Random Salad II

This morning while driving home from the gym, I came across a bumper sticker that read. “Mitzi’s Tattoos, “A cut above the rest.” What’s with that? “A cut above the rest?” Is it just me, or does that sound like a slogan for a Plastic Surgeon, not a Tattoo parlor.
Then I started thinking, if I owned a tattoo parlor what would my logo be? “Jenni’s Tattoos, We know were to draw the line.” Or, “Jenni’s Tattoos, Because nothing in life is permanent…except that Tasmanian devil we just tattooed on your calf…you really should have thought more about that one, man.”

I think Target has an inferiority complex. You never just see any plain old “Targets” anymore, now they’re all “Super Target”, or “Target Greatland,” and there’s something to be said about being able to buy your floor mats and grapes all in one store…well, I really don’t know what that is, but I’m pretty sure it’s brilliant.

Where do they get those people that do the Valtrex commercials? Seriously, if I was an actor and my agent called me and said, “I’ve got this great role for you! You get to play the poor sap that has genital herpes on a television commercial!” I’d probably just hang up. But only after asking how much they pay, because what’s a little public indignity if I could drive around in a kick ass sports car?

Speaking of kick ass sports cars, whatever happened to the Delorian? Did it do something to offend someone? I mean, the Firebird lasted for decades, as did the Camero…What, was the Delorian just not good enough for your garden variety sports car standards? Maybe it was the weird doors, or maybe it cut a bad rap in Back To The Future with the whole flex capacitor thing…I guess we’ll never know.

Jenni's How-To Guide.

How to Simultaneously Humiliate your Dog and your Man:

Figure A.

Step 1: Go to pet store and buy super obnoxious pink plaid doggie carrier.

Step 2: Bring pink plaid doggie carrier home and chase dog around house to try and strap her in.

Step 3: Lure dog near you by offering yummy treats.

Step 4: Retrieve Bacitracin from medicine cabinet and clean scratch on arm from dogs freshly clipped claws.

Step 5: Scold the dog into obnoxious pink plaid doggie carrier.

Step: 6 Strap on doggie carrier and laugh hysterically while checking yourself out in a full-length mirror.

Step 7: Wait for man to come home from work.

Step 8: Watch as man comes home from work and immediately breaks into out-of-control laughter at the dog in the super obnoxious pink plaid doggie carrier.

Step 9: (This is where you need to turn on your charm) Wait for man to change, offer him a refreshing beer, (preferably a Blue Moon with an orange slice) and coax him into the doggie carrier.

Step 10: DO IT FAST! Grab your camera phone and take a photo of the man and the dog in the super obnoxious pink plaid doggie carrier to show all of his friends and yours at parties and **dinner dates.

Congratulations! You have now managed to simultaneously humiliate both your dog and your man.

**This goes over exceptionally well at dinner dates on the patio of classy restaurants where the conversation inevitably will lead to the discussion (with your waiter) of shaving a cats ass to prevent the occurrence of dingle berries.

One more step towards helping mankind.

Maybe it was the pink rims, or the pink and silver flames, or the dice valve caps or maybe it’s just the cruiser type feel of my new Electra bike, “The Betty” that screamed, “This bike is for you!”

Isn’t it oh so cute and charming? PLUS, it’s just another way to save more money and spend less time at the pump filling up with $3.00 per gallon gas. Do you know how many more Frappuccinos I can buy with the savings I will reap from biking to the grocery store, or the hardware store, or the BAR?

Damn, I’m a genius.

P.S. The pic shown is of the kids model...if you want to see the adult size go here. I didn't post that picture because of this. Seriously, she had NO INFLUENCE on my decision to purchase this super cute bicycle. It was ALL ME!

Jen Thinks Outside The Box.

Yesterday I had an epiphany. It started at the gas pump as I was silently cursing the fact that gas had jumped to $2.98 per gallon. It cost me over $30.00 to fill up The Rollerskate, a car that only has a 10-gallon tank. Ridiculous.

After I had paid, and tried (with no success) to use that little squeegee thing to clean my windshield, I immediately headed to the Starbucks drive thru across the street. It was there I ordered my favorite, a Grande Café Vanilla Light Frappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. I gave the lady my check card, and I was on my way. Now here’s the thing, I never look at prices for things like this, I wouldn’t stand there and complain that I was about to pay close to five dollars for a 12 oz cup of ice, skim milk, and coffee, one that would last me oh, about 10 minutes TOPS. And why is that? Why is it that I complain about the price of gas, but not that I’m getting royally fucked by the folks at Starbucks?

It was here I had the epiphany…Are you ready…Money isn’t in oil, or gas…it’s in COFFEE! Move over J.R. Ewing, because Juan Valdez is KICKING YOUR ASS!

