Jeneration X: Why Jen Lancaster maybe will end up on my zombie fighting dream team

When last I wrote about Jen Lancaster, I was reading her novel If You Were Here and loving it. I mentioned at the time that she had written Jeneration X, another memoir that sends her back to her roots of Bitter is the New Black and my all-time favorite, Such a Pretty Fat.

By the way, I now always say "Memoir" the way John Malkovich said it in Burn after Reading; "Mem-Wah" because that movie was mad hilarious and you need to go watch it now, for Brad Pitt playing a gay personal trainer who is faaaaaaaaaaaabulous if for nothing else.

Anyway, Jeneration X is a bit different than Lancaster's usual style (have I determined yet if I can call her Jen? I think I decided I could...) since every chapter is more of a bullet point than a cohesive story, but it works for her. Basically, Jen is finally growing up, and each chapter represents a life lesson that she has learned. She does sometimes contrast in the Millennial generation to prove her point, but she mostly pinpoints Generation X, which I am a part of, and you are too if you were born between 1960 and 1980. Basically, there are all sorts of issues that we Gen-Xers have to deal with that our parents didn't, and how it affects us and our interactions with the generations we are sandwiched between.

Every life lesson is of course peppered with Jen's humor and charm and stories about her dogs and husband and various others in her life (Thun-Thun-Thundercats! Hooooo!)

But every time I read a book by Jen, I always come to the same conclusion: I can never have her in my zombie fighting dream team. And I should, really. I mean, she wields a pretty mean shovel and her husband is practically a Navy Seal (in his dreams), so they should totally be on my list to help me vanquish the undead horde.

The issue really comes down to the fact that I think Jen and Fletch would naturally start trying to run the whole operation, and that's my job. I promise to be a benevolent overlord, but an overlord nonetheless, and I don't see any future with Jen and Fletch in my batch of freedom fighters that doesn't end with us all dead, leaving the rest of my crew leaderless and, quite frankly, a yummy feast for the zombies. You see, eventually, she would question my authority, and then I'd have to kill her in order to make an example of her, and then Fletch would have to kill me in retaliation, and then whatever hot boy toy I have slobbering after me would have to kill Fletch in retaliation, and it just wouldn't work. In the past, I have thought, "Well, I'm sure they'll be fine after the zombpocalypse happens."

I have, however, found a solution. After reading Jeneration X, it was clear that Jen needs to lead her own troops to safety. Naturally, both she and Fletch will have to work with their friends (hint: not all of your friends will take you seriously when you broach the subject with them. When the zombies attack, these friends will always be "bait" in your zombie attacks) and be responsible for their own cell. I'm not saying we can't work together in the future to trade for food, shelter, or DNA diversity. That's always going to be open between my faction and any other faction that wishes to negotiate peacefully. We will be like America and Canada, willing to live peacefully side-by-side.

The best part is that maybe Jen can start working on her Amish zombie YA novels. Rumspringa-ding-dinga is sure to be a best seller in the post-Z world. Max Brooks stresses that The Arts are going to be the frist thing that everyone will want to abandon once the zombies attack, but that we in our own groups can't let that happen. I'm just betting that Jen will be able to make us laugh so hard as to completely forget for a few minutes that outside of our safe sanctuary, there are hundreds of undead, just waiting to make a meal out of us.

So Jen, Fletch, start working on your plans. We're counting on you.

A post about nothing

I know I should be posting more about Fifty Shades because I want to get it over with, but I have to re-read it at this point and make notes. I was making notes while I was reading at first, but then I had to give up because it was really breaking my concentration, so now I'm making posthumous notes on a second read. I'm not sure if my future posts will be as good because I'll have more information now, and it won't be as "real" as my previous posts, but I think I can get it funnier.

I interviewed a cat sitter last night. Chekhov consented to let the lady pet his ears and his cheeks, but watch the chin, woman. We aren't that closely acquainted yet. My bird loved her, though. Mostly because she spent her first ten minutes admiring him and saying how cute his face is. My bird is a sucker. I also predict that Chekhov will absolutely love this woman by the third day, if not before.

