Face Off

Emily Gould (whom I don't personally know) is one of those people whose talent I'm jealous of in the most absolutely depressing of ways. This post is a great example of how and why she has this effect on me. She's worth reading if you're ever feeling introspective, but can't quite put into words why you're feeling introspective.

I point out that post because I can relate to it in a very superficial way. While I certainly do not think of myself as one of those people who radiate "look at me waves," as she says, I do, on a once-to-twice-per-day basis, get stared at. I'm convinced this is because I am the generic person: people always think I am someone else they know. Or Anne Hathaway circa The Princess Diaries. (Anne, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.)

"Tiffany?" A man came up and asked me on an airplane once. "Are you Bob Garrett's daughter?" a woman once asked me while in line for coffee. "I know you!" said a drunk boy at a pizza place. No; no you don't, I replied. "No, really, I know you! I'm not trying to hit on you," he angrily shot back. "I know," I said, "but trust me, you don't know me." (My cyber presence isn't even immune to this phenomenon.)

And this staring problem is only compounded in New York, where you come into contact with thousands of people on a daily basis, a few of whom search my face with a look that reads, "Where do I know that girl from?" (I did that to Luke Wilson once, who sheepishly smiled and waved at me. I ignored him, which only made my faux pas all the more groan-worthy once I realized who he was.)

The reason I know these people don't know me is because I never forget a face--to an embarrassing extent. I can't tell you how many people I've been introduced to, only to run into them later where they say, "I'm sorry... What's your name again?" All this does is remind me of how unmemorable I personally am, unless I'm getting mistaken for someone else.

So, yeah, anonymity--there's no such thing.

Christmas in August

This is the best news I've heard since I read this a few months ago:

TheWB.com, now in Beta testing, will launch on August 27, offering classic series that aired on the now defunct WB TV network along with new web series ... The online video network will offer classic WB series Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, Veronica Mars, Smallville, Gilmore Girls, Everwood, Roswell, The Wayans Bros., Friends and The O.C. [Ed note: and One Tree Hill!], along with new series from show creators McG and Josh Schwartz.

The timing here could not be more perfect, as on August 25, I leave the confines of my couch--and as such, the ability to work while watching SOAPNet--to head back to a cubicle. And now I can take Peyton and Lucas and Seth and Summer with me.

My only concern is the absence of Dawson's Creek and Felicity. Those two shows made a network plagued by reruns of Murder She Wrote and Starship Enterprise a leader in the coveted 18-34 age bracket. You best not forget where it all started, WB/CW-whatever conglomerate.

The Girl's Gone Country

I'm about as country as Jessica Simpson, but it should be said that I spent the first six years of my life with cows for neighbors. My parents eventually upgraded to a town with a convenience store within walking distance, but the people without teeth still remained.

Back in those days, probably until I was about 10, the can't-wait-for event each summer was the Sussex County Farm and Horse Show, essentially a country carnival, complete with stomach aching fried foods and tractor pulls. It's where I experienced my first-ever thrill ride at the tender age of two, on some sort of red, dusty, merry-go-round contraption with a cow bell attached. Good times were had by all.

I haven't been to the fair in ages and for some reason I really wanted to go this summer. So I rounded up Jay and my parents and we took the long ride out to the fairgrounds via Route 206 in my father's 22-foot long diesel truck, for country-folk authenticity purposes.

I don't remember much about my past times at the Sussex County fair, but I have a feeling that not much has changed since my last visit, except that my father now has Jay to competitively eat against. (Usually he just eats.) Jay put up a good fight, but my father reigned, consuming a roast beef sandwich, pierogies, a cheese steak, popcorn, a slice of pizza, half of an ice cream waffle sandwich, beef brisket, corn on the cob, oysters and finally, a nectarine, all in three-and-a-half hours. For reasons unknown, the only item he refused was the remainder of my funnel cake. (Too sugary, perhaps?)

And just like always, good times were had by all. Pictures here.

