Last night while packing, I found my high school (and college) journal. As you can see .. not much has changed.

For those of you who can’t read this (yes my handwriting is exactly the same and exactly as messy today), this entry reads as follows:

This summer has been wonderful. I got my license! I also started working at the BPD (Braintree Parks Department – I was a camp counselor) Well Sat. was the Braintree Fire Works – I hung out w/ Pat & Joe – then Mon. I went to Caity’s party & hung with Pat & Joe again. Then Tuesday Pat called me at about 1:00 pm & told me that Joe liked me. I was a little surprised considering I thought Joe was gay ..? Oh well.

Let’s note a few things about this:

1.) Caity yes that is you in my entry.
2.) I like how I’m so specific “then at 1:00 pm …”
3.) OH YEAH. THIS PART:

Let’s all read this aloud one more time just so we’re all perfectly clear:

I WAS A LITTLE SURPRISED CONSIDERING I THOUGHT JOE WAS GAY DOT DOT DOT QUESTION MARK.

and then my personal favorite part of the whole thing …

OH WELL.

Just like that “OH WELL.”

There you have it folks. July 3, 1997. I was sixteen years, five months and nine days old. You can actually PINPOINT the MOMENT my life took … well took the turn it did.

OH WELL.

Oh don’t you worry … there is more where this came from.

This Saturday evening, I called up my Fabulous(ly out there) friend to see if she cared to join me for dinner and then grab a few drinks after. We may or may not have planned on grabbing those after dinner drinks at a swanky (STRAIGHT) bar where the drinks are strong and the men are hot. We agreed to meet at 8 and wear some fabulous outfits (obviously).

Dinner was fantastic. We feasted on amazing cheeses and wine followed by risottos and raviolis. When asked if we would like dessert, I ever so classily answered “No thanks. I prefer to drink my calories.” What can I say, I’m a classy broad.

We bundled up and walked over to one of our favorite spots, which again, I reiterate is NOT in the South End and NOT a gay bar. And yet, when I walk in who do I obviously run into?

The three (devastatingly handsome) gay men I’ve been spending roughly 75% of my time with the past couple of weeks. And I swear – cross my heart and hope to die – they did not know me and Miss Fabulous were going to be there.

The two of us pulled up a couple of chairs and joined mah boys for a couple of cocktails. The night wasn’t a total loss – for the Fabulous one at least. We all coached and cheered along some flirting in text form (which I really hope she blogs about. HINT HINT.)

After a couple of hours, we split up and I ended up at another bar a few blocks away. Where I got hit on. By a lesbian.

THIS IS MY LIFE.

This past weekend, Sarah hosted a holiday party complete with Secret Santa.

The host and her decorations:

The apartment ws decorated so lovely:

It was a dress up (optional) party, which I was psyched about, because I have way too many dresses in my closet and no reason to wear them. Ever.

Me pictured with my pick in the Secret Santa, Caity.

Anyway, I got Caity Biolage shampoo and conditioner and some OPI nail polishes. I enjoy giving pamper-y gifts. (Jeannie had me in the Secret Santa, and I got the most beautiful sushi set for two.)

After Secret Santa most of us maintained our holiday spirit (read: buzz).

At one point in the evening I started talking to the only single, straight boy at the party. We had a lovely conversation for 15 minutes and then he asked what kind of music I like. I started off with “I really like a mix of everything.” giving examples of some of my favorites including 80s rock, Sountracks, etc and ended with “And oh yeah. I really like bubblegum pop.” To which he responded and I quote “Like that Mariah Carey crap?”

Um. Well she’s not really bubblegum, but yes, yes and YES. Hello? All I Want for Christmas Is You has pretty much been on repeat for like a month now.

Within seconds – SECONDS – he said “I have to …. go in the other room.”

I don’t think I will ever learn my lesson when it comes to my love of pop and the rest of the world. Friendships have been tainted, I’ve lost out on job opportunities and now boys because of it. But, hey, take me (bubblegum pop and all) or leave me, cause I am not changing.

