Dude, what is the deal with Neil Patrick Harris? Why is he so horny?

Guys, I am so torn. Just like Natalie Imbruglia. Did I spell that right? No idea. And I'm too lazy to look it up so let's just pretend it's correct, OK? OK.

Anyway. The tornness is over NaNoWriMo. I can't decide whether or not to do it. My head says no but my heart says yes. Or my heart says no but my head says yes. I'm not sure. I haven't really talked to them that much about it so I'm not exactly sure what their positions are on the subject. I want to do it because then I can say to the world, "Hey, you! World! Over here! I wrote a novel in a month, what have you ever done? What's that? Evolution? Big deal, that took FOREVER and my novel only took a month!" On the other hand, I have tried to do NaNoWriMo the past two years and have failed spectacularly. And while I can try to blame it on outside sources (the abomination that was the 2004 election, death of a family member, that one time Mom freaked us all the hell out), really I know that the main cause of my failure is my inability to break up with TiVo. Seriously, though, could you? TiVo is perfect. And tonight, while my roommate and I pass out candy to the spoiled, little brats that live in our apartment complex and ride their bikes all over the parking lot and sit there and stare at you when you try to pull your car in and they are STANDING RIGHT IN THE WAY of your car but if you hit them, ooooooh, it's YOUR fault and YOU have to go to jail. Brats. Um, anyway. While we pass out candy and then make enough tortilla soup to last us until the new year, TiVo will record things we like. Like Dancing With the Stars, even though we both kind of lost interest but more importantly, House which has been off the air while some sort of sporting event was taking place. My point is, TiVo automatically records our most favoritest TV shows. Would a boyfriend do that? I don't know. Probably, but you'd have to ask and asking involves talking and possibly nagging which is a lot harder than pushing a button on the TiVo remote.

What, did you go to a special bitch academy or something?

My roommate does not understand why I had a mild freakout (the good kind) in Target on Friday when I saw that Center Stage was on sale for $5.50. Oh, but she will, don't you worry. She has not yet experienced the power of THE DANCE but I'm sure once she does she will wonder how she had been living such an empty, Center Stage-less life.

We were in Target because neither of us had yet settled on a Halloween costume. And a Target, a Halloween Express, a Walmart, another Target, and a Meijer later? We had settled on costumes, oh yes, but she ended up wearing a costume one of her coworkers gave her, and I ended up borrowing her devil costume. Original, I know, but kids? This is why we don't procrastinate, ok? And if I have to make that mistake over and over again just so you no longer procrastinate, then that is something I'm prepared to do. I was not A devil, though. I was THE devil. Satan . . . herself. Satanita? Lucifran? No? OK, good talk.

I don't know if I ever said WHY I needed a costume. I mean, it's not like I was going to dress up and then sit at home with Phoebe watching scary moves, because we only do that on special occasions. A friend of my roommate had rented a party bus that takes you to a bunch of different bars. The party bus was an old school bus and all of the seats had been placed along the sides like a limo. CLASSY. It was fun, though, but it's hard to drink on a school bus without spilling it all over yourself. Also, I bent my pitchfork somehow. I'm a little upset.

So, I just got back from Kroger, where I spent about an hour mindlessly walking the aisles (like a ZOMBIE), looking for ingredients to make the tortilla soup from Max & Erma's. Have you ever had that soup? That soup is what heaven must taste like. Seriously, if you've never had it I feel sorry for you. Go have it right now. I'll wait.

Anyway, when I got home and looked in the mirror, I could not believe I went out in public looking the way I did. You know, windswept (not in a good way) hair, sweatpants, and no makeup other than some smeary eyeliner from the night before. HOT. Oh, and there was also the open-mouth-vacant-Zombie look on my face, too. Because of the sleepy, you see, because of last night. Things escalated quickly. I blame the costume. And the tequila.

Conversations with my Roommate: Halloween Edition

I'm going to admit right now that pieces of this conversation may be wildly inaccurate. Sue me. No don't, I'm poor.

