It was clearly season one. I knew this because Michelle could barely speak beyond assuring us all that we “got it, dude,” DJ had yet to fall victim to her pudgy, Steve-afflicted years and I only wanted to kill Stephanie a little. Also, Uncle Jesse turned 26. Twenty-fucking-six. Seriously? He always seemed...middle-aged. In all my years watching this show, it never occurred to me that the male characters were anything less than mid to late-30s. And you know, that should make sense in the real world, given that Danny Tanner’s wife had passed away leaving him with three children under ten. Bob Saget was 31 in the first season of the show.

And I get it, Uncle Jesse was supposed to be the younger, devil-may-care, cool musician guy who moved in to help out his poor brother-in-law with three motherless daughters. Maybe I didn’t pay close enough attention back in the day. When you’re a kid people sort of fall in to about four categories. Younger than me, my age, older than me, old. And old kicked in somewhere around 25 I guess.

The actual point here is that I was slightly terrified by the idea that at an age only three years older than I am now, Uncle Jesse was this major authority figure in the lives of three young girls. And that just a few short years (uh, seasons) later, he was married with twin boys. Still living in the attic of his benevolent, if needy, brother-in-law and trying to make it as a Japanese rock star, but still. Holy responsibility, Batman.

If I were Danny Tanner I would have a two year old right now. And also a wife eight years away from being killed by a drunk driver. And a penis. Anyway. I would be freaked out by that.

Shit, a quick Google search and subtraction (I did math, you all. You’re welcome.) just told me that John Stamos was actually only 24 when he started Full House. That only gives me one more year to get a hair obsession and a hit TV sitcom.

I just came from our local grocery store where I was checked out by someone I know was a year ahead of me in high school. And middle school. And those wonderful years from kindergarten through sixth grade. I know his name. I know who he married and how many years ago. I know what he drove when he turned sixteen. I know that he has a record of petty crimes leftover from those years right after high school. (There were under 400 people in my entire high school. I could name them all.) But I had no idea if he would recognize me. So I left my greeting generic but friendly enough should he decide to acknowledge our connection, if he even remembered me.

It’s at times like this, when you’re standing in line to pay for ground beef, bananas and beer, that small town life gets awkward. I don’t recall ever talking to this guy when we were in school together. Although I’m sure we were at the same parties from time to time, our lives just didn’t intersect. We took different classes and had different friends. We lived our lives parallel to one another without question. It’s the same way with the girl from the floral shop I use for deliveries at work, the waitress at any number of local restaurants, the guy who came to fix our wireless network at work, the list goes on. But I always feel this urge to start up a conversation, just so they know that hey! it’s Jess, we went to school together! I rarely do. I’m terrified they won’t remember and that I’ll look like this stalker girl who sits looking at her yearbook each night surrounded by my five cats. I don’t. Yet.

I figured when he rang up my 12-pack of Bud Light without asking for my ID he knew exactly who I was. And then I felt rude. I don’t know why, I smiled at him, said hi, asked how he was, totally acceptable exchange with a simple acquaintance, right? Friendly without being creepy, I think. But I guess I needed him to know I knew who he was so he wouldn’t think I was a bitch. I spend a lot of time trying to correct my high school legacy of bitchiness. Next time I’ll greet him by name.

The other day we were texting back and forth about the upcoming Britney pilgrimage:

Me:

I don’t care as long as I get to hold hands with Britney. That’s totally going to happen, right?

Kelly:

Yeah, no sweat. I talked to Brit last night actually. She also said she really wanted to make out but has had a cold. Sorry Jess.

Me:

Damn. Well I should think if she takes some vitamin c tablets she will be better by April.

Kelly:

Oh yeah. I forgot that’s a ways.

Me:

Yea I think she’ll be good to go. Because it’s probably like when you have a hot date planned and then realize, shit I’ll be on my period then, no nooky. So you jack around with your birth control so you’re all clear for hot sex. It’s just like that right?

Kelly:

I can’t believe all that stuff just came from you. That sounded like what a teenage boy thinks a girl would say.

Me:

Hahahahaha I wondered what your response would be. I’m laughing and crying now.

Kelly:

Are you drunk again?

I have always been supremely self-conscious when it comes to partaking in any sort of physical activity, mostly because it involves a lot of flailing and falling and not a lot of prowess on my part. I don’t know how many gym classes I got through by faking illness or a sprained ankle, or by just standing at the back of the gym with a scowl on my face and my arms crossed. Those days of forced physical activity were so awful for me for one reason. I was not used to not being the best at everything. And because I made them awful, so two reasons, I guess.

I had the same attitude with sports as I did with middle school band: this was not my idea, I am not good at it because I’ve never done it before and if I don’t try I’ll have a reason for sucking. That reason will be apathy. Really sound logic, I think.

