It's the sweetest taste I've known.

Yeah, yeah--I've had a bad run boy-wise. You get the idea.
Now you get to read the story of my real lost love, Muppie.

One thing you should know about me, if you don't already, is my love of drugstores. Walgreens, CVS, Rite Aid, etc. You can get almost anything you need there: candy, cheap plastic toys, Dr Pepper lip smacker, Wet'N'Wild black nail polish...anything. My favorite drugstore (maybe of all time) is the Rite Aid on Atwood in Pittsburgh*.
In college, Alison, Meleah, and I would spend hours in there, deciding which bad women's magazines, chips, foundation, and random toys we needed for our dorm rooms. Obviously, this was at its peak the year we all had the suite together. That's when I bought Muppie. He was a cute little orange monkey with generic Nerds in him. We liked him especially because, while all the monkeys had cute faces, somehow his smile was more open than the others. Muppie knew three college girls were taking him home that night,
And somehow, he stuck around. Jim Steiner named him when he misheard me saying "monkey". Brain fried from some exam (let's blame Marcia Landy, shall we?), I built Muppie a desk from Legos. Meleah took the desk apart to make him a stage, complete with Lego guitar.
I don't remember much of Muppie junior year, but I'm pretty sure he tagged along on the infamous Spring Break Road Trip me, Tiff, and Alison took.**
Moving gnomes never took Muppie, but I lost him anyway.
Pitt's graduation is a huge ordeal. Tons and tons of people graduate at once. It lasts for hours. Even when you're the one graduating, you take stuff to do. We talked about water guns or a beach ball. Mostly, though, we just played MASH and cheered "USA! USA!" at vaguely appropriate moments. I also had a roll of electrical tape that I made everyone bracelets from. I also had Muppie taped to my cap.
By the end of the ceremony, we were pretty excited to be all graduated, even if we were also really cold from sitting on the Penguins' ice all morning and into the afternoon. It was a sea of hugs and plans for that night.
Somewhere in all this, Muppie fell off my cap. I never saw him again.
Weirdly enough, though, a couple friends of mine had seen Muppie on the ground. Liz said she thought the monkey looked familiar, but hadn't picked him up.*** Her boyfriend, who had picked my Clash pin up off the ground 2 years earlier when I lost it and then was nice enough to give it back to me, looked sympathetic.
I like to think Muppie stuck around at the Civic Arena. Maybe he made friends with the Penguins mascot, and goes to parties now with the Pirate Parrot. Maybe he hitched a ride with the Ringling Brothers circus and tours the country now as a tiny trapeze plush monkey.
This is kind of what Muppie looked like, but a lot cuter. And orange.


*It was my main drugstore when I lived in Oakland, 3-5 blocks from several jobs, and catty-corner to my usual 61- bus stop when I was in high school, so I was there a LOT. Plus, it was pretty much across the street from the Beehive. Name a big zeitgeist-y mid90s indie movie and I probably watched it while munching on snuck in candy from this store.

**As did Assy the Ass Dog, Brian's Lenore doll, and a bag of Easter-shaped marshmallows I began hurtling out the passenger side window at some point between Chicago and home.

***This is a big difference between Liz and I. had I seen a strange orange monkey plush on the ground, I would have picked it up. Hell, I still would.

‘Cos I’m fading fast and it’s nearly dawn.

If you’ve read Scott Pilgrim, you could call him Joseph, because he looked just like that character. For a time, Melissa and I called him:
Beardy, Beardy McStaresALot, Beardy McScaresALot, Stare-y McScaresALot, Scaredy McStaresALot.
A pattern formed. Girl walks into bar, girl gives a brief and futile glance to see who’s there before figuring that anyone worth their salt will come to her (and anyone looking to avoid her can stay away), girl slowly feels eyes upon her, girl turns and sees boy with beard looking quickly away. Girl gets mightily annoyed.
I knew a girl who turned out to be a terrible matchmaker (more on that in a future post). She let me in on Stare-y’s information—basically what you’d expect from your average hipster homeless beard, but with a kid. And barely old enough to be in the bar.
As I do, I lost patience with his shy staring act and introduced myself. We chatted and he looked nervous. He shaved his beard and looked more nervous. He walked me and a drunk Melissa home one night and then we talked for a good while on my porch, interrupted every so often by me yelling at Melissa to not fall asleep on her back on my couch.
While any sane adult recognizes this as the action of a good friend, I think it only made Beardy more gunshy. But then, I had observed by this point that my definition of “good friend” didn’t exactly match any other That Town natives, save Melissa. On a nightly basis, drunk girls were left to stumble home, drunk boys somehow drove themselves to emergency rooms, and the word “friend” was only spoken between the sexes when a boy wanted to feel less guilty about a dumping.
I suggested we hang out, vague plans were made, I got stood up. If I had been surprised by this, I would also have been surprised that the sky was blue. Also, this meant I could watch Tara WhatsHerFace parade around in Kayne’s gown, as that pageant was on. I sent an email suggesting we not plan to hang out anymore. I wanted to add, Stop staring at me unless you can back it up ya pansy. I restrained myself.
A bit later, I find myself back at that bar with a friend of Melissa’s and some friends of the friend.* I’m sitting there minding my own business, sipping my cheap gin and tonic, waiting until everyone else deems themselves drunk enough to dance. A stranger walks up to me to inform me that, when I walked in the room, his friend (Stare-y, of course) exclaimed, blanched, and perked up, simultaneously. I believe I looked at the friend and wondered aloud why Scaredy couldn’t come tell me any of this myself.

