My Good Sir, You Are Wrong.

Here are some things you're wrong about.

1) That did not "literally" happen. Do you know what literally means? It means that there is no room for interpretation; something that was, WAS.
Example: "I was literally frozen. I lost 6 toes to frostbite." (Hooray!)
Example: "I literally died." (INCORRECT! If you had, I would be spared this terrible conversation.)

2) That was not awkward. Again, you keep using this word and I do not think it means what you think it means. Awkward implies deep discomfort due to unusual circumstances or an interaction with a socially inept person or persons. I does NOT mean EVERYTHING THAT YOU FIND FUNNY WHEN IT ACTUALLY ISN'T.
Example: "My ex-boyfriend showed up to my engagement party. It was a bit awkward." (Bullseye!)
"I walked into an elevator and there was another person in it! SOOO awkward." (WRONG. That person's existence is not awkward. The inability of any normal person to engage you in intellectual discourse, however, could potentially be very awkward for the both of you.

3)There is no "a" in the word "Definitely."

4)Apostrophes have a purpose; use them sparingly. Plurals do not need apostrophes. Possessives do. Contractions also do. There, I just saved your English professor HOURS of hating everything about you.

5) Don't use a word if you don't know what it means. Feeling nonplussed or a bit bemused? You will when you look in a dictionary and see that neither of those words means what you think it means. And for the fact-checker on the go, Dictionary.com is a LIFESAVER. Seriously, the internet knows everything, give it a whirl.

Use this knowledge. Grow. Stop misspelling "definitely." SERIOUSLY. There's a reason your spellcheck underlines it and it's not in T9word.

Scientific Data Suggests Nonsense

A Comprehensive List of Men Who Have Wanted to Date Me in the Last 72 Hours

Hypothesis: Men who are very much used to being turned down by women look at me and say, "I have a shot at that."

1. Senior Citizens, Subdivision: Holocaust Survivors Today, I met Mike. A suave 89 year old electrical engineer from Poland, he not only asked me to dance a whopping four times, he also showered me with compliments. And then went and danced with other girls. Those sluts.

2. Julian Van Cleef: Millionaire Extraordinaire Last night, as Caitlin and I refused to leave Thompkins Square Bar and Grille (wonderful beer selection, abundance of strange regulars, myself included) a tall, thin, spindly man entered the bar in a Hugo Boss suit. Which was about 3 sizes too big for him. Naturally, when he couldn't offer me a business card, he jotted his name down with a phone number and shouted "Google me!" Worse, I did.

3. Old Lounge Singer at the Dresden I saw you making those moon eyes at me, Phil. Don't deny it. And answer my goddamn phone calls.

4. Lesbians You know who you are, and I apologize for my heterosexuality. But Lilith Fair is coming up, so I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

Conclusion: I will someday write a very disturbing best-seller.

This Just In: Halloween is Counterproductive

Halloween: great holiday or GREATEST holiday? I could go on and on about the joys of paranormal ghost shows of all shapes and sizes playing on a constant loop (Syfy channel, look it up) or the sheer joy of knowing that Hocus Pocus and the Craft will play back-to-back, likely more than once. Don't even try to talk me out of loving Teen Witch.

The days of school parades and hand-made costumes long behind me, my feelings about Halloween center on a love for scary movies and eating fun-sized Snickers for dinner; needless to say, it is a deep love. But, and stop me if I'm wrong, once you reach age 16, Halloween stops being fun and starts being a reason to diet through September.

"Slutty ________" Is Not A Costume For Several Reasons

I understand wanting to have a sexy Catwoman costume in order to lure drunken fratboys to your "lair" and also to guiltlessly prattle "mmeeeeOOOW" as the night progresses. I also understand wanting to be a sexy Playboy Bunny, however I maintain that it is redundant. But, again, may the Lord strike me down if I'm incorrect, but the point of a costume is to dress up as something you are not. So, and try to follow along here, when you dress up in a 6-inch long tutu with nothing but a thong underneath, I'm pretty sure "slutty college student" isn't just a Halloween thing for you.