I developed this fear of—well, of what I don’t really know, participation in group activities maybe? public humiliation?—at an early age. I vividly remember my mother’s failed attempts at getting me to join the local t-ball team when I was about six years old. I remember sitting on the bleachers outside of the field during practice sobbing because the horror! of t-ball! and dirt! and my friends! and possibly sweating! Realistically, I remember not wanting to play because my town team was not the town team my regular friends were on. (I went to a small school comprised of several smaller towns and, alas, did not live in the same town as my beloved friends. Most specifically my friend Jamie.) Even though I knew these other little girls, they were not MY girls and I was not! comfortable!

Not until a few weeks ago did I learn the rest of that story. That my mom had forced me to t-ball practice at least three times, each time beginning with a car ride to the field a mere mile from our house during which I ensured her that I would just sit and not actually play and that I did not want to go. What can I say, when I wasn’t busy sobbing I was a fairly self-actualized and rational kid. After the third failed attempt, Dad told Mom that perhaps she couldn’t coerce me into playing t-ball just because she wanted me to play. That nothing in my six years of life had ever indicated an intense desire to hit a ball off a rubber T and run around in a circle in the dirt. And Mom caved and the t-ball related crying came to an end. Don’t worry, there was still much more crying about other atrocities afflicted upon me. I was a self-actualized, rational child who cried a lot. And that crying part really only ended a few years ago. Now I just tear up.

My disinterest in all things athletic carried over into my brother’s pursuits also. I spent years going to Nick’s games of all kinds, always with a book. I sat during soccer and baseball games reading about the adventures of the girls in The Babysitters’ Club, completely oblivious to the boys four years my senior on the field. This wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone, as I also took a book with me to every restaurant we went to for a good portion of my elementary and middle school years, until I realized that there was often conversation going on at these meals that could provide me with interesting information if I just looked up from the pages every once in awhile. Who knew that talking to people could be as entertaining as reading about people talking to each other! However, I think I took it up a notch when Nick was playing middle school basketball. I spent every game of Nick’s short basketball career facing the wall. I figured out a way to sit on the bottom part of the bleachers, where most people put their feet (there is surely a name for this part but I don’t know it and I’m too lazy to google) and face away from the court in order to prop my book up on the seats in front of me. I was that lazy that I couldn’t hold up my own book. To be fair, Nick wasn’t a particularly talented basketball player and so my disinterest could have been interpreted as a snub to the coach since, you know, Nick didn’t even get a jersey for the away games. But really I was just a nerdy bookworm.

I still am less than gracious when trying something for the first time. I’m of the “deride yourself before others do” school of thought when it comes to trying to learn things. It’s like this, I know I’m not good at those things I have tried, just let me believe that there is a possibility I could have untapped potential as a naturally gifted tennis champion. Or gymnast. Or putt putt golfer. And please, for the love of it all, do not try to coach me or assure me that I’ve “almost got it” or that it was a “really nice try” or “that’s okay!” I know I’m bad, I realize that I let that volleyball hit me square in the face rather than try and set it or bump it or spike it or whatever. And yes, that did hurt. But do not offer me pats on the back and words of encouragement. Because while I am not physically gifted, I have the gold medal in snideness.

I’m not inventing the wheel here when I say that I’m not a Valentine’s Day sort of girl. This is not to be confused with being the sort of “woe is me, I have no man on February 14^th therefore this holiday is the worst thing ever and I will talk about how I don’t care about it endlessly until all around me are forced to realize that I’m just pathetic” sort of girl. I lived with a few of those in college. Even self-pity isn’t attractive when dressed up in pink hearts and cupid cutouts. Valentine’s Day is nice. It comes with cute decorations and I really enjoy pink and red. And also good chocolate. Truffles, yum. But it’s sort of contrived. And by sort of I mean a lot. And by a lot I mean completely. But a holiday devoted to the recognition and celebration of the people we love and care about can’t be all bad.

I have pretty much always had zero expectations for Valentine’s Day, to the point of putting a moratorium on celebrations and gift giving. Give me a spontaneous evening or gesture that makes everything feel right and connected any day over a predictable crowded dinner at Olive Garden, surrounded by other young couples uncomfortably dressed up and hoping their efforts will get them laid tonight. And if you want to buy me flowers, wait until an unexpected time when the price hasn’t tripled in honor of “love.” Or better yet, put some thought into it and plan something more original. Show you care by doing something nice for my family or friends or hell, give the dog a bath for me. Valentine’s Day has become little more than a competition between females and a male obligation not to let them down. Trust me, the year I spend an hour making you a one of a kind card with a handwritten, personal message on it and you buy me a 1 pound bar of crappy chocolate because you want to eat it? We’ve got issues.

