the pieces of my life

Can someone tell me please which is worse? A. The fact that at the winter formal (black tie, thank you very much), Adam’s section would play a game such as Family Feud with such questions as “Who’s significant other really is their ‘better half'” or B. that complete strangers would put me on the list and yet MY OWN HUSBAND DIDN’T! It’s a cruel, cruel world.

And then, to top it off, on the car ride home, the Waitresses’ song “Christmas Wrapping” came on, Adam HAD NEVER HEARD IT!

I’m going to bury my head in the sand. Good night all.

Rant warning. If you’re not in the mood for my complaints, then just keep surfing.

So, I went to a partner’s event last night. And before you can say it, let me say it first: I’m a complete hypocrite. I mock the scrapbooking. I pshaw the cooking classes. I harrumph at the hoedowns. But the minute “paint your own pottery” hit the list, I was signed up before you could say, “Martha Stewart.” I’ve always had a secret longing to find out if I could make those pretty Pottery-Barn-esque things (and the answer is, Nope. I can’t). Although I confess I didn’t actually confirm the event until Meg swore up and down that she would definitely show up. And all I can say is, thank goodness Meg was there.

Dinner first with Meg–a quiet martini and pizza dinner (for me; Meg is much healthier than I am) at Grafton Street. The snow was coming down pretty heavily, which turns out to be good for the Cambridge parking situation. Then the two of us headed over to Made by Me. We plopped ourselves down at the table while the other cliques formed around us. And I do mean cliques. You haven’t seen groups like these since you were in high school. I pick a mug and Meg picks a mug and away we go with the painting (although thanks to Meg, I didn’t waste too much time. She ever so kindly pointed out to me, “Will you be able to see the stencils you are so carefully drawing on the bare cup once you’ve painted the base color on?” Um…). I went with a green base and blue ’60s design. I know, these are the important details you are dying to know. But sitting there, overhearing all of the CWITs talking, I felt my blood boil. Everything had to do with the husbands. “So will Alexander Jonathan the Third like what you’re making?” “Has Zachariah Charles been interviewing?” “Oh, I’d like to live in Maui, but Spencer T. Johnson prefers Buffalo, so that is where we will be going.” And I was infuriated. Do these women not have lives of their own? Do they not do their own interesting things and have their own interesting jobs other than that of appendage (and for the record, I fully support the stay-at-home mom as a full-time, interesting job because that’s a tougher career than any of those b-school boys will have, but not even that was discussed)? What really got to me, though, what I was most annoyed at, what I was completely irritated by, what made me want to stand up and shake someone, was that I wasn’t annoyed at the apparent chauvinism of the men (evident in their discussions). I was annoyed at these women. I think it’s anti-feminist of me to be annoyed by other people’s lack of feminism (that’s not femininity, folks. Feminism. It’s not such a dirty word. Come on, say it with me now. Feminism), but there it is: I am. I mean, hello? It’s practically 2003. Our generation got to skip all the examining of vulvas in mirrors and what not because supposedly our mothers liberated themselves for us, but apparently, some moms were busy doing the laundry while the consciousness raising was going on. Am I wrongfully judging women because they choose not to be individuals? They should have the right to want to be ’50s wives. I’m being anti-woman in not wanting to let them. Maybe, they are destined to be be blissfully happy forever and ever because they simply don’t care, while I’m doomed to a life of questioning, questioning, questioning, and I can’t just be open-minded and let things go. Maybe Socrates was full of shit. Maybe it’s better to just float around in sequined tops and big honking diamond rings and let the hubby take care of life. After all, I’m just a girl. What could I possibly know?

Random aside: If you are going to use the windshield wipers to get the snow off the car windshield, while you’re scraping the rest of the car, remember to close the car door first.

Screw him. The question is, Who is Jenny Brown?

jenny brown is in her home directory and types

jenny brown is a senior developer at goamerica communications

jenny brown is feeling much better and after ‘taking the sea air’ is now feeling well

jenny brown is well on the way to planning our autumn production “a jubilee review” and details of auditions etc can be found elsewhere in the newsletter

jenny brown is 14 years old

jenny brown is the alachua county labor party co

jenny brown is a bass solo and they actually made it to ben’s part of the song

jenny brown is keeping adam sane; tad is starting his application process as we speak

jenny brown is a melbourne freelance writer

jenny brown is to replace mr william mott in the 2002/2003 academic year

jenny brown is a video editor at amazon

jenny brown is leaving us

jenny brown is a consultant at flash creative management

jenny brown is a member of the national writers union uaw #1981 and gainesville women’s liberation

jenny brown is selected for the england senior team for a meeting in dunkirk on 2nd december

jenny brown is the senior editor for dvd and video at amazon

jenny brown is the editor

jenny brown is in grade 8 and is also at longreach state high school

jenny brown is the activity and social director

jenny brown is the top seed among women

jenny brown is a writer for racingserver

jenny brown is having one at her house on birch street

Who are you?

