Happy Birthday . . . world

Since I will be celebrating the new year in another time zone, I may not have access to The Internets, so let me take this moment to say . . . Happy New Year!

That's all I got. What do you want, it's 7 AM.

William Randolph Shakespeare once wrote in one of his plays, and I'm paraphrasing, "love doth be poison."

I bought a new mattress earlier this week and I took today off of work so I could be home for the delivery. What, it's not like they can leave it on the front porch and I can drag it up the stairs myself! I'm short and not very strong and mattresses are strange, unwieldy creatures. Luckily, when the guys came to deliver it they took my old mattress and box spring but, as my mom instructed me, I did not tell them that Phoebe had previously used the mattress for a toilet. They can figure that out on their own, you know, if they smell one side of it. It's gross, is what I'm saying, but no longer my problem. Oh. SNAP.

I was just reading the Do's and Dont's on the back of my warranty brochure. I mean, most of it is common sense, like don't light a fire near your bed and don't let dirty, little children pee on it. I don't have children, dirty or otherwise, and I hardly ever light fires in the house anymore, so I think I'm safe. My favorite, though? "Don't let anyone stand or jump on your mattress. It was not built for that kind of weight concentration or abuse." Probably I should have read that part sooner.

Since I had the rest of the day off, I've been pretty bored. I did a load of laundry, went to the ATM OK FINE and also to New York & Co, watched two episodes of House, drank half a pot of coffee, and now I'm in the middle of packing for Chicago. It's a long process. Anyway, here is what my bed looks like now:

It looked a lot better before I threw all that shit all over it. Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.

PS: You may ask yourself just how many pairs of black shoes one person needs to take on a two day trip to Chicago. The answer is: at least four, maybe more. It's easy to remember because it rhymes. FYI.

Why I will never be President (aside from all the incriminating pictures)

Coworker: When are you leaving for Chicago?
Me: On Saturday.
Coworker: So what are you doing for New Years Eve?
Me: . . . I'm going to Chicago.
Coworker: I mean, where are you going?
Me: Chicago.
Coworker: SLOW PERSON, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO IN CHICAGO?
Me: Oh. I don't know yet.

Heidi: Help me find a candle.
Me: Don't get this one, it smells like dead babies.

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

But you ain't got no legs, Lieutenant Dan.

I would like to introduce you, Internets, to the Greatest Christmas Present In All The Land:

Yes, it is a mini-ping-pong table. Yes, it is MY mini-ping-pong table. Actually, it's technically called Keg Pong (yes, my parents bought me a drinking game for Christmas) but on the box it says "You can also play Ping-Pong!" which my dad and I did, until breakfast was ready because cinnamon rolls beat ping-pong HANDS DOWN KICKS ITS ASS. Ahem.

ALSO, I got this:


to replace THIS:

so I no longer have to do THIS:

I feel kind of bad for replacing the MacGyver Coffeemaker for a younger, newer, sleeker model, but . . . OK, no I don't. This means I don't have to run out to the kitchen in a towel, still dripping wet from my shower, in order to strategically place a tiny piece of tape over the on/off switch so it is held in the exact right position. Pain in the ass. Anyway. I hope everyone had a very merry Christmas and Santa was good to you. Also, I hope you managed to catch at least 14 hours of A Christmas Story because nothing says Christmas more than a Red Ryder BB Gun. Except maybe this:


Yep. Nothing says "Merry Christmas" like Red Sangria. From a box.

Only I didn't say Fudge. I said THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words, the F-dash-dash-dash word!

In case I forget tomorrow, Merry Christmas, Internets! I hope Santa brings you everything you asked for and then some. And remember, don't stick your tongue to an icy pole even if you're triple dog dared to. TRUST ME.

You seem a little irritable, Kyle. You got some sand in your vagina?

For some reason I woke up at 8:30 this morning. ON A SATURDAY. That is so not right and really unlike me. Of course, it could have something to do with the fact that I went to bed before midnight last night. That is so not right and also, again, really unlike me. I blame the cold medicine. The cold medicine is being blamed for a lot. Unusual sleeping patterns, long rants that go nowhere, hitting that old man with my car. Really, none of it is my fault.

Remember that one time I went to Chicago for New Year's Eve? Well, we're doing it again, only this time Mary lives in the city so who knows what will happen.

I'm killing time now before I go get my hair cut. Usually this is a painful process, but this time I am prepared. A couple nights ago I went over to my parents' house with a bunch of different hair style pictures so my mom could help me pick one. Because this is the kind of decision I am incapable of making for myself and left to my own devices I wait until I am in the salon and pick the first picture that appeals to me. That is not a decision that should be made so hastily. My dad asked why I was getting my hair cut when I had already decided to let it grow and I had to SIGH try and explain the crazy girl hair rules that you need to cut your hair to make it grow faster and then my mom told me not to waste my time because HELLO Dad doesn't have any hair. Which seemed a little harsh to me, but they've been married for 26 (right?) years so they must be doing something right. Anyway. What was I talking about? Oh, right, my hair.

Screw it, it's not important. After I get my hair cut I'm going over to my grandma's to celebrate Christmas with my dad's side of the family. I kind of hope everyone left the board games at home this year*, last year things got a little out of hand.

*No, I don't. BRING IT.

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.

Are you going to tell me that Stevie Wonder doesn’t love his wife just because he’s not sure what she looks like?

I am feeling much better today. I'm at work for a couple hours, babysitting the office by myself while the cleaning people . . . clean. I had to be here to let them in and, I don't know, make sure they don't steal our dental tools. I guess we have this one thing that makes a really good roach clip. Who knew? I'm not implying that our cleaning people are pot heads, YOU JUST NEVER KNOW. Your grandma could be a pothead, you don't know. Don't give me some sob story about glaucoma, either, BECAUSE I DON'T BUY IT. Wow. OK. I'm gonna blame that on the cold medicine.

The cleaning people aren't here yet. I wish they were, because the sooner they get here, the sooner I can leave. And I have to go to the post office. THE POST OFFICE, people, on Christmas Eve Eve . . . Eve. Someone may die, that's all I'm saying. I suppose I could wait until after Christmas to mail this (it's a birthday present) but it's already like two weeks late. Beau, why were you born so close to Christmas? You know I procrastinate. You knew this would happen, didn't you? Rude.

Speaking of Christmas, I think I got slapped in the face with the Christmas spirit today on the way to work! I heard this song and I'm not gonna say I didn't sing along loudly and also pretend to have a microphone but if I did say that I wouldn't be lying. Then I got out of my car with all my happy Christmas feelings and stepped in a giant puddle of grinchitude because A) it is raining and B) it is 55 degrees outside. I like 55 degrees, I really do, but not at Christmas! Christmas should be cold and if there is any precipitation whatsoever it should be in white, fluffy SNOW form. Everyone knows that.

Anyway. I forgot that today after work I'm also supposed to drop off some candy at a dentist's office (as a thank you? happy holidays? dunno). I wish I'd remembered that before I got dressed this morning, because nothing says "professional" like THIS SHIRT. Sigh.

also she hogs the bed

You know, sometimes? When I'm cleaning up cat vomit or scooping poo from the litter box or wondering who is making that godawful strangled-baby meowing noise at 4 AM? I wonder why I ever got a cat.

It's when she spends twenty minutes swimming in the cat nip I spread on the floor and generally looking like she wants to make sweet love to the carpet that I remember. Entertainment value.

sick, send Christmas cookies*

I'm sick. Cough. Not throwing up sick, thank god, but snotty-coughy-sneezy-sore-throat-voice-like-Kathleen Turner sick, which is not fun either. I think I have a fever, but I'm not sure because, although I am a grown up adult type person, I do not own a thermometer. I think I slept for twelve hours last night and yet I still have dark circles under my eyes and actually kind of look like I've been hit by a truck and then run over by a little kid on a tricycle a few times for good measure. I'm sorry if that made no sense. NO I'M NOT. It's hard to concentrate when you feel like your head is floating three feet above your body. Can you say drama queen? I can.

I'm really regretting not getting that free flu shot my doctor offered me, thinking my superior genes and healthy lifestyle (haha, oh god seriously, ha) would fend off any flu-like symptoms. I must have forgotten about the 60+ filthy vermin (children) that filter through our office each and every day. Stupid, dirty kids. I hate you. Just kidding. Mostly.

Luckily, I had today off of work. So, now I can spend the day braless and in my pajamas, lying on the couch watching TiVo and Love, Actually (what, it's Christmas) which, really, is probably what I would have done anyway. Only now I don't have to feel bad about spending my day off as a useless blob on the couch, because I'm a snotty blob and who wants to see that?

