I'm no freakin' monument to justice

All I have to say about last night is: No. Just no. Thank god someone else agrees with me about Million Dollar Baby: "I disliked the second half even more than the first half. The first half was just a silly sports movie. The second half was a maudlin, manipulative, melodramatic B-movie." Scorsese losing to Eastwood was as big a travesty as Blanchett losing to Paltrow back in '98. And I won't even mention the shudders of pain that wrack me whenever I think of people referring to this movie as "best picture."

The dresses weren't even good enough to make up for this joke. Although some of Chris Rock's cracks at the establishment were. (Could someone please tell Sean Penn to get a sense of humor?)

This is what joy looks like

BC beat UConn tonight, and it was one of those games that makes being a fan worth it. The team was crushed by the loss of Jess Deveny and hasn't beaten a single ranked team all season (though I will point out that all the ranked teams they played were ranked higher than they were anyway). But tonight was senior night, and BC was not going to lose. Aja Parham was all over the court (13 points, 6 boards, 4 assists, 2 steals), but really, everyone stepped up -- BC had four players in double digits, compared to UConn's one.

When the buzzer sounded, I was literally jumping for joy -- so was Pam, half of the crowd, and the players. It was a huge win for this team. And when Clare Droesch rushed across the floor to celebrate with Jess, I just about lost it. Jess dropped her crutches and Clare just lifted her into the air. I was this close to rushing the court, people. Oh, I wished I had taped it on ESPN2! Was it a bigger win than last year's in the Big East tournament? I don't know, but since I saw it in person, maybe yes. And if anyone finds a picture of Clare picking up Jess, I must know about it. This AP shot of Jess celebrating was as close as I could get.

Just follow the signs

Last night, whilst driving in Waltham (home to my lovely hairdresser who does wonders with the walking disaster that is my hair), I saw a sign that said: "No jake braking." Which kind of made me step on my brakes, but then I let up immediately for fear that I was jaking. What the hell is "jake braking" and why have I never noticed this sign before?

With a little intrepid reporting skills, I have discovered the origin of "jake brakes," but I still feel like "jake braking" should be slang for something else. I'm going to use it to refer to the maneuver you perform when the guy behind you is following too closely, so you slam on your brakes to piss him off. Or maybe it should refer to those people who brake repeatedly for no discernible reason? Tough call.

Out of the mouths of babes

Last night, for some inexplicable reason, I turned off reruns of Friends in order to dedicate myself to reading. I know, Jen was just as shocked as you are. But it was a bad rerun of Friends, and I really wanted to finish reading the latest Premiere. And I did, including reading the entire interview with Natalie Portman, voted Most Likely to Make You Feel Both Homely and Stupid. I hate to admit it, but she's remarkably thoughtful for a 23-year-old, damn her. This quote in particular got me: "But you know how sometimes when bad things happen to you, and all of a sudden you just tell a stranger? And then you feel so empty afterwards, like you're selling pieces of yourself that are important to you? I found it's dangerous to be exhibitionist about those things, because it cheapens it if you'll give it to anyone. The difficult things in people's lives usually end up being the most meaningful."

She wasn't talking about blogging, but it made me think about what I blog and why, what I choose to share and what I don't. Erin is pondering something similar today as well. I have no answers, just more questions, just a few more hesitations over the keyboard as I go about my life.

Anger management

I wasn't going to blog about this, but it made me so mad, I can't help myself. Really, it's almost too asinine to even refute. I click through a link on the excellent Women's Hoops Blog, and find this: "A battle of the sexes has been going on for some time in women's college basketball, and the men have been losing so much ground they're in danger of becoming extinct," Scarbinsky writes. Extinct? Really? How can anyone still think this crap? Are women in power (what little and marginal power there is in women's college basketball, for fuck's sake) really that threatening? Well, okay, Pat is scary. But in a good way.