Don't get me wrong, I like my slutty Stormtroopers just as much as the next girl, but why is the slutty costume market cornered by twentysomething girls? Where's the sexy GI Joe? Or the slutty Urkel? Men, you are missing out on a HUGE opportunity to scare reasonable women away! Then again, should this trend take off (and I'm sorta hoping it does), nobody's going to buy the sexy Mario and Luigi when they're giving the Halloween candy out for free.

Or, we could all just enjoy Halloween as a time for immature revelry and go back to being dinosaurs and ham sandwiches. But really, when isn't a ham sandwich sexy?

If the Circus Were a Brothel...

So few things from childhood remain pristine through the transition into adulthood. While we remember our favorite TV shows and novels, when revisited they often sting us with the realization of distorted nostalgia. I mean, remember when Boy Meets World went through its "serious phase" and Fred Savage tried to rape Topanga? Yeah, like that.

The few things that do remain, however, are the sweetest and rarest. Where would we be today if the Spice Girls still toured, Clarissa was still explaining it all, and Saved By the Bell had gone on to the Grad School Years (with Slater writing his dissertation on the respective arts of Dance and Astronomy)? They would no longer be the things we loved, but rather worn out shadows begging the public to grant them relevance. I fantasized about the maturation of my childhood this week as I sat in the Staples Center waiting for Britney --yes, THE Britney-- to appear onstage. These are my musings.

Britney is Not a Girl, Just Kind of a Sad Woman

The only back story to my going to this concert is that an anonymous donor gave a few hundred tickets to Student Affairs, and I'm awesome. So Green Jeans and I put on the Britney playlist, bought tee shirts, and waited impatiently for the lights to go down. Which they did. And we descended into the crevasse known as Britney's Psyche. There were acrobats. And trapeze artists. And Max from The Max doing magic tricks. And fire. And a lady with no legs on a trampoline. It was, quite literally, a circus. Firey rings shot up around the stage, furniture descended from the ceiling, and a confused young man was strapped to a Victorian fainting couch and had to suffer though clowns thrusting in his face for a few minutes while Britney wandered aimlessly around the stage.

My theory is as follows: Someone bought "Eyes Wide Shut" from a discount bin at Best Buy and popped it in on Britney's last tour bus. Once the Masquerade Ball scene came on, her ears perked up. The second a naked beauty queen showed up wearing a mask, ole Brit stood up and pointed her finger shouting, "THAT. I want a whole concert of THAT."

So large mechanical wheels somewhere started turning, gears and gizmos started churning, and at the end of a long Mouse-Trap-inspired contraption, a chemical beaker steamed up and boiled until it triggered a bell, which heralded the arrival of the Britney Spears Circus Tour.

Though a far cry from her disasterous VMA performance, the concert was a pretty obvious cover for what Britney has become. The fire and acrobats, though pretty and distracting (when they weren't deeply disturbing) couldn't distract from the dulled edges of a once-great popstar; her body moved with the softness of a distracted child whose mechanical responses to your commands are really only the means to an end of eventually being left alone. Despite her being more in the audience than onstage, Britney put on a hell of a show; a circus, if you will.

Sometimes, our childhoods are resurrected by the Sandlot playing on TV one Sunday afternoon, the smell of popcorn wafting over the horribly rusted and unsafe rollercoasters at a church carnival, or a misguided wish at a Zoltan machine which results in wacky consequences. The process of aging adds a bitterness the to the sweetness of memory at its best, and brings a horribly clear vision of what once dazzled us at its worst. Too much time has passed over our diva, rendering the person she once was untouchable, try as we may to reach her as every new album comes out. As she slips further and further from us, her show just gets bigger and bigger; the spectacle of her life has been obscured by the spectacle of her absurd performances. And if it keeps her dancing to "Toxic," I suppose I'll take what I can get.

Also, a video of her lip syncing to Marilyn Manson's "Sweet Dreams" dropped down right after she ascended to the ceiling on a giant umbrella singing the ballad "Everytime." Seriously.

Richard Simmons and Tales From the DMV

Vegas. Oh, Vegas. How do I love thee? I will not recount the ways here because 1)I'm still icing my black eye and it makes it difficult to type, and 2)I'm tired of getting sued for undisclosed reasons.
While Vegas may have once again laid claim to my dignity, I made it out in one piece. And then of course lost my driver's license. This is my story.

Jessica Gets SLIMMONS.

