I’m on the road again. In a spur of the moment decision I jumped into a car with someone I barely know and headed north.

My new friend Jon is a professional photographer. I met him last weekend at the Heber Valley Demolition Derby, where he mentioned he was goin on a road trip thru Yellowstone, Montana, and the Northwest.

Two days before he left he called me and asked if I wanted to come.

I’m not one for impulsive decisions, but taking into account this guy is cute and that I’ve wanted to go to Montana ever since I saw Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through (my head processed “cute guy + Montana = A River Runs Through It”), I saw this as my opportunity.

I’m pretty sure this guy doesn’t know about datejenny.com…so maybe I can be a little more liberal with my information. Then again, the consequences of divulging too much information just might be too great to risk it, no matter how little that risk is.

But my gut feeling? There won’t really be anything to tell.

Until tomorrow…

Many conservative religions define certain dress codes to uphold a certain level of modesty for its members, which is just another defense against immodest thought and behavior. As a member of a religion that more or less instills a dress code, I have been righteously covering my body ever since I was a teenager—until now.

This past summer I’ve been baring my shoulders. The hemlines are still long, the girls are still (very well) covered, but the sleeves…well…the sleeves have come off.

Many of you may think I’m on a slippery slope, and soon the hemlines WILL come up and my necklines WILL go down. I beg to differ. I’m a firm believer in classy, modest clothing, but how the shoulder is considered an immodest body part I don’t know. Does its roundness resemble that of a person’s bottom…or a breast…or…? Do the shoulders draw the eye to the clavicle, which slight V-shape points the eye further down to the peaks of peccadillo? Are those extra inches of flesh the final barrier that prevents the mind from crossing over from the moral to the immoral?

I can’t imagine deltoids having that much power. And if they did, well, it might even do me some good. When a sweet spirit and smart personality gets you nowhere, women should be allowed to bear their shoulders. It’s not an invitation for fornication, but a PG-rated sneak preview to get a guy’s attention.

Conservative religious institutions that put so much emphasis on getting married should relax dress codes for its members that can’t get out of the rut of Singledom. The new rule: The older you get, the more skin you can show.

I won’t be writing a letter to the president of the church anytime soon with my ideas. But in the meantime, I am going to release my shoulders. They are strong, sculpted and raise my arm up when I contract them. They don’t convey sexuality; they exude strength. Like curvy hips that scream “I can bear children,”, my strong shoulders scream “I can carry them!”

So I’m pulling out the tank tops and sleeveless shirts (and staying away from the tube tops and visible bra straps. Remember, I said classy.) and stocking up on razors and clear deodorant. And even before the farmer tan fades, a guy will call and say, “Hey Jenny, I think you’d make a great tennis partner. Can you play next Friday?”

I’m off to do some lateral arm raises… 

I’m allowed some thoughts on greater social issues than blind dates and Utah culture, no?

I wrote some thoughts down during my trip South last spring that I never posted. I’m doing so now. I titled this new post USA! USA! Part 2 because I already wrote a post called USA! USA! about an experience I had on a gondola in Austria. Read it. You’ll see I’ve come a long way in representing my country.

When traveling abroad, you are constantly reminded where you are from every time someone asks you, when you fill out a form, and (this I newly discovered) when you talk about politics.

I had a few, well, more than a few, interesting conversations with people from all over the world about the perception of the United States abroad.

Based on my experience, the perception I perceived can be divided into three P’s. (Say that three times fast!)

First: Politics.

One evening in Buenos Aires I had a passionate conversation with two German friends about America and its last 4 years. One blames the American people for re-electing Bush, and for that, we are responsible for his actions. The other defended the American people, agreeing that politics isn’t so black and white and that you really don’t know what will happen when you vote for someone.

I stepped in to say that during the 2004 election 9-11 was still quite fresh. We’d never faced a homeland attack before, nor has the world seen anything so devastating. You can’t blame America for trying to protect itself against a new enemy in a new world. Although unsure about the war, we tried to decide as best we could. The effect of that decision is for another discussion.

