Paaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrty Crashers

Have you ever walked into a room and felt like you were in a completely alternate universe? Like you were in the weirdest place you've ever been in your whole life? Almost like you are the new fish on Prison Break being um, er, violated and threatened, because you stole an expensive baseball card? Maybe you have. Maybe you were at a certain bar on Saturday night and went through exactly what I did.

Let me preempt this story. This past weekend marked the visitation of one of my nearest and dearest. I'll refer to her as Katya. She likes cats and laughs when I do my wicked impression of a Russian accent. We became friends for three reasons: 1) We both tend to get ridiculously drunk on delicious English ciders. 2) We both tend to approach boys after imbibing a few pints of delicious English cider. 3) We lived on the same floor in our study abroad dorm and she didn't hate me after I ran screaming down the hallways that it was "Naked Night." (I was fully clothed. No one else participated either.)

I hadn't seen Katya in almost a year due to my travels in London, hectic grad school schedule, her hectic grad school schedule, her work, my work, and a hundred other reasons. Needless to say I was ready to suit up and relive old times. Not that we can ever remember old times. People would have to recap us on our nights out based on the stories we told when we came home. The first week of school we picked up a stick in the street and started hitting people. I don't remember saving it, but we found it the last week of the semester and brought it to the party. It was a hit...literally.

One night we left a bar at the same time as everyone we knew, which was essentially closing time. We didn't make it home until 1 and half hours later. When everyone wanted to know where we had been we had no answers. We can only assume that someone, somewhere, probably still has scars.

On Friday, I promptly picked up Katya from Grand Central Station, or she picked me up really, by coming out of a different exit and scaring the bejeezus out of me. London joined us for dinner and a cocktail and then we started the boozefest. I was proud of Katya. Even though she has since sold out on the single life and gotten her self a cute boytoy, has taken a job teaching, and a result stopped drinking for sport, she hung in for a long night.

Since the weather wasn't on our side Saturday, we decided to go to a museum and gets some culture outside of a bar. The museums weren't on our side either with their ridiculous suggested donations. $14...Good Lord that's a lotta money.

We couldn't come up with any solid game plan on Saturday night. We were cold from walking in the rain, but used two beers from a leftover six- pack to warm our bodies (including our stomachs--hair of the dog!). I know of a little bar that sells our cider of choice, in fact, I think it's the only bar in all of Manhattan that has it. It was a hike in the rain but we went anyway. To our surprise, some friends of mine happened to be there. After pounding two (or was it three or four?) pints we left with them to go to another bar which is separated into rooms and levels. We always hang out in the back room, there's a nice little alley way that you can take cigarette breaks in. Which in NYC is a rare gem.

But for some reason, when we walked into our little sanctuary, we felt, well, kind of like one of that kid on Sesame Street that was doing his own thing. It seemed that most of the people around us were dressed up. Like pirates. I swear, pirates.

It must have been a theme party gone wrong (since there were also a handful of people who missed out on that part of the invite, one idiot was dressed like a sailor). Everyone was looking at us like we were crashers. I felt like a chick Vince Vaughn. So we started dancing around and drinking beers. We ate some of their cupcakes. I flirted with one of their men (who may have been gay, but at least he wanted me as his beard).

And then I realized how funny the whole situation was. They were dressed like pirates, but we were stealing all of their booty (in more ways then one).

So I will tip my glass, and my bandana, pierced ear, pegleg and parrot to Katya, who made last weekend one for the books,

**Note: This post may not be as accurate as others, as some events have been retold to me by others and may be embellished.

It's a Scientologist!

Why do I have the feeling that the first photo of Suri (a.k.a. TomKitten) will look like this:






Because we all know she wasn't preggers. FREE KATIE 2006!

Apparently My New Nickname is Puma

http://www.nypost.com/entertainment/62609.htm

Debbie Does Dallas, Abby Does Advice, Jonesy Does Everything

Dear Jonesy: I need your advice! Love, One of your friends who are considered one of the members of your inner sanctum


I’ve noticed that many members of my innermost circle have been coming to me for advice lately. I don’t mind it at all. I actually enjoy doling out a tome of wisdom via email or an astute oration through the magic my cell phone.

