"Brain-storming"

Here's a fun picture I found in the 1948 career book, How To Be A Successful Advertising Woman by Mary Margaret McBride:

"One agency technique of developing advertising-copy themes and merchandising and promotion programs is through idea-sessions, sometimes called "brain storms." The rule in brain-storming is absolutely no criticism. Anything goes. Nobody says "But that wouldn't work," or "How silly!" Try it yourself. Get a gang of your friends together - concentrate on a single problem. Watch how one good idea sparks another, how that sets off a third - and before you call it a day you may have some original and highly effective thinking on paper."

Anyone else out there believe that the people who are adamant that "there are no bad ideas in a brainstorm" are the kind of people who exclusively come up with horrible suggestions? (Based on their expressions in the photo, I think the plump brunette and the annoyed blonde on the right agree with me. That is the look of people who have just heard a stupid idea. Trust me, I am sadly VERY FAMILIAR with those glares.) Under normal conditions, the contributions of the unimaginative would be Darwin'ed out of contention, and so they use this weird brainstorm rule to swaddle their ideas in bubblewrap and trot them on stage as if we were all at a body-positive open-mic poetry slam and not at a business meeting.

Jen's Jerk-off Opinion of the Day: Crappy ideas shouldn't have a safe place.

I'm not saying we should attack ideas mercilessly (in business, be kind! Always!), I'm just saying we shouldn't pretend they're just as valid as a really creative / thoughtful / strategic suggestion. If there's an obvious problem with an idea, shouldn't that be pointed out before the team dedicates any more time to it?

What do you think?

Also ... don't you love it that in the picture above, "brain-storming" was still new enough to have quotation marks around it? Remember when they were so foreign to us that we had to use quoties around "web site" and "viral video" and "Spanx"? Aww ... those sweet, slimmer days of yesteryear.

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The Rebuttal: 1950s Housewives Blast 1950s Business Girl

If you saw yesterday's post, I showed you bits of an article from the March 1950 Chatelaine in which "business girl" Beverly Gray tells housewives how much they suck. In June of that year, the housewives had their chance to bite back in the article, "Housewives Blast Business Girl".

According to the magazine, over 500 housewives wrote letters in response to "Housewives Are A Sorry Lot" and Beverly Gray's phone rang off the hook with calls from irritated readers. This was all pre-Google, so women actually had to put time and effort into tracking down and stalking this lady ("You say I'm silly and leading a wasted life? THIS'LL SHOW YOU!"). I wonder how many psychotic phone calls were received by people listed under "B. Gray" in phone books around Canada:

"I've learned a lot more things about housewives I didn't know before!"
I'm sure they're all super flattering observations, too.

Seems Bev, a newspaper woman, was kind of like an early version of Canada's favourite sweetheart: the ever attention-seeking, ever judgemental Christie Blatchford. I wonder who could out-grump the other. My money's on Blatch.

The commotion was so great that Chatelaine decided to post a few pages of snippets from many of these letters rather than provide one uniformed response:

Sure, sure. If comment sections on the Internet have taught us anything,
it's that people respond to criticism with "tolerance and good humor."

The quotes from 1950s housewives can basically be placed into five different categories ...

I'll Have You Know That I Am Very Busy And Important. CRAZY IMPORTANT:

The census man rolled his eyes. "Sure thing, lady," he said as he checked the box marked "housewife."

Yeah, you heard me. I said it. PIE. They don't bake themselves, you know.

Preach, sister, preach! (Well, except for that first part.)

Business Girls Suck More Than We Do:

I think it's a rule that no one looks good on public transit.

Just wait until the Internet shows up.

... a shoplifter's dream.

... They're Also Dumb Sluts:

BOOM. Suck it, skanks.

I Feel Sorry For You Because You Can't Get A Man, Haven't Had Babies, And Clearly Don't Know What True Happiness And Fulfillment Is:

Same old disposable income, same old independence ...

... well, that and Valium.

ARE YOU, BEVERLY? ARE YOU?

Beverly Gray Is A Fucking Bitch With No Friends (And Is Probably A Big Ol' Lesbian):

Haters gonna hate.

Ah, good stuff, ladies. Good stuff. I have a feeling you'd fit in just fine with women today.

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Women: Judging The Shit Out Of Each Other Since The Dawn Of Time

From the March 1950 issue of Chatelaine, "Housewives Are A Sorry Lot" by Beverly Gray:

Get mad all you like. But somewhere in this article there's a truth for every one of us.

Beverly Gray, a business girl, looks over her married friends, shudders, takes reef in her girdle and strikes out these observations:

• Marriage brings about a full stop in mental development.
• As soon as the wedding is over a woman drops phoney interests in such things as sports, politics, and world events.
• Her life channels into a narrow domestic little tunnel.
• A girl expects her husband to be a combination of Ronald Coleman, Gregory Peck, and Humphrey Bogart.
• Chat with any housewife and she's sure to bring the conversation round to how terribly frustrated she is.
• If the individual housewife is a saddening sight, housewives in the mass are appalling. 