After quite possibly the worst afternoon of the summer (A 6-inch stack of papers to file, a lost driver's license, and a mounting irritation at the disappearance of the "Dad" comb, I almost cried at my desk before realizing that only humans have tear ducts. Once again, I was thwarted), a single text message from Caitlin provided a level of intrigue to my dreary day:

Be at my house at 5pm. Bring $12 and work out clothes.

Because I am a terrible sport, I prodded for details and after I learned there would be no running (an imperative stipulation for me to even consider going to her house) but rather dancing, I almost dropped the phone. We are going to see Richard, I thought.

Indeed, we did. We drove along in tense anticipation, Caitlin smiling wryly as I reprimanded myself for my lack of sparkly aerobic attire. The most I hoped for was a smile, perhaps a mid-Sweatin'-to-the-Oldies shriek in my direction; but no. Crossing the threshold into Slimmons like an illuminated abyss that blinded me but still aroused a deep sense of hope, Richard Simmons leaped from his chair to greet us each with a kiss on the cheek.

I was already sweatin'. And then came the oldies.

Now, let me spend a little time on Richard himself. His face was matte with flawless foundation, the crown of his head was a darker shade than his hair with the texture of what looked like astro-turf, and his shorts were just as short as you could ever hope them to be. As his lip gloss grazed my cheek in a warm welcome, I had to remind myself that this man is well into his 70s. And he was about to kick my ass.

After an hour and a half of prancing around a dance studio with women and men aged from early 20s to mid 60s, intense weight and core exercises, and an ongoing diva-feud between Richard and his assistant Sherri (the Rhoda to his Mary)it was time for cool-down breathing exercises. As Bette Midler's The Rose softly ended, Richard looked around with the earnestness of a guidance counselor and talked to us about rejection. It was a sweet, genuine moment with his fans and followers (which all of us were, if we hadn't been before) from the heart of a man so defined by his overcoming rejection that no one has ever looked at sparkly shirts and white high tops the same way.

I walked away from Slimmons feeling slimmon indeed, and a little bit better about the world that had thrown me such a shitty day in the first place.

The World According to the DMV

Really, there are times in a writer's life when she wishes things were more interesting. Often, the most mundane of tasks ends up wielding the greatest stories, complete with unusual and illicit details. Tasks such as, oh, I don't know, going to the DMV, where she sits for an hour waiting for a robot to call her name. She might even sit next to an old man, and it doesn't matter that she didn't look him in the eye; the tan socks secured under white orthopedic shoes and revealed by too-short cuffed pants give him away as being over 65. His breath only betrays him further; the smell of Ensure and Metamucil being unlocked after soaking for what seems like several decades is strong enough to identify him, and there is no escape from the scrutiny of the young.

And then she might get up, hearing her number called, and slip on the tile, causing a domino-effect tumble which rifles through the DMV, knocking old women down, tripping toddlers, and concussing scared adolescents who just came to take their driving tests. There might be blood, perhaps she sees teeth strewn on the floor, somewhere a fire alarm goes off and a man runs out holding a bag with a dollar-sign on it, screaming like a madman and stepping over the writhing bodies of the elderly who ask her humbly for a hand. But she can't give them a hand; she's being handcuffed and taken away in a police car, and all the while the woman at the counter helplessly holds up her number, waving her paperwork wistfully as the poor writer is gently ducked into the back seat of the squad car by an understanding yet firm police officer. She might lock eyes with the DMV woman, who files the paperwork away for another day, and she might think, Damn, I really don't want to have to come back next week. This might happen to her; but it certainly didn't happen to me.

Until next time!

I Love Billy Joel Just The Way He Is

What makes a musician great? Is it a voice smooth as butter, a bravado the likes of which could stop a raging bull in its tracks, fingers that run across an instrument with an unnatural yet erotic speed? If so, those looking for greatness--NAY, STUFF OF LEGEND--need look no further than Mr. William Joel.

