Where the Wild Things (Really) Are

At least, according to Spike Jonze, they's in Kanye's belly. I read about this short film a few months back and was intrigued, after catching what I believe to be the best movie of 2009 this past weekend with the fam ("Aunt Jodi why are your eyes so big and wet looking?"), my interest was def rekindled in this joint effort. It's nothing deep, or even that unique, but the sloshy Kanye (Hey, that's my song! You like my song!) is pretty entertaining--as to say the twisted ending is as well. Enjoy, if nothing else, its' 10 minutes you don't have to focus on work. This along with a leftover slice on my sister in law's homemade apple pie and a warm frenchpress made my Monday much more livable.

We Were Once a Fairytale

this ain't no lilith fair. (or is it?)

weird weekend. ending on a rather blue note, just kinda feeling twisted. trying to up my shit by checking some new (at least for me) tunage. downloaded the newer atlas sound album this eve, logos - really digging what i've heard so far, particularly the over catchy "walkabout" feat pandabear from animal collective. catchy, upbeat experimental electro-jam with a twist of vintage surf rock inspired feel good go go pop. digging it.

also  put together quite the intricate mega old school playlist this evening, closest thing to a mixtape i've worked on since, well, actual casette tapes. . . it was hella chixx mix.
dug up some oldie but goodie female fronted traxx such as:

the cardigans - my favourite game
rainer maria - ears ring
the murmurs - you suck
throwing muses - snakeface
esthero - that girl
mazzy star - fade into you
juliana hatfield - everybody loves me but you
sneaker pimps - 6 underground (nellie hooper remix)
nellie mckay -sari
maria taylor - replay
tori amos - hey jupiter (dakota remix)
tracy bonham - one hit wonder
letters to cleo - demon rock
dido - i'm no angel
wonderful smith - so much sin
poe - angry johnny
veruca salt - get back
tegan and sara - where does the good go
mirah - generosity
kate nash - merry happy
neko case - the next time you say forever
fiona apple - sleep to dream
sahara hot nights - oh! darling
sleater-kinney - modern girl

now this is just a glimpse into the 119 angsty playlist. . . there's a crap ton of tori amos, fiona apple and aimee man on there, as well as a handful of pretty girls make graves, brazilian girls, letters to cleo, le tigre, garbage, veruca salt, nina gordon, alanis morissette, the noisettes, amanda palmer, amy winehouse, ani difranco, elastica, the distillers, etc etc etc.

it's a girly party up in here, ya'll. this is my tribute to the she-ra showdown, 2003-2004 - viva la chick rawk.

Brainwashed by Infatuation

A few nights ago I wrote my little ramble about my ever ongoing search for love – whether that by being impregnated by Lil Wayne or by posting bullet point credentials for suitors to pass/fail my awesome love quiz before I offer my hand; but all bullshit aside, I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Who I’ve really put my true self out there for, if there have been any potential suitors that I really fell for (even if they didn’t fall for me back), and who I totally effed myself over with by fleeing the crime scene prematurely. Well, obviously, yes, there was one mister certain someone who meant a helluva lot to me, I spent nearly four years with him—but he’s an exception and none of my tangents in the following splurge of words apply to him or that situation. It was a nice period of my life that I will think back on with fond memories forever, but let’s face it, the old Jodi’s(trying to get) back in the game and I’ve finally now just figured out who she is, exactly (or at least I’m getting warmer).


Anyway—first—who have I seriously made myself available to? This one’s the easiest –no one, really. Only the aforementioned gentleman got the real full glimpse into the Jodester, and I think that prob has a lot to do with my lack of relationships—I’m a bit hesitant and wary of letting any spies into my vulnerability. Ok, next—have there been any gents that I fell for hard? I guess this was the biggest question that’s been in and out of my thoughts lately. The answer, sadly, is yes. I say sadly, because either the feelings weren’t mutual (or wait a minute. . .), or in more actuality, I never made my feelings clear with these select gentlemen so while I say to myself it wasn’t mutual—it’s probably more likely I was beating myself up so hard that I couldn’t even see if the feelings were mutual or not because I was too busy dumping on myself. Anyway, sure yeah—I’ve had flings. I’ve dated. I’ve had flavors of the month. But actually like liking someone? I can probably count them all on my fingers throughout my life (even including grade school crushes, thank you very much).

I figured it out though, the ones that really meant something and possessed qualities in which I aspire to meet now are the gentlemen who never received a nickname. Now let’s get this straight here, nicknames are not good—at least in staying power. They are not terms of endearment. They are not cute little pet names. They are how I refer to members of the male sex to my girlfriends behind said dudes’ backs. Completely juvenile and 175% immature, yes. I can see why I’m single easily – I’m shallow, judgmental and possess the intellect of a 7th grade girl. Whatever, it’s a habit I’ve had since freshman year. I don’t know exactly when/why/how it started, I just remember sitting in Rodli Hall cafeteria at UW-RF, nudging Tessa whispering full of glee, “Check it out, it’s him—Stale Popcorn.” I think Stale Popcorn might have actually been the first nickname, come to think of it. Whenever I think of, see, or eat stale popcorn, I think very fondly of one of my first college crushes. (No wait, Creepy Kyle was first, but whatever he wore socks with sandals and said he loved me after two weeks via hotmail, so he’s exempt—weird).

But yeah, Stale Popcorn. His real name was Tim. He was cute as hell. Definitely not the typical Jodi type by any means, he was part hippie, part farmer, total Sconnie who wore horrible clothes—think like Wrangler jeans, worker boots and horrible tan shirts. He was skinny as a rail and on the quiet side. But something about his goofy shy smile and big wide eyes drew me to him. He was cute as a button—but again, not exactly smoking hot like STD guy (not venereal diseases—Saves The Day Guy—one of maybe five guys who rocked an emo band shirt at an otherwise hick cowboy university—STD Guy is a whole other post, just thinking of his body (I never go for built dudes but DAYUM) and sexy sexy face is making me salivate heavier than Pavlov’s Dogs, shit); but still cute—(back to Stale Popcorn here). He was nice to look at, but not my Antonio Sabato Junior. I guess he was like eye candy, but not the Oreo’s—more like stale popcorn—it’s tasty enough, and if it’s there and it’s all you got, it will definitely suffice as a snack. That was Stale Popcorn—Tim was a good kid. Anyway, he was my goal freshman year. I’d see him at the cafeteria and find an excuse to go sneak another plate of French fries or fountain soda to try and follow him around. I’d walk faster when I’d see him at the library mall, just to get in his line of vision. But as much as I tried, it never worked. But then, finally, there was one magical night at the Football House (or was it the Basketball House? I never knew the difference bw those bro-infested shitpits). I remember clearly, like it was yesterday, walking down the crooked staircase behind Tessa who got to the bottom before me and suddenly whipped around to face me, eyes as huge as saucers. “Jodeeeeeee!!!” she squealed and without another word, grabbed my wrist and led me to the entrance of the filthy basement.

There I ran, straight into, Stale Popcorn. I was blind sighted. And in love—well, not hardly. But I was half in the bag and feeling giddier than a fat girl getting asked to the prom. Tessa had whispered to him before I came through the doorway that he “should probably say hi to her(me)” before scampering away. I don’t have the slightest clue what we talked about or how long it lasted, but let’s just say Jodi got her goal. Actually, I grew to really enjoy Tim and I’m pretty sure he got a kick out of me—we hung fairly regularly for the remainder of the school year, but were not a romantic item per say. More less, I would go to his and “Bouncing Brad,” his roommate’s dorm room and watch them get lit up and play the didgeridoo and bongo drums, all the while making me listen to some G. Love and the Special Sauce. It was my brief flirtation with hippiedom, while I still stood out like a sore thumb sporting my ever hip camouflage army pants and Jimmy Eat World hoodie I lived in in 2001. But yeah, Stale Popcorn, I think he’s married and works for the Wisconsin DNR these days. Good for him.

So I guess Stale Popcorn sort of defies my nickname rule, and STD Guy isn’t the worst tag you could get either—well, technically speaking I guess it is, but my meaning behind it was totally not intentional. . . (Side story of STD Guy, he wound up living with a pretty good friend of mine from the college radio station. One day while chilling at their house, my friend walked by and caught me red-handed smelling STD Guy’s bath towel. It was pretty creepy—but c’mon, wouldn’t you want to get a taste of what pure infatuation smells like?) I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I heard a rumor recently that STD Guy is into cougars—goddamn him.

But yes, back to nicknames. While some are worse than others, even if the nickname is cute and I can now think back fondly on some of my victims, the assigned nickname is the first sign of “It’s not gonna happen”-dom. (Mike definitely never had a nickname. ) Who else fell victim to freshman year at UWRF? Non-romantically, there was Salt-Man, Nerd, Mafia Man, (fellow journalism student whose family had to relocate to Green Bay to avoid their ties with the mob—apparently dude’s uncle was the under guy for John Gotti and the fam was on the lam), oh yeah and Benny the Beerman—but that’s as much of mention that that slimeball is getting in this post, the little troll.

