Okay, so here’s where I am going to try and explain exactly why my birthday is more important than yours. I know it must seem crazy to hear at first, but it is in fact true, so bear with me. I am in no way saying that my significance on this earth is greater than any one of yours (well, maybe just…just kidding), but the day I celebrate my birthday each year, July 8th, is. And here’s why…
I count down to my birthday the way children count down to Christmas. On January 8th, I wish myself a Happy Half-Birthday, and proceed to tell everyone that I am 6 months away from my birthday. I then spend the next 6 months looking forward to the attention, gifts, dinners, and partying – all on my behalf. I know that’s hard for some of you to grasp, because I’m usually not the self-centered, attention-hog type For six years I worked as an Arts & Crafts and Theater teacher and used to make the children make me a crown and a sash in Arts & Crafts and sing Happy Birthday to me in Theater class. Since I am no longer teaching, my mom makes sure to buy me a little pink and rhinestone crown for the occasion.
A few days before my birthday a few years ago, I explained to my boyfriend-at-the-time, David, just why this day is the most special day of the year, along with why I should have nothing but happiness and helpfulness and good thoughts sent my way, not the fighting that was going on with my friends over which club we went to that weekend. I proceeded to justify my response by describing how other people we know (my family and friends) feel on their birthdays.
In another hot-firemen-related post, yet one more dream of mine has become a reality. Last night, I went to the city with my friend Lana. While we were out eating, Lana’s friend Diana texted her that she was going to visit her new boyfriend at his FIREHOUSE — and wanted to know if we’d like to go. WOULD WE LIKE TO GO?!
Within minutes, we were in a cab headed to the other side of the city. We walked in and met Diana’s boyfriend and another fireman sitting on the front of the truck with him. Then we sat in the office (it was air conditioned) and I showed them my Jen Pose whenever I see a firetruck.
Okay, first of all I am completely singing the Beach Boy song California Girls right now. Secondly, in regards to this photo, ladies, you’re welcome.
Okay, so this post is about the super-hot, blonde-hair, blue-eyed, tattooed, musician I met from Cali while I was in Vegas.
He laid next to me in a lounge chair at the pool, and I asked him if he knew anything at all about Vegas, because my cousin Diana and I were all alone and waiting for the other 10 members of our bachelorette party, who were stranded at the airport in our very own version of Home Alone Part 2.
A life-long dream finally came true last week when I hung out with the FIREMEN FROM THE FIREMEN CALENDAR. No, no, you did not misread that my friends. I, Jennifer Alyssa, conversed and rubbed elbows with the 2013 picks for the FDNY calendar and, even more surprisingly, lived to tell the tale. How my heart didn’t stop on the spot is simply beyond me.
My friend Lana and I drove to a restaurant/bar called Fusion in Sheepshead Bay last Wednesday night to go to a charity event in which the firemen would sign calendars and donate the proceeds to charity. Now, I was supposed to be packing for my Vegas trip, but all I heard was the word “firemen” and I was there.
I usually get attacked or criticized for being my usual confident self. But, the thing is, I’m not really sure why everyone has such a problem with confidence. When I meet someone who is happy with how they look or who they are, I take an instant liking to them.
Some of my readers left comments inquiring whether or not I get angry when negativity and anger is aimed at me. The answer to that question is “no.” My mother always told me that when someone is trying to pick a fight with me, I should walk the other way.
In this case, I simply click the other way. Because there are always going to be people who dislike you and there are always going to be people who don’t necessarily dislike you, but they have such self-loathing that they project their hatred onto you because…you’re there.
This, my friends and frenemies, should never hinder your confidence. Lady Gaga bans ice from her concerts because she’s afraid crazed people will throw it at her. Does she stop her career? No! She gets crazier! I relate to her oh so much, fans Continue reading →
When I was sixteen, my high school sweetheart broke my heart. We only dated for a few months, but I was distraught when I broke up with him for being incredibly neglectful and friend-centered, as many seventeen-year-old boys will be (No, ladies, Edward was not really 17, he was actually 106, remember?).