You’re almost ready for your scotch and cigarettes. Happy birthday, plauer!

The Thanksgiving meal was truly fabulousness. Really. A turkey extravaganza at its best. And I’m not just saying that because I did 95% of the cooking. I’m saying it because it’s fact (and those of who were there should now chime in and attest to the fabulosity of the meal). Right down to the Martha-inspired centerpieces and the pretty ribbon napkin rings. The only casualty of the evening–surprisingly enough–was the sweet potatoes, not that anyone was ever the wiser. Turns out putting marshmallows on mashed sweet potatoes is overdressing them–at least it is when you forget to pull said sweet potatoes out from under the broiler until the smoke alarm gently suggests that perhaps it is time. But a neat scoop of the knife and all incriminating evidence was down the garbage disposal, and we had lovely naked sweet potatoes. Oh, and the bean casserole didn’t turn out well. I really wanted to do the white-trash thang and make green bean casserole with the mushroom soup and the fried onions (we were deprived of this American delicacy as children), but even though I cooked it the required length of time, the beans remained frozen. Luckily, I had a secondary green bean dish (with fresh green beans, garlic, and parmesan. Mmmm!) that was just fine. Plus the nuts, olives, and St. Andre cheese, the warm spinach dip, the hot apple cider, the mashed potatoes, the sweet potatoes, the stuffing, the homemade rolls, the salad, the cranberry sauce, the apple pie, the pumpkin pie, the truffles, and the ice cream. And many thanks to Shannon who successfully wrangled the turkey wings into their full upright and locked position after I threw up my hands in frustration after that turkey just didn’t want to play with me. But I got even with it. I smeared it with butter and thyme, shoved lemons and onions up its butt, and ate it for dinner. Oh yes I did!

We learned a new thing about the Tweedle Twirp this weekend. And that is, despite the fact that she is the Smartest Brown, she becomes frozen with stupidity when there is music playing. I mean just stopped in her tracks. Like a deer in headlights. When music is on, that girl is Bambi.

Among the many lovely gifts I got, my parents gave me the C.D. Elvis 30 #1 Hits, which of course I had to play over and over again during the course of the weekend. I even have a special dance I do for “A Little Less Conversation.” So, the album was playing for the nth time as Tweeds and I attempted to do the crossword puzzle sans our father’s help. But the Tweedle Twirp just wasn’t having it. “I can’t think when there’s music on,” she said in voice that came awfully close to a whine. And whenever she was particularly stumped, she’d say, “I’m never going to get this if you keep that C.D. on.” After a while, she would quit and amble away, only to come back to help out again until the music–again–infected her brain, once more rendering it worthless. And so we would lather rinse and repeat until, despite “In the Ghetto” and her constant defections, we did manage to complete the New York Times Saturday crossword puzzle (which any crossword aficionado knows is the hardest puzzle of the week). They almost had us at “A place you’ll see a nun,” but, finally, I got “dreidel” and we cheered our brilliance. Oh, those clever New York Times crossword people!.

To continue. Later in the day we decided the family needed to entertain itself in order to make sure we didn’t kill each other (always a fear in the Brown family household). We’d already gone to a movie (Die Another Die, which everyone but the Mama Brown enjoyed) and we’d already watched two–count ’em, two–DVDs (Sullivan’s Travels and Miracle at 34th Street, for those of you playing along at home. Somehow, both Tweeds and I had gone thirtyplus years never having seen Miracle. And yes, even the Littlest Brown is thirtyplus years). No one wanted to play Scrabble (ah, the mighty soul who is willing to take me on in Scrabble). So we played Trivial Pursuit. We played with different sets of cards–the Mama Brown had The ’60s, the Papa Brown, the Vintage Years (1920s-1950s), and the three young ‘uns played with the Know-It-All set, even though it quickly became apparent that we didn’t. Each of us took our turn. But every time the Tweedle Twirp’s turn comes up, she complains that it’s too hard to concentrate with “Heartbreak Hotel” in the background. So instead of doing the logical thing and turning off the music, which would then have forced me into humming the “Jeopardy” tune every time someone took too long to answer, I had to get up to pause the C.D. for Tweeds before she rolled the dice. When her turn was over, I would get back up and turn the music back on. Who knew she was such a sensitive child? And no, the lack of music during her turn didn’t help her win.

I’m sure she’s going to protest this, saying I’ve used creative license or exaggerated the whole thing. Which is fine. She just lies is all. (No, you may not correct my grammar on that sentence. It was intentional. For effect. Ah, hell, these fine points are lost on you people anyway.)

The entire house reeks of oil. Oil, oil, oil. At the gym this morning, oil was oozing from my pores. Thanks to an evening of latke frying (that’s potato pancakes for you goyim out there), my skin isn’t losing that fresh I’m-16-years-old sheen. But people came and ate my latkes (and truffles and oatmeal-cranberry cookies and rugelah…), so I’m a happy Chanukaher.

And speaking of which, a happy Chanukah to all and to all a good night!