And in case anyone is wondering, according to a recent Women in Sport study, 44.1% of coaches of women's teams are female. Yeah, that'd be less than half. Percentage of women coaching men's teams? Yeah, that'd be less than 2 per cent. And in women's basketball, where Mr. Scarbinsky is so frightened of the female coach? Where there are hardly any men left standing? 60.7 per cent of the coaches are women, leaving men a negligible 39.3 per cent. Wow, that is close to extinction.

Well, now that I've gotten a little feminist ranting out of my system, I feel better. 60.7 per cent better, anyway.

Office space

I work at a college, and sometimes I look at the students, all full of youth and optimism and opportunity, and I think: Die, bitches. Die.

Freehand

I never take the time to write anymore -- and I mean that on so many levels, it's hard to count. I don't take the time to use pen and paper -- keyboards and Word and blogging and e-mail are so much faster, you know, and yes, it's a little more impersonal, but at least it's legible. But I find that I've sucked the life out of writing -- with no thrill of pen across paper, no satisfaction from a notebook filled with jotted-down thoughts and scraps of poetry, pieces of dialogue to be filed at a later time -- with none of that, what reason is there to write? Why pick up this pen? Why rest my fingertips in the proper QWERTY formation when, in the end, the words just disappear like the thoughts that formed them?

This post is brought to you by this week's Fifty Words. I chose to limit myself to five minutes of free writing for this exercise. Due to a recent fascination with the visual nature of the written word, I give you the exercise in its original form. (My apologies to Miss Moss, who struggled in vain to perfect my handwriting.)

By popular demand

I don't know why, but some people have expressed an interest in reading the adventures of "The Missing Cat." Luckily for you all, I am an accommodating sort. And a total dork. Just so you get the full experience, I've included the original illustration for this 1985 masterpiece. I also kept in the original misplaced semi-colon, and I resisted the mighty temptation to add in the missing commas.

Enjoy.

Portrait of the writer as a young girl

My mom found my very first short story (and I do mean short), written in the third grade, and winner of a Young Author's prize. I haven't really produced anything of quality since. I intended to write a bit for this week's Fifty Words, but I haven't been able to find five words, let alone 50. The phrase "I never" is just a little too heartbreaking right now.

Shock and awe

I was pleasantly surprised by the Aviator last night. Leo actually gave a performance which enabled me to forget that he was Leonardo DiCaprio. I don't think he's done that since What's Eating Gilbert Grape. And Cate Blanchett's much-heralded performance as Katharine Hepburn deserves all the accolades it has gotten, though it took a while for her to settle into the role. The relationship between these two was really the strongest part of the film, which though good, could have used a little judicious editing.

In other pleasant surprises, 6'4 is just as tall as I thought it would be. Which I discovered when I went to the reception after the BC-Seton Hall game, and Kathrin Ress stood next to me. Damn, woman. Also, I told y'all that Shamika Jackson was going to be a force to be reckoned with: 15 points on 6-7 shooting, 7 rebounds, 4 assists, 1 block, and 1 steal.

Seriously now

Is it time to upgrade to my very own domain name? I've been doing this for awhile now, and while I love my beat Angelfire site, don't I need a slightly more serious URL for all this mediocrity? Wouldn't you all prefer to go to jengarrett.com for your daily dose of nothingness? Or perhaps you'd like the slightly more literal (and longer) beingjennifergarrett.com. Or am I a .net girl? And if I get my very own domain, don't I need to redesign my site, too? And in order to redesign, don't I need to learn CSS? And in order to learn CSS, don't I need time? These are the questions that try my soul, people.

All this questioning is brought to you by a wave of blog-type warm fuzzies that hit me this morning. I love that I've got readers from Boston to Australia to Singapore. I love that Sarah is dead-on in the 'Garrett watches and remembers bad movies.' And I love that this is a three-day weekend. (Okay, that last one had nothing to do with blogging.)

Dive right in

Last night, it came: My first-ever Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. I was excited, but a little embarrassed too. It was soft-core porn, yet the word "sports" still adorned the cover, so it was okay. I mean, athletes were involved, for chrissakes. Jennie Finch? She's an amazing softball player. Lauren Jackson? A WNBA MVP. Venus Williams? Well, she used to play a mean tennis game.