*No, don't, between gifts from Heidi's mom and my mom, we have 70,000 cookies in our apartment right now

Merry Christmas, assholes! (just kidding, I love you guys)

For some reason I have been listening to Christmas music whenever I have the radio on, in an attempt to force the Christmas spirit down my throat. It's not really working, partly because of Delilah (click here to read my thoughts on that slutbag) but also because for every song that comes on that I do like, there are like three others that make me want to shove something rusty and sharp in my ear. Songs such as "The Christmas Shoes," for instance, about the guy who gets suckered into buying some shoes for this kid's dying mother so she looks good when she meets Jesus. I wish the guy had bought the kid some food or some therapy instead. Jesus doesn't care what kind of shoes you wear when you get to heaven. Did Jesus even wear shoes? Sandals? And where is this kid's dad? Poor kid's just out wandering random stores (I picture him at Wal-mart) by himself on Christmas Eve? WTF? Also, it's kind of presumptuous for that kid to assume his mom is going to Heaven. Like, maybe he should be buying her some slutty, red heels if you know what I'm saying and I think you do. (I think that comment just got me a permanent spot on the Naughty List . . . FINALLY)

Another song I hate? That one about the Soldier's Silent Night or whatever? Where the old guy like recites a poem along to some slow, sad music. SHUT UP, old guy! This has less to do with the actual content of the song and more to do with my absolute hatred of people slow talking along to music and calling it a song.

Frosty the Snowman? I hate that cold, snowy bastard, too. He comes to life when you give him a hat? Does that not scare the shit out of anyone else? Judge me all you want, but he is like a SNOW ZOMBIE. The only way to kill him is to take off his hat or, you know, make the sun come out. That song makes me want to go on a rampage with a blowtorch, melting carefully constructed snowmen as I go before they can spontaneously reanimate themselves.

I also hate the little drummer boy. Who the hell plays the drums for a BABY? I bet Mary had just gotten Jesus to go to sleep and then this little asshole comes in with a drum and wakes him up. Do you think just because he's the son of God he doesn't need his sleep? Well, you are WRONG.

The song I loathe the most, though? The 12 Days of Christmas, which does, in fact, last twelve days. Every time I hear "five golden rings" all stretched out and loud and obnoxious I want to drive my car into a ditch. I will give special exception to the Muppet version, but that's only because I heart Beaker. WHO DOESN'T?

Um. OK, I know I sound like a total Grinch right now, but I can't help it. It's genetic. It's not that there aren't songs that fill my three-sizes-too-small heart with joy, they're just few and far between the songs that make me want to kill someone. If you see a murderous look in my eye, simply play one of the following songs:

• Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
• The Hippo Song (duh)
• I don't know, whatever song that was in Sleepless in Seattle that Meg Ryan was singing in the car? I don't remember what it was, I just like singing "horses, horses, horses, horses" WOW
• The Mariah Carey tour de force, All I Want for Christmas Is You (it's true)
• O, Holy Night, but only sung by Cartman

and I will be lulled to a calm, deep sleep. See? I'm not a complete Grinch. Yet.

PS: My mom commented on my blog. Because my parents are cool like that. Sometimes I think of the kind of stuff I write on here knowing most of my family is going to read it and I wonder how much farther over the line I'd go if they didn't read it. We're probably better off not knowing.

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.

who knows where thoughts come from, they just appear

Guys, I'm a little worried about my brain. I mean more so than usual. I've been having some pretty weird, vivid dreams lately. There was that whole "erasing of the books" thing the other night, and the night before last I dreamt that I had a baby, and I was changing its (don't even know if it was a boy or a girl, AWESOME) diaper in the front yard (?) and I realized I had forgotten something inside and while I was inside getting it someone kidnapped my baby. I spent the rest of the movie, I mean dream, trying to convince a hard-knock detective to help me search for it. I don't remember if we did or not. I think that dream just reiterates the fact that I'm not ready to have children. Thanks, brain, I already knew that. And last night, I dreamt that I went back to my high school as an assistant teacher and my old English teacher took me under her wing and told me all the school secrets. OK, as cool as it would be to get all the dirt on my former teachers, I think we can all agree that I should not be shaping the minds of future generations.

GUYS, guess what! I am done Christmas shopping, oh, and also wrapping presents. I finished it all yesterday and I didn't kill or maim one. Single. Person. Do you realize what this means? I have an entire week left until Christmas and I am completely ready! It's a Christmas miracle!

Maybe you don't understand what a big deal this is. Maybe you're underestimating how much I procrastinate. Well, on Saturday my friends and I did our gift exchange and one of the gifts (the one I gave, because I am an awesome gift-giver, suck it) was this game called Catchphrase. The game gives you a word or a phrase and you have to describe it and give hints without saying any of the words. Kind of like that game show. What's it called. Pyramid? I don't know. Anyway. I was in the kitchen playing beer bitch, when I hear Steph describing her word, "My name is Jennie and I do this a lot," [aside, things were said here that were borderline inappropriate] and anyway, in the end the answer was Procrastinate. So there! I've been used as a hint in a game, what have YOU ever done. I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm so cranky. Oh, right, Christmas. And it's Monday. I've been trying to force the Christmas spirit upon myself, with the Christmas decorating and the music and the giant tree up at The Greene, but it's not working. Maybe I'm trying too hard.

Saturday night after the gift exchange, we went to this kind of seedy bar where there was a mostly drunk band playing. I went to the bathroom and some guy wearing a sweatsuit and gold grill chased me in with shouts of "Ma'am! Hey, baby! Ma'am!" like, dude, even if you didn't have a sweatsuit and fake teeth you just Ma'amed me. That is so not a turn on.

Oh, no. I did that for someone once. I'm not comfortable having that kind of power and control over someone's life.

In case anyone was worried or wondering or doesn't really care but is mildly interested because it's Saturday morning/afternoon and really you're just killing time until you go to the bar? I found a gift for the gift exchange yesterday. Actually, Heidi told me to get it because I couldn't find anything I wanted for under $20 and I really, really didn't want to go to another store. It reminded me of a couple of months ago when I told Heidi and Mary they were in charge of all of my decisions. Really. Like that Friends episode. You know the one. Anyway, it was nice not to make decisions but then I realized it wasn't always necessarily producing the outcome I wanted. Actually, it really only lasted for a couple of decisions and then we completely forgot about it. Truth.

How sad is this? Last night, around midnight my parents stopped by on their way home from dinner and drinks. I was in my pajamas watching TiVo. On a Friday night. I don't care. Judge me all you want, my pajamas are way comfortable. Anyway, while they were here my dad fixed the chair that has been semi-erect for the past couple of months. My dad can MacGyver anything. Truth.

I am drinking coffee out of a Santa Claus coffee mug and I'm wondering where the hell it came from. I think it's mine. All the other coffee mugs were dirty and really it's a bit late in the morning to be drinking coffee but I don't care cause it's delicious. Want to know what else is delicious? Christmas cookies for breakfast. Truth.

Earlier this morning, my cell phone rang and a weird number came up. So I didn't answer it. I looked up the area code and it was somewhere in Texas. I don't know anyone in Texas. I was glad they called, though, because I was having a nightmare about this place where people could take books to get completely erased? And every time a book was erased the author of the book died. Because I have nightmares about books. Also zombies. ANYWAY. You know, I have this really bad habit of not answering my cell phone. Sometimes I worry that I'm missing an important call from like, someone from the future telling me how to stop the world from horribly exploding and thus preventing, you know, all the death and whatnot and then I realize I need to stop watching so much TV. Truth.

Help me, Internets, you're my only hope! (I have so used a variation of this title at least 14 times . . . lazy)

You guys know how I procrastinate, right? If not . . . hi, I'm Jennie. I procrastinate. I also harbor an unhealthy crush on this man and drink and fall down quite a bit. Oh, and I say inappropriate things in public, like "ovaries" and "butt sex." It's true. Ask Heidi. Anyway, nice to meet you.

Tomorrow my friends and I are exchanging gifts. Secret Santa, White Elephant, call it what you will. I will be calling it YANKEE SWAP until everyone gets so annoyed with me that they lock me outside on the porch. Whatever. I can still yell it through the window. I'm loud. Ask anyone.

So, I still haven't gotten a gift for the gift exchange. I don't know if you remember, but I asked for your advice, Internets, and you totally let me down. OK, I know it's not fair for me to blame my gift-buying ineptitude on you. I'm sorry. But seriously, throw me a bone here. I have an idea of something to get, but I don't know if I can find it for under $20. By tomorrow. Shit. So, PLEASE, Internets, give me some suggestions. Otherwise, someone tomorrow is going to open their present to find a bottle of tequila, a lemon, and a salt shaker.