*Incidentally, these are the people who, when M’s friend was in the restroom, decided they were going to leave. After barely speaking to me the whole night, they ask if I can tell M’s friend that they left, where they are going, and that M’s friend is welcome to join them there. Now, maybe I’m a bit too Emily Post at times, but I don’t know—this seems unspeakably rude to me. But then, expecting civility and friendship was probably what kept me mostly alone in a place where friendship meant known-since-jr-high or eh-I-don’t-need-to-call-her-I’ll-see-her-at-the-bar. Damn, I sound bitter. Mostly though, I’m just chomping at the bit to get these two years behind me and feel like pre-that town Jessy again.

I'm a good girl, I am.

From this guy’s blog:

“So, for instance, when I'm spending time with a new person who lacks my zeal for a good martini, has never read Ask The Dust by John Fante, and has never watched Arrested Development or Seinfeld, I'm much more excited than if we had a wealth of already-shared interests. When it's time to go pick out a movie together, I'm reaching for old favorites, not new possibilities, because I can't wait for this New Person to discover this Great Thing. Life has thrown so many Great Things at me already, in my thirty-one years as a lover of New Great Things, and mostly now I just want to re-discover them, via someone else.”

And this, my little loves, is in a nutshell why he dumped me. He could give all the “no chemistry”, “I don’t see serious with you” he wanted in that car on the Saturday night before Valentine’s Day, after we had been together for the several hours he needed to work up the nerve to tell me this. When faced with a boy who gets off on being a teacher, the Cool Girl will always lose to the wide-eyed innocent.
And now I remember all the things I showed him, like how he had never seen The Maltese Falcon before or that my reaction to his discovery of Homicide: Life on the Streets DVDs was, “I used to love that show!” Or that he, like most people, fell in love with Arrested Development through the first season dvds while I, in my hardcore nerdishness, had been watching enthusiastically since the pilot.
And now I remember how excited I was, because we had so many things and interests in common. I felt and still feel like he was the only boy I met in that town who I could have had something serious with. But I was thinking that based on associating with him, not the persona that gets created when you live in a small town for too long and are the only heartbroken boy writer with a good head of hair. He’s a local celebrity, and I’m a girl with less interest in fame, and more in the hair and the fact that we had the same favorite Wilco album (Being There, of course).
And maybe I sound bitter, and like I’m still not over this guy that broke up with me almost a year ago. That’s really not the case. This just isn’t the first time I’ve come face to face with Mr Professor, and I’m so emphatically not a fan.
Just Because I Don’t Like Professor Higgins Types Doesn’t Mean I Can’t Impart Wisdom, Too:

• Always keep some spare emergency contraceptive around.
• If you suspect that a broken condom might have scared a boy off, perhaps you should accept the inevitable and move on.
• Excelling in making out doesn’t necessarily mean a damn thing.

The judges and the saints and the textbook committee decided you should be left out.