What boggles me about this new phenomenon is the why. WHY are these people coming to me, lil’ ol’ Jonesy, for guidance that plenty of other people are qualified to give? Why not a therapist? Or a minister perhaps? WHY me, the girl who once received a pair of socks that said “Boozey Floozey” on them and took it as a compliment? WHY me, the woman who has been known to canoodle with highly unattractive men for free drinks while on vacation? WHY me, the person who has to check that she has spelled the word weird right every times she types it? WHY??

To be honest, I really think it has nothing to do with me. I think it is part of innate human (or at least female) nature to poll all of your resources when making a big decision. For example, I have a friend who is graduating from law school this year. I will dub her Angel, as she was the maniacal brain behind a very elaborate prank involving an angel costume and techno music our senior of college that I will never forget as I still think that poor boy is scarred for life. Angel is deciding whether to move back to the NY area or stay in the city where she has attended law school. There are more factors at play here, but for the sake of her privacy all of you are on a need to know basis. Today she asked me for advice and I know she has gone to other friends as well. Which is smart. She is utilizing her research skills that were no doubt taught to her in law school considering our college had a small library that gave you to constant feeling that you were about to be raped at any moment and on Saturdays and Sundays, smelled like a whiskey factory. And yes, I know what a whiskey factory smells like. I’ve been to one that actually had a Disney-type ride inside. They gave me a certificate and told me I was officially whiski-fied.

I tend to turn to others for advice. In part because I am a Libra and can’t make decisions for myself and in part because I have no idea what the hell I am doing 99 percent of the time (which again brings us back to WHY me?) Most of the time I listen to what my friends have to say. But that’s because I take a very specialized approach to guidance seeking. For all things that are relationship and fashion oriented I turn to my married friend Spanish and a friend I’ll call Got-it-together who is in a serious relationship. They both work in fashion and they are both good at holding onto good men for extended periods of time. Bitches.

For advice on career moves I ask another college friend, who I will call Carly, because when I think of her going to work I think of the Carly Simon song from the film Working Girl. Leeeeeeeeeeeet the river ruuuuuuun…anyway, she’s a success.

If I have a problem thinking of a show tune I ask London or Tiny Dancer. They live and breathe for those things. Oddly enough, this happens more than you would think.

Angel and a friend I call Little get called in for the big guns. The ultra-embarrassing problems that I probably wouldn’t tell anyone but I know that they will keep a secret, especially for the stuff that is buried deep in my college past. Usually they make me laugh about it in the end, but there will be no funny references here.

Mary-Kate (I am the Ashley of this friendship) gets calls for every problem as she is my best friend since I was three and she has to listen to me blabber by default. She’s stuck with me for life. I feel bad for her but my stories tend to amuse her.

None of these people hold the secret to life or any type of degree that would qualify them to give me any sort of advice. But they do know me, with all of my quirks and intricacies. They know the real me. So based on that knowledge they can at least help me make a decision that is right for me.

Going to one of my posse members for advice is like a badge of honor. It’s me saying, “You know me enough to tell me what you think good for me.” And not too many people get that honor besides my momma.

So thank you Angel, for letting me know that you trust me and that you value my opinion. I value yours too. And even if you totally ignore my advice I appreciate you asking even if the subject was way off my radar. But next time you have a beer and/or vodka related question let me know, I pretty much have that covered.

Finally, I field I am an expert in!

Is this going to be on the test?

Is JJ Abrams a mathematical genius? Or just a satanic Hollywood type trying to suck hours of my life away.

I don't want to offend any sci-fi geeks out there, but after losing yet another hour of my life to the television show Lost that I will never get back I've come to my own conclusion about this show. It's just like math.

Let me preempt myself here. I suck at math. I hate math. Ever since my junior high teacher with the Irish brogue shook her dandruff on my notebook I've been a mathphobic. The only reason I passed her class was because she gave 10 extra credit point for spelling perpendicular correctly.

