to boldly go

A few weeks ago, Joe and I took a quick trip to Toledo to see Mike Birbiglia perform. We dropped Max off with my parents on Friday and left earlyish on Saturday to begin the drive. We had plenty of time, since we didn't really need to be anywhere until the show started at 8 that night, but we wanted to leave time to do fun stuff we might run across on the way. To say nothing of the MANDATORY scheduled stop at Bowling Green, so Joe could eat his beloved stuffed breadsticks at Pollyeyes. It sounds like I'm making fun, but I'm really not. Those breadsticks are delicious.

The extra time turned out to be precious, PRECIOUS I TELL YOU, because we randomly decided to stop at the Neil Armstrong museum in Wapokaneta. I think, in the back of my mind, I knew that Neil Armstrong was from Ohio and we've driven by this museum about a million times, but never stopped. We almost didn't stop this time. According to Joe, our decision went something like this:

Joe: Hey, do you want to stop at the Neil Armstrong museum?
Me: UGH BORING.
Joe: It could be fun.
Me: FINE.
[five minutes later, pulling into the parking lot]
Me: OMG I DIDN'T KNOW THERE WOULD BE ALL THIS SPACE STUFF HERE! THIS IS AWESOME.
Joe: You...didn't realize there'd be space stuff...at the Neil Armstrong Air & SPACE Museum.

Which...yeah, is probably accurate. I don't know what I thought would be at the Neil Armstrong museum if NOT space stuff but such is the wonder and non-logic of my mind. Honestly, I would have been happy not even going inside the museum, since this was outside:

I'm in the window...BECAUSE I'M AN ASTRONAUT

The museum itself was interesting, though. Along with learning about Neil Armstrong and becoming super best friends with him (that comes with the ticket price), we discovered that Joe is too tall to be an astronaut and, thanks to a capsule docking video game, we discovered that neither of us is patient or coordinated enough to fly spacecraft. Which. Duh.

The museum went in a giant circle (LIKE THE MOON) and eventually led to a movie theater, where we watched a movie that I'm pretty sure was from the 80s but guess what STILL INTERESTING. I know I take the fact that we walked on the moon (well, not like, we as in you and I, but we as in THE HUMAN RACE) because it happened so long ago and now we're on Mars (sort of) and junk but YOU GUYS it's pretty fantastic that an actual human person has stepped foot on the moon, right? Someone ran around on that giant cheese-filled ball and lived through it. THAT IS SO AWESOME. When can we move there?

Anyway, the movie was great and all, sort of like time traveling back to a time we thought we'd have some sort of space station on the moon by now, but the best part was the hallway leading into the theater. IT WAS FULL OF STARS.

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

I know it was just all Christmas lights and mirrors, but I didn't care. For a minute or two, it felt like I was walking through space, no suit, no ship, just me. So thanks, Neil. BFF 4EVA!!!

oh, deer (YEAH I WENT THERE)

I'm sure it will surprise no one that Joe and I don't really know any of our neighbors. We've waved at some of them and I introduced myself to our neighbor on one side once but I've since forgotten her name. HOWEVER. I'm fairly certain that when she picks up sticks and twigs and junk from her yard, she throws them over our fence, into the overgrown bit of ivy that we will never ever be rid of, making it look even shittier than it normally does. I can't prove it because I've never seen her do it BUT I HAVE MY SUSPICIONS. Oh yes. And if you'd told me 15 years ago that this is something I would be angry about, I would have...I don't know, called you a liar? Cried? Both?

Anyway. We met a new neighbor the other night. Joe and I try to take a nightly walk after work, at least on nights we're both home right after, and lately there've been some deer roaming the neighborhood. The other night was no exception. There was a deer hanging out in our neighbor's front yard, but something BRAND NEW was happening. Another neighbor, a tall, lanky, middle-aged guy I'd seen a few times before, always wearing the same sweatshirt, workout pants, and baseball cap, was throwing something at the deer.

"What the hell? WHY IS HE DOING THAT?" I shouted.

"Cause he's a dick?" Joe answered.

We walked toward the scene as the guy hurled something else at the deer. As we got closer, the guy held out an apple and asked if we wanted one.

"Um, no, I'm not hungry," I said. The guy explained that deer love apples and I realized with relief that he had been FEEDING the deer, not trying to hurt it. Which was great because I'd briefly considered setting some dog poop on fire on his porch but didn't really want to put that much effort into my revenge plan (yeah, I realize that's not that much effort BUT IT'S STILL EFFORT, OK).

The guy, who introduced himself to us as Scotty, then proceeded to tell us about how deer love apples and he feeds them all the time and sometimes they follow him to Domino's NO NOT DOMINO'S SUBWAY THEY FOLLOW HIM TO SUBWAY and did we see the little path through the brush there because he put that there so the deer could come through that was his idea he did that for the deer so it was easier for them to get to his house that's his house right there, well, really it's his dad's house but the deed has his name on it and he used to be a professional golfer but now just rakes leaves all day can you believe how many leaves there are he just raked leaves yesterday and now he has to rake them again today but he saw the deer so he ran inside to get some apples and feed the deer because did you know deer like apples?

YOU GUYS SCOTTY JUST KEPT TALKING. Joe and I tried to walk away a few times, but he just wouldn't stop! Joe started to walk faster, whisper-shouting, "DON'T LOOK BACK DON'T LOOK BACK." AND YET HE KEPT TALKING. He's probably still there, talking to no one! Or the deer! OR THE GHOST OF NAPOLEON'S DEAD MISTRESS WHO KNOWS?!