Anyway, I’ll never forget calling my best friend Kerry and sobbing over the loss. I had turned on the radio to cheer myself up (a post-breakup mistake I never made again) and what was playing? I’ll Never Break Your Heart by The Backstreet Boys — his favorite band. Yes, I am aware that it is incredibly effeminate for a guy to love The Backstreet Boys and, no, the fact that he spent more time with his guy best friend than me didn’t escape me when we broke up, but anyway…the point was just how sad and ironic the song was at the time.
“I wanted to marry him. I need him back,” I cried for days on end. My godmother gave me this advice: “Jen, I hear you; I really do. But do me a favor – one favor. Go out with just one other boy before you get back together with this one. See how it goes. Then, if you still want to, get back with him. Okay?” I agreed, but really just wanted him. He was my first real boyfriend, my first kiss, and the first boy to ever pay any real attention to me, truly boosting my self-esteem. Now, not only did I feel the loneliness I had before meeting him, but it was ten times more heartbreaking bexause I knew what it felt like to “love” someone, be “loved,” and lose it all (Isn’t puppy love grand?) Continue reading →
A few years ago, after I broke up with my boyfriend, Austin, I met a guy who was, in all respects, the perfect rebound. Let’s call him Jack. Jack was older and had a job and spoke to me so eloquently. He complimented me and paid attention to me and wanted to hear about my day. He was sweet and kind and held my hand and kissed me. He made me forget that I was supposed to be sad.
I obsessed over Jack for a solid month, gushing about him to anyone who would listen. I couldn’t believe that he had liked me just as much as I liked him (well maybe not just as much, seeing as how I was planning our wedding and naming our children, haha).
How many times do you hear “Dime Piece,” “She’s a Ten,” “She’s a Dime,” etcetera, in songs these days? Hell, I hear it from my friends all the time. For whatever reason, many people seem to enjoy the word “ten” over the words “perfect” or “beautiful.” I, personally, don’t refer to people as “tens.” I do, however, use all the other numbers quite often.
My friends and I rate people all of the time. Of course, our ratings often differ based upon our own individual tastes. “What do you think of that guy?” my friend Christine will ask me. “Egh, he’s like a 6,” I’ll say, looking him up and down. “No! Really?! I’d give him an 8 for sure!” And the same thing usually happens when the situation is reversed.
My guy friends are no different. My friend Luke will say, “Damn, that girl’s body is a solid 10. Her face? Like a 5…but who cares, man? Look at that body.”
My girls and guys are a little different in that aspect. I think girls take more time examining a guy’s face, teeth, hair, height, and style, before rating him. Most guys (especially those you are just looking at the menu because they’re on a diet…aka have a girlfriend) look at girls’ boobs and asses before their eyes make their way up to the girl’s face. Continue reading →
Usually, it’s girls who have the reputation for getting too attached too soon (hence the original quote from the movie Wedding Crashers). But sometimes it’s not the girls at all.
I can think of five relationships off the top of my head where the girl is clearly in control and the guy is not only more accommodating, but is flat-out too attached to ever let go.
While in Italy, my cousin and I met two very nice English girls named Jamie and Marie. They were staying in the same Bed & Breakfast as us.
One night, the four of us went out to dinner. To our delight, our waiter was stunningly beautiful. During the course of the night, he got more and more flirtatious with Marie. At one point, he said something to her in Italian and they both laughed, along with the girl sitting behind our table.
I’m not sure why, but almost every single European my cousin Victoria and I came across during our Italian vacation appeared, at first glance, to be gay. I’m thinking it had to do with the tightness of their pants, but that wasn’t all. There’s something extremely attractive about a gay man who knows he looks good. Even more than a straight guy, or even straight metrosexual, a hot gay guy walks with a certain swagger that says, “I’m hot to both genders and I know it.”
While on line at customs, Victoria and I played the “Is he European or American?” game. The two nationalities were fairly easy to distinguish between.
The well-dressed, fo-hawked, super skinny hotties were the Europeans, and the baseball hat sporting, t-shirt, baggy shorts, flip-flop-wearing guys were the Americans. Not necessarily less good looking, just way different.