I want to know what kind of day Beverly Gray had that made her plunk her ass down at the typewriter and write this all out.

I don't know why I love this so much - it's got to be the bluntness and the how-dare-she'ness of it all. It, of course, only gets better from there:

And it goes on and on ... basically labelling housewives as lazy bags who let their looks and minds melt to mush on account of their obsessions with crap like soap operas, romance magazines, and running a home. Throughout the article, Gray has no sympathy for the women who put themselves into this position, but rather, she feels bad for the husbands who have to come home to these griping "militant matrons":

Brilliant!

She gives no advice on how women can become happier creatures - that's not the point of the article; the point is: Beverly Gray has an opinion and a rabid need for attention. Why else publish something like this?

But, oh, how I love it. Her opinions are so unapologetically out there; wild, swinging, untethered punches to the face and stomach, as if they were Lindsay Lohan's boobs on the way to a courtroom. I think I adore it (the article, not Lohan's rack. Well, maybe Lohan's rack, too) because it's so ridiculous.

We, of course, still judge each other all the time, but do we really care that much about how other people live? Do we really feel that strongly about it? It's so easy today to get online and barf an opinion out about anything, but does that really reflect how we feel about each other most of the time (presuming we really spend that much time thinking about others at all)? And do we really care what other, totally random people think of us? Do you?

According the June 1950 issue of Chatelaine, over 500 housewives wrote in to comment on the article. I'll pop some of those entertaining replies in the next post!

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Why I Won't Be Using FedEx Again

Companies can make clever ads, they can get "engaged" in social media, and they show how much they CARE ABOUT THE CHILDREN [insert Sally Struthers emoticon], but none of that builds real trust. "Trust" isn't a silly marketing buzzword - it's a business's greatest bond with its customer, and it's developed, strengthened and broken during real interactions. And it's trust that caused FedEx Canada to lose precious little me as a customer.

But let me back up, because this story actually starts with something pure and good. It started with this:


I love that damn show, as does my dear husband. This husband that I love almost as much as Community had a birthday in July and because I am a clever, thoughtful and pop culture-obsessed wife, I ordered two of these mugs from the NBC store as a birthday gift:

$12 a pop for mugs is a bit much, but whatev. Birthday, right? Troy and Abed, right?

The package was received by our concierge and the mugs were in perfect and wonderful working order. Total state-of-the-art liquid containment. Husband was happy, the birthday was splendid, and I retained my position as Patrick's Favourite Wife.

On August 12th, I received an invoice from FedEx, looking for their "Advancement Fee" - which is supposedly the charge that's meant to cover duty and "managing customs" on account of this being a cross-border shopping experience. YOU'RE WELCOME, AMERICA:

I think it's rather strange that I'd get charged HST (a tax on goods and services provided in Ontario) on a product from the US, that it's all kinds of fun that FedEx's total charge for something worth $24 was $14.29 (60% of the product cost. Splendid!), and that you have no idea what the charge will be until long after you make your transaction - but that's not even what this blog post is about.

This blog post is about the fact that I paid it. That day. I called the little 1-800 number and paid that ridiculous charge without complaint. Aren't I a good little drone? YOU'RE WELCOME, CAPITALISM.

A screen shot from my bank account. It's really small.
But you can click it!

I'm pretty anal about paying bills on time and keeping records, so when they give you that reference number that most of us either a) pretend to write down but really don't or b) write down on a scrap of paper which we later wrap our gum in, I actually write them down. On the bill. And date it. And then file it. In file folders. Actual file folders! It's like every day is 1993 in my home.

I should get a pre-inked stamp, right? I love stamps.
I especially love having a legitimate excuse to get a stamp.

This is where the story should end, with FedEx Canada humping its pile of money and Patrick and I pouring vodka coffee into our Troy and Abed in the Morning mugs over breakfast.

But it doesn't end there.

On October 6th, my mailbox greets me with this letter from FedEx:

WHHHHAAT?

You know, I might be the kind of person who gets a sick thrill from embarrassing my husband while he's on business calls, I might have no idea how to open a coconut, and I might be that lady who strips her clothes off on the sidewalk - but I am NOT the sort of girl who gets Past Due notices.

So I was kind of stunned. What was this about? The letter gives no information about the services rendered, only an invoice number. I order things now and again from across the border, so I'm not sure exactly what it's for. And so, to the '90s I went, and I dug up the info from my file folder.

I was quickly able to match up the invoice amounts, see that I had called to pay, saw the reference number, went online and confirmed that amount was indeed charged. Some people would see this and feel mad. But you know how I felt? Relieved. As I was digging up my info, the entire time I genuinely felt awful that I might have skipped out on paying something that I owed.  Because, like I said, I'm not just a drone, I'm a good drone.

