The Culinary Implications of Fake Bacon

Today I was craving a BLT, only there's one problem with that...I don't eat bacon. And you can't really have a BLT and NOT have the bacon...Right? So, I decided to take a stab at using fake bacon. That's right, fake bacon. I was a little scared at first when I opened up the package and there were a half dozen pieces of what looked to be marbelized playdough in a freezer pack. "Is this what I paid $5.00 for?"

I was clearly visually disappointed in my fake bacon, but I decided to not let it's first impression influence me. So, I smelled it, and it actually smelled like bacon. So, I put three pieces on a plate and read the microwave directions, mostly out of fear that if I were to use my All Clad skillet I would spend the next hour and a half scraping a charred artificial mess out of my $100 pan.

The part that confused me was "microwave until crispy." Crispy? So, I forced myself to touch it. Yep, it's definitely NOT crispy and my playdough analogy was proving itself more and more as time went on.

I threw the plate into the nuke and set the timer for two minutes. And then I watched it, half expecting to witness my fake bacon spontaneously combust right in front of my very eyes.

It took two minutes to go from fresh playdough to the kind of playdough that has been left out, uncovered in the sun for two days. At least that's how it felt. Now was time for the ultimate test...I was going to put it in my mouth. (I know terrifying, isn't it?)

I broke off a piece and tasted it. It took about seven seconds for it to completely disintigrate in my mouth. I didn't even have to chew and watched as Josh gazed on with a look of sheer terror. I didn't know what to think, I mean it's literally been years since I've eaten bacon, but I was pretty sure that this wasn't even close. It was more like a carbon-like form of bacon bits, and I'm sure you can imagine how good that was.

Regardless, I was still craving a BLT so I took the two pieces of fake bacon, and sandwiched them between two pieces of honey wheat bread, mayo, a slice of Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and fresh avocado slices and made a sandwich that would have left any seasoned sandwich connoisseur in awe, and my guess was right! It wasn't nearly as bad in the sandwich as it was on its own.

However, it's only been about 30 minutes since I ate it, and adverse food reactions take at least five hours to take effect. I'll be sure to keep you posted.

(Lucky for you, you've been spared the Fake Bacon Photos...blogger's photo download must be broken for the time being...Consider yourself fortunate.)

UPDATE!
(AHA! Blogger's "Upload Images" is back up and running...too bad for you.)

Back in the Saddle.

When I packed my bags last week to leave Puerto Vallarta, my glorious tan decided to go along for the ride. Then, upon returning from home it realized that it didn’t like Minneapolis and began leaving in sheets large enough to cover a small child. What’s up with that? The one thing I have to distinguish myself from my fellow pasty Minnesotans now lies scattered about various rooms in my home awaiting to be swept up and discarded like the airline ticket stub that brought me there in the first place.

All right, so I have good news and I have bad news about the trip, which one do you want to read first? Well, if you’re anything like me, you’d want the bad news, so here goes.

The second the airplane landed and I stepped down the stairs onto the tarmac, I started to come down with a sore throat which got progressively worse as the days wore on. When day three arrived I couldn’t take it anymore so I made a trip to the resort Doctor who quickly diagnosed me with Strep throat. That’s right…STREP THROAT! Therefore, this year’s vacation was spent replacing Pina Coladas with Amoxcicilian, run of the mill Tom foolery with Halls, and snorkeling for a beach chair, box of Kleenex and a blanket. But looking back it really wasn’t THAT bad, I was able to relax on the beach and despite the Doctors orders, I managed to sneak in a few (or ten) Banana Mamas here and there.

Also, I forgot my kick-ass Superbowl XL pin that I planned on bringing along to document the trip with. I realized this when I got to the airport and wanted to pin it on a friend I ran in to, a friend that I affectionately call “Pissin Jim.” Long story.

Anyway, the GOOD news is I managed to make the turn into Thirtysomething while I was there. Most of you are probably asking yourself, why this is good. Well, it’s better than the alternative, so 30 it is.

Also, we managed to have a great time sailing, boogie boarding, and just hanging out. We were even able to get into a little trouble when our male counterparts decided to recruit the rest of the males in the “warm tub” to our version of the Mexican Olympics where they were scored on their creative plunges off the bridge above the swimming pool into about 5 feet of water. There was definitely alcohol involved and even a casualty when one of our own chipped their tooth on what was to become known as “The Triple Spin of Death.”

