nakedjen

Gilmore Girls: Keep it Smart

as a lot of you know, we don't really have television here at chez naked.  but i have a small (or maybe not so small, maybe it's as big as me) obsession with the television show, gilmore girls.  such is my obsession, that as the premiere for this season grew closer, i actually chatted with dearsweetdave about getting cable television for chez naked so i could watch my beloved show.  i used to watch it every tuesday night at gail's house.  she lived just 110 steps away and it made it quite convenient because she was just as obsessed as i was.  as my gilmore buddy, we used to actually plan meals around the show.  this is not a joke.  we would watch the preview for each week's episode, determine what kind of meal would be most appropriate for that evening's episode and then one or the other of us would be in charge of either preparing or procuring the food.  our gilmore tuesdays were sacred.  and when she decided to move to santa barbara i don't know if i was more sad that she was leaving santa cruz or that our gilmore tuesdays would no longer be. 

my dear friend tree, who is also my biz partner in the travel agency venture, just so happens to also be a gilmore girls fan, as well.  so when i started to have a slight nervous breakdown on tuesday evening (we elected NOT to install cable here at chez naked as it would involve moving lots of furniture into lots of different configurations and we happen to like the current configurations) tree agreed to tape the episode for me.  thank goodness for tree and vcr's, huh?  i watched the premiere episode last night.  what follows is my review of gilmore girls. and if you haven't seen it, stop reading now. because i'm going to write about it. right now.

first off, with the exception of gail, i'm not sure there is anyone on the planet who is quite as passionate about this television show and its characters as i happen to be. i actually chat about them as if they're real people who exist. in my head, they DO exist. i worry about them. i think about them. i'm sick, yes, but for me, they are my friends who live in stars hollow, just down the road from hartford (where i went to college) and who have lives not so very different from my own.

that said, the premiere episode for this season was a shadow of its former self and so were all the characters.  blech.

it is not unlike when aaron sorkin was ousted from the west wing and the writers scrambled to figure out how to write a show that was just as intelligent and witty and engaging in the wake of his departure.  those were big shoes to fill.  i'm sure amy left some pretty stylish and fab pumps to fill, as well. 

amy sherman-palladino has most definitely left the gilmore. and what we're left with is empty storylines and ridiculous dialogue that you don't even want to hear.

when i first started watching gilmore i drooled over the repartee between rory and lorelai. DROOLED all over my own cashmere sweaters. i couldn't believe what i was hearing. the double entendres. the obscure pop culture references. the vocabulary! the rat a tat stacatto.  these people talked like i talked. it was brill. just plain brill. i found myself leaning forward on the couch just to be sure i really heard every.single.solitary.word. i didn't want to miss a single second because i was certain if i did i'd surely miss something fantastically sublime.

in this premiere episode we were given a rory who was stumped by a gift of a rocket ship from her wealthy boyfriend logan. now, okay, perhaps she was stumped at first. but when she figured it out? please tell me that lorelai is NOT going to immediately know the episode from twilight zone that rory is talking about and that the two of them would not fall right into a lightening fast back and forth tit for tat that included a reinactment of the entire twilight zone scene? it was so difficult and painful for me to watch and believe that all lorelai could do was say, "what??...who??...oh, you should go to london!" come on, people. at the very least she'd have picked up her telephone while rory was saying..."i have never felt so loved!" and been calling an airline to book rory a ticket.

i felt so sorry for the actors. they were all so flat. like they had their feet stuck in molasses and were trying their hardest to unstick them. to move faster. to make it all just a little bit more like it used to be.

this was no where more clear than in the final scene with luke and lorelai. luke arrives at lorelai's front door with his truck packed to the gills. this is after kirk has driven taylor's 1964 cherry thunderbird into his diner in a completely silly scene that really was totally unnecessary, but was obviously the writers trying to figure out a way to just a) fill time and b) make sure they included as many of the extra actors who work on gilmore girls in the premiere episode as absolutely possible. but, as i said, totally unnecessary!