I read a really interesting article a week ago about children who present with psychopathic tendencies and the psychiatrists who are trying to intervene before these kids grow up to ruin people's lives. It was very thought-provoking, and it followed one family in particular who had three sons, and the eldest was the one with the presumed psychopathy. The reporter's observations were really chilling, like, the boy would get upset with his younger brother (who idolized him) about something, maybe a taken toy or taking the elder's game off of pause and affecting his score, etc., and the cold, calculating manner that the eldest would use in order to exact his revenge.

You think of kids as being more impulsive and less patient when it comes to retaliation, but this young seven-year-old boy bid his time and exacted his punishments in such a way as to try and deflect everyone from thinking he was taking revenge from the earlier infraction. When he realized that the reporter wasn't buying his act, he simply said, "As you see, I don't like my brother very much."

The worst part of the article, though, was in the comments section, when people actually started judging the parents for having more children after this one. I didn't get that. And people were liking their comments! As if it's any of their business! But it made me feel bad, because I thought that once about a family. They had six biological children, and all six had some sort of disability, including four with autism which is a statistical anomaly (Read: bullshit). My first thought was, "Munchhausen by Proxy" (probably correct) and my second thought was, "After the second, they really should have stopped. That's just wrong." Was my thought right? It feels right. It still does. That doesn't MAKE it right, but it still feels right. But I can't think that about the other parents. They have a child who will more than likely bring them heartache later in life, unless this early prevention works of course, and they deserve two kids who might actually make them happy. But what about the kids? They have to deal with an abusive older brother. How much can he hurt them? How much will their lives change because of this kid? And yet, at the end of the day, it's the parent's decision to have more.

Speaking of narcissists, my dad drunk dialed me the other day and then proceeded to tell me everything my brother has been doing since about October of last year, and no matter how much I tried to explain to him that I've actually seen and talked to my brother regularly since that time and know exactly what he's been up to, my dad just kept talking at me and telling me what was going on which was ridiculous. I mean, he called me while I was vising my brother at Christmas, and he kept getting upset that the baby was "talking" while he was trying to talk to me, so he had to know that I'd be aware of what my brother is doing! Sometimes, I get really mad at my mom for having children with him, and sometimes I get mad at God for allowing it to happen.

Anyway, that brings me to my trip that I'm about to take in a month (!!!!!!!). I have booked the plane and the rooms, now I just need to find us a car. It's my niece's first birthday! I can't wait.

The Meat Market

So, summer's here and I'm thinking of dusting off my online dating profile and updating my pictures, etc. Except I'm not happy with how I'm looking right now since I gained weight lately (like, a lot--maybe 15lbs.). Still, this happens. Especially when stress is introduced into your life.

Still, online dating is really...well, it's just such a horrible thing. It's great, but it's horrible.

I asked a friend one day why there are no self-help books for men on dating sites and she was like, "Would men read one?"

I don't know, but a lot of them need it.

Like, I'm all for specificity. I like men who can make me laugh, and a guy without a sense of humor is not what I'm looking for. I really like sarcastic, ironic, satiric humor and I very rarely run into anyone who can do this, so I'm not surprised when I find few online, and even less surprised when even fewer are interested in me. I mean, I have to be realistic here. In life, not everyone is attracted to you. But then you look at men's profiles, and...it just seems like they think they're owed the world. One profile said "I like petite, athletic women with long, blonde hair and long manicured nails." I mean, great. That's great. It's nice to know, as a taller-and-larger-than-average-woman that this guy wouldn't be interested in me. However, a) he wasn't much of a looker and he was overweight himself, which seemed really hypocritical, and b) ew. Gross. Creepy. Even if I had fit the bill, I would have turned and ran as quickly as possible. Is it really that hard to weed through your responses and open communication with women who are physically your "type" without putting THAT on your profile?

Then there are the car pictures. I have rarely seen a profile of a guy where he's not standing in front of his car/motorcycle/truck. It doesn't matter if it's a Porsche or a Yugo, they will pose in front of it like it's a Nobel Peace Prize or something. I appreciate a guy who takes pride in ownership and keeps his car clean for our dates or whatever, but aside from that, it's really not something to get that tripped up about. It's a car.