Waiting in line at the airport to come home it soon became know that our flight was to be delayed at least two hours because of a Fed Ex plane that skidded off the runway back in Minneapolis due to the snowstorm we were currently having. So, we all checked our bags and decided to head over the bridge, across the highway to this area that appeared to be a cross between a Mexican ghetto and …well, a Mexican ghetto. We were quickly summoned into a restaurant by a man promising great food and drinks. And to be honest with you, it was the best food I had all week. Upon learning it was my birthday they came out with sombreros and shots of tequila, which were done by everyone at the table in some sort of sick Mexican drinking game manner. The manager would come over with a sombrero, place it on your head while the bartender poured the shot down your throat, then they would all yell something while the manager took your head into his blanket and shook it around like a box of marbles all while tilting your chair back and setting it back in place. It was crazy, and I got to do it twice…because it was my birthday.

Happy Birthday to me...and Danika!

Random Thoughts

A few days ago I saw a blind guy walking down the street smoking a cigarette. I immediately thought, "Wait! How is he supposed to read the Surgeon Generals Warning on the side of the box if he can't SEE?" Then I realized that he still has ears, but STILL I think I'm going to write Phillip Morris.

We leave for Puerto Vallarta in TWO DAYS, and I've been on a frantic search for a couple skirts to wear over my swimsuits for events such as going to the bar, playing beach volleyball, going to the bar, eating lunch, going to the bar...etc...and until yesterday I was having NO luck at all. I'd been to Nordstrom, Bloomingdales,Macy's, Marshall Fields, Target, Saks, JCREW, Banana Republic, The Limited, Anthropologie, and I found NOTHING. I decided I was going to try TJ Maxx, wait, actually, I had to talk myself into going there. You see, I'm not much of a clothes scavenger which I believe is what you have to be to go there and shop. I don't have the patience, nor the attention span to sort through the rows of racks to find something that I may actually consider wearing. So, when I dragged myself out of the car to go in I gave myself 20 minutes to scan the store in hopes of hitting the jackpot. No luck. I walked in the door and immediately saw a woman with a cart full of fluorescent. Her hair was backcombed in a way that made her look like she just walked through a wind tunnel and she was holding up a gold shirt with little round shiny dots stitched all around it like the friggin ball in Times Square on New Years Eve. I took one look at her, turned around and walked out the door. That was my 30 second stay at TJ Maxx.

The next day I found myself in the mall, staring at the outside of Hollister. For those of you who have never been there, it's kind of like Abercrombie & Fitch. It reaks of 18-year old male hormone and the music is loud enough to be heard across the street. Of the mall. So, I walked by, turned around, and walked by again. I did this two more times until I stopped in front of the door, held my breath and charged in. I was immediately greeted by a boy, not a day over 15 years old, I smiled and still holding my breath I walked to the back of the store where I saw a few skirts. Much to my chagrin, I was pleasantly surprised, it is there I found my skirt. Both white, blueish grey and brown. I looked the brown one over and I immediately heard, in the back of my mind, the lady at JCREW say in an overly-excited voice"....But BROWN is the NEW BLACK!" I set the brown one down and settled on the white one. I couldn't bring myself to get the brown one simply because of that annoying lady at JCREW. Needless to say, I'm over it and will be back today to get the brown one.

So, I think I'm ready. I have all the cute and charming outfits I need to spend five days drunk on the beach in Mexico...Ahhhh....Vacations.

My life is a mess...

My life is a freaking mess. I realized this after actually looking at my desk while working yesterday. You see, I office out of my home which makes life a little easier, yet at the same time a little more complicated. See Exhibit A:


That, my friends is my “Office Armoire”, or more appropriately “Office Disaster Area”. You know those people who are really quite put together on the outside, but a freakin mess on the inside? Yep, that would be me.

I am normally a pretty clean person, but for some reason when it comes to my work area I just all of a sudden decided not to care anymore. Like, I’d get really busy and just shove things in there, close the doors, and then leave in a hurry to go visit clients not realizing that I was creating a monster, a document-fed scary mess of a monster. And believe it or not, there is a method to my madness...a sort of "organized chaos." Come to think of it, it’s really quite existential, or Freudian…whatever.

It was when I subconsciously moved my work area from the office to the kitchen counter that I realized that shit needs to be cleaned. So I started cleaning it, and found a few interesting things inside, things that generally wouldn’t belong in/on an office armoire.


