What's in a Name?

This one is too much.

I have learned that a fellow alumni of my high school has made it to the FOX -- whoops, E! (how could I make that mistake?) season finale of Bridalplasty. 

A little background:  I grew up in Indiana, where corn is king, everyone goes to church, and neighbors are respectful of one another (at least in a passive-aggressive way).  It's not the most sophisticated place on earth, but I am enormously proud of my upbringing.  Detasseling corn (if you don't know, don't ask.  I realize Obama did away with a similar policy, but we'll keep this one in place), working in a factory (that black rubber crap that seals your windshield to your car -- I made that), and working at the local Dairy Queen were some of the more glamourous jobs of choice.   As a teenager, my best friend Shannon and I would cruise town on our feet-- which we could do because town was a total of three blocks.  One traffic light and three blocks.  No McDonald's.  You had to cross a state line to go to a McDonald's.

As a kid, I could not get out of there fast enough.  Of course, now that I'm older and the allure of bright lights and big cities has faded, I embrace my upbringing because more often than not (And yes, this show would be a "not," but stay with me) the people from middle America are amazing.  We were raised simply -- you work hard, you respect your neighbors and the elderly, and you're not better than anyone else.  You appreciate the opportunities you are given.  And believe me when I say that working in a factory for a 12 hour shift is not an opportunity I ever plan to embrace again.  But that lesson was more than enough to teach me to work my ass off when I scored my first big break with a Capitol Hill internship.  And it was enough for me to put myself through law school while working part-time.

So imagine how incredibly disappointed I feel in knowing that in one foul swoop, the pride and strength I continue to draw from my upbringing has come crashing down in one grand FOX (whoops -- E!) reality masterpiece.  In the interest of full disclosure, I have never met this person.  Words used to describe her include (and I'm being kind...and practicing not swearing) diva, self-centered, manipulative, delusional, and villain.  She has moved far away from our little town, and now lives in New Jersey (uh, yeah...) which I know makes me sleep better at night.  I'm grateful she's been united with her own kind.

One fact that made an impression immediately was the woman's name: Jenessa.  Not that I'm judging ( ...of course I'm judging), but this name screams white-trash.  It's not a name of the Upper East Side such as Blair, Laura or Katherine.  It's not even a Disney character such as Jasmine or Ariel (...don't even get me started...  it. is. WRONG.)  It's Jenessa -- it's not even real.  You've unsuccessful tried to combine Jennifer and Vanessa and created a hot mess.  If you name your daughter Jenessa, how can you expect anything less than for her to move to New Jersey and become an evil white-trash reality star?  If I name my daughter Bambi - guess what?  She'll grow up to be a stripper.  Charles, Blaine or Edward?  He'll work on Wall Street and live in Greenwich, CT.  This is how the world works.  Brad or Shawn?  He's a cop (and most likely Irish). 

Words give meaning.  Words give context.  Words have the power to determine fate.  Tell a child she'll never amount to anything, and damn! if you're not right.  Tell your child she's the smartest, most sophisticated angel to grace the planet and she'll be in grad school explaining to her professor why she deserved an A instead of an A- ...despite the fact that she missed the deadline by a week. 

We're taught to think before we speak, but in reality we should think before we write out a birth certificate.  All that said...you bet your ass I'm watching this show tonight!

Worse

The only think I hate more than Pennsylvania is iceberg lettuce.  Please don't lie to me and serve me a salad -- implying that some part of it actually contains nutritional value -- when in reality it is merely a vehicle for blue cheese and bacon. 

Liars....

My Least Favorite State

A dear friend (I heart you Daniel-san) from the Commonwealth (snobs - why can't you just be a state?) of Pennsylvania has requested that I consider other states in addition to good ol' PA as my "least favorite" (per my discussion regarding my love for Jim Halpert).  Because I'm extremely open minded (LOL...not even I can say that with a straight face) and always love an exchange of ideas...  let's discuss.

Before continuing, let me explain why PA is my least favorite state.  I first entered the Commonwealth in 1992.  And although I realize it's changed since then, in my earliest memories... it sucked. ... A LOT.  First up --Pittsburgh.  Dear god, that city reeked like rotten eggs. Almost 20 years later I distinctly remember the stench and the billowing smokestacks turning the already ugly sky a darker shade of drab.  But it was the toll road that really upped my joy.  Two words -- jersey barriers. The image of tight corners winding their way up and down mountains while my little car was engulfed in semis stays with me to this day.  To my right -- a big cement slab just waiting to scrape my car.  In addition, the state police were perched around every turn giving out $100 speeding tickets like chocolate crack.  And the cherry on top was of course ...(wait for it) Breezewood.  That clusterfuck of a town with 50 plus traffic lights, and minimal signage...why are we even having this discussion?  Who can't get out of there fast enough?

Once I was established in DC (a.k.a. drunk and in college) I had the joy of meeting numerous coeds from the greater Philadelphia area.  Wow.  They made Massholes look classy.  I don't know which sports-related event shocks me more -- the Philly fans booing Destiny's Child in 2001 during the NBA finals (for their costume of Sixers, Lakers, and NBA jerseys -- remember this people?  A good life lesson for all Americans-- behave in a diplomatic manner ...and we'll cut ya); or the jail in the Phillies baseball stadium.  Throw in Alan Iverson (world's. biggest. douche.) and Michael Vick, and we truly have the triumvirate of evil.  In case the above diatribe did not make this clear, I fucking HATE Philadelphia.

