nakedjen

NakedFriday on a Wednesday with a Prize

There is a prize of one dozen Clyde's Cookies for the first person who can identify the exact and precise location where I am standing in this photo. I will bake and ship them especially for the winner.

And me with Zack Phillips. The only person at the Apprentice auditions with hair funkier than mine. He also didn't just do this for the audition. This is truly a part of who he is!

Finally, the cookies are in the mail. While standing in line at the post office this morning, a woman who was also waiting in a line that seemed to take forever asked what was in all my boxes. Cookies, I told her. What kind of cookies?, she asked. Clyde's Cookies. They're vegan and organic. She gasped. The squealed. You're making them again?, she gushed. Those are the best cookies I've ever had and I haven't had one since the Cal Expo show in 1995! I just stood there dumbfounded. I told her that I never stopped making them, but yes, I am making them again.

She asked where she could get some. I gave her the information.

Sometimes I'm just a little frightened by how the Universe works its magic.

I Can Be A Domestic Diva

Danae Rocks. When I grow up, I want to be her. She even has a horse!

Been There, Done That, Got the T-Shirt

On Thursday night I sat by myself on the couch and watched The Apprentice. NakedDave doesn’t watch the show with me because he just doesn’t really care for TV in general and reality shows in particular. So, he was upstairs doing something on the computer and I sat and watched. And I got sick to my stomach. And hives. I couldn’t stand Carolyn and I couldn’t stand Amy and I really couldn’t stand Donald Trump. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I am just not cut out for the corporate world.

I have played in the corporate world for a long time. Longer than I should have, probably. I know how to play the games. But, quite frankly, I don’t even like that I know how to play the games. I think you all know me well enough to know that I’m a really honest person. That I also tell you exactly what I’m thinking and feeling. My best girlfriend from high school, Lydia with the Glorious Boobs, used to tell everyone at school that if they wanted an honest opinion about the clothes they were wearing or their hair style they should just ask me. And it’s true. I’ve always been that way. I’m not good at sugar coating things. If you’re wearing a butt ugly outfit, I’m going to tell you. And if you’re marketing idea stinks, well, I’m going to tell you that it stinks. But by the same token, if you do something brilliant, I’m going to be the one leading the parade in your honor!

Anyway, I realized on Thursday night that if I applied for The Apprentice and somehow actually got on the show, then I was signing up for more corporate drudgery. That’s not where I want my life to go. I’m forty years old for goodness sakes. I have spent the last twenty of them in the corporate world. It’s time to move on to something new. It’s time to truly go after the things that I’m passionate about and embrace the intuitive and holistic side of myself and see what happens. It’s time to make a change!

On Friday morning, however, I still was not completely convinced that I wasn’t going to actually apply because after all I LIKE TO WIN! So, I filled out the application, considered baking cookies to serve during the interview process and went to the beauty supply store for some pink hair dye. My hair is now a multitude of pinks. It’s actually very cool. By the time Gail arrived to go off to San Francisco, I had finally convinced myself I wasn’t going to apply. So we hopped in the car and zoomed up to the W in San Francisco to have a totally fun Girls Night Out.

Gail had never stayed in a W hotel before and she was really impressed. The San Francisco W is actually one of their nicer hotels, I think. The rooms are much larger than most of the other W’s. The lobby was already overflowing with the requisite beautiful people, but this being San Francisco there were a few transvestites thrown in for good measure. Fun!

Our room had a terrific view of the Bay Bridge and most of the Financial District. Since Gail had never been to San Francisco before she insisted on riding a trolley car. Which we did. From Market to Fisherman’s Wharf. It was actually lovely as the sun was setting over San Francisco Bay and cast the city in a warm cheery glow. When we got to Fisherman’s Wharf, I warned Gail that while it is a tourist destination in San Francisco, it’s never a place people who actually live there would go. She immediately understood what I meant. I did take the opportunity to celebrate Naked Friday, however, and stripped down to have my picture taken on the wharf with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. People were walking by, but no one really even stopped except for one man who was driving by and had to do a U-turn to come back and get a closer look at what was going on.

