Suburban Fall with an Unemployed Whiny Person

Just a small town girl livin’ in a lonely Syracuse, New Yooooork… she took her mom’s CRV goin’ to Marshaaaall’s Homegoooooooods

Oh, don’t mind me. My boyfriend just went back to work today to yell at kids to put on masks and not touch each other…and also to teach physics, I guess. And I’m still just a little candle in the wind…clinging to unemployment when the rains set in…

That’ll be my last song parody, that’s not what this is.

So anyway, my boyfriend went back to work as a teacher today, and I am still just chillin’, getting used to a new season in suburbia after 6 years of city life…

Man, suburbanites…THEY 👏🏻 LOVE 👏🏻FALL! They do NOT mess around with it. The Marshalls/Homegoods parking lot this past Saturday? SAVAGE.

And…it’s clearly contagious, seeing as I found myself in this parking lot, middle fingers flyin’ left and right trying to get a parking space to go look at ceramic pumpkins and talking skeletons.

Wanna know an actual quote from my mouth that I actually, actually, for real, for real said the other day?

I said…FROM MY OWN MOUTH…and I quote,

“I do love the pumpkin spice latte, but I MUCH prefer the pumpkin cream cold brew…it’s a few less calories and the foam is delicious.”

-MY ACTUAL FOR REAL VOCAL CORDS

So I’m a little…concerned.

I’m worried that with my boyfriend gone during the days, I am going to further morph into a fall-obsessed house-wife…which, ya know…there’s really nothing wrong with. I just always thought if I became a housewife it would be because I married one of the rich businessmen I used to take care of at the restaurant in New York City, and he would move me in to his penthouse and I would have maids and stuff and so while he worked I’d just go get pumpkin-Starbucks-anything and then go to the yoga studio and make myself throw up in the bathroom and then maybe actually do the yoga or maybe just go catch a matinee of Jersey Boys?

I never, ever thought I’d find myself at a place called “Witty Wicks” for the second time in one week buying a pumpkin scented candle and looking at pumpkin decorations.

(And, I’ll just point out, the visits to this gift shop are in ADDITION to the parking-lot-danger-filled Marshall’s Homegoods trip I took on Saturday.)

“Witty Wicks”, if you must know, has incredible candles.

HOWEVER.

The rest of the gifts are just…not my cup of tea because they basically all have quotes on them.

Quotes a-plenty, quotes galore.

Like, maybe you’re looking at a cute little pumpkin face and then your eyes scan downward and you realize it’s a little pumpkin-man-statue thing and he’s holding a sign that says “WELCOME TO OUR PUMPKIN PATCH.”

Sweet Jesus, the day I buy this kind of decoration is the day I just buy a sign that says LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE, have a kid, and sell Avon.

“FAMILY GATHERS HERE” on the front door.

“DANCE LIKE NO ONE’S WATCHING” over the fireplace.

“DREAM BIG” in the bathroom, so you don’t forget to keep dreamin’ while you take a piss.

I can’t guys. I just can NOT with quotes on decorations. It’s one thing to become a suburban fall enthusiast…it’s another to become a QUOTE person…then I’ll really know it’s the end of the line for me.

My soul is dead.

Might as well buy a crockpot while I’m at it.

Anyway, this is where I find myself, folks. My boyfriend went back to work and I’m over here drinkin’ pumpkin cream cold brew, alienating quote-lovers, and ordering big Snooki slippers.

Happy Halloween, I guess.

5 Tips for Introducing Your Indifferent Girlfriend to Your Favorite Movie Franchise

Okay…so I’m on my second nerd now, folks (their word, not mine), and I think I’ve got some comprehensive tips on how to introduce your gal (or guy) to that Super-Hero/Space Themed/Action-y series you love, WITHOUT overwhelming them, making them feel like they’re watching a bunch of Hasbro toys blowing up, and then questioning whether they bit off more than they could chew in this relationship (giggity).