(I was tempted to criticize the German people for electing Hitler, and not doing anything about him, but didn’t.)

Second: Patriotism.

I was surprised how proud I felt saying, “I’m from America” while I was down there. You don’t say it much IN America, so uttering those words every time I met someone felt a little strange to the ear—but very warm to the heart.

I love to celebrate my country, but my Frenchman thought Americans we were too patriotic. He thought we went overboard every Fourth of July. Really? This comment bothered me. How can you be too patriotic? It was a sentiment I never knew non-Americans felt about us. I told him

Third: Parties.

I’m not talking about political parties. I’m talking about the drinking, dancing, stripping parties that flood our movies and TV shows.

Unfortunately, our media is what people perceive of Americans, which is Las Vegas, reality TV white trash, and girls taking off their tops at parties. I was talking to a European and some Aussies when they said they would love to see an American party because the women all flash their boobs.

I tried to explain that THAT is not America—at least not all of it.

Nevertheless, Americans can be very loud, stupid, and unaware of their conduct in public, more so than any other culture. To my chagrin, I had to agree with them. 

In the end, I don’t know if we’ll ever get over national stereotypes—such as the French are rude, the Chinese don’t respect laws, or the Americans are war-mongers—but I don’t think we really stick to them when we meet people on an individual basis. During my travels, I never met someone and thought in the back of my mind, “Oh, they are Israeli. They must be cheap.” I didn’t get the feeling others thought I wanted America to dominate the world when they met me. 

Nevertheless, stereotypes surfaced for a reason, and when I say “I’m from America” people will be watching my behavior (which I feel has come a long way since that day I rambled off in an Austrian gondola).

On that note, I will not be flashing my boobs at any parties. God bless America.

(Funny side note: The Israelis I met told me how to avoid paying for national park fees. He told me if you wake up early and get to the park entrance before 8:00 a.m., no one is at the toll booth and you can get in for free. He then smiled and said “Israelis always know how to get the deals.” Judge as you may.)

I was talking with my sister-in-law the other day about the qualms of turning 30. I recently had a birthday, and I’m now 28. It’s not that bad, but I liked 27. I felt I was still considered in my middle twenties (somewhat). But now I’m rounding 30, and well, I don’t like it.

Except for one thing—Michael Jackson. With all the coverage on his death, I’ve been very nostalgic. I loved Michael Jackson as a kid. He’s the only artist I remember listening to in grade school. I remember this beat-up old cassette tape of Thriller, which I played in an brown, handheld PlaySkool cassette player, and I played, danced, and rewound the song “Beat It” over and over again.

Other kid memories include watching Captain EO at Disneyland, doing the moonwalk to kill the bad guys on a Michael Jackson video game for Sega Genesis, and sleeping over at my best friend’s house for the world premiere of the Black and White video when I was ten years old.

And then when the History album was released during the middle of high school, it wasMichael all over again, blasting “Man in the Mirror” while driving with my friends (“cause when you close your heart you can’t close your . . .your mind!”—I love that part at the end). It was also in high school when I got my hands on a Jackson 5 Greatest Hits album and heard that little kid sing (wow).

No doubt that he was very eccentric, his face morphed into something unrecognizable, and his name tainted with accusations. This made us become disenchanted with him. Everyone has his or her opinion, but based on the fact that he had a life no one could ever understand, I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.

So listening to his music all again this last week, watching him move his body the way he does—it gave me a small case of melancholy as I remember being a kid from Michael Jackson’s 80s. It was awesome, and I feel sorry for the kids that are growing up with Britney Spears and Miley Cyrus for their childhood icons.

And even though you could say I was a little too young to appreciate Michael at the height of Thriller, I do feel I got to witness and experience some of his greatness—from that era—firsthand. And for that, I’m grateful to be 28 years old.