Actually, I'd be pretty psyched to get that gift. Hmm.

I’d like everybody’s attention. Christmas is canceled. Jim, take New Year's away from Stanley.

I'm sorry, but I think THIS is pretty much the coolest thing I've ever seen.

Nerd alert.

meow

Out of all my coworkers, I am the youngest. I am also the only one who is not married and has never been married. I am ALSO the only one without any children. Today, one of my coworkers stroked my head and told me I have very shiny hair.

Sometimes I worry that my coworkers think of me as some kind of pet.

i'll sleep when i'm dead

I think my body is trying to see how little sleep I can function on before I a) crumple into a delicious, delicious nap on my desk, b) kill a patient with my BARE HANDS, c) hallucinate that I am being attacked by zombies, accidentally killing a patient and then crumpling into a delicious, delicious nap on my desk. I'm leaning toward c.

Conversations With My Mother

Or, My Stupidity Reaches New Levels . . .

Me: I have to go to Bath & Body Works to buy a gift.
Mom: Ooh.
Me: Yeah, our work gift exchange is tomorrow and I haven't gotten my person a gift yet.
Mom: Jennifer Lynn.
Me: I know.
Mom: You know, procrastinating won't make it go away.
Me: I've been busy!
Mom: Uh-huh.
Me: Whatever, I have.
Mom: Which Bath & Body Works are you going to?
Me: Probably the one in Town & Country, cause I don't want to fight the assholes at the Dayton Mall right now. I'm pretty tired.
Mom: Jennie . . .
Me: Town & Country won't be too busy, right?
Mom: Jennie.
Me: What?
Mom: Why don't you go to the Bath & Body Works at The Greene?
Me: Oh, you mean that really cute mall that is right by my apartment and on my way home?
Mom: Yes.
Me: Because I forgot there was one in there.
Mom: Thought so.
Me: What's even worse is I was there last night and walked by Bath & Body Works at least twice.
Mom: Oh, Jennie.
Me: Please don't tell anyone how stupid I am.
Mom: OK.
Me: Cause I want to do it.

And then? When I got to The Greene? I walked around and around and around because I couldn't remember where the store was even though last night we walked around and around and around the entire place and I should have had the layout memorized. I even checked the information map and still couldn't find it. I mean, if the map had said "next to the elephant statues covered in twinkly lights that Heidi dared you to climb" then I could have easily found it BUT IT DIDN'T SAY THAT.

Also, I was just wrapping presents so I thought I'd turn on some Christmas music to get me, YOU KNOW, in the mood. I don't know if you have Delilah in your neck of the woods, but her show is on the All Christmas Station right now (ALSO SHE SUCKS AND I HATE HER) and I began to suspect that the Christmas music wasn't having the intended effect on my mood when I told Delilah to, and I quote, "shut the fuck up and play fucking jingle bells."

Fate loves the fearless (even if you might get axe murdered)

Internets, you never fail to surprise me. I came home from Columbus on Sunday and noticed that I had a Gmail chat (seriously, look into it) message from Kat. You know Kat. Don't pretend you don't know Kat or I will cut you. Anyway, the message said her friend Ferdinand (aside from Kat's and my own, I have changed the names in the story to protect the innocent . . . or whatever) was going to be in Dayton for a couple days and would I like to get a drink with him. I then had the following conversation with my brain and don't even pretend you don't do the same when people aren't looking, only with your brain instead of mine because if you're having conversations with my brain, I'm sorry, but that is REALLY weird. Anyway:

Jennie: Well, Brain, what should I do?
Brain: I'm tired.
Jennie: I don't care.
Brain: Lemme alone.
Jennie: BRAIN, WAKE UP.
Brain: OK, OK.
Jennie: What should I do?
Brain: Just do it.
Jennie: Do you even know what I'm talking about?
Brain: No.
Jennie: Sigh.
Brain: OK, fine. Here are your options. Do it. Don't do it.
Jennie: Hmm, sounds simple enough.
Brain: If you do it, you might get axe murdered.
Jennie: I hardly think Kat's friend is an axe murderer.
Brain: Do you know Kat?
Jennie: Yes.
Brain: Have you ever met Kat?
Jennie: . . . no.
Brain: I rest my case.
Jennie: What case? That's a terrible case.
Brain: I know. OK, so you probably won't get axe murdered.
Jennie: Thank you.
Brain: But it could be awkward, which is almost as bad.
Jennie: True. But there will be drinks.
Brain: Wow, you're right. Do it.
Jennie: OK.

That is essentially exactly the way it happened. So, Monday night, after a handful of text messages, my friend Tori (not Spelling) and I went to meet Ferdinand and his friend Magellan. Please do not tell me how weird it sounds that I went and met a complete stranger who happens to be friends with someone I met through a blog, dear Internets. I've tried explaining it both out loud and in my head and it is never met with the response, "oh, that sounds like a perfectly logical and rational thing to do," but I DID IT ANYWAY. Because that's how I roll.

So, anyway, Tori and I went to meet them at Cadillac Jack's, which is where we went a few weeks ago when I pretended to be a stewardess. Again, because that's how I roll. And I was pleasantly surprised when things were not awkward, unless you count our waitress who didn't blink. She was either a robot or high and I'm leaning toward the former. In fact, I was pleasantly surprised again last night when coffee wasn't awkward either, unless you count the part where we got caught spying on security guards arresting some guy in Cold Stone Creamery. Like, what do you have to do to get arrested at a Cold Stone? Anyway, as it turns out, it's pretty stupid to drink coffee at 9 o'clock at night when you have to get up at 5:30 the next morning, but at least I wasn't the only one with insomnia.

And those, dear Internets, are the only details you get.

So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around?

I have come to the conclusion that I need to stop watching so much TV. You would not believe the amount of random TV quotes that come out of my mouth at any given time FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER, other than that quoting The Office makes me laugh and my one goal in life is to keep myself entertained at all times and if that means I have to randomly yell things like "Yankee SWAP!" then SO BE IT. Ahem.

I just had one friend describe a date as, "remember that one Sex and The City episode blah blah blah" and I was all, "of COURSE I remember that episode, who DOESN'T?" except a lot of people don't remember that episode. Because they have lives. Also, Heidi and I have decided that Lifetime movies have completely destroyed our trust and faith in humanity. We spent the greater part of the morning outlining the TV movie of my life, in which I am kidnapped and kept in a hole in the ground before I am sold into white slavery. Heidi would like to be played by Reese Witherspoon (who, fresh off her Oscar win, I'm sure, is dying to do a Lifetime movie) but when she suggested my part be played by Valerie Bertinelli, I reminded her that, while Valerie Bertinelli is an important staple in the Lifetime movie oeuvre she is like . . . fifty. And I am not. I told her that she at least had to give me Shannon Doherty (crooked eye and all) but she told me that in order for Shannon to play me, I'd need to develop some sort of crystal meth addiction. Which I don't really want to do because it sounds both messy and expensive. Actually, maybe Heidi and I both should lay off The TV for a while.

Dear Internets,

I'm really tired today.

Blah.

Sincerely,
Jennie

take my hand and we'll make it I swear

I did some Christmas shopping today. OK, I went to one store. That's as far as I could go before I had to repeatedly stomp down the urge to punch someone in the face. So. Yeah. One store down, two gifts down. At this rate I should be done by Valentine's Day.

My friends and I are doing a gift exchange next weekend, so I was mainly looking for a gift for that. I bought something completely frivolous that was really funny at the time but now I realize that it is useless. It's a rug. With Twister on it. Which, I can see getting some use out of this at a party somewhere down the road, but my friends and I tend to go a little ADD when we drink so I don't think spending [insert max amount allowed to spend here] dollars on ten minutes of fun is really worth it, you know? I kind of want to keep it, though. You know. For Twister emergencies. But, ok, here's my problem now . . . I don't know what to get. I need a unisex gift for under twenty dollars. It's the unisex part that's throwing me off. I've found plenty of awesome gifts for those with guy OR girl parts, but none that will work for both. Or something. I don't know.