Done right, it IS possible for them to care just as much about the franchise, the universe, and the characters within them as you do. (Maybe not just as much, but they’ll care enough to watch them, anticipate new ones with you, and maybe also consider incorporating some quirky “insert franchise name here” art pieces into their own decorating, such as this adorable piece of bathroom art:

Click photo to view on Etsy

5) DO IT CHRONOLOGICALLY, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

Here we go. You’ve gotten me to agree to sit down and give these movies a chance. You’ve told me they’re really amazing, beautiful commentaries on humanity and real life issues, and I have finally conceded that, yeah, I should probably see them since they are quite celebrated facets of pop culture and the zeitgeist, and I want to be hip to the jive.

And then you say…
“I’M JUST TRYING TO DECIDE IF I SHOULD SHOW THEM TO YOU IN THE ORDER THEY CAME OUT, OR IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER”

Dude. Please show them to me in chronological order. I KNOW THIS IS A HOT BUTTON ISSUE FOR DIE HARD FANS.

I get it. I understand they came out in a different order, and there might be some enigmatic, artistic reason to watch them in said order. BUT REMEMBER: I AM A NOOB (and not just a NOOB to the franchise—really, I’m a NOOB to these kinds of movies in general), and you are asking me to take on and accept an entirely new ‘universe’ with different rules and different species and languages and who knows what else!

I NEED something familiar, something reliable, to anchor me in this unfamiliar territory. If I can at least have a timeline…I have something I trust. So if your partner is like me, they’re gonna want you to show them the films in chronological order so they can attempt to keep things straight on this journey. If we finish ALL the movies, and I love them and would like to watch them again, we can always re-watch in whichever order you’d like!

4. WHO WE ARE “VS” ? IDENTIFY!!!!

Okay. I get that the “good” guys in one movie can become the “bad” guys in another or there can be a plot twist and at some point things change and up is down and left is right and good is bad…but let me get there myself. ESPECIALLY at the beginning….I NEED TO KNOW WHO WE ARE VERSUS.

I got half-way through Black Panther before I realized Michael B Jordan was technically the bad guy. (RIP CHADWICK BOSEMAN)

If you don’t want to identify them as “good guys” or “bad guys”, I at least need to know WHO WE ARE “VS” AT ALL TIMES.

3) CHECK IN WITH ME DURING PROLONGED ACTION/FIGHT SCENES

Because I’m zoning out…I promise. I think because there’s no dialogue going on that I’ve got a little bit of a break. And so my eyes kinda glaze over a bit and I start thinking about what I want for dinner and how I should try January Jones’s skin-care routine..and then all of a sudden I’ve missed a crucial space-ship crash, character death, kidnapping, or limb detachment.

CHECK IN WITH ME. MAKE SURE I SAW THE THING I WAS SUPPOSED TO SEE. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

2) PAUSE IT! WHENEVER! I! F—ING! WANT!

AND DON’T GET FRUSTRATED! I want to piece things together, and I want to make sure I’m piecing things together correctly. I want to make sure I’m understanding the rules of his super power. I want to make sure I know what planet we are on. I want to make sure I know which character is which when they’ve switched into their special outfits. I wanna know if they’re gonna bang. I want to know if that’s the guy from Game of Thrones. I want to know if Miley Cyrus’s ex-husband is in this movie. And maybe I want to know if you think Robert Downey, Jr. is nice in real life.

>>>>>(sidebar…Don’t get frustrated. Don’t be condescending. I’m not stupid…these movies just move with a pace that I’m not used to, and a lot of them run with the assumption that their viewer “just gets” certain things. But I’m new. NOT dumb.)<<<<<

If you want me to watch another one of these films, you will pause it whenever I ask, and you will do so PATIENTLY! How can I be interested in watching another one with you if I’m not making proper sense of the plot, the universe, and if I’m not also enjoying myself by learning that Queen Marjorie had a bit part in Captain America?

And finally…

Drumroll please…

….