So I think that’s where the shallow name game stemmed from—but not only did it follow me through the remainder of my college career, it’s still with me loud and strong today. I’ve been ultra-unlucky in my quest for companionship since my split with the ex last year, but within the 12 months of wince-worthy challenges I’ve come across: Troll, Slimeball, Little-Timmy- Miller-from-the-Well, Creeper, Creepster, Hairy-Butt-Man, Sniffles, The-Dude-Who-Slapped-Me-In-The-Face, Stalker (wait, that was the same dude as Slimeball), and a handful of others who I’d just throw “Creepy” in front of their first name. The saddest part was, I would pinpoint these nicknames usually when I first met/started hanging out with any of these dudes—given, in the last year not a single guy has made it past the 3-date limit with the exception of one jerk who I randomly drunken made out with maybe 4 or 5 times tops—but that hardly counts. But still, that’s saying I’d meet these guys, entirely straight faced, and either dine out or grab drinks for an evening and then rush home to IM or text Courtney, Dara or Caroline and exchange horror stories; referring to “How creepy Slimer was tonight—he got hit by a car on his bike on his way to see me and still showed up to the bar all bloody!”, “Troll kept trying to hold my hand—who the fuck does he think he is bringing me roses on a second date?!”, “Oh fuck, I think Creeper’s in love with me already. . .” It was bad.

So now, thinking back . . . who hasn’t received a nickname from me? I’ll admit that I’ve probably at least swapped spit once or twice with a good portion of my good male friends at some point or another in our pasts. I didn’t give any of these dudes nicknames, (or if I did they will NEVER know about it!!!!). But thinking realistically, how many of these guys were exempt that got away and would have had a shot at (at least my personal) happiness. I’ve thought about this a lot the past week. I can think of three guys who I’ve always had feelings for and probably will for as long as I know them, whether or not they know this I have no clue, but I’m pretty safe in my assumption that it doesn’t matter if they knew or not, I’m 98% certain it wouldn’t make a difference—and plus I’m lucky enough to be friends with these individuals and I would never ever risk losing that friendship over a stupid stab at high hopes—not worth it. Then again, I can think of at least three to four others who I had feelings for but didn’t realize it at the time, and totally blew it and treated them like dirt. Luckily for me I’m pretty sure I’ve been since forgiven, but if I had a time machine, I would go back and do it all over differently—I can’t say I would have continued pursuing any romantic relationships, but I definitely would have ended things on a much more respectable level.

I can honestly say that now, though, if things had posed opportunities at this stage in my life, I wouldn’t have been such a fuck up idiot and who knows what could have happened. Woulda, shoulda, coulda—but I didn’t. Oh well, it all happens certain ways for certain reasons and the objective behind this rambling post isn’t to beat myself up or live in any stage of whimsful regret—it’s just an in-depth observation—none of these dudes had nicknames (well, not incriminating ones anyway). I look forward to the day when I will meet a guy, and rather than instantly click an identifiable immediate association or nickname to relay to my girlfriends post-meeting, I will just be dumbfounded and speechless. All I truly yearn for is to be brainwashed by infatuation. I’m confident it’s coming; I just gotta stop, shut up once in a while and actually allow someone to swipe me off my feet.

It's Time to Pick it Up or Pack it In, 2009. . .

Ok, so I just spent the last two hours wracking my good-for-nothing brain for my top albums of the year. And then I realized, man, 2009's been kind of bleak as far as new releases, hasn't it? So then I got distracted and tried to make a list of my top 100 favorite albums ever, and around number 56, I had to start cheating and flipping through my list of albums on my iTunes and then even that got difficult because I knew I'd overlook a lot of big ones from my past and try to just jot down the cool bands vs. the ones that really influenced me growing up. . . Then I got distracted again and tried to write down all my favorite 100 songs. That was an even bigger waste of time. . . So then,  back to 2009.

Here it is, October, 10 months into the year. I should have a pretty solid idea of contenders--however, I was barely able to come up with ten albums that came out this year that I even picked up, let alone enjoyed. Let's just say Tegan and Sara have QUITE the pressure, come October 27th with their upcoming release Sainthood. This better be it, the hands-down winner. . . I don't think I can handle another It's Blitz! Don't get me wrong, YYY's newest does make an appearance on my "Top Ten Thus Far" list, but c'mon, the anticipation killed me for way too high of hopes. C'mon Tegan and Sara, if your hair isn't super wacky this time around (at least not in the promo shots), you best be making some memorable jams to make up for the mediocre past 300 or so days. . .

Anyway, here's what I got. It's VERY likely to change come December, (hopefully there will be a few solid realeases this last stretch or I'm super spacey and forgot some super obvious releases here. . .) The numerical order is likely to flex as well, but fuck it, as of Tuesday, October 6th, 9:18 PM CST--these are dem beatz I dug the past 10 months. . .

10 - Kid Cudi - Man on the Moon: End of Day

Kanye's prodigal son is hot. Like, literally. Dude's maybe not the smoothest rhymer, or the dopest MC, but he def has got a way with words and has a killer smile. I caught him live this past March at the Fader Fort with Ye, and between his work last year on 808s and Heartbreak, cameo on Jay's latest instillment of the Blueprint and his HUGE debut single "Day N Nite," people are catching onto dat kid from cleveland. I was familiar with the majority of the work from this album prior to its September release due to a variety of mixtapes and leaked singles, but not disappointed. Highlights include the MGMT/Ratatat collaboration - "Pursuit of Happiness," the super upbeat "Up Up and Away," the slick production of "Sky Might Fall," Lady GaGa playoff w/Ye and Common "Make Her Say" and "Soundtrack 2 My Life." Good debut, son--just maybe save some of your best for a surprise, next time around instead of leaking all the gems.

9 - Passion Pit - Manners

These dudes totally blind sighted me. I never had heard of them, and then suddenly one day, BAM! The blogosphere had suddenly blown up and this album was getting rave reviews left and right. It was a bit like the Dirty Projectors mania and I was so sick of reading and hearing about this group that I boycotted it at first. I have a love/hate relationship with the Dirty Projectors and who knows, maybe they'll find a spot on this list within two months from now, but unlike DP, I took a liking to Passion Pit's catchy, sped up falsetto party jams instantly. Tracks like "Sleepyhead," "The Reeling," "Little Secrets" and "Moths Wings" should be banned from all iPods & stereosystems immediately--they're so damned catchy they will never leave your head--seriously. An interesting blend of this and that, the closest I could come to initially describing this outfit was Instrumentation of The Arcade Fire meets Polyphonic Spree's happiness/feel goodness with a pinch of Architecture in Helsinki's cuteness/dance party if sung by the falsetto dudes from TV on the Radio (If they were white). Imagine that--but way better, and you have Passion Pit.

8 - Grizzly Bear - Veckatimest

I really don't want this album to wind up on my top 10 of the year. Why? Because it will be on EVERYONE'S top ten of '09. But whatever, it's a solid release and there's no denying it. While I dug some older Grizzly Bear, I can't say I ever fell super hard for them. I def got huge into Daniel Rossen's other thang late last year (Dept of Eagles), so I'm a sucker for his melodic vox--but GB was always one of those hype machines that I never really understood, but still, never really disliked either. I decided to hop on the Veckatimest bus, however, when the album initially leaked this past spring. Noone, and I mean noone, can deny that "Two Weeks" was the official summer jam of 2009. This melodic glee club charm, complete with probably my favorite video of the year, was a classic indie gem--and is one of my favorite tracks of the year. Other standout numbers included album opener "Southern Point," the eloquent sing along "All We Ask," the almost Beatles inspired track "Cheerleader," and the gorgeous "While You Wait for the Others." Ok, so now looking back at this album, I guess I'll just stick to the flocks and keep this one on the list--this album ain't hibernating from my rotation any time soon after all. . .

7 - Handsome Furs - Face Control

Dan and Alexei are not only the sexiest couple in rock'n'roll, but they're also the humblest, coolest and fucking nicest. I caught this duo live more times than I can count within the last year, touring their asses off in support of their latest release. Face Control is a collection of sexy, electroriffic, guitar thrashing, key pounding, dance jams. You can't really go wrong when your singer is 1/2 of the vocals from Canadian indie all-stars Wolf Parade, but kickass live shows aside, songs like the George Harrison-Got-My-Mind-Set-on-You-ish-party-jam "I'm Confused," sex dripping "Evangeline," immediate and pounding "Legal Tender," ridiculously catchy and fun "Talking Hotel Arbat Blues" and of course, the sing along "All We Want Baby, is Everything" will rock your goddamn face off. It's impossible to control, sorry dudes--you gotta keep your shit in check. The fact that these two hung with my drunk ass for a half hour at the Holy Fuck gig at the Empty Bottle this past June definitely ups my appreciation for them as peeps, but the fact that they keep coming back and rocking it hard sold me on their jams. CHECK THEM OUT.