...But the journey continues...after college I met my husband, who as luck would have it was from Rochester, NY.  For those of you who don't know your eastern seaboard geography, in order to get from Washington, DC to Rochester, NY, you must go through -- for seven endless, serenity-now hours -- Pennsylvania.  Specifically, you must take Route 15.  This drab, gray, two lane road through dying townships is a nightmare unparalleled to any other.  If I had a dollar for every mother-fucking semi we sat behind for 40 minutes until a passing lane became available, we could all retire.  Words truly cannot express my hatred for the trip.  I can still name every dingy mile marker located throughout the Susquehanna River Valley.   Harrisburg, where we turn left and once stopped to look at yard ornaments as a housewarming gift for our friend Mark.  We bought Zippy, the cement squirrel.  ...Reptileland, ...Ada's Bar, ...that ginormous porn shop on the right side of the road directly following Shamokin Dam.  Selinsgrove where I ate at that nasty Perkins and Ted's Landing far too many times... finally stopping in Williamsport, home of the Little League World Series and until 2003, the closest Wegman's to Washington DC.  (If you have never been to a Wegman's, it is a remarkable place and should not in any way be associated with the monstrosity that is Pennsylvania.)

So hence, my hatred was born.

Other suggested contenders for the position of least favorite state include, but are not limited to:

1) Arkansas.  Good choice.  Little Rock blows.  It's scary and the people are not bright.  But the stench cannot rival the rotten egg funk of Pittsburgh in the early 90s, or the meatheads that populate Philadelphia.

2) Louisiana.  Although I have been vocal about the fact that Louisiana is definitely the dumbest state, I still cannot call it my least favorite.  The title of  dumbest state can be attributed to an episode at Walmart, circa 2005.  The entire town of Shreveport was at their local Walmart on Christmas Eve.  My husband and I were enroute to Dallas to visit my sister.  We stopped to fill the gas tank, and I ran into said Walmart (please forgive me, Democratic Party) to grab a couple of large candy canes filled with M&Ms that my sister had forgotten to pick up for her kids.  I stood in line - the express line --  for 20 minutes without moving despite multiple loud speaker announcements warning of the store's imminent closing.  I moved to another line and stood behind a quite large and weathered couple not capable of communicating.  As the wife took items out of the cart and placed them on the conveyor belt, the clerk would scan them.  Once scanned,  the husband would place the items in the cart ...where the wife would place them on the conveyor belt again.  They paid for every item at least twice.

3) New Jersey.  Obviously a top contend, due primarily to Newark.  However, the bottom of the state is actually quite lovely.  And not filled with Amish as in PA (I grew up with the Amish in Indiana.  They smell.) 

There are many people I love and adore from PA.  Most of my law school friends are from PA and they are amazing.  But the fact is, none of them went back there either.  Despite my love for Jim Halpert, Daniel-san, and my work-husband Ryan (who is HUGE in Pittsburgh's gay community), PA...suck it.

Happy Mother Fucking New Year

On New Year's Eve,  I submerged my phone in water.  I deleted all my phone numbers, spent an obscene amount of money on a new device, and was lost to the outside world for an several days (which felt like an eternity).  ...just call me Mary Catherine, because I am a superstar... When I emailed everyone to let them know, the reaction was a strong and resounding, "You go girl!"  Although that was not at all what happened.

Ironically, I did go to a party.  And, in fact, it was at a crazy-gorgeous mansion in LaJolla overlooking the Pacific Ocean.  No doubt the fanciest place I have ever been. (I finally understand why people marry for money.)  We partied on the terrace which contained a hot tub, a pool and a fire pit.  Inside the mansion were literally dozens of bedrooms, bathrooms, flatscreens, antiques and a full-bar.  My every wish was waiting to be fulfilled  -  I'm sure if I requested, a midget would have come out and poured shots down my throat. 

Nevertheless, fun was not destined to occur, due to the fact that the party was hosted by a tight-ass little nerd.  What happened?  Here's an example:  Guest brings a beer bottle out onto the terrace. Nerd reaction: "Don't break the glass!"  Guest sets a beverage down without a coaster. Nerd reaction: "Don't leave a ring on the table!"  Try to have sex in the kitchen. Nerd reaction:  ... kidding... just kidding, people.  Later I learned the house...was his parent's.  (Of course it was.)  My anticipation of life like a queen for the evening was quickly destroyed.

This is so indicative of January.  Every year  I start my "clean slate"  by freezing my ass off and chasing it down with a hangover.  The month is miserable -- we start dieting, thinking about tax returns, paying off crazy Christmas credit card bills... I only have six weeks to find a date for Valentine's Day.  It always sucks.  Yet we do it every year .  And every year, the anticipation of that "new start" never lives up to our expectations.   

Even my phone-killing story did not fail to disappoint.  When my friend Michael learned about the death of the cell, he sent me a diatribe about his vision of my evening - lots of  bubbly, teetering high heels, excessive cleavage, (why are gay men so obsessed with boobs?) and dangerous flirtation, followed by an entangled fall into the hot tub.   Almost all of my friends replied to the cell-killing email announcement with a "I gotta hear this one" response.  ...And the reality?  My water bottle dumped in my gym bag, hence killing the phone.  Example #712 of how anticipation is so much better than the reality.

But if you see Michael, please don't tell him.  It would break his creative little heart.