Now please ‘scuse me while I crank up the Britney Spears.

This morning I trekked over to my local Peets to order my regular coffee: medium with skim, no sugar.

Lately I’ve had this problem where I keep burning my tongue on the coffee. This ‘problem’ is called patience. And, sadly, I’ve been diagnosed with not having any. So I’ve taken to ordering my hot coffee with two ice cubes*.

*Could I be any more annoying? No. The answer is no. Though if I asked how I really want my coffee (mainlined), I would probably be considered tacky. And I’d rather be annoying than tacky.

So I walk up to the counter and order “medium skim, no sugar, two ice cubes”. I wait for my coffee, get overly excited when I see it coming towards me, eagerly hand over a five dollar bill, step to the side, and take a sip while I wait for my change.

And then this guy walks up, swear to god, and orders a medium with skim, no sugar and ice.

A normal person would have said something like “Hi, I just ordered the exact same thing. My name is Jenny. You have amazing eyes.”

Instead I just stared at him thinking “OMG LOL WE JUST ORDERED THE SAME THING, WTF!? OMG I SHOULD SAY SOMETHING BECAUSE RIGHT NOW I’M JUST STARING AND HE’S LOOKING AT ME BECAUSE I LOOK LIKE I’M GOING TO SAY SOMETHING EXCEPT NOW IT’S BEEN TOO LONG TO SAY SOMETHING SO I’LL JUST KEEP STARING. LOL. WTF. OMG.”

Then I did the socially accetable thing: I grabbed my change and bolted. (But I did tip the barista — possibly making up for my social awkwardness?)

I’m totally normal in most social situations. And I know, I know – I should have said something. I mean I look totally adorable in my khakis, navy blue and cream sweater vest, and cute black frame glasses*.

*

But let’s face it, my idiocy is what makes my blog. Wouldn’t it be terribly boring if my entries were all “I saw this guy and I said hi and he said hi back and we’re in love now. Kay? Thanks! Bye!”

Guys, today is officially the last day of NaBloI’mgoingcrazyIhateBlogs month! And to keep you people coming back, I have a surprise. But you won’t get it until tomorrow. Oohhhhhhh.

Sometimes, when we’re bored and need a little entertaining, my friend Skip and I will persue the Craigslist personals and send each other links. Sometimes they’re serious, like “Hey Friend, you should write to this person.” and sometime they’re sarcastic “Hey Friend, now HERE IS THE CHICK FOR YOU…..She digs the taste of blood, Satan and – oh! It look like last week she preformed a marriage ceremony for wolves! Adorable.”

And every once and a while you’ll see an ad that makes you laugh out loud and make you think to yourself “I want to be friends with whoever this person is.”

Such was the ad I found yesterday. Posted by a seasoned veteran of the dating world … at the ripe old age of 22. This kid not only knows exactly what he wants, but exactly what you WON’T like about him and that’s his ad. Which to me, is genius.

I sent this to Skip and his only response was “AMAZING.”

And without further adeiu I present to you, my new best friend:

You know what, I’m not even going to try with trying to sell you on how kickass I am and all that good shit, because I already know that. No, rather I will tell you the things that you probably won’t like, here it is:

Your cat is an asshole and I hate it.
We already know your ex is a douchebag.
Family Guy is awesome.
Metal is awesomer \m/
I am an asshole.
Typical girly behavior makes me want to kill myself.
Whiny, complainy, bitchy, all reasons to murder you.
My apartment is small but cheap.
You will end up driving me to a drinking problem.
I like ‘em curvy (what, tits rule).
I have an obvious superiority complex.
I am messy, I probably won’t clean…ever.
You cannot be completely sane, no stalkers either.
I am overweight slightly, but love it, I’m not going to the gym with you, be happy with your appearance or lose weight, don’t drag me with you.
I am better than you at math.
I will make fun of you…a lot.

Still reading, you know what to do. This at least gave me something to do for five minutes.

I swear that’s a real ad. Titled “Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel”.