6 - Andrew Bird - Noble Beast

What can I say about Chicago's very own multi-instrumentalist-sexy-whistlin' fiend Mr. Bird? A LOT. Bird has yet to release an album I haven't enjoyed immensely, and Noble Beast may be my favorite one yet. Call me a sucker for victrolas and strings, dapper young gentlemen in suits (whistling!), and honey-drippin' vocals. Dude makes my knees buckle whether he's singing about sociopaths or nomenclature. It doesn't matter, harmonies and orchestration are everywhere and everytime I pop in this Beast, I'm instantly transported to Jodi Happy Land--whether that's an effort to distract myself from cleaning my apartment floors, sipping a bloody mary mid-hangover after a rough night, or even temporarily forgetting I'm trapped in the confinements of cubicle hell at the nine-to-five. Why Noble Beast rules more than the last four records? Easy: "Fitz & Dizzyspells" (Seriously - that whistling breakdown!!!); "Oh No" (more whistling again, but gorgeous percussion); "Tenuousness" (that opening makes me feel like I'm on a trip somewhere, somewhere I've never been, and it's gonna be a really good trip); "Not a Robot, But a Ghost" (As if that song title isn't explanation enough, then maybe you should try giving this track a listen--b/c it gets better); "Anonanimal" (just nice on the ears, overall, really). As if all these weren't reason enough, Bird included a limited release of instrumental songs in addition called Useless Creatures. Pretttttttty. Did I mention I'm also in love with Andrew Bird? This helps secure a spot on any Jodi Countdown Ever.

5 - Yeah Yeah Yeahs - It's Blitz!

I hope I convince myself as an afterthought to bump this one up the countdown. I put together a pretty in-depth review together upon its initial spring release over at Muzzle of Bees which you can read here; and I don't think my thoughts have changed toooo much to date, except that it may have grown on me a bit more. Tracks like the electra ballad "Hysteric" and the vintage plugged in "Soft Shock" have now snuck ways into my heart, joining the likes of up-beat singles "Zero" and "Heads will Roll." Still, though, fave track is and remains "Dull Life" due to its likeness of both Fever to Tell and Show Your Bones swagger. I think I might have been a bit too harsh on It's Blitz! in the beginning, but only like those psycho pressuring high school football dads who are hard on their sons for not making it to the state championships--we expected more out of you, you're greater than that--but we still love you anyway. Plus, I now can't blame Karen O if her attention wasn't fully focused on YYY at the time, I'm pretty madly obsessed with her score for Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack, aka, the unofficial YYY side project, Karen O & the Kids. Kids = Nick Zinner, Brian Chase, Bradford Cox & a couple Raconteurs, not too shabby. But that's a different post. Moral of the story? Karen O is cooler than both you and me--oh and she's also really good at giving memorable birthday parties.

4 - YACHT - See Mystery Lights

Heard these guys here and there, before they were a duo and it was just Jona Bechtolt (who is my facebook friend to the end), and before the days Miss Claire L. Evans was on board. I knew Bechtolt's reputation preceded him as being "The Timbaland to Indie Beats," and I knew he was dope with the DFA crew. I dug The Summer Song EP, which dropped sometime late last year or early this one--and featured a pretty dancetastic remix of "Fell in Love with a Ripper," in addition to the aforementioned "Summer Song," which was Bechtolt's love song to fellow tourmates LCD Soundsystem. All history aside, this duo is A) Super fun amazing live, (I caught em both at Schubas this past March and again at the Empty Bottle a few weeks back), whipping out amazing audiovisual props, rad-as-fire dance moves, and hott male-female vocal/sexual energy; B) Again, extremely humble and personable--I met them at their merch table at Schuba's, again at the Bottle, but also not one week after the March show shoulder to shoulder in the crowd for Kanye's gig at Fader Fort in Austin--(not only did they remember me, but I got to boogie with them to the likes of College Dropout and Graduation--jealous?); C) Super cool in general--(evidence, interview w/MoB here). I guess the fact that their 10-song album was one of the biggest circular dance parties existing in my cd collection's entire history, let alone 2009, speaks volumes too. I will give you $5 if you can listen to "Psychic City," "The Afterlife," and/or "Ring the Bell" without involuntarily shaking your hips and breaking it down. Seriously. Electro-indie pop genius at its best, this duo rocks.

3 - P.O.S. - Never Better

I've always been a huge fan of the Minneapolis hip-hop scene since my clumsy midwestern whitegirl-self stumbled upon Atmosphere back in the God Loves Ugly days. Any member of the Rhymesayers family and Doomtree crew usually had their distinguishable mid-west thang down and I dug it hard. Last year it was Slug who topped my top list of 08, with When Life Gives You Lemons. . . , but now this year's honor is bestowed upon the intense, poetic rhyming skills of P.O.S.. Stef's performance with fellow Doomtree pals Mike Mictlan, Sims and Lazerbeak this past spring at Reggie's Live only upped my appreciation for his lyrical prose and intelligent swagger. I caught him a second time around in Austin, sandwiched between Eyedea & Abilities and Brother Ali for the Rhymesayer's SXSW set and a third round at Chicago's Bottom Lounge opening for Cursive. Each set was a different vibe, different demographic, yet Stef kept it real and put his best out for the people, never once faltering in his energy levels and determined intensity. Never Better is just that, a solid album with limited pauses or opportunities for improvement. Joints like "Savion Glover," "Purexed," "Goodbye," "Out of Category" and "Optimist (We are Not for Them)" keep his most recent effort flowing strong, and it definitely earned its high rank in my top ten this year.

2 - Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion

I'm a sucker for those gimmick experimental electronic flavors of the week, month, or in this case for me at least--year. I know AC's been around for a while, and in all honesty I didn't give one stink about them up until this past January when this album was released. Coincidentally, the same day I picked this record up, a friend asked me to take his free extra ticket off his hand to check em out live at the Metro. I remember clearly being on the fence about it, as I had a date the same night with some random stooge, and let me say this--best decision of the year. Random stooge = ancient history, Memory/Experience of this live set = Words cant really give justice. Let's just say the combination of the live crazy energy and intense light show, dreamy imagery and ecclectic equation of synths, chants, percussion and song were enough to blow any hipster's facebook status waaaaaay up with "I Like This" thumbs-ups. My mind was numb. And I hadn't even had a chance to give the album a full listen through yet.

I will say AC is for some, and def not for others. It's more of an experience, and I guess either you get it or you don't care to--I know I didn't bother running to their P4K set months before, after listening to older work and wound up just being bored and confused. But something about Merriweather clicked with me. Maybe it was the dancey vibes of "Summertime Clothes," the tinkering seawater escape feel of "My Girls," the slow-yet-totally-worth-it-finally-building up-breakdown-at-the-2 minute,-30-second-mark-of  "In the Flowers," the didgeridoo infused "Lion in a Coma" or the maybe even kinda El Guincho tribal/coastal vibes of "Brother Sport" that won me over. But it was probably all of the above, with extra credit. This album helped keep me from going insane in an otherwise freezing and dark time of the year, and any experience that can keep me distracted enough from forgetting I have no feeling in my toes is good news in my book. I read somewhere that AC named this album after a local venue in their stomping grounds, but I'm picturing Merriweather Post Pavilion as a different kind of place--a tropical surrealistic island of sorts, a magical escape from reality. And this makes me happy.

1 - Metric - Fantasies

Wow, this one is definitely a surprise. While I'm a fan of pretty much any relative of the Broken Social Scene extended fam, I've never considered myself a Metric superfan by any means. Sure, Emily Haines is pretty rad and yeah, their songs are darned catchy. But, this album hitting the number one spot was definitely a dark horse in the running. A friend of mine highly recommended the record to me on multiple occassions, but it wasn't until he handed me a physical burned copy that I really took him seriously. Where did this delectable electropop rock goddess come from? This glam soaked collection of sleek, sexy power pop songs is more than I can handle--but in a totally good way. Tracks like "Help, I'm Alive," "Gimme Sympathy," "Gold Guns Girls" and "Twilight Galaxy" are loud, soft, fast and slow--but all equally demanding of your listening pleasure. I still cannot put my finger on what set Fantasies apart from past Metric efforts, to be honest, and believe me I've tried. I think it honestly might have just been a combination of the right songs at the right time, and the right experiences with the right people. I happened to meet my best friend randomly outside of a bar this summer by offering up my extra free unspoken Metric ticket to their Chi gig at the Metro. Not only did she actually take me up on the offer, but the show itself was an incredible first date, and it's crazy to think I wouldn't have met her without Metric. So, yeah, that might have something to do with it--or maybe it's just a coincidence. Regardless, I really, really like this album.

im still not a playa but you still a hata

I don’t know how good of a writing mood I’m in tonight, folks. I’ve been pretty good about sticking to my new goal of writing as much as my stubborn little hand legs will let me, but tonight all I really feel like doing is singing to random ass songs at the top of my screechy-barely-back-to-normal-throaty lungs. It started this morning, in the shower. For whatever reason, my sleep heavy eyes could barely open themselves, and there I was, blinded without my contacts, a head full of suds, crooning to Big Pun (and Fat Joe). Crooning’s probably the wrong word; it was more bad bad rapping followed by dead tone-def gigolo jams. I’M STILL NOT A PLAYA BUT YOU STILL A HATA (bodiqua, bodega. . .)