Me: Wanna hear something weird?
Heidi: Yes.
Me: I have one more day to come up with a Halloween costume and I still don't really know what I'm going to be.
Heidi: Oh my god, me neither.
Me: Last year at this time I had everything ready.
Heidi: Me too.
Me: How did we let this happen?
Heidi: We procrastinated.
Me: We should know better.
Heidi: We should.
Me: Especially about important stuff such as Halloween.
Heidi: Last year this girl I work with and her boyfriend went as toilet paper and poop.
Me: Um.
Heidi: I know.
Me: That is disgusting.
Heidi: I know!
Me: Although, it sounds like something we would come up with.
Heidi: Ha, that's what I said.
Me: But we'd never actually go through with it.
Heidi: No.
Me: And I think that says a lot.

I'll break right now to explain something, so the following conversation makes sense. My roommate's birthday and my birthday are only two days apart, and last year our friend Stiffie (nickname, duh) got us two of the most hilariously awesome pictures ever created in the history of the world and also other worlds that have not been invented yet. Basically, she took our heads and photoshopped them onto other people's bodies. Heidi's head was put on a cartoon Marilyn Monroe, so you can tell it's fake, but mine was put onto some lady wearing a Renaissance dress and hat and she's posing in a forest with a unicorn behind her. It looks real and confuses people when they see it for the first time because they've never seen my pet unicorn (Uni) before, because he's shy. ANYWAY.

Me: Heidi.
Heidi: Yes?
Me: Come here and check out this picture again, you could TOTALLY be Marilyn Monroe for Halloween.
Heidi: Yessssssss. That means you have to be the maiden lady.
Me: But I don't have a unicorn.
Heidi: Oh, right. When my mom saw that picture, she was like, "What is Jennie doing in that dress?"
Me: Oh, you know, sometimes I like to dress up like Maid Marian for fun.
Heidi: And take your pet unicorn for a walk.
Me: That really does look like it's me in that picture.
Heidi: Yeah, except you kind of have man hands.
Me: I do not!
Heidi: OK, fine, but whoever's body that is? They have man hands.
Me: Do you think a man posed in that dress?
Heidi: I hope not.

This probably makes no sense but there's no way in hell I'm posting that picture. Not because I'm embarrassed, but because it would take a lot of effort and, hello, have we met? My name is Jennie and I'm lazy. Nice to meet you, can you bring me a soda?

For real, though, neither of us has a Halloween costume yet. We need them by tomorrow. Time is running out! For real. Like I said. I thought about being Debbie Downer because how easy is that? But then in my head I was all, "No one is going to know who you are . . . they'll just think you're some girl wearing a brown shirt and no costume on Halloween of all days and then they'll think you're a party pooper and then they'll sing the 'every party has a pooper, that's why we invited you,' song and you'll cry and then you really WILL be Debbie Downer so maybe you should just be the Spelling Bee. No, seriously, you should because even if people don't get it, you can just say you're the Bee Girl from that Blind Melon video and what ever happened to her? Ok, not important. So the Spelling Bee it is, then. But that's a lot of work and maybe you don't have time. Maybe you should just forget about Halloween and stay in like a loser and cry just like Debbie Downer would. Except she doesn't really cry, she's just all wah wah waaah all the time . . . oh my god, just buy a witch hat and be done with it."

Seriously. That is what it sounds like in my head ALL. DAY. LONG. And yes, it is as exhausting as you'd think.

Hoagies and grinders, hoagies and grinders, navy beans, navy beans, meatloaf sandwich, SLOPPY JOES SLOP SLOPPY JOES

You may have noticed a new picture over on the sidebar. It's about stopping Voldemort, which is important even if you think he's a political figure and not the most evil wizard to have ever wizarded like one of my friends did and no I won't tell you who because I fear not knowing who Voldemort is opens you to ridicule and while I'm all about ridiculing people, I feel that if you haven't yet experienced The Potter you should be PITIED, not ridiculed. Where was I? Oh, yes.

So, Heather Anne has created a super, fun contest that involves voting and seeing as how Election Day is right about the corner, I feel everyone should go practice.