luke arrives at lorelai's. he says in 9000 words, asfastashepossiblycan, that he understands that he needs to catch up and that they should go to maryland to get married. or if not maryland, a boat. or to vermont to camp. or whatever. whatever she wants. and the entire time all lorelai keeps saying is, "luke, stop." or "luke, wait."

lorelai doesn't say, "luke stop." she butts in. BIG TIME. in fact, in that scene, luke would have been giving his entire speech and at the same time, lorelai would have been giving her entire speech. luke's would have been WHY THEY SHOULD BE TOGETHER. lorelai's would have been WHY IT'S OVER. and it would have ended like this, both of them simultaneously speaking:

luke: "and we belong together, because, without you, i'm nothing."
lorelai: "and we can't be together, because, last night, i slept with christopher."

and then luke HEARS that, they stare at each other in a long silence and luke gets in his truck and drives off.  fade to black. 

that's gilmore girls, people.

whatever it was we all saw in the premiere is a good attempt at an imitation of gilmore girls. of course, i'm going to stick around and hope that it gets better. HOPE. because i love those people. they're very real to me. and my little visits to stars hollow every tuesday evening really do make me smile. 

dear gilmore girls show runners,

let's keep it real.  and witty.  and smart.
and i'll keep watching.

love,

nakedjen

It's Just One Of THOSE Days

And sometimes you wake up feeling like a dog-mangled plastic baby doll face down in a rain puddle struggling just to breathe.

Acupuncture Angels In Our Midst

Remember those days when you all used to tell me to avoid the post office?  Not because we were worried about someone going postal, but because it seemed that every time I'd go to the post office, I would ruin a pair of my jeans with what I fondly referred to as my uterine disasters. 

Blood and clots the size of watermelons would gush forth quite unexpectedly from my uterus and while the doctors were quite sure that I must have fibroids (nope) or have endometriosis (nope, again) or even perhaps was suffering a miscarriage (really nope!), it seemed to remain a big fat mystery to them how a woman could possibly be expelling so much blood.

Because I am me and I question authority and like to find my own answers and solutions, I decided that just because the doctors said it was a mystery, I would still find an answer. 

It's no secret around here that I'm a strong believer in alternative and complementary medicine.  To call acupuncture an alternative medicine is actually doing it a disservice.  Acupuncture and Traditional Chinese Medicine has a long and rich history and is certainly not folk medicine.  It is a highly developed, systematic, recorded, researched, and peer reviewed form of medicine with several disciplines that continues to evolve. It has a massive amount of real-world data to justify the application of techniques based on several thousand years of human trials.  It was to this highly developed and researched form of medicine that I turned to find a solution for my Uterine Disasters and blood soaked jeans.

My angel is named Angie O'Sullivan.  No surprise there that her name is Angie.  Over the past three years Angie has patiently listened to my stories of scary clots and soaked jeans.  She has carefully felt my pulses at each and every visit.  She has massaged my feet and noted that my spleen channel has been weak.  She's created special herbal teas for me to drink.  She's given me special treatments to not only help with my faulty uterus, but also to help keep my epilepsy under control.

My journey with Angie has been totally life transforming.  And, people, that's exactly what a journey with a health practitioner should be.  One that takes you from a place of unwellness to wellness and vitality.  I can honestly say that Angie has taken me there.

I no longer have uterine disasters.  I have 3 day periods, again.  Without watermelon clots.  And I don't have seizures.

Angie has just joined a new practice in San Jose.  So all of you who are reading in the Bay Area (and even if you're not, but want to travel) can go and be transformed as well.  My doctor told me I was just going to have to live with my uber-heavy periods.  That it was just a part of life.  That there was nothing she could do for me.  Angie saw things differently and brought me back to wellness.  I can go to the post office without fear.  I can wear my jeans without fear.  I can be well.  And so can you.