Last night, I was in Columbus with a stop in BFE to meet Steve. It was fun. Fun, fun, fun. Shouting of Bon Jovi lyrics was involved, which could explain the Kathleen Turner voice I'm sporting today. Hot. And now, I bring you (because I'm too tired to come up with anything original) Conversations With My Best Friend Mary Because Heidi Deserves a Break:

Mary: Hello?
Me: Heeeeeey!
Mary: Hi!
Me: You answered!
Mary: I did. So what's up?
Me: Well, I'm on my way back from Steve's and I'm driving around out in the country.
Mary: Ooookaaaaay.
Me: I think I'm probably going to get lost*. I drove there in the dark last night and wasn't really paying attention and now everything looks different.
Mary: That sucks.
Me: I know. Also, it's the country and none of the roads have names that I can see.
Mary: Why didn't you ask Steve for directions before you left?
Me: Because I didn't want him to think I'm retarded!
Mary: Um, I think it's too late for that.
Me: Thanks.
Mary: No problem.
Me: You're probably right, though.
Mary: See?

*I did not

oh SNAP!

Everything you wanted and MORE

Seriously, I'll stop this soon. (No, I won't)

It's vodka, you know. It goes bad once it's opened.

I would like you to meet my new best friend, Tiny Carton of Wine, little sister of Wine In a Bag In a Box and white trash cousin of Bottle of Wine:

I was at Kroger earlier buying something for dinner and I really wanted a glass (or two) of wine because it has been a long, hard week and it's not even over yet. Not fair! I didn't want to buy an entire bottle, though, because I was by myself and god knows if you open a bottle of wine by yourself one of two things happens. ONE, you only drink a couple glasses and a week later end up throwing the rest of it away because it tastes like toilet cleaner (I'm assuming) or TWO, you finish it all. Since I have to work tomorrow, TWO wasn't an option and the thought of dumping alcohol down the kitchen sink filled me with terror and seething rage because that goes against EVERYTHING I STAND FOR. So, you see? Tiny White Trash Cousin of Bottle of Wine is perfect. Drink what you want and screw the lid back on for later. It would probably even fit in my purse not that I would do that I'M JUST SAYING it would probably fit. The end.

You may notice some items of interest (?) in the background of this picture. THOSE ITEMS BEING the picture of Dora the Explorer made for me by a patient (yeah), our cheapo Target Napoleon Dynamite refridgerator pieces of crap, and OK that's really it unless you're interested in the chip clip. Although, I don't know why you would be. It's not like the chip clip has been on some grand adventure like the toaster. Brave Little Toaster? Anyone? Oh, COME ON!

Dewey, you fool! Your decimal system has played right into my hands!

This morning, as I dragged myself out of bed, I was oh so relieved that I'd set my alarm to go off early so I'd have time to sit in my freezing car and let it defrost without worrying that I'd be late for work. And when I say "dragged myself out of bed," that is exactly what I mean, because this morning was rough. So rough, in fact, that when I looked at myself in the mirror I screamed and ran away because I was SURE a zombie was staring back at me all "brains brains hungry hungry BRAAAAAIIIIIIINS!" and if you want to wake up fast? A zombie lusting for your brains first thing in the morning will do the trick. Trust. Me.

Anyway, as I showered, calmly and without forgetting an important step like conditioning my hair, I thought, "Haha! I will not be running late this morning for I have beaten the system with a clever ruse of SETTING MY ALARM CLOCK for a time which will allow me ample time to get ready! So smart, am I!" The Universe, however, had other plans. I was too cocky. And The Universe loves nothing more than to smack a cocky bitch down. Trust. Me.

After my shower, I had to venture out to the kitchen to make sure my coffeepot hadn't shut itself off again. Yes, it is still doing that. No, I have not gotten a new one because I have it on good authority that I will be getting one from Christmas. If I'm still on Santa's Nice List which, let's face it, is iffy at best. Trust. Me.

So, as I'm walking back from the kitchen (FYI, coffeepot had turned self off), I notice something strange on the ottoman. Cat vomit! At first I thought it was poo, because of how long and skinny it was (sorry) but on closer inspection it was definitely vomit. I'd just like to take this moment to thank Phoebe AND The Universe for making me late this morning because you can't just LEAVE cat vomit on something and clean it up later. So that is why I spent part of my very important, VERY limited, getting-ready-time running around the apartment in my bra and underwear (don't worry, Heidi wasn't home), trying to find the Magical Pet Stain Remover Spray because it's never in the same spot and then soaking up a pleasant mixture of stain remover and cat vomit from the ottoman. There's a shitload of carpet she could have puked on (she's done it before, I know she knows it's there) and yet . . . she picks the ottoman. Thanks a lot, Cat. I wanted nothing more than to start my day with The Cat Vomit Surprise. Just know, though, that I plan on paying you back by torturing you with the vacuum cleaner and a vocal impression of the bagpipes, both of which fill you with ears-back-tail-poofed-running-for-the-hills terror. Oh, it'll be so fun.

Trust. Me.

Does anyone else think Ed Helms is sort of hot? Just me? OK, awesome.

I promise a real post is coming. Until then . . . Ed Helms! Special Appearance! Daily Show! Jon Stewart! Weeeeeeeeeeee!

so much easier than writing a real post

This makes me happy and a little sad all at the same time. Which is not good for my cold, dead heart.

Bueller?

You know, there was a moment today, when I was wandering around our office parking lot carrying a small, white Jack Russell that I actually wondered if I had fallen asleep at my desk and was now dreaming. I wasn't though. His name was Buckshot.

It was a long, weird day and I know it's only seven o'clock but I'm seriously considering going straight to bed.

Tuesday Confessions*

• I had the day off work yesterday and the only productive thing I did (if you can call it that) was read an entire book
• I put my underwear on backwards in my morning rush to get out the door, if not on time, then merely five minutes late, and had to fix it in the bathroom at work
• I'm blaming it on the fact that I'm wearing new underwear today
• Also, I slept like shit last night and am tired
• Really, it's Victoria's Secret's fault for putting the tag info (if there were an actual tag, rather than, you know, just writing) on the front instead of the back. WTF, Vicky?
• I had impure thoughts about John Krasinski
• And Jake Gyllenhaal
• Also, a patient's dad (I know!)
• Maybe even you
• Heidi called me a Pervert McNasty
• She's probably right
• A Britney Spears song came on the radio during my ride home from work and NOT ONLY did I not change it, I sang along loudly and exuberantly and with hand motions
• An unbelievably slow car caused me to miss a light and made me really angry and I believe my exact words were, "fuck me fuck me fuck fuck fuck" . . . such a lady
• I went to the bathroom today, not because I had to pee, but because a song I like came on the radio and you can hear the radio the best inside the bathroom (I don't know why)
• I've not sent one Christmas card yet (sorry!)

So, all in all, a pretty typical day.

*blatantly ripped off from Heather Anne's Confession Monday because I am both Lazy and Unmotivated

Because, if Santa and the Holiday Armadillo stay in the same room for too long . . . the universe will . . . implode!

Sometimes I have a hard time keeping my Inner Bitch quiet. I find that the naughty thoughts are the first to pop into my head and then my Inner Angel has to beat the crap out of my Inner Bitch until she shuts up and that makes my Inner Angel kind of naughty, you know? It's a vicious cycle.

In an effort to be a gentler, kinder, less sarcastic Jennie, I helped Heidi decorate the apartment for Christmas. I say "helped Heidi," because all of the decorations were hers and left to my own devices I don't decorate at all. Last year, I hung up one ornament that I got as a present, and I didn't hang THAT up until after Christmas Day and also the only reason I hung it up at all was because it looked like a tiny bottle of wine and actually wasn't very Christmasy at all which is probably why I liked it so much. Whew. True story. I have to admit, though, our nicely decorated apartment has made me much less Grinchy because once we were done and the lights were all plugged in I couldn't stop exclaiming, "Ooh, look how pretty!" but again . . . that could just be because of the shiny lights. See:

I feel like I should explain the chair. It's quite obviously broken. Heidi's boyfriend broke it and then her dad fixed it but told us we couldn't recline it anymore or it would get stuck again. Well, some asshole named Jennie forgot and reclined it and now it is permanently semi-erect. My bad.

Phoebe seems to be happy with the new developments in our apartment, except she keeps trying to eat the (fake) tree so I had to introduce her to Mr. Spray Bottle. She's not a fan. I don't care.

Totally off topic now. I decided a while ago that I was going to try and let my hair get long again, since it's been fairly short since sophomore year of college and I needed a project. Also, a reformed crack addict told me I looked like Dora the Explorer. I'm happy to report that, except for a few stubborn strands, I can now get all of my hair into a ponytail. A very short, stubby ponytail, but a ponytail nonetheless.

