Saturday, January 2, 2010

To: Sworn enemies. Return address: Unknown

Scott (the Count of Counts - Hallelujah! Hallelujah!) gave me a copy of George Carlin's autobiography (or sortofbiography, as Carlin called it), Last Words.

It is dynamite. I love it. I'm on page 178. I like it so much better than Steve Martin's stab at the same, Born Standing Up.

Both talk a lot about their early lives and stand-up. Last Words, though, actually includes pieces of material written out, including how the pieces changed over time. I'm finding this way more enlightening as a comic. Both are good stories, though, and worth reading.

One part of Last Words has kept me laughing since I read it. George Carlin starts the book with all that David Copperfield kind of crap (sorry, Holden Caulfield). In the section about his maternal grandfather, he begins to talk about his mother, Mary Carlin:
Mary was the first of his six children, all born in either Greenwich Village or Chelsea. She was frail as a kid and among other things was given a glass of Guinness stout each night to build her up. It worked. The physical strength she ultimately developed was matched by mental toughness. When she was ten she sent a box of horseshit to a girl on her block who had neglected to invite her to a birthday party. She was small, vivacious, made friends easily, played piano, was a great, dancer, laughed loudly ... and you didn't want her for an enemy.
I read this aloud to Scott in bed. I said, "Can you even believe that? She was 10! Incredible!" and he replied, "I can't believe you've never thought of sending anyone a box of shit."

I really hadn't. And once he suggested it, I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it either.

We proceeded to talk about how a person, in this modern age, might send shit through the United States Postal Service without being detected. A ziplock bag would not be enough. Tyvek? Maybe. But under no circumstance should a person include his or her return address or apply his or her handwriting to the box. Certainly, the box would be full of his or her DNA, but the federal government has bigger fish to fry than to run a DNA test on a box full of feces. And anyway, even if they did, they'd have to have another sample of his or her DNA to make a match, and they wouldn't, so he or she'd be home free!

My god! It almost seems too easy!

We got ourselves laughing so hard about this that I had to get out of bed and cough vigorously while Scott shook quietly in the bed making his laughing-really-hard face.

I guess there are a number of points here. The first is I wish I had the courage to shit into a box and mail it to someone. Incidentally, I can't think of a single person I want to mail my shit to. And what if I thought of someone, but then I changed my mind after it was mailed? It's just mortifying to think of - and at the same time hilariously funny.

Another point is that when I met Scott, I couldn't possibly have foreseen that we'd both find shitting in a box and mailing it to another person so hilarious. We are so perfectly suited to one another that it probably makes people want to hurl a little bit. And I can't blame them. If it was four years ago and I saw a happy couple like Scott and me, I would barf a little bit myself - a jealous and angry barf, certainly, but barf nonetheless. (Would it help the barfing people to know that being happy with another person takes work and often involves the help of a qualified professional? Because it does.)

Finally, if you have delivered - or if you plan to deliver - a Mary-Carlin-style box of feces to another person, I kind of want to know how it went/goes - just so long as you're not sending it to me. I promise I won't tell (unless a subpeona is involved).

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Thursday, April 2, 2009

How you know you're at an open mic where you maybe don't belong (but you actually do!)

I've got a kind of important audition this weekend. I don't want to say much more about it here. In any case, I'm trying to get ready like nobody's business.

I went to an open mic tonight that will remain nameless and location-less so as to protect the identity of the innocent.

It was primarily a music open mic, the kind I swore off years ago. And if I weren't desperate for stage time to prepare for this weekend, please be assured that I wouldn't be there. Nosiree.

The host opened up the show by saying (I hope this doesn't give too much away) that she got tickets to see Dar Williams for Christmas one year from her husband, but then she had her baby the week before the show, and because she couldn't go to a concert with a one-week-old baby, she stayed home. "This is a song about a concert I didn't go to."

Scott and I looked at each other and we knew we were both thinking the same thing. And I said to him, "You should know that I know how much you love me. You show me because you are here with me right now."

I think that's how you know that you're with exactly the right person, the person you were meant to be with. If I believed in predestination (which I kind of do a little bit), I would believe (and I kind of do) that I had lived my entire life up until this point just so I could sit in a coffee shop, pay $3.25 for a small cup of babaganoush and listen to a lady sing a song about a concert she didn't go to - just so I could live in the perfect moment of Scott and me looking into each other's eyes and not having to say a single word before we stifled laughter. This is the stuff of life!