I love romance and love and all things heartfelt. I do not love $4 Hallmark cards, even if they play The Way You Look Tonight upon opening, or heart shaped boxes of chocolate from the local discount store that may or may not have been left over from last year’s Valentine’s Day. If you have a thoughtful significant other, in tune to your personality, Valentine’s Day will most likely be great. But if you have a thoughtful significant other in tune to your personality, most likely every day together is great. In my opinion, we need to stop with all of the commercially fabricated importance and pressure on February 14^th and remember that, if we’re lucky, Valentine’s Day can be any day. Any day you take a moment to celebrate relationships, friendships, family. And any day you buy me truffles.

The first song I remember learning all of the words to, outside of nursery rhymes and Wee Sing tapes, was “Friends in Low Places” by Garth Brooks. I was in kindergarten, riding the bus to my grandma’s after school when the bus driver’s daughter taught me the words. Is this one of those you might be a redneck if instances? Possibly. I had no idea what I was singing and I thought it talked about a bear chasing people. I ended up with the cassette tape somehow and would lay on the floor on my stomach in the living room, listening to my tiny purple boombox for hours.

I’ve got binder of CDs and my car is filled with the newest ones, but pre-high school I tended to lose a lot of my tapes or CDs. In honor of last night’s Grammys, I’ve compiled a list of some of my favorite lost music, in whatever format, in no particular order.

1) Bryan White by Bryan White – I’m not sure what happened to Bryan White, but in this album he is country. I don’t follow his career at all now, but back in the day I could still sing along to almost all of the songs on this album. Most of these songs don’t even show up on a quick YouTube search and that makes me sad.

2) B*witched by B*witched – Apparently I really like self-titled debut albums. And as much as those Irishmen in U2 annoy me, these Irish girls are awesome. Awesome in a jumping on your bed with a hair brush as a microphone sort of way. They were for sure riding on the Girl Power wave created by the Spice Girls (which makes this the 2^nd time in one month that I’ve referenced the Spice Girls on this blog) and the music was fun and bouncy. I pulled some of their songs up on YouTube for my friends last year and they had no clue who I was talking about. Guess they missed out on fabulous songs like this. Also, the dude’s outfit in that video is awesome.

3) Pieces of You by Jewel – Yet another debut album and another one I spent hours earnestly singing along to. And you know what, Jewel? I’m sensitive, too. Jewel’s more recent stuff is just eh, but I was enamored laying on the floor with the liner notes from this CD.

4) Middle of Nowhere by Hanson – I am not ashamed to admit to loving Hanson. In the same way I hate the stupid curly-headed Jonas Brothers, I love Hanson. Sure, they sounded like girls and that one was only like 6 years old but they made some damn good music. I introduced one of my college roommates to one of their lesser known songs one day and it ended up on every CD she burned for the next few months. (Seriously, check out that video, it’s creepy weird.) And this was just last year, proof that Hanson has staying power. Or that my friends have similarly crappy taste in music. Also, all of those Hanson boys are now married with many children. And I live with my parents.

5) Firecracker by Lisa Loeb – The first non-debut CD on the list, I still remember the soft pretty pink of this CD. I remember my copy had my name written on it, evidence that I once donated my music to be used at our middle school Valentine’s Day Dance. Lisa Loeb is cool, despite that horrible reality TV show she had to help her find a man. I’ll forgive her for that. I may have lost this CD but I downloaded some of the songs awhile back and they’re still on my iPod.

6) Enema of the State by blink-182 – I held on to this CD, and this one for a long time before they were stolen from my binder of CDs. In my opinion, everything blink-182 puts out demands respect and attention. They’re no B*witched but I’m beyond thrilled they’ve announced their reunion. These are almost the only CDs from my high school years that I’ve lost and they’re really the only ones I want back.

So, what have we learned? I have crappy taste in music but sentimentality makes even the worst song enjoyable. I lose shit. That’s about all.

But none of this is really the point. We all know MTV puts out some questionable programming, I mean, come on, there have been 3 reincarnations of Laguna Beach, 4 if you count that abomination with Brody Jenner. (Note: this does not mean that I refuse to watch quality programming such as True Life: I’m in a love triangle or that ridiculous show with Paris Hilton and a bevy of women and one Asian man-woman trying to become her next fashion accessory.) But my point. Throughout the whole hour long shenanigans, both contestants continued to profess their love for the -ikkis. Until Trevor, the final winner, took back his love declarations and proceeded to tell the girls—and the cameras—that they had “a big part of [his] heart.” Over.and.over. Uh. Okay? He does realize that your heart isn’t actually the pink thing on the Valentine card his grandma sends him each February, right? And that it’s actually an organ full of veins and blood and pulsating ventricles? (Ventricles pulsate, right? It’s been a long time since Biology class.) So announcing that each of these girls has driven their –ikki flag into bits of his heart, claiming it as their own territory, this is no more romantic an organ than a liver or pancreas.

