susan jennings

A parent is a loaded weapon

Mom was here for Thanksgiving, and of course my stepdad too. How do I describe my Mom? There is so much history and baggage associated with one's own parents, plus the everchanging perspective from infant to child to teen to adult, that it's difficult to objectively describe them. I'll pretend I'm a non-relative who's just known my Mom (we'll call her Joan) for a long, long time. Joan was the only child of a manly-man industrial engineer who worked on the Alaska Pipeline for Mobil Oil Corporation, and a critical, matronly clothes-horse who worked as a bank teller until she married and became mother and housewife. Both parents had wanted a son; when Joan was an adolescent her brother William

I kiss, I bite

So, apparently I'm a control freak. Just the fact that upon hearing this I demand examples probably confirms it. Seriously, I want to be in charge of how I, my environment, and my chosen expressions are experienced. I used to have a little script on my homepage that resized it to fit the background image exactly; I hate when it scrolls and repeats. That just looks stupid. But the resize script was soundly condemned by Ashley, and I eventually abandoned it. Sure I want it my way, but not at the expense of eliciting disgust from my own husband. The entire web medium was infuriating to me for a long time, coming as I do from a traditional print background. "I want this color." Nope, it can look

Musical Tripe

I believe that between my brother David, Ashley, and me, the focus on mp3-format music is becoming obsessive. We no longer have a stereo here, nor does David. We've replaced them with mp3 servers, and ripped all our CDs. When I listen to music now it's always on that, or my Rio player, or on my own computador, in the form of some kind of perfect playlist, painstakingly constructed out of all my favorites of some genre: ten hours of sweetly blended triphop or drum&bass or big beat, or whatever. Why, even right now (gasp, "right NOW?!") I'm looking at the smooth round face of today's skin on Audion, which is playing a mix of, you know... Portishead, Massive Attack, Everything but the Girl (yes


Briefly, before I head into Schwab for the day: Here is a song Ashley sent me from far away, which at the moment sends me into tears every time. Sigh... only five more days...

Girls girls girls!

I cherish my friends, as you probably do too. As every girl knows, there are a special few in whom you can confide and trust completely; who know you through and through, and can tell you when you're screwing up and you know they're right. Most importantly, these are the special few who feel secure and confident and whole in your presence -- and vice-versa -- so you can tell each other, "You're beautiful", "You're talented", and "You're lovable", which are things everyone needs to hear sometimes. If you're a guy, it may not be clear what this means; but in female relationships, I think there is often a sort of jockeying for position which happens when they first get to know each other; and i

The fascism-mobile

A Mercedes, apparently, is not a car. It is a symbol of hatred and oppression, it would seem. It just boasts the added feature of being handy for getting from here to there. My dad is a car fiend, and from him I learned my love for the metal beast. He has collected some interesting automobiles in his time, including an Excalibur, a Spartan, and a 1944 Buick Roadmaster; and some which were just plain fast and beautiful, like a 1977 Porsche 911S, which he raced in Mexico, and three mid-eighties Corvettes, which he let his wife drive when he wasn't spinning them in doughnuts down the wide streets of his Fresno neighborhood. My dad is lots of fun to drive around with; he really loves cars, and h

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© 2018 Susan Jennings

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