So I call FedEx Canada.

Nicely!

There's zero need to get all uppity and crazy with the poor schmuck who happens to answer the phone - it's not his fault. And mistakes happen, right? I was just glad that I had the information I needed to correct the situation.

Oh, speaking of which - you know those reference numbers I mentioned earlier - the ones a company gives you that most of us don't bother saving or writing down? FedEx does the exact same thing with them. They're just like us! The number I quoted meant nothing to guy I was on the phone with. Neato.

But since FedEx clearly charged my credit card in the amount of gee-what-a-coincidence-that's-how-much-is-on-the-invoice, they've got to have a record of that somewhere, right? So I give the guy the last few digits of my VISA and he says he'll take a look at the transactions, have it straightened out and agrees with me that there must have been a miscommunication between departments.

"Thanks for calling and thank you for choosing FedEx."

Technically, NBC chose FedEx, but whatever ....

So, then I make my trusty note on the letter and file (!) it.

Today I'm up to whatever shitty thing I do between meals when:

SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.

The letter is dated five bloody days AFTER I called FedEx.

ARE THEY KIDDING ME!?!?!

I felt a Troy Barnes-style Nosebleed of Rage coming on (no quicky linky on that reference, you'll just have to go watch Community to get it. YOU'RE WELCOME, YOUR BRAIN CELLS).

The letter threatens to transfer the balance to a collection agency where "all related costs will be your responsibility and your credit rating may be affected."

Here's a zany fact, kids: credit ratings are somewhat important to adults. It impacts our ability to do things like get mortgages and rent apartments, get a business loan or establish a line of credit. They're not the sort of thing you should be screwing with.

But FedEx will! Over $14.29. That you already paid in August. And already called them about. Oh, tra la la.

I again took out my file folder, which is now marked "SERIOUSLY?!", and called FedEx for a third time.

I'm told it's now "resolved".

But do I trust that FedEx has made things right?  Do I trust their data management? Their customer service? Their ability to send a message from one department to another? Am I confident that they won't "accidentally" keep escalating this to a level of harassment that is completely unwarranted, unnecessary, and potentially financially damaging?

Nope. I don't trust them at all.

And I don't do business with companies that I can't trust.

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Sometimes, The People of Toronto Test My Non-Violent Nature

Overheard, while walking near my home:

Sorry Excuse For A Woman (said stoically): I think I'm going to have sushi today. You know, in honour of those in Japan.

 OMFG.

Shoveling dynamite rolls down your gullet does not honour people who are in the midst of a horrible tragedy, you magnificent turd. Sorry, I take that back - that's an insult to turds.

Want to really show you care?

• Donate to the Red Cross. Click here if you're in Canada. Click here if you're in the US. You can also text donations ($10 to Canadian Red Cross: Text REDCROSS to 30333 or $10 to American Red Cross: Text REDCROSS to 90999). If you're reading this blog, there is a very good chance that you can chip in $10 or more and not even feel financially impacted. That money, however, will help these earthquake and tsunami victims and their families when they need it most.
• Be nice to people. Even (or especially) people you don't know.
• Stop whining for a day. Have some gratitude for all that you have.
• Keep the victims of this disaster in your thoughts (or if it's your thing - in your prayers).
• Eat sushi.

Image Source: Chicago Now

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Overheard: Momma Bear Gone Rabid

I don't dislike kids, but I can admit that I'm not really a child-drawn person. My friends' kids are all cool, but the average baby or kid I pass on the street? I'm sure they're lovely, but I'm not really interested. Just as I'm not going to run over to an adult I don't know and start chatting with them, I'm not going to bend over and start making idiotic sing-songy noises at your kid. I don't even particularly notice them, to be honest. It's nothing personal.

Similarly, I'm not going to crap myself when a random child is in my presence at a restaurant, on an airplane, or hogging up valuable aisle space with his or her stroller. They have the right to be there just as I do. It's not a big deal. I imagine a lot of people feel the same way.

It seems that this live-and-let-live mentality isn't good enough for some delusional parents. I always wonder if these people were always self-absorbed assholes or if it's a special trait that develops only after watching a placenta slime out of your body (I'll admit it, that would change me too. Probably into a vegetarian). Here's a lovely encounter I witnessed at Winners today that demonstrates parenthood-gone-batshit.

A few aisles away there was a woman looking at something on the shelf. I hadn't particularly noticed her as I was also being sucked into vapid consumerism, specifically, a piece of fitness equipment that I'll surely stop using next week.

Suddenly, I hear someone loudly speaking in baby-talk. 

"What a mean, mean wady."

I glance up and there's now a second woman standing in the other aisle. I can see that this second woman has a stroller. For some reason, I notice that this thing has two cup holders, both of which are holding Venti-sized coffees from Starbucks. Grade-A Mom Fuel.