"Why can't we ever have normal neighbors?" I asked, thinking of our old  neighbor, Poltergeist Lady. But Joe explained that, to our neighbors, we're probably just as weird, if not weirder, which I suppose is true. I mean, once I learned that deer eat apples, I told Joe about my plan to lure deer into our yard (something I'd been threatening to do since I learned there were deer in the neighborhood) which was to go into our backyard, gather some apples from our apple tree (which the deer can't get to because of our fence), and arrange them in a pleasing fashion in the front yard, because, you know, the deer won't eat them unless they're presented well. I must have had an absolutely maniacal look on my face because Joe spent the next five minutes asking if I was OK.

AND YES. Yes, I'm OK. Or I will be, just as soon as I lure the deer to our yard with a beautiful apple arrangements, ensuring they like me best. SUCK IT, SCOTTY.

I don’t need to know which Dracula I am to be a Dracula. Nerd.

On a fairly regular basis, I get Colin Meloy's song, Dracula's Daughter, stuck in my head on constant loop.



Which is kind of weird but not really THAT weird, especially compared to a lot of other things that get stuck in my brain. But, to Joe's chagrin, when I get a song stuck in my head, I must sing it constantly until it's no longer stuck in my head, which can take a long, long time. Worse still, I usually only get one or two lines of a particular song stuck in my head, which means I sing that one line over and over and over until someone's brain explodes (SPOILER ALERT: usually it's Joe's). One of the first fights we ever had was when I wouldn't stop singing, like, half a line from No You Girls by Franz Ferdinand. I mean, I sang this line every two minutes FOR HOURS, until he finally snapped and screamed, "OH MY GOD STOP SINGING STOP SINGING STOP SINGING FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY," and I got mad at him because WHATEVER, I was just EXPRESSING MYSELF LIKE MADONNA TOLD ME TO.

Anyway. So I was thinking about Dracula's Daughter the other day but instead of singing the song, I asked Joe if he knew that Dracula actually had five daughters. He didn't know that, can you believe it? And I don't think he believed me when I told him, so he asked their names, which are, as everyone knows: Corey (short for Cordelia), Annie, Felicia, Victoria, and Nicole. Duh. And, you guys, I still don't think he believed me because he kept asking me their names, like he was trying to trick me and see if I still remembered them. As if I could ever forget!

And then! He was asking me for a bunch of personal information, like how old they are and where they live and their last names, which is really none of his business, you know? I told him that Victoria, at 837 years, is the oldest but I wasn't sure how old the others were because I'm only friends with Victoria. He still didn't believe me. Like I couldn't be friends with a vampire, PUH-LEASE.

I finally had to tell him that Victoria and I met a long time ago on an X-Files AOL forum and he was all, "Oh, Victoria THE VAMPIRE likes The X-Files?" and I was like, "No, she LOVES The X-Files," and he was like, "What's her favorite episode?" and I said, "Pusher," and he was like, "Oh, what, is that YOUR favorite episode?" and I said, "NO, JERK," and he was all, "Well, then what's your favorite episode," and I was like, "Bad Blood, OBVIOUSLY," and he was like, "Oh, of course, it's about VAMPIRES," and I was like, "Also, Sheriff 'Hotpants' Luke Wilson."

(Sidebar: Remember when Luke Wilson used to be super mega hot? I MEAN, SWEET LORD. I always forget how much I love him until I'm watching something he's in. For serious, you guys. I owned Home Fries on VHS (WRITTEN BY X-FILES WRITER VINCE GILLIGAN) which...that doesn't even count as embarrassing, I love that movie. Anyway.)

And yet Joe wouldn't let it drop. "Oh, what are their names again?" he'd ask, and I'd sigh heavily and repeat them: Corey (short for Cordelia), Annie, Felicia, Victoria, and Nicole. UGH. He wouldn't let up about their last names, I guess since Dracula doesn't have a last name, or if he does, it's like...The Vampire, or something. I finally gave in and patiently explained that they don't have just one last name. They have to change it every twenty years or so. Then he wanted to know if I'd ever met Victoria (or her sisters) in real life and when I said no, he scoffed (!), as if I need to meet people in real life to be friends with them. I mean, EARTH TO JOE, like, have you ever heard of the INTERNET? And anyway, Victoria lives too far away to go visit all wily-nily. I couldn't be wily OR nily if I were ever to visit Dracula's daughters, they eat wily-nily FOR BREAKFAST. Joe's final question was where the sisters live, like it's not totally obvious that they have to move all the time once they've eaten too many people. Honestly. It's like he's never met a vampire before.

sliiiiide away

What's weird about being an adult is that sometimes you get excited about stupid things, like when your husband changes your windshield wipers for you. This was exciting for two reasons. One, I didn't have to do it. And two, I hadn't changed my windshield wipers in...I don't want to say YEARS but you guys it was totally years. Like...when did I get my car? 2008? Let us check the archives! Oh, no, I'm sorry, it was 2007. So, if we use math, we will discover that my windshield wipers were REALLY FUCKING OLD. I'm sure they weren't really THAT old, maybe? Like maybe I changed them at some point and forgot? But still. I fail. I fail at life and stuff.

