balding angrily

Jennifer Aniston (or Jen-An) and Owen Wilson are aliases I’ll use for a couple of our friends. They’re married and disgustingly beautiful together. Funny story: Owen was at a party one time with Real Owen’s dad. No, not funny in an ow-my-sides-hurt way, but funny in a whoulda-thunkit kinda way.

Ok, it’s not funny at all.

I thought I’d profile Jen-An today from a suggestion from No One Cares What You Had For Lunch

Jen-An is:

• Wee - The first time I went out with Jen-An, she sat next to our friend that passed away at the movies. Wait. Our dear friend passed away. We met at the movies. Two different things. Our friend - let’s call her Maude because her tall body was exceeded by her huge personality - sat next to Jen-An and dwarfed her. Jen-An looked like Edith Ann with her feet dangling above the sticky floor.
• Bubbly - She makes it a point to make me uncomfortable every time we say good-bye by smashing her healthy bosoms up against me to give me a sloppy goodnight kiss. She usually goes for the cheek, but sometimes she goes for lip-on-lip action. She told me one time that she does that because she thinks I’m too stiff and standoffish in hugging.
• Smiley - She’s got huge teeth. Big, white, blindingly large teeth. Her teeth are like two rows of whitewashed tombstones in her mouth. They’re huge. And she uses them a lot.
• Unflappable - I have tried many, many times to get her to call me a sicko, but she shrugs as if to say, “Meh.” For instance, I would say about a passing, bald, two-year-old in a stroller, “Aw. Look at the little leukemia baby. They really need to keep her at home. I’d like to, just once, have an enjoyable evening with friends without having to think about little cancer babies.” She would respond without missing a beat, “Eh. She’ll be dead soon anyway.”
• An Animated Story-Teller - And a great one. Her stories about her mom are priceless. I wish I never met her mom because the way Jen-An tells a story her mom is a ditz when in real life she’s very sweet. Jen-An uses her hands in screaming-baby-mode a lot when telling a story. Screaming-baby-mode hands are sometimes called jazz hands. I call them screaming-baby-mode hands because if you’ve ever watched a screaming baby - And I have. Sometimes I’ll punch a baby just to get it to scream so I can observe it - its fingers are flexed out and back. Screaming-baby-mode hands are the opposite of white-knuckling-it-hands.
• Repetitive - We were walking through downtown Vancouver back to our hotel from dinner when a passer-by asked her, “Would you like to see me climb a tree or a pole?” An oddly specific question, yes. And delightfully random. That’s not an excuse to repeat the question twenty times from that moment to the hotel, which was six blocks away.
• Unaware of Her Surroundings - We went to an art auction. During the auction, she accidentally bid on an object because she was telling a story with her hands - animatedly. When the auctioneer helper shown the light-stick on her to indicate she was the high bidder, she ducked her head and furiously denied the bid, waving her screaming-baby-mode hands as if to fan him away from our table.

I may or may not profile Owen. I’m close enough with Jen-An that I can write about her and still fudge some details for comedic effect. I’m not sure Owen would appreciate a characature drawn of him. You can read a little about him and their wedding though.