Captain Jack Will Make You Sing And Bop In Your Car Whilst Others Look On In Both Confusion And Awe

A few months ago, for no particular reason, I had a craving to listen to Billy Joel's "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant" like a woman pregnant with musical tastes from the late 80's. Though YouTube has fulfilled our cultural need for instant gratification, I was anything but satisfied and within a few weeks had bought a 3-disc set of his best songs. My mother bought the same one; though it made for a car ride heavy with tension and withheld breath (I hope none of you ever endure the sheer discomfort of hearing Billy sing the word "masturbate" which then vibrates off the walls of the car which your mother is driving) I regret nothing. The highlight was most definitely the point at which "Only the Good Die Young" had reached an instrumental and my mother, who showers with her clothes on, turns to me smiling and still bopping her had back and forth and says, "You know, this is really not a very nice song." You tell em, Jackie.

Since then, the CD is on constant rotation in my car, and never fails to get my ponytail bouncing, my shoulders tensing up with the tempo, and my voice screeching loudly against the unmatched enthusiasm of the Joelster. And enthused he is; the man yells for no reason and at often inappropriate times. When "Captain Jack" is getting you high tonight, there is nothing less appealing than some dude yelling in your face about it and totally killing your buzz.

I've found there are few people more fun to imitate, whether you're at a fancy restaurant ordering drinks (I'll have a "BOTTLE A' RED! Or, if we have the fish a BOTTLE A' WHITE!") or reciting Shakespeare (Oh, Juliet, won't you "COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT...You Catholic girls start much too late!") Billy is always ready to poke his head out and surprise you, effectively giving you a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack.

And also, there few people so deluded as this self-proclaimed badass; I'm not sure why Billy thinks he runs with a "dangerous crowd" but it seems that laughing a bit too loud is hardly dangerous, though perhaps a bit inconvenient for the neighborhood's elderly (who, in fairness, probably do think that ol' Billy is a hoodlum). I mean, we may be right and he might be crazy, but his "dangerous crowd" consists mainly of Elton John; the man might be a lot of things but dangerous is not one of them. I think if you were to look in a thesaurus for synonyms of "dangerous," I can guarantee you will find two names noticeably absent from that list.

So many musicians are overlooked by our generation, as we become more and more fascinated by synthesizers and songs which undoubtedly contain lyrics such as "save me from myself," "I hate your girlfriend," or "I want to have sex with you in a public place." We have forgotten what it's like to have a few broken cords assuring us that "I love you just the way you are," and outdated saxophone solos emphasizing how much "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints."

There are few things more satisfying than rediscovering a deep love for music, no matter how ashamed you might be to roll down the window at a stoplight while it's blasting from your back speakers. I will not be embarrassed if you see me flailing around like the Muppets' Swedish Chef in my car singing about Billy Joel dancing with his hand in his pants (his words, not mine). I only ask that you please refrain from telling your friends.

Besides, "Piano Man" is probably the most wonderful song to slur into a microphone* during Karaoke Night at your local bar.

ALLLLLRIGHT!

*which smells like a beer; on the plus side, people sit at the bar and put bread in your jar while asking "Man, what are you doing here?"

What Happens in Vegas May Cause Mild Burning Sensation

When a young woman comes of age, she wants nothing more than to wear unreasonable shoes and unforgiving miniskirts all in an effort to attract men who are willing to buy her brightly colored drinks with large pieces of fruit in them. She is often successful, with feathery eyelashes batting with seductive grace, a smile so alluring and secretive it attracts even the most stoic of observers, and a gently curved figure which sways like reeds blowing in the summer breeze.

And then there is her bumbling friend haggling with the bartender over the price of a Long Island Iced Tea and squealing too loudly with joy as "Gold Digger" starts to play on the dance floor.
This is the tale of that friend.

Jessica Hits Vegas; Fails At Gambling, Wins at Life


We left for Vegas at 1:00pm on a Friday. A swerving car ride and several texts to Kelly bearing my Last Will and Testament later, we arrived at 9:30pm. Needless to say, I was ready to drink until I no longer felt the very real presence of danger. Strangely, the opposite happened.

We set off in a celebratory mood, Julia only minutes before turning 21, and as we happily bounced from the Tropicana to the Excalibur and on to the Mandalay Bay, we smiled at all of Las Vegas, which had not claimed victory over us, not yet. We entered into Rum Jungle, for the first time with all legitimate IDs, and quickly realized that not only were we the youngest people there, we were also the most interesting. Several overpriced drinks and newly acquired friends later, we dispersed into the night, a starless sky polluted by the immense sparkle of the city shrouding over us like a dark blanket promising safety in its warmth.