Out of sheer curiosity I want to contact this kid and find out what kind of response his ad got. Because if I were a 22 year old, not quite sane, \m/etal loving chick looking for love on the East side, I’d be all over this diamond in the rough.

After all Big said it best “After a while, you just want to be with the one who makes you laugh. “

I have this problem where I speak in different self-invested slangs with different groups of friends.

If I were hanging out with my “Braintree” crew (Sarah, Jeannie, etc.), I could spot an annoying person across the bar and say “Sylvanus strike him down!” and we would all errupt into a fit of laughter. (Sylvanus, as in Sylvanus Thayer who was born in Braintree – our hometown – a General in the United States army, and his likeness stands in the form of a HUGE statue outside of Town Hall.) Yeah we are huge geeks, but hello, if you read this blog everyday you already know that.

When around my best guy pal Chris, we usually communicate solely in abbreviations and nonsense words, “DG! TP AINT B! Izz brown! Aint roll! IZZ AG. Oops you!”

Other than the “DG” which means “damn girl!”, there is no way I could even launch into a discussion about what the rest of that means. It’s taken years for us to perfect our secret twin language (we were both born on 12/24/80). But I am fairly certain the rest of our friends hate it.

While running with the “Edwards Crew” (Hooker, Ted, Kiley, Anthony, Desiree, etc.), we like to generously sprinkle our conversations with the word “douche”. It can be in a loving way: “I hate you, you douche. Come here and take a shot of tequlia with me and join in on this Billy Joel sing-a-long.” or in a not so loving way “Those douches were up until 5:30 am playing pool. I couldn’t frigging sleep because of their douchery.”

That one in particular I have to watch myself with. “Douche” rolls of the tongue a little too easily these days.

For example, last weekend, I was at a bar chatting up a pretty cute guy. We talked about music, about how much we hate the T, and about things to do in Boston. We were having a decent time and eventually exchanged phone numbers and all the while continuing to throw back more and more drinks.

When we hit one drink too many for Jenny, he ordered some disgusting mixed drink that involved Watermelon Pucker and I turned to him in all seriousness and said,

“Stop being a douche and order a man drink.”

Yeah.

And I wonder why he didn’t call.

Although, I lost his number before I even left the bar so he couldn’t have been all that great.

But really?

But this brunette gets all the boys.

Ok. Well maybe not ALL the boys. Or even a lot of boys. BUT, I can honestly say that I was hit on by guys more in my first week of being a brunette than I was in the past year of being a blonde.

I’m talking like 5 times here guys. WHOA. Watch out. Maneater on the loose.

I’m not sure if the color is just more flattering on me, or I just feel more confident with short hair (instead of hiding behind all those long layers), but something happened last week.

It all started the day after I got my cut and color at a Dunkin Donuts cart (yes a FOOD CART). I’m in desperate need of my morning coffee (obviously), and I’m gleefully messing around with my new hair as I wait in line. The guy in front of me, who had turned around a few times already I assume looking for a cab, or the T or something, turns around and has the following converstaion while looking at me way too intensely pre-coffee:

“Hello. Good morning. Hi. I’m Patrick.”

“Uh. Hiii….”

“I love coffee. I need some coffee.”

“Me too. That’s why I’m here.”

“What’s your name?”

I was thinking “Is this necessary. We are standing at a FOOD CART. How depressing.”

I said “Jenny. Nice to meet you.”

“You gettting a bagel? Do you want a bagel? I’ll get you a bagel.”

“Thank you I’m all set.”

“Your coffee then. Sir I have her coffee.”

“That’s ok. Really. Thank you though.”

“No, Jenny. I can get your coffee. I’ll write it off.”

I was thinking “Ohh charmer!”

I said “Uh. I guess.”

“What about your number. Can I get that too?”

“Um. I don’t think so. But thanks for asking …. (wtf Jenny).”

I awkwardly walked away because I think I’m dealing with some crazy intense guy who goes around asking for girls numbers at coffee carts.