Pictures done (will hopefully share these soon...I'm waiting for Gail to give them to me), I put my clothes back on and we headed to a bus to take us back to Market Street. We changed buses there and our next stop was Haight Ashbury. I needed to go commune with my people.

We had a terrific time wandering about and I showed her the various flats where I used to live and all my old local haunts. At one point we found ourselves in a store called Ambiance that literally supplied me with all my clothes when I lived in San Francisco. They were having a customer appreciation party complete with appetizers and champagne, so we took the opportunity to have a bit of both. Gail declared the store was like being in the inside of Sarah Jessica’s closet and actually she’s not far off. Even the shoes are SATC worthy. Funny part is, I shopped there for everything before SATC even existed.

We walked from the Haight to Hayes Valley because we wanted to go eat sushi at this place. It was a longer walk than I remembered, but fortunately it was all downhill. However, when we got to the sushi place we found that it only sat about seven people. Our friend, SassyJen, had recommended this place and we were really looking forward to it. However, not only did it seat about seven people, but there were about twenty people waiting ahead of us. We were quite perplexed.

I remembered that there is a Blowfish Sushi restaurant in San Francisco, so I called information and got the address. Before we headed over there, though, we went next door to Citizen Cake and got desserts to go. My oh my, those desserts are deadly. We didn’t dig into them until nearly 1:00 a.m. and neither of us could even begin to think about finishing our little cakes. After purchasing the cakes we found a cab right away and LateNightLarry drove us to Blowfish all the while entertaining us with stories of his adventures of being a cab driver.

The sushi at Blowfish was perfect. Fast, delicious and since Gail doesn’t eat avocado either she’s the perfect sushi partner. We inhaled the sushi and then decided we would attempt to make it back downtown to the Metreon to catch Taking Lives. Blowfish Sushi is in a very industrial part of San Francisco. Literally no mans land with just warehouses. During the DotCom era, it was a hopping, jumping neighborhood. Now, totally dead. I suggested to Gail that we walk over to Mission Street and attempt to find a bus. As we were walking that direction we found a cab! Glorious!

This cab driver drove like he was auditioning for a role on the Streets of San Francisco. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom and suddenly we were standing outside the Metreon. We got tickets and made it inside the theatre in time to catch the previews, my favorite part.

Now, I won’t ruin Taking Lives for those of you who have not seen it yet, but let me tell you it is one of the most fucked up and twisted movies I have seen in a long time. I don’t think I’ve been that scared in a movie since Silence of the Lambs. Jeepers.

Left there at midnight, contemplated jumping in to see Eternal Sunshine, decided not to do so and walked back to the W. Used the Whatever Whenever button to have plates and forks and napkins delivered to the room to consume cake. Used it again to have them bring toothpaste. I wish all homes could have a Whatever Whenever button. It is one of the best reasons for staying at the W.

We decided before going to sleep that we would sleep in and then make our way to the Apprentice auditions. Got up and out of the W around 11:00. Over to the auditions where there were at least a thousand people in line. Was now really glad that I wasn’t applying! Chatted with a bunch of folks on line. My oh my were they all decked out in their finest attire. There was one woman who was wearing a Chanel suit, carrying a huge LV briefcase and wearing the most fabulous shoes. Hair, makeup, all perfect. She looked like a magazine photo of the corporate lady who lunches. All she was missing was her little dog. In a way, she was TOO polished. She looked like she might eat you up and swallow you for breakfast. There was another black guy there with amazing dreadlocks who was so handsome. And he was wearing this beautiful Armani suit. I told him he deserved to get chosen just because women all over America would tune in just to watch him. He laughed.

There was another guy there with BLUE hair. I had my photo taken with him. And another guy came up to me and told me that I was smart to make my hair WORSE than Donald Trumps! I told him my hair was always some weird color and this wasn’t a gimmick. He tried to backtrack…but I also told him I wasn’t even there to apply because I was finished with the corporate world. I wished him luck. He was very much a NICK type.