The next morning, with details a bit hazy, I woke up in my party dress, my ID poking out of my bra and the distinct taste of Cheez-Its lingering in my mouth. The collective summary of the group's night consisted of waking up in a Burger King bathroom stall and wandering onstage at a theater still open from that night's production of The Lion King. We awoke in generally good spirits.

A Day at the Pool Is No Day at the Beach

Defined by a failed attempt at going to Rehab (a pool party at the Hardrock Hotel), and a scorching sun only escaped by submerging into the pool at the Tropicana, the day passed in softly cooling breezes and drinks the size (and shape) of footballs. Eventually I went up to the room and missed out on all the exciting details of the illicit pool party downstairs; hence, you suffer a lack of fanciful imagery and inappropriate behavior.

We eventually dragged ourselves out of the hotel room to head over to XS at the Wynn and then to Tao at the Venetian, generously providing our cab drivers with endless water cooler material (assuming that somewhere there is a cab company that has a water cooler specifically for the purpose of comparing drunken idiot stories).

The Practice of Tao

If you love the atmosphere of an Asian brothel but don't have the money to fly across the globe, or want to dance at a club but don't want to be able to move, look no further than the Tao at the Venetian! Women dancing violently in lingerie? Check. Naked women bathing each other in decorative bathtubs and fanning each other with giant feathers in bed? No problem! Ridiculously small and overpriced drinks? Absolutely! Aside from the coolest bathrooms I've ever set foot in (glass that fogs over when you lock it! Crazy!) and a very kind bartender who made me a stronger drink for free (thanks, Ernie!), Tao was simultaneously overwhelming and underwhelming. So I guess I was just whelmed.

My feet, however, were in searing pain and I was asked on more than one occasion to put my shoes back on. Deciding to ignore that request, I was kicked out faster than Jazz at the Banks' household (AHHHH!) and we set off down the strip in search of beer pong. And beer pong we did.

After a friendly game of pong (which I lost with gusto), and no money left for a cab, we decided to walk the few miles back to the Tropicana. This resulted in a splinter in my bare foot, black soles for days, more than one person exclaiming "Girl, you need to put your shoes on," and eventually Veronica and I wearing poor Alex and Tim's shoes, respectively. We looked like toddlers in big man's shoes and they looked like unusually young pedophiles. It was worth it.

The car ride home was a breeze and as I watched Las Vegas disappear into the heat like the most brilliant of mirages, I whispered a goodnight and not a goodbye; We will meet again someday, Las Vegas, someday.

Oh, I'm going in two weeks? Well. That worked out nicely.

Mine Eyes Have Seen The Ugly Truth

Hello friends and people with even more time on their hands than me. Welcome to my musings.

Have you ever been in your apartment at night, not ready to sleep but not willing to put on pants and go outside? Have you ever craved popcorn for dinner and harbored a need to loudly groan at someone far more beautiful than yourself on a giant screen? Maybe you have, and maybe you decided to see a movie. And maybe, just maybe, you stupidly chose that movie to be a romantic comedy. There's a very good chance your name is Jessica and you just saw The Ugly Truth.

Jessica Weeps For Feminism; Wonders When Her Neuroses Will Be Found Charming By Generic Male Lead

A desperate need for a Diet Coke and a box of Buncha Crunch overrode my self-respect as a moviegoer last night as I agreed to go see what is quite possibly the least enjoyable movie of this century (on the serious, the Buncha Crunch was so worth it). Thinking to myself, But I like Katherine Heigl! Her name is like Alphabet Soup! And Gerard Butler is the least horrible part of P.S. I Love You! Maybe they'll redeem this steaming pile in the span of two hours , I sunk deeply into my reclining theater chair and watched the previews, which would be my last moment of enjoyment for the rest of the evening.

What followed was a display of hyperbolic misogyny with punchlines so predictable and trite that I pleaded with the usher to let me watch Dance Flick again instead. Seriously. A parade of ass-slapping and a Kevin Costner-caliber American accent from Gerard Butler made for a miserable two hours mostly viewed through my fingers as I covered my face in horror. If I could condense this movie into a much shorter and much more honest script it would go something like this:

Katherine Heigl (ABBY): I'm a beautiful and successful woman who enjoys my job and commands respect from my colleagues. But I'm in my mid-twenties and single, so I must be a miserable shrew with a hodgepodge of neuroses that drive otherwise reasonable men away.