Now look, I understand that love is a four letter word of the damn, shit, fuck variety to some people. I get it. And to others it’s just uncomfortable. Their families didn’t say it, they had a bad breakup, whatever. But what is with dedicating parts of your organs? Is that what all the kids are doing these days? Or just the hippie skater/surfer/boat captain dudes who are incapable of adding inflection to their voices or expressions to their faces? I don’t get it.

I grew up in a family that peppered each good bye and good night with multiple “I love you’s,” but I’m probably not going to prematurely say it to two blonde bisexual twins on a reality tv contest. But maybe I’ll take a page from Trevor’s book and start dedicating my limbs to those I care about. Maybe.

And, uh, yea this post had more direction and better-ness before I finished that glass of wine. 

Wii Fit works (uh, I’m basing this on one whole use, so the term “works” is relative here) because it judges you. I can go to the gym all I want—which admittedly is like, zero—but when no one else is there when I get off the elliptical machine after 15 minutes, I’m pretty good at reasoning away my slacker habits. Never mind that those 15 minutes were full of slllooowwiinnnngg down anywhere from 3-10 times to take big drinks of water or to stoop to pick up my magazine from the ground because it simply refuses to stay on the little rack in front of me. Not that it does any good because, really, who can read with eyes rattling around in your head and thoughts of merciful death at the forefront of your mind?

Enter the World of Wii and that skinny “trainer” bitch starts telling me that I “may not be strong enough for this exercise yet.” Oh yea, trainer lady? Suck it. Retry. My leg is a little shaky? You’re a little shaky. (Is it just me or is the male trainer a little, um, effeminate?) That trainer lady is sort of like my college roommate who suffered from exercise bulimia. She simply won’t stop working out and monitoring your progress. Although at least my former roommate did the judgment thing silently or at least behind my back while she ate her single meal of the day, Healthy Choice soup.  Plus, Wii Fit grades you, and as a former nerd-Valedictorian-perfectionist, I NEED to have the highest grade possible.  Admittedly, this drive slipped slightly in college but floats to the surface in more childish pursuits instead of academia these days.  Also, dude, it's a video game.  You call it improving my balance, I call it skiing.

I really have no point here except that apparently the most effective form of motivation is ridicule with a smile. I’m going to keep this in mind for my future children. “You don’t appear to be smart enough for the ABCs yet! Wipe that drool off your face, dunce! You are not good enough!” Also, I gave myself two whole weeks to lose two whole pounds. Keeping the underachievement standard going strong.

I graduated high school (without ever using the majority of those tips and tricks. Also without getting pregnant, connection perhaps?) and realized that a few things about college life were no longer conducive to magazine subscriptions. Actually I doubt I ever actually realized this because I was busy drinking or throwing pumpkins off of high places or watching Disney movies my first year of college. But the combined effects of regularly changing addresses and no money meant I fell out of the slut magazine audience. Besides, how many articles can one read with secret sex tips/fantasies/confessions before they sort of all start to repeat each other? 10? 20? 42? Also I lived in a dorm full of other 18 and 19 year old girls so really, I had free access to any tips or tricks I may have needed.

I was pretty okay rejoining the uninformed, apparently sexless masses. In one of those “I don’t know what to get you for Christmas” moments, I ended up receiving a year’s subscription to Cosmo. From my grandma. (This is actually misleading because my mom took over the job of buying Grandma’s Christmas presents for the grandkids this year. Magazine subscriptions galore!) My first issue arrived today, the day before my 23^rd birthday and I’m sort of realizing that uh, what the f, Cosmo? You are totally setting women back a few years. Or at least brain cells.

In a literary masterpiece entitled “50 Guy Phrases Translated” (I haven’t made it to the page that teaches me about the 8 things in my closet that make me look “chunky.” The 8^th thing is probably the cake.) author Bethany Heitman tells her readers that, in the dating world, asking to split the check REALLY means “I’m not into you.” Oh.Well...Shit.

I would like to give the high school version of myself credit enough to believe that I would not have believed this crap then either. But I find it pathetically laughable now. Apparently Bethany Heitman hasn’t been paying much attention to the current state of the economy. Or, you know, that day women got the right to vote and were even allowed to work out of the home and make their own money! A few pages later, we’re also given breakdowns of playing hard to get and the different levels, from Too Hard to Not Hard Enough, with the apparent ideal being Just Hard Enough. Apparently I would be playing the appropriate amount of hard to get if I only agree to last minute plans every so often. Oh. Oops?

Oh Cosmo. I think you need to dust off your Spice Girls CDs and take a look around.  Women are wearing pants now!