What's also weird about being an adult is that sometimes you get excited about willingly putting yourself in a great deal of debt for the next 80 bajillion years. What's also also weird is that someone will let you buy a house even though you routinely stay up too late on school work nights watching zombie shows and don't shower on the weekends until at least 3 o'clock in the afternoon.

My point is, a lot of things are weird so get over it. Sorry, that was mean. And that wasn't even my point because OBVIOUSLY I DON'T HAVE ONE WHAT ARE YOU, NEW? Well? Are you? If you're new, how are you even reading this because you are obviously a baby and babies can't read until they are really old babies so what's up with that, are you a really old baby?

Is anyone even still reading this? I wouldn't blame you if you weren't. Anyway. We closed on our house on Friday, which I think means that it is closed all over the place, man, there are no open windows or doors or anything in that damn house. It also means that the next two weeks aren't going to be very much fun unless you like having to pack and paint and clean more than watching reruns of Mad Men and if that's the case, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.

I'm sorry, I'm being really combative today and I have no idea why. Whatever. The closing was odd because the sellers were there and they seemed really nice but it was kind of weird because, like, we're going to be living in their house. Which is now our house, but like, what if we find something weird in a hidden drawer in the basement, like a homemade sex tape or a box of blood slides? I don't want to have met these people face to face if we end up finding something like that. OH WELL, I guess.

I am going to miss our realtor. She's pretty much the nicest realtor ever so I'm thinking about maybe buying a second house so we can continue to hang out with her. She's THAT awesome. And she seemed to like us even though we looked at approximately 75 houses and I'm not even exaggerating, I think we really did look at 75 houses, AT LEAST. That's a lot of houses. But because I am me (who else would I be?), I felt like we had to look at every house we might possibly want because what if we didn't and THAT WAS THE HOUSE. And, you know? It's a good thing I spent so much time obsessively combing the internet for available houses because that's how we found the one we bought, I think. I don't know, I don't remember. Wow, good story, Jennie, TELL IT AGAIN.

turn around, bright eyes

Last night around 9, I was just sitting and thinking that I was sure there was something I was supposed to be doing. That's when Heather (through text messaging medium) was all, "This eclipse is so cool!" and that's when I was all, "OH. MY. GOD. I'M. MISSING. IT."

And I jumped up and put on my galoshes (shut up, they were the closest) and grabbed my peacoat and ran outside even though I was wearing Strawberry Shortcake pajama pants because the moon was playing hide and seek and OH MY GOD I WAS MISSING IT.

And then I looked all around and found the moon and it looked like someone had taken a giant bite out of it and I jumped up and down and pointed and no one else was outside looking and OH MY GOD THEY'RE MISSING IT.

So I ran back inside and called my parents and my sister answered and I said, "I need to talk to mom and dad," and she was all, "about what?" and I said, "THE MOON" and then I heard her yell, "Jennie needs to talk to you," and my mom was all like, "about what?" and my sister was like, "the moon," and my mom finally picked up and I shouted, "DID YOU SEE THE MOON?" and she said, "Dad said it's not in full effect til 10 or 10:30," and I was like, "but you can see it now!" and she was like, "I'll look at 10 when I let the dog out," and I said, "BUT YOU CAN SEE IT NOW!" and she very calmly asked if that's all I'd called for thank you and goodnight and OH MY GOD THEY'RE MISSING IT.

It reminded me of that time Heidi, Steve and I went to a bar or something and on the way home I remembered that there was a meteor shower that night, only it turned out it was the night before or something and everyone was sad that OH MY GOD THEY MISSED IT.

_____

Today on The Collective, it's the Chronic(what?)cles of Narnia.

girl inform me, all my senses warn me

You guys, I am having the lamest Friday night ever. For serious. I came home, put my gym clothes on so I can't talk myself out of going later, and wrote an article. I don't know why I was putting it off. It was How to Plan a Yankee Swap and I'm totally an expert at it because I have seen that episode of The Office approximately FIFTY TIMES NO JOKE YOU GUYS I AM NOT KIDDING! I'm sorry. I'm just a little excited right now, what with the writing about The Office and Harry Potter tomorrow. The reason I am staying in tonight and writing articles is so I can stick my face in Harry Potter for the rest of the weekend, guilt-free. That sounded bad. I apologize.

So you may be asking yourself, "Self? Why is Jennie writing in her blog when she should be writing articles?" Well, I think you should tell yourself to shut the hell up and mind your own business. Writing in here loosens up my writing muscles so I can write stuff like How to Shred a Coconut. You have to properly warm up before that kind of thing. No joke, you guys. No. Joke.

I'm cat-sitting again for my aunt and uncle's cat, Bo. He's being a little bitch right now. Must be something about the name (haha BEAU). Just kidding. He's not being a little bitch, really, he's just lonely and confused. But he keeps tormenting Murray (formerly Phoebe) and I don't think Murray likes spending all her time under the bed. I know the reason they fight all the time is because they secretly love each other and will get together in the last scene of the movie. I wonder when the last scene of the movie is? I'd like to be prepared, so I can be ready to have my own romantic-comedy-cheesy-love-kiss in the middle of a crowded street (where it's snowing and I'm not wearing any pants and also Colin Firth is there . . . awesome). You know what I mean? I need to make sure I'm not wearing granny panties.

