Rejected.

pre-ps: remember those proto-youtube ‘Rejected’ videos? “My spoon is too big!!”

(Wow, 2002.)
But the real point of this post is NOT absurdist cartoons from my early college years.

You see, I recently got rejected. By a writing contest. Timothy McSweeney is just not that into me. Of course, he’s not the first self-important hipster in recent memory to decide he could do without me…

*Insert Jon-Stewart-style camera-mugging tie-adjustment.* 

Point is: I entered the McSweeney’s column contest about a month ago — which is a victory in itself, considering I found out about it just a week before, and I turned in my submission entire hours before the deadline.

There aren’t a lot of specific requirements — just the four questions below — and an original, quirky idea that’s smart & strange enough to suit the tastes of McS’s lit-hip readership. Seemed doable.

And even though I wasn’t selected, I’m still pretty proud of my attempt. Maybe I’ll just turn this into a column on my own. Then it could be the rejected idea that keeps on giving…

Enjoy:

A brief description of the proposed column:

My column is about breakups. I’ve been dumped three years in a row, all within a month of my birthday. (Beginning to wonder if it is in fact not them, but me. I write in order to figure it out.)

I was in my car the other day when Bryan Adams’ “Please Forgive Me” shuffled on my iPod. As I belted along, playing air drums on my steering wheel, I thought about how the breakup song genre can be broken down into a much more nuanced taxonomy. All heartbreak anthems are not created equal, and I like the idea of exploring that. You turn to different tunes for the different stages of heartbreak: anger, denial, driving by his apartment at 3:00 a.m., finger-wagging and moving-on, etc.

The prescription idea came later, and it seemed a natural fit, because music is such potent self-medication. And pharmaceutical ads are such fun to lampoon. Then I thought about expanding the concept to other typical post-breakup activities. And here we go. Ex-Rx.

One full example column:

Ex-Rx: Bryan Adams, “Please Forgive Me”

No one denies the pain you’re going through, and self-medicating with this early-90s adult contemporary hit is an acceptable coping mechanism according to the American Psychological Association(‘s message boards). Bryan Adams songs give your broken heart a healthy boost, including warm thoughts of Kevin Costner’s glory years and vague memories of the disco-ball darkness of roller skating rinks.

Use only as directed.

Active ingredients:
Nostalgia
Weepy Guitar
Power Bridge

Side Effects:
Using Bryan Adams could result in spontaneous displays of emotion in karaoke bars or karaoke-like behavior within your motor vehicle. The use of alcoholic beverages intensifies these symptoms. If you are prone to episodes of air guitar, do not use Bryan Adams while operating heavy machinery. Heightened sense of romantic heroism will usually pass within a 24-hour period. Resist the urge to contact your ex until at least 24 hours have passed. *If you’re feeling lonely, don’t*…post the YouTube video on your Facebook wall after 12:00 a.m., as feelings of post-post remorse may occur.

Brief descriptions of three additional installments of your column:

Future columns would examine more songs and their corresponding moods: Jeff Buckley’s “Lover You Should’ve Come Over”, Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable”, Fleming & John’s “Ugly Girl”, Sam Cooke’s…pretty much anything. The format would most likely remain close to the original, but maybe new sections evolve: a doctor’s testimony, diagnostic quiz, holistic self-care, etc.

And I imagine the concept easily expanding to cover other post-breakup activities, alternating between music and other topics, like: binge shopping, martinis, Nora Ephron films, rebound sex, joining a gym (or book club), etc.

A short biographical note:

Hi. My name is Sarah Jenkins. I just turned 29, and I’m a writer from Springfield, Mo. (Hometown of Brad Pitt and Bob “have your pets spayed or neutered” Barker; home state of Jon Hamm and Todd “shut that whole thing down” Akin. Yes, we’re known for our beautiful men and a natural concern for reproductive issues.)

Other things you might like to know: I play the accordion, I ran the Chicago marathon, I have a cat named Jenksie, I do improv comedy, and sometimes people tell me I remind them of Tina Fey. And then I kiss them full on the mouth.

My major relationships have been with men who have dark hair and wear glasses, physically resembling both myself and my middle school science teacher. Probably not a coincidence.

:::

So that’s a thing. You’re invited to reject me, too. Everybody’s doing it. But fair warning: I’m probably going to blog about it.

Please forgive me, I know not what I do…

They’re tearing down the mansion.

They’re tearing down the mansion at the corner of my street.

Just a couple of days ago, I noticed the doors were open and the windows were gone. There were trucks parked outside and people stirring around. I thought, oh boy! Somebody’s finally remodeling the old place.

Then this morning when I walked by, bam. Bulldozer. And it’s gone.

I wish I had a “before” shot to show you, since “mansion” probably isn’t the correct word…but it was a big ol’ Victorian-looking house, empty ever since I’ve lived here, so it always held this Haunted Mansion-ish mystique for me. On evening jogs, with no one else around, I’d move a little faster past this house to get to the corner of the block.

Those big, empty windows and that big, empty lawn. All the shadows, eerie silence, and the story that I’d never get to know.

When I first moved in, there were big pieces of particle board with ominous spray-painted No Trespassing messages, threatening in no uncertain terms that violators would be shot. (No, really.) Those didn’t last long, but the “stay away” vibe did. So I never got to take a closer look. I don’t think I even stepped off the sidewalk onto the lawn.

And now it’s gone.

All through my run, I mused on blog-able metaphors for this morning’s discovery.
Sometimes destruction has to make room for growth…
Nothing lasts forever…

I thought about the book I just started, The Antidote (which I ordered immediately after reading about it on brainpickings.org. It doesn’t release in the U.S. until November, so I bought it from Amazon UK. Such the literary hipster am I…). As the synopsis tells you, the book takes a different look at the “positive thinking” that pervades self-help, proposing instead a “negative path” to happiness… I’m only on page 42, but already I feel like he’s playin’ my song. Doesn’t it just make sense that allowing yourself to accept (not attach to, but also not ignore) the dark parts of life will make it easier for you to be content, and ironically even happy, when those dark parts show up? Because they will. Oh boy, do they ever.

Reading that book and watching the house get torn apart both brought to mind this snippet of a Rumi poem I found once. So I looked it up, and here’s the first stanza:

It’s the old rule that drunks have to argue
and get into fights.
The lover is just as bad. he falls into a hole.
But down in that hole he finds something shining,
worth more than any amount of money or power.

Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street.
I took it as a sign to start singing,
falling up into the bowl of sky.
The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere.
Nothing else to do.

Here’s the new rule: break the wineglass,
and fall toward the glassblower’s breath.

Fall toward the glassblower’s breath. That still makes my brain go mmmm…years after I read it for the first time.

Nothing lasts forever…
Sometimes destruction has to make room for growth…

So I thought about all that. And other things. But mostly I just kept wishing I would have, just once, disobeyed those No Trespassing signs.

Best Hilarious Homophone

[ Reminder: our Blog Challenge, now that it's red carpet season, is to blog about "best-of" experiences. ]

You know you’re a churchy child of the 90′s when…

You hear “Karmin” is going to be the musical guest on SNL (and though you know who she is and think she’s the bomb) all you can picture, in spite of yourself, is this:

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If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you & I had verrry different conceptions of what was cool in 4th grade. It’s okay. We can still be friends. (If you’ll still have me.) ps, Karmin:

\\\

ps, SNL and the youtube sensations…I’m torn. It feels a little too “Jack Donaghy trying to be cool” to me, though I know it’s a great opportunity for lesser known, quirkily talented folks. (But we all saw Lana Del Rey, yes? Poor girl. Poor our ears…)