SPEAKING of voting, I can't believe I haven't mentioned it before now but I. Am. Excited. Which, you may find strange given my track record with voting the past couple of years. Actually, instead of dreading this November because of the suckitude of the past two Novembers, I am trying to be optimistic. And I don't know if you remember how much Novembers '04 and '05 blew, but they did and they do still, actually, so the whole thinking positive thing takes a lot of effort. You know that episode of Friends where Chandler's New Years Resolution is to not make fun of his friends? And Phoebe wanted to fly a plane and Joey was learning the guitar and Ross wore the leather pants with the lotion and the powder and he was also dating a character from Fraggle Rock? And Chandler's head almost exploded from all the ridiculing he wasn't allowed to do? It's like that. Also, if I wasn't allowed to make fun of people I believe I would have the exact same reaction, which is why I am giving myself free reign in the ridiculing department until November is over (or possibly forever).

Whatever, dude, you kissed a guy

Would you guys believe that I sometimes forget how old I am? No? Well, I don't care, because I do so sometimes forget how old I am. Or I'll see in a magazine that someone is 24 and think, "fuck, that is OLD" and then I remember that OH, that's how old I am and also . . . 24 is not old.

I don't know where I'm going with this, other than to let you know that, while I did not throw myself off of a bridge (or a building or even a really steep stoop), I am starting to think I'm borderline retarded. Seriously. Who forgets how old they are? Have you ever had to stop and think, "Oh my god, that lady just asked how old I am. Well, that's kind of rude, but seriously how old am I? 21? No, that was a long time ago. Let's see, I was born in 1982 . . . carry the one . . . oh, right, I'm 24, which is almost 25, which, as Jessica Simpson and everyone knows, is almost midtwenties. Oh, Jessica, thank you for being so stupid. Also, thank you for keeping your skanky vagina away from John Mayer. Where was I? Oh, shit, that lady is giving me a weird look because she probably thinks I don't know how old I am which OK I DON'T but she doesn't need to know that."

Anyway, so tonight I had to go to Kroger to buy some feminine products (which would explain this post and also why a patient's mother almost made me cry today because she was MEAN AND YELLED AT ME AND IT WASN'T MY FAULT . . . bitch), and on the way I called my mom to see if she had my medical records. And I could explain why I need my medical records, but trust me, it is not exciting and if I told you, you'd thank me for making this long story short for once. Or you wouldn't thank me, because if you knew WHY you'd thank me it would be because I told you the whole story and if you heard the whole story you would be all "go away, Jennie, I DO NOT thank you." And there goes that tangent. Also? To go off on another totally unrelated tangent? OK, so I went to Kroger to buy feminine products, right? Guys, turn away. Seriously. You do not need to hear this. This is knowledge you have no use for. Anyway, so I bought the right kind of tampons, but the pads that I bought do not have wings. NO WINGS. Who the hell makes pads without wings? That is the stupid, goddamn thing I have ever heard of and I blame Always, OK? Not me, who didn't look closely enough at the package because I got tired of standing in the feminine hygiene aisle. Seriously, they already separate the tampons from the pads; can they not separate the pads with wings from the abominations that are pads without wings? Also, can we start calling pads something else entirely? Like . . . I don't know . . . fluffies? OK, that's worse, but that's the first thing I thought of. You come up with something better and that is what we shall call them. Just make sure they still have wings. OH MY GOD, Jennie, stop talking.

ANYWAY (that is the biggest anyway in the world), my mom did not find my medical records, which means I get to track the particular piece of information I need down tomorrow. She did, however, find all sorts of other relics from my childhood, such as my old grades (ah, how smart I used to be), my National Honor Society membership card (nerd!), a Science award (NERD!), some poems I wrote in High School (I bet they are full of woe and longing), a cheerleading itinerary (bet you didn't see that coming), and a newspaper clipping I had completely forgotten about. Or wiped from my memory in embarrassment.

I used to work in a library. And one night, a nice man with a camera came into our breakroom and asked if he could ask us a question. I was facing the opposite direction, reading, and assumed he was talking to the other people in the room who were actually paying attention to him. Until he asked the question, which was, "What would you do if aliens landed on planet Earth," and my smartass mind could not freaking RESIST answering that one. And while I don't remember my exact words, I believe they were along the lines of, "I would ask if they would take me home with them and make me their pet."