Earlier, trying some more to shove my Grinch more firmly in the closet, I decided to turn on some Christmas music (I feel I should take this opportunity to tell you I have the day off and I'm at home, not at work). After reading Heather Anne today, I especially wanted to hear a certain Christmas song. And, obviously, Santa or the Baby Jesus or SOMEONE doesn't want me to be a Grinch this year because that song was the first one I heard, allowing me to dance vigorously around the apartment faux-singing into my microphone (lint brush) and hoping the neighbors downstairs were both at work.

And in case you're wondering? My phony-tail does not hold up to vigorous dancing. Good to know.

Let's be from Vermont. And let's have an emerging maple syrup conglomerate.

Last night, I forgot the cardinal rule of sports bars: Do not, I repeat DO NOT, make eye contact with anyone of the opposite gender if you wish to remain unhitupon. After going to see a (free) play with Heidi and two of her previous coworkers, we decided to stop for a drink but we didn't want to stay downtown because A) we didn't want our cars broken into and B) we weren't in the mood to get assraped.

So we went to some place called Cadillac Jack's, where we could NOT ONLY get a drink or two (ok or three), but we could also partake in some cheese fries or chicken wings or the like as well as some girly conversation (boys, bras, bajengas, etc). WHICH WE DID.

OK, now. Men, I have a question. Or two. Not sure yet. Where did you learn to hit on women? I mostly mean you, guy who shimmied past our table like a go-go dancer. I mean, I like the Counting Crows, too, but it's not really a shake your tailfeather kind of song. It was a little weird, is what I'm saying. Also, Guy Who is Getting Married in 2008 . . . I get that you were playing wingman for your friends. I get that it was my fault that you approached our table. After all, I made eye contact. We thought we were rid of you and your friends, too, but then you decided to sit at the table behind us and lean into our conversation, each time putting your arms around Bree and Tamara, both of whom had their backs to you so you're lucky they didn't elbow you in the face in fright.

Guy: So what do you guys do?
Bree: I'm a social worker.
Tamara: I interview drug addicts.
Jennie's Brain: Your job is boring. Lie.
Me: I'm a stewardess.
Guy: Oh, really?
Me: Well, flight attendant would be more politically correct, I guess.
Guy: So, you like serve people coffee and water and stuff?
Me: Yes, that is an important part of my job.
Guy: Cool.
Me: Yeah, and it's really hard to do in high heels.
Guy: And turbulence.
Me: Right.
Guy: OK, then.

Then he left us alone! Ok, only for a couple minutes but a very nice couple of minutes. This was the first time I'd met Bree and Tamara, and I'd already told them I work for an orthodontist, so they were a bit confused.

Bree: Wait, are you really a stewardess?
Me: Haha, no.
Bree: Oh, god, ok. I didn't think so.
Tamara: I was gonna say, you'd be pretty busy.
Bree: I wish I could just make shit up like that.
Me: It is a gift.
Tamara: So what airline do you fly?
Me: Delta.
Heidi: Where's your home base?
Me: Cincinnati.
Heidi: How did September 11th make you feel, being a stewardess?
Me: Well, I was still in stewardess college at the time.
Bree: You had to go to stewardess college?
Me: Of course. It's tough, too. Very competitive.
Heidi: Have you ever had Paris Hilton on a flight, flashing her vajayjay everywhere?
Me: No, those flights? The ones from like LA or New York or international flights? You have to work your way up to those and I'm not there yet. Obviously, I'm still stuck in Cincinnati.
Bree: Wow. I don't know how you're doing this. If I tried to lie I'd be all "Um, I . . . um, hahaha!"
Me: Hmm. You could be a Bavarian Chocolate Specialist.
Bree: Oh my god.

I think I'm totally ready to be a professional wedding crasher. What kind of dental do you get with that, I wonder.

Hands, touching hands, reaching out, touching me, touching yoooooouuuu!

I don't know why, but the song "Sweet Caroline" fills me with pure, unadulterated joy each and every time I hear it. It could be that the lyrics are vaguely dirty, but I don't think that's it. Whatever it is, that song reduces me to a swaying, shouting lunatic in a way that only Tina Turner's "Proud Mary," Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," (shut up) and Kelly Clarkson's "A Moment Like This" (shut up more and also suck it) can usually accomplish.

Dear Internets, what (embarrassing) songs give you that joy, joy, joy, joy down in your heart*?

*where?

The worst thing about prison was the Dementors. They were flying all over the place, and they were scary.

What is it about strange weather that renders people incapable of talking about anything but? I'm not saying I'm exempt because there is a wind advisory right now (seriously? wind? that is SO the redheaded stepchild of the weather advisory world) and every time the wind blows all I can think to say to anyone is, "wow, it is really windy outside." CLEVER.

I suppose I could tell you how windy it is. It is so windy that it made it hard to drive this morning. No good? OK. It's so windy that when the wind blew the rain onto my windshield it reminded me of being in the dry cycle of a car wash. Still no good. It's so windy that I had visions of a swinging traffic light coming loose from the line and almost dropping onto the hood of my car, but then Superman came and caught it. Better. How's this. It's so windy that when I got out of the car with my umbrella, a gust of wind caught it and carried me Mary Poppins style over to jolly old England, where I met some chimney sweeps and then we all jumped into a chalk drawing on the sidewalk to live happily ever after. Best, but that's a total lie. Sorry.

Things that are true? I have been walking around for the past hour with my fly down. I haven't been able to get the song "Rainbow Connection" out of my head ever since watching The Office last night. I had applesauce, a cookie, and coffee for breakfast. I used a different perfume today and can't stop smelling myself. I smell really good right now. I wish I was anywhere but where I am at this moment. I hope it snows buckets tonight. I will regret saying that if it does. I have to pee. Dementors ARE scary. Oh. And it's really, really, really goddamn windy outside.

He says no one's going to fancy a girl with thighs the size of big tree trunks. Not a nice guy, actually, in the end.

I apologize for that last post. What the hell was I talking about? I don't even know. Jenny's head falling off? WTF?

I haven't really been sleeping lately so much as lying in bed staring at the ceiling wishing I was sleeping (I wish I had a dollar for every time I typed that sentence), so I'm fairly certain I wrote that entry in some sort of fugue state or waking nightmare or something. I don't know.

I don't think I should neglect to mention that, while I was not an official contestant in NaBloPoMo (aka NaNoHoMoMoFoToto), I DID, in fact, post every day this month. I feel this warrants some kind of prize, no? No? Fine. Today is the last day of November, right? IT IS! I win! The game is called I WIN!

I really think today might be the day I kill a patient with my BARE HANDS. I feel it in my bones. I've talked about killing people with my BARE HANDS in the last two posts, but don't worry. That's just what no sleep does to me. I promise I (probably) won't kill anyone, bare hands or otherwise.

I've been thinking about joining a gym. But it's expensive. And I have the feeling that I would be paying for the membership card and the benefit of saying, "hey, I belong to that gym, but I've never been there," as I drive past.

I actually addressed some Christmas cards last night! I put them in the envelopes and everything! Of course, I don't have any stamps and I'm still working on getting some addresses from my friends, because WHO KNEW that my system of writing people's addresses on little slips of paper and then using those slips of paper for coasters or bookmarks wasn't actually a good system? The more you know. In other news, maybe I should ask for an address book for Christmas. By the way, there is still plenty of time to get your own Christmas card.

Lalala, GUESS WHAT, friends? Tomorrow is Friday. Oh. Happy. Day.

if you call me "Jen-nay" I get to kick you, hard, square in the nuts

There were times when I was younger that I really disliked my name. Mostly because I couldn't just be Jennie. I had to be Jennie B because there were usually several other Jennies in each of my classes. Jenny M, Jenny R, Jenny W. I guess Jenny W is worse than Jennie B because DAMN that is a lot of syllables.

In fourth grade, I changed the spelling of my name from "Jenny" to "Jennie." My teacher, I remember, thought I was just spelling my name wrong (come on, give me a little credit) until she asked me and I told her I'd changed it to make it more different. If I'd really been thinking, I'd have changed it to Gjhenee or Djenny (the D is silent).

The only time I ever absolutely hated my name was at daycare around Halloween. There were no other Jennies in the entire building, which you'd think would have been a welcome change, but NOT AT HALLOWEEN. That's when we read this book called In a Dark, Dark Room (or something) and in this book there is a story about a young girl named Jenny who marries a young man named Alfred and this young girl named Jenny always wears a green ribbon around her neck and Alfred, of course, won't shut the hell up about it and wants to know WHY she's always wearing a green ribbon around her neck because, let's face it, it's not exactly a flattering look and why did it have to be a green ribbon because pink or purple or blue would have been so much better. Even red! Ooh, actually red would have been pretty fitting. Anyway, so at the end of the story Jenny and Alfred have grown old together and she's never told him why she always wears a green ribbon and I can't remember if she gives him permission or if he just takes it upon himself to do it, but Alfred totally unties the green ribbon and . . . Jenny's head falls off.

