The Chronicles Of Jessica

They don't make things the way they used to. Or maybe Paul and I just have bad luck when it comes to "stuff". We bought a television less than two years ago and the stupid thing just died. The tv was an RCA, who are now on my list of products and companies I will not give my money to, along with Radio Shack, Applebees and the Italian restaurant on 8th street where Paul and I had dinner the other week and even though the whole place was empty they seated us next to a bunch of loud Republicans crowing about McCain. Also Long John Silver's. But that policy has been in place for a while now - they know why.

Since when do you get less than two years out of a television set? My old tv set (which had a vcr as part of it) I got my sophomore year in college. It survived all of college, 7 moves (2 across state lines), and countless screeings of B movies and still managed to tape Seinfeld every time I told it to. That was quality engineering. Or whatever. This one started turning itself off randomly about a week ago and after a while it just refused to stay on. I first noticed that it would turn itself off when I would leave the room sometimes and I started to think we had a ghost, a judgemental ghost who disdained me for watching America's Next Top Model and reruns of Biggest Loser. But it started turning itself off during more highbrow fare too, and even though Paul employed his time-honored method of electronics repair (opening things up and blowing on them or into them), the tv stubbornly refused to shape up.

We got on Craigs List and started searching for desperate people about to move who are jettisoning everything they own. This is a great way to get things cheaply. People start to panic when they realize they have a 12 feet of space in the truck and 16 feet worth of crap and they're anxious to get rid of it as quickly as possible. This is where we come in! We can take advantage of that desperation and get a cheap television - it's the American way and a good deed, if you look at it a certain way. Which I do. Paul found a dude in Dupont Circle who is leaving town under what seemed to me to be possibly sketchy circumstances, but whatever. We didn't want to have a threesome with him or anything, we just wanted his tv. So 9 flights of stairs and one herniated husband later - voila! We're back in business.

Now of course we have a dead television set. This presents us with a problem. You can't just put your old set out on the curb and hope it gets picked up. It will sit in a landfill for all eternity and our children and our children's children will all wind up with three boobs and five nostrils if we keep doing that sort of thing. You have to recycle it, you have to be responsible. Or if you're my parents, you can just stick it in the appliance graveyard being housed in one of your half a dozen bedrooms.

Turns out we have to take it to a special e-waste facility on the outskirts of DC and that will probably be just as unpleasant as it sounds. But we have a dead printer we have to get rid of, too and you can't just let these things lie around. If affects the morale of the other appliances.

We also have what appears to be either a large mouse or a small rat in the kitchen but I feel confident the landlady will take care of it right away! Snort. Who am I kidding. That rat will still be living here when we vacate this craptastic place next spring. That rat will have had his mail forwarded, he'll have the games coming in on pay-per-view, he'll have Hunan King on speed dial he'll be so ensconced. We may as well put his name on the lease and give him his own special dish right now.

Ours is not this charismatic.

The embodiment of fitness, but with a healthy dose of irony.

I am in such pain. I started taking a class at my gym called "Tight and Tone", the objectives of which I think should be fairly obvious, and oh, the agony. I have attended faithfully every week since I joined and it never gets any easier. It's not right that one should wince when one has to pee. Having to pick up a dropped paperclip should not produce groans reminscent of an eighty year old man. It hurts to stand up, it hurts to sit, I could barely wash my hair this morning. I really have to wonder when I'll actually get to be in shape, finally ending the vicious process of "getting in shape." This process is like trying to get Paul to clean the bathroom - it's never-ending and the results are generally less than impressive.

If I thought he would go for it, I would convince Paul to become Amish with me, but he'd have to give up his Macbook. Apparently the Amish are the one segment of the American population who get three to five hours of rigorous exercise a day without even trying, just going about their day doing their milking and barn building and whatnot. Which is good because those outfits would not lend themselves to gym-going. Imagine trying not to trip over that long skirt in step class, or keeping that hat on while you do crunches. Very aggravating.