Every office area needs a pair of maracas. I don’t exactly know why they are there, maybe in case I felt like creating some sort of fiesta while knee deep in sales reports and client phone calls. Maybe they help me keep my sanity. I wish I could say that, honestly I didn’t even know they were there.


This is an authentic 1950’s Ken doll which once belonged to my sister. He used to don a pink cowboy hat which has been lost, but instead now wears a plastic star from Mike’s Smokehouse that was given to me from my friend Andy my freshman year of college. Ken was shoved between the bottled Gas Duster and a box of old Christmas Cards. The star went, the cards went, but the doll stays.


At my house I don’t have to worry about sexual harassment, that’s why I can have not only one, but TWO penis necklaces at my desk. Most probably resurrected from one of the multiple bachelorette parties that I have attended. One is actually a whistle, I’m thinking of attaching to my keychain in case of emergencies.


This really dates me. Not only is it a cassette tape, but it is a BON JOVI “SLIPPERY WHEN WET” cassette tape. For those moments when I’m feeling all nostalgic I can pop it into my cassette player and sing along with good old Jon and the boys. “WOAAAAHHHHHH….WE’RE HALF WAY THERE…WOOOOAAAAAHHHHHH!!! LIVIN ON A PRAYER….!!!” Wait, do I even have a cassette player anymore?


Not only do I not have to worry about sexual harassment, but I also don’t have to worry about inappropriate racial stereotypes. You’re probably wondering, “What the hell is she doing with a model size Mexican in an outhouse?” I got this from my Grandma’s house when we were cleaning it out after she passed. You take the cap off the mushroom and fill it with water and then when you open the door to the outhouse the Mexican turns around and pees on you. It’s so not politically correct, therefore it totally belongs in the Armoire.


And last, but certainly not least, I have the crème de la crème, the icing on the cake, the stuffed armadillo. Yes, ladies and gentleman, that is a stuffed armadillo that has somehow found it’s home on the top of my armoire. The same armadillo that was bought on ebay by a certain someone (Josh) for a bargain of $115. The Lonestar beer that he was holding has long since disappered and I am no longer scared of it, so it stays.

And that’s pretty much it. I’m sure I could have pulled a few more things to write about, but I only have so much time here, and I don’t want to seem like a total freak. What? Too late? Oh well….

It's The Final Countdown...

I heart the fourth grade. That’s what the blue stamp read on my hand. I heart the fourth grade. Normally, I would have noticed this first thing, but I was sidetracked by the late thirty-something/early forty-something male who asked me if I was a “student” while taking my money to enter my niece’s basketball game. No, not college student, High school student. I wanted to leap across the counter and kiss him. Full on smack right on the lips. At that moment in time I didn’t know who he was nor did I care…he was my new best friend.

You see, I’m turning 30 in less than 18 days. IN LESS THAN 18 DAYS I WILL NO LONGER BE IN MY 20’S…I WILL OFFICIALLY BE OLD. Where’s my paper bag…seriously…where’s my paper bag….

No, I am NOT overreacting. This is a real- life legitimate concern for me. I will no longer be 29…I WILL BE 30. The only thing that is keeping me sane while I cross the proverbial bridge into Thirtysomething is the fact that I will be in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico on the big day…if not for the beach, sun, and cocktails I would most probably be on suicide watch right now. Seriously.

But back to the High school student thing. Do you even realize what kind of sanity-saving moment that was for me? It made me realize one thing, you’re only as old as you appear to be...or as young as you look to the person who is looking at you who probably needs a new eyewear prescription or is just really bad at judging age.

What am I doing here? I’m overanalyzing this. Of course he thought I was 18, because I LOOK like I’m 18. Yeah, that’s it.

(Humor me people, please…just this once…)

It's here!

Sorry for such a long break in between posts. My fingers are still thawing, and I can probably say the same thing for Danika since we were both just driving convertibles in unseasonably cold weather.

In other news...It's arrived! Thanks to my sweeping victory of the Big Mega Bowl Game Virginity Contest I am now the proud owner of a gold plated Detroit Superbowl XL pin, all shiny and new right in the package sent along with a nice note from "The Lowe" himself. (Ok, so maybe my victory wasn't exactly sweeping, but hey, I won nonetheless.)