Wow, that got weird really fast. I don't know how that always happens. Anyway, when my aunt and cousins brought Bo over, the first thing I noticed was that Joey has grown approximately 10 feet since I last saw him. Which is . . . just . . . fantastic. I can't wait for all of my little cousins, the ones I used to babysit and who I like to torment by telling them I used to change their diapers, are all towering over me. Whatever. I've grown accustomed to my height, or lack thereof. I like climbing on counters. And I'm still taller than Katie! Ha! Also, Sammy! Double ha!

I like when Bo comes over, because he lets me pick him up. Murray doesn't let me pick her up. I used to get mad about it, but now it doesn't bother me, because I realized it must be very disconcerting to have someone just pluck you off the ground and cradle you like a little baby. I mean, how would YOU feel if a giant came along and picked you up and took you home and made you his pet? You'd probably be pretty mad, right? And you'd try to claw his eyes out? Well, then don't get mad when that's exactly what Murray does to you.

Again, that got weird really quickly. Since Joey had never been to my apartment, I gave him the thirteen second tour (because that's how long it takes to walk around our apartment). We were all standing in my room, when Katie looked at my computer and said, "Wow, Jennie, I'm glad to see you're spending your time on the Internet wisely," JUST BECAUSE I happened to be reading this (courtesy of Kat) when they came over. Pshaw. Teenagers are so judgemental.

who knows where thoughts come from, they just appear

I was sitting in a meeting a couple of days ago and I wondered what everyone would do if I just shouted, "SHIT!" Or if I started rubbing my face and screaming like I was on fire. Or if I fell out of my chair and pretended to go to sleep on the floor. Or if I jumped on the conference table and began a rendition of "Proud Mary." And as I started thinking about these possibilities, the urge to giggle became stronger. Then I started wondering what my coworkers would think if I just started laughing for no reason.

These thoughts have been popping into my head more and more. I'll walk by my boss's closed door and think about knocking and running away. Or kicking it down, just to see if I could. It's not just at work that I have these thoughts. I think a lot about what might happen if I do or say a certain thing. Of course, normally I don't do or say any of these certain things, but every now and again, like when I wondered if Heidi and I could change Phoebe's name to "Murray," the thoughts become reality.

It's Day 3 of Operation Change Phoebe's Name to Murray and I'm pretty sure she still has no idea. I'm not sure she ever knew her name was Phoebe, to be honest.

proof that I have always been this way

So earlier this afternoon, I was busy lying in bed, listening to music, and staring at the ceiling when I glanced over at my bookcase and noticed a folder had fallen behind it. I managed to pull myself out of my daydream haze and when I picked up the folder and opened it, I found the most magical thing ever. It was full of stories I'd written in junior high. Oh, they are so good. So, so, so good. And when I say good, I mean TERRIBLE. Just . . . terrible.

The best (worst) one was one I wrote, not for school, but for fun. I believe one of my friends helped me come up with the idea, but I was the one who wrote it (three drafts!) and BEST OF ALL designed and illustrated this cover:


Oh, you guys. Do you see that? That . . . is . . . I have no words. I think my favorite part is the fact that I drew blood dripping off the letters in "Evil Summer." What the fuck? I mean WOW. So, OK. I believe the story was loosely (very loosely) based on this party some friends of my parents used to have when we were younger and the usual attendees of said party. To be fair, I was not a psychotic 12-year-old, this was just around the time I read a lot of those RL Stine books. You know the ones I mean? Hey, he was born in Columbus, Ohio! Ha! Also, this may have been around the time I started reading Stephen King. Anyway, I read the story. It is spectacularly awful, just as I'd hoped, and I actually had to stop reading it and put it away every few pages because I was cringing so hard I could barely see. I was going to post some of it, but it's SEVENTEEN PAGES LONG, and I really don't want to subject you guys to that kind of torture. I will, however, tell you that I wrote the following disclaimer on the inside of the cover (complete with spelling errors):

Readers -- This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiosly. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

I'm really hoping I stole that from somewhere. If not? So. Weird. Oh, I forgot to tell you the best part. On the last page, it totally says, "THE END (or is it?)"

OH. MY. GOD.

For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn?

You know what I do that grosses even ME out? I crack my back. And my neck. And my wrists and ankles and knuckles. When I say it grosses me out, I mean it makes me think, "OH MY GOD the human body should never, ever make that noise." It doesn't make me want to vomit or anything, but I can't vouch for the people around me who hear all the cracking of my bones. Sometimes after I crack my back, I'm surprised to find I have not paralyzed myself. True story.

Last night, I made myself go to the gym. I really did have to make myself. There I was, slouched on the couch watching my fourth episode of Friends, twirling my hair, with my mouth hanging open in an oh-so-intelligent fashion, having the following conversation with myself:

"Go to the gym. No. Go. I don't want to! Go. But this is a really funny episode! So go after this episode. But the next one is the one with the nap partners! I don't care. This is unfair. I know. You don't care about me. I DO care about you, that is why I want you to go to the gym. Whatever. JENNIFER LYNN YOU GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASS RIGHT NOW AND GO TO THE GYM."

That is essentially exactly the way it happened. Then I did the elliptical for so long that I thought my legs were going to fall off. You know that part in Bridget Jones's Diary (the movie) where she's riding the exercise bike and she falls over when she gets off? That's what I felt like. I didn't fall over, though. Good story, right? Want me to tell it again? Because I can and will.