I ended up doing the whole set that I planned for my audition. I came in 30 seconds short of the maximum amount of time I can use in the audition, which is perfect because I felt like I was rushing a little bit. I can relax a little. And people laughed even though it was a music open mic. I'm feeling really good about my set and just excited to be taking this next step with the comedy. I haven't done any kind of audition since 2001, if you want to know the truth. I should have been doing auditions all along, but I haven't been doing them. I'm not sure what's stopped me. Fear, probably. But not any more.

I actually ended up having a great time at the open mic tonight, and I met a lot of nice new people, many of whom I may well see again because - get this! - I think I might go back. I surprised myself by how much fun I had even though so many people totally sucked (and I mean this in the most supportive way possible, because I'm pretty sure I sucked when I first started out too). But I won't make Scott come with me. Unless, of course, he wants to come.

I said to him, when we're old ladies and men, we will look back on this night and laugh. I will be in my rocking chair and I'll say, "Gosh, I would love to listen to a song about a concert someone didn't go to." And then we would laugh.

Scott said, "Okay, but you might have to remind me of this story so that I remember to laugh."

Do I ever love that guy!

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Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Look what craigslist did

On this day in 2006 at 1:30 p.m., I had a blind date with a fellow at Haymarket. He didn't show up until 1:40, seemed scattered, had paint on his ear, wore boots with shorts and, frankly, didn't ring my bell. I looked into his eyes and thought, "Here's a guy I will never see again."

A few hours after our date, I did see him again at the intersection of Main and King. He was by Silverscape and I was by the courthouse. I crossed to the Sweeties side of the street and kept my head turned so that he wouldn't notice me. I didn't want to complicate things by talking to him again.

I bumped into JBo at the Stop & Shop and told her about the date. We assigned him a name and decided that I should probably send him my non-rejection rejection e-mail -- "It was nice meeting you; good luck in the future" -- or not e-mail him at all.

But then, later that same day, I got an e-mail from him that was the sweetest e-mail I ever got in my life. Also the scariest, because this guy figured out in about 90 minutes what it took me five years of quality therapy to figure out about myself. It certainly gave me pause. "Maybe I ought to give this guy another chance," I thought.

And, well, I'm glad I did.

He is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I am extraordinarily fortunate to have him. I can't imagine my life without him in it. I almost didn't have that initial date. I almost dismissed him out of hand. If he hadn't written me that e-mail, I might not have written him. It gives me a pain about the heart to think of all this beauty I could have missed.

Scott Welsch, you make me the happiest I've ever been. Happy second first-date-iversary, darling.

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Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Songs in a bottle

Last night, Scott was making a salad and I was trying to figure out what we could possibly eat with it. It's slim pickin's in our cabinets right now. We're not broke or anything (thankfully); I just don't have time or energy to make a proper trip to the grocery store. Whatever.

Anyway, I ended up pulling two almost-empty bags of potato products out of the freezer. There were Trader Joe's oven fries and Stop & Shop's tater nuggets. I presented the idea of mixed potato products to the Count, he was in, I put them on the pan and into the oven. He moved out to the dining room and started singing a song.

It was to the tune of Time in a Bottle, a song I'm not all that familiar with, except that it's a tune Scott comes back to again and again when he makes up songs.

He makes up songs on the spot basically all the time. I have to tell you the truth: half the time I don't even listen to what he's singing because he's constantly singing these made-up songs to tunes I don't know. Also, sometimes it's a tune I know, but I don't recognize it because, well, Scott has anything but perfect pitch.

So I was only half paying attention, washing some dishes, when I heard Scott from the other room singing on the top of his lungs: "There never seems to be enough ketchup for all the tater tots you want to eat..."

This morning, I was talking to him from the bathroom while he was in the kitchen. He started singing a song about his Auditory Hallucination Girlfriend, which featured the line, "She's out of sight!"

A few weeks ago, I was feeling like Scott and I had fallen into a nice pattern for living. We loved each other. Great. I was a little sad that I didn't feel sick with the love anymore, but it seemed fine. But then, suddenly, I'm more in love with Scott now than ever and I'm sick all over again with the love.

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Monday, February 18, 2008

A better photo of my glasses is just a click away...

Amy took an awesome photograph of me and my glasses, which is much better than the photo we took with our camera (which is not as fancy as hers). See it here.

She took it at Matt and Kristen's engagement party, which was really fun (also, check this closeup of Kristen's awesome hair). The love was all around us. I cried during the toasts. Show of hands: who's surprised by this?

Nobody, that's who.

Other highlights from a variety of event photo galleries:

Here's a side view of my glasses, a silhouette of my head, and a smiling Count.

Here's J.Bo and the Human making us want them.

Jeremy and The Count having a snack.

The cake I made is on the left.