A part of me worries that I'm the mean wady, er, lady, they're talking about, even though I was 100% minding my own business. Let's be clear, I don't automatically presume I'm the focus of anyone's attention. After all, Toronto and its Bluetoothed Bay Streeters and crazy people (who are sometimes interchangeable) have quickly and embarrassingly taught me that even when it's just myself and another person in a room, they're not always talking to or about me. The cringe-worthy specifics of how I learned those lessons are for another day's blog post.

It turns out that the other woman doesn't know the mom either. Or if she's being talked about. She glances around at first too and then turns to the woman with the stroller.

"Pardon?" she says.

"That was really rude," the mom barks. She then looks down to whoever is in the stroller and switches to baby talk. "Wasn't dat tewibwee wude, Emma?"

Oooh! Drama alert! With both confrontation and passive aggression! I pretend to really care about a package in front of me.

"Excuse me? What was rude?" the non-mom says.

Oh, boy. It's a rare thing when a Canadian doesn't just automatically apologize for something, even when he or she has no idea what they've done. This was just like watching TV. American TV!

"Um, it was pretty clear that my daughter was interested in that box you picked up. Did you take that just to be mean to a little girl?" She again turns to her kid and in a child's voice says, "Dat was so mean!"

Ugh. But anyway ...

The daughter is obscured from my vantage point, so I have no idea how old she is. For what it's worth, I didn't hear a child's voice (besides the baby-talking mom) leading up to this. I try to casually position myself a little differently to get a better picture of it all (I know, I'm horrible). I still can't see the kid (the woman is blocking her), but I can now see what item is being fought over. The non-mom is holding a hair straightener. There are at least six others on the shelf. Seriously?

"You're kidding me, right?" the woman says. "First of all, I didn't even notice your daughter ..."

Apparently, that's not the sort of thing one should admit to a drunk-on-child mom. If a sense of indignation was a commodity, we had just hit pay dirt with this woman.

"How could you not notice a precious little girl?" yelped the mother. "She's right beside you!" She turns again to her daughter, "Yes, you are so precious, so, so precious.Only mean people don't notice you."

This conversation has officially gone Def Con Crazy.

The mom snaps back up and glares at the woman, "I can't stand bullies."

Bullies? Bullies? This all seems like a weird misunderstanding, being blown way, way out of proportion.

"Wow. You know what? You're fucking insane. I feel sorry for your daughter," says the woman, who slams down the hair straightener and leaves.

Eeeee! 

The mom stands there, her jaw dropped. I get tingles of sympathy for her until I finally catch a glimpse of her daughter. I have to hold back the urge to scream, "WHAT?!?!"

The child is probably no more than nine-months old. Hardly an age that is communicative enough that the rest of us should be obviously tuned into her needs and desires. The child's near baldness also makes it rather insane that it's a hair straightener that caused all this commotion - but that's not what was so ridiculous about this all.

The kid was asleep.

A-fucking-mazing.

Image Source: Dealcetera

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Valentine's Day, Whining and War

Warning: One fantastically self-righteous, jerky post follows!

I'm not really much of a "Valentine's Day person." I'm not anti-Valentine's Day, per se, I'm more like a Valentines agnostic. Growing up, the biggest thrill about Valentine's Day was the potential to eat cinnamon hearts. I couldn't get enough of them and would literally burn holes in my mouth from sucking on their spicy citricy acid goodness. Is there any wonder why I was never put into the gifted program? (And not just for maiming myself so willingly, but for having constructed a sentence that has the word "citricy" in it?)

When I wasn't dating or married, I wasn't the type who ranted about it being a "Hallmark Holiday." I never organized empowering-but-actually-rather-pathetic drunk fests with my single friends, in large part because the idea of recreating the entire concept behind Sex and the City into an evening sounded like my version of hell. The holiday never bothered me, but never really interested me either. Basically, I didn't take its existence personally. Now as an old married lady with a husband I adore, it still doesn't occur to me to run out and get Patrick a gift, nor to expect one. We'll say "Happy Valentine's Day" to each other, of course, but that's about the extent of the celebration. He still has to beg for sex just like any other day.

All that said, I wanted to share one of my magazines - it's the February 1943 issue of Ladies' Home Journal. This magazine came out right in the thick of World War II - and so the cover is of a young woman pining for her soldier. I'm also without my Valentine today, although it's because he's still at an all-inclusive resort in the Dominican Republic. I know - it's a subtle difference - having one's husband fighting for his life at war vs. having one's husband flopped out by the pool drinking unlimited cervezas. But, please, your condolences and well-wishes are not necessary. We'll tough it out.