To make an appointment with Angie, visit her website.  Be sure to tell her you're a friend of Nakedjen's.  She'll give you her very best care.  I guarantee it. 

Five days you work / One whole day to play / Come on everybody / wear your roller skates today

i very much wish that i had had video camera with me last night. because if i had, i could have shared with you the absolute hilarity that was me, nakedjen, attempting to go to the bathroom while wearing roller skates.

i was wearing roller skates because our friend matthew had a birthday yesterday and decided to celebrate with a little skating party at the roller rink.

people, i haven't worn roller skates, no joke, in over 30 years.

and there i was.  having to pee.  with eight wheels attached to my feet. 

so i wheeled myself into the bathroom and managed to get myself into the oh so small pink stall. which did NOT have a lock on the door. (that information will be crucial shortly).

so there i am. feeling very precarious and at first just trying to figure my way around in the small stall so that my ass was facing in the right direction and without doing a face plant.

that mission proved to actually be one of the easier ones. 

the next mission, which i most definitely chose to accept, as i didn't actually want to be the one wearing the pee stained jeans to dinner, was to figure out how to unbuckle my belt and slip my jeans down to my knees. both of those relatively simple activities that even a baboon could do without too much training, required the use of both hands. BOTH HANDS! which meant i would have to not have any hands (i haven't grown a third or forth hand yet no matter how much i try to be like the goddess kali) to keep me upright. it meant i'd have to LET GO OF THE WALL!

so i let go of the wall to undo my belt. and already i sense that there's going to be a problem. because as i'm undoing the buckle, i'm rolling forward. toward the pink stall door. that has no latch. and it swings open. i let go of my buckle, mid unbuckle, and grab the door to swing it back closed. that simple, wimpy, action causes my skates to JET forward as if propelled by a shot of nitrous oxide and i find myself hanging onto the bathroom stall door, legs askew, pants undone, as if i'm testing out a new pole dancing move.

and on the other side of the door?

a ten year old girl in her professional skating outfit who gives me such a look of disdain you'd think i'd been shouting about the devil at a luncheon for little old church ladies.

but, and this is a but of proportions almost as large as my own, i was still upright. i had not fallen on my ass. i had not banged my head.

nakedjen one.  skates zero.

i repeated the process of getting myself back into the tiny stall. ass facing in the right direction. belt was now undone. it was now just a matter of getting the jeans to the knees.

and i realized, because i am perhaps just slightly smarter than a baboon, that i could actually use one hand and then another hand to slowly work my jeans over my butt. one side. then the other side. keeping the free hand firmly placed on the wall to avoid a repeat pole dancing experience with the pink bathroom stall door and more disdain from my ten-year old bathroom companion.

i now had my pants around my knees. but how to get my ass actually on the toilet? that, from my vantage point high above my roller skates, seemed miles and miles away.

carefully.

i started to squat. 

and roll.

and squat further.

and roll further. 

toward the pink stall door. 

that swung open.

to reveal my ten year old skating judge just as the tiniest portion of the edge of my ass managed to catch an even tinier portion of the edge of the toilet seat.

and quickly, before i became a bathroom head injury statistic, i grabbed threw all my weight backwards, my legs shot out forwards, and i landed with a HUGE PLOP on top of that toilet.

success!!

not in the eyes of my skating judge. with a snort she pushed the door closed and then giggled with her friends who had joined her in the ladies room.

i didn't really care, however.  because i was now in a position to pee without peril. 

the peril was in the getting upright again. 

oh, but couldn't we just do the whole business in reverse. 

in theory, yes.  of course. 

i needed to be upright in order to pull up the jeans. so i used both hands as leverage on the stall walls and inched my way back to standing. and then, having learned my lesson in the taking off of the jeans (you can teach a baboon new tricks!), i did a sort of shimmey dance to get them back on. still keeping one hand on a wall at all times, i also got very brave and lifted one foot off the floor to help move the jeans up. i was petrified that i was still going to become a bathroom head injury statistic and dearsweetdave who was out being the king of the roller rink would be called from the rink by the paramedics to inform him that his wife had suffered a terrible pink bathroom stall tragedy, but i was determined to get those jeans up and over my butt without having the ten year old skating judge give me any more bad marks for poor form.

