Long Weekend

The Moth

She said, Has anyone ever told you you like Tina Fey?

Umm. Nope. No one has ever said that to me.

Really? Never?

I laughed. 

No, I’m sure. 

I smile, but my stomach curls into a ball, like a woolly-bear caterpillar prodded with a stick.

Why am I so affronted?

I think to myself, Tina Fey looks like a soccer mom who drives a Volvo station-wagon. The vision of her in “Date Night,” opposite Steve Carrell, is seared in my mind. 

Oh my God. That’s me. 

Minus the kids, but with the housewife hair. 

Jesus wept. How did this happen? Ten years ago, standing under a big white tent watching polo in Florida, wine glasses clinking in our fists, someone told me I looked like Hilary Swank. Another person said the same thing again a couple of years later. 

So this is what happens to Hilary Swank, I consider, gritting my smile, facing the girl at the other end of the zoom meeting. The woolly caterpillar eventually becomes the papery moth the color of muted feldspar. She ends up resembling just another Tina Fey. 

I don’t think I’d have been as insulted if the girl asking me didn’t resemble Beyonce so much, minus a few curves. She still had Beyonce’s caramel skin, cat eyes and full lips. I can’t help but wonder how she’ll react in fifteen years when someone asks her, “Has anyone ever told you you look like Wanda Sykes?”


Russ and I started watching “Doctor Foster.” It’s older. British. I chose it is because the same actress who played Villanelle in “Killing Eve” stars in it. It’s a cheap drama, but it sucked me in anyway. Dr. Foster’s husband is a perennial liar who cheats on his wife with the young Villanelle. Dr. Foster’s suspicions are raised when she finds a long blond hair on her husband’s scarf. 

Russ said, “Don’t get any ideas, go looking for trouble.”

Oh you’d be in so much trouble!” I said. “I’d question you if I found a long blond hair on you!”

“Jenn,” he said. “You can’t find the ketchup bottle trapped in the refrigerator door!”

I couldn’t really argue his point. Sometimes even I am astounded at my own inability to notice the conspicuous. 

Sticky Fingers

Yesterday, cleaning the apartment, I knocked a valuable French ceramic bowl off of the coffee table. Russ calls me the bull in the china shop. It’s impossible not to make a mess while cleaning up my messes. This is why Russ cringes when I walk into the kitchen. Cooking invites a massacre of both the room and the meal. 

Picking the pieces of the bowl off the floor, I tried supergluing them into place. The only pieces I managed to superglue together were my two fingers on the same hand. I’m still picking the stiff edges of clear adhesive like nail polish from my legs in the shower. 


Wednesday my last class wrapped. I finished fourteen one-on-one appointments in three days bookended around work hours. I feel like I need to sleep for a week. Luckily, this is a long weekend. 

That said, I love reviewing projects with the smart people who created them. So many bright minds in the world pursuing different tracks. One student had a slide that really made me laugh. I can’t share most (any) of it, but will leave you with one nugget. In regards to the product he is launching he said, “Funny thing, when people have most of their disposable income wiped out – they suddenly develop ‘taste’ and a sense of ‘value.’” A whole tribe of connoisseurs sifted from the ashes. The veracity of this newfangled perspective depends on whether you’ve snatched it by the tail or by the teeth. That depends on which side of the wallet you stand. I’m not going to wonder any further about it until next week. I don’t have time. I’m late for a massage. 

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