the pieces of my life

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!

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?