While driving down the highway I retrieved the receipt from Starbucks out of the ashtray and scanned down to the total. $4.31. I paid $4.31 cents for my drink…Hmmmm…I wonder how much it would cost if The Rollerskate ran solely on Starbucks Frappuccino? I reached for my cell phone that has a calculator and I began my figuring, first in my head. There are 16 cups in a gallon, 8 oz per cup that makes 128 oz per gallon X 10, that’s 1280 oz in a 10-gallon tank. Now I need to divide that by 12 oz per Frappucino and times that by $4.31 and I get $459.73 (And yes, I did this ALL while driving…I know, I’m amazing) which is about FIFTEEN TIMES the amount of money I just spent to fill up. Thank God The Rollerskate doesn’t run on Starbucks Frappuccino.

Just think, what one can do with a full tank of gas and what one can do with a Frappuccino? I can drive to and from my favorite store Anthropologie two times on one tank of gas, but on the other side, there are no baby seals hurt in the making, or transporting of Frappuccino...and comparatively speaking, that’s all I needed to know to never, ever complain about the price of gas, or the Frappuccino again.

And there you have it. I once again solve another economic crisis by using comparative analysis. Maybe I should be a politician…or better yet, President of the United States. Nah, I think maybe I’ll just buy a Starbucks and make enough profit off of idiots to take over the world...we’ll see.

Gabsmashed

A few weeks ago I was asked to do something I do best...Be a smartass. Every Wednesday, Gabs over at Gabsmash puts on a "Celebrity Roast" where seven panel members post mean and insulting comments on the celebrity (or celebrities) of choice. So if you haven't checked them out you need to do so.

Below is a glossary of the three roasts we have done, plus make sure you stop by and visit Gabs for all of your celebrity gossip needs throughout the week because hey, if it wasn't for Hollyweird who would we have to make fun of?

Oh, and by the way, I'm "Swank" if you haven't figured that out...Shut up, I totally am.

April 4th Roast
April 12th Roast
April 19th Roast

Thank God It's Over.

His favorite ice cream is Cherry Nut, and he has a sweet tooth that could rival a six-year olds. He loves children, euchre, and MN Gopher basketball. He’d give you his left arm if you’d ask, but he’s stubborn as hell. He doesn’t like ketchup on his fries, but will put maple syrup on his cottage cheese. He has a sense great sense of humor and loves a good joke.

I’ve been gone because of him. My dad. He was admitted into the hospital last Tuesday with a case of the flu, and ended up with a trace of pneumonia. There’s a history here though, one which I don’t feel like getting into. One that has to do with a brain tumor and three strokes…for further reference you can go here. It will explain it in more detail.

Anyway, I’m not up to going into detail here. How his stubbornness kicked in and after day two he was ripping out his IV’s and devising his escape plans to be able to go home. The first hint was this conversation between him and my mother that went something like this. (Which was after they had given him enough sedatives to “knock out a horse.”)
Dad: Where did you park your car?
Mom: I don’t remember.
Dad: Well, which side of the hospital is it on?
Mom: Ummmm…Hmmmm….can’t remember.

And I’m not going to go into detail how my brother, sister, and myself all ended up getting said flu and how I spent all Thursday hunched over the toilet in a vomiting haze.

He went home on Friday hopped up on so many sedatives he didn’t know where he was, or what year it was and ended up sleeping the majority of the day. I guess he ended up being a bear to watch, very hard to keep still and wanting to do whatever he wanted to do. I’m lucky because my shift didn’t start until Saturday when he was pretty good. Actually, getting me ice water and scooping out ice cream for everyone, and by Sunday he was even better.

This Easter we sat out on the back deck and watched the golfers go by, barely even remembering what had taken place only days earlier. He doesn’t dwell on things, and that’s what I think makes him so strong and able to preserver through the tough times. He’s a great man, and I’m proud to call him my dad.

A note from my car.

Dear Jenni,

This is the last straw. I’m writing this letter to you to inform you that I believe you need to pull your head out of your ass. Since when did my “Check Engine” light become a novelty? Seriously. It’s been flashing for like a month now and you’ve done nothing about it.

Remember that time when you drove all the way to Chicago with it flashing and you SWORE you would never do that again. I know, sometimes it lights up in error, but you’ve had ample time to drop it at the service station up the street and you haven’t. You just drive me by, ignoring all the bells and whistles I may throw at you.

I know I’ve been a pain in the ass lately with new brakes, new spark plugs, rotor, and spark plug wires…oh, and that little incident of needing a new ignition coil in the middle of a snowstorm on a two lane highway in BFE…but still, I’m your Car, your mode of transportation…your lifeline.

Please bring me into the mechanic soon to get this problem resolved. I want to be here for you for years to come.

Sincerely Yours,

The Rollerskate.

PS. My oil is 500 miles past its expiration date, you might wanna change it before I do something drastic. Bitch.

Sparkler Fun Gone Askew.

All of us have had them, those moments in our lives that we’d just rather forget, sweep under the proverbial rug and wipe them clean from our memories. I have one of those moments that involved a box full of sparklers, multiple cocktails and a pack of kitchen matches. However, forgetting it has been a problem thanks to the HUGE scar on my shoulder that refuses to go away. (See above).

For those of you who know me know that I am accident prone to the point of complete strangers offering to purchase me padded suits and helmets. Now, couple that with booze and fireworks and you have a disaster waiting to happen.