Except a similar thing happened later that day and again later that week, except minus the coffee and minus the awkward “Can I get your number” part of the conversation. (I’m new to this brunette thing and boys asking that. I’ve got to take it easy, you know?)

The weird part is it’s not just with guys. And no I’m not going to launch into a story where I am so awesome I can charm lesbians.

I’ve been asked for directions, restuarant suggestions, and other “on the street” questions more this week than any other in a long while.

And again, I swear it’s because this new hair color makes me so happy that it literally makes me smile and gives me an extra hop in my step. And if I didn’t know where I was I’d probably asked the way too excited smiling girl over the pissed off businessman with borderline personality disorder.

It definitely didn’t launch me into model status or anything, but this thing I did to my hair made me feel like a whole new person. And that person apparently looks like she knows all the best places in Boston and likes men to buy her coffee (I really didn’t let him buy my coffee. But I should have. Except I was all “OMG why the eff are you talking to me? Stop being weird.”)

Though to be fair, not all good comments have come out of the hair. Last Friday, I threw on my favorite t-shirt and jeans and hit up an acoustic show that my friend Marc was playing. Shortly after I walked in, this kid I’ve known for years said “You usually look all hot. But tonight? You don’t look hot. But you do look approachable. So uh, if you get a few drinks in you and feel like slumming it for the evening, I’m your man.”

VOM-IT.

No thank you.

I’m glad that’s not how most of the response to my hair went, because quite frankly I would have dyed it back and got extensions.

But that would have killed me because I really think this is the best hair that I’ve had in a long time. Got any good hair stories?

Every few weeks or so for the past few months, strange numbers have been showing up in my “missed call” queue. I am a chronic screener so if I don’t recognize a number (and sometimes even if I do), I let the call go straight to voicemail. (Friends, do not get all weirded out if one of your calls goes to voicemail. This does not necessarily mean I am ignoring you. It probably just means I don’t have my phone readily available.) (Or I am avoiding you.)

There is one number in particular that has shown up several times. I do not recognize this number (though I have discovered it is a Western Massachusetts area code). It began as just missed calls. Now this person is leaving messages, and I still have no clue who it could be.

At first the messages were cordial, and I honestly mistook them for a wrong number:

Hey, it’s me. Just calling to see what you’re up to. Call me back if you get the chance!

But because they never said my name and this person’s voice and number was unfamiliar, I just let it go.

Then the messages got a little weirder. And only came in on weekends, when this person was obviously intoxicated and always after 2:00 am when I would miss the call because I’m either a) asleep or b) having fun with my friends and not preoccupied with my phone.

(singing) Jennnnnnny. Where arrrrrree yoooooou? Annsweeeer my caaaalllllllllsssss. It’s MEEEEE!

“It’s me”? I don’t know who you are stranger, but you don’t get to give me a “It’s me”. “It’s me”? I don’t recognize your number and you’re not leaving me any hints or identifying details, like say A NAME, so you definitely don’t get to use the “It’s me.”

After several message-less weeks, I got another voicemail. This past Sunday. Again, around 2:00 am. By the time I noticed I had a missed call/new voicemail, I was a wee bit intoxicated and apparently played the message for all my friends. I don’t entirely remember that part.

I do remember listening to it again the next day and have confirmed that while I still haven’t a clue, this strange person does indeed know who I am and is really creepy and inappropriate.

Highlights from the message include:

Jenny, what is wrong with you? Pick up your damn phone. Who do you think you are ignoring these calls? You’re missing out on a good six inches – almost. (haha, seriously?) You are fucking miserable. Why don’t you go eat in Quincy with your nerd friends?

OH, HAND ME THE PHONE. This guy is obviously a huge catch. He’s polite, caring, full of compliments and offers almost six inches of fun to boot. Hands off ladies, this one is MINE.

