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A collection of Jenny's humor pieces and essays published by Sarah Crichton Books at Farrar, Straus & Giroux.
Vineyard Gazette: Feeling the Warmth of the Snow Queen
You should do a play. Maybe you live alone, and maybe you are not loving the way the light dies in late afternoon, when you know there are 15 more hours of aloneness ahead. Maybe you should spend some of that time with other humans, inside a warm theatre, putting together a show.
Maybe the play will be “The Snow Queen,” an adaptation of the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale about Gerda, a stout-hearted little girl who takes off on a quest to rescue her friend Kai from the clutches of the creepy if dazzling Snow Queen, and who has many adventures along the way…
Read the full piece in the Vineyard Gazette.
Jenny Allen at Edgartown Library
Jenny will be at the Edgartown Library on June 5, 2018, to talk and read from her book, Would Everybody Please Stop?
Garden Growing Pains – The New Yorker
Now that it’s harvest season, I’m curious: How did your garden grow this summer?
Wasn’t it thrilling, in those early days, to watch your vegetable patch begin to come alive? To step into your garden in the dewy dawn and see what magic had transpired during the night, how each brave green shoot had grown a little taller? And then, after only a few weeks, to spot adorable tomatoes and green peppers, no bigger than you might find in a dollhouse kitchen? To peek under a fuzzy leaf and encounter a shy cucumber the size of a p… Continue Reading Garden Growing Pains here.
Me, Flirting – The New Yorker
Is this seat taken? Actually, I’d better sit over here, so you can be on my good-ear side. I’ll hear you much better, especially when the band starts up. I should probably get a hearing aid, but I’m saving up for dental implants… Continue reading Me, Flirting here.
My New Unguenteur
I love my new unguent. It is pour le visage, and I invented it. It has a milky, viscous quality that reminds me of something unpleasant that I can’t quite put my finger on…
Purchase the Winter/Spring 2017 issue of the Southampton Review
Roger Ailes’s New, Enlightened Code of Sexual Conduct
When a female employee, or potential employee, enters my office, and I greet her by locking the door and telling her to lift her skirt so that I may see her underpants, or to turn around so that I may “get a good look” at her buttocks, I will try to remember that her silence, or her statement “I don’t think so,” may not be an attempt to get me to persuade her with flattering references to her smoking bod…Read more at the New Yorker
‘Poetry for Modern Mindfulness’ in the New Yorker
DRIVING THE CAR
Getting into my car,
I vow that I will drive with
Mindful care and caution.
If, in fact, this is my vehicle,
For I often step into
Someone else’s car
By accident… Read more at the New Yorker.
Count Your Gratitudes, in the New Yorker
Sometimes I forget to do my Gratitudes, and that’s just dumb.
Because when we don’t take the time each day to count our Gratitudes, our Ingratitudes rush right in and take over. And then we are off to the fucking races, are we not? Life can seem to be nothing but the accretion of the many unfortunate, heartbreaking, humiliating things that happen to us, until we finally die, alone and in diapers, leaving all of our money to two cats named Bosco and… Read more at the New Yorker.
Jenny at newyorker.com: My New Feminist Cop Show
I am very excited about “Bust,” my new TV show. It has a strong feminist slant and stars me, as homicide detective Casey O’Malley. Every week, a woman gets murdered in some hideous, hair-raising fashion, and I relentlessly track down the perps—the rapists, the serial killers, the wife beaters, the sex traffickers, the victims’ creepy gynecologists and professors and fitness trainers, their incestuous dads, their sadistic pimps, their pervy ministers, and their weirdo neighbors.… Read more.
What I’ve Learned, in The New Yorker
I am certainly not going back into the house where something bad or creepy has happened to me already. I am never going to a carnival or a fair, especially if there is happy calliope music playing. You will not find me owning, or spending any time with, a ventriloquist’s dummy, or the kind of doll that “walks and talks.”
Read the rest online or pick up the March 31, 2014 issue of The New Yorker.