Oh Remember when I had that plush whale that I was giving a tour of My Last Town, taking it around and photographing in funny places? One night, Melissa, Humor the Whale, and I were hanging out with a friend. First we all went to her boyfriend’s softball game. I worked on a scarf and drank somebody’s beer. It was too dark for my old cheapo digital camera.
Then we went to a little neighborhood bar with HUGE mugs for some karoke.
We went there pretty directly, but Friend’s Boyfriend’s softball teammates went home to shower and change first. One changed into jeans, a black band-looking tshirt under a blazer, and his glasses.
So yeah, in between drinking giant mugs of beer and taking pictures of a plush whale pretending to sing karoke and drink giant mugs of beer, I noticed Friend’s Boyfriend’s Friend. He looked like one of my types after all.
The next night we were all at a friend’s bachelorette party and Friend mentioned, sort of off-handedly, that “of course [Friend’s Boyfriend’s Friend] thought that I was cute.” And we all know I’ve never been a girl to look a free dinner—unh, I mean a blind date—in the mouth. So I gave my acquiescence.
We decided to go out Thursday night. I was going to be off on Friday and I left work early Thursday, so my paycheck wasn’t ready yet, but I needed it for Fun in Chicago and Dix. My supervisor said she would get it to me when she was done at 8. Remember this.
While I was doing dishes and waiting for Friend’s Boyfriend’s Friend (FBF) to call and solidify plans, Pip called out of nowhere (this was the date I later told him about).
When FBF picked me up, he was wearing a Cosby sweater and made the joke about his Porsche being in the shop, both unironically. And that was the high point. It wasn’t bad; just terribly dull. The kind of boy FBF is really didn’t know what to do with the kind of girl I am.
The funniest part of the whole date was when my supervisor called to offer to do the paycheck handoff in the WalMart parking lot and I said to FBF, “Hey, we have to go to the Walmart parking lot so I can get my paycheck.”
Then I pretended to be tired so he dropped me off, not waiting to see if I got in before driving off. So I called Melissa and we went to the bar. And who should we see there but the next boy on the list? Who I had been crushing on for the better part of a year but had moved 3 states away (4 if you include the 30 minutes in West Virginia)?
Lessons Learned:

• If your employer doesn’t offer direct deposit and you’re leaving early on a 3-day weekend, make sure the people doing payroll know you need your check early.
• Plush whales like beer.
• Beast is still gross even if it’s 50 cents a can.
• Um, why was I at a softball game again?

I don't think you knew you were in this song.

I got tagged by Marissa for the ever-popular 5 Things You Probably Don't Know About Me meme. Now I have to try and remember all the stupid things I've told you people over the past 2+ years...

1. Well, there's this: I've got a profile on a date-y site thing. It's a free one (but then, you all already knew I was cheap). I started it in that last town, as a last ditch effort to find someone worth making out with. Didn't work, but it's an entertaining format, and maybe I can meet someone in the new town through it. The site is all "quirky" and gives helpful stats like the fact that I'm apparently (according to some system of theirs I haven't figured out) less loving, more arrogant, and more independent than other girls.
2. When I was home for Christmas, I had the first screaming match with my mom we've had in probably ten years. I mean actual argument--usually it's more like I'm crying and she's not quite getting that I just need someone to let me get it out.
3. I've moved parking chairs to take people's spaces. Non-Yinzers, trust me--this is a big deal.
   
4. If Hilary wins the party nomination, there is a strong, about 75% possibility that I'll be throwing my vote away on a third party. I don't care if it'll split the vote or whatever; at that point, I think it will be a matter of trying to make a point to the Democratic party.
   
5. I still have office supplies that I stole from various temp jobs.

OK, now I have to tag people, right? Melissa, Kim and her brand-new blog, Tiff and they better all be BSC-related, Stacey, Cara, and Raedy, 'cause I know it'll be hiLARious.

Astronomy will have to be revised...

I just finished the book I want to win the Printz. It’s sad and funny and bleak and full of love.
And it’s terrifying.
I haven’t been that interested in this year’s discussion. I loved The Book Thief, of course, but I have a sneaking suspicion (based on my usual Oscar prediction methods) that Octavian Nothing will get the prize. Librarians love M.T. Anderson, you see. And though I’ve read a lot of books I’ve loved over the past year (examples: Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist, King Dork, Going Under),none of them really said Major Award Material. This has been much more a year for underground beloved books, those stories that you can imagine someone finding on their own (or with the help of a nice librarian, of course) and then feeling that deep kinship you feel with some stories.
Actually, what I loved about Looking For Alaska winning last year was that for so many people, there is that deep personal connection with the story. Almost a secret connection, like when you find out other people love it too, you’re a little jealous at first, and then realize how much you must have in common with that other person, that you both love this story that you had previously thought of almost as some kind of secret. I think that’s in part why Tiff and I reference Girl to each other so much.
(Of course, her laptop is making me listen to Fleetwood Mac right now…)