Anyway - I was looking in the magazine to see if there was any advice for women missing their sweethearts and was rather surprised to find none. I don't doubt for a second that real women of the time felt their heart strings especially pulled, but the contents of this magazine were strictly anti-pity party. But what struck me even more was how all-consuming the war effort was, in the context of this magazine. Within its 157 pages, I could only find 18 pages that had no mention or visual related to the war. Apparently, everything from nail polish to canned soup could help the effort abroad. Articles included Eleanor Roosevelt's trip to visit servicemen in England and her monthly advice / question column (which is amazing and I'll talk about it some other time!), how one family is making due on a much smaller wartime salary, women taking on more tasks and jobs to help the effort, advice on stretching budgets and food and clothing because of supply issues, and war bonds, war bonds, war bonds. Nearly every page is a guilt-fest to buy war bonds. I wish I could scan the whole thing so that you could get a sense of just how non-stop the talk of war is in this magazine. It's like a paper tidal wave of conflict and duty and sacrifice and unknowns.

So, when I see people on Facebook and Twitter and what-have-you moaning about how Valentine's Day is being shoved down their throats and how it's so unfair and obnoxious to have this cruel, manipulative holiday thrown in their single faces, I have to roll my eyes.

It could be worse. It has been worse. Buy yourself some chocolate and get a fucking grip.

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60s Hair & Classic Cocktail Flair

It should come as no surprise that I'm a fan of Mad Men. It combines so many things that I love: vintage fashion and decor, an exploration of a different time in history, advertising, and scenes with aggressive barfing great writing. I must admit that I'm especially wowed by the styling of the show and even wrote an article about it a few years ago. Naturally, when my friend Siobhan won tickets to an event hosted by the LCBO called Classic Cocktails, an evening that would include special guest, Janie Bryant (the costume designer for Mad Men), I was beyond delighted to attend.

The invitation encouraged guests to arrive in '60s cocktail wear, so I used the event as an excuse to get my hair did (I was also long overdue for a trim. Hello, Split End City). My hair stylist, Lesley, was all too happy to do a retro-inspired 'do, especially since I brought some inspiration - How To Set and Care For Your Hair by Elaine Budd. This booklet is part of a series from The Amy Vanderbilt Success Program for Women from the 1960s. I have a ton of the Amy Vanderbilt booklet series and I'm sure you'll see more of them in the future. They are way too good to not be shared.

Check out some of the 60s hairstyles (with instruction!):

Love it! The lovely people at Mélanger were so pumped about the idea of vintage style that Lexi, the salon's cosmetic darling, did my eyes for free! So nice of her, right?

As it turns out, I really don't have much in the way of 1960s-era clothes. The closest thing I own is a late 1950s dress. In the end, my look was more 50s than 60s, but I decided to convince myself that I was an early 1960s girl figuring that some people were still wearing their clothes from a few years back. I mean, when it was New Years Eve 1990, you didn't suddenly toss out your frayed jean jacket and instantly adopt Hammer Pants, right? (And I actually hope you managed to avoid that look altogether, truth be told.)

So here I am, looking positively late 1950s early 1960s. Oh, if only every day was a dress-up day!

The most impressive thing about my hair style is the back of it - check out this shelf of hair! You could rest a book on it (provided the book was small, like, say, Why I'm Fit to be President by Sarah Palin):

Anyway, off we went to the event at the Carlu. I'm sort of surprised that the LCBO thinks they need to do a whole lot of marketing and put on PR events at all. For one, they have no competitor (bah! I loathe that this province hasn't privatized alcohol!) and two, people will always buy booze. It is the number one recession-proof industry, hands down. But, hey, free drinks for me, so I'll STFU now.

First impressions:

• Drink tickets? And just two drink tickets each? Two? Who do they think I am, a toddler? Kind of a cheapo move, considering it's obvious the event was basically paid for by the promoted liquor brands ... /whine
• Adored the selection of drinks, though. I'll happily lap up hard liquor from the carpet so the featured cocktails (including the Moscow Mule, the Negroni, the Tequila Sunrise, the Manhattan, and the Rusty Nail) were fun to dive into and / or look at. I personally went for a Vodka Martini with extra olives and a Negroni. Siobhan opted for a Lime Daiquiri and a Tequila Sunrise. If you love old-timey cocktails check out the free magazine in LCBO stores or Blair Frodelius's website Good Spirits News.
• Appetizers were darling - a mix of modern and vintage eats were available. Definitely helped myself to my fair share of Monte Cristo bites, deviled eggs and shrimp puffs.
• A group of outfits from the 1960s were featured in the room. There wasn't any signage about the clothes, so I have no idea if any of these were from the Mad Men closet or if they were just a sampling of fashion from the era. I'm guessing the latter.
• The crowd consisted largely of girls in their twenties who spent the majority of time giving other girls the look-over and audibly snarking and / or pumping themselves up. I overheard one young pseudo-socialite tell her friend that people are often interested in meeting her because she "has been such an important part in bringing culture to the city." Riiiiight. She shall remain nameless, in large part because I can't remember her name (Newsflash: Toronto socialites are not the hot shit they think they are. Why? It's because they live in freakin' Toronto).