My 9th grade math teacher laughed at me when I would answer questions incorrectly. My trigonometry teacher caught me sleeping in class constantly. I took precalculus just to have it on my record in applying to colleges. That teacher told me she didn't need her job and that if we didn't care she didn't either, which is probably why she passed me.

In college I squeaked through my math requirement with a D+ (it was my first D since penmanship in the 7th grade) because I went to the class 8 times the entire semester, pretty much for tests and quizzes only. We had to hand in homework and I never got more than 50 percent right. But hey, I can spell perpendicular. That should count for something, right?

So while watching Bernard and Rose's pointless back story tonight it came to me. Why is my relationship with Lost just like math? I mean, I liked it when I started it. But eventually I just started hating it and had to keep watching and learning or else I would never get the answers. So when did Lost shake it's dandruff into my notebook? Episode 5 of this season. It's when I stopped caring. It's when Jack started being an ass. It's right about when Tiny Dancer pointed out to me that Ana Lucia has had the same jeans on since she crashed. Which means they got wet in the salt water. Any girl who has ever worn wet denim knows how much this sucks. I would have taken them off and rocked a bamboo mini but that's me. Anyway, shouldn't they have stretched by now. Every time I wear my jeans more than twice they never fit the same way as right after a good spin cycle.

Numbers are important on Lost. Any avid viewer knows 4, 18, 15, 16, 23, 42. I feel like Hurley and I hear them in my sleep. But since JJ Abrams and Damon Lindeloff haven't given me the slightest clue as to what they mean I won't try to make any sense of them. But here are some things I do know.

Let's start easy. The number 1. Seems harmless right? Not on Lost. As far as we know there are one of each of these on the "island":

A polar bear - which has attacked Walt and may be something he created from his mind out of an Asian comic book he picked up. Seems crazy? Yea, I know.

"Monster" and or "Safety Precaution" - I initially thought it was an invisible cheetah. Turns out it's a cloud of smoke with invisible claws that may or may not read your thoughts. Yep, this show won a Golden Globe.

A crazy French Lady - her name is Danielle. She had a child named Alex, who, may or may not be alive and helped Claire, was kidnapped when she was pregnant by crazy Ethan so they could inject something into her amniotic sac and make her baby Aaron (who I bet will turn into some kind of Damien) sick, not sick, we don't know. Like a lot of things, we just don't know.

A wrecked pirate ship with no pirates. Oh, and this show won an Emmy too.

A hot Korean man named Jin - I just had to mention him because he's one of the reasons I keep watching.

Ok, So while the number one is everywhere on Lost (as it is in life), I've also established here the like in algebra, Lost has a lot of unknowns. You could easily say that x=1. But not so fast. Let's look at the number two.

There are:

Two surviving married couples.

Two children if we say that Walt being alive is a given.

Two dead siblings (I still curse the day they killed Boone).

Two people who have "recovered" from their illnesses on the island.

Two little hangy things from Eko's beard (although he cut them off).

Two crashed planes one large, one small Nigerian prop plane.


The number two is usually bad on the island. When people venture out in twos someone usually ends up dead. Locke and Boone. Sayid and Shannon. So you might want to say that x=2. Nope. People who go off on their own die or end up kidnapped. The guy in the ocean. Claire. Sayid. Sun. Kate. So maybe x=1 + 2. Let's look at three.

Love triangles like this island. You have Jin, Sun and Michael. The obvious: Kate, Sawyer, Jack triad of sexual tension. The not so obvious: Claire, Charlie, Locke weirdo relationship. And don't forget the incestual Boone, Shannon, Sayid. Three makes this island an interesting place to hang out (for more on the number three check out Penny's blog post on threes http://pennythinks.blogspot.com/).