For the most part the entire crowd was very young. I saw maybe three people who were my age or older. Because it was San Francisco, a huge number of the people there were Asian. I would imagine they’ll have at least one Asian person in the next season. Hard to know exactly who will make it. And to think that there were over 1,000 people there and they’re doing this all over the country and they only take 16 folks.

I did tell one group of people that I had already applied for all of Mark Burnett’s other shows. And they asked me who Mark Burnett was! Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but if you were applying to be on the Apprentice, especially, wouldn’t you do some research and find out who the producer of the show was? This is an interview folks. From the very first second you start standing in line this is an interview.

We stayed there about thirty minutes and then found our way back to Fillmore and Haight where we had breakfast, but not without a quick spin through Pacific Heights first. Then I took Gail to get some very good views of the Golden Gate Bridge and I drove her through Golden Gate Park. We finally left San Francisco around 3:00 and were home in Santa Cruz by 4:00. PHEW!

I came home to a hung over NakedDave. My husband does not drink. At all. Neither of us do, really. I drank my way through college and my twenties and realized when I hit thirty that I certainly wasn’t doing myself any favors with alcohol so I just basically quit. I still will drink occasionally, but it’s rare. NakedDave has never been a drinker. At all. I think he spent too much of his life having to be “in control” and so he chose never to really drink or do drugs. But on Friday night he went out drinking with his friend Scott. I guess he got drunk enough to actually throw up. Silly boy.

It was a beautiful day so we decided to go for a walk. Walked to a park and talked to the ducks and then ran into a few people we knew. Chatted. Decided to call Matt and Lisa and see what they were doing. Made plans for Mobo Sushi and the Ladykillers later that night. At Mobo we ran into more people we knew so it became an instant party. More fun!

I enjoyed the movie. “You brought your bitch to the Waffle House?” will now become my new inquisitive line. I laughed hard. Afterwards we all chatted about screenwriting for a bit and what scripts are hot right now and then home. Bed.

Sunday found NakedDave at tennis and me out buying pounds and pounds of chocolate chips for the cookie baking for all of you. I also did some research on the bounced check and found out it is a felony and I have to turn it over to the police if I want to get paid. I will be calling the owner of the company to tell him this today. I may be able to at least get him to pay me that money to avoid having the police knock on his door.

NakedDave spent the rest of the day working which made me sad since it was again an incredible day. I cooked salmon and couscous and fresh asparagus for dinner, plopped myself on the couch to watch the Sopranos where I was surprised to see my boyfriend playing the college counselor and then watched The Practice. I love James Spader and I hope this doesn’t mean that he’s now gone forever.

This morning I went to Jazzercise, had lunch with an old coworker who moaned and groaned about the horrid state of affairs at the office and that now brings us to this very moment where I am typing all of this to you! If you’ve read this far you’ve obviously been doing your exercises! Go you! A prize for fortitude!

There's been loads of wonderful talk and questions regarding my Colon Cleanse. Will post answers and more details soon. But I wanted to share all of this with all of you since you all have been so patient with me as I've waffled about on my application process.

No Apprentice for me. But then, I've already been there, done that and I've got the t-shirt!

Spring Cleaning

On Thursday morning I found myself naked on a table. Well, not entirely naked. I was given a nice gown to wear, but it didn’t even tie in the back, so I really could have not worn it at all and it really would have been about the same. Those of you who think I was having a gynecological exam would be mistaken. Though I probably should go have one of those, Thursday’s adventure involved a Dierker machine, some tubes, lots of water and lots of poop.

Spring arrived last Saturday and with it came my resolve that it was time for some good old colon irrigation. Those of you who are unfamiliar with colon irrigation should know that it involves filling your large intestine with water and then releasing the water along with lots impacted fecal matter, mucus and even, perhaps, parasites who have been making themselves at home in your intestinal walls. While all this may sound rather unsanitary and even gross, it’s not. Well, it’s not unsanitary, that is.