I had hoped that with the right opportunity and a little nerve (I loathe approaching people I don't know), I could get Janie Bryant to sign my copy of the 1969 booklet, How To Be Well Dressed, also from my amazingly fun Amy Vanderbilt Success Program For Women.

Sadly and surprisingly, Janie Bryant didn't give a little speech or mingle with the common folk (If anyone was there and she did actually speak to the crowd, please correct me. I arrived at the event at 7 PM and left at 8:35-ish - right around the time they stopped serving appetizers. It's a TOTAL COINCIDENCE THAT I LEFT THEN, OF COURSE. Heh.). She was instead booked with back-to-back interviews with "media" types who I suspect from their giddiness were mainly bloggers.

Edited to Add: Apparently she *did* do a Q&A right away at the event and we missed it. My bad - but from an event-planning standpoint, that's strange timing.

So, that was kind of disappointing to not get to really hear from her. I took a picture of her though - but from the back. I will say this: The lady has a cute bum:

My rear view of Janie Bryant of Mad Men

With Janie not expected to speak to the crowd, our drink tickets cashed in, and appetizers cruelly disappearing, we decided to get our coats. We made our leave to the Beer Bistro (where I didn't at all look like a lunatic in my dress and hair) where we could have all the drinks we wanted, we just had to pay for them. All in all, a decent night!

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Those Who Spell it "Jenn" ...

I received an e-mail recently from MySpace about my account and my first thought was, "I have a MySpace account?"

I doubt I'm alone there. How many of us jumped on that bandwagon, discovered it was just for teens, musicians and people who write their names like they were Anime characters (e.g. ◊×××♥Äñgêlïñå♥×××◊ ) and promptly forgot the site's existence shortly thereafter?

I went hunting and indeed found an account that I had created and abandoned at least four+ years ago. Even though the picture of me (as shown above) was probably from 2006, I swear I have aged twenty years since it was taken. Oh gah. I need to get my hands on whatever Paul Rudd has been eating / bathing in / praying to that keeps him from looking any older than he did when he filmed Clueless 15 years ago (it's been 15 years!? Oh gah again).

But some things do not change. The only entry on my MySpace page was in the About Me section (imagine that), and it states:

Those who spell it "Jenn":

• Murder puppies
• Send e-mails all in caps or Comic Sans
  
• Have diaper breath
• Kiss with their eyes open
• Refuse to give up their bus seat to the elderly
• Claim your funny stories as their own
• Choose not to replace the toilet paper roll
• Take karate lessons
• Eat babies
• Think Star Wars sucks
• Buy thong underwear for their 8-year old nieces
• Go to Richmond Street clubs
• Don't yet know how to use an apostrophe
• Enjoy morning radio "personalities"
• Didn't care when Arrested Development was cancelled
• Recently said the phrase, "Think outside the box."
• Always ask what you got on a test, but never tell you their own score
• Televise golf
• "Need" at least seven bridesmaids at their weddings
• Reek of Exclamation! perfume
• Never had a crush on someone that was purely based on their intellect

Yep, that's still about right. My dislike for seeing my name spelled "Jenn" instead of "Jen" and my dislike for so many things on that list are still alive and well. Way to be a consistently cranky, self-obsessed bitch.

Account deleted. We hardly knew ye, MySpace.

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The 50s Housewife Gets Way More Sarcastic Than Usual

If you thought I was a navel-gazer before, check out this post! I think I can see my spine!

During this round of the 50s housewife experiment, my blog was picked up by a feed or two and the experiments (both the original and the latest one) were mentioned on a few websites, some with much larger audiences than mine ... like here and here and here and here and here and here. Please – take a look! The rest of this post makes much more sense with that bit of context.

Getting the increased traffic was both exciting and terrifying. Knowing more eyeballs were watching added some pressure to "perform" – but that wasn’t what made my stomach feel achy – it was the Ring of Plenty all the unfiltered opinions, many none too complimentary, about me, Patrick and this very goofy "experiment."

If you’re going to share parts of yourself online, you have to expect criticism. I completely do. If I get to enjoy the nice things people say (and there have been some very nice things – thank you!!!), I have to expect some not-so-nice things will be said as well. It’s sometimes easier said than done, but both Patrick and I have pretty thick skins, a sense of humour about ourselves and a certain amount of openness to actually consider the validity behind the critiques. In fact, some of the comments were actually quite witty, and I love wit regardless of which side of the argument it falls.

The bulk of the conversations that I linked to above happened over a week ago, which means for most people, those threads are about as buried and forgotten as sweet Mark Linn-Baker’s career (I’ll save you the effort of clicking and / or Googling: He was Cousin Larry in Perfect Strangers).

But even though I realize that no one cares anymore, I’d like to clarify a few points brought up in some of the comments on those websites. After all, a *slobber ... drool* publisher could one day stumble onto this, and I’d hate to miss out on the opportunity to frankly explain what this book-worthy blog is all about and who this Jen But Never Jenn person really is.