and i did it. happy to report. well, of course, i did it, because i'm here, typing about it. but i managed to get the jeans up and over, managed to get the belt buckle buckled, and then swing the door open in my very finest pole dancing of moves, and skate like a five year old back out to the rink.

but i don't think i'll be appearing in the roller skating olympics any time soon. 

no matter how much you beg me to do it.

Giving our Marriage a Massage

That picture was taken in Oslo.  After we had gone to the Fram museum and the Kon-Tiki museum and we were waiting for the boat to take us back across the bay to Oslo proper. 

The thing I learned most definitively while I was in those two museums is that Norwegians are fucking nuts. 

Seriously. 

They'll go to great lengths to be the first and the best and to "win".  Hmm.

Perhaps I'm a Norwegian, too?  I wonder.

In other news, DearSweetDave and I went back to therapy today.  I know, I know.  More strum and drang about the relationship.  But guess what?  It wasn't all bad.  It was actually good.  I was horribly anxious about the whole idea for the last three days.  So anxious, in fact, that I was actually certain that I was having a heart attack and needed to go to the ER.  I do not really have anxiety attacks, people.  I'm calm, cool, collected Nakedjen.  Like a Norwegian, I'm ready for any challenge.  I can stand naked in front of thousands and not even bat an eyelash.  But go to therapy with my husband?  I guess it was enough to make my heart really hurt.

And now that I realize exactly what it was, it doesn't surprise me at all that it was my heart that was hurting.  Because it is my heart that hurts most when things are not well between me and DearSweetDave.  It hurts like no other hurt I have known.  And those months when we were in the throes of our darkest moments, well, those really did HURT.  I wasn't sure if I was going to even make it through on some days.  I felt like I was drowning.  Swimming through mud.  Things were so unclear and icky and I just wanted to sink to the bottom and not even bother to come back up.

Things are not that bad.  I even asked DearSweetDave why we were going to therapy at all?  But he pointed out that sometimes it's good to get a massage even when you're not completely achy and sore.  So yeah.  We gave our marriage a massage today.  And it was pretty darn good. 

We still have lots of work to do, we learned.  However, I want to give DearSweetDave credit for suggesting that we revisit our relationship when we weren't in a point of crisis.  When our feelings weren't totally raw and the ground wasn't quaking beneath our feet.  I may not have actually wanted to do it, but I can honestly say that I'm very glad that we did do it. 

I love that man.  With all my being (especially the zany Norwegian part!).  I always will.  I'm hopeful that this next venture down the therapy path can bring us to an even greater intimacy than we already know.  Because that, my dear readers, would be well worth the trip.

Repackaging the Old Doesn't Make It New

It all happened innocently enough.  We had dinner together at Saturn and then decided to wander up Pacific Avenue to just sort of see what was what before heading home.  DearSweetDave pulled me into Streetlight Records because he wanted me to hear the new Ani DiFranco album.  Specifically he wanted me to hear her new song on that album called Reprieve. 

But when we got to the music listening station where the album had been, it was no longer there.  Bummer. 

However, next to the slot where Ani's new album should have been there was a Grateful Dead album.  Blues for Allah to be specific.  I grabbed it and turned to DearSweetDave.

"This isn't new, you know," I told him.  "Oh, but look, they've added some previously never heard special studio tracks!" 

"This is total bullshit.  Do you know what those tracks are?  Those tracks are Jerry and Bobby noodling around on their guitars and figuring out their tuning.  That's what those special tracks are!"

DearSweetDave wandered away at that moment.  He was off to find Ani's new album, I suppose.  And I was left there to sit and ponder just how "special" those tracks were.