I like exercise up to a point but sometimes it just does not seem worth it. Especially financially! A good sports bra costs around $40. Forty dollars! Just to keep your girls in their place? I have managed to improve on that score though, because the bras I used to have to wear (before the lopping) were upwards of $70. The bra that did the best job in those days was the Enell; actually their slogan was, "The Bounce Stops Here". It was a formidable undergarment. But since it was so expensive I could only afford one and I used to have to rinse it out every night and hang it in the bathroom to dry and if any guests chanced to have to use my bathroom they would always come out asking, "What's with the flak vest on the shower rod?"

Good shoes are outrageous too. Earlier this summer I spent over $100 on a pair of running shoes only to be told last week by my doctor that the arch support in them is crappy and that's why I've been hobbling around with all this heel pain for the past three months, looking like Quasimodo. I went to a specialty store and everything! They examined my pronation or whatever it is, they had me run up and down the sidewalk so they could observe my gait. Then they charged me $100 for a pair of shoes that crippled me, not to mention the $11.95 I shelled out for the wicking socks they talked me into. Wicking socks! I swear I could get talked into a timeshare in the Gaza strip, I am so damn gullible.

It bugs me, these investments of time and money, only to stay pretty much exactly the same. I mean I'm probably doing something good for my heart or something boring like that but who cares? Where's my Misty May Treanor ass? Where are my Linda Hamilton arms? Where are my Pink abs? (Pink the singer; she has kick-ass abs. Though she's a bit manish, it has to be said.) I don't know how much time and effort I would have to invest to get these things. According to the magazines I read (which are of course bastions of journalistic fact) a lot of it comes down to heredity so you might not ever have a killer body no matter how hard you try. So. Um? I don't want to insult my parents on this point, but...well...Hey - what's that over there?! (flees)

You wouldn't have been able to find anything, either.

Saturday was Justin and Allyson's wedding up in New Jersey and Paul was the best man. Justin was Paul's best man, too, and he gave what was widely considered an extremely excellent speech at our wedding, plus he came all the way to Maine, so you know - we had to bring it. Paul wrote a sonnet for them, an actual sonnet with fourteen lines of iambic pentameter as part of his toast, and it was beautiful and funny, and everyone was quite moved. The wedding was absolutely gorgeous and went off without any problems whatsoever, unless you count what I went through in the four hours preceding it, which were hellish.

In the first place, we were up in that part of New Jersey that is so inconvenient and trafficky and expensive that it might as well be Manhattan. They should just make it all one thing, or add a sixth borough and call it Jercityboken, because it's really just a technicality. There's no place to park, people drive like maniacs, and it's traffic cones as far as the eye can see. But we had our new GPS and a sense of adventure, so we weren't too worried. The problem came with our planning for the hours leading up to the wedding. Paul was going to be with the other groomsmen in their little outfits, polishing Justin's cufflinks or whatever was the order of business, and I was on my own from about 12 to 3:40 when I had to be at the wedding to pass out programs and help people to their seats. I was supposed to take Paul over to Justin's apartment in Hoboken and then go back to our hotel in Newark to change and get ready to meet everyone at the church.

But there was so much traffic and construction and madness on the way there that we quickly realized the flaws in this plan. I obviously should have brought my dressy clothes with me and changed at Justin's house too because now I was faced with having to go back to the hotel in all the traffic and mess, and then back to Hoboken again, which was going to be terrible. "Screw it," I said. "I've got a bit of birthday money, I'll just go out and buy a new dress at one of the little shops near the apartment and have the rest of the afternoon to chill out until the wedding starts."

1 pm. I head off to the street of shops near Justin's apartment. There are at least a dozen places, it's a beautiful day, I have every confidence that this will be a success.

1:30 pm. I haven't had any luck yet; most of the shops seem to be a little too hipster for what I'm looking for. Not to mention expensive. No t shirt should cost $80 unless it can launder itself.

2:10 pm. I'm about to give up but the GPS shows another shop down by the river that I want to try first.

2:15 pm. That store only carried men's clothing.

2:16 pm. I realize that now I have absolutely no choice BUT to head back to the hotel and cannot believe that I conceived of this plan, or that Paul allowed me to go through with it.

2:30 pm. I make it back to the car and back out towards the highway, only to be confronted by more traffic and construction horror. I begin to panic.