That's when he asked if he could take my picture. "Unorthodox," I thought, but agreed, smiling like the fool I was (am). That's when he told me he was from the paper. And that my picture and quote might appear in said paper at a later date. Realizing what part of the paper he was talking about, I knew that only six pictures ever appeared and I hoped against hope that my picture and quote were not chosen.

Which was why, a few days later, I was very, very disappointed to have my black and white picture and stupid, stupid words shoved in my face by my parents, my coworkers, my boss, and, oh, my Calculus teacher.

Thanks, Mom. Good times.

prone to occasional fits of despair

There are days I want to stay in bed. Days like today, when my room is so cold that it bites the minute I release one limb from the warm cocoon I've created under the comforter, days when even the two layers of clothing and fuzzy socks can't warm me. Days when I can't even look forward to coffee. Those are stay-in-bed days if I ever heard them.

But I get out of bed, because no one hears my cries of, "I don't feel good . . . I want to stay home from school," except Phoebe, but she doesn't even know where the thermometer is so I can fake a fever.

Instead, I stumble to the shower, zoning under the steaming water until I come to and realize I've just conditioned my hair twice and I can't remember whether or not I washed my face. So, I get ready with heavy hair and heart, taking care to fix the happy mask in place so no one knows I'd rather be at home, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, and all I can do is hope I won't need the mask tomorrow.

Prost!

I'm not sure a place that sells liters of beer should be stamping "Drink Responsibly" on everyone's hand when they enter the establishment, but I'm not complaining. It's not every restaurant that will allow, no, ENCOURAGE dancing on the benches and singing, no, SHOUTING "Ring of Fire."

Help me, Internets, you're my only hope

So, because I am incapable of making decisions for myself, especially important decisions like what to be for Halloween, I am leaving it up to you, The Internets, to decide for me. Please help me. Please? If you help me, I promise to post a picture of myself in said Halloween costume. Of course, I could be lying like I tend to do for no reason whatsoever, but still . . . maybe this time I'M NOT. Anyway. Here are your choices, in no particular order:

A spelling bee: I will dress as a bee and tape letters to myself, even though, according to Beau, no mens will hit on a girl in this costume. WHAT. EVER.

God's Gift to Men (thanks, Heather!): Probably the easiest of the costumes, but I'm not sure I have the confidence to pull this off. Although, I will be imbibing alcohol (aka liquid confidence) while wearing the costume, so who knows.

Pam Beesley: For obvious reasons, as I am obsessed with the show, I would love to dress as Pam. However, unless my hair grows six inches in the next week, I will have to wear a wig and homey don't play that.

A Lost castaway: Because it is easy and I'm lazy.

Monica Gellar: I think it's a couple years outdated, to be honest, but it's easy. And like I said, I'm lazy.

Karen from Will and Grace: Again, it's a couple years outdated, but it fits with my hair and also I'd get to carry around a martini glass all night and be mean to people.

Lucille Bluth: COME ON. She is only the coolest TV character, EVER, and also, like Karen, I'd get to carry around a martini glass all night and be mean to people. I'm just not sure anyone would know who I was.

Your Suggestion: Seriously, bring it.

That's all I got. I think. So, I leave it to you, dear Internets, to tell me what to do. And if you all vote for different things I will be forced to hunt you down and axe murder you. Happy Halloween!

if you have ever thought, "books or food? hmm . . . definitely books," then I do believe we are soulmates

I have three unread library books (due in a week), at least eight unread books from numerous unsuccessful attempts to keep myself out of the bookstore, and yet THIS is what I chose to read tonight. For the third time.

I don't care if you're judging me right now. I like it.

PS: (again with the PSing) . . . I think I have decided on my Halloween costume. I'm going to be a Spelling Bee and dress like a bee and tape Scrabble letters to myself. Although, I do like Heather's "God's Gift to Men" idea, and it sounds a hell of a lot easier. Hmm.

PPS: I almost forgot Lost was on tonight. FOR SHAME.

I don’t understand. We have a day honoring Martin Luther King, but he didn’t even work here.