Here's the thing.  Any deadhead worth the patchouli they bathe in on a daily basis already owns Blues for Allah.  They also already own Mars Hotel.  In fact, if they're a flag waving deadhead, they not only own the recordings on CD, but they also have the original cassette tapes and, gasp, the LP's, as well.  No joke.  I'm one of those card-carrying deadheads and I can promise you I have them. 

The other thing is that any deadhead worth her dreads also knows that the Grateful Dead never made a studio album that was truly worth owning.  You owned them, certainly, because you owned everything that had their name on it.  But the real music, the music worth coveting and sharing, was the music they played live.  And that music was readily available as long as you had a blank cassette tape and a friend who had the Philly Dew and was willing to make you a copy. 

I used to be veryveryvery proud of my tape collection.  I would lovingly decorate the tape covers of every single cassette box and I held a certain satisfaction that I had a copy of every single show I had ever attended on tape.  Jerry Band and Grateful Dead.  People, that was over 900 shows.  Now given that you needed one tape for the first set and another for the second, you can imagine the size of my tape collection.  I had music to last me a very long time.

But I suppose for some folks, it wasn't long enough.  Because there I was in Streetlight Records standing face to face with a new release of Blues for Allah and another new release of Mars Hotel that were not really and truly new releases at all, but just had some brand new special material tacked onto the end.  And the folks in charge of these new releases had the audacity to actually not even get one of the names of the songs right.  I mean, come on, people.  If you're going to go after the money in desparate deadhead's wallets, at least get the names of the songs right!

We all need to wake up and realize that Jerry Garcia has died.  A long time ago, at this point.  He's not coming back.  I know that the remaining living members of the Grateful Dead got very used to a certain lifestyle and cash flow.  But re-releasing ancient studio material is not the way to continue to fill your coffers, boys. 

Go out and sing.  Go out and create new and exciting music.  Do not just roll around in your ancient tour buses and play the same old songs we've all heard a million times.  I know that worked very well when Jerry was alive, but now that he's gone, the rest of us have had to grow up and learn to live our lives without that magical circus to follow around.

I miss it.  Absolutely.  I will tell you that those days on tour were for me some of the very best days of my life.  But there's something that just feels wrong to me about the re-packaging of old studio albums that were never that good to begin with.  Especially when the "added bonus tracks" are not even notes worth hearing. 

I'm sure it won't be a wasted effort, however.  One thing about deadheads that always seems to be true are certainly captured in the words of Robert Hunter: 

"I'd like to have it one more time, one good ride from start to end, I'd like to take that ride again!"

So old music that they already own, or not, they'll hop aboard for that ride again.  And again.  And again.

Love on a Naked Friday

A little something in my fan mail this morning...

:) Hi!
I'am Your new fan from Poland!
(my English is very weak, sorry...)

Photos super; idea and joy - too!

Beautiful mature woman - and world...

Big and hot kiss 4U -
Johnny :)

Gotta love Johnny.  He made my day! 

Here's hoping all of you are having fabulous Fridays, and every other days, too. 

Finding Home In Christiania

that's the only photo that i took while we were in christiania in copenhagen. this is because the folks that call christiania home really prefer that you not take pictures. at all. they often will break your camera if they find you taking pictures.

that's not to say they're a violent sort. not at all, really. christiania is actually like this magical fairy kingdom that sprang from an abandoned military base right in the center of copenhagen. in the early 1970's the abandoned warehouses and buildings were taken over by squatters who called it home. a commune developed, of sorts. and a home for the counter-culture grew and thrived.

it is still an area where drugs like marijuana and hash are readily available, and you can even find mushrooms if you look hard enough. but it is also, at this point, an area that is vibrant with arts and artists and families who are living the communal dream. there are blonde, laughing, happy children running around having the time of their lives.  living a life of love and happiness!

there's no question, at all, that the moment we walked through the gates, i gasped and said, "oh, i could easily live here. this is like home!" and poor dearsweetdave looked to the heavens, and thanked the goddess, that we were in no position to actually move!