Yeah dudes, I’m weird. The best part is I haven’t heard that song in probably at least a good 5 or 6 years. Now here I am, in my sweats and pull-over high school football hoodie, watching my orange cat’s paw slide up underneath my door from the other side, desperately trying to get in somehow without my knowledge so she can slyly sneak to my lime garbage can and crinkle that damned ice cream cookie cellophane wrapper I keep forgetting to throw away in the kitchen trash.

Current soundtrack is ranging all over the board tonight—first it was old school Justin Timberlake, transitioning to some Cold War Kids and back again to some Pixies—it always comes back to the Pixies. I was listening to a bunch of their joints earlier this evening on my brown line commute home. Can’t wait to see them again, one month and 14 days, ya’ll. Saw them once in 2004 during their reunion tour at the same exact location I’ll see them five years later at, the Aragon. Strangest part there is instead of a four hour drive down; it’s now a twenty minute walk to this Uptown staple. Way to go me, I guess. (High five).

I did manage to escape Wisconsin and get to a bigger, louder place. Some days though, as much as I love this city of mine, I think to myself. What’s next? Where to? I gave Chicago a shot, made it happen—is it time to move onto the next chapter? New York maybe? Austin? Time to settle down and move it on up to Minneapolis? Probably not. . . Here I am, going into my fourth year and finally--fucking FINALLY, have a respectable social circle of friends, where if my one friend is busy on a Friday night, I’m not going to cry myself to sleep with a pint of Ben and jerry’s. Options, gang, options. But actually, the older I get and the colder fall gets, the more appealing that last situation sounds. . . Man, come on. This whole exercise of rambles is supposed to get my mind dancing on some certain topic that will inspire me to follow a random topic until something readable is produced. Instead my mind keeps wandering to that platter of freshly baked brownies I just whipped up in the kitchen. Treats! For the kids! At work! Oh man. Now I’m listening to Karen O and the Kids, the score for Where the Wild Things Are. I swear, it’s like my favorite band is a guest star on a children’s show—Yeah Yeah Yeahs meets Sesame Street. It fucking rules. Makes me happy, smile and wish I was playing kickball with kids or frolicking on a beach or something. It’s really climbing its way into my little soulless heart, maybe even my top ten for the year. Oh wait, there’s an idea to tackle. . .

Top ten of 2009 thus far. . . GO!

i used to be a really motivated and talented writer (back in 2007 - had better music taste, too)

see? (click me)

my own personal ad

Sometimes I wonder to myself how many men I’ve tentatively reserved my hand in marriage to in my life. I guess the contest of my eternity isn’t restricted to male competitors, come to think of it, I did recently wish aloud that I could be the one and only Mrs. Karen O; but down to brass tacks (what a dumb saying-did I even say that right?), I’m pretty sure I wasn’t serious with any of my wish list proposals. In the last week even, I think I’ve pondered my left ring finger’s possibilities to the likes of Andrew Bird, Andrew WK, both members of the Clipse, Elliott Smith’s corpse, the weird looking guy from Arcade Fire, Kevin Barnes and Kanye West alone. I know I’ve shared my lifelong ambition (at least since 2 weeks ago) of getting knocked up by Lil Wayne (even if that shit means I’m just poking holes in condom wrappers, the ultimate trickery), to at least 3 people.

Nobody seems to get that one, but don’t you see? It would be my golden ticket to babymamahood. My baby would have golden grillz, sweet face tats, and Lil Wayne doesn’t seem exactly to be hurting for cash (at least not with Birdman handing off million dollar packed Gucci cases for 26th birthdays), we’s the same age, he could make me laugh, and I wouldn’t give two shits with all the other bitches he’d be sticking it to. Plus, I’d probably get a sneak peek at any upcoming mixtapes and get free cds. That would be dope as hell. Who gives a crap if you can’t understand a word coming out of Weezy’s mouth? Not me, I still think it’s the ultimate goal of procreation. I don’t particularly want to be a mother or heave any puppies out of my lady bits, but fuck man, being able to link myself to the Martian for at least 18 years of my life would be hilarious to say the least. (If this plan doesn’t work, I really need to find a new job). One where I am distracted enough to not make plans of seducing (by force, if necessary); dirty little rappers in lieu of working for a respectable income.

Tricking rappers into making me babies aside, I wonder who else I’ve unknowingly promised my life to. I’m wracking my brain, struggling to remember who my first real crush was, who the first man I hopelessly sighed about when daydreaming, the first JRR + (xx) in pink glitter pen hearts. I know when I was 14; it was definitely Damon Albarn, a sexpot I’d still definitely bone today. Hey Blur reunion, get in my bedroom right now, you can come too, Graham Coxom and other two dudes whose names I don’t know, if you must. Oh, and then there were the days when MXPX and blink-182 rocked my world. Hahahahahaaha, sadly, those gents are probably much more likely to bed me than Dwayne Carter. I still remember being 17 and absolutely dumbfounded when I watched Good Charlotte and Mxpx rock the Rave in Milwaukee, having no idea what the VIP sticker the mysterious guy handed me meant, and why he said I was welcome back stage. It must have been my sexy punk rock safteypin torn up No Boundaries jeans I was rocking. Or my manic panic goopy pink highlighted hair. God I was cool, I think I need to rewind back to my senior year of high school style—at least then I could probably score at pop punk shows. But yeah, shit—who was the very first dreamboat? The original Mr. Jodi Robin Root. Was it a fellow Argyle Elementary student? Was it that kickass cartoon Grape Ape that rode around on top of cars? Was it Huey Lewis? (Def not the News, though--I always have had a weakness for Sports, since age 6, even.) Maybe I’ll never know who was the first, hell I’m having a hard time right now remembering who the last was.

I do know one thing though; I know I haven’t met whoever the last will be—or at least the next. I can’t even remember the last time I wrote my full name in cursive followed with a different last name other than my own—well, actually I can, it was when I thought I found my biological father and I was freaking the fuck out thinking my last name was actually going to be Goul. Can you imagine that? Jodi Robin Ghoul. That’s hott, right? Orrrrr not. Root ain’t so bad after all. I guess I’d probably marry Andy Samberg, he’s pretty kewl. Or Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles, he was pretty hot, even for an 80s guy. I’m sure 20 years later he’s still driving that sweet ass red porsche around, making out with 16 year old red heads over lit birthday cakes. I’d wear an 80’s peach bridesmaid dress like molly ringwald’s if it meant I could tap that ass.

All bravado and bullshit aside, I don’t think I’m the type of person who really could get married. I run away at the slightest possibility of interest in me. I am probably the absolute worst person I know at accepting compliments or flattery. It grosses me out. Say something nice to me and I wince like you just busted a line of beer farts. Tell me I’m pretty and you’re a pervy creep. Try to see me more than 3 times and I’m already on the other side of the planet. How the hell I managed to have a boyfriend for nearly four years is beyond me, I guess it probably had something to do with the lack of gooey terms of endearment. Mike called me things like Jodes or Boobs (I do have a nice set), and that was as sweet as I let it get, but after a while we were pretty much like an 80 year old couple or brother and sister duo anyway. Other than him, though, damn, I think my record was in high school for the super glorious 18 months of Jodi and Keith back in 10th-11th grade. And boy, oh boy was I a Nazi control freak with that poor schmuck. Ha! But again, we set our LOVE on a mutual obsession with blink 182 and vans sneakers and our inabilities to balance on a skateboard.

Between my failed puppy love and attempt at adult romantic normalcy, I’ve teetered on verges of interest—random drunken make out seshes in college (both male and female, cuz c’mon, I was sooooo wacky and experimental), off and on sparks with summer Tommy Bartlett flings (letting people you work with see you naked is always a very, very AWESOME (read, horrible) and awkward idea—no matter how many jager bombs in and young and skinny you may be), a (very) small handful of sickening obsession crushes (that could never, never be because I’m just way too emo like that), and then just casual dates with boring dudes that liked me and made the fatal mistake of complimenting me.

I joke a lot saying I’ll just wind up a crazy cat lady—and really this might wind up being the truth since I’m already half there. It’s like I’m sickeningly obsessed with finding a boyfriend, but at the same time fighting like mother fucking hell against actually pursuing any chances or options that come my way. Plus, I sincerely believe that I enjoy the company of my orange tabby more than 85% of the people I know, gross, right? It’s like I’m the pickiest not picky at all person that ever existed.