Because I have a habit of leaving our regular-sized travel coffee cups either at work or in my car, today the only ones left in the cabinet were the giant ones that hold like four cups of coffee. So that's what I have today. It wouldn't even fit in my cupholder in the car, so I had to balance it precariously on one leg while I drove one-handed. It really is a miracle that at this very moment I am not covered with delicious, hot coffee.

I was going to take a picture of my monstrosity of a coffee cup (because that's exciting for everyone, right?) with my phone, but apparently Verizon charges $5 to send pictures. WHO. KNEW. I didn't. I mean, I should have, because Verizon is a giant, evil corporation and they charge for everything, even breathing. It's true. Because I said so.

You know what's weird and crazy and insane? When you get up early (because, say, you have to check your oil even though it's early and cold and raining and you had to park far away from your apartment because apparently everyone in your complex can drive and has their own car, even the baby down the way), you actually have time to a) shower, b) get dressed, c) dry your hair and put your makeup on, d) eat breakfast, e) watch a couple minutes of Saved by the Bell, and f) get to work on time. I may have to rethink my current system of hitting snooze five times before I drag myself out of bed and have to get ready in 20 minutes. Which is not possible without leaving out something important, like showering or feeding Phoebe. And I do not want to anger The Kitty, for fear that she will start peeing on my stuff again.

PS: I need a Halloween costume. I can't think of anything, really, besides Dora the Explorer and to quote Whitney Houston, "HELL to the NO."

You can't say you're breezy, that totally negates the breezy.

This morning when I woke up I didn't want to get out of bed. This is not unusual for, um, any day. But today it was because it was approximately four degrees in my room. So then I ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower to an almost unbearably hot temperature but THEN I didn't want to get out of the shower. Because I remembered the cold, you see, and I wanted to avoid it. Unfortunately, I have not yet figured out a way to get dressed while still standing under a steaming stream of water. Sigh. My life has such problems, no?

So, for about the past two weeks, I've been driving my mom's car while my own car had a complete frontal lobotomy. Not by Dr. McDreamy, unfortunately, although he's been kind of a douche lately so maybe that's a good thing. Anyway, I got my car back last night and my dad informed me that I may want to clean out my trunk, because he'd thrown a bunch of stuff from the backseat in there. Now, OK, I'll admit that I am somewhat of a packrat and my stuff has a habit of piling up everywhere, including my car. As of right this very minute these are the things in my backseat: an umbrella (that only seems to be in my car on very sunny days), a cup from our kitchen, an ice scraper, OK, two ice scrapers, and a People magazine (that I used as an umbrella because I can never find an actual umbrella when it's raining . . . it's OK, though, because this issue of People had Jessica Simpson on the cover and she deserves to be rained on). I can't remember exactly what my dad must have removed from the backseat, but if I DO remember correctly, my trunk is now home to a pair of tennis shoes, an ice scraper (yes another one), my front license plate holder, a sheet, a flashlight, a jacket, a letter I've been meaning to send my friend in Africa, and four rolls of wrapping paper. My dad asked why I had tennis shoes in my car (really, Dad, out of all that, you wonder about the tennis shoes? Really?) and was incredulous when I told him there may be a time when I might desperately need them. Like, say, I'm somewhere in the snow and my car breaks down and I'm only wearing flip flops and for some reason I don't have my cell phone but LUCKILY I have a pair of tennis shoes AND a jacket to wear on my long hike to get help. My mom asked why I might be wearing flip flops when it is clearly snowing outside and I explained that HELLO, I'm not very smart sometimes and really, she should know that by now.

dance your cares away

I don't know how it happened, but I have had the Fraggle Rock theme song stuck in my head ALL. DAMN. DAY.

are you ready for some football?

Go, team(s), go!

Yes, I am a tool, but at least I'm aware of it.

if you try singing that bad day song to me I will kick you in the balls or ballular area

Today was such a shitty day at work, and I do mean for everyone, that our office manager left the office for a little while and came back with a variety of six packs for us all to take home. Since we're not allowed to drink at work, you see.