E from Entourage (NONDESCRIPT MAN): We just met and you're overbearing and awful in a cartoonish way.

ABBY: Yes I am! Darn those charming neuroses!

Gerard Butler (MIKE) : Hi, I was hurt by women so that makes it OK to hate them and to go on television in order to encourage other men to resent an entire sex based on the fact that I am inadequate. SLUTS IN JELLO! WHOOOOH! ASS-SLAP!

ABBY: I hate you but am so desperate for a boyfriend at any cost that I will listen to your ridiculous, unrealistic, and completely degrading advice.

MIKE: Be a porn star and a virgin simultaneously.

NAMELESS MAN : Hey, I'm a doctor and I like beautiful women with insane personality discrepancies. Also, BOOBS!

ABBY: Hey, this guy that no one will ever remember likes me! You're a genius Mike! Also, you have a nephew so you're sensitive and I will quite obviously fall in love with you once I find out that you only hate women because really, we're all awful and hurt your feelings.

MIKE: I'M GOING TO KISS YOU!

ABBY: OK!

MIKE: You've hurt me by having a relationship with a man that I basically manipulated into liking you. I quit.

ABBY: You can't quit, we have to fight in this hot-air balloon on a television show that apparently has no censors nor standards.

MIKE: I love you!

ABBY: Why?

MIKE: No discernible reason!

ABBY: Well, even though you've told me that I'm horrible and not good enough in every possible way and basically destroyed my career with your sexist and unrealistic popularity and any normal person would actually loathe you, I LOVE YOU TOO!

THE. MISERABLE. END.

So, in summation: men are all horrible, stupid, mouth-breathing apes with no self control or intellectual pursuits beyond sex, and women are all neurotic shrewish prudes with no personal interests beyond marriage. Or they're sluts with a 3rd-grade reading level not worthy of any speaking roles.
Lesson learned.

Until next time, this has been "Why I Drink In The Morning" with your host, Jessica.

The Joys of Being Someone Who Always Seems Drunk

When you live in a place like Los Angeles, a wide and lonely place which stretches from landmark to landmark with forgotten fields and dusty gas stations, you start to forget how alluring it can be. You simply ignore the familiar shape of palm trees, and dismiss the constant sunshine as a familiar frivolity which grows tiresome around Thanksgiving. It is the right of the Angeleno to grow impervious to the city's charm but it is also her duty to periodically rediscover it.

The Whimsical Adventures of JB and Her Ragtag Gang

Though there are millions of things to do around Los Angeles, only foreigners to the city discover them as natives' sense of creativity quietly erodes with the unforgiving ebb and flow of time; so we go to bars and drink until we don't feel feelings anymore. This weekend, our first stop was to Father's Office as a motley gang of rascally ragamuffins, begging strangers to look past our tear-soaked eyes and dirty faces and buy us a drink. When that didn't work, we shunned them. It was a slow night, but within the first few hours I had become the recently separated lesser-half of a Siamese Twinset with a glass eye and only a third of our shared brain.
The total count of infuriated men who walked away shamefully as their Ed Hardy shirts shifted uncomfortably in the face of rejection came to nine. Nine poor souls were unfortunate enough to think that a group of social, fun-loving, and apparently drunk girls would be receptive to their advances.

Though each of them had their own distinguishing characteristics (a sad bearded fellow sitting at the bar since 5:00pm desperately calling out for a willing pair of breasts and fluttering eyelashes, or the drunk whose bloodshot eyes searched us for either a cigarette or a few kind words), none was more memorable than the Flirtatious Astronaut.

"You guysss workfur NASA?" he boldly put forth.
"You work for NASA?" Katie replied in earnest.
"Nnno. Do YOU workfur NASA? B'cuz...you could be the starrrs and I couldbe the Big Dippuurr."

Promptly, a Wall of Shun was presented and we politely asked our new friend to please adhere to it.