Here is how you know you will pass the Jodi test of love. Do you:
A) Wear glasses? (Not sure why, but this helps).
B) Like Kanye West? (Not mandatory, but def again helps at least on the attraction front).
C) Like to read (AND/OR) write? (Dude’s gotta be intelligent or I’ll get really bored really fast—although any artistic form of creativity works (drawer, painter, musician, etc), just don’t be a boring tool).
D) Think I’m hilarious? (I’m not, so maybe its best that you don’t—we all know how the flattery thing works with me, but if you laugh secretly to yourself than you probably won’t want to punch me in the face as often as most people).
E) Are a bit of an asshole? (This can either be read as playing hard to get, or sadly, just being an overall dick—that whole girl thing of liking the assholes is sadly true, but if you’re not a jerkstore you can at least play it off by ignoring a couple of my phone calls).
F) Like cats? (But not LOVE them, b/c I’m the girl here and I have the be the one who’s REALLY into the cats, it’s just kind of weird if a dudes likes my Molly more than me, sorry).
G) Get a kick out of dance parties? (You don’t have to boogie down yourself, if checkin out tha hood internet ain’t yer thang, but c’mon drunken sexy dance parties are the best).
H) Are patient? (I’m sure as hell not, and at least one of us would need to be or we’d be at each other’s throats).
I) Spontaneous? (I hate people that plan way too much and are overly careful—even though I am myself, so maybe scratch this one—although I am pretty random and stubborn with last minute ideas (see, not waiting even a day for my friend to go get my cat skull and crossbones tattoo 2 weeks ago)
J) Like to make out? (I’m a liplocker whore. No excuses).
K) Ok with Hall&Oates? (Because if you’re not then you are not good in my book).
L) Drink? (Let’s face it; I’m not exactly sober these days.)

So, if you win on those answers, and are okay with me ever getting up and cheating on you at the drop of a dime with Lil Wayne to fulfill my lifelong aspiration of having his child (don’t worry I wouldn’t be his girlfriend or anything, just take his sperm and bone him—we could still go steady though afterwards and you could be lil Wayne’s baby’s stepdad), then maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you take me out more than 3 times and let you meet my mom—as long as you don’t fucking compliment me, that is.

Wow, did I just write my own personal ad? MATCH DOT COM EAT YER MUTHER FUCKING HEARTZ OUT.

Fear of Flying

“Are you also frightened?” she whispered in my ear.I nudged her ear with my nose and held her closer, just because I didn’t know what else I could really do. She shuddered slightly as if a nerve ran up her spine and relaxed, collapsing in my arms—her arm bent awkwardly on my lap. All I could keep thinking is hurry up. Hurry up. What was keeping Remy so long from calling us back? Here we were, scrunched in this uncomfortable car, in an unfamiliar parking lot in a shitpit of a town, where god knows what the regulars did for fun. I mean, it’s not like we were in some vampire town or we were about to get lynched, but it wasn’t a fun situation regardless to be . I think it was all of the confederate flags and empty Budweiser cans alongside the back roads that really put me at unease.

“What do you think happened to Remy? Do you think he got lost?” she asked, looking deeply into my eyes with tired uncertainty, tinged with despair.

“I’m sure he’s fine. Knowing him, he probably just stopped by a fireworks stand alongside the highway and got distracted with the abundance of cherry bombs and cheapass firecrackers,” I tried to fake a smile, but I’m pretty sure she read through my bullshit. Deep down we both knew something was wrong, we just couldn’t know anything for sure. Did he hit a deer? Did he stand us up and get caught? Fuck, who knows with that dude. I didn’t dare say anything to Jen though, she would freak out if I admitted I was just as worried as she was. We were perfect together after all, both two obsessive paranoid scaredy cats, clutching one another in the dark as if the boogeyman was about to get us.

I was starting to regret this whole thing. What were we thinking? I knew I shouldn’t have taken a whole week straight off of work, my finances were practically in ruins and running away from the situation in the office didn’t mean everything would be clean and forgotten upon my return, even if it was paid vacation time. As my mind started to dwell back on all of the things I’d been striving so hard to forget, (fuck, that was the purpose of this trip right?), my contact fell out. Just like that. I must have squinted too hard when I remembered the confrontation with Lindsey before I walked out and forced my eyes shut as if to erase the memory, or maybe not. But fuck; now here I was in the middle of bum fuck nowhere, in the dark, with a beautiful girl on the verge of tears, and no sight in my right eye. “Jen?” I gently moved her long auburn hair behind her right ear. “Babe? I need you not to move. Can you please slowly turn the overheard map light on? I don’t want you to freak out, but I just lost my contact.”

“Em you cannot be serious! Just what we need, shit!”

“Jen, come on. I can’t see, seriously, just move slow so we can find it.”
From what I could read of her facial expression on the left hand side, she was giving me one of her famous What-The-Fuck-Ever looks, but she did as I asked and turned on the light, slowly. We spent maybe five minutes, combing the lint and filth ridden interior of my 93 Camry’s floor interior and found nothing. Shit. This was fantastic, especially considering Jen didn’t have a driver’s license and her driving experience amounted to a rider lawnmower in high school and a go-kart on our last trip to Valley Fair. To top it all off, she was acting like this was my fault, that I had intentionally lost my sight just to sabotage an already miserable situation, so we could wind up two dead dykes in the middle of Texas Chainsaw Massacreville. I was getting not only her famous What-The-Fuck-Ever look, but also the silent treatment, unless of course you count her repetitive exaggerated deep sighs of contempt.

Just then, my pocket vibrated and a familiar chime jingle played. Remy, thank god.
I yanked my arm away from behind Jen’s stiff body and dug deep in my left jean pocket. She looked at me, expectantly and still leery, but I just ignored her. Losing no time, I flipped open my Nokia. “Remy, where the fuck have you been dude? We’ve been waiting here forever, man.”

“Heeeeeeey Emiliah. What’s goin’ onnnnn girlfraaand?”

Great. He was stoned. This was not going to be good.

“Remy what the hell? Are you high? Where are you???” This definitely brought another impatient demanding look from Jen, who was beyond What-the-Fuck-Ever and had now officially entered Fix-This-Now-or-You-Will-Never, and- I-mean- Never, Get-Laid-Again territory.

“Emily, chill. It’s all good. Well, I mean, not exactly. I started heading your way, I did. I even found my jumper cables! But when I started driving I decided since it was gonna be such a long drive, I may as well make it enjoyable and lit up. I fucking hit a raccoon dude! A raccoon! It freaked me out man. I swerved and shit and a cop was going the opposite way, saw me swerve to miss the other raccoon and next thing you know, I got pulled over, and well dude, ha. I got arrested for possession. Sucks, man.”

“What the fuck?? Are you in jail right now? Remy, I swear to god you better be joking to get a rise out of me. This is not funny.”

“Well, no dude. This is my one call. I figured my roommate wouldn’t be able to do shit for me and you’re the only person I know who would actually come get my ass, but it doesn’t look like they’ll be holding me much longer—they just need to give me some tickets and court date bullshit but I think I’ll be outta here by morning.”
“Remy Johnston. Words cannot describe my disappointment with you right now.”

“Sorry Emiliah, I know this blows but at least you’re not in jail dude. Why don’t you just call Triple A or start walking to the closest gas station? I’m sure you can get towed or something.”

“Dude, I can’t even talk to you right now. Call me when you get your ass out of jail.” I slammed the flip phone shut.

My girlfriend continued her ice queen glare.

“Jen, I cannot handle this right now. I have no sight in my right eye, my car is busted in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and it’s starting to get cold as shit outside right now. Remy’s in jail, apparently he got busted smoking weed and swerving alongside the highway so it’s just you and me sister. Get used to it, we’re going to have to get our asses out and walk to town.”

She just looked at me, her expression impossible to read. “Em, fuck. I told you, my
feet kill in these shoes and my leg hurts too much to walk anywhere really far. Why the fuck did we come all the way up to bumfuck Wisconsin anyway? I was completely happy just taking a week off of work and lounging around our apartment in the city. This is so typical. What the FUCK!” She started getting worked up. Great, I love it when she gets like this.

“Jen, this is no time for an argument. I do not have the energy and it’s not going to change a damn thing. I should have just called Triple A from the beginning; I don’t know what I was thinking Remy would be able to do anything for us.”

I dug out my phone again, cursing my childhood best friend for being such a typical dumbass. What did I know? I mean, he was a part-time mechanic and lived a mere hour and a half away from where we were currently stranded. I figured if he couldn’t get my Camry up and running, he could at least give us a lift to his place until we figured things out in the morning. All I wanted was a week of silence and relaxation, an escape from the busyness at work, the stress of a breaking relationship and a temptation that should have remained unacted upon. A week of gazing at the stars in the country fields, long walks in the cool autumn breeze, night picnics along the lake, reconnection and meditation. Grasping desperately to connect again with my lover of four years, hoping to forget and start anew. But nope, now we were just two dysfunctional lesbians, resenting the shit out of one another in the middle of nowhere. One impatient and more irritable than the Snake Goddess herself and the other just jaded as fuck, with no energy remaining or sight, for that matter.