Yeah, and so I hated when the teacher read that story aloud NOT because, you know, my head just fell off but because inevitably all I'd hear for the rest of the day were taunts of "Jenny and Alfred sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," and NOTHING is more humiliating to an eight-year-old than people thinking she might like a boy and even want to (gasp) kiss him. Cooties. Gross. I still maintain that boys have cooties, though. Anyway, luckily there was no little boy at the daycare named Alfred or I think we may have teamed up and taken out the rest of the class. I would have, too; I was a pretty diabolical little kid, it's lucky I didn't turn out to be a serial killer (yet). Ahem. So, yes, at that time of my life I hated my name with a fiery, red hot passion.

Oh, and also when Forrest Gump came out. Movie made my life a living hell, you don't even know.

Happy Hump (hee) Day

I’m always thinking one step ahead. Like a carpenter that makes stairs.

I think my car radio may be on the fritz. I realized this yesterday when I was on my way to work and the local radio station sounded off-and-on staticy.

This could be bad, because you see . . . my mood when I arrive at work depends mostly on if I hear songs I like on the way. If Justin brings the sexy back or John Mayer sings to me (what, it is to me) or I hear Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza, I'm gonna be in a good mood. If I have to hear Gwen Stefani butcher a song from a beloved movie or a get a goddamn Fergie song stuck in my head then I may try to kill someone with my BARE HANDS when I exit my car. Although, it sounds like a lot of effort to kill someone with my bare hands, so more than likely I'd just run them over with my car. See? Easy.

Lately, I've been in a pretty good mood when I get out of the car because they've started playing all Christmas music on 99.9. Which I like now, but give me another couple weeks and this will be the music that puts me in a murderous mood. But YOU try being in a bad mood when you hear the Hippo song! I promise you, it is impossible! My only complaint about this station is that they play the Josh Groban version of "O, Holy Night" and not the Cartman version. What the hell is that? Come on, let's get it together.

So, yes, I'm a little sad at this latest development with my car radio. You see, there is no CD player (I know) and when you try to play a cassette tape it sounds like The Chipmunks instead of Weezer/Barenaked Ladies/what have you. Which can be amusing for a couple of minutes but, trust me, gets old after your cousins make you play The Chipmunks Sing Blink 182 for half an hour.

Today my car radio seemed to be working fine, but when I almost drove off the road while singing and flailing myself around to "Proud Mary," I began to think that maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing if it stopped working completely.

all the lights are shining so brightly everywhere

Friday night, after a long hard day of . . . doing nothing, Heidi and I decided to walk up to The Greene to get some dinner and go to Victoria's Secret. Two things that, obviously, go hand in hand. The wait at Brio was quite long, so we took the flashy-lighty-up-vibraty-beepy thingie (seriously what is that thing?) over to Victoria's to stare at the panties and smell the lotions. Don't get those two mixed up or they'll look at you funny and probably ask you to leave.

After Heidi had purchased enough to get the Heidi Klum Face Bag With All The Free Shit Inside, and since it was unseasonably warm that night (but not unseasonably warm enough to warrant FLIP FLOPS, teenage girls with the stupid words on your stupid sweatpants on your stupid butt), we decided to sit on a bench outside the restaurant and People Watch. Luckily, we were right next to the courtyard with the giant Christmas tree so the people were ripe for the watching. We were watching small children chase each other while they waited in line for Santa, the horse-drawn carriages clip-clopping past, when I spotted a peculiar looking couple standing in the middle of the courtyard. The man was down on one knee. Odd, and I thought maybe he'd hurt himself until I saw the box in his hand.

"Hey look!" I exclaimed. "That guy is proposing!"

Heidi followed my pointed finger (rude, I know) and oohed and aahed with me.

"That is too cute," she said. "I might cry."

We worried that the couple might catch us, but luckily they were too engrossed in one another to take notice of two silly, giggling women sitting twenty feet away, one of whom was taking a picture with her camera phone. I'll let you guess which one that was.

And maybe it was the twinkly lights, or the fact that Santa was so nearby and I worried that he'd hear any naughty thoughts, but my Inner Bitch was actually quiet that night. Yes, the one that wishes there were No Children sections in restaurants. The one who routinely thinks "oh vomit" and sticks an imaginary finger down her throat at any couply sign of romance. That one. Completely silent. For probably the first time ever.

I'm definitely blaming Santa*.

*Just kidding, Santa! Hugs!

If there was a retarded Oscar you would win, hands down, kick his ass!

You know, I'm not really sure how conversations with my friends go from discussing Indian food to the physics and intricacies of pooping off the balcony, but I like it.

Also, last night we made Heidi's boyfriend watch Garden State, even though he had already expressed that he "would rather suffer from AIDS than watch that movie." A little extreme, I know, but if he would just admit that it's a good movie then we wouldn't have to keep bugging him about it.

I've been off work since Wednesday afternoon and I am finding it really hard to convince myself that I have to go back tomorrow. Sigh.

WOW. Best. Post. Ever.

love at first bite (har har)

I am about to run away and elope with the turkey sandwich I am currently consuming.

Of course, by the time we get to Vegas he will be in my tummy, so this could be a problem.

Hmm.

I wish turkey only cost a nickel

I hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving. I was pretty tired last night from the near-constant eating and was comatose before midnight. What. A. Loser.

And in case anyone was wondering (and don't pretend you weren't), I did NOT forget the rolls. Here is proof:

They look like little butts, right? Tell the truth. It was entirely unintentional, I promise, but a very welcome addition to the Thanksgiving table.

In other butt news, I bought new underwear today. Don't be jealous of my exciting life. Or my butt's exciting life, for that matter. Never mind.

What is with everyone today? It's Thanksgiving, not truth day!

Last night I went over to my parents' (walked, actually, nearly TWO MILES and yes I live that close to my parents) house to help get stuff ready for today. And by help, I mean stand around, drink wine, and make smart ass remarks.

Granted, I was trusted with several tasks, such as vacuuming, holding the bag open so my dad could squeeze in the 26 pound turkey (a bit like trying to watch a big, fat guy shove himself into a mini Cooper, no?), and making sure everyone's wine glasses never emptied. I was really good at the last one.

And even though I was not given anything but the most minimal tasks, I really think everyone will be able to benefit today from my help yesterday. Especially since I plan on carrying over my wine-glass-filling duties from last night. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Happy Thanksgiving, Internets.

It is time for your next test. You have planted the beet seed. You have walked the long lonely walk of loneliness.

You may find this hard to believe, and I find it hard to admit, but I am a just a tiny bit of a control freak. Maybe you don't find this hard to believe. You probably don't, if you're my sister. Or my mom. Or my dad but seriously, Dad? You have no room to talk. I learned it from watching YOU, Dad!

Ahem. This revelation came to me the other day at work, when they tried to change the way we do something completely trivial and I told them "NO! NO CHANGES!" only not in those words and not in caps lock. And I could explain it all to you so you could see how right I was not to let them change it but I fear it would cause many of you to back away slowly and never, ever return.

I tried to tell myself, "No, self, you are not a control freak! You just like things to run smoothly and it just so happens that you are the only one who knows how to do this correctly! It's OK, self, own it." Then I realized how often I have the following exchange:

Me: So, let me explain this to you.
Person X: OK.
Me: You're going to do this, and this, and then click that, and finally do this and then you're done!
Person X: Can I just do it this way?
Me: Why would you want to do it that way?
Person X: I don't know.
Me: I already told you how to do it the right way.
Person X: Can't there be more than one right way?
Me: No.
Person X: OK, then.
Me: Excellent.
Person X: Why are you breathing like Darth Vader?
Me: Oh. No reason.

Ever since I've realized what a control freak I can be, I've been trying to reign in those impulses. I remind myself that I cannot control every aspect of the office. And the building is not going to tumble to the ground if I'm not there one day. Or so they tell me.

But they are gonna be SO SORRY if it does.

They don't know we know they know we know.

I have a very important question for you, Internets. Is the . . . person who sings the hippopotamus Christmas song a boy or a girl? Or a computer-generated-voice-of-cuteness (or annoyance, based on your preference for the hippopotamus Christmas song).

I know people who hate that song, which I will never understand, because I love it with the fire of a thousand suns.

That's a lot.