Updating my Facebook account has taken a new turn. I delete “Friends” rather than add them. Lately I’ve found myself annoyed by the clutter of status updates dotted with annoying caplocks and exclamation points about how happy someone is that it’s sunny outside, or how they are breast feeding at 2 am, or how they can’t wait for the next Twilight movie. When I see this, I now delete them.

Rude? Well, before I continue my thoughts on this, let’s go back a year or two and remember when we all first signed up for Facebook. Most of us originally scoffed at these social networking sites. “How weird? Why would someone want to know what I’m doing all the time?” But everyone was doing it, so you finally caved in and signed up. After ignoring your account for the first few weeks you slowly start to accept a few Friend Requests. Then more came in, and you found out your new Friends are Friends with evern more people you used to know. Momentum builds into this huge Friend-Request boom, which I like to call a Cyber School Reunion, with people from your past coming all out of the woodworks.

“Woah! How are you?! Three kids? Geez, that’s amazing! You married who? Haha, no way!”

Remember? It was kind of fun re-connecting with those old friends. But the momentum still continued, and you were accepting and sending Friend Requests from and to anyone you may have had a brief association with. With some people, you aren’t really sure how you know them, but because you have 36 Friends in common, you must have known them at some time in your life.

Then came the requests to play games and take quizzes, or join “the Katie-Is-Getting-Married group” and your LDS ward’s fan page. People stopped sending you regular email but sent messages via Facebook. Party invitations or flyers were replaced by Facebook Invites. And instead of picking up the telephone and giving you a call, people leave a message on your Facebook Wall (for everyone to read) about how you “need to call Joe and do something fun—ASAP!!!!!!”

Not that any of this is bad, per say. I’m just so amazed how dominant Facebook has become in everyday life. In some ways, it’s taking over our lives, and that’s why I’ve decided to take Facebook by the horns. And it starts with who I wanted to interact with on the site.

There’s no doubt I feel more connected to long lost cousins and childhood friends. I love Facebook for that. But when I see my News Feed cluttered with someone I met once at a party a year ago, or if I receive a mass invite for a garage sale for someone I barely know, it’s time to do some house cleaning. 

There are a handful of approaches to maintaining a manageable Facebook account. One person I know uses the same approach many people use to maintain an organized closet: You can’t buy a new pair of shoes unless you throw out another—You can’t add a Friend unless you delete another.

Another approach is to completely cancel your account and start over. Although it may seem catastrophic to do something so…rash, it’s a good way to go back to a small account to enjoy Facebook sparingly.

A more technical approach is to use the tools that Facebook has provided. I have a dear friend who has turned her privacy settings to the max. She’s not listed if you were to do a basic search for her, and only she can send Request to be Friends, not the other way around. It sounds a little extreme, but it’s her way make sure that weirdo in the cube down the hall doesn’t stalk her Facebook page.

And lastly, in what I believe to be the most effective way to control your Facebook homepage, is to scroll—then slash. Simple as that. Scroll your News Feed, and slash anyone you clutters your page.

But I’m not saying to go crazy like Edward Scissorhands. I may be Facebook Friends with someone I met for only a few hours, but if I thought that person interesting or intriguing enough that I wouldn’t mind reading his status updates every once in awhile, I’ll keep him. Even if I’m Friends with someone I’m indifferent towards, but she rarely uses her Facebook account, I’ll let her stick around as well. As I said before, I’m deleting the people I vaguely know (or knew), with whom I share no memories, with whom I won’t ever talk to again in the future.

All and all, I think Facebook is great when it’s tuned to be a lean, mean, social networking machine. Use it for its good. Condemn it for its bad. And in the meantime, take inventory and dump some Friends. It may help you become friendlier with the ones you actually care about.

**So if you’re interested in dating Jenny, don’t ask her out in a Facebook message. She’ll be more impressed if you go old school and pick up the phone and call.

“That’s a Dealbreaker, Ladies!”—a phrase I heard in this season’s last episode of my (second) favorite TV show 30 Rock. The show’s protagonist, Liz Lemon, a sarcastic, quirky TV producer, coined the phrase as a funny way to call out ladies making excuses for the bad qualities in their men.