While in line for the bathroom, I sidled up to the DJ with the grace of a cat with three legs, and made a simple request for anything Michael Jackson. A knowing glance and a sincere nod gave the night a hopeful air. Three minutes later, PYT started to play and about 4 minutes after that, half the bar was crowded around the booth as a six-song tribute to Michael and his lesser brothers played. "Remember the Time" is particularly good. At one point, an imposing Redwood of a man approached me with the DJ's iPhone and asked me to look at the picture on it. There, a young Michael Jackson, age 13, sat next to another boy who was unmistakably the friendly DJ. I bowed at his feet, and after a rousing routine set to "The Way You Make Me Feel", I scampered off into the night as my gang and I hopped aboard a moving freight train toward a late night diner. The eggs were delicious and the company irreplaceable.

I Left My Heart In Santa Monica

Aside from a slight mental breakdown at a family celebration (which is the expected result of too much tequila, pulsing heat, and an entire family that doesn't take kindly to teasing about hardship) the hours of the weekend crawled along, sticky with sand and sunscreen and warm contentment. The sun shone on us for the next few days, and as the nights fluttered on with the impermanence of youth, we toasted to the fickle city that won our hearts with its fleeting romance and its tangerine sunsets which cool with the unforgiving nature of a lover who will forever elude your grasp. Los Angeles, I'm yours.

A Little Bit of Magic Goes A Long Way

It occurred to me today, as I counted down the hours before the Harry Potter premier, that it might be time I grow up.

Jessica Finally Gets Potter-Trained

When I was eleven, the Harry Potter series wasn't just about magic; it was magic. It gripped me with the force that Eloise once had but failed to do in my pre-teen-angst-ridden years, it challenged me in a way that few books ever would, and it gave to my aching adolescent romantic what only the Great Jane ever could and only years later. Hermione was my feminist hero, Ron was all my future idiot boyfriends, and Sirius Black was my as-of-yet unknown but inevitable sexy prison-escapee love affair (more on this as it develops).

The last book's release didn't draw me to a bookstore at midnight (simply because I ordered it months in advance) but it drew me inward for a week while I tripped across campus and narrowly dodged passing cars in an effort to never take my eyes off the page.
And then, like every good thing must, it ended.

Tonight I'll go to the midnight showing, outwardly calm but inwardly shitting myself with excitement; I'll drink a beer but not enough to dampen the effects of anticipation and adrenaline. I'll go, knowing that I am an adult with bills, a job, expenses, and endless romantic failures; I'll go in a grown-up and immediately whip out a magic marker to draw a lightening bolt on my head.

Are my years of maturation and painfully real experiences undone by my love for a fictional character that shouts words like "Expelliarmus!" and lusts after a girl named Cho Chang (on the serious, Chang needed the boot around book 4)? Perhaps. Do I have any less authority over the children with whom I will gladly argue over the function of a Horcrux? Considerably. Will I ever stop saying "Alas, earwax"? Probably not. One has very little in her intellectual corner when she secretly has a desperate wish to ride a Hippogriff.

Perhaps it's time to hang up my cloak and let go of my wand (eh? eh? See what I did there? Double entendre!) and finally let go of my adolescence with a quiet dignity and grace. Maybe it's time to leave the magic to those who really believe in it.

Fuck that, I got a movie to watch.

How Jessica Got Her Groove Back

Sometimes, we are reminded of our own mortality and thank whatever God Oprah tells us to that we are alive. I, ever the social anomaly, am more often reminded of my own idiocy and thank Bill Cosby that I have the ability to laugh about it.

Jessica Battles an Acura Stereo; Loses What Little Dignity Remained

The night I got home from living in Germany, I eagerly awaited my first encounter with an old friend. Looking a mess, I applied a little lip gloss and tried my best to hide the stains on my t-shirt from the In-N-Out I had just inhaled. Off in the distance, my mother was asking me questions about my trip and tearfully explaining how much she missed me; I, however, was off in a fog wondering how he looked, if he had moved on to someone else, and if he would ever forgive me for leaving. His name is Charlie, and he is my Acura.