Also, that song reminds me of this girl I knew in college that we called "hippo" behind her back. Not because she was fat or anything, but because she was a giant hypocrite (get it? HIPPO-crite). Also, because she was fat. Hey, I never claimed to be a nice person.

this is unacceptable

I'm of the opinion that snow, much like "Jingle Bells" and twinkle lights, should wait until at least the day after Thanksgiving to appear.

So can someone explain why I woke up and saw this today?

Seriously? Seriously.

OK, I'll admit that it is kind of pretty. But too soon! Too soon!

Also, today is my blog's birthday, meaning I have been babbling incoherently at the Internets for three years now. You're welcome, Internets.

I did just make him run around the building, and I have no intention of timing him. This isn’t even a stopwatch, it’s a digital thermometer.

This year I'm going to Thanksgiving at my parents' house and there was some discussion about what I was going to be required to bring.

Dad: What are you bringing to Thanksgiving?
Me: I have to bring something?
Dad: Well, yeah.
Me: Um. I guess I could bring that bread dip.
Mom: No, not for Thanksgiving.
Me: OK.
Mom: You could make the green bean casserole.
Me: Sure, let's assume that.
Mom: Do you have a crock pot?
Me: Heidi does, but it's a really big one.
Mom: Well, you can borrow one of mine.
Me: Is it hard to make?
Mom: No, it's easy.
Me: Are you sure I can make it?
Mom: Of course.
Me: Really?
Mom: Well. Maybe you can just bring the rolls.

So, I'm in charge of the rolls. Who wants to bet I'll forget to buy them until I have driven over to my parents' on Thursday, pulled into the driveway, turned off the car, and walked up to the door and then SUDDENLY I remember and have to run far away (or to Kroger, whatever) to risk the grocery on THANKSGIVING because I can't even be trusted with ROLLS. What? It could happen. Kroger is open on Thanksgiving, right?

Anyway, I also get off work early on Wednesday (don't pretend you're not jealous) so I thought I'd offer to come over and help my mom with some stuff. Because I am such a good daughter.

Mom: I was just calling to tell you that you can DEFINITELY bring the rolls.
Me: OK.
Mom: The green bean casserole is covered.
Me: Sure.
Mom: Rolls will be fine.
Me: Got it, Mom.
Mom: OK.
Me: Do you want me to come over on Wednesday and help with anything?
Mom: Sure, that'd be great.
Me: Wow, you'd trust me with helping to cook Thanksgiving dinner?
Mom: . . .
Me: Mom?
Mom: Maybe you can just start cleaning the house while your dad and I handle the cooking.

Point taken, Mom. You know, I've always assumed that one day I'll learn how to cook, but if I'm gonna hold out for The Perfect Man: Version 7.0, then HELLO, he's obviously going to not only know HOW to cook, but he's going to want nothing less than to cook me a gourmet meal every night of the week. Duh.

Also, I'm really hoping that my precious role as The First Born means I'll get to take some turkey home with me. Or, more importantly, mashed potatoes. I know it'll all be delicious because, you know, I'm not helping.

hang on Sloopy

Apparently there is some big, giant football game on today? Yeah. I couldn't have ignored it if I wanted. Believe me, I tried. I don't know why, but it seems like people are being way more obnoxious about the game this year than I remember in the past. Maybe it's because I work with (and am friends with) several rabid OSU fans. I was berated at work when I said I probably wasn't going to watch the game. I don't know. I don't care who wins.

Well. I care a little. I was, after all, born and raised in Ohio and am genetically predisposed to follow a call of "O-H" with "I-O." Really. It's sad. Feel bad for us.

Conversations With My Roommate: Laundry Edition

Heidi: I couldn't get the coffee stain out of my sweater!
Me: Oh no!
Heidi: I tried stain stick and then I washed it but the stain is still there!
Me: Can you use bleach on it?
Heidi: That's what I'm going to try. I just won't dry the sweater right now and try bleach on it later.
Me: Why can't you dry it?
Heidi: If you dry it, it makes the stain set in more.
Me: Really?
Heidi: Yeah.
Me: How do you know so much about laundry?
Heidi: Well, when I was younger my mom made me take Laundry in 4-H.
Me: . . .
Heidi: So I know a lot about laundry now.
Me: Wait, are you serious?
Heidi: Hee. Yeah. And the funny thing is, I actually won once.
Me: Oh my god.
Heidi: I know. If you ever have any laundry questions, I'm the person to come to.
Me: You have so many hidden talents.
Heidi: Yeah. You should bow down to me.
Me: Oh, I plan on it.

Later . . .

Me: What are you doing?
Heidi: Trying to use bleach to get this coffee stain off my sweater.
Me: Why are you wearing an apron?
Heidi: So I don't get bleach on my clothes.
Me: Ah.
Heidi: Look, though, when I put the bleach on it, it turns my sweater really light purple.
Me: That is so weird!
Heidi: I know! Why is it doing that?!
Me: Don't ask me, you're the laundry expert.
Heidi: Look, it's turning it pink, too! Where is the pink coming from?
Me: Well, there are purple and pink flowers on the bleach bottle, maybe that's why.
Heidi: . . .
Me: Sorry.
Heidi: I guess I'll just wash it and hope the purple comes out.
Me: Or maybe? You'll wash it? And the purple will spread out? And make your whole sweater a nice even shade of light purple?
Heidi: . . .
Me: Sorry.
Heidi: Oh well.
Me: At least it doesn't look like someone pooped on your sweater anymore.
Heidi: . . .
Me: Sorry.

In case you're worried (and don't pretend you're not), the stain totally came out. So did the purple.

(PS: If you want a Christmas card, there is still plenty of time to send me your address. I promise not to stalk you. Too much. Also, feel free to e-mail me with laundry questions and I'll pass them along to Heidi the Laundry Expert.)

sweet dreams are made of this . . . whatever THAT means

Last night I dreamt that I put a hot tub in my room and when I woke up, my first thought was not, "Why are you dreaming about hot tubs, you freak?" oh no! My first thought was, "Hey, where the hell did my hot tub go?"

Don't tell me it's completely unrealistic to put a hot tub in my bedroom because there is TOTALLY enough room for one!

I measured.

No, I didn't.

But I could have.

I do, after all, have a tape measure.

You know, somewhere.

I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!

Today, during my lunch break I decided to go to Target. Oh, Target. The love of my life (besides TiVo). I was going for a very specific purpose and that was a) to buy a Christmas present for my sister, b) to buy deodorant, c) to look at the shoes and talk myself out of buying at least three pairs, and d) to waste time. The wasting time part was the most important, obviously. I was going to just stay at work during my lunch break, but the thought of both arriving at work and leaving work in the dark was far too depressing. I thought I'd use my break to absorb as much sunlight as possible. Which turned out to be, you know, NONE since it was pissing rain all day long. Pissing rain. Is there any combination of words in the English language more beautiful? No? I agree.

Anyway, since I was at Target I thought I might as well look around. I had time to kill. See above: time wasting. I ended up going down the Christmas-crap aisles to see if they had any generic Christmas gifts I could buy for people I don't really like but have to buy gifts for anyway. And then I passed the Christmas cards and even though I'd already told myself I wasn't sending Christmas cards this year because they always end up sitting in a neat little bestamped pile on my desk until like . . . Christmas Eve Eve when I finally get around to dropping them in the mail (my god, I've forgotten where this sentence even started), I bought some cards anyway. Because, you see, I'd forgotten that they have FUNNY Christmas cards. That is, if you think scatological humor is funny. Which I do. See: rest of blog.

So now I have Christmas cards! Yay! I thought I'd better send some so I don't feel like a Grade A Jackass when I get them from people and I didn't send them anything. Oh, and I also saw this somewhere on the Internets, where someone was going to send Christmas cards to whoever e-mailed them with their address, so I'm totally stealing their idea. I'd credit them, but I can't remember where I saw it and also I'm too tired (read: lazy) to look. So, if you want a Christmas card and also enjoy scatological humor then e-mail me and I'll see what I can do.

I just hope you're OK with not getting a card until January.

Of 2008.

Jim has worked at the same place for five years. Jim eats the same ham and cheese sandwich every day for lunch.

Whenever my roommate and I go to the grocery, we stop by the yogurt section to stock up. Because, you see, Kroger always has the kind we like on sale . . . 12 for $6. Or something. I don't remember exactly. So, Heidi picks out six flavors and I pick out six flavors. And each and every time, I have to talk myself out of getting six Blackberry.