….

1) YOU’RE NOT HAVING SEX TONIGHT.

You’re just not. That movie was EXHAUSTING.

FIN

I Stuck My Head Under A Waterfall One Time

I started writing about how I’ve been so bad at texting lately and I got, like, a good 4 paragraphs in before I realized I was forcing myself to talk about something that I really didn’t care to elaborate on because I’m not going to change.

In a nutshell, I hate that people can contact me whenever they f—ing want, especially in this pandemic because they KNOW I should text back right away because I’m not doing anything important, except maybe ordering a Bop-It on e-bay or watching old ‘DZ: Discovery Zone’ commercials on YouTube. But sometimes, I really just HAVE to have the control, and I just am NOT going to text you back right then and there, and you are going to HAVE to deal with it or don’t text me anymore, but please still extend me all the benefits and courtesies of being your friend like asking me to be in your wedding and occasionally sending me Blair Waldorf memes like this:

But anyway, I was having trouble focusing on writing this because my foot is throbbing and also today I finally found a waterfall I stuck my head under during a game of truth or dare when I was 12. And it was super exciting and nostalgic and cathartic because I have been on many-a-nature walk trying to find this stupid little waterfall and I even briefly considered walking into strangers’ backyards to do it, but it didn’t end up coming to that and I was too much of chicken—t anyway.

When I was 12, I stuck my head under this waterfall on a dare at a sleepover birthday party and it was really gross and scary because it was dark and loud and there was a shit ton of goopy, icky moss and an old Burger King cup under there:

THE WATERFALL I STUCK MY HEAD UNDER!

But I did it, and I was proud, and I guess it was some sort of defining moment in my adolescence because here I am dedicating all this time and blog space to it.

Was this the same birthday sleep-over party where I fell asleep first and they decided to put strawberry Hershey syrup all up and down my arms?

Probably.

Did I secretly cry in the bathroom?

Yes.

Was finding this waterfall worth the poison ivy I’m probably going to get?

You be the judge.

__________________________________________________________

PS. Forgot to talk about throbbing foot. Of CRUCIAL importance.

So the other day, out of nowhere, this one section of skin on my foot started itching like CRAZY and when s–t itches, I scratch it, because the cavemen didn’t have calamine lotion. And then before I knew it, I had scratched it raw and now it REALLY hurts, and no one believes that I was bit by something that left an invisible bite, they just say “JESSE YOU SCRATCHED YOUR SKIN OFF” which is TRUE but also NOT TRUE because it was just VERY ITCHY.

Fin.

Forced

I told myself I would force myself to write something today. The problem is I have nothing to ‘say’ but I have, like, 3 billion things to SAY.

Like, for SAYING’s sake, I thought I had a blackhead on my upper lip because I felt something stinging it, and in retrospect it was probably just a cut or irritation, but once I decided it was a blackhead I just sat there and squeezed and picked and poked and stabbed at it and finally it became a giant wound that’s scabbed over and definitely looks like a giant herpe.

Which I guess…I GUESS…if I needed something to ‘say’…I could tie the previously described scenario into a great big beautiful metaphor about idle minds. Idle minds make trouble where there is none? Something like that?

Oh, oh, and Arnold Rothstein told Nucky Thompson on Boardwalk Empire that man’s greatest flaw is his inability to just sit quietly in a chair. Something like that. It blew my mind, because I’ve been very zen and contemplative lately because what the hell else do I have to do?

But like…do you get it? Like, why can’t we just sit still and shut up? Like birds and dogs and shit sit there for so long doing nothing and they seem way happier than us.

And like, a cactus? A cactus is alive, don’t forget!

I lost the point.

The point is, don’t pick at your skin because you are bored or you will give yourself a giant herpe-lookin’ thing. Don’t go looking for trouble where this is none.

Oh my, god f***ing BRILLIANT, Jesse, you SAID something AND you ‘said’ something.