Then there are the guys who email you one-to-two-word emails.

Them: Hey.

You: ...hi?...

Which can either result in another one-word answer (usually: sup?), or a misspelled tirade about how you obviously feel you're better than him, he was just trying to say hi and you just had to act like such a bitch. Jeez. What's wrong with you?

And then you report them and have them blocked and it's a hassle because then they just create a profile under another name and try the same thing later.

I'm sure that men have other horror stories. I mean, some girls out there think that men are their own personal ATM's and chauffeurs and bringers of gifts. I'm sure we have pictures that make men think, "Why are they always posed X way?" or something. But I don't look at their profiles. I only see the men's profiles. And one guy said that he liked women who mentally challenged him, but he wasn't expecting a "genious." It took me a while to figure out that it wasn't an ironic spelling.

People talk about the bar scene like it's disingenuous or shallow, but then you go online and you get the exact same stupid frat boys who think they're god's gift intermixed with nerdy-and-not-that-bad-looking-but-not-that-great-either-average-is-okay-but-I'm-totally-looking-for-a-supermodel-and-will-complain-for-hours-that-women-only-want-bad-boys-and-not-nice-guys-like-me and very rarely a guy who just wants to date someone and maybe try and settle down. But you still have to weed through them all, just like you'd have to at a bar or a booze cruise or any of those other places that are looked down upon. "Oh, you met on a cruise around Balboa Island? Hmm...pick-up artist, anyone?"

So...I need to hunker down on the working out and really push myself (I'm trying to make it to a ten-minute mile) and try to handle my stress better, and then maybe I'll feel like taking pictures soon. Hopefully before June.

And now it's summer

I took my final on Monday, and my lab final the week before. I don't have school tonight or for the rest of the summer. I'm taking an online course for American History, which I'm pretty burned that I have to take.

Well, it's my fault. I had filled out this form of all the classes I needed to take for the university, and I also had to fill in any prerequisites or classes that needed to be taken to graduate Community College. World History fulfilled my "arts and humanities" requirement, and there were two classes. History of the World Part I, and History of the World Part II: Hitler on Ice. (My teacher actually said that at one point, and I was so tempted to say, "We're at now now. Everything that is happening now is happening now." "But what about then?" "We passed then." "When?" "Just now." "When can we go back to then?" "Soon." but it never happened.) (Did I ever mention that he looked like Harrison Ford and always wore a three-piece suit and a fedora? I miss that class.) (Where was I?) (Oh, right, I took both classes.) Only I didn't have to take both classes. I needed to take American History (X) instead of History of the World Part II: Hitler on Ice.

It's not that I don't care about the history of America. I do. I've learned about it all my life. Besides, World History included America, so why couldn't I just go with that?

Oh, no dice, said my counselor. It's a requirement.

And so, I am taking American History now in the summer semester just to get rid of it. Plus, it'll give me something to do so I don't get all caught up in my usual summer depression. And I still have my kick-punch class to look forward to.

Oh, and Bitterblue by Kristin Cashore has been sent to my Kindle! It's been on there since April 30th, but I've been busy getting through the fourth Green Rider book, so I haven't noticed until just now. I'm almost done, and it's not disappointing me so far.

Naturally, I still have the Cat Stevens song stuck in my head. But that's okay.

And another semester ends...

In Community College, each semester is like a whole school year. You do a lot of concentrated learning in a very short amount of time, and you get sort of the same feeling of sadness/happiness that you used to get at the end of a primary school year.

But before I break out the Alice Cooper, I just want to reflect on what a great semester this was.

Firstly, my teacher was totally weird, and not in a "mad scientist Vincent Price" kind of way, but in a "Is he a student or a teacher?" kind of way. I'm serious, the first day I walked in, I saw him fiddling with the lights and almost told him to stop because only teachers could do that. I also had to learn to choose with caution which blouses to wear on lab days because he was so socially inept, he hadn't yet learned how to look down a woman's shirt without getting caught. I usually wear a camisole under my shirts anyway, but the look on his face when I'd catch him was priceless. The funny thing is that I think he also admired my intellect because when I would explain about something to my lab partners, he would stand close, and then when I was done, he'd say, "Wow, you are really learning this."

