somerville, where I got this look–an actual sneer of horror and disdain–when I asked for low-fat milk for my coffee instead of cream (regular milk only; no low-fat milk) and if I could get low-fat sour cream on my omelette (regular sour cream only; no low-fat sour cream). I’ve never seen a look like that–that low-fat face. As Adam pointed out, you would never have gotten a look like that in Seattle. They would have had full-fat, low-fat, non-fat, tofu, you name it. Boston isn’t quite as, um, open-minded, I’m finding. But despite that breakfast was good and we ran into Adam’s brother, which made me feel like I actually live here.

Helloooo, dahlings. Hah-vahd Jennifer here today. Jenny, it would appear, is still in bed nursing a cheap red wine hangover (not very CWIT of her, I declare), so I am here to report on the events of Holidazzle, otherwise known as the HBS holiday ball. ‘Tis a lovely, lovely event. A wee bit early in the evening, which necessitated rushing home from work so that meticulous care could be used in putting on make-up and curling hair. Of course, since Jenny is not one to plan ahead, she didn’t actually own a curling iron, and she frantically sent Adam to the drugstore to get one, because it was infinitely easier than getting her hair cut, which she should have done weeks ago, I tell you! Anyhoo, despite Jenny’s insistence on a dress from the clearance rack (can you believe she was bragging that it only cost $16.99 marked down from $140. I tried to intervene–no need for anyone to think it cost a penny less than $200, but she stepped on my toes to shut me up), we arrived looking splendiforous. Adam was quite dashing in his tuxedo. Such a low CWIT moment–Adam owns his own tuxedo, but I, I do not even have a curling iron. How am I ever supposed to be up to snuff as a CWIT? But where was I? The cocktail hour was brief, as we were a bit late and the coat check line was horribly long. When we entered, our ids were checked and our hands were stamped, and can you believe it? They insisted on stamping me with red ink, even thought I told them it wouldn’t go with my blue dress. Horrifying!

Then we had dinner. While the party was for all of HBS, dinner was just for the first years and we all divided up by section (remember our section? Absolut A! Absolut Heaven, is what they should really call themselves). Sat at a lovely table. I truly tried to enjoy the evening’s festivities, but it was quite hard when Jenny was so hell bent on (oooh, pardon my language), as she kept muttering, “dulling the pain.” I believe she also said something about the darling couple next to her who didn’t drink and that she “would dull the pain for them too” as she reached yet again for the bottle. My theory is nurse one drink throughout the evening so you can be on hand when your husband needs you. You know, to laugh at his jokes, to help make witty conversation, and to assist him when he’s had one too many. I’m afraid Adam may be doing well at HBS, but Jenny is going to be put back a year in CWIT training. To continue, dinner was a tempting chicken meal–and for once there were no annoying choices to clutter my brain. Thank goodness! Chicken or nothing! I don’t know what those silly vegetarians have to complain about. So, as we battled–I mean, ate–our chickens, we were cleverly entertained by the section. Once again an outstanding medley, although, I’m afraid, the acoustics made it a wee bit difficult to hear the lyrics. Of course, us CWITs wouldn’t understand all of the references, but then, we don’t have to. As long as our husbands understand. There’s nothing like seeing a room of elegantly dressed adults standing on their chairs and hooting to bawdy songs. So refreshing! Brought me right back to my college days. Sigh. How I miss those fraternity parties. After the music, each table was encouraged to write a limerick. Oh, you know limericks, don’t you? Those oh-so-clever five lined poems? Many of them were quite smart, and I didn’t understand one bit why Jenny got so huffy when one of the poems made mention of a female classmate’s “fine rack” or another referred to a woman classmate’s ass. (Again, pardon the language, but limericks can get a wee bit off color.) And the fun didn’t stop there! Next came a Section A version of Family Feud! The section had been polled before the event for the answers, so you just know how witty the questions were going to be! I know, I know, you’re thinking this is simply too much fun for one night, but it’s so refreshing when the entertainment just goes on and on and on. We didn’t mind one bit that just behind the closed door of our section dinner, we could hear the music of the dance floor or the tittering of people enjoying the open bar. I just couldn’t stop Jenny, when during the Family Feud question about who’s significant others really were the “better half,” she hissed to Adam, “This is so demeaning,” especially as women were named and then given the great big Family Feud X. Personally, I think she should be so grateful to have made the list. And I was even more grateful that when they gave her name as an answer, they said, “Jenny, Mrs. Tech Rep,” which apparently she is okay with. Can you imagine the fuss she would have made in there if they had called her Mrs. Medros? Oh, I shudder to even think of it! Of course, Jenny sat fuming at the whole thing for five minutes before it occurred to her to lean over and whisper to Adam–I swear I tried to stop her–“Did you put me down for that answer?” I’m just praying to the good lord above that no one saw her slug him when he said, “No.” He insists he left that question blank because he knew it would annoy her. And then she fumed for a good ‘nother hour because she wasn’t sure if she should be pleased or angry that he didn’t answer the question.

Anyhoo, the games, sadly, ended, and we joined the rest of HBS. We joined some darling friends, only I was humiliated–humiliated, I tell you–when I saw I was the only one without a manicure, never mind a pedicure. Terrible, dahlings, simply terrible! One dear friend, who Jenny rudely promised to mock mercilessly as a CWIT, actually went and had her hair and make-up professionally done. Oh, how I wanted to cry in embarrassment at my utter lack of CWIT behavior. Really, in the future, I’m going to have to lock Jenny away when I get ready for these events. The bar at this time was out of red wine and they had no water–after all Hah-vahd boys are too good for water–so to my embarrassment, Jenny began drinking from a Bud bottle. Please! Beer is only for Fourth of July picnics and then only from a glass and never domestic. This girl will never learn. By this time, Adam wanted to dance, and as the dutiful wife, I tried, oh, how I tried, but Jenny drunkenly began insisting that she didn’t feel so well. So after one trip to the ice cream bar, we departed for home. True, it was a tad early–not even midnight–although it was late enough that couples were beginning to snog on the dance floor and a few CWITs were whisking off their overly drunk husbands. So we made it home, where Jenny crumpled her chi-chi clearance dress formal on the floor, climbing into bed with a resounding, “Ugh,” leaving poor Adam to hang the clothes and bring her water and aspirin. That girl is never going to make it in the real world. Well, the fun is over for the moment, and dahlings, I’m afraid I must dash off and take care of some womanly duties (laundry, cleaning, you know. The things the housekeeper will do once we get a live-in). Ta ta!