It’s not even as horribly gross as you might imagine. You lie on a table, a tube is gently placed in your rectum, and then purified water tickles through a tube into your intestines. You take on only as much water as is comfortable and then the fluids are released along with some really interesting shit! Sometimes I am in complete awe of the stuff that comes out of my body. The entire procedure lasts about an hour or so and during that time you usually take in and release about three gallons of water. You lie there, a tube up your butt, making small talk and letting the hydrotherapist know exactly when you are ready to release. Then she releases the pressure and everything goes out another clear plastic tube (this is where you can see all the interesting bits making there way out of you) and away forever.

There were a few times when I we were chatting so long that I forgot to give the signal and then instead squeaked and blurted that I was leaking and could that I was about to explode! A small dark object was released during one session and neither of us had any idea what it was. It looked like an uncooked black bean, but maybe not. There was loads of mucous and hard fecal matter. Just the types of things you want to share with your husband when you crawl in bed at night.

“Dave, you wouldn’t believe what came out of my body today during the colonic!”
“This is not the kind of conversation I want to have. It’s not at all inspiring.”
“But it was inspiring. All that gunk coming out. Makes you wonder how you can carry it all around with you all the time. There was even this really, long, stringy…”
“Love, that’s not the image I want in my head as I go to sleep.”
“Oh. Right. Well, it was totally cool and totally gross all at the same time. I feel so refreshed!”
“I’m glad. Can we please talk about something else”

So you see, while it’s exciting to see what’s coming out the other end, it’s not so wonderful to share what’s coming out the other end with others. Especially your husband. Makes him a bit squeamish. And as he said, it’s not at all romantic.

They say that colon irrigation dates back for literally thousands of years. There’s historical record that the Egyptians did them regularly with a reed in the Nile. Yogis have been doing them for over 5,000 years and it’s believed that the practice is even older still in China.

Anyone who currently lives, eats and breathes the standard American diet could certainly benefit from a colonic. While there are always two sides to every story and every person’s experience will be different, my own experience has been one of increased vitality and energy. I get the colonics in a series of three; there by taking advantage of a second and third treatment to further remove loosened matter from my intestinal walls. Just knowing that I have all of that crap outside of me instead of inside of me makes me feel better.

If you suffer from
· Allergies or intolerance to certain foods
· Bad breath
· IBS
· Frequent congestion, colds or flu
· Frequent headaches for no apparent reason
· General aches and pains that migrate from one place to another
· Low energy or loss of vitality
· PMS or breast soreness
· Skin problems

You may also truly benefit from a colon cleanse. Plus it almost certainly will increase your metabolism. A sluggish compacted digestive system slows your metabolism and depletes your energy levels. By cleansing your colon, you provide your body with an opportunity to balance itself and you’ll also probably find yourself more committed to making healthier lifestyle choices.

I have one more colonic tomorrow morning. I promise to keep my mouth shut about what comes out.

NakedFridge

Playing along with Bakerina and Snowball and Orionoir, I give you photos of a NakedFridge.

This is the front, obviously. And as you can see, it's not very naked at all.

Inside the freezer door, lots of butter, some coffee, more butter, some tamales, some butter.

Inside the freezer mostly chocolate, flour and loads of Clyde's frozen dinners in Zip Lock bags. His dinners take up practically all the real estate in there.

Moving to the refrigerator, the inside of the refrigerator door. Chutney Central. Along with Thai seasonings and Annie Salad dressings and some Rice Wine Vinegar to round out the flavors.

Finally, the inside shelves. From the looks of things, we are a couple who likes lots of bread. The asparagus will be gone this evening. As will half the mixed salad greens. You will notice there is no Tropicana or Land O' Lakes in this refrigerator. The NakedFridge is all about organics. If you're organic, you can stay.

Proceed With Caution - A Lesson in Left and Right

When I am not baking cookies, my two left feet and I can be found attempting to not trip over one another at the gymnasium down the street. When I met NakedDave five years ago, I was in the best shape of my adult life. I was going to water aerobics, jazzercise and running two miles with Clyde every morning before work.

