Things I Do All the Time That I Really Wish I Didn't Do,
But I Keep Doing Them Anyway.


It happens with sickening frequency. More than any of us would like to admit. I do it more than anyone I know. I
do it with my e-mail, I do it on the newsgroup, I do it on the telephone, and I do it with the remote... I do it at work, I do it at home, if I could, I know I'd do it in the car. I do it alone, I do it with friends and I've done it at my brother's house any number of times. If it was one of my Bob Dylan sings the latest Brittany Spears impressions, it might be a good thing. But hitting send too soon can wreak havoc with your peace of mind and the peace of mind of others. The awareness shoots through your mind milliseconds after the deed is done, but done the deed is (did you know I was an English major?). The button has been pressed, the cursor has been clicked and your misspelled, badly put, error filled, not quite done, sure to be misunderstood, damned if that other personality hasn't taken over and begun a campaign of terror missive has been sent off into cyber space. How often have I been known to sit, pensive and perplexed, in front of my computer with my hands pulling at my hair in some sad ritual of intellectual remorse? Rather often. A combination of mild dyslexia and overwhelming enthusiasm has many, strange things emanating from my keyboard. A cursory proofread before sending and still my addled brain doesn't recognize glaring errors. For a full month, I spelled manner as manor. The mostly useless spell check and grammar check let my quirky mind farts trickle through like slow leaks. When sufficiently stimulated, and with my synapses firing more rapidly than a fully loaded Uzi in the hands of an over-caffienated NRA member at a gun rally, errors abound as I type away in a creative haze. Those most frequently on the receiving end of my endless eeks are a patient and forgiving lot. Very and very. With my idea balloons securely tied to their fingers, I am able to move beyond treading water in the kiddie pool.

My broad, odd, sarcastic and barely reigned in sense of humor has often found a home in Damn, I Wish I Hadn't Done That Land. When I answered the phone mid-afternoon one day by saying "Jordan's Pleasure Palace, Head Vice speaking," and my very proper Grandmother queried "Jennifer, is that you?", I experienced a more than tiny sense of regret. I winced and fidgeted as the conversation commenced. I'm quite sure she did, too. My mouth opens and words fall out before the all clear has been sounded in my head. I'm still astounded at my ability to make it through whole days of work in very conservative corporate atmospheres without busting out with the cornucopia of crassness at my disposal. With mounds of responsibility heaped on my shoulders and a near constant influx of stress, I'm terrifyingly effective in business. The drive home has that ability eliminated from my superpowers. Oh, God, driving....

If you ever get in a car with me a) put on your safety belt b) put in your earplugs c) pray that you know where I'm going. I mention a) because I've been the passenger in three car accidents, one of which left me out of commission with a neck injury for six months. I don't recommend car accidents. Everyone riding in my car wears a safety belt because mine kept me from going through a window. Windows are for looking through, not flying through. Trust me on this one. And, I should mention that I'm an impatient driver, I love taking curves at an accelerated velocity and experiencing centrifugal force up close and personal. I park in a rather "carefree" manner, I was a racecar driver in a former life and my ideal vacation involves me, a 90 Ferarri Testarosa and the Autobahn. My second point, b), is there for the aesthetic and emotional protection of all that have never heard primal scream therapy take place while driving. It isn't a swearing event, although that element can be there. It is a full on ride on the negativity roller coaster as everything that has every gone wrong in my life is released through wild gesticulating, assumed play by play of the conversation occurring in the car in front of me and many curses issued upon the genitals of all the drivers around me. The word "shrivel" is used a lot. As is the sound "ggrrrrrr..." That is a definite favorite. For some reason, my Mother finds all of this hilarious. My sister is terrified. The last point, c), is mentioned not because I get lost. I used to get lost. Most of my childhood was spent in an almost perpetual state of lostness. I became so enthralled and enthused by everything going on around me, I would wander a bit. And, oddly, my parents wouldn't notice. They frequently drove off without me, not noticing for miles that I was absent. Of course, I was not yet the loudest member of the family. My nickname was Feather Jenny. I silently floated wherever the wind took me. When I'd notice parental abandonment, my mind conjured images of the courageous me, somehow persevering alone in a wilderness of strangers. At the peak of these heroic daydreams, a truck carrying five Jordan's, a dog and towing a pop-up trailer would ease its way down the road. Anyway, I say pray you know where I'm going because I may forget half way there. I get distracted. Sometimes.

Now, a visual demonstration of the insanity that is my hair. My hair has been auburn, black, all shades of brown, scarlet, purple, highlighted and permed. These two pictures stand out as my all time worst hair happenings. The first is on the cute side. It was Christmas afternoon and my poor Mom was trying to get four kids and my Dad (that really counts as five kids) ready for Christmas dinner at Grandma and Grandpa's house. My bangs had grown into my eyes and the scissors were at the ready for a quick trim. A noise similar to that of a small herd of buffalo stampeding came from upstairs. Mom sat me on the couch and admonished me to stay and place while she went to break up some tussle that was taking placing between my brothers. They fought constantly. It is amazing that they're both alive and fully limbed. Anyway, Mom made the humongous error of leaving the hair shears right next to me, on the table. I thought I'd help the old girl out. I really had the best of intentions. When she came downstairs and saw me, jaw dropped in shock and horror almost covers her reaction. So, she did what she always did when one or more of the four of us did something silly/messy/annoying/amusing/experimental/helpful. She got the camera, took a picture of me and said: "When you start dating, we'll make sure to pull all of these pictures out to show all of your prospective beaus." She was completely sincere when she said this. Almost every fiasco in and out of the Jordan household is recorded on film. It is a tradition I like to uphold.

Next hair shot, all I really need to say is, it was the eighties.

Now, I come to the deepest, most dire repeated idiocy of my career as an idiot. Deep breathing. (Hey, that isn't it, you silly person. Men. Right off the bat, referring back to my dear Father's advice about staying away from obviously crazy people!) the minute that one guy told me he wasn't going to shower anymore for spiritual reasons, I should have been out the door. But, when he told me he was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ, that should have really done it. When I said Jesus wouldn't be reincarnated, he said "O.K. I'm Jim Morrison." Then, I left. Two dates into a sweet experience, then an announcement that this man was Connor McCloud of the Clan McCloud (he was dead serious!), had me questioning whether I might be a loony magnet. The rest have been reasonably sane. But, two mysterious threads weave there way through my most intimate encounters. Steve Martin and music. The most potent, erotic force a man can wield over me is: The Thermos Song from the Jerk. It makes my knees weak and my will crumbles. It saddens me that Steve doesn't have it any easier. What does he look for in a woman: "I like a woman with a head on her shoulders. I hate necks." Tis a cruel twist of fate that my heart is so deeply bound to the antics a wild and crazy guy.

Jennifer Jordan