Dealbreakers are typically face tattoos, any size collection of beanie babies, and a compulsive need to get naked at 3:00 p.m. everyday. But even the nicest of guys have “dealbrekaers” through no fault of their own.

I’m not talking about the less-than-appealing site of back hair (removable) or the sleep-depriving sound or snoring (usually fixable, but if not—dealbreaker) or a bad case of ketosis (awkward to address but fixable). I’m talking about a man’s height.

I’ve seen more than a few cases of couples perfect for each other but went nowhere because the woman can’t get over the fact the guy is two inches shorter than she. When I discussed the issue with them, it usually came down to one thing: feeling like a girl. We want to look up into his eyes, not down into them.

Dating a guy shorter than you has other ill side effects other than you questioning your femininity. Not only your posture suffers, but your shoe collection grows to consist mostly of flats, and you look at your friend’s high heels like you look at the skinny girl with the high metabolism gorging on ice cream. B*@#%….

Actually, we women typically stick together on this issue like an unwritten code known and agreed amongst us. For example, the other day my friend told me she wanted to introduce me to this guy she met a few weeks ago.

“Coolio. Do you happen to know what he does?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure what he does, and I can’t really remember how tall he is, but he’s funny, and I thought of you when I was talking to him.”

Huh, I snickered in my head at that comment. I never asked about his height, but my friend instinctively knew to relay that vital piece of information before I took her suggestion too seriously. 

You must be thinking, “Jenny, are you really in position to be this picky?” For a little while longer, as I don’t have crow’s feet, yes. I can be picky.

Yet every once in awhile I give in and go out with a 5’7er. And even though I give it my best effort wearing my thinnest-soled shoes, the only thing I can think about during dinner is if I have a larger foot than he.

But regardless of our intentions, our attractions are dialed into our genetics. We instinctively seek after another’s genetics we’d want to share with ours and pass onto our kin. I reminded this to my parents the last time I told my parents he was too short and they told me I was too picky.

“Do you want your grandkids limited to sports like gymnastics and horse racing?”

“Okay,” my sports-driven father says “That’s a dealbreaker.”

“Geez, Jenny. Why do you have to be good at that stuff?”

That’s what a former co-worker asked me last fall while we were driving home from one of the few team-building activities that my department got to do. But this wasn’t a day of trust falls and rope courses; we simply went 4-wheeling in the Uintah National Forest. I was the only girl amongst the 4 guys. Well, I was actually the only girl left standing. There was another, but she crashed fairly early in the outing and headed home. I, on the other hand, was quite competent handling the machine—even more so than some of the guys, like Atkins. His question was covered in disdain, and it took me by surprise.

“Sorry?”

“If I was hanging with a girl, and she showed me up, I’d be pissed.”

I turned to asked my other co-worker, Chris, what he thought.

“Well, it’s cool when she keeps up, but if she were better? Eh, I dunno…” and his face kind of grimaced at the thought.

“So is it a problem that I’m good at sports and other guy things like 4-wheeling and shooting?”

“Jenny,” Chris said, “my advice to you is to be about 15-20% worse than the guy.”

Unfortunately, he had a point. My athletic ability has been a dating disability. I dated a guy a few years ago who wasn’t as athletic as I was. Whenever we played sports—skiing, golf, tennis—it was awkward. Awkward waiting for him constantly at the bottom of the ski hill. Awkward watching him hit his third mulligan while my ball was sitting in the middle of the fairway. Awkward beating him in ping pong in front of his friends. Needless to say, it wasn’t very fun for either of us to do things together.

I still wasn’t sure how big of an issue this was, until last week when this Girl-Better-Than-Guy issue came up again. I was at a party last week listening to a guy explain to my friend why he didn’t ask this girl (who was across the room) out on a second date. He said that on their first date, his car got a flat; and the next thing he knew the girl was jacking up the car and changing the tire like a Brooklyn-bred mechanic.