Sadly, Clyde can no longer manage a morning run. He can barely manage a morning walk some days and while I know that he’s still trucking along the best that he can the walks that we take each day are a far cry from aerobic. Snails are often honking at us to get out of their way. The grass grows tall underneath our feet. We’re not going anywhere fast.

As we all know, an evil company also employed me until Thanksgiving of last year. An unwritten requirement of my job was to often work sixty or seventy hours a week and gobble down lunch at my desk. Lunch at my desk often consisted of whatever snack food was available in the break room. There were always evil snacks (goldfish) available from Costco. Or maybe it was a pre-made sandwich from the Beacon gas station half a block away. The gas station was in close enough proximity that you could literally dash there and back in the same time you might take for a bathroom break, thus not missing too much of the important work day. If I were lucky, they’d have a smoked Gouda and tofu sandwich still lurking about on their refrigerator shelves. If I was unlucky, they’d be completely out of sandwiches all together and not wanting to have dashed for naught, I’d purchase the big bag of Cheetos and make that my very nutritious lunch.

You can all tell where this is going, can’t you? Well, you’re exactly right.

I am now thirty pounds heavier than I was five years ago when I met NakedDave. Lack of exercise and poor eating choices are certainly to blame. However, I have worked out diligently with a personal trainer for the last year and the scale has not budged. Not one measly pound. Well, that’s not entirely true. It keeps going back and forth between the same three or four pounds. I maintain that I’m thirty pounds heavier.

Now I do have more muscles. And I’m able to still fit in my jeans from high school. The jeans from high school are my personal talismans. If they don’t fit, I’m definitely too heavy. They still fit, but that number on the scale, while I know it is a number that no one else can see, still bothers me.

Which is why I found myself today back at Jazzercise. Now, I am dyslexic. I have absolutely no concept of left and right. None. In order for me to give a person direction, I have to feel my fingers. If there is a bump on the ring finger, that’s the right hand. Even having the wedding rings on my left hand hasn’t seemed to really help. I look at my hands and think, “Wedding rings…hmmm…what hand do wedding rings go on?” The bump on my right ring finger seems to be my only real clue.

Now Jazzercise is a group exercise activity that usually includes a bunch of women of various degrees of both fitness and age dancing to pop music to burn away calories. Each song has its own routine. There’s usually a very fit woman on a stage barking out directions. “Jazz hands, right!” “Grapevine, left!” “Lunge forward and then two steps right, four steps left, lunge back!”

America’s Funniest Home Videos should come and film me at Jazzercise class. I can honestly say that I don’t think I’ve ever gotten through a class without crashing into someone and either falling down myself or making someone else fall down. When the instructor says LEFT, I go RIGHT. She yells FORWARD, I go BACKWARD. It doesn’t help matters that when she says, RIGHT she herself goes LEFT because she’s trying to be a mirror image for those of us on the floor. The way my brain works, I actually seem to put myself in HER shoes and go the direction she is going. And then crash right into the very elderly lady next to me sending us both spiraling to the floor.

Today, I think I even jarred the poor woman's teeth loose. Which made it even more embarrassing. Little old ladies, trying to move their arthritic bones through a grapevine, do not need to be worrying about whether their teeth will be intact when they get to the kick at the end.

It’s no wonder that there are often loads of space surrounding me. People have learned that I am a moving hazard. But because I’m so directionally challenged, I somehow manage to find my way into their comfort zones anyway and inevitably screw the entire routine all up.

Perhaps I should start wearing bright orange gym clothes that warn everyone else to PROCEED WITH CAUTION. It’s either that or learn my left from my right and I think after forty years, I can safely say that’s never going to happen.

Right. So where does one order wearable hazard signs?

Vegan Organic Chocolate Chip Cookies - $1.00

These cookies are not what you think. You know there’s a story. If only I could hand you one to enjoy while you sit back and read.