And, much like Playboy, I was clearly reading it for the articles. Except there were maybe two articles. And they weren't particularly interesting. And the photos weren't particularly great, either. However, this issue did include model trading cards. That's right, I said, model trading cards. Which clearly makes this all very sporting like. Who'll trade me a Frankie Rayder for a Bridget Hall?

Time, defined

My grandma always called the couch a davenport. I never heard anyone else call it that, never understood where it came from, I just accepted it as her word. I don't know why I thought of it today. The word just popped into my head, and I thought of her, missing the nights I used to lay on her davenport, stare at the painting of a skyline outlined in little lights, dream of a different time and place.

Diffusion

I've been so on edge lately -- wait, not on edge, on the edge. Like I'm just holding my breath to keep from pitching forward into god knows what. And maybe I need to fall, maybe it would be better, or easier, than this constant leaning back, balancing, holding on for just a few minutes more until I can make it to home base. I kind of lost it tonight, felt my feet slipping off the precipice, and I wanted someone to pull me back out of that place. If you're lucky, there are maybe one or two people in the world who can defuse those moments for you. Without even trying, they remind you why you keep pushing air in and out of your lungs. They just need to be to make the world a little easier to live through.

But I didn't make the call, didn't reach out for someone to save me, choosing instead to teeter here, wind at my back.

They call me the love doctor

Me: They got married too young. It never works.
Her: Then why do they do it?
Me: Because they're all young and in love and shit, and they think it will last forever. Then they grow the fuck up.

Gray would be the color if I had a heart

Nothing like a little Nine Inch Nails for Valentine's Day. Or, in what has become a tradition, a little scary-movie action. This year, I went with the Grudge. Creepy, but not scary enough to ward you off romantic entanglements forever. Last year's movie remains the champion: Apocalypse Now (extended version). Maybe next year I'll try the Deer Hunter. Or Raging Bull. Or maybe just the original Grudge.

Is that a hole in your ceiling or are you just happy to see me?

Suffice it to say, the pipe died. What I found most amusing about having a plumber poke holes in my ceiling on a Sunday afternoon was the discovery that our bathroom ceiling had been dropped to accommodate my upstairs neighbors' pipes and that the old wallpaper was really, really ugly.

There are things we all cling to all our lives

I finally watched the little-seen P.S. last night. It was surprisingly good, and I'm not just saying that because I have a weird thing for Topher Grace (though I do). The movie's plot is similar to another little-seen movie from last year, Birth, starring Nicole Kidman. Laura Linney plays Louise Harrington, who meets a young man who has the same face, name, and personality as the boy she loved 20 years ago. Of course, that boy also died 20 years ago, so it's all a little freaky. The movie nicely avoids getting mired down in any weird mystical/reincarnation questions, and instead focuses on why Louise is so obsessed and disturbed by this freaky coincidence.

The movie really makes you think about the things we hold on to and those we let go. When is giving up on something a good idea and when is it just giving up? How can you tell the difference?

Shifting focus

I finally finished my blogging article. (Yeah, I know I started it in November, okay?) It's been a little strange (and really hard) to write about blogging like it's something new and unknown. Finding distance and perspective on something you do every day is tough work, people. I don't recommend it.

Hopefully, the article doesn't suck because I've got to shift gears into other things ... like tackling a Q&A with Barbara Goldsmith, the author of Obsessive Genius. Marie Curie was never one of my idols -- physics and chemistry really don't get me started in the morning -- but the book is really well-written and Goldsmith is smart. Curie said that "science has great beauty," and by the time Goldsmith was done writing the book, she said science was "like poetry" to her. Yeah. I'm not quite there yet.

Where are we going? And why are we in this hand basket?

As a part of the not-straight society, I have certain rules that I have to live by. For instance: Make sure to mention women in a romantic sense at least once in a conversation while in a very public place. Extra points for saying things like: She's stacked! It's all part of visibility, people. Also, I just like saying, "She's stacked!"