My Top Off To The Teens In Vermont

I'm taking my top off for the teens in Brattleboro, Vermont who have been spending their summer hanging out naked in the parking lot.

Not because being naked is sexual, but because being naked is natural!

I'll also take my top off for the state of Vermont which has no laws on the books regarding public nudity.  And who really does walk the walk when it comes to defending our freedoms and liberties that we fought so hard to win all those many years ago.  Go Vermont!

You can read more about this story here.  I've been out of the country, as you know, so this is the first I'm hearing of it.  I must say I had to laugh out loud when the police chief said that as soon as winter arrives this whole problem was going to go away.  I do wonder if those teens will then just go find themselves a coffee shop that perhaps doesn't have a sign that says "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service?" 

Nakedjen, The Vegtabal Fairy

That is Archie.  Who was one of the stars of the wedding.  Well, actually the wedding dinner.  He gave one of the cutest speeches ever at the wedding dinner.  He even wrote a poem for Michael and Mikaela. 

Archie likes to draw.  He likes to draw maps and he likes to draw fairies. 

On the Sunday evening following the wedding, while we were still in Stockholm, DearSweetDave and I joined Archie and his sisters and his dad and Michael's parents and their friends for dinner.  And guess where we went?  You'll never guess.  Or maybe you can tell from this picture? 

We went to TGIFriday's! 

I'll wait while you all pick yourselves up from the floor.  Perhaps a glass of cold water will help to resuscitate you?  I know it is positively impossible to believe that I, Nakedjen, proponent of all that is organic and wholesome, actually ate at TGIFriday's.  And that I did it while on vacation in a foreign country!  I should have my passport revoked immediately.

But it's true.  Steve and the kids wanted to eat at TGIFriday's.  I put up a mild fuss, explaining that there was absolutely nothing on the menu that a girl who doesn't eat cheese or fried things or things with a mother or face could possibly eat, but at the same time my fuss wasn't of Veruca Salt proportions.  There was no stomping of feet.  There was no spitting.  I don't even think I crossed my arms and pouted.  In fact, I think my words were, "Well, I suppose we can join everyone and make it work...or I can find something else to eat later." 

So off we went to TGIFriday's.  Believe me the irony was not lost on me.  We were in Stockholm.  And we were eating at an American chain restaurant that I would never eat in if I were at home.  Pfft.

But Archie saved the day.  He keyed right into my distress and asked all kinds of questions about my quest for vegetables.  Why I needed them?  What kinds I liked?  Why I only ate vegetables and didn't eat hamburgers? 

He and his sisters were also quite intrigued to learn that I was a REAL fairy.  It didn't take much to convince them.  I promised them I had many sets of wings that I had sprouted myself and the only reason that I wasn't wearing them that day was because we had all just been to the wedding and it was important that everyone look at Mikaela and not be concerned about what was sticking out from my back.  So I had purposely left my wings at home in America. 

Archie drew a picture of me, Nakedjen, the vegtabal fairy.  You'll notice that he included in the picture a carrot and a veggie burger.  And that he rated me on a percentage scale for my helpfulness, prettiness, kindness and temper. 

Obviously I was on very good behavior that day, as I only got a 5 for temper.  So despite eating a chicken Caesar salad where I asked them to please hold the chicken and the Caesar (my big bowl of iceberg lettuce), I somehow managed to keep smiling and not ruin the evening for everyone else!  We all know I'm quite capable of doing just that, so like I said, I was just on very good behavior that day.

I did, however, make DearSweetDave promise that it would be our very last meal at an sort of restaurant of that ilk while we were on our vacation.  And I tried to let it go.  Obviously, I didn't completely let it go, because here it is, a month later, and I'm telling all of you about it. 

But I did let it go for the remainder of the trip.  And I won't ever be eating at TGIFriday's ever again.  No matter where I am.  That's much I can promise you!