We were stalking everyone out, listening to hear what languages they spoke to see if we were correct, when we found out that we were wrong about one. Nine out of ten correct, and this guy stumped us. We looked at his tight clothes, his pointed leather shoes, his Louis Vuitton luggage. How could he not be European? Continue reading →
I think nicknames are cute. If you’re my boyfriend and you want to call me “baby” or “babe” — you will receive a kiss. However, if you’re a guy off the street and you want to call me “baby” or “babe” — you will receive a kick in your balls.
Now, getting to the title of this post, I’m obviously going to focus on one particular nickname — “hun”. I don’t know why (I’ll tell you my guess in a second), but I despise this word. I once dated a guy for a couple weeks who used to call me that all the time — and I almost threw up every single time. He once even called MY MOM “hun”! My brother and I just looked at each other with our mouths open. Unreal.
In my About Me section, I hit on key areas about myself without sounding too self-loving (I know, I know, ironic). I talk about the facts that I dye my hair like the Little Mermaid (because who doesn’t love a Disney chick?), that I was on z100 promoting my blog (to show them that this isn’t some EMO “Oo, look at me, I’m gonna draw fake teardrops on my face and tell people I have a ‘blog’ blog), and that I’m really sarcastic (because if you don’t like sarcasm, you don’t like me.)
Guys love 3 things from their girlfriends (or potential girlfriends): cupcakes, cuddling, and, well, this is a PG13 blog, so you could guess the third one. Because of this well-known fact, I, naturally, mentioned that I’m a “rockstar cuddler, girlfriend, and cupcake-maker.” This makes guys think “Oh my God, I could sit and eat a batch of cupcakes while cuddling with my girlfriend after we [do that third thing]. Of course, if it’s his girlfriend, chances are there won’t be any of that third thing going on, but, hey, cupcakes freaking rock, man.
A JenAndMen reader named Maria recently asked me to post my PlentyOfFish.com profile on my blog so that she could get some tips. I always thought guys were just trying to butter me up when they said that my profile is the best one they’ve seen on POF (and they probably were), until I saw some other girls’ profiles. How?, you may ask. Because my guy friends are just as bitchy as me and send me the links to girls’ profiles that are so outrageously ridiculous that they must be publicly mocked (I won’t though).
There are 4 sections to most online dating profiles: Photos, Interests, About Me, and your ideal First Date. Before I show you my profile, I’d first like to explain why I chose to post what I did…
First of all, my username is Jennifer paired with the numbers of my birthday. I don’t know who these girls think they are with their little 2006 myspace names like “cutieEforuU” or “h0TTieUveBeEnDrEamin0f.” I also made my headline “Looking for chemistry” and not “couLd y0Uu bE mYy s0uLmaTeEe?[=” (because it’s not complete without the backwards smiley face). Control yourselves, ladies. For all our sakes.
In my Photos section, I made sure to choose pictures of me always looking Continue reading →
Last June, I took a vacation to Italy, during which I was forced to board six (shudder) airplanes. Although I became more at ease with each passing flight, I still had the panic most get while flying. Oh my God, there’s turbulence. This plane is way too small. How many more hours do I have trapped in this thing? Et cetera, et cetera.
I came to find that I was much more relaxed when the flight attendants were good-looking and kind. Those who came over the PA with an attitude or indifference made me extremely anxious. Those who did not smile made me extremely anxious. The fact of the matter is, I was already extremely anxious. And I was in desperate need for some comfort. That’s when I look to flight attendants.
Before I even get to my point, I would just like to point out how cool I think the life of a flight attendant is. Think about it, they get to travel all around the world for free, meet hundreds, maybe he thousands of new people each week, and execute minimal physical labor. I, personally, think it’s a doorway to a million and one amazing experiences, and I envy them all the time.
I would love to do it for a year or so, but I know I’d be way too chicken to fly that often, and be away from my family, friends, and boyfriend for long periods of time. I would look adorable in that little navy dress, though.