Anyway, we leave for Puerto Vallarta in less than three weeks and I have decided that the pin is coming along. I plan on documenting the pins journey by taking photos of random people wearing the pin, the pin on the beach with a cocktail and so on and so forth. And I'm starting with the first picture of "The Pin" on Lola.



Which brings me to my newest dilemma...What to name "The Pin!" I don't want to just call it "The Pin"...I need something more intimate and character-like. Any suggestions?

Poopin in the Cold...the life of Lola

It's minus three degrees below zero out this morning with a windchill of minus twenty-seven degrees below zero. It's fucking cold. The high today in good old Minneapolis MN is expected to reach a whopping zero degrees.
I've never seen Lola run around the yard so fast to try and find a place to poop. Can you imagine pooping outside when it's this cold out?

Poor Lola.

Therefore those of you who are residing in warm climates can kiss my ass, and kiss my dogs ass. You suck. (Not really, but it just makes me feel better, so let me have my fun. Thanks.)

On the bright side, only 23 days till Puerto Vallarta. Thank God.

UPDATE:To Brush With Death Part V (See next post)

UPDATE : New curling iron shown to give "saucier" waves.

Jenni's Brush With Death Part V With *Bonus Brush With Death Glossary!

Welcome to yet another edition of "Jenni's Brush With Death." To be perfectly honest with you I had to actually look back to see which number I was on...These brushes with deaths seem to happen a little too often.

Anyway, yesterday while curling my hair I almost bought the farm. For those of you who know me you're probably asking yourself, "Why does she curl her hair? She has naturally curly hair." And my answer to that is, if you have naturally curly hair you always want your hair to be a different kind of curly. My hair, is curly in the cross between Diana Ross on jerry curl and Erwin Fletcher kind of curly, so I run a curling iron through it to give it saucy waves.

I digress...Anyway where was I? Oh, I was standing in the bathroom when all of a sudden this large spark leaped through the air and landed in the sink causing me to screech and jump back. I looked around and the cord was brushing the sink which was a little wet, I thought maybe that was what caused the spark so I moved the cord and resumed curling my hair.

About 3 minutes later I had the iron in my hair when "BOOM!" This enormous fireball soared across the room. I simultaneously dropped and unplugged the iron from the wall and looked to where it landed as it was still smoldering below the sink. I decided that my hair had enough saucy waves and inspected the iron and much to my shock, this is what I found...

Take note of the exposed wires pouring out of the protective casing which I have to say is no longer protective, but more of a death trap. Yup, time to throw away the trusty iron and purchase a new one. Here's to cheating death yet one more time.

*New? Check out my other Brushes With Death in my "Bonus Brush with Death Glossary!"
Brush With Death Part I (aka "The Day I Almost Died.)
Brush With Death Part II
Brush With Death Part III
Brush With Death Part IV

A Day Late and A Dollar Short

Well, actually 688 dollars short. That's what I'm out after sitting in the Auto Repair Shop yesterday for 7 hours while they fixed my car. Which brings me to my Haiku for "Haiku Tuesday"...although it's Wednesday...nevermind.

Auto repair shop
Six hundred dollars for brakes
Where's my vasoline?

And that's not all...the following is an excerpt from a draft I wrote during hour 5. Enjoy.

Today I was held hostage by my car, aka, "The Rollerskate." I'm not talking "hostage", my car pointed a gun at my head and demanded things "hostage," I'm talking my car decided to want new brakes and then wouldn't start after I've already waited at the Auto repair shop for five hours kind of hostage.
And for a special bonus, turns out when you spill break fluid on corroded spark plugs your car doesn't start.
Sweet.
It also turns out that when you sit there and stare at a Pepsi machine and 9-inch television for hours on end you tend to go a little batty. Like the kind of batty that makes you want to throw the uncomfortable chair that your ass has been planted in all morning and half the God-forsaken afternoon out the mother-fucking window. That kind of batty.
Actually, I am normally a very patient person, but when a job that was supposed to take two hours takes five (and counting) it tends to wear that patience a little thin...or more like stretch it to the point of snapping.
(Flick the paper in a way that makes it snap...like my patience)
My handwriting sucks. Seriously. It's a wonder how I can read one word I wrote on this page. Has my friendly laptop lead to the destruction and consequential demise of what used to be my artform? My beautiful handwriting that no resembles that of someone with Parkinsons and a pen?
Shit.