Decisions, Decisions

Earlier today, I was lamenting to my neighbor about how life always seems to present two opportunities at the same time and of course the pros and cons of those opportunities always negate one another, therefore not making the decision process any easier.

I know you're waiting for some insight here, but it's not coming.

So seriously, what is up with that? And FYI, the response "because life is not fair" has already been taken by my father.

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

Jenn: I'm a little bummed to be missing out on Memorial Day weekend. I keep getting all these auto-replies to my e-mails about how so-and-so will be out of the office until May 27.

Jay: You've been out of the office for three months.

Hi. My name is Jennifer. I may or may not be exhibiting signs of alcoholism.

Over the last few days I've been going through a self-inflicted detox of absolutely no alcohol. Frankly, I'm a little alarmed about the ferocity of which I've been able to toss 'em back lately--and barely catch a buzz. For Pete's sake I kept pace with Casey when he visited! And for those of you who don't know Casey he's no wisp of a man. So, I've decided to give up the sauce and get back to being the lightweight you all know and love.

Except now I'm exhibiting signs of withdrawal: I'm a bit shaky; anxious even. My lips are tingling and I get nauseous at the sight of dinner unaccompanied by a glass of wine.

This can't be good.

Conflicts of Interest

Two articles on the Times web site today particularly interested me and it wasn't until I was flipping between one and the next that I realized how starkly different, yet interconnected, they are:

The first, "Five Basics for Building a Solid Financial Future," caught my eye because I’ve been thinking that, oh, I don’t know, maybe I should start accumulating grown up things like health insurance and a retirement plan once I’m back. The columnist writes:

Few employers want us around for 40 years, so our income is likely to have ups and downs and disappear altogether for brief periods between jobs. Saving for retirement is now mostly our responsibility, too. Health insurance, for those of us who have it and manage to keep it, requires increasingly large amounts of money out of our pockets. The list goes on and on ... Given the stakes, it is hard to avoid the persistent low-grade fear that we have made wrong choices or cannot find the right ones, even though they are out there somewhere.

The second, "Chasing Utopia, Family Imagines No Possessions," profiles a successful young family from Austin, TX, who are donating everything they own to live a simpler life off the land in Vermont, a current fantasy of mine. (They are, of course, not going so simplistic that they can’t blog about the experience.) The Times dubs this part of "the voluntary simplicity movement" that started so, so, long ago, in the 1980s:

"The idea in the movement was 'everything you own owns you,' said Dr. Grigsby, who sees roots of the philosophy in the lives of the Puritans. "You have to care for it, store it. It becomes an appendage, I think. If it enhances your life and helps you do the things you want to do, great. If you are burdened by these things and they become the center of what you have to do to live, is that really positive?"

Methinks not.

There's a great appeal in this idea, chiefly because it's such a great excuse for the sorry state of uninsured and quasi-unemployment I'm in right now. So, in the course of reading these two articles, which essentially totaled the time it took to drink one cup of tea, I’ve decided to eff it all and become a socialist, as money is the root of evil. Must be the current Spanish administration rubbing off on me.

These Dreams, Cont.

I've previously documented the dreadful dreams I've been having since arriving in Seville, and now, it seems they've become contagious.

First, it should be noted that I am a very light sleeper. The slightest wiggle of a bed mate's toe will cause me to immediately come to consciousness. So I wasn't surprised to be woken up when a fully asleep Jay shot upright in bed late last night.

"Are you OK?" I asked with sleepy concern.

"Yes," he said. "It was just a dream."

"What was it?" I replied, thinking it involved the impalement of a family member or the premonition of a fiery plane crash on our way back to New York.

He turned to me. "I dreamt that I was at Shake Shack,"--that famous New York burger joint--"and the burger was terrible."

This is the last time I answer this question.