Wanna hear something weird? Too bad. I have to eat my lunch in the same order every day. Granted, this is only if I'm EATING the same thing every day but I usually do. You may assume from my exciting adventures on this blog that my life is a crazy whirligig of fun, but it's not. It's very boring. That's entirely not true. Interesting stuff happens to me all the time. It's just that I am boring. Usually for lunch I have carrot sticks, a turkey sandwich, pretzels, and a snack pack. And that is the order in which I have to eat it, too. I don't know why. Also, I have to cut my sandwich is unequal halves so I know which one to eat first. Because I like to eat the smaller one first. Again, I don't know why. Oh, and another thing? (God, Jennie, stop talking) When I'm eating pretzels or chips or something, I have to eat the broken ones first. I mean, I don't HAVE to. It's not like if I accidentally eat a non-broken one before all the broken ones are gone I have to throw it all up and start over again. But I PREFER to eat the broken ones first. This is all leading me to believe that I am slowly turning into my father, who has to make his sandwiches in a specific order and if he doesn't he sits there and says, "Oh no, I put the cheese in the wrong place. This sandwich is ruined." True story.

Let's see, what else, since I'm letting all my crazy hang out today. A little while ago I was trying to calculate how much of my life I have devoted to Pride & Prejudice. There's the book, which I've read at least five times. The six-hour miniseries, which I'm going to estimate I've seen at least ten times, probably more but who can keep track of that sort of thing? The new movie I've seen about six times, I think? Also, I have seen Bridget Jones's Diary approximately 87.5 times and since that is BASED on Pride & Prejudice, I think it counts. Better throw the book version on the pile, too, because I've read that, um, a lot of times. Then there's this book, which I've read twice. Then there was that time I devoted quite a few hours to developing my theory that all men can be placed into one of three categories: Mr. Darcys, Mr. Collinses, and Mr. Wickams. I think that should be updated, though, because how could I have left out Mr. Bingley and Mr. Bennet? Although, you could argue that Mr. Bingley is a Mr. Darcy, at least to Jane, and OH MY GOD here it goes again. Anyway. There's also all that time I've spent TALKING about Pride & Prejudice. Like when Amy and I got really drunk freshman year and there was a fire drill and we had to go sit outside until they let us back in? But the head RA or whatever he was called was standing by the elevator and we were scared we'd get in trouble, so instead of, I don't know, taking the stairs (although that would have been a loooong walk up those 10 flights of stairs), we veered into the bathroom where we spent at least an hour sitting on the counter talking about why Mr. Darcy was the perfect man.

Oh, and we can't forget the blogging about it. Or the writing of papers about it (I can't find a link for that, but I know I wrote at least two papers in college). Or the designing of t-shirts inspired by it. And yet, I can still never remember if it's spelled "Bennet" or "Bennett." I think I need professional help, but it's so expensive. I'm going to stop now. OK, bye!

the one where jennie talks about her hair (RUN!)

So you know how on Grey's Anatomy (stick with me), all the lady doctors (except Bailey) always have their hair pulled up in a ponytail, only the (only) thing is (is) they always have random strands of hair falling every which way? And I always think, wow, I mean, that looks really cute and all but doesn't seem very effective in, I don't know, KEEPING YOUR HAIR OUT OF YOUR FACE. Which seems to be the general use for a ponytail. How stupid, I thought, stupid stupid Meredith Grey, get your hair out of your face!

And then I realized that whenever I tried to pull all my hair into a ponytail, I always have weird bang-like hairs that won't fit into it. So I had to use a barrette to hold them back. Which is annoying! So I tried just the whole pulling-my-hair-back-without-looking-and-letting-whatever-hair-doesn't-fit-in-the-ponytail-just-fall-to-the-side thing and VOILA! it looks better and I don't have to use a barrette. Oh my god, that was a lot of hyphens. I think I used up my year's supply. Shit. Anyway. The end.

Ha, just kidding. You wish. Suckers. The reason I need to put my hair in a ponytail at work is because my hair really, really needs cut and I'm not getting it done until Saturday and it's DRIVING ME CRAZY so I need it out of my face or I will scream and they don't like it when I randomly scream at work for no reason. If I have a reason, fine, I can scream all I want, but no reason? Not cool. You're fired, I so swear. I scream really loud, you have no idea. Anyway, so I put my hair up. Someone told me I looked like a 12-year-old (thanks?) but the look I was really going for was naughty librarian. Maybe that would work better if I put my glasses on. I'll keep you guys updated. Heh.

I went home on my lunch break and when I got in my car to come back to work, Alanis was shrieking "You Oughtta Know" and I couldn't let her shriek alone, now could I? So I started shrieking, too, until I noticed that one of our neighbors was walking through the parking lot at that very moment and, oh, also my window was down. Whatever. We've been living there for over a year so if people don't know what a freak I am by now, that's their problem. The thing is, I don't even really like that song that much. The thing I like most about it is that it's about Uncle Joey. I mean . . . seriously? Uncle Joey? Really? OK, Alanis. You want to borrow my glasses, maybe?

I have nothing else to talk about. It's come to this. Ponytails and Uncle Joey. Sad, sad day. You should maybe look one entry below and just watch the warm, fuzzy music video. I feel like I'm talking like Zoidberg. Am I talking like Zoidberg? Robutts!

Anyway, bye.

Defining The Crazy: Cry Me a River Edition

I just spent the last ten minutes sitting in my bed and crying with a box of tissues in my lap and hoping Heidi didn't walk in because if she did I'd have to explain that I was crying because there were beluga whales on TV and there was only a tiny hole in the ice for 20 miles for the next two months and they can only hold their breath for 20 minutes but there was a polar bear! Right there waiting by the only hole in the ice for 20 miles and every time they came up to take a breath the polar bear would jump in and try to eat one and they got lucky a couple of times but finally the polar bear got one and ate it and it was sad!