Honestly, I have no idea who this person is. I have given my number out exactly two times in the past 6 months and I KNOW who I gave it to. And while they’re not the greatest people, they don’t creep me out and leave vicious messages. (For a good chunk of time, I thought the crazy message-leaving person was one of these people. But upon further investigation, I reazlied I was incorrect because I have the number of the person that I erroneously tagged as the crazy one. Oops. My bad.)

Oh the joys of being single.

Boys, here’s a little advice: if you somehow get a hold of a girl’s number (whether she gives it to you or not) you won’t make any friends much less a girlfriend by yelling and screaming like a maniac.

(I’m changing my voicemail message and omitting my name.)

(I’m also going to call this person and try and find out a) who they are and b) ask them to stop calling me.)

(This, of course, after I stop laughing.)

I know you have one. Well, obviously I know all of you have many shirts (hopefully….?), but I’m talking about THE SHIRT. The one you bring out when you’ve had a bad day and need to feel hot, when you need a little boost of self-confidence because GOD DAMN do you look good in it, the one you put on and when people compliment you on how good you look you smile to yourself and say “Oh this old thing? I’ve had it forever”. You know. THE SHIRT.

I have a couple of these in my shirt inventory. My favorite being a tight black sleeveless number with a low v-cut in both the front and the back. I can dress it up, dress it down, but no matter how I wear it, I always feel good in it.

Last night I went out for a few drinks with Desiree. And by “few” I mean “one” because we were at an outdoor bar, it got cold, and the clientele was less than satisfactory. I was not wearing THE SHIRT, and I was not “on the prowl” or anything, but it was kind of depressing looking around because there were some people who obviously were (wearing THE SHIRT and on the prowl).

This is not my scene. “This” being doing the “get all dolled up to meet people at a local bar” thing. I have never dated a guy that I met in a bar, ever. And the last couple of times I even gave that avenue a try, the only people who talked to me were men well into their 40s with beer guts or lesbians. FACT.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I never go out, I don’t have fun at bars, or I never talk to people. In fact, I go out all the time. I just don’t like going out with “that in mind”. Though this past March, my friend Skip and I were in Austin, TX for SXSW and just for the fun of it we went out with that goal. To see if we had it in us. And let me tell you, we KILLED at bars. I don’t know if it was the way we played off each other, the fact that we were on vacation and would never see these people again, or what, but we were attracting people like moths to a flame.

Skip is newly single. In all the time we’ve been friends, we’ve never been single at the same time. We happened to be reminiscing about Austin and decided that one of these weekends it might be fun to give it a try in Boston.

With that in mind and with all the fall clothes out in store windows, I thought mabye I could look for a few new things to add to my wardrobe. If I was so inclined, maybe even find a new SHIRT and try it out sometime. Except, I work above a mall now, and as horrifying as this may seem, the idea of shopping is not what it once was. In fact, it just seems either tedious or overwhelming. I bought a few new pieces when I got my new job, and honestly for now, that’s all I can be bothered to buy. No really. I tried yesterday during lunch and was totally uninspired.

So instead, I had a lovely chat with a man at my local camera shop and ended up buying a new lens for my camera.

Much like I can’t go to bars for that reason, I just can’t buy outfits with THAT in mind. Though I can buy an outfit for any other occasion including but not limited to “dinner at a Mexican Restuarant”, “babysitting for my niece”, “playing pool at friend’s house”, “meeting with the sales team”, “dinner plans with girlfriends”. The whole “I’m going to a bar where I will undoubtedly meet bro-dudes in white shirts with matching Kangol hats” outfit shopping just seems to forced or something. Or I am just a weird breed of girl. Besides the geek in me thinks my new lens is way hotter.

But just for the hell of it, maybe Skip and I will hit the town this weekend. Shake things up. Try something new. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll even put on THE SHIRT.

If nothing else, it should make for some good entries.

But now for some good comment discussion: describe your best SHIRT or just make fun of someone else’s “going out to hit it” outfits (a la white shirt bro-dude in matching Kangol hat. Yes, I’m a bitch. If you are a reader who owns that outfit I apologize in advance for offending you, but I do not apologize making fun of it.) GO!