Scores of you have asked whether Jay and I are sick of each other yet, given that we've been in one another's company essentially nonstop for the last 60 days. The answer is, saccharinely, no. In fact, just this morning I received the following e-mail, which warmed my heart:

To: Jennifer Merritt
From: Jason Boehmer
Subject: A band from NJ

It's after midnight on Saturday, and you're sleeping in the bedroom. I'm listening to a punk(ish) band from New Jersey on the Internet, and I like it. Thought you might too. j

http://www.myspace.com/titusandronicus

To: Jason Boehmer
From: Jennifer Merritt
Subject: RE: A band from NJ

God, I'm so lame.

Now, it's after 10 a.m. on Sunday morning and you're sleeping in the bedroom. I'm listening to the band and I really like them. We should attempt to check them out once we're back.

xoxo,

j.

See? We're not sick of each other. We've just taken to communicating with each other solely via e-mail. (And, it should be noted, the aforementioned band proclaims to "never sing songs about love, only about hate.")

These Dreams

Ever since I arrived in Seville, I’ve been having really disturbing dreams. Like, for reals. One was about the natural death of someone close to me, another involved me letting someone die for the sake of saving myself, while another had me at a round table interview with Gwyneth Paltrow, my lovely friend and editor Dawn, and my dad, who totally monopolized the interview with thoughtful and engaging questions. All of these dreams leave me equally terrified.

Last night’s was a particular standout. I was badgering Sarah Jessica Parker about why she didn’t like me. I kept asking and asking, like a three-year-old in his why stage, and she refused to answer me. At last exasperated, she shouted, “Fine! You want to know why I don’t like you? Because when I look into your eyes I see nothing!” I was rendered speechless and felt that pang in my chest--you know the one you get, like when you overhear a friend say something nasty about you--and I felt like a completely worthless being, because in this case, SJP was the Dali Lama in a gray frock and too-tight ponytail. I woke up sweaty and shaking.

Weird, right? I’ve been feeling really unhappy with myself here, mostly because I'm so unkempt, being too chicken to go to the salon and ask for an eyebrow wax, manicure and pedicure, so, perhaps that’s it. Plus, t-minus 31 days until the SATC movie opens!

All work and little pay makes Jenn an angry girl.

Ed. note: This is my last whiny media-related post, I swear. Well, at least for a while anyway.

It ain’t easy freelancing. Those of you who are successful at it, I salute you, because honestly, I do not know how anyone can earnestly earn a living at it anymore, given the inconceivably crappy pay days I’ve come across as of late.* To wit, a recent smattering of compensation rates I’ve been unfortunate enough to actually click through to: $15 for 300 word articles, $20 for 300-500 word articles, $25 for 500+ words. Granted these are small articles, but it only gets more pathetic as the word counts get higher. I want to tell these people, are you effing kidding me?! And I rarely use exclamation points, so when I do you know I mean business.

And you know whom I blame for this rapidly descending pay rate? Bloggers. (Oh, the irony.) Those scores of wannabe writers who link to their blog posts as writing samples and will take any rate at the sake of having been published somewhere other than their self-fashioned web site. And you know what I want to say to these people? This “hobby” that you’ve taken up as a way to obtain some fulfillment that lacks in your career as a human resources manager—which likely pays you $80,000+ annually—is detracting from the fulfillment I’m striving for, namely, being able to, oh—I dunno—buy an apple every now and then.

The fact that I went to school for four years laboriously learning how to construct a lede, the time I spent debating the use of series versus Oxford commas, means nothing. Basically, I spent thousands of dollars learning a craft that you’ve managed to destroy with the advent of Blogger/Wordpress/Typepad et al.

God help me if Tumblr really takes off.

OK. Rant. Over.

*Chris, Gina, Ysolt, this post is in no way directed at any of you. Your regular use of my skillz helps me pay the billz, yo.

New Productivity Tool

Because of that damn bug (which has turned out to be a mosquito, by the way--yay, multiple bug bites are fun!), I have:

• caught up on e-mails
• had some green tea
• watched the sun rise
• done yoga
• and now, blogged
  

And it's only 8 a.m.

Meanwhile, Jay still has another three hours of sleep ahead of him. Slacker.