“Really? That’s the reason?” I piped in. “Did you feel like your manhood was threatened?”

Very candidly he said yes.

I decided to investigate further, “Well, what if she were better at sports?”

“Not if it’s a sport I’m good at,” he answered. I wanted to respond, “a sport you think you’re good at” but didn’t.

As lame as that may sound in the 21st century, I did appreciate his honesty. It comes down to the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing. Guys want to be big and strong; girls want to be rescued and protected.

And I’m no different. I want to date someone who can kick my ass. And although my athletic ability further limits my dating window, do I really want to be in a relationship where I have to hold back 15-20% so the man can feel like he’s, well, a man? Nope, I don’t. I want more of a man.

**So if you want to date Jenny, there are many sports she isn’t very good at. And if you want to guarantee your dominance, bring her to play one of the following: Basketball (conflicted with skiing growing up), billards, snowboarding (again, skiing), gymnastics (I have horrible air awareness), opening wine bottles (a sport in some countries), track (I’m coordinated, not cardiovascular), thumb wars, pull-ups (Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2 is my hero), and more.

So my social life is in the dumps right now. Sqirrels have more friends than I do right now.

I first realized I have a problem last Saturday night when I was chilling at my parents in Provo and everyone of my three younger siblings had dates that night. They looked at me with pity eyes.

I really don’t date. I can seriously think of two dates within the last two years that I would qualify as official “dates.” This incorporated the whole PPP crap we’ve heard about.

Don’t think I’m crying for sympathy. I actually really don’t like official “dates,” too much pressure, but I do like friends, and even though I didn’t even have a date on Saturday night, I didn’t even have friends to hang out with.

But one thing I learned on my self-discovery tour in South America is that sometimes you aren’t that good-looking to bring friends to you, so you have to go out looking for them.

I’m really determined to be more social. I don’t care if it’s with Mormons, non-Mormons, Jews, college students, or midgits; I just want to have someone to hang with on weekends.

So against my nature, really against my nature, I’m really going to try to get out more. And since I don’t really have either Mormon or non-Mormon friends, I’m going to try to make both.

Last night my beautiful friend Kat treated me to dinner for my birthday.

Afterwards she said her singles ward had an activity to learn contra dancing. It was an opportunity, so I took it.

Tonight I had, no surprise, no plans. But there was a cool musician playing at a bar in Park City. My two invitations to some girlfriends were turned down. After I scrolled through a measley addressed booked filled with relatives and skier guys over 45, I knew I had to break the cycle.

Again, friends aren’t knocking down my door, so I headed to the bar by myself.

You often see single, confident women sitting alone at the bar by themselves in movies, but I’m not one of them.

Instead, I’m in the corner on my couch busily typing this blog post into my iPhone. But I’m trying, sort of. I haven’t gone up and introduced myself to someone yet. That might be too much for me to grow in one night.

I think being out on a Friday night and not at home in my pajamas watching The 25 Biggest Celebrity Feuds is a good first step.

**So if you want to ask out Jenny, now is probably the highest probability you’ll get a Yes. Seriously. Jump on it before she decides she’s happier in her pajamas.

Well, I did it. Thirty days of walking, hostels, buses, planes, trains, boats, bikes, taxis, subways, hiking, ATMs, processed carbohydrates, dirty clothes, constant packing and unpacking, street dogs, snoring, dancing, really great restaurants, argentine boyfriends, and an overall awesome experience.

And now I need a REAL vacation. I fly home today and, man, am I tired.

I’ve grown so much this last month, and I’m talking about just my eyebrows.

I’ve made significant strides in overcoming my fear of public transportation–particularly busses. I’ve learned the majority of Spanish swear words and their respective levels of vulgarity. And although I really didn’t improve my ability to convert numbers to the metric system, I did end up memorizing the number on my passport! (How many Americans can say they know that?!)

I also feel I’ve learned a lot of the Dos and Donts of traveling. I kind of just jumped into the deep-end of traveling alone without being quite sure how to swim, and I swallowed a lot of water in the process. I could have done this trip a lot more efficiently with what I know now, but I try not to be too hard on myself. It was my first time in the water.