And then I remembered why I wasn't allowed to watch Animal Planet anymore. It always ends in tears.

ohmygodyouguysimissedyousomuchtoday

SIGH.

OK, so this morning on the way to work, I was listening to this radio station that asks an impossible question every day and today the impossible question was "10% of men say they don't do this," and my first thought was that 10% of men say they don't masturbate. Then I was all, oh my god, there is no way that many men in this world don't masturbate but then I thought, "well, the question was 10% of men SAY they don't do this," and I'm sure 10% of men might SAY they don't do it. But every guy I know is really proud of their masturbatory skills. Not sure why. ANYWAY. Then I thought that maybe like 10% of the male population might be really old guys and maybe they can't masturbate anymore but then I realized that really old guys might just go ahead and buy some Viagra just so they can masturbate and that's when I realized I was thinking about old men masturbating so I decided to change the radio station. Anyway, the answer to the question was 10% of men say they don't follow sports, and I'm still not really sure I believe that.

Then later on in the day? I actually sang the "Fifty Nifty United States" song to myself because I couldn't remember if there were any states that start with an L besides Louisiana. Yes, I remembered the entire song. Welcome to my brain. It's a scary place.

Lids down, I count sheep, I count heartbeats, the only thing that counts is that I won't sleep, I count down, I look around

Well, it's been a while since I've talked about not sleeping. Hasn't it? It has. Thanks for agreeing with me. Sometimes I go through periods where I don't sleep. Unless I drink profusely before bed and not even that works every time. Believe me, I've tried. I'm kidding. Maybe.

You know how sometimes after a night of drinking you wake up and your mouth tastes all fuzzy? Or like someone (hopefully you) threw up in it and then you forgot to brush your teeth? So you've got this ungodly taste in your mouth and it also feels like you've been sucking on cotton all night?

Anyway, that's what my brain feels like right now.

I'm not sure why I don't sleep sometimes. Maybe it's mental. OK, I'm sure it's mental. Heh, mental. Or I need to cut back on the caffeine (NO GOD NO) but I wouldn't NEED the caffeine in the first place if my brain would just shut up long enough to let me fall to sleep. Here are some of the reasons I couldn't sleep last night:

• I slept too late on Sunday, because I couldn't fall to sleep Saturday night.
• Phoebe was purring too loud.
• I got too hot under the covers so I had to take my pants off and then I got too cold and had to put socks on and then I got too hot again so I threw the comforter on the floor and then I got cold again OH MY GOD STOP THE MADNESS.
• I kept having weird dreams (nothing new there) and after each one I'd wake up, sit up, and say, (loudly, for Phoebe's benefit? I don't know) "What the fuck is wrong with me?"
• I start my new job on Wednesday and I am having paranoid delusions that they're going to call me Tuesday night and shriek, "HAHA JUST KIDDING!" and then hang up and I will cry, cry, cry all night long (but not sleep).
• The moonlight was too bright . . . SERIOUSLY. It was shining in my window and it woke me up because it was too damn bright. Normally, I love a full moon (heh) . . . it's all pretty and bright and romantic but not when I'm trying to sleep because I have to get out of bed and close the curtains and then I freeze because I'm not wearing pants (see above).

That's right, moonlight woke me up. I'm a very light sleeper, which is funny (not haha funny) because Heidi is such a deep sleeper. There are are mornings that I wake up because I hear both her alarm and TV through her closed door and my closed door and she can sleep right through it. I don't know how she does it but I'm totally jealous. This one morning as I was leaving I passed her room and the TV was blaring and bright and her alarm that sounds like you're standing INSIDE an actual church bell was ringing and ringing AND RINGING and she was dead asleep.

Oh my god, this is so boring. I'm sorry (not really). Maybe if I read this over and over I'll be able to fall asleep. I should probably wait until I get home, though.

I wanna quit the gym!

Earlier this week, Heidi and I joined a gym. Because it's cold outside and half-assedly doing a 20 minute Pilates DVD four times a week just wasn't having the results we were hoping for. Go figure. It's the same gym my dad and uncle go to at 5 in the morning, but I doubt we'll ever run into them. Who works out at 5 AM? Crazy people, that's who. Anyway, so nine months after moving into our apartment, we discovered that residents of our apartment complex get a discount at a nearby gym. A significant discount. The guy who sold us our membership also pretended we were sisters and gave us a family discount. And waived the usual 1.5 million dollar registration fee. It is so cheap, you guys! So cheap! Which is good, because after we pay for cable, the Internets, and our Target addiction, we don't have a lot of money to just throw around all willy-nilly like Donald Trump, who probably not only lights his cigars with hundred dollar bills, but wipes his butt with them and ALSO has a giant room in his house full of monies and goes swimming in ginormous piles of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck.