I got the Blue Moon. I even stopped by the grocery on the way home to pick up an orange. I also bought some milk and cookies to take to work for everyone tomorrow, because I wanted to pay it forward and avoid becoming karma's bitch. I'm not sure that cookies outshine alcohol, but they are damn good cookies and anyway, there are few simple pleasures in life as comforting as a glass of milk and some cookies.

I knew it

The office I work for has two locations, and the one we share with another dentist we only go to on Mondays. It's their office, really, we just rent the space from time to time. Every Monday I go to the back room to pick out a movie to play, because I am the only one in the office who can see the TV and sometimes a girl just really wants to watch Annie, you know? OK, I'll admit that I play Annie every time we're in that office and I'm not ashamed. At all.

Anyway, so every time I go back to the "media" area, I get pissed off because not only do they not rewind the movies (something that was repeatedly driven into my head as a child, to the point that an unrewound movie will sometimes send me into a blind rage and I wake up in a pool of blood surrounded by an impressive array of body parts), but most of the time they don't even put the movies back in their cases. So, every Monday I go in there and there are movies and cases and DVDs thrown about all haphazardly. And every Monday, I stand there and reorganize all of them because I just. Can't. Help myself. I can usually stop myself from putting them in alphabetical order, but I have to at least separate the DVDs from the VHS.

Today, one of my coworkers wandered over as I was reorganizing everything and muttering to myself and she asked what I was doing. So I said to her, "Every Monday I come back here and every Monday it's a giant mess, so EVERY MONDAY I have to stand here and clean it up." She laughed and said I was probably fighting a losing battle and then continued to say, "isn't there some saying about how insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?"

Why, yes. Yes, there is. And thank you for clearing up that mystery for me.

that's what she said . . . or HE said

Not-even-borderline inappropriate things I said this weekend:

Yeah, she had to go home so she could make love to her dog.

Do you want to touch her where she pees?

I'm going to stop there. This really explains why my cousins aren't allowed to read my blog. I'm a bad influence. I should really put a parental advisory on here. But at least I'm not the only inappropriate one:

Me: I'm brushing my teeth so I don't eat anything else tonight.
Heidi: Good plan.
Me: I know.
Heidi: I was getting ready this morning as I was brushing my teeth, cause I was running late . . .
Me: Sure.
Heidi: And I drooled a little toothpaste and now it looks like someone splooged on my carpet.
Me: Nice.

Me: I like Jackass. It brings out the 14-year-old boy in me.
Mary: You have a 14-year-old boy inside you?
Me: Um.

Heidi: This is harder than I thought it would be.
Everyone: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.

I'm just going to go ahead and apologize to my parents. They did not raise me this way, I promise.

If any of you got a call from Dwight K. (aka "Fart," aka, "Danger") Shrute . . .

Yes, it was me.

And if any of you WANT a call from Dwight, you have to give me your phone number. Or, you know, go here and do it yourself. Lazy.

That is all.

I know that patience and loyalty are good and virtuous traits. But sometimes I just think you need to grow a pair.

My friends and I have recently decided that TV is our football. And if guys can cancel all their plans on Sunday to sit around and watch football all day long, then we can have a night or two (or three) where we are unreachable because our favorite shows are on.

I see that look on your face and you can just wipe it off right now. We care just as much about our teams (The Office, Grey's Anatomy, etc.) as you do about yours (um . . . ).

In our apartment, the big TV football night is Thursday. Don't ask me to do anything on Thursday. I am unavailable. My boss needs to learn this so I no longer have to work late on Thursdays.

This morning, we've been playing a rousing TV version of the game "Marry, Do or Die" through e-mail. It's like our fantasy football, really. I give all the credit to Heidi on this one. Basically, you say three TV characters and you pick one to marry, one to do, and one to die. Seriously, it's fun. So far, we have come up with the following:

McVet, McDreamy, McSteamy
Dwight, Michael, Roy
Nigel Barker, Mister J, Miss J
O'Malley, Alex Karev, Dr. Burke
Jack, Sayid, Sawyer
Mr. Big, Aidan, Steve
Chandler, Joey, Ross
Aidan, Ross, Jim Halpert

As you can see, originally we tried to stick with three characters from all the same shows, but then we gave up. And if you don't know who some of those people are, then I think you should really consider watching more TV.