Flora's bracelet helping her get her cry on in fake earnest.

Kelsey looking rather feline.

Jaime's in a commercial for tasty snacks.

Good times.

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Monday, January 21, 2008

All the love songs are right

People warned me that all the happy in-love feelings would fade over time, and I've been sort of waiting for it. Well, not waiting. Just kind of expecting it would happen. And not really expecting either, because I don't want to make it out like I want it to happen or anything. Maybe just a silent knowing. Maybe I've silently known that, over time, all the happy in-love feelings would fade.

But they haven't faded, not at all. In fact, they've grown over time. I don't want to make you barf or anything, but I am more in love with Scott now than ever.

Love songs will come on the radio and I'll listen to them and I'll think, "God, they are so right! Everything in this love song is the truth!"

And then I'll think, "I am agreeing with a love song on the radio!"

I was shouting at Scott about how much I loved him and how I love him more and more each day. He replied with a quiet, "I love you, too."

And I shouted, "More and more each day?"

And he quietly said, "Sure."

I was all, "Sure? Sure? That's all you've got?"

He said, "Jennifer, you are the over-the-top one and I'm the understated one. Those are our roles."


"Yes," he replied.

He officially blew my mind.

Yesterday morning we were watching ABC This Week with George Stephanopoulos. Chrystia Freeland from the Financial Times was on the roundtable with a few others. She is really pretty. That photo on her official Financial Times page does her no justice. She is really quite beautiful.

I said, "Look at her. She is so pretty."

Scott looked up from his nerdy notes about the presidential race and said, "Which one?"

I waited for her to come back on the screen. "That one," I said.

He looked up at her, said, "Oh," and then went back to nerding out with his notes.

Then he said, all casual-like, with completely seriousness and without looking up, "She's not as pretty as you."

Now, I've got full reality about myself and I can see fairly clearly that that lady is really, really pretty (that crappy photo on the Web site aside). The part where Scott says I'm prettier and, what's more, actually believes it? My god!

I'm the luckiest girl alive.

Sometimes we fight and everything, but then the fights are over and then love recommences in earnest.

Barf bags are located in the seatback pocket in front of you.

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Monday, November 19, 2007

Growing pains

I was catching up on some blog reading, because I've been woefully negligent. Sassypants moved in with her fella. I knew it was going to happen, but I didn't know that it had.

Man, do I know all about the pains of moving in with another person. Good god, do I ever.

With Scott and me, Scott hardly left my apartment for about a year before he moved in, so I thought it wasn't going to be all that different when he moved in. It turns out it was, and it was all subtle, I-can't-quite-put-my-finger-on-it different.

One thing is he came with a lot of stuff, which he put anywhere he wanted. I had lived alone in the apartment and had already determined where everything belonged. I would find things in the exactly wrong place and just want to shoot him. He couldn't seem to understand that I had a system and why I was so annoyed when I found something in the wrong place.

"You haven't gone home in a year!" I would bellow. "How do you not know where pots and pans go!"

If we were independently wealthy or something, it would have made good sense for each of us to give up our apartment and to get one new apartment together for us both to move our stuff into. But I had (and we still have) such a sweet deal on this place, I didn't want to find another place that I know would have been inferior and more money. Also, I made this vow that the next time I moved, I would be moving into my permanent home. I've been working on the Jennifer Myszkowski Permanent Home Fund for a while now and is finally starting to come along, you know, and I didn't want to blow money on first and last.

Anyway, if Sassy and her fella were Scott and me, I'd be playing the role of her fella and Scott would be Sassy. I'd be all, "You figure out which cabinet canned tomatoes go in, motherfucker!" (except I would not actually say that; I'm not that bad of a person) and Scott would be all cool as a cucumber. "You're pretty angry about the cabinets," he would say. "Do you have low blood sugar?"

And of course his identification of my irrational rage would only serve to enrage me further, but I'd have to be smooth about it so as not to appear to be an asshole. And as I acted cool about it, what I'd really be doing is quietly hatching a plan to put signs on all the cupboards until he knew where to put things. Lesson one: if you open a cabinet and there are pots and pans in there, it's a good chance that that's where the pot in your hand belongs! But I never actually label anything. And then it blows over. And then we are friends again and crazy about each other.

Sometimes, during my darker moments, I think to myself, What the hell am I doing with this guy? And then I think, What the hell is he doing with me?

Gosh, are we ever a pair...of lovebirds!

Seriously though, it is just so hard, the working out of the kinks. I don't think I was prepared for how hard it is. And it's lucky we're so crazy about each other, because I can see how other people would just crumble under the pressure.

I sure am lucky.