TUNE IN FOR MORE ENTHRALLING HIJINX FROM THE RANKS OF THE UNEMPLOYED!

@itsmy_pardee

Understanding the Crock-pot

I’m here today to get something off my chest…something that’s been eating away at me through weeks of tedium, months of quarantine, and years on a presidential rollercoaster of which I cannot seem to get off.

Crock-pots.

I don’t get it. I don’t understand them. People love these things. People give them as gifts— wait, no—

PEOPLE WANT TO RECEIVE THEM AS GIFTS!

I think for a while I subconsciously blocked crock-pots out of my brain completely because they seemed like something everyone who turned thirty suddenly needed, and as I approached the big “three-oh” (now in monthly increments), they loomed omnipresent like a little dark cloud over my sad, misguided life, teetering ever more and more each day to a drone of domesticity and book-clubs and baby showers.

I could never let crock-pots in.

But as I look back on my crock-pot-less past, I believe it may go even deeper than this, if you can believe it.

“Turn the crock-pot on for me at four,” my mother would say. Or “I’ve got something in the crock-pot for dinner tonight.”

The word sent shudders up my spine.

I didn’t want to touch the crock-pot, let alone eat from it! So no, I will not turn the crock-pot on at four, and I shall make myself a P, B and J because I refuse to touch OR eat anything that comes out of a device titled CROCK-POT.

“Crock”=crocodile

“Crock”=imposter

“Crock”=just a few letters off from “crotch”

There are just so many awful word-associations, and I refuse to believe there isn’t a more suitable name at the ready besides “crock-pot.”

Imagine my dismay—my CHAGRIN, if I may be so obliged as to insert a ten-dollar SAT- word—when, as a bridesmaid to my dear friend at her bridal shower, it was my job to unwrap her gifts and hand them to her so that they may be showcased and photographed and fawned over by heavily Mimosa-ed middle-aged women as though they were something they had never before seen in their lives, and items which only the bride could ever deserve to possess.

Imagine my CHAGRIN, as I ripped off the shiny white foil to reveal a bulky, heavy, tasteless box that could only be home to one singular device: a dreaded, tacky crock-pot.

For joy! I thought, eyes a-rolling. A crock-pot for you to make a lazy, mushy, goopy dinner for your lazy, mushy, goopy new husband in your lazy, mushy, goopy new marriage!

A crinkle of disgust in my nose, I hauled the large box over my head and placed it in the arms of the bride, who held it high to be adored and fawned over by its adoring, undeserving fans.

Crock-pots…ha!

They’ll never take me alive. I’d sooner boil my own skin in a REGULAR pot of water on a REGULAR old stove than own a crock-pot.

You know what crock-pots are sometimes called?

Slow-cookers.

Slow-cookers.

I am a godd**n American and I want it NOW. FAST. NOT SLOW. FAST! FAST! FAST!

I’m more than happy with my Lean Cuisines and MSG-filled Ramen noodles. If they keep me from becoming one more statistic—one more bright young woman fallen prey to the domestication of the crock-pot…then by golly, I’ll eat them every day for the rest of my (probably-shorter-due-to-eating-Lean-Cuisines-and-Ramen-Noodles-every-day-for-the-rest-of- my-life) life.

I cannot tell you what a weight it is off my shoulders to have these feelings out in the open. And now that I’ve gotten them out there and cast light onto this demon, I can see for certain that I do NOT simply have an irrational anger toward a kitchen appliance stemming from my fear of turning thirty.

Obviously.

Because like, thirty is the new twenty, right?

Never mind.

Back to crock-pots.

The conclusion of crock-pots.

I do not like crock-pots. I do not support crock-pots. I do not condone crock-pots.

I do not like them hear nor there, I do not like them anywhere, such as in my kitchen, and at my friend’s bridal shower, and in catalogues, and ESPECIALLY…

Especially not in online ads that are clearly geared toward women approaching a certain age.

I rest my case.

Fin.

@itsmy_pardee