Anyway, my answers were:

Marry McDreamy, Do McSteamy, Kill McVet (Chris O'Donnell played Robin and that is so very gay)
Marry Roy, Do Michael, Kill Dwight (sorry, Dwight)
Marry Nigel Barker, Do Mister J, Kill Miss J (yes, Miss J is a man . . . I think)
Marry Dr. Burke, Do O'Malley, Kill Alex Karev (Dr. Burke can cook, fools)
Marry Sayid, Do Sawyer, Kill Jack (I've been told he cries too much)
Marry Steve, Do Big, Kill Aidan (too granola)
Marry Chandler, Do Joey, Kill Ross (Ross is too whiny)
Marry Jim Halpert, Do Jim Halpert, Kill Aidan and Ross (I cheated, yes, and I don't care)

I couldn't believe it when Heidi killed Burke and Steph killed Chandler. And they both killed Steve! Seriously?

Anyway, yeah. So, that's what I've been doing today. How is everyone else's day going? Anyone want to play? I promise not to berate you for killing Dr. Burke (if you must) like I did Heidi.

although I do agree with that thing about karen*

Look, I don't care what anyone tells me, I don't care how many times SNL tries to shove him down my throat, I don't care how many obviously-going-to-be-shit-on-a-shit-sandwich movies he stars in with Jessica Simpson . . . I just don't think Dane Cook is funny. No, I will not listen to you recite one of his monologues. Please, kindly shut up and go away. And Dane Cook? You shut up the most. You can still stand there not talking, though, because I think you're kind of hot.

*not you, Aunt Karen

If thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them.

Did you know that you can get married at the Ohio Renaissance Festival? Of all the useless pieces of information now taking up residence in my brain, this one is my favorite. Did you check out that link yet? Do it. Please. It is so worth it, especially for the picture of the happy couple at the bottom of the page.

For a mere $4000, here is what you get:

• a bridal bouquet (beautiful)
• up to 6 garland headpieces (any additional bridesmaids and you have to make your own)
• Procession with Festival Musicians from Front Gate to Chapel (Oh my god, are you picturing skipping minstrels wearing tights and feathers in their caps? No? WHY NOT?!)
• a private reception area (because you really want to limit the number of people who witness this matrimonial abortion)
• 50 Festival tickets worth $16.99 each and 50 food coupon books worth $10.00 each (think how many turkey legs that would buy!)
• Two hand-blown glass goblets or Festival souvenir clay mugs (go for the mugs, they're sturdier and you can use them more often)
• a bottle of champagne (maybe you should have gotten the glass goblets)
• Handcrafted calligraphy marriage certificate and plaque for chapel (nice)
• Special seating at the tournament joust with Queen Elizabeth (WOW . . . I just . . . I have no words left)
• Decorating package for reception area with punch (hopefully, for the sake of your guests, the punch is spiked)

I've never actually been to the Ohio Renaissance Fair but I'm totally kicking myself for not buying a season ticket, if only so I could witness one of these weddings first hand. Although, it'd probably be cheaper to just apply for a job there. I could totally be a saucy beer wench. I wonder if you get to keep the outfit because I don't have a Halloween costume yet.

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

Today I wore my WWEBD shirt to work. I'm wearing a jacket over it, but my coworkers are coming dangerously close to realizing just how weird I am.

I can't believe I didn't mention this before now, but Lost started yesterday. Lost. I will admit that, in the past, I have been a tad obsessive about this show but I'm trying to stop. Last night's show did a good job of cooling that fire, because after the awesome WTF moment in the very beginning, the rest of the episode was kind of slow. Although, putting Sawyer in a giant, Skinner box was brilliant. And I don't know why, but the whole "fish biscuit" thing cracked me up.