But anyway, back to the amazing, gorgeous, scary book I just finished. It’s called Life As We Knew It and is by Susan Beth Pfeffer. I had been wanting to read it for awhile—just another new book I was nice enough to let a patron check out before me at my last library that hadn’t shown up at my new library until this morning, when I spotted it on my way to yet another training session.
Yes, I started and finished this today. You know I read fast and have no willpower.
When the book opens, Miranda’s family is pretty standard small town Eastern Pennsylvania bleeding heart liberal. Her dad lives further east; her brother’s at Cornell. Her two best friends are completely wrapped up in their own 16yrold identity crises.
One May night, everyone who can see it looks up at the sky to watch an asteroid hit the moon.
The astronomers miscalculated density. The moon is bigger, closer than it used to be. The disasters start with things that are affected by the moon’s gravitational pull: huge tsunami waves take out coasts and islands. Having a huge body closer to the earth begins to mess with its core and magma comes out of all sorts of long-dormant volcanoes. And then there’s the other stuff, too: the food shortages, the fatality of the flu when there are no hospitals and no one’s had a proper meal, the scariness of being an independent American teenage girl when law starts to break down.
The thing that’s really disturbing about this book is how plausible it all is. I mean, not the moon-going-out-of-orbit part, but the chain of events. The mother, an avid gardener, is heartened by thoughts that she’ll be able to grow food until ash from the volcanoes starts blanketing and first frost hits in August. Girls who, pre-disaster, used older boys’ attraction to them to dream about leaving their small town and maybe get free booze now leave town with forty year old men, bartered from their parents by a dowry of bottled water and canned soup.
It’s strange—so much of the middle of this book is about the constricting of worlds when disaster strikes. This formerly generous, giving-to-strangers kind of family tightens into itself. The mother eats less so her children can remain strong, but gets angry at her daughter for forgoing an earlier place in a food line so she can tell a friend.
Is it just a pet peeve of mine, or can I call this the author’s commentary on how much of our country has become “Screw them; I’ve got mine”?
The end is very much about the family (and not horribly tragic, I’m sure many of you will be happy to hear), but it’s the Christmas Eve that struck me the most. Christmas itself would be familiar to any of you who are former Laura Ingalls Wilder fans like myself: in secret, everyone has been hoarding little things for months, just to be sure they have a Christmas.
But on Christmas Eve, all huddled near the woodstove this family is incredibly lucky to have, they hear something outside. Their neighbors have come caroling.

Sometimes, a story has a moment that just sticks with you, no matter where the rest of the book goes. Franny crying in a public bathroom stall. The Jewish wrestler painting his story on whited-over sheets of Nazi propaganda. I have a feeling the caroling episode is going to join them.

She’s clinging to the nearest passerby.

I learned something today. I learned that I am completely without coordination. Here’s how:

The longer I spent in that last town, sedentary and car-commuting, the more I knew I needed to start doing some sort of exercising. Except I never had the extra money to take a class (plus, when you work until 7, you get used to class scheduling difficulties).
So I figured I’d bring some exercise DVDs home from the library I was working at. All I could find was Paula Abdul’s workout video* and a Bollywood thing. Paula had nostalgia going for her; my friend Cindy had the video in college, memorized the dances, and could sometimes be persuaded to do bits at 80s night. If we weren’t too busy with our ridiculous “Like a Prayer” dance, that is. The Bollywood one had good music going for it (bhangra) and the logic that Cara bellydances, and Cara and I 80s night dance similarly, so I thought I could do well.
Oh, how wrong I was. That’s when I remembered that my 80s night Dance Machine style evolved based on how little I can follow someone else’s dance move instruction. There’s a reason why Lara took ballet classes and I filmed Lara’s ballet classes, after all.**
Then I moved here and, while moving into my third floor apartment, got way more winded than necessary. I walk a lot more, but I still need something. And I’m just not a gym kinda girl. Mostly in that I know I don’t have the willpower to motivate myself to go to the gym. Nor do I want to spend the money, or explain to overly friendly gym—mates why I’m wearing a tshirt with “We’re yr inner Kim Gordon & Moe Tucker. We’re here to kick your ass, inner Richard Marx!” on it.
So I put the Punk Rock Aerobics book on my holiday list. It’s kind of perfect for me: instructions for exercises, how to put them together into a respectable class dealie, and song recommendations, including the notion of stretching to Joy Division. And pictures of a pigtailed Mary Timony doing jumping jacks!
Unfortunately, the laptop I’m using right now gets cranky when you try to upload cds, so I had a limited selection for my mix. Luckily, though, Tiff was using this guy to make mixes, so there were still lots of things to choose from. Including London Calling, which is doubly fortunate as pogoing and skanking are two of the few punk rock aerobic moves I really excel at.
Basically, here’s my problem. I can master 2, maybe 2.5, steps. 3 steps I can maybe sometimes get, if they’re baby steps. 4? Naw, I was a mess: losing my balance, falling over shit, the works. I also am pretty much physically incapable of any exercise/dance move that involves moving one’s left leg and right arm at the same time. That whole opposite thing. Also, when I pick my foot up and put it down behind me, it’s never in the same place twice. This is also, if you were wondering, why I do so terribly at Dance Dance Revolution. I lose the arrows.
But I know my weaknesses, and I know the others may come with practice. Now I just need to learn to stop jumping on the loose floorboard in my bedroom.

*Can you believe they bothered to release this in DVD!?
**My first super8 film was from her beginning en pointe class. It looked really good, but I never picked it up from Filmmakers after the big projection night.