A blog that was supposed be made up of bits about cab rides and blurbs about beauty products but, instead, is about other things.


Ceci N'est Pas Une Cab

This is not a cab. (NYM)


Short Trips

  • I'm not finding any of this to be "a hoot." A fascinating indicator of some odd need to pretend to integrate fashion-speak/standards into security-wear, but not a hoot. (TNR)
  • Marc Jacobs mulls Marc3, makes me a happy girl. (IHT)
  • Don't be sad; we didn't discover Sunny's either. Here's to bluegrass society meetings in the backroom. (NYT)
  • The new New York Ghost features Toni Schlesinger and a mail-in offer from a seamstress! Sign up! Sign up! (NYG)



Ten months old.
(DATE: 5/25/06)
All mixed-up.


Oh! See?

So Seth Cohen got into a cab.

"I called it," I thought. The O.C. version of the Six Feet Under ending.
(I'd been waiting for it all day.)

And then Ryan got into his car.

And the strumming of the folkpop with the word "pulverize," and the reference to song, and the sentiment about life and leaving and losing and yuck.

For the record, I shed my first tear of the night when Julie Cooper picked up the college catalogue. (What's wrong with me?) I snorted in disbelief when they made it look like, in the fake future, Caitlin and Bullet were a couple. I am glad that yarmulkes made one more appearance on Fox.

But that final shot? Who framed that?

And why fast forward if you're not going to go all the way?

I bet that Oliver outlived them all.


Things (One)

  • Something about all endings including driving.



I could count the receipts, but I'm bad at math.
Eight rides in two days? Nine rides in three?
I assure you, there were many.

(I'm not sure you want to be assured.)


The Prettiest Place

Grand Central is one of my favorite places in all of New York.
LF and BS are two of my favorite people in all of New York.
(I mean, LS and BS are two of my favorite people in all of New York.)

Thus, this was perfect.


Big Love

"You should get the marriage. Marriage is the biggest," he said.

And he repeated. Throughout the entire ride from Brooklyn to the Chelsea Piers.

I didn't give him such a big tip.



Sounds like my address.
Drives like an escalator.



Cut corners.
Didn't laugh when I towel-dried my hair.


No Number

It wasn't the cold.
It was the fact that every boy in the entire city decided to splurge for a taxi at the same time.

We took the train.
Which was festive.


Things, Some

  • Something about festival dailies.
  • Something about frozen dumplings.
  • Something about that stranger, leaning against the doors for the entire ride, writing alternating lines in blue pen and in black pen in a tiny notebook, and never messing up, and balancing.
  • Something about Botox and sweating.
  • Something about where they keep the carts at night and when it's cold.
  • Something about this being the block where I lost you.
  • Something about the bakery staying open for one more holiday's haul.


And, By Pretty, I Mean Stunning

In light of the boy who once asked, incredulously, "But, Jen Snow, I thought you had a heart of stone!?" there is this:
On Saturday night I drove over the Brooklyn Bridge. For the first time.
And I cried.

It was overwhelmingly pretty and then I realized that it was also the only thing holding me above all of that water. And that I should try to stay in my lane. And that it's really small, but really big. And, apparently, really tear-worthy.


Give It To Me

Sometimes, when you're driving, if you give someone the finger because they have been honking their horn behind you for the past five minutes, they will zoom in front of you (across a double yellow line) when the light changes and then at the next light they will get out of their car and walk, in a style that can be most closely likened to bow-leggedness, toward your car, and you will make a big show of dramatically locking your door, and then the light will change and you will drive around him, and his big stupid car, both of which are now stuck standing in the street.



I'm sort of scared of whatever it is that is frozen to the seat.




Yes, I am wearing Keds.
No, I don't want to know how you can see that.
jensnow(AT)gmail(DOT)com. All content Copyright 2008. You can visit me at Things I Don't Understand And Definitely Am Not Going To Talk About (thingsidontunderstandand.tumblr.com) and at www.jensnow.com.