In addition to opening my big mouth, if there is a lesbian, bisexual, or gay person anywhere on television, I am obligated to watch. Ellen, the L Word, the OC, Will & Grace -- I've watched 'em all. Because I have to. Which explains how I ended up watching Wife Swap last night. Which is a really bad show. A really, really bad show. But the wives in question were a Christian Texan with a freak-on for cleanliness and becoming "more excellent" (said with no irony, people), and a lesbian mom who just wanted to broaden some horizons. It was not good. And I'm kinda bummed that the lesbian broke down at the end. Be strong lesbian! Don't be sensitive lesbian! Jen and I were displeased, but we recognized that it's a lot easier to be strong on our couch in Massachusetts than in front of a "You're immoral"-spewing Christian in Texas.

Update: Apparently, lesbians are big during sweeps.

Sleep with one eye open

The mice are back. And badder than before!

Sorry, I couldn't resist; it's the sleep deprivation. I don't consider myself an easily frightened person, but apparently tiny rodents reduce to me a quivering mass of anxiety. Or maybe it's just being woken at 2 a.m. by the sound of vicious burrowing that's a trifle unsettling. Either way, I found myself huddled on my bed like an idiot, trying to determine the best course of action when all I really wanted to do was sleep. I could try the couch, but as the mice have been spotted in the living room, that was a no-go. I could cry like a girl and beg the mice to leave me in peace. (Okay, I actually tried that and it didn't work.) Or I could attempt to make myself as small as possible (watch a grown woman make herself into a tiny ball!), turn the light on, leave it on, and pray that sleep would take me before the mice did. I went with the last option. Except I hate sleeping with the light on. I make exhaustive use of shades and curtains in my bedroom much as a vampire would to protect herself from the rays of the sun. I don't even like the hall light on when I'm sleeping. (There's this great quote from After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie by Jean Rhys that goes something like: "She wasn't afraid in the dark, but she was afraid in the light." It's a great book, by the way, and much better than Wide Sargasso Sea.) Suffice it to say, I was definitely afraid both in the dark and in the light last night. I hate irrational fear. It really pisses me off. So sleeping wasn't all that easy as I alternated between terror and self-loathing. It was good times -- just me and the mice.

From a different angle

A friend said something to me last week that has been taunting me ever since. He said I was too forgiving, which I don't think many people would agree with, myself included. And another friend said, "You're a happier person than you think, Jen Garrett." Do my friends actually know me better than I know myself? Am I a happy and forgiving person? Why do I feel like Carrie Bradshaw as I'm typing this?

I have to question these things, because tonight after drinks with an old college friend, we decided to try on prom dresses at the mall. Look, it sounded like a good idea after a few margaritas, okay? And, in fact, it was a good idea. It was fun trying on poufy dresses with intricate straps that we couldn't figure out. And I looked ... kinda pretty. So, if in fact I can look good in a poufy dress, maybe I am happier than I think. Maybe I'm more forgiving than I think. Maybe this bridesmaid thing won't be so horrible after all.

D is for dynasty

Also for: Damn. My boys held on to beat the Eagles, 24-21. Because it's not a Super Bowl if we don't win it by a Vinatieri field goal. And while Deion Branch was named MVP (record-tying 11 receptions for 133 yards), my player of the game was Tedy Bruschi. Just because I love him. And I loved the clip of him playing with his sons on the field before the game started. Oh, yeah, and those tackles, sacks, and interceptions were pretty nice, too. I will also take this moment to throw out some Tommy love, because the man has ice water in his veins. Never flustered, always certain. And always extremely hot.

Nobody loves you when you're down and out

You know when you're kinda depressed and the world seems black and bleak and generally pointless? Yeah, well, I felt that way after watching BC lose to St. John's today. It wasn't so much that we lost (though I hate that), it was that the whole team just looked lost. Like their puppy died. Or their mom abandoned them at the store. It was so painful. I couldn't even be mad at them for how badly they played.