WTF? FRIDAY! (*New!)

Welcome to Swank or Skank's first ever installment of, What the Fuck? Friday!

So, I was parousing the selection of Eames lounge chairs at the Marshall Field's home store when I came across this sculpture of what appears ot be a gigantic dick doing his deed over someone's dining room table. Now, I appreciate art just as much as the next guy, but this was somewhat mortifying. Mortifying enough for me to take a picture with my camera phone and create a post about it.

The nightmares have yet to taper off. Thanks for asking.

Why I love my job.

The following is an excerpt from and actual conversation I recently had with a client.

M(Me): (Picking up cell phone) Hello?
C(Client): Is Pedro there?
M: What can I do for you **Bob?
C: I need 4.79% for 72 months.
M: No
C: Why not?
M: I can’t give you 4.79% for extended term we talked about this.
C: Come on…PLEASE?
M: What’s the last thing I said to you yesterday before I walked out of your office?
C: And if you try and touch my ass one more time I’m going to punch you in the stomach?
M: (Pause) Ok, what’s the second to the last thing I said to you yesterday before I walked out of your office?
C: No 4.79% for extended term?
M: That’s right. (Click)

And that’s why I love my job.

** Names have been changed to protect the oh so valiant and spotless integrity of my clients.

It must be the paint fumes...

I painted my kitchen this weekend, which corroborates a strange kitchen-painting trend happening here in Minneapolis. It literally took me two whole days, with priming taking place Friday Night and the actual painting on Saturday. You see, the problem with my kitchen is it has so many corners, nooks, crannies, and wall space that it seemed like it took me FOREVER! Plus, the previous color was red so the primer was an absolutely necessity because normally, I skip that step at all costs.

So, I’m blaming the paint fumes for anything strange and unexplainable that happens to me for the next week or so. Which brings me to the conversation I had with my 72 year old father yesterday at breakfast.

My mom and dad came to visit for the day and took me out to breakfast. While we were sitting there drinking our tea, my dad looks at me and asks, “How many channels do you get on your cable?”
Not knowing where any of this was going I simply said, “I don’t know, does that include the music channels? Because if it does I get like 900 or so.”
“Do you get channel 555?” And he didn’t say it like that, you know five hundred fifty five…he said it like five-five-five.
“Um, I don’t know…well, you know we have different cable company’s so my channel five-five-five is probably not the same as yours.”
“There’s porno on my five five five. I tried to record it the other day to show your mother but I couldn’t figure out how to set the VCR."

Silence (Crickets chirping crickets chirping crickets chirping)

I looked over at my mom who looked at me like she already knew this little tidbit of unnecessary information.

“So, what you’re telling me, is you tried to tape porn to show mom? Like you couldn’t take her over the TV and show it to her? She was most probably sitting over in the other room anyway.”

That’s where as far as I’m concerned the conversation ended, despite his attempt to try and get me to explain that he most probably has to set channel five- five- five in the VCR to be able to record anything, I wasn’t going there.

Frightening Fluorescent Lightbulb Update

This morning after my Step class I walked into the locker room only to see a woman, mid 50's standing completely naked under the frightening fluorescent lightbulbs with a towel wrapped around her head violently shoving her kleenex covered finger in and out of her nose. I wanted to rip out my eyeballs and flush them down the toilet...it was the most horrible thing I've ever seen. Ever.

I will never be the same.

To Whom it May Concern (Alternate Title Serpenite Schmerpentine)

To the douchebag at the gym who decided to replace the older, less frightening fluorescent bulbs above the women's vanity with 11 thousand watt ones can kiss my ass. I don't pay $60 a month to stare at every sun spot, freckle and potential wrinkle under lights that could most probably double as high powered grow lamps. You suck.

To the guy who rang up my groceries last night at Kowalski's. The four gold rings that you wear on each consecutive finger will not help get you laid. Infact, they are most probably preventing you from scoring any sort of chick worth scoring, especially the one with the horseshoe on it...and rhinestonesones. You'd have a better chance if you removed them, and buried them deep under ground and then washed your hands for three weeks in order to remove the green ring that has formed under each and every knuckle.
And NO, winking at me and telling me to have a wonderful night will not get you anywhere. Gimme my apples and shut the hell up.