A smart and classy woman would take the high road and continue along as if unaware of anything that's been said of her; a post like this is probably a bad idea. But it should come as no surprise to regular readers: I am not a smart and classy woman. So here’s the deal:

• When I’m not being a publicity-seeking attention whore, I like to keep my husband, Patrick, in a small but comfortable cage in the den. I’ve decorated it with masculine tastes in mind – a brown, corduroy beanbag chair, a few jaunty denim throw pillows, and a neon Budweiser sign to act as a night light. By storing my husband in this setting for the majority of the year, I’m able to establish a control to which I can compare my highly scientific experiment results against.
• I don’t consult with Patrick about whether I’m going to do a bizarre lifestyle project that impacts him in nearly every way nor does he get any say over the fact that I’ll be sharing it all on the friendly Internet. I’ll tell you what I tell him: It does what Jen demands of him or else it gets the hose again.
• During our “normal” life together, Patrick never gets alone time. Even when in his cage, I force my presence on him. There’s no need to be courteous of my husband’s feelings because he doesn’t *have* any. Remember, I married a Patrick, not a Patricia.
• The 50s housewife experiment brought nothing but misery to our home. We never laughed or smiled or had any sort of fun doing it. We actually had to pay actors to come by and pretend to be our friends (casting the role of "Baby Charlotte" introduced us to the world of the stage mom - now that was an education). Any references to positive feelings we had were fictionalized as to make me appear more bankable in the eyes of advertisers, publishers, Hollywood producers and Oprah.
• I fully intend to demand a divorce if Patrick doesn’t immediately start liking capers.
• Magazines, television and books from the 1950s are completely accurate reflections of what life was like then, just like magazines, television and books today completely capture modern life. Sometimes, I swear Cosmopolitan is just a reprint of my diary (especially the parts about always being on the look-out for new sex positions)!
  
• Two weeks of living by advice from the 1950s has made me an expert in what life was realistically like for every woman in that era ever. Perhaps I should have explained: Before starting my 50s housewife experiment, I went through that spinning time-space travel machine from Contact. What may have seemed like two weeks for you, was actually a lifetime for me. It's true, just ask Jodie Foster.
  
• I’ve submitted the contents of my blog to several medical and academic journals. The breakthrough research I conducted fetched such solid factual results that I think I actually have a shot at winning a Nobel Prize in a number of different science categories. The Nobel Prize in Literature is obviously in the bag.
• I see your point – taking on the tasks that 1950s housewives did is just like writing a giddy blog about being a slave or living in a concentration camp. Frankly, I'm amazed they don't sell aprons that have "Arbeit macht frei" embroidered on them. When I passed that observation along to friends whose relatives perished in horrifying ways in said camps, it was applause all around. "What a sensitive, thoughtful and rational comparison," they remarked.
  

If reading between the lines is not one of your strengths, I’ll come right out with it and provide you with the true gay agenda of this blog. Here are the Ten REAL Lessons I was hoping to get across to the masses through my 50s Housewife Experiment:

1. You should never explore subject matter that interests you in a fun or unusual way - and that goes double-true for professional writers who usually spend their day working on ad copy and manuals. That would be very, very silly and the world demands we act serious all the time about everything. Also: I should get a real job. And perhaps have some children.
   
2. I hope to convince the world that women shouldn't have a choice about how they live their lives. I yearn for and demand a return to a time when women were pressured to have one kind of career, regardless of their personal interests, aspirations or skills.
3. I want to be spanked - hard and often. The problem is, I just don't know how to tell my husband directly, so I'm hoping these round-about, public posts about JELL-O molds and radish roses will hopefully clue him in.
   
4. The 1950s was the greatest decade ever. It didn’t matter if you were a woman or black or gay or socialist or an immigrant or suffering from a mental illness – the 1950s was an era where everyone was happy, experienced equality and could eat apple pie without abandon (it had no calories back then!).
5. Feminism isn’t about choice – it’s about wearing pants – and I *hate* pants.
6. If I lived in the 1950s, I wouldn't miss very much ... well, maybe my favourite TV shows - Two and Half Men, Big Bang Theory, and Sex and the City re-runs. At least I'd have Big Bopper tunes to keep a smile on my face.
   
7. All technology is evil. iPhones, microwaves and horseless carriages will eat your soul.
   
8. If you don’t like something about a particular era, you should disregard *everything* from that time. All advice, tips and values should be considered as backward and worthless as a slam dunk contest in the WNBA.
   
9. Organ meat is highly underrated.
   
10. If a group of people were pressured into homemaking and weren’t happy with that path, it therefore means that *all* people must have hated being a homemaker. Anyone who chooses to be a housewife today is either misguided or simple, and will one day turn into a less hot version of Unhappy Betty Draper - the only difference being that they'll never even have known the joys of a Don Draper dicking.