I slunk into my room when I got home and attempted to revive my spirits with a bad movie. It didn't really work. When the main character was down and out, she pulled out Carly Simon. When I'm down and out, I turn to Olivia Newton-John. But she couldn't work her magic this time, so I had to pull out the big guns. Yup, my secret stash of sports porn. I watched my tape of BC beating UConn during last year's Big East tournament. And it made me happy (when it wasn't making me sad watching Jess sink shot after shot). I may have to re-watch the Sox beating the Yankees and winning the Series to pull out of this funk.

"Season-ending injury" are three of the worst words in the English language

As sports have become a large part of my daily life, I've clearly become far too attached to my teams and players, because I am just so sad to hear about Jess Deveny's injury. As BC's leading scorer (18 ppg before the Notre Dame game), she's a huge loss to the team. But aside from what this means for the rest of the Eagles' season, I'm saddened to see her last year of college play cut short -- not to mention what this means for her potential professional career. I didn't expect her to go in the first round of the WNBA draft, but with her shooting, rebounding, and sheer tenacity, I expected she'd earn a spot on a team, much like Jacobs did last year. Dude, this sucks. Sometimes I hate being a sports fan.

Lips like strawberry wine

Pretty much all I was looking forward to last night was the OC (Seth and Summer, together again? Marissa going the gay way?) and tater tots. Neither was disappointing. In fact, the end of the episode featured Rachael Yamagata singing Reason Why, and Marissa holding Alex's hand. Good music and gay chicks! Could I ask for more? I think not.

I love fake live music on teen dramas. It took me back to Buffy days at the Bronze, as well as a quick 90210 flashback. And then I had to wonder: Am I ever going to outgrow the teen drama? Because I've been living like I'm 16 for awhile now, and I can't decide if that's a bad thing or not.

Survey says

My friends and I have been tormented by a single question today: Where do we put our hands? Faithful readers, I turn to you: When one is a female and on a first date with a male, and one is engaged in the first kiss, where does the girl put her hands? I have received various contrary responses, and now I need to know.

Some things never change

I saw a commercial for Cursed last night, and I was all, "Stupid horror flick. Wait ... is that Christina Ricci?! Her stock's dropped rapidly since the horrible Anything Else. I can't believe she's ... Is that JOSH JACKSON?! It is! I'd know him anywhere! I have to see this movie now."

Yes, it's true, folks. I have seen the complete Josh Jackson oeuvre, and much like Duff, I'm left wondering: Where's my Pacey?

In dreams you know me

I was the subject of a psychology study -- in my dream last night, at least. And the psychologist wrote a book about me, and I'm thinking, "Fuck, I am crazy," but then I'm reading the book and I realize there are several problems, shall we say. At one point, the author quotes me saying "Hella blah blah" and I'm outraged! Outraged! I've never used "hella" in my life. "Wicked," sure, but not "hella." And then, to further document my insanity, he talks about how I claim to be a great swimmer, but really I suck. And all I can think is, Of all the things I'd lie about, swimming is not one of them. I can't swim! I don't just suck, I drown! Clearly, the shrink got it all wrong. Except for the crazy part.

True to my word

The Old Hag starts her review of Home Land like this: "Few activities are as likely to bring on a fit of depressive jealousy as leafing through the back pages of one's alumni magazine."

Damn if I don't know that. I have to edit that shit, bitch. I don't leaf. I read it a minimum of three times before it's even published, and by the end of an issue, my self-esteem is usually lower than Tara Reid's before the boob job. To wit, we signed off on an issue yesterday, and I went home to be greeted by a phone call from a long-lost college friend. (Okay, not that long-lost, like a year and a half. Bygones.) Aforementioned friend asked what I'd been up to during these lost years. "Nothing," I said. Apparently, she didn't believe me because she went on to ask me: Did I still live with Jen? Yes. In JP? Yes. Did I still work at Swelles? Yes. Was I dating anyone new? No.

When I say "nothing," I mean it.