Way back in 1992, I had what every deadhead would consider the “dream” job. I was the sales and marketing manager of a tie-dye company. Part of my job requirement included going “on tour” with the Grateful Dead to sell t-shirts and stickers. While my fellow deadheads were scrounging around trying to put together the necessary funds to follow their favorite band around the country, I was actually paid by my company to go on tour. All my expenses were paid (with the exception of tickets to the shows) as I drove my van from venue to venue following my favorite band back and forth across the United States and I was also paid my weekly salary. I honestly didn’t know what I had done in my past life to deserve this job, but I wasn’t going to screw it up.

Or so I thought.

One morning, I went to work and couldn’t get in the door. My key wouldn’t work. It seems the owner had changed the locks in the middle of the night. He had been approached by some shady characters that offered him beaucoup bucks for his little tie-dye operation and he jumped at the chance. But these folks had their own ideas about how the company should be run and their first matter of business was to get rid of all the current staff.

That meant me. My dream job went poof!

It is not one of my prouder moments, but soon I found myself at Social Services collecting food stamps. At that time, the County of Santa Cruz provided a single woman with $110 in food stamps a month. The good news was that I was a vegetarian even then so none of that money was going to have to be spent on steak. The better news was that all the farmers at the weekly farmers market were happy to take food stamps in exchange for their fresh organic produce. I got very good at stretching those stamps so far you might almost think they were made of rubber.

When the Grateful Dead toured, an entire band of gypsies followed them. From venue to venue they traveled, many of them hawking and selling various items to help pay their way from show to show. I always maintained that you could find just about anything you wanted in the parking lot of a Grateful Dead show. There were t-shirts, of course, but there was so much more. Every import from Guatemala and India could be found displayed on tarps, or in makeshift booths. Hand-beaded jewelry. Friendship bracelets. Bumper stickers and buttons. Bongs and pipes and papers.

Of course there were drugs. Lots of drugs. Whatever it was that you thought you might need, there was someone there to sell it to you.

Knowing all of this, I contemplated what it was that I could offer. I had sold jewelry in the past, as well as ashtrays. I knew both sold well, but there was the matter of having the initial capital. Since I didn’t have a job, I had no money. I was going to have to get creative.

There was a t-shirt on tour for many years that said, “Deadheads do it for four hours with only one break.” After four hours of gyrating in a tribal dance known only to those who are actually on the bus, one thing you can count on a deadhead being after a show is hungry. With my food stamps in hand, I went off to the local health food store in the hopes of finding the perfect antidote for all those grumbling stomachs.

Deciding that I would appeal to the crunchy, granola types (meaning the regular tour deadheads) rather than the frat boy types (meaning the boys who showed up at one venue only to score drugs and get wasted), I went the vegan organic route. It took me quite a few attempts, but I eventually came up with a fruit-juice sweetened, vegan organic chocolate chip cookie that tasted better than most traditional chocolate chip cookies. Using my food stamps to purchase all the ingredients, I made thousands of these cookies, put them in zip lock bags, and froze them. I dubbed them Clyde’s Cookies because Clyde sat at my feet on the kitchen floor and watched as every single batch went into the oven and came out of the oven. It was almost as if he was inspecting and approving each and every one.

When it came time to leave for Summer Tour, I took a thousand of the cookies and put them into one of my huge coolers. If sales went well, we could come back through Santa Cruz to restock on our way to Oregon. My plan was to sell these cookies for $1 a piece. I made a sign and put it on a big cardboard box and hoped for the best.

The thing about selling cookies at a Dead show is that it really does allow you to be mobile. You can move along with the people. You can easily take your goods where the people go. You can even bring your cookies into the show and feed people during the set break. That first night, I made $700. People would purchase one cookie, walk away and eat it, then track me down and buy a dozen more. By the time the show started on the second day, I was completely out of cookies, but I had made $1000. Donald Trump would be so proud!

That summer, I made over $8,500 in clear profit selling Clyde’s Cookies. By the time we got to the third venue in Eugene, people knew who I was and were already tracking me down in the parking lot. I didn’t have tickets to any of the shows that summer, but I got many of them in trade just for Clyde’s Cookies. I promise there wasn’t anything in them other than good old organic goodness and lots of love.