2:50 pm. I realize that there is absolutely no way to make it to the hotel and back in time and that I am officially, thoroughly screwed.

2:51 pm. I use the GPS to find a shopping mall in nearby Jersey City, thinking that I will be able to find something at a department store and get back to the church fairly easily.

2:51 to 3:05 pm. I head for the shopping mall and wind up almost driving through the Holland tunnel to New York City. I have to cross five lines of bumper to bumper traffic and begin hyperventilating. The last guy to let me over starts laughing at me when I literally prostrate myself in the car (or as nearly as I could manager it while still wearing my seatbelt.) I narrowly avoid going through the tunnel and make it to the mall.

3:05 to 3:10 pm. I find a parking spot in the mall garage and literally run to the nearest entrance. Macy's is the first store I see. I race up three escalators to the women's apparel area and start frantically pawing through the racks. They are having a sale and none of the sizes are where they should be, plus things are pretty picked over. I finally locate something that I am reasonably certain will fit, but I can't be positive. I have no choice but to try it on.

3:10 pm. I am subjected to fitting room lecture in fitting room line by elderly lady who has clearly worked at Macy's for a very, very long time. "Don't be bringing the clothes out all balled up like this mess up in here, okay? It goes in on a hanger, it needs to come out on a hanger." No fitting rooms are opening up and I am trying to remain calm by doing deep breathing. Woman behind me wants to know if I am in labor. I consider saying I am, but realize that it would only be useful if she would let me cut in line and since she is behind me she is of no use to me whatsoever. I pretend not to speak English.

3:12 pm. I don't bother undressing but just take off my sweater and pull the dress over my head to ascertain if it fits. It doesn't.

3:13 pm. I run back out to the floor praying for a retail miracle. I find another dress in a style that I am positive will fit. I get in line behind a woman with five or six things and just as she's almost done, someone tells me that the line is actually on the other side of the counter. I die, come back to life, and run down to menswear.

3:15 to 3:25 pm.The line in menswear is pretty short and I make it out of there pretty quickly. I manage to get out of the parking garage, pay, and navigate using the GPS while simultaneously taking off my sweater and putting on the dress.

3:26 to 3:40. I make it back to Hoboken and locate the church. There is no place to park as it seems most of the guests have already started to arrive. I finally locate a metered parking spot down by the river and as I maneuver the car into the spot I realize that A.) I have no quarters for the parking and B.) I forgot shoes.

3:40 pm. I begin to hallucinate that I am on a game show and there is a cash prize waiting for me if I can just get to the wedding without killing myself or anyone else. I recall that there is a pair of shoes in the trunk along with some clothes being donated to the Dress for Success clothing drive I'm doing for work. I wrench open the trunk, locate the shoes and start racing up the hill towards the church wearing a dress, sneakers, and a pair of jeans. I resign myself to getting a parking ticket.

3:43 pm. I arrive at the church only to realize that the bride and all the bridesmaids are arriving in the limo and are congregating on the front steps. I realize that I look like a sweaty manic bag lady and I duck behind a bush in the park across the street to remove my pants and sneakers. I attempt to don the charity shoes only to realize they are 2.5 sizes too small. I jam the front of my foot into each shoe and step on the backs of them to create a makeshift mule. Realize that I now resemble a crippled sweaty manic bag lady carrying pants and sneakers. I run (or rather hobble) out of the park, realize quickly the futility of this, and go the rest of the way barefoot.

3:49 pm. The church is easily three quarters full already. I run barefoot down to the basement where I throw my clothes onto a table and hope they will still be there at the conclusion of the ceremony. I jam my feet back into the makeshift mules and stagger back up to the sanctuary, where I grab a stack of programs from Allyson's cousin and commence to greet guests.

4 pm. The service begins. I sit in the very back row and hope that no one looks at me, which no one seems to. I more or less pass out, and regain consciousness when they are pronounced man and wife and people start clapping.

I was able to go back to the hotel and get myself together before the reception started. And on the up side, the dress I got turned out to be super cute. I mean, I burned it in effigy, but I should have a couple of good snapshots of it anyway.