To they guy at the automotive repair shop. I don't know what a serpentine belt is, and frankly I don't fucking care. Trying to explain it to me is just a waste of time and will most probably cause you more headaches in the end. If I were you I would just change my oil, replace the belt and tell me that if you didn't do it my car would spontaneously combust never to return to this earth again. I would probably believe you. So just lie, lie like you've never lied before, and then when I leave, you can make fun of me and how you totally screwed me out of $200 to put on a 75 cent piece of rubber that costs $15 at Napa. Jerk.

That's all.

Jenni

My First (Witnessed) Blonde Moment of 2006. *And a Special Bonus Blonde Moment of 2005

I haven't written anything in a long time. Mainly because I am waiting for something interesting and blog worthy to happen to me, and nothing has. Well, maybe I've had things happen, but I'm just too lazy to write about any of them. Yeah, that's probably it.

Anyway, I don't know what it is about January. It seems that I have the largest brian farts during this month. It could be the cold weather, the fact that my brian is most probably frozen a good portion of the month...or it could be the lack of sunshine, like the way your plants get all droopy and shit when they haven't seen the sun in awhile. Much like my brain...all droopy and shit.

So, Saturday night Danika had game night and I was with the group playing Taboo, of which I have to say I'm pretty good. And when Angel said to me, "Wow, you're pretty good at this!" I proudly responded, "Yeah, I should be on the $1,000 Pyramid or something." To which Danika promptly corrected "That's $10,000 Pyramid, Jen." Right. $10,000 Pyramid.

Ah, the life of a blonde...

Anyway, this has inspired me to repost Extreme Blonde Moment, a chronicle of my St. Paul Winter Carnival Medalion Hunt Misadventure. So, if you haven't read it yet, I suggest that you do. Not only so you can laugh...hysterically, but also so you can understand the trials and tribulations of an everyday blonde. Enjoy!

Jenni, What Class Is Made Of.

I stole this from Sandra. It's the "Classic Dames Test." So, if you would like to find out which dame you're most like just go Here!

Myrna Loy
You scored 11% grit, 28% wit, 33% flair, and 40% class!
You are class itself, the calm, confident "perfect woman." Men turn and look at you admiringly as you walk down the street, and even your rivals have a grudging respect for you. You always know the right thing to say, do and, of course, wear. You can take charge of a situation when things get out of hand, and you're a great help to your partner even if they don't immediately see or know it. You are one classy dame. Your screen partners include William Powell and Cary Grant, you little simmerpot, you.

I'm BACK and My Mayor Can Beat Up Your Mayor!

Despite rumors that I met my imminent fate with an unusually large icicle, I'M BACK!

Seriously though, If you've been wondering where I've been lately I was absent because of an untimely death in the family...my cable modem...which consequently made my wireless network haywire and led to a two-week-long computer catastrophe. But all is well with the world, and it's fixed. Which brings me to my next subject...how great it is to live in Minneapolis...

Not only are we the "Smartest", and "Techiest" city...but our own mayor R.T. Rybak was recently voted by Mens Fitness as the most fit mayor.

Minneapolis as a city, consequently ranked #13 out of 25 of the "Fittest" cities in the Nation, and interesting enough, our neighbor metropolis Chicago ranked #5 among the "Fattest"...oink oink...and Houston of course ranked "#1 in the less than flattering category.



In other news, I'm getting my new sofa today...isn't it KICK ASS?

That's it on the showroom floor. I'm ecstatic. To be perfectly honest with you, I was really trying to shy away from the whole "black leather" bit for fear I'd be categorized in some lame tasteless male bachelor group...you know the group that centers around puffy black leather furniture and black laquer...yeah, that group. But I was hooked the minute I set eyes on this sofa, I KNEW it was the one for me. It's distinguished button tufted back and arms...makes is look very vintage and old school which is definately my style. So, in preperation fo the arrivial, I've been painting and decor changing, now just to replace the chair I'm sitting in, some new curtains, and I'll be set...A new year, some new furniture...yay!

What are you doing that's "new" in the New Year?

Haiku Tuesday! Holiday Edition

It's that time of year
Dressing your animal weird
Here I come, dog hell.

Poor, poor, Lola...is SUCH a good girl for all my twisted doggie costumes.

Who else Haiku's? Go here.

Could it be?

Check out the death trap that has formed along the roof line on my house, which just happens to be right outside my back door. Could this be the preamble to "Jenni's Brush With Death Part V?"

I guess you'll just have to stay tuned to find out...