I could probably stay up and explain more of the unknowns on the island and try to find a solution for the "x" factor that keeps sucking me in. But I'm putting my foot down. It's 11:30 pm and I'm tired. Tired of math and tired of Lost. Tired of Walt being on like NO episodes this season. Tired of the fact that no one mentioned Michael (a.k.a. Mercutio) for months which in Lost world is only days and it's not like you can forget someone that fast and then be shocked when you find him. Tired of the fact that no one seems to give a crap that some dude named Desmond is running around. Tired of the fact that "Henry Gale" is a scary mofo. I'm over it.

But, there's always a but. I can't let Lost go down like another Reunion. I have to find some answers. So I'm a slave for the show and it's messed up mysteries and nonsensical conclusions and flashbacks. And after showing you all of my work (and spending way too much time on spoiler and fan sites) I have come up with the proof. I'm sucked in and can't get out. So, X = the answers to the mysteries of this enigmatic TV program. And without the x, I'll be sitting in front of my TV asking y?

"A plague on your Island JJ Abrams!"

"Benjamin, I am *not* trying to seduce you. "

I've realized I have a problem. With younger men. Not that I'm old. Not at all. Quite the contrary. (I have a half-birthday approaching and a lot of friends getting married, I need to reminf myself sometimes that I don't need to rush and that in New York City, I'm still a spring chick).

As a gal in my early almost mid-twenties I have to ask myself? Why have I recently become obsessed with younger men. I used to hate younger guys. They grossed me out. They need coddling and tips in basic hygiene (I swear look in the ears of any guy younger than 20 and you will find enough wax to put Yankee candle out of business).

Women my age who even thought a guy under the age of 23 was cute would bother me. I thought they were pervy.

Prime example: I went to see the midnight premiere of Harry Potter 4 with Tiny Dancer, and her boyfriend, Spike (as he will be named so for his Spiky hair) and his twin brother. I don't want to bust out a spoiler, but there is one moment when HP almost gives the audience a sneaky peak of his behind. He's 15 in the film. The audience ROARED (both the women and their gay companions). I was disturbed. Do we really need to see the shiny bottom of the young Daniel Radcliffe? Is that supposed to be sexy?



Then it got me thinking. Didn't I think that little blond boy from School of Rock was a little cutie? I mean, not to date, but I looked at him and thought, "Wow, that fourth grader will be hot someday." And when I started watching Laguna Beach, did I not lust after Stephen incessently? Sure he was 18 (and it turns out that 4th grader from School of Rock is about to be, thank you very much) but still, he was a hottie.

A little over a month ago, I mentioned that I had met a guy who said he was 24, who it turned out (after a little covert myspace stalking) was only 21. This past weekend, I had another enounter witth a young one (a twin no less!) who was 21 as well. Both are still college students. I outdegree them twofold. It almost seems like it should be illegal. I mean, even Mrs. Robinson went for a guy with his Bachelor's. Coo-Coo-Coo-Chu.

But I enjoy their company thoroughly. Both guys were lots of fun and had an energy I don't see in guys my age anymore. It's like the first few years of working has sucked thelife out them. They are tired and fussy, many have put on more than a few extra pounds (especially those with longtime girlfriends)* and they are BORING. Nothing new happens to them. They go to work and go to bed. They have lost their creative sides. They only go out one night a week. All they want to do is save money.

Younger guys are alive! They live to have fun and don't fear for the future. They treat work as work, not a lifestyle. They want to travel and have adventures and cause all sorts of ruckus. They're optimistic. They make me feel more alive. They make me feel younger. They make me feel reckless. There's the rub.

Before I become part of the next Demi and Ashton I should really reconsider all of this. Younger guys aren't serious enough. They aren't experienced enough. They don't know who they are or what they want. And in most cases, they're broke. They don't want the part of me that wants to get married and have babies. They want to part of me that prays she could go back in time and spend the rest of life as a college student. Sure they are alive, but they avoid life and its grownup responsibilities. Which I have recently decided completely suck ass.

So I bet you're wondering what my conclusion is. Will I still pursue (sidebar: I did not pursue any of the younger men spoken about above, it was all them. Fine I flirted a little. Or in one case a lot, whatever, they liked me first) younger men? Do I think the man of my dreams will be younger than I?

