the pieces of my life

Number 184: Take a picture of my novel.

I need more MBA-speak for my novel. These are the terms I’m already using: attriting; issues around; incent (v.); enthused (v.); granular; get big fast; work long, hard, and smart; raising the bar; grasp the low-hanging fruit; day one; literally; fewer vs. less; synergy; learnings on; drive this project; quarterbacking a project; learnings; monetizing; opening the kimono; first mover advantage; bleeding edge.

I know, I’ve got some good stuff already. But 50,000 words is a lot of novel, and you know how it is: if you don’t use a foreign language you lose it. My MBA-speak has deterioriated since I left Amazon. Throw me some more good words to use! And if you’re very nice, I may even put you in my novel (of course, some of you who weren’t very nice already made my novel, but let’s not dwell on that).

The best thing about moving to a cold weather place? Hot cocoa with marshmallows.

An article in yesterday’s New York Times magazine about children being prescribed Ritalin at younger and younger ages made me wonder: Is it really that children are more hyperactive than they used to be? Or is it that people are waiting longer to have kids, and therefore don’t have the same energy at 47 to handle a five year old that they may have had when they were 23, so the kids just seem more active?

Things I’ve been doing instead of not working on my novel this weekend:

1) Wrote in two answers to the New York Times crossword puzzle before falling asleep on the couch in a sitting position, leaning on Adam’s neck.

2) Removed the skeleton that was hanging from out front door.

3) Contemplated hanging a turkey by our front door.

4) Nixed the idea of a turkey by the front door

4) Completely caught up in my blog reading (and my new favorite blog out there? Mimi Smartypants. She’d have no problems writing a witty novel in a month.)

5) Checked my belly button for lint.

6) Considered paying bills

7) Realized there was nothing to pay bills with

7) Made cocoa.

8) Raked part of the front yard until my hands were too numb to continue.

9) Proved to myself once again that I am not double jointed.

10) Formulated my plot for infiltrating HBS and forcing students to watch Norma Rae, Matewan, and Sullivan’s Travels, while I secretly burn all their khaki pants and blue shirts, replacing them with the fetching wear of Kmart’s Jaclyn Smith collection.

Hey, when did “clothing” become “apparel”? Is this like no one eating “spaghetti” anymore, just “pasta”?

And I still have no ideas for what to do next in my novel (word count: 32,042, although it looks like it will stay there for a while if I don’t come up with something brilliant for my character to do).

But who’s going to save my mom, dad, and baby sister?

Things uttered by Adam this morning in the pre-7 a.m. hours:

On his puffy eye: “I’m going to need a glass eye. What color would you like?”

With the talking hand motion: “Your problem? Too much talky-talk.”

On the White Rabbit: “I’m late. I’m late. That’s who I am today, the Hurried Rabbit. Or is it Harried Rabbit? Oh, that’s much better.”

On my evil plot to take over the Partner’s Club and subject everyone to mandatory seminars on the English language and its many fine uses: “Yeah! You can be the club’s grammar bitch!”

There are times where I don’t even know where to begin in my blog. The thoughts are bubbling, but I’m not sure what it is I’m trying to say or even how to say it. Let’s take tonight, for instance. Thursday night TV with the girls. Girls I like. Partners, but not CWITs. And the conversation was roaming all sorts of places, and I can’t for the life of me remember how it came up–maybe they were talking about all the singles in the group off at a bachelor’s party or something?–but whatever it was I said–in a relevant moment–“Well, don’t look at Adam. Believe it or not he’s never tried an illegal substance.” Because that’s weird, right? I mean, I’m not advocating drugs or anything but how many people make it to 30 without even experimenting a little bit. A toke here. A tab there. Whatever, right? But all I get are blank faces. So I think they don’t know what I’m talking about. So I elaborate. “I mean, he’s never even taken a single hit of a joint.” You know where this is going, don’t you? I’m in a room with four other women, and not a single one has ever, ever tried a drug. Not a one. In fact, one said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere where there was even an opportunity to try it. I’ve never been anywhere where there’s pot.” Of course I pushed it. “Really? Never? Not even a single toke?” Is this me? How did I plunge from an almost-respectable CWIT to druggie all in a matter of seconds? Of course, I’m not sure that when I was told, “Oh, don’t worry. Everyone makes mistakes when they’re young” that the right answer was “Well, I don’t think it was a mistake,” but what the hey. I mean, seriously. Am I completely out of touch or what?

I’m starting to think that today just wasn’t my day. I’m going to hide under the covers now.

This blog is becoming my collection of idiots. Or am I just sounding like a grammar nazi? From a CWIT mail today: “The Harvard/Yale Football Game is vastly approaching.” How, pray tell, does one approach vastly? Is the game looming over us, encompassing a boundless space as it sucks us into its universe? At first I wanted to give the benefit of the doubt and merely assume it was a typo, but “fastly approaching” is no more grammatical. Why is English so hard? And why am I in such an obviously cranky mood? I seriously need to lighten up.

I, Jenny Brown, princess of the universe and arbiter of all that is right and wrong with the world, do hereby declare that ugly people shall not be permitted in public before 7 a.m.

This morning, I couldn’t handle working out. Just wasn’t in the mood. So instead of my normal shtick, I decided to take the step class. Now, I normally don’t like step classes, but I figured it would force me to move. Pulling out my step, I find a nice empty spot and set up. All is good with the world. Until two minutes into class, when I swear to God, the ugliest woman I’ve seen in a very long time comes into class. Long, long (mid-chest perhaps?) thin light brown hair with the mullet top. Little spikes of hair wisping up above. Glasses so old and uncool… well, they’re still old and uncool. Not a pair of those hip, trendy ‘70s redux glasses, but a pair of glasses actually from the ‘70s! Tinted a smoky gray. Gangly, spindly, hairy legs. And she situates herself right behind me so I have a perfect view of her in the mirror. I know this sounds unkind, but I was so distracted that I was flailing about in class as I watched her. Truly, I’m not this shallow a person. I admire people of all shapes, sizes, and looks. I myself fall into the zaftig category and my looks are distinctly–shall we say–ethnic. But this was not something in the normal realm. Something was off with this woman, something I just couldn’t pinpoint. So I’m stepping and grapevining and moving my arms, when it strikes me. I nearly fall off my step. Looking at this woman, I realize, she’s a man, baby! No joke!

That’s what I get from deviating from my normal routine. It shan’t happen again.