While back home in Santa Cruz, I had created and started my own recycling business, when I was on tour, Clyde’s Cookies continued to be a major money maker for me. That was until Jerry died and the Dead stopped touring. (We'll save my anguish over that for another day). It was the that I decided that I would start a “real” cookie business and sell them to local health food stores. I went through all the necessary licensing and paperwork and secured a commercial kitchen. I figured out the distribution logistics and all my manufacturing costs down to the penny. The recipe was still in my head (I have never written it down), but I figured in the beginning I would be the only one making them anyway and there was no need to share it.

Just as I was about to launch my new business, I got epilepsy. I was plagued by grand mal seizures on a daily basis and could barely move from the couch. I wasn’t allowed anywhere near an oven or stove because of the chance that I might have a seizure and seriously injure myself. My dream of being the Vegan Mrs. Fields was dashed.

So now, I just make these cookies for my family and friends. Although, since I’m currently unemployed, I’ve toyed with whipping up a big batch and taking them down to Pacific Avenue and selling them for a dollar. I took them tonight to a New Moon gathering here in Santa Cruz and many of the women there told me I should be selling them to stores. Which I know I could do. The choices I’ve made in my life in the last twelve years, however, have taken me in so many other directions. I do love the look of amazement on people’s faces when I tell them they are eating a vegan cookie. One that is fruit-juice sweetened. One that might, gasp, be good for them.

Clyde’s Cookies are good for you. And a great reminder that when we want something bad enough, we’ll always find a way.

So, who wants some?

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

NakedDave and I saw this movie tonight and we were both surprised, I think, how very similar the two main characters were to us. It was almost creepy. Like someone had followed us around and written down or taped our conversations. Kate Winslet's character said exact lines that I have said which resulted in nervous laughter from me along with sideways glances at NakedDave to see if he caught it. He did.

NakedDave has even written a play that is very similar to this movie.

I must go see it again.

It is worth four stars. Five if there are five to give. And not just because the two main characters could have been played by NakedDave and me.

Honestly, it's just a really great film.

Go see it.

Vital Statistics Meet The Perfect Dress

Continuing on with the circle of life, today I went on a quest to find my birth certificate. For some reason, NakedMom has both HalfNakedRobin and NeverNakedBeth’s birth certificates, but seems to have misplaced mine. Now if you ask NakedMom why she doesn’t have NakedJen’s birth certificate she will tell you it is because NakedJen must have taken it at some point for some sort of clandestine activity.

People, in my defense, I have no recollection of ever removing my birth certificate from its very safe hiding place in the bottom drawer of NakedMom’s very old jewelry box. Which is exactly where we found HalfNakedRobin and NeverNakedBeth’s birth certificates along with all of our sterling silver diaper pins and spoons and rattles and whatnot.

Since I was born in the District of Columbia, I had to personally go to the United States Bureau of Vital Statistics today and request my birth certificate in person. When one arrives at the Bureau of Vital Statistics on North Capitol Street, one first has to stand in line to talk to a gentleman who will ask you why you are there.

“Why are you here today?”, he asked.
“I am here for a birth certificate,” I replied.
“Is it for you or for someone else?”
“Oh, it’s for me. Mine. I am here to get a copy of my birth certificate, please.”
“Were you born in the District of Columbia?”
“Yes. I was.”
“Do you have any identification?”
Thanking the goddesses that he didn’t ask me for proof that I had been born in the District since I needed the birth certificate to actually prove that, I whipped out my California driver’s license and handed it to him.

He looked at it. He looked at me. He looked at it again.

“You’ve changed your hair color.”
“Yes. I do that nearly every week.”

He was not amused.

“When does this expire? Oh...I see. 2005. Very well. Fill out this form and go to window number three.”

I took his form. I scrounged around in my purse for a pen. I found one shoved way in the bottom. I filled in all the boxes with all the appropriate information. My father’s name at the time of my birth. My mother’s maiden name. The hospital where I was born. My birth date. Then I went and stood in another very long line and waited patiently at window number three.