(I have HUGE breasts, so I'm used to both women and men looking down my blouse, and yeah it should bother me, but I think I've gotten to the point where it's just anatomy and I don't care any more. I mean, I seriously look down women's blouses myself, and have been prone to check out a man's butt a time or twenty, I think the trick is to do it with subtletey.)

(I mean, if you want to know how magnificent my rack is, I almost caused an accident once when I was at a strip mall and opened my hoodie to show my friend my new tankini top. It's there. You can't not look. The best thing to do is look and get it out of your system.)

Secondly, I loved lab. I read a blog the other day where someone was talking about how they were glad they never had to dissect anything, and I was like, "ooohhhh...but...but..."

The only thing we dissected was fruit in this class, but we did look at real skeletons that bothered a few people (both the males and the females).

I feel like I'm finally moving on to the stuff that will actually pertain to my major. I mean, math pertained to my major, but only in a roundabout way. This is my first actual science class, and I am so glad that this is what I have to look forward to the next two years. It is so fun to me, and challenging. I think I've finally arrived.

Now if I can just get accepted to the first school of my choice.

The bloody finger

I've been trying to purge some no-longer-necessary file folders from my work this last week and a half. I find it cathartic, and I seem to be the only one who wants to do it, so I've been diving in at will. I have totally messed up the middle finger of my left hand, though. It started with a ripped cuticle, and then it has gone to the point where I actually had gushing blood on Monday. I've put a bandaid on it, and so far I've been better. Unfortunately, the bandaid seems to be taking the brunt of the attack, so I have to change it a few times a day. These file folders are brutal, really.

It reminds me of a story about my grandma, who died almost three years ago.

About ten years ago, the year my cousin realized she was pregnant with the first great-grandchild of the family, we all decided to try and start a tradition that really quickly fizzled out by renting a cabin in Big Bear for Christmas. I sort of wish it had caught on, but it didn't. It was a fun year, though.

My grandma had hurt her finger in a similar fashion, and just like me now, she kept re-injuring herself. One of my cousins said she needed to go into the town to pick up some things from the pharmacy, and since there was really nothing else to do, there was soon a sizable party waiting to head "into town" and get a feel for the place. Grams asked Cuz to pick up some finger cots for her, and Cuz was like, "What is that? What if they don't have them?" Grams was pretty insistant that they would have them, and lo and behold, they did. My cousin came out of the pharmacy laughing and blushing and just having a good time. I didn't know why. I didn't know what a finger cot was.

Back at the cabin, Cuz walked up to Grams and said, "Boy, the pharmacist sure wanted to know what I needed these for!" and then laughed.

My grandma, god bless her, was just confused. "Why?" she asked, full of innocence. "He should have known what they were for."

Then I got a look at them.

Ribbed for your pleasure. Protection. Whatever.

My uncle chuckled, my cousins and I made jokes. My mom and her sister rolled their eyes but laughed when they thought we weren't looking. Things were said about Pregnant Cousin not needing them for a while. In all, the finger cots gave us a lot of enjoyment one night in Big Bear.

About three months before Grams died, my mom, her brother and sister and sister-in-law and I all got together and were moving Grams from one place to another. She never made it to the other place; she was sent to the hospital and never made it out, so it was good that we started cleaning her out so soon. I was in the kitchen, emptying out box after box of hoarded saltine packets and jelly pods while the others were taking care of the rest of the flat. My aunt-in-law was in the bathroom finding similarly hoarded stashes of hospital-sized toothpastes, deoderants, and hotel-sized tubes of soap when suddenly she let out a laugh and walked into the living room. "Mike," she said to my uncle. "Can you please explain why your mother has a box of condoms in the bathroom?" My mom and aunt came out to take a look and I let out a laugh as I rolled one onto my finger. "At least she was safe," my uncle said with a laugh.

We all remembered that Christmas and Cuz being forced to buy them.