I know myself. Right now. That's all. And from where I am standing, a younger guy can show me a good time today, but I'm not betting that he'll be there tomorrow. And since I am living on this weird quarter-life bridge between being a party girl and a real adult, I can't say that younger guys will be unappealing again. I could feel this way for the rest of my life and hire a sexy pool boy named Esteban. Or I could meet "the one" in a minute and decide to put my old life behind me.

But given my track record these past 3 months, I would put my money on Esteban.


*This comment is not meant towards any of my immediate close friends. It is just an observation I have made and not meant to offend anyone.

It's Sunday at 10 pm, Do you know where your Ms. Jones is? Now you will.

Anyone who reads my blog knows that I love Grey's Anatomy. Like, I LOVE Grey's Anatomy. You will never need a GPS tracker to know where I am on a Sunday evening. I'm in bed, watching Meredith exchange semi-witty repartee with McDreamy, Christina act overly competitive and abrasive and George's bumbling endearing sweetness. It's just what I do.

Every. Sunday (even sometimes during repeats). The same you used to be able to find me glued to my couch on Wednesday nights at 8 pm (besides that one miserable semester of Senior year of college when I had a must attend class and the night of formal) tuned into the wonderful world of Capeside (and later Boston) Mass. where my friends Joey, Dawson, Pacey, Jen and Jack would be waiting to get into some adolescent inspired scenario where they would use overly big words to explain what was going on. Which in most cases was something having to do with sex. I think. Like I said, they used unnecessarily large words, I may have misinterpreted some sort of innuendo along the way.

The Creek was my favorite show. Still is. I practice Dawsonism. Something goes wrong, I turn to my DVD's and find my answer. Romance troubles? Ask Joey - she's had 'em all. Feeling rejected? Call Dawson- He's been rejected by chicks and Hollywood dicks. Feeling like a screw up? Chat with Pacey - He's got it worse. Need a witty come back? Ask Jen - She always held her own in a discussion turned argument. Questioning you sexuality? Talk to Jack- He's so been there already. And if you are feeling like you may have a mental break you can try to get in touch with Andie but after season 4 she might be hard to find.

The Creek is there. It's like your friend who gives you her hair elastic when you need to boot after too much drinking. It's also the friend that buys you the drink when you are ready to rally. It was one of a kind, never to be replaced. It shocked and awed you. Loyal fans could start to feel where the show was going before it even came close. Like me. I soooooo knew that Deputy Doug was going to end up gay. And that Dawson would get his own show. Didn’t see Jen dying though. Didn’t see that coming at all.

Apparently I am like that with Grey's now too. Anyone who watched last nights show saw that Izzie pointed out what I pointed out long before new curvy doctor showed up to woo George. One girls George is another’s McDreamy. Or maybe the writer’s read my blog and stole the whole idea. Of course they didn’t. But I am now so in tune with Grey’s that I can pick up on major themes long before they are beamed into my boudoir on Sundays. So as my problems, my ego and my body mature I can look to a different show for answers. I can ask McDreamy about why certain people won’t “pick me.” I can talk to Meredith about my parental issues and to Christina about my rampant fear of commitment. Izzie can school me on how to look hot without really trying. And George, well, I have a crush on him, so if this were real life I probably wouldn’t talk to him at all and just pray that he started to talk to me (but it’s not real life, I know that!)

But if it was real life, in all likelihood we would end up just friends. In that case I would just taunt him relentlessly about getting the syph.


So I guess I have a new favorite show. One I can grow with. One I can instinctually love and nuture. One that loves me back. One that let's me laugh and cry. One that has grownups on it.

One that probably won't get cancelled any time soon (RIP Four Kings).

And although nothing will ever take the place of The Creek, Grey's is a new relationship I am ready to forge with a tv show (especially now that my dear Katie Holmes has forsaken all of her Creek roots). Kind of like a second marriage. And to my Grey's...I say "I do."