The woman behind the glass at window number three informed me that she accepted cash only. She asked if I wanted the long form or the short form birth certificate? I told her I needed to know the time I was actually born. She told me I wanted the long form and it would be $23.00. Cash.

I paid her. Then she handed me a slip of paper with the number 167 on it and told me to go take a seat and wait for my number to be called.

So I sat. And I waited. Along with what seemed to be every sick person in all of the District of Columbia. I mean good grief. Hacking, sneezing, coughing, wheezing people. There was this very kind elderly woman sitting next to me who was also waiting for her birth certificate (you can also get death certificates at the Bureau, but I suppose not too many dead people actually show up to retrieve them). We sat and waited together. I did the crossword from the Washington Post. She just sat and stared at the walls. I made a few telephone calls. She continued to stare at the walls. Slowly numbers would be called.

102.
107.
143.
120.

“If I haven’t called your number, please do not bother me. We are working on finding your certificate,” announced some man from somewhere in the back of the building.

I asked the woman next to me what her number was.

“It’s 104. But I’ve been here since 10 this morning and they still haven’t called it.”

We continued to wait. And twiddle our thumbs. And hum to ourselves. And wonder if we could dash to the bathroom or would that be the moment that they actually called our number.

At just after 3:00 p.m. when I was certain that my bladder was going to burst and make much more of a germy mess than any of those hacking coughers around me, they called number 167 over the loud speaker. Finally!

I now have documented proof of my birth. At precisely 1:50 p.m. on a Tuesday in January. Forty years ago. Which will be great help to the astrologist who is going to do a reading of my chart in the coming weeks.

From the Bureau of Vital Statistics I decided that I would take the metro over to Betsy Fisher and see if Betsy was, in fact, there. She wasn’t. But the store was bursting with beautiful things. And while I had every intention of just turning right around and walking right back out the door, those clothes had already cast their spell.

I chatted with the two sales women while I lovingly fingered the beautiful skirts, blouses and dresses. Rozae Nichols has done some amazing things this season in the most beautiful shades of purples and greens. Each and every piece fitting perfectly with things already hanging in my closet. I was just imagining how nicely they would all hang together. Rozae is even more the devil because she adds sparkly things her clothes. Not gaudy ostentatious sparkles, but subtle, just a glimpse sparkles. The kinds of sparkles that make one think of faeries. Real faeries.

So I suddenly found myself standing naked in the dressing room trying on these lovely creations. And looking in the mirror and slowly, deliberately talking myself out of purchasing each and every one. I did not want NakedDave to have a heart attack. I did not want him to look at me and only be able to see five paychecks hanging over my breasts. I kept reminding myself that I was not a working girl. I have a closet bursting with beautiful clothes already. I am not starved for silk.

So, I walked out of the dressing room with my same old clothes on and told the very nice sales ladies that I would leave a note for Betsy and be on my way.

(Oh, I can’t fool all of you. You know that’s not what happened. Any blog reader of mine knows the story can’t possibly end there!)

And just as I was turning to get a piece of stationary at the sales desk, the perfect dress literally catcalled to me from a rack near the front door. Hanging there ever so unassumingly was this adorable Italian silk number in this season’s perfect shades of pink and brown and celedon.

I tried to resist. I hummed. I turned back to the kind sales woman and asked about the note. But that dress would not let up. It was now singing Italian arias and it just kept getting louder.

“Excuse me," I blurted. "But I think I need to try on this dress!”

I grabbed the dress from the rack and darted back for the dressing room. I stripped like my life depended upon it and threw the dress over my head. It cascaded and slinked its way down over my body and fit like it had been made especially for me.

It was the perfect dress.

And just as Carrie Bradshaw is unable to resist the perfect shoes, I, NakedJen, am unable to resist the perfect dress. When perfection presents itself to you and even knows how to sing Italian arias, honey, you just have to hand over the cash.

Which is just what I did.

Showing That HBO Still Isn't So Groundbreaking

All thanks to Billy (who was certainly making himself useful on his Tues Day Off) for this. I just wish I was famous enough to have been included. We all know how much I love to say F**k in three syllables.