I find it easy to get stuck in a routine and I get very cranky if this routine is disrupted in any way. I have to talk myself into new things. Even things I love now, such as yogurt, coffee, voting, I have had to force myself into in the past. This routine ranges from wearing the same thing every day (not my fault, but I do enjoy the whole non-decision making thing early in the morning) to the things I eat. In the morning, I like my yogurt and coffee and to not talk to anyone. For lunch, a turkey sandwich, some pretzels and a Diet Coke. For dinner? Whatever is both within reach (I'm short) in the cabinet and microwavable.

I try to break myself of the routine, but it's so easy to backslide. Which means try harder, I suppose, even if I just trade in my turkey sandwich for peanut butter and jelly.

You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.

I have this side project I'm supposed to be working on and, much like I did when I had a paper to write in college, I have been doing everything in my power to procrastinate this evening. Procrastination includes but is not limited to:

• watching Love, Actually (oh, shut up)
• dusting (and also realizing that we need to dust more often)
• trying to get Phoebe to chase her tail
• working on the scarf that hasn't seen the light of day since, oh, I lived in my old apartment, probably
• playing Ms. Pac Man (don't be jealous, we have one that hooks up to our TV)
• gossiping with Heidi
• cleaning my room
• reserving library books
• reading blogs in case anyone has written anything new in the past ten minutes . . . which they haven't . . . get on that, please
• oh, and writing this

Stop distracting me, Internets.

In my fantasy, I always thought I would slap someone, make a big speech, and storm out forever. But this is good, too.

There are so many things in this world about which I am completely clueless. Astrophysics, car mechanics, this man's brain mechanics, opera, what I want to do with my life, money management, how to play video games without getting those weird skin indentations on your thumbs from the keys on the controller.

The longer I am out in the world, the more I worry that I have been forming an entirely wrong sort of skillset. That I wasted my time studying sonnets and syntax when I should have been learning how to take apart a computer in sixty seconds. Although, I probably could take apart a computer in less than sixty seconds, but I'd be screwed if you wanted me to put it back together. So, you see, I fear I have little to offer the human race. Unless, of course, someone is looking for a person who would willingly spend all her free time reading, regularly quotes a variety of movies/TV shows for her own amusement, and plays a mean game of flip cup.

In THAT case, I'm totally your girl.

I sense a great disturbance in the force

I'm still babysitting and some neighbor children are downstairs with my cousins playing Legos or Atari or whatever it is the kids are playing these days, and I'm pretty sure I just heard the six-year-old (I think, I mean, I'm not sure but he's pretty little) singing, "It's getting hot in here . . . so take off all your clothes."

WOW.

Also, I have watched all three Star Wars movies (the old ones) today. And really, my biggest wish throughout all three (but mainly the first) was that someone would punch that whiny bitch Luke Skywalker square in the nuts.

Watch out, the yellow ones don't stop!

Is it close enough to Christmas that I can justify watching Elf and/or Love Actually every day? What's that? No, you say?

Well, then, can I have a reindeer?

I already feel like an idiot most of the time anyway. With or without a fireman's pole.

Hour Seven of Babysitting My Cousins AKA Project "Won't Somebody Think of the Children?!" and we've already watched:

• Cars
• Spongebob Squarepants: THE MOVIE
• Over the Hedge

and of the three, I'd have to say, Spongebob is the clear winner. As if there were ever any question. Parumph!*

Anyway. Both children have gone to bed so now I'm watching Bridget Jones's Diary for the [fill in unbelievably large number here]** time. I was watching the tail end of Pride & Prejudice as they got ready for bed and as Josh walked by, I believe his exact words were, "WHAT are you WATCHING?" I don't think I can accurately convey the amount of teenage disgust he managed to fit into that one question. But really, can you explain The Darcy to someone who is not afflicted? I think not. Especially not a thirteen-year-old boy.

*I don't know

**Seriously, though? I have seen this movie so many times that I can recite the dialogue along with it. You'd think I'd be ashamed of that, but I'm sharing it with you right now so I guess I'm not. Huh, who knew?

The Todd appreciates hot, regardless of gender.

I started this morning off with a fun-filled trip to the doctor. You really haven't lived until you've had your weight announced in earshot of the waiting room before you've even had your coffee, but oh here's the funny part, you've chosen this week to give up coffee because you don't want to make the reason you're at the doctor's office any worse than it already is. And judging by the killer headache you've had for the past four days, it was probably a good idea to give coffee up now before the addiction got any worse.

This was the first time I've gone to the doctor in . . . I don't know, a long time. Because I don't like to go to the doctor and I'm not one of those people who'll just go to the doctor every year for a "check up." Who does that? Who are you people? I don't understand you. I, like any normal (or whatever) person, don't go to the doctor unless I have something that I cannot cure with an ever-changing mix of denial, ibuprofen, and tequila. Also? At the doctor they make you pee in a cup. Something I hardly ever do at home. I peed on my hand a little. I know. I KNOW. I have no idea why I felt the need to share that with you, Internets, but there it is.

And now I bring you, a Conversation With My Doctor That, OK, Existed Primarily In My Own Head:

Dr: Hi, nice to meet you.
Me: You, too.
Dr: Is your blood pressure normally this high?
Me: Only when I'm in a doctor's office.
Dr: White coat syndrome, huh?
Me: Yeah, heh.
Dr: But otherwise it's normal?
My Head: Oh, god, she thinks I'm a freak and that I'm lying and that my blood pressure is normally 230 over eighty thousand.
Me: Yes, otherwise it's normal.
Dr: Good, good. Any blood in your urine?
My Head: Oh my god, why is she asking me that? We just met! Oh god, I have cancer and she doesn't want to tell me. Why is she dragging this out? Just tell me. "Jennie, you have cancer and have approximately six months to live." I'm going to die single, and alone, and childless, and worst of all, I haven't even become famous yet. Shit.
Me: Um, no.
Dr: Good, well your urinalysis showed that you're very well hydrated.
My Head: Awesome. My goal is to drink eight glasses of water a day. It's fun. Like a game.
Me: Great.
Dr: Are you sexually active?
My Head: What? Can we go back to talking about my urine?
Me: Um.
Dr: So, what do you do for fun?
My Head: Have imaginary conversations with my doctor? Write nonsense in my blog? Um. Drink?
Me: Oh, just . . . hang out with friends. And I like to read.
Dr: Oh, really? That's great!
My Head: Yes. Jennie read good.
Me: Yeah.
Dr: Read anything good lately?
My Head: Besides blogs?
Me: Well, right now I'm reading When We Were Orphans. It's pretty good so far.
Dr: Oh, let me write that down. I'm always looking for new stuff to read. So what's it about?
My Head: Is she testing my mental acuity or something?
Me: It's about this detective in London in the 30's. He's just becoming well-known. And his parents disappeared when he was young, so he's kind of looking into that.
Dr: Sounds great.
My Head: I am boring myself.
Me: It is. It's really good.
Dr: OK, well, everything looks good here, we'll let you know how the tests come back blah blah have a good day.
My Head: Shouldn't we have spent less time talking about books and more time talking about, I don't know, my urine?
Me: OK, great. Good talk.

It's OK, though. She gave me free drugs. When I was a kid, the only thing I got for going to the doctor was a sucker so, hey . . . bonus.

The strawberries taste like strawberries. The snozzberries taste like snozzberries.

So, it's like freakishly warm outside right now. What's up with that? We had our heat on and I got home from work and it felt like an oven (one where the knob isn't on upside-down) or a sauna or, like, I don't know . . . Iraq. You like that? Topical, right? WOW. Anyway.

Completely off-topic, but I think I need to exorcise the words "like" and "um" from my vocabulary. Once I get those out of the way, I can concentrate on the curse words.

Earlier today, I was really bored, so I started feeding different pictures of myself into that myheritage celebrity match-up thingie. What, are you judging me? What do you do when you're bored? Anyway, I need something to fill the time besides blogs, myspace, and craigslist. So, I uploaded a couple different pictures of myself and came up with some repeat offenders. They ranged from young or youngish (Famke Jensen, Elizabeth Hurley, Kate Beckinsale) to old (Mary Tyler Moore, Judy Garland . . . at least they used young pictures, I guess) to WTF (Katherine Heigl aka Batshit Crazy Izzy Who Killed Denny and Now We're Supposed to Like, Feel SORRY For Her from Grey's Anatomy, Audrey Tautou, and I'm gonna go ahead and throw Judy Garland in here because seriously? wtf).

Whatever, Internets! I don't care how much you butter me up, you're not getting any more of my money! Leave me alone, I hate you!

I'm sorry I yelled, Internets. I didn't really mean that. Let's never fight again.