Flipping open my phone again, I noticed the battery and signal was on its last bar. Great, just get me through to roadside service. That’s all I ask, please. I dialed 411 and was connected a 24-hour towing service. A gruff raspy voice answered, “Mike’s emergency roadside service, what canni doya’ fer?”

I gave the man our approximate location and explained the situation and he told us the soonest he could get a truck out was in two hours. Great, well at least we finally had some form of resolution—and it was only going to throw me back three hundred dollars. This vacation ruled, to say the least. Jen had grown tired with me and had buried herself in the backseat under our coats and was pretending to sleep. Let her pout, I figured—giving up and setting my phone alarm for an hour and a half and turned to my side on the driver’s seat of the car for a quick catnap myself. It was 2:43 am.

I dreamt of Lindsey and airplanes. Suddenly I was motion sick, struggling for my life to snap out of my trance, just to wake up. I couldn’t. I was buried deep in REM. Lindsey was here, smiling at me. Seductively staring at me from afar, but suffocating me with her presence, holding me down. Her black hair was down, covering her face, covering mine. “Emily,” she whispered, sweetly and forbidden. “Emily, come to me. Come to me,” and I was on a jet. Flying away, strapped tightly in my seat—in a sickly smelling commercial jetliner, with no other passengers present. I was flying, but no idea where. I tried to remove my safety belt, to find a stewardess, someone, anyone—who could just tell me where I was headed. But I couldn’t, it was as if the iron clasps were molded together. I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t move anything, really, except my head. I glanced nervously to my right, my left, out the window into the night clouds. “Emily,” she whispered. I couldn’t see Lindsey, but she was still in my head, whispering my name, bringing back memories of the one night when my better judgment went out the window and I let myself succumb. “Emily, come to me.” And the plane took a nosedive, crashing, spiraling downward at a frightening speed, myself strapped into the seat, unable to even grab at the dangling oxygen mask. It was all happening so fast, so fast. “Emily, Emily, Emily. . . .” I want to wake up, this is just a dream. I need to wake up, now. I struggled to return to reality, drugged into my coma.

Three loud knocks to my left returned me to reality. Rap, rap, rap. Rap, rap, rap. I shook awake, “shit.”

An unsmiling man in greasy overalls, industrial boots and a utility belt stood in front of a blinding pair of headlights. I squinted with my one good eye. “Miss Richard, I’m here from Mike’s Towing. Rise and shine,” he huffed.
Jen rolled in the backseat, moaning. “Finally,” she grumbled.

Two and a half hours and three hundred charged dollars on my American Express later, Jen and I finally found ourselves at a deserted looking bed and breakfast in some village called Mount Horeb, which prided itself on being Troll Town, the capital of Trolls. Great, my ideal get away. Of course all that was wrong with my car was a dead battery, but that now being resolved, Jen and I had gotten ourselves back on the road and checked into a rented room, reeking of mothballs and lined to the nines with yellow linen, yellow wallpaper and quarters who’s amenities boasted A/C and Color Television with HBO.

Unable to sleep after my crazy episode earlier, I lay in the bed beside my still upset girlfriend, staring at the water stained ceiling. Luckily for me, after rummaging through my duffle bags I did find an extra emergency contact lens in my bathroom bag, it was for my left eye versus my right, but anything would make do for the time being as long as I could make out facial features and see road signs. After tossing restlessly for a half hour, I decided to eventually take my chances and use the moldy shower, nearly slipping on the rubber grip peeling butterfly decals on the bottom of the tub, eyes stinging by the odor of the sour lemon soap bar. The sticky plastic shower curtain and mint green shower rings almost made me sick to my stomach, thinking of all the countless old people and truck drivers who had cleansed themselves in this stall before me, but trooping through the motions of a shower nonetheless.

Feeling remotely closer to a normal human being, I strolled to the lobby of the house inn and had a stale cup of lukewarm coffee, thinking. All I could think about was Lindsey, not Jen. I was kidding no one at this point, not even myself. There was no way Jen and I would make it out of this. She didn’t know about Lindsey, I didn’t even see the point in coming clean with her. This trip was my final test to see if I had enough faith in us to make it past this rut. If she knew about Lindsey she would freak out beyond repair. I wasn’t so much worried about myself, or our relationship, but for her. I knew it wasn’t fair to keep my affair from her, but Jen scared me when she got in one of her spells. She had a past of harming herself, or at least wasn’t reluctant to whip out a threat of self-destruction. “You may know where I keep my toiletries, but keep in mind Emily, that anyone can go purchase a dollar store Lady Bic. Just remember that. You can’t keep tabs on me always.”

Why I stuck around for that, I didn’t know. Sure I loved Jen, or at least I did at one point. She was my life for the past four years. We graduated college together, moved to a new city together. Started our adult lives as one. Had plans for the rest of our lives, a tiger cat named Herman and a cozy condo on the north side. She was my girl and I was her protector. We belonged together. And then her moods took over. She got restless. Tired, accusatory, angry. For no reason, some days just out of the blue, just like that—she would snap. And since she had no friends other than me, I was the target of her demise. I became more successful at work, put in longer hours in the office and made a few close acquaintances. Jen did not like this one bit, and the fewer hours we spent together became more and more involved with accusations and my tireless self defense instead of our forgotten cuddles and candle lit rendezvous’ in the bathtub.

So of course, after Lindsey and I began spending more time together on our account analysis project, I began to soften under her sexy glances and reciprocate her flirty advances. It was three weeks ago when we completed our briefing to the client, which resulted with each of our promotions into the account management department. To celebrate we had an innocent happy hour, which turned into seven cosmopolitans for her and nine too many dirty martinis for me. Jen had been in one of her spells and had left for the weekend to visit her sister and brother in law. I was on cloud nine, a $4,000 raise and finally feeling as if I had not a worry in the world. She was so beautiful that night, and her advances were impossible to deny. That night. . . one I would not be able to forget soon enough even if I wanted to.

How did I get from then to here? The feeling of cloud nine to the helpless state of brokenness. I took a final swig of the now cold Maxwell house in the Styrofoam coffee cup and felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. “Where are you?” It was Jen. I glanced at the countryesque mother goose maroon clock on the wall of the lobby and saw it was now 1:30 in the afternoon. “I’m hungry and you’re not here, why didn’t you leave me a note?”

“I’m sorry, babe. I’m in the lobby trying to stomach this shit coffee. I’ll be up in a minute.” This got me a disapproving glare from the silver wired hair grandmother owner, who sat behind a metal high school teacher’s desk which was supposedly serving as the front desk of the inn.

“You ain’t gunna find no starbucks around here, missy—so I’m sawry if my cawfee ain’t up to yer precious standards, princess.” She croaked at me, looking down her nose.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I huffed awkwardly and ran across the linty lavender carpet towards the stairwell to my room.

Jen was all showered and dressed when I got back to our room. She looked at me cautiously, but sweetly. “Em, I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been the nicest girl to be around since we left Chicago but I thought about everything and know you were just trying to make things right. I was being selfish. Can we start over?” She smiled at me sweetly, and she was wearing her green halter dress she knew was my favorite.
Feeling guilty of my thoughts towards Lindsey, I forced a smile. “Of course, Jen. I know, things weren’t smooth sailing on our way here, and I know you’ve been stressed out. Let’s just start over and try to enjoy ourselves.”

Looking relieved, she stood up from her position on the bed and walked towards me and leaned on my shoulder, wrapping her gentle arms around my waist. “I love you, thank you for taking such good care of me.”

I hugged her back. “What do you say we start our trip new by getting the hell out of here?”

“Let’s do it,” she squeezed, looking up at me with trying eyes.

After checking out of our grandma inn, we drove for hours, and days, through the fields of corn and curvy roads of Wisconsin nature. We spent the remainder of our week long trip navigating the woods hiking, exploring ancient museums of cluttered antiques, camping and tasting full samples of Wisconsin breweries. While we left the unspoken tension of our relationship aside, we even had a decent time. No more arguments, no more auto breakdowns, just silent contentment. We even made love on two separate occasions, once along the river in a tent outside of Castle Rock and another beside a fireplace in an inn in Eagle River. It was a peaceful mini-road trip and we had done our best to reconnect. The whole time, however, I knew it was over and this was the final chapter to our tumultuous relationship. Thoughts of Lindsey would not keep quiet. Threats of tomorrow forever looming.

Our final night before reality returned, we stayed at an Embassy Suites in the suburbs outside of Chicago. We might as well make it last as long as we can before inevitably we have to face the facts. That night we ordered mediocre Chinese from a joint across the highway and rented a pay-per-view soft-core film. Trying to ease me into the mood, Jen started giving me a backrub in her lacey black Victoria’s Secret nightie. My stomach and conscious were both too upset to give into her advances, however, and she picked up on my unease. “Emily, what’s going on? What happened to us?” she sighed, wiping a tear away from the corner of her left eye before it could fall.