OK, so this morning as I was getting ready for work, I was watching The Daily Buzz on the WB. Or the CW. Whatever the hell it's called now. Anyway, guess who was a guest host . . . Jase from Big Brother. I know. I KNOW. I'm usually pretty confused in the morning when I'm getting ready, but today I thought I was hallucinating. Or still asleep and dreaming. But no. Jase was there, on my TV, and not wearing a mandana or fixing his hair while doing Blue Steel. And SPEAKING of his hair, it wasn't nearly as spiky as it used to be. Someone must have finally told him how ridiculous he looked. I was actually kind of ashamed of myself that I recognized a reality contestant on a little known morning show within five seconds, although if it had been Dr. Will guest hosting? I'd still be at home watching.

so scared of getting older, I'm only good at being young

In order for me to consider myself an responsible (key word) adult, the following things need to happen:

1. I need to stop calling Phoebe things like slut, whore, slutbag whore, bitch, and skank.
2. I need to stop eating Esther Price candy and calling it breakfast because, although it IS delicious (no, seriously, DELICIOUS), it is not exactly healthy.
3. I need to stop quoting The Office. Because randomly shouting "DOWNSIZING?" confuses people. Unless their names are Three-Hole-Punch Steve and Dwight K. Shrute.
4. I need to say "I Do" to something other than "would you like another shot of tequila?"
5. I need to pass a small child directly out of my vajayjay*.

So, yeah. I think I've got a while.

*I need to stop writing entries in my blog just so I can say "vajayjay" and giggle like a 12-year-old.

WOW

Oh, man. What an asshole.

courtesy of 50 Books

The question isn't "what are we going to do," the question is "what aren't we going to do?"

It's Monday again. How did that happen? I could have used another day to the weekend, I'm just saying.

I spent yesterday a fairly useless blob on the sofa and this was a result of how I spent my Saturday. You know, I don't know what possessed any of us to start drinking at 2 o'clock in the afternoon on mostly empty stomachs. I don't know about anyone else, but I had toast Saturday morning and then nothing until dinner. And Heidi had M&M's and a banana. Hey, we never claimed to be geniuses. Well, I have, but I was (mostly) kidding.

The plan was to go to Oktoberfest after a couple of hours, but when my parents called and told me it was raining there, we decided to meet them for dinner instead of downtown. This was when I had the following conversation with my mother, a . . . Conversation With My Mother*, if you will.

Mom: Don't come to Oktoberfest.
Me: Why not?
Mom: It's raining.
Me: Oh no! But it's not raining here.
Mom: Well, it's pouring here and we're stuck under one of the tents til it stops.
Me: Oh. So we shouldn't come down there then?
Mom: Um. No, I wouldn't really recommend it.
Me: Is it like sprinkling raining or raining raining.
Mom: Jennie. It is pouring.
Me: Oh. What if we wait a little while?
Mom: Well, that's really your call.
Me: Is it still raining there?
Mom: YES.
Me: Ok. Do you know how long it will last?
Mom: Jennie, do I look like a meteorologist?
Me: No, not really.
Mom: Ok, then.
Me: Is it still raining there?
Mom: JENNIFER LYNN.
Me: What?
Mom: Yes, it's still raining. I do not know how long it'll last.
Me: Well, is anyone in the tent with you a meteorologist?
Mom: Talk to your father.
Me: Hi, Dad!
Dad: Hello, daughter.
Me: Is it still raining there?
Heidi: Seriously, Jennie, hang up the phone.

Yeah. I didn't get much better as the night went on, and I seemed to be suffering from some sort of emotional disorder that caused me to run the gamut of emotions all night. I'm happy! I'm sad. I'm delusional! I'm ANGRY! I'm happy! I can't stop giggling! Wait, I'm angry again! Oh, look, a cat toy, now I'm happy! I don't know. I can't explain it. Apparently I left Mary a voicemail that was just, "Mary. I'm not even gonna say it but you know I'm upset. Siiiiiiiiigh. I'm sad. [long pause] Siiiiiiiiigh, OK, bye!"

Again. I don't know. If I could explain it, maybe I'd stop doing it. Probably not, though. See earlier post.

*Someone asked on Saturday whether Conversations With My Roommate are real or if I make them up. They are VERY real. They're not always verbatim, but they are as close as I can come to verbatim short of carrying a tape recorder around with me which, yes, would be funny, but I don't think I want that kind of evidence lying around. Also, I can't make Conversations With My Roommate up because, well, my roommate reads this so I'd totally get caught.

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." -Benjamin Franklin

Hmm.