The whole registration process was a long one, full of tedious paperwork, and the guy helping us (I'll call him Seth . . . because that was his name) told us he used to live on Wittenberg's campus AT THE SAME TIME Heidi and I went there. I asked if he was familiar with McMurray's (aka That Bar We Went To Every Other Night) and he said he used to be a bouncer there. So I'm actually surprised he didn't recognize us. I kind of wanted to be like, "Oh, hey, we were those girls who monopolized the karaoke machine!" or "You know all those missing bar signs from the walls? We took those!" or "Sorry if you ever had to yell at us at 2:30 in the morning because we wouldn't leave the bar" but I didn't say any of those things because he hadn't given us our membership yet and I didn't want to be banned from the gym before I had a chance to try out the Cardio Cinema. That's right, Cardio Cinema. You can watch movies while you work out. And sure, last night the movie was Rocky (I don't know which number as this was the first piece of a Rocky film I have ever seen) but flashy lights and loud noises make the time go faster regardless of what movie is producing them.

And now I bring you . . . Conversations With My Roommate: Gym Edition.

In the car

Me: I hope someone warned the gym we were coming.
Heidi: I know, we're probably going to say something inappropriate.
Me: Yes, LOUDLY inappropriate.
Heidi: Like vas deferens.
Me: Or cervix.
Heidi: Ew.
Me: Some words should not ever be said.
Heidi: I agree.
Me: Like panties.
Heidi: I hate that word.
Me: Also? Moist.
Heidi: Oh, yes! That word is banished!
Me: Also those words should never be put together. Because . . . moist panties? Ew.
Heidi: Oh god.
Me: Seriously, should we have called ahead to warn them we were on our way?

On the way to the locker room

Heidi: So . . . they spelled your name wrong.
Me: I know. Both of them!
Heidi: Yeah.
Me: At what point do you think I should tell them my name is not Jenny Baylar?
Heidi: Um.
Me: Probably before now?
Heidi: Probably.

In the cross-training room

Me: I wish sports wasn't on the TV.
Heidi: Didn't that guy say we could change the channel?
Me: Score!
Heidi: Can you reach it?
Me: YES . . . ok, maybe.
Heidi: What are you putting it on?
Me: Duh, The Office.
Heidi: What is Ben Franklin doing on The Office?
Me: I don't know, but it is all kinds of awesome.

Me [whispering]: Can I tell you something?
Heidi: Yes.
Me: I am uncomfortable with how much working-out-noises sound like sex noises.
Heidi: Haha, me too.
Me: Seriously, do you hear that guy over there?
Heidi: Unfortunately.

ALSO. We were privy to a conversation between two men on the other end of the room and DURING THIS CONVERSATION one of them, after saying that he'd had to change five beds at the hospital that day, said these magical words, "I peed in my bed! I puked in my bed! I pooped in my bed! I peed the bed again!" Have you ever heard anything so beautiful? Also, it's hard not to hurt yourself on a piece of gym equipment when you're laughing not only hysterically but also trying to be quiet about it.

when's it my turn? wouldn't I love, love to explore that shore up above? out of the sea, wish I could be, part of that world

So, according to MSN, today was apparently the most depressing day of 2007. Congratulations on making it through! Yay! The rest of the year is going to HANDS DOWN KICK TODAY'S ASS!

I am a little ashamed to admit this (no, I'm not) but tonight's dinner included conversation topics such as: the nickname of Heidi's boyfriend's roommate's girlfriend which I will never ever in a million years share on any blog my parents read, ALSO stabbing small children with a steak knife, ALSO drowning babies, ALSO pooping in library books, ALSO changing diapers at a booth in a restaurant, and that's all I'm sharing. Because I can't remember the rest. No, I totally can, but again . . . there are some things I am not sharing on a blog my parents read. And all my aunts and uncles. Sorry, rest of you.

After dinner, Heidi and I decided to do pilates. Only, we didn't do the easy pilates we normally do, we did the loooong one. And now I want to die. DIE. One day I'm going to sit down and write down all the dirty things Mari Windsor says. And I'm not even talking about some of the names of the exercises, such as The Corkscrew, Hip Preparation, The Jackknife, The Teaser, and The Open Leg Rocker which, as we were rocking back and forth holding our ankles, caused Heidi to matter-of-factly state, "there are so many things wrong with this picture." And there WERE. There's also this exercise called The Mermaid and you would not believe the strange looks Heidi gave me when I started singing "Part of Their World" because apparently SOMEONE didn't spend their entire childhood watching The Little Mermaid over and over. Anyway, I just hope our apartment complex doesn't employ a dirty, pervy maintenance worker who secretly videotapes all the female residents. Although if he does . . . well, I think I have worse things to worry about than secret videotapes of me doing pilates.

Defining The Crazy or Why I Prefer Comedies

Do you ever want to cry about something, but you know crying about it would be stupid and dramatic? And you're OK with being stupid because you're used to it, but the dramatic part makes even YOU roll your eyes, so you don't even want to imagine telling someone ELSE why you're crying. So, instead, you put a sad movie in so when Ethan Hawke stands on his desk at the end of the movie all "O Captain My Captain," at least you have an excuse for being a sobbing, blubbering mess.

Just me? OK, then.

Conversations With My Roommate: The One Where Heidi Calls Herself a Fat Whore

At Target:

Heidi: Ooh, clearance!
Me: Score!
Heidi: Geez.
Me: Yeah, why are the only sizes left extra small or 17?
Heidi: I don't know. I feel like I could wear a size 17 right now.
Me: Um, ok.
Heidi: It's true. I'm a fat whore today.
Me: Nice! You have such high self esteem.
Heidi: I know.