Let me explain something about my car, for my feelings are not easy to express. A '95 Acura Legend, ol' Charlie doesn't have a front left signal and his windshield is cracked across a good third of its surface, effectively giving him a pirate face. The back door handle is chewed off (the bits of foam missing will always be the trophy of Sam the dog), and no windows but mine roll down (broken child safety lock). Often when entering or exiting my car for the first time, riders are surprised to hear a CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK from the rear which I have to explain is a result of my sister driving through a car wash with the radio on (Hi, Mimi). When a passenger asks to recline his or her seat, my warning is often silenced by the WHOOOOSH! of the backrest flinging itself backwards with the force of a torture device right out of James Bond. Really, the only things my car has going for it are the fact that it still has four wheels, the radio, and my cup holder which folds out (recently a piece of plastic broke off, signaling that the cup holder is indeed enjoying its last breaths). Needless to say, I love my car as no other woman has loved before.

My breathless greetings to Charlie were met with silence; my good friend of four years was dead. We charged him and took him to the mechanic, and $200 and a day of slave labor later, we were back in each others arms. In silence. Because the stereo, in its cryptic digital language, sneered, "COdE."

Jessica Sets Off to Find and Kill the Elusive Mr. COdE

I searched near and far for weeks trying to find the mythical code that would break Charlie's silence, much like Sebastian in The Little Mermaid except with less racial stereotypes. By which I mean a little more. According to the interweb, the dealer could help me (HUZZAH!) but would need a serial number for the stereo system (*cue Charlie Brown pensive music*) which I did not have. Frantically calling anyone that might help, no one seemed to care or know what exactly I was talking about. To be fair, I was wearing a babushka headscarf and crying in Yiddish about "my poor boy, Charlie"; I suppose that wasn't the most clear way of explaining my problem.

For weeks, my plan to go to the dealer was foiled again and again by the twisting roads of Van Nuys and the evil forces on high which giggled darkly, "Excellent....she's trying to fix it again, the foolish girl..."

Finally, today I took my most aggressive step toward rescuing Charlie: I called the dealer. The conversation began with a short explanation, led into the wrong assertion that I would need to get a new stereo, and ended with a clearly green employee that I imagined to have braces and acne telling me that the service department opened on Tuesday.

David advised me to go to the dealer anyway and "play dumb" in order to get someone there to pop my radio out and do it for free. Sadly, I betrayed my anti-sexist crusade and turned down my bedside photographs of Mary Wollstonecraft and Judge Judy while I shamefully put on a dress and curled my eyelashes before heading out the door.

30 minutes of traffic and two wrong exits later, I arrived at the Acura dealer with a bouncy head of hair styled for the occasion and a desperate hope that I would not meet the voice on the phone. I did. While he did not have braces or acne, he was just as young and odiously condescending in person as he was over his service-desk telephone; I immediately regretted this decision.

"Hi, my stereo...needs, um, a code..."
"Did you call earlier?"
"(sadly, with an inability to lie in the face of several employees staring at me)...yes."
"I explained to you over the phone..." (this phrase was uttered no less than three times, each time with more saccharine sweetness and a resentful sneer, while I sheepishly dug my toe into the floor)

I left defeated, broken, and feeling very stupid, all while wearing dress which made it truly humiliating. After screaming and swearing in my car for 15 minutes, shouting obscenities which would make a sailor blush, my sister Cheri called me. Through her, Todd (the previous owner) explained that the code was in the glove compartment, which I had scoured furiously the day before. Hoping that in my rage I had overlooked it, I prayed to every God I knew (calling in a lot of favors) to let me find a stupid piece of paper that I more than likely tossed out years before.

A few hundred yards from my house, sweating and anxious while makeup melted off my face, I couldn't wait any more and pulled over in the shade of a tree to search the glove compartment once again. The card on which Todd had written the code was nowhere to be found.

I was, for the second time that day, defeated. I was hurt, sad, and helpless, preparing myself to have my brother break into my radio just to find a series of numbers which would hopefully lead me to the code. I sadly flipped through the manual one last time, hoping the card had fallen into it, which it hadn't. Just then, I spied a small sticker on the front of the manual to which I had previously paid little attention. It was exactly five digits. With no better options, I punched it in.

I have never been so happy to hear a static-ridden mariachi song in my life.

Today, I am just as big an idiot as I was the day before, but now I have music to distract me from thinking about it too much.



Until next time, keep on keepin' on.