I bit my lower lip. “It’s the general tsao’s chicken, I’m sorry I just am not feeling super hot right now. Maybe we can try watching this again later after I take a nap and I’ll feel more up to it.”

“That’s not it, Em. I know there’s something else going on. You have been distant and away this entire trip. It’s been months since we’ve been ourselves; I know it and so do you. I don’t know what to do. The more I try and reach out to you, the tighter you shut yourself away. I freak out, lash out, and I know my behavior is more destructive to us than helpful, but I just get so scared. . .” she broke off, her voice wavering and tears began to flow freely down her cheeks.

“Baby,” I reached out to her shoulder, holding her and placing my other palm on her cheek to wipe away her tears. “What can I say? I mean, I think we both know what’s happening here. I love you, you love me. What more is there to say? Some things are just too beautiful to last forever.”

She broke down, convulsing and flooding with tears and snot streaming down her porcelain face. “You had an affair, Emily. I know all about it. You think I’m an idiot? I just wanted to see how long you could hold it in, keep it to yourself before you grew a soul and told me. It’s not the fact that you cheated that hurts the most, either. It’s the lying part. I was prepared, though. Really, really, really. . . “ she sobbed. “I was, I was even willing to forgive you, but now it’s too late.”

I was speechless. “Jennifer. Seriously, what are you talking about?” I froze up; suddenly I was transported back to the airplane, strapped tightly into the passengerless plane, unable to move. Suffocated by my own situation, drowning with fear and unable to move. “Emily. . . Emily, come to me,” Lindsey’s voice whispering in my inner thoughts. I gulped unknowingly, knowing there was no saving myself. This plane was crashing and I was going down, spiraling into defeat, entirely defenseless.

“Emily, how could you? I never went to Amanda and Brian’s that night. I stayed home, waiting for you. I had a special candle lit dinner prepared to celebrate your promotion; I had it planned the entire week after your big presentation. I knew you had a happy hour planned to celebrate with your partner, but I trusted you. Around 8:30 I started to get worried, but when midnight rolled around and you still hadn’t come home I knew something was up. I stayed up all night waiting for you, wearing my silly apron, waiting at the table with this fantastic feast—and I finally gave up at 6:00 and drove to my sister’s after all. I had suspicions you had feelings for this other woman, but this was my proof.”

Darkness was clouding in on me. The pain and hurt on Jen’s twisted, blotchy, wet face was more than I could stomach. I felt the sweet and hot sourness of my Chinese begin to rise in my throat.

Suddenly, Jen stood up. “It’s over Emily. We both knew this was coming, anyway.” She grabbed a handful of tissues and blew her nose long and hard, wiping her face clear with her robe she had since slipped over her nightgown. “I wish it could have ended differently, that we could have resolved and salvaged things. I didn’t tell you that I knew this because I was hoping you would have come clean on this trip. In preparation that you wouldn’t, however, I took the liberty of having Amanda come pack my things at the place and everything’s at her apartment already. The condo’s yours. You can run off to your beloved Lindsey, yes I know her name, your tendency to talk in your sleep gave you away weeks ago.” She was surprisingly composed at this point and her look of sadness had hardened into hatred.

“You really are a bitch, you know that? I loved you, I gave you my heart.”

I still said nothing, eyes closed. It all made sense now. Her irritable moods. Her sudden unspoken resentment, the distance. I returned to that moment in the car, broken down outside of the Wisconsin border in that no name town when she was in my
arms, asking me if I was also frightened. I suddenly realized she wasn’t frightened of the darkness outside, or the broken down car, but of the future—of the repercussion of my selfish actions. How I had slipped and fled from reality. I realized now, much too late of course, that yes, I was frightened. Lindsey was not the solution, Jennifer not the problem. I was strapped in this crashing airplane, heading nowhere but to my own destruction. Suffocating, trapped, heading nowhere fast.

I haven’t seen or talked to Jennifer or Lindsey since 2008. It’s been a year and a half since I’ve had any sort of resemblance to a stable sexual or emotional relationship. I’ve learned, however, that fleeting from fright, and denying yourself the harsh inevitable truths of human nature is not the solution. Closing yourself off to others and denying your true instincts is only destructive to one’s self. I have finally accepted this and am day by day getting closer to my fear of intimacy. I do, however, still have the reoccurring nightmare in the airplane. The only fear deeper than my fear of flying is of fear itself.

Family Tides

You know what’s cool? Getting drunk on a Saturday night and having nobody better to drunken text at 1:03 am than your 41 year old brother. Especially when the text reads: “I don’t know about this Lilith fair thang, I don’t do that.” Last drunken text a few weeks back read, “RATFINK DIARIES!,” and prior to that, “Pavi says thanks for forgetting your kid sister’s birthday!”, which received replies of, “Don’t you have anyone else you can drunk text instead of me?” and “Who’s Pavi?” I’m sure he finds me absolutely as hilarious as I find myself 9-pbr’s in. Gets me, thinks I’m hip, etc. Can’t wait to show him the new black cat skull and cross bones tattoo I’m rocking on my left foot. I’m sure he’ll be proud to call me his lil’ sis then, brag to all his hotshot vets about my ink when he takes them golfing on schmoozey business trips.

Me: I’m 26 years old, live in a 2 bedroom apartment in a quaint neighborhood in Chicago called Lincoln Square, been in the city going on 3.5 years now. Crazy, to think about really. I’m from a small ass Wisconsin town near the border of Illinois called Argyle, yes like the socks. I graduated with a class of around 30 kids, and know 89% of the town on a first named basis, still to this day being 8 years removed. I grew up kind of like an only child, the brother I mention above is half, we have a 15 year age gap, he my senior—but I hate telling people he’s “half,” because really he and I are blood, and there’s no halving that. He has always been the closest thing I’ve had growing up to refer to as a father figure, and even though he can be a total dork at times, he’s also been a valuable mentor to me, both as a professional but also as a human being. He proved to me that it takes a hell of a lot more than food stamps and a limited culture upbringing to hold you back from going after what’s yours and making it happen.

We both grew up without any other siblings, raised in a “single” parent household, by our mother. Mom always had a variety of boyfriends, more so when Jamie was growing up than me, (there was just one in my childhood and it doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere anytime soon). But both Jamie and I grew up without a “dad,” or even meeting who the appropriate sperm donors were, for that matter. I bet it was harder for him, since he’s a guy and all, I wonder what it would have been like sometimes, if I had been raised by a father, without a mother. If the gender swap really would affect who I am today. . . Actually, that’s a lie. Typing that out right now is the first time I ever thought about what it would be like to not have mom, but to have some strange man called “father” raising me instead. Weird. It must have been even stranger for Jamie growing up as a kid with just a mom than me.

Anyway, Jamie grew up in the 70’s and 80’s, where I was more of an 80’s, 90’s blend. Where I had slap bracelets and paint splatter jumpers, he rocked the big hair and lived in the whole hippie peace revolution. Mom even had a blonde afro at one point—that had to have been traumatizing to witness as a 10-year old kid. There’s a generation gap, to say the least. He doesn’t understand my tattoos. I don’t get his golf obsession. I get pumped up by Kanye West, he turns to Inxs.

Jamie now lives in the suburbs of Chicago, about a 45 minute to an hour drive away from my neighborhood. He has a pretty fantastic wife and three incredibly intelligent, strong minded and awesome kids—2 daughters and one son. He managed to overcome some pretty hardcore setbacks, coming from where we did and making it to where he is now, and I look to him whenever I begin to doubt where I’m heading with my own life. I see him, with his family and success and think; ok if he did it I can too. And really, we have mom to thank for that ultimately. While she may not have led the most socially acceptable lifestyle (what you didn’t grow up associating the skunk odor of marijuana with “tobacco,” “these are hand rolled cigarettes, Jodi, I don’t care what you learned in D.A.R.E”; or find moms mystery straws, full of white powdery residue in her toiletry bag looking for makeup to play dress-up in “Mom why do you have cut up McDonald’s straws?”?), she did instill values in us, believe it or not. Told us college was not an option, but a necessity. Encouraged our dreams, told us we could do and be anything we set our minds to. Told us we were the very bestest, despite the taunting of classmates “DOUBLE PANE SOUNDPROOF”—fuck off, jerks, these are government funded glasses, not your trendy ass wireframes.