I also got really use to being uncomfortable, whether it was sketchy bathrooms, dirty clothes, or bumpy bus rides. Things that were once disgusting, such as one thin piece of cotton between you and a mattress with unidentifiable stains, are still disgusting, but ive gotten pretty good at just not thinking about it.

But I feel that perhaps maybe my greatest growth has been socially. Never before have I been so proactive about introducing myself and trying to make friends. I gained a new appreciation for good company, and I recognized it was a huge part of successfully traveling alone.

So when my parents came to pick me up at the airport, I askedan applause and took a bow. I just completed a masterful performance that no other Badger could. Everytime they told me I was crazy for doing this before I left made me want to do it even more. I really felt like I HAD to do this. Maybe it’s because people in my family work for Google, are doctors, go to Harvard, or get full-ride D1 football scholarships. Or maybe it’s because 90% of my friends are married or have serious boyfriends they’ll likely marry, and I didn’t even really have a friend to ask to join me even if I wanted to. Maybe it’s because I’ve been unemployed for 6 months and I don’t know what to do with myself. For whatever reason, I needed to do this.

It was either that or get a tattoo…

Well, thanks for following my little adventure. Again, what I was doing is nothing compared to every other traveler I met. But as nothing as it was, it was something to me. I feel really good having done this on my own. I will have a few follow-up posts on my blog, and after that good’ole fashion datejenny.com will be back in full stride. I’m still just as single as ever.

Anyway, now I have to go do the two things you least look forward to doing after you return from a trip–check my bank statement and try on my clothes. Both are going to be pretty tight.

Now that I’m approaching the end if my trip, I’d like write some love and hate letters to various things I have either brought or encountered on my trip.

Dear Keens,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love how you didn’t need any breaking in, as I bought you just before i left. I love your Gore-tex outer shell that allows me to stomp thru mud and puddles with ease! My feet love you, and that, my dear Keens, is the greatest love of all.

From the bottom of my heart, and my body,
Jenny

Dear Brown Corduroy Pants,
Ah, how I have worn thee! I was afraid I was treating you poorly, as I didn’t wash you for over 2 weeks. But when I asked other travelers how often they washed their pants, they said 2 weeks was nothing!

Until the day you fall apart,
Jenny

Dear Processed, White-Flour Foods,
We got along okay at the beginning of our relationship. But I’ve only really been with you because you are cheap and easy, and I don’t have many other options. But you don’t make me feel good about myself as I haven’t lost any weight since traveling because of you. In fact, I’ve gained a few pounds. Do you not want me to be skinny so I can find a husband? Do you not want me to be happy?

I can’t be with you anymore except for the occasional one-night stand. We’ll then make love until the sun comes up.

Until I feel skinny and can binge on cookies,
Jenny

Dear Ibuprofen,
You have really come through for me. You’ve helped me thru the hard times when my body hurt day after day from walking/hiking/biking. You do not restrain your love to me, as I can buy you in prescrition strength (800 mg!) over the counter.

Thanks for always being there,
Jenny

Dear Canon Rebel XSI,
I hate you. I really do. It was never going to work between us, so I don’t even know why I tried. Well, I actually do know why. I was using you to impress a cute guy who was into photography. But I never carry big cameras on trips. Heck, I never even carry a small camera on my trips. I should have stayed true to myself and saved myself from back and neck aches.

Maybe in another life,
Jenny

Dear iPhone,
I’m expressing my greatest love for last, and that is you, my sweet iPhone. How you have saved me from boredom on long bus rides. How your sweet music rises above the sound of a pesty snorer and serenades me to peaceful slumber. How you’ve given me instant information on weather, exchange rates, and a yoga routine (which I never did, but you had it there for me nonetheless). Your WiFi abilities have saved me from slow, 10-year old public computers with keyboards so sticky you have to attack them to type anything. You are my everything.

Love,
Jenny