In the pajama section:

Me: Oh, what do you think of this?
Heidi: It's pretty slutty.
Me: I know, but it's only 5 dollars.
Heidi: Now would be a good time to start dressing like a slut.
Me: I could wear it when I entertain my gentleman callers.
Heidi: Oh really?
Me: Yeah, I don't know if you'd noticed the line of guys outside my room.
Heidi: I thought I heard talking.
Me: Oh, we weren't talking.
Heidi: God, you're a slut.
Me: No, I'm a lady of the evening*. Only a lady of the evening has gentleman callers.

In the shoe section:

Heidi: Are these the hooker heels you wear to whore it up?
Me: Yes, I have them in red.

In the car:

Me: Hey, turn right here.
Heidi: OK.
Me: Drive where I tell you, Fat Whore!
Heidi: Haha.
Me: Can I call you that from now on?
Heidi: Sure.
Me: I can't wait til your mom comes over and I'm all "Hey, Fat Whore, are the dishes in the dishwasher clean?"
Heidi: She'll love that. And of course they're not clean.
Me: I wish I had a derogatory nickname.
Heidi: I'll try to think of one for you.
Me: How about Stupid Slutty Slutface?
Heidi: No.
Me: Pimply McGee?
Heidi: No.
Me: OK.
Heidi: I'm trying to think of something with the word "cheap" in it.
Me: Wow, thanks.
Heidi: No problem.

*I am not a lady of the evening

OCD + ADD = . . . I don't know, something bad

Most of the time, our apartment is cozily cluttered with magazines, mail, throw pillows, a random assortment of blankets, and lately, piles of Christmas cookies in cute little bags and tins. I do, however, sometimes experience a slight case of OCD and feel the need to clean. This does not happen often, but when it does, I find it hard to concentrate on anything important (like TiVo) if, I don't know, there's a random pair of shoes (usually mine) lying all haphazardly at the foot of the stairs. However, this OCD coupled with my everyday (undiagnosed) ADD cause me to clean in the most roundabout fashion imaginable.

FOR INSTANCE, I begin the cleaning process by starting a load of laundry. While in the laundry room, I find the Febreze, which makes me want to spray it on every surface until the apartment smells like a sweet, heavenly garden. Before I can spray Febreze, though, I realize I need to vacuum, but before I vacuum I have to dust. While looking for the dusting cloths, I find toilet cleaner and remember that it's been [insert embarrassing amount of time here] since I've cleaned my bathroom. I put toilet bowl cleaner in the toilet and scrub the sink and shower. I will now forget I have put toilet bowl cleaner in the toilet bowl until the next time I have to pee, open the lid, and wonder why the toilet water is bright blue. Around this time, I realize I need to clean the litter box, which means I have to take a trip to the dumpster, which means I will try to gather up every piece of garbage in our apartment because I try to make trips to the dumpster as infrequent as possible. After the dumpster, I wash my hands in the kitchen and realize the dishwasher needs unloaded. Undoubtedly, the dishwasher has failed to actually CLEAN the dishes, but instead of washing them by hand I run them through another cycle. By now, I remember that I need to set up coffee and make my lunch for the next day. While putting things back in the refrigerator, I notice the Brita pitcher needs refilled so I stick that in the sink, run some water in it, and walk away. Now, I can dust and vacuum but when I reach my room I notice that, well, it's a fucking mess so I stack all the messy piles of paper and mail into neater piles of paper and mail, put the clean laundry away that has been sitting folded and pretty in the laundry basket for a week, and make my bed. Then I think "wow, I haven't posted anything in my blog for a while," sit down, and lose an hour to the Internets*. Now I have to pee but when I get to the bathroom I find the toilet still full of toilet bowl cleaner so I have to clean it. I then finish vacuuming and spray the shit out of our apartment with Febreze. When I go to put the Febreze back in the laundry room, I realize the laundry I put in the washer has been done for an hour and a half and is now ready to be put in the dryer. When I open the dryer, I find a load of laundry I'd put in and forgotten about two days before, fold it, and put it in the laundry basket on my bedroom floor that will be horribly neglected until my next bout of OCD. The End. It's kind of like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, but really more like If You Wave Something Shiny at Jennie**.

Oh, and I'll also forget about the Brita pitcher in the sink for at least an hour.

*by the way, this is the stage I am at now
**as far as I know, this title is unpublished

I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!

So, I'm done with all my Christmas shopping, everything is wrapped, I still have a cold and sound like a man, and yet here I sit, waiting for Heidi to get home so we can head over to Hell -- I mean The Mall. And it was my idea! WTF, I ask you? Double-you. Tee. Eff.

I see a little silhouetto of a man

I think I've mentioned this, but the doctor I work for has two offices and to get to one, I drive by Giant Jesus. Come on. You know Giant Jesus by now. I only talk about him ALL THE TIME and it's not because I have nothing else to talk about, it's because I find Giant Jesus to be awesome. Who doesn't? I bet it makes all the other states jealous, ESPECIALLY Utah. I don't know why.

Anyway, we worked in that office today, but won't be back until after the first of the year, so I made sure to wish Jesus a happy birthday as I drove by this evening. And that made me think of that one year my grandma bought a cake that said "Happy Birthday, Jesus" on it. I hope she bought another one this year, but considering how much shit we gave her for the first one I really doubt that's a possibility.

On the way to work today, this car in front of me was from Michigan and he almost drove off the road trying to gawk at Giant Jesus. I started to laugh and then about thirty seconds later I almost drove off the road trying to turn up the volume because Bohemian Rhapsody had just come on the radio. CARma. Haha. Get it?

I suck.