When it comes to fireworks I go big. I don’t like to just light off one sparkler, I light the WHOLE PACK OF TEN because doing so while drinking is a great idea. And so is waiving them around the deck and writing my name in the air…when drinking that is…with a pack of sparklers. Yes, I was that jackass. And now I have the scar to prove it when a large fireball leaped from my bouquet o’fire and landed smack dab on my shoulder causing me to throw them all in the air in an effort to do what I was told to do in the first grade “Stop, Drop, and Roll.” Only I don’t think when they taught that they thought it would be on a deck, surrounded by sparking sticks of dynamite. I’m lucky I didn’t burn my house down.

So, it’s almost been a year and the scar has yet to disappear. I mean COME ON, I finished off a summer, and went to Mexico where I laid on the beach for five consecutive days and this shit IS STILL HERE!

Any suggestions on how to get it to match the rest of my skin? Obviously, I could use your help.

Random Salad

It’s 8:00 am and I think I’m still drunk from the night before most probably because of the bottle of Ravenswood Zinfandel and three beers that I consumed in less than five hours.

I’ve always wondered why booze makes you forget things, until this morning that is, when bits and pieces of last night came back to me, more specifically, singing (I mean screaming) “Pour Some Sugar On Me” with my friend Gregg into the karaoke microphone on a make-shift stage at Joe Sensors sports bar. It’s times like those that are best left in the drunken haze they were experienced. Christ.

Speaking of bad, yesterday while driving I saw a large Dodge truck with a license plate that read "GITERDNE." Which made me think, would I ever be brave enough to create personalized plates out of a cheesy catch phrase? I mean, those things don't last and then I'd be stuck for years with some outdated phrase on the back of my car for people like me to criticize and make fun of. Kind of like my “Where’s the Beef” t-shirt I made my mom buy me when I was young. Who buys their 7 year-old daughter a t-shirt that reads “Where’s the Beef?”
However, maybe it's still cool, "Giterdun" I mean. But then again, I wouldn't know since I don't own a flannel shirt, shotgun or framed tickets to a Monster Truck Show.

Daewoo makes a car called the “Leganza” which I believe sounds like it should be a VD. “Bruce went down to Jamaica and came back with a bad case of Leganza.” Ahhh, now you get it don’t you. It does though, right?

Tostitos has once again successfully ripped off Doritos and created their version of “Cool Ranch” and cleverly named it “Southwestern Ranch,” and I have to say, they’re pretty good...crispy, and not too much ranch unlike Doritos who tends to soak their chips in too much ranch and too much ranch is a bad idea. I know this because I’m eating them for breakfast. Yep... definitely still drunk.

Welcome Home, Fuckers!

I was getting into my car this morning when I heard it, the incessant honking of the Canadian geese as they made their way to land more than likely a few blocks over at Lake Nokomis. Every year around this time it seems as though the population of those long-necked sons of satans doubles when they come back from wherever the hell they went. Sure, a few stragglers stayed to tough out the cold Minnesota winter, most probably because of a bum wing, or old age, but the majority of them leave to go South which I could never understand since after all, they are “Canadian geese.” Right?

Now, don’t get me wrong here, I don’t HATE them…I just don’t understand why there has to be SO MANY of them. You know? And when you have so many of them, that means that you have A LOT of bird shit. And their shit is not like normal bird shit, it’s like large pellets of shit, and it’s EVERYWHERE.

In high school I was on the golf team (shut up) and my golf coach was this little old lady in her 60’s who was an excellent golfer, but had quite the temperament and swore like a truck driver. She HATED geese because they crapped all over the golf course and when she would cross one while driving, she would purposely run them over with her automobile. Seriously, I almost died once when I was in the car with her and she violently swerved from the left lane to the right shoulder to take one out that was standing on the side of the road. She actually SPED UP to hit it, missed it, cussed, TURNED THE CAR AROUND TO TRY IT AGAIN, and missed it again.

I felt like I was in some sort of strange cartoon featuring Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. It was crazy, and maybe has something to do with my dislike for them. Some sort of associative disorder with geese and death...Who knows.

However, there is also a side to these devilish creatures that I actually kind of like. First of all, they have complete disregard for things that are larger than them and they appear as if they just don’t give a shit. It’s almost as if they are challenging you to run them over.

You know when you’re driving along and you encounter a goose that just happens to be standing in the middle of the road, so you slow down and eventually come to a stop because the little bastard won’t move? He just looks at you like, “What?” And then you honk your horn and he stands there and looks at you again like “WHAT? Go ahead and run me over, I’ll just fuck up your radiator and get stuck in your grill causing you to spend the rest of the afternoon at the carwash trying to remove my remnants from your cute little white car!” And then I stick my head out the window and waive my arms like a crazy person to try and get it to move all while yelling something along the lines of “Jesus CHRIST! You have WINGS for GOD sakes! Get your feathered little goose ass out from the middle of the FREAKIN ROAD!”

And only after I make a scene does he decide to finish crossing the road so he can go eat gravel on the OTHER side of the street.

Fucking geese.

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.