While we may not have had enough money to own a properly operating automobile (hellllllo thumb tacked/stapled ceiling upholstery, go-kart mufflerville, rusty eyesore deluxe), or send us to school in the hip new fashions (I rocked the bib overall look 3 years too late) and maybe the ceilings in our porches were constantly rotting (don’t walk on the balcony, you’ll fall through!), my mom did manage to make sure Santa still visited every year and got us “the goods.” I’ll never forget the years I got a super Nintendo with Aladdin. I’m pretty sure Jamie had something to do with making that happen too, (thanks bro). Or the year I got the cowgirl Barbie, complete with her horse. “Don’t look at quantity, Jodi,” they’d tell me, as I’d be in mid-hissy fit outside of Wal-Mart, upset with ONLY one toy, versus two, “Look at quality.” I didn’t get it then, but I get it now. I didn’t play with no generic dolls, I had Barbies (fuck you Jem, with your oversized flat feet)—with the official accessories—while we may not have had it made ourselves, my damned dolls were living in luxury, complete with the hotel elevator, Ferrari, evening gowns and baby grand piano (which actually played real music – up until I chucked it at a wall in a frantic fury when forced into naptime—mom wasn’t too thrilled with me that day).

I am always curious about my brother. What his childhood was like. I’ve asked him questions and he’s told me some stories. Sometimes in long car rides, sometimes over a corona in hushed tones in his dimly lit kitchen, hours after the rest of the family had retired for the night. I’ve grown to love these conversations with my brother, spending one-on-one time with him and getting to know who he is as an individual. You love your family, you kind of have to. But do you ever really get to know them? Or do you just blindly accept them as your kin and get on with it? Jamie and I never really had much of a relationship before, since I was the equivalent to a hyperactive googly eyed Tasmanian devil, while he was more or less in college or already in adult hood. He got married at my age, 26, and had his first child at age 30; I was only 12 and 15 then. We’ve always been on different planes in life. Now I’m 26, and while I don’t see marriage or motherhood in my immediate future, I have (albeit against my rebellious will) entered corporate America as a young professional. We can talk business. I get what he’s talking about now, and I think he gets what I’m blabbering about more so than some of my closest friends or our mom. (Pivot charts! Business rules! Direct reports!)

I respect him more than I think I respect anyone else I know, even if he can piss me off sometimes (Me, age 19; him, age 33; “Jodi the more you continue to mutilate your body (my new star and moon tattoo on my foot), the more I feel distanced from you. You continue to push against the mainstream and I can’t connect with you. You’ll never get a professional job with all of this excess tattooing and I’m saying this for your own well-being.” Me: seveeeeerely angsty bitchass passive email to him telling him basically to fuck off. I still tease him about it to this day. I only wish my cutesy moon and star tattoo then was the badass cat skull and crossbones I’m rocking now. Oh, and I don’t think I need to remind him of my profession or salary despite my ‘mutilated skin’, either).

But really, I do hope he sees me as more than just his kid sister and is enjoying getting to know me as much as I do him. I try to force new music on him. I try to get him to open up and live a little more compulsively (but fail, time and time again—c’mon, Jame, you know you want to drive me to Milwaukee to see Bon Iver, you would realllly like it—I know it’s on a Sunday night and there’s work in the morning, but it’s for your birthday, live a little! Him – “I have a golf outing.”) He tries to get me to read boring books (Conrad, really? Gimme Fitzgerald or Huxley anyday, but spare me the Conrad please) and lure me into the burbs on the weekends (“It’d be sooo great to see you Jod, come up on the Fourth of July, you don’t have anything better going on as a single 20-something female in the city do you?” Bitch, please).

He’s the yin to my yang. We are different as can be. But one of my favorite photographs is the one and only family portrait we’ve ever posed in “professionally”. One of those K-mart type family photographers. My mom is rocking some 80s pinstriped blouse, smiling without showing her teeth. Jame’s an overexcited victim of the 80’s, wearing this geeky grey striped button up number, poofy hair in the back. I’m thrilled as a button, wrapped up in a red velvety jumper, short crazy hair, smiling ear to ear, probably about 4 or so years old. It’s a good one. Reminds me whenever life throws me a curveball that no matter what, I’ve got my mom and my big bro to back me up.

Shit may go sour from time to time, but I know they’ll still do what they can to support me, as me them. Tides have changed, where now it’s Jame and I stepping into the supportive roles for mom as she gets older, but we’re still a family—the three of us. Even though Jamie once sighed to me when I was pressuring him into some situation or another “Jodi I have my own family now,” (followed by another bitchass chew out email – my brother isn’t known to think fully before words escape his mouth), he’s my broseph. I do everything in my ability to lead by example and be the best Aunt I can be to his children, and consider them my own. Friends will hear me referring to “my kids,” and stop me to correct, “nieces/nephews,” but whatever. I see my brother in each one of their faces—(unfortunately for Ian, he is definitely not the milkman’s son), but I’m proud of them. I’m proud of my brother. I’m proud of my family. My mom just bought her first house last year. She has calmed her lifestyle down substantially and enjoys the little things—gardening, canning vegetables, Law & Order re-runs, rounds of Scrabble followed with homemade bloody Mary’s (“Don’t forget the Absolut, Jod—“the goods,” not that Smirnoff crap,”).

I suppose even though I get bouts of lonely spells and freak out about all the big questions in life, I’m not doing too bad myself either. I’ve got most of my shit together, have a steady job, a kickass cat, some quality friends and a half decent head on my shoulders. I’ve got Momz and Jamez to thank for that—so thanks, fam, for making me who I am today and for keeping it real. I promise not to hurl any more baby grands at the wall come naptime.

j to the izzo, d to the izzay

oh man. i think i figured out whats wrong with me lately and why ive been so goddamn apathetic and indecisive. i havent written in 3 months. like, for reals. this is bad. no creativity = makes jodi a dull boy (or girl, whatever).

i am in the last drag of some awesome ass throat infection sickness, took me down for the count out of the office for two days last week. i was really pretty, fun to be around and an overall blast. but here i am, sunday, sipping on some (waaay too strong) coffee, rockin some jay and forcing my stubborn little fingers to dance on this keyboard.

im not very good with sticking to goals, i guess im more of an idealist than realist and i'll go through these stages where i get all excited and say im going to stick to certain goals and kick some ass, but as soon as i find an excuse the whole resolution is out the window. (see: exercise, dieting, keeping my apt clean, keeping in touch with people, in this case - writing). its hard bc there arent too many shows coming up that id be stoked in covering for mob, so it's not like i can even use a free ticket as motivation/leverage. so from here on out, im going to ramble my ass off and write down every observation and thought that sticks out to me. hopefully i'll be able to cut/paste some ideas together and make something great.
and hopefully i dont give up by tomorrow.

this weekend was ok. friday i saw zombieland with some friends in evanston, i def enjoyed myself. rocked the guitar hero instead of the bottle, so woke up at a reasonable hour on saturday for the first time in forever sans hangover or sore throat. drank a pot of coffee and wound up writing a 4,000 ramble of a short story which in my opinion sucks ass and needs a lot of work, but im not sure i even care enough to put in any edits. i was just excited to sit at my laptop and start typing and continue. and two hours later i had 7 pages single spaced of words and words. maybe ill throw it up here just for kicks, but im not even sure where i was going. i gotta say though, it felt theraputic as fuck and i felt the most accomplished i have in months. like i won a marathon or something.

after writing i met up with a girlfriend and we saw the informant. take my word for it, DO NOT WASTE YOUR TIME and see it, it was a major fail. no good. boring. slow. matt damon was cute and did a good job and all, but the movie itself was just a waste of time that ill never get back. it was something to do though. after that me and my homes checked out the mirah show at schubas which took me back to my days on the she-ra showdown on wrst, my all female format radio gig back in sophomore year. love her. truly an incredible songstress, gorgeous eloquent vox, some massive string work, beautiful orchestration for such a small intimate little rock club. $3 pbrs at a venue aint so bad either. hung for some brews with my girl and then called it a night. a cute saturday, overall. i felt good.

today, though i had heightened expectations for productivity. 'hey jodi, today you will write an essay. you will go for a jog. you will write another story.' you will not lay in bed for the entire day, staring obsessively at random people who you haven't even talked to in years' facebook statuses. you will not sing to your cat instead of being productive (yeah right).

i downloaded the where the wild things are sndtrk. gotta say i love karen o to pieces. that girl can sing. pretty music, cant wait for the movie. gonna take the kids to see it in the burbs opening weekend when im stranded in barrington for family get together.

ahhh, so i still have no motivation to write that essay. my words just arent flowing today. i blame it on my cut up fingers, all sticky and sore from accidently punching out my living room window friday night (sticky from bandaids, i hate those goddamn little sticky black lines that stick from the latex bandaid outlines). i am so tempted to just dump out my coffee (motivation juice) and go play some more guitar hero until curb your enthusiasm comes on, but i gotta stick to my goals here. i guess ive always been a bit of an assignment writer, so kids, do me a favor and post some suggestions. ideas, here. the only ideas i currently have flowing have something to do with a cat named dustin hoffman and this image i cant get out of my head from an abandoned towel on the bus bench (enthralling, right?)

ahh. ok. maybe if i turn up the hov, i can get all inspired and shit. til then. . .