Here endeth the lesson. I hope that clears things up.

Har. And that is what the kids call "overkill."

Now, a true lesson? Life is better when you don't take yourself so seriously. The next time someone has something negative or peculiar to say about you, pull up a picture of yourself on MS Paint and go to town creating a visual representation of yourself that matches their perception. It's good old-timey fun. Even grapefruit baskets can get in on the action!

I want to thank the people who "got" the blog as I intended it and said so here or elsewhere. It's a bit scary to wade into a sea of snark and your comments were like little buoys that lit up the page and my day. I discovered quite a few of your own fun blogs in the process (like this one and this one and this one and this one) and they are now a part of my daily spin around the web. Heart, heart, heart. NOW WE ARE SO HAPPY, WE DO THE DANCE OF JOY!

And those of you who had a totally different perspective? You're a-ok, too. Like I said, some of your comments were genuinely entertaining to read and, as I just discovered, respond to. I also thank you for taking the time to speak your mind, even if I might totally disagree with it. Opinions are fun (and plentiful!).

Just a reminder - you still have chance to enter my two draws to win vintage cookbooks. One ends on November 11th and the other ends on November 15th! Even critical comments qualify - I hold no grudges (for real, I'm pretty much a grudge-free zone)!

Also - have you supported our friend Dave in his quest to raise $ for prostate cancer? Because unlike me and the entire contents of this post, what he's doing actually matters!

Keep smiling, Internet!

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And They Wonder Why They're Still Single

A recent survey among members of an online dating site found that 36% of the women polled would dump their (ed note: imaginary) partner for giving an "inadequate" Christmas gift. The survey went on to say that women with higher educations were most likely to give a relationship the axe over this reason.

It makes you wonder what brilliant thesis papers these ladies would have written. I'll guess:

• Evidence and Examples of Telepathy in Males
  
• If The Shoe Fits: Disney Princesses as Modern Role Models
• Beyond Digging: Technological Advancements in Gold Excavation
  
• Off With His Head!: A Historical Review of Capital Punishment
  
• Finding Truth and Inspiration in the Speeches of Gordon Gekko

What lovely, lovely women. The site admins should do all the men (and the 64% of non-crazy ladies) a favour and flag the profiles of those finicky females through a suitable, easy to spot icon. This would do:

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Are the Olympics over yet?

There's one sound I hate more than my alarm in the morning and that is the sound of TSN. Sport highlights, jock-speak, commentary ... UGH. Patrick likes to start and end his day with highlight reels and it drives me mental.

The frickin' Olympics have turned nearly every channel into a sports channel, and oh-my-fuck, do I ever loath it. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. Why is someone jumping from a plank into water newsworthy? Why should my national pride swoon when a man throws a synethic ball into a small netted hoop? And does it really matter when someone jumps 1/2 inch higher than the last person? Did it inspire Israel and Palestine to high-five each other in a moment of "Humans Are AWESOME!" pride?

I'm all for people of the world coming together, but why does it have to occur for such a lame reason?

Does this post get me into the Grumpy Bitch Bastard Hall of Fame, or what?

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12

= The number of times a group a try-hard 20-year olds mentioned the word "emo" while on the subway. The also talked about The OC, Stillepost and a few other lame things that I can't clearly recall because I was spacing out from disinterest.

I can't wait until I'm in my thirties and can officially distance myself from 20-something poo-talk.

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Yarg!

Yesterday when I was walking home, this little skeezy guy was taking out his trash and felt the need to cat call me.

“Mmm mmmm,” he said, making exaggerated mouth smacking noises, “Looookin’ gooood. Mmmm…Yahhh,” as he eyed me up and down very obviously.

*Insert yacking barf noise here.*

For the record, I was not “lookin’ good.” I was carrying heavy bags of Diet Pepsi for the addict at home, feeling very sweaty and pissy from my walk and was trying to push myself through the thigh burn. It was the end of a humid day, a day that involved me spilling some of my Lean Cuisine pizza on my top and cleaning some miscellaneous dirt from under my fingernails with a thumbtack. I was not a heavenly vision and really just wanted to get home, unnoticed and unoggled. His comments, while supposedly positive, only made me feel more gross and annoyed.

Even worse, the remarks were coming from a man that looked to be my height (men who are my height = gross, perverted, dirty midgets) whose hands had just been making busy with GARBAGE. Ooh baby.

What is it that these men expect us to do when we they say these things to us?

Do they think we’re flattered? Do they think we’ll turn and be like “Hey, thanks! You’re not so bad yourself – wanna go for a drink sometime?” I’d bet that they actually know that it makes most of us feel weird and they get off on our repulsed reaction because, for them, at least it’s a reaction. These dudes probably get ignored by women on a regular basis and will take anything they get, even if it’s negative.

I think next time it happens I’ll stop and ask.

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