The Top Ten Things I Learned At The Cabin July 4th Weekend 2006

After much anticipation....


10). It is possible to fit 10 (drunk) adults in a Mercury Villager. (I didn't say it was SAFE, I said it was possible.)

9). When you want to dance on the bar, at a bar in Northern Wisconsin, don't ask...Just do it.

8). Watching your friend walk up the stairs when they can't see (thanks to the half a handle of Captain Morgan they just drank) and not helping them isn't nice. It's funny, but not nice.

7). When you're sleeping in a tent with someone who snores when they're drunk make sure you drank enough to pass out too. If you don't, nailing them repeatedly in the arm with a closed fist will get you nowhere. Neither will slapping them in the face...Or punching them in the stomach.

6). Having a 45-minute conversation about politics while naked and skinny dipping with your friend's husband is totally socially acceptable.

5). So is burning your bra.

4). Heckling the person who is lighting off a major fireworks display will get you nowhere.

3). When you're on a three-day bender take a break from the sauce and learn how to knit. It would make Grandma proud.

2). Even when you pass up the opportunity to steal a cement pigeon from a bar, the chances of that pigeon ending up in your lawn as an ornament upon returning home are high.

1). The sound of a lone loon on a quite lake at 3 A.M. is quite possibly the most beautiful sound in the entire world.

Happy Birthday USA!

Ahhhhh…it’s Friday. The start to a long holiday weekend…and as I get ready to head up to the cabin tomorrow, I’ve decided to reflect upon my last years trip and re-post my top ten list from the Fourth of July weekend 2005.

I hope you all have a safe and happy Fourth of July, be proud of our Troops and contractors (Barry ;) ) that are overseas fighting for our freedom, and the freedom of others. Include them in your thoughts and prayers as you spend time with family and friends.

The Top Ten Things I Learned this Weekend At the Cabin. (July 2005)

10). Any man who single handidly drinks a two-gallon whiskey sour and still manages to successfully dock a pontoon boat should be the Eighth Wonder of the World.

9). Pillaging the resort next door for their supply of Pop Rocks and coming back an hour later with less than one bag in tow is totally socially acceptable.

8). Chances are if you jump into the lake with your sunglasses on, they will not still be on your head when you surface. The likelihood of them disappearing into the depths of the lake increase significantly when said sunglasses retail for over $150.

7). When you shoot a bottle rocket at someone expect one to be shot at you.

6). The 1972 volume of the HBJ Catholic School Dictionary, eight people, and multiple cocktails can supply at least a good full hour of entertainment.

5). Polishing off three quarters of a liter of vodka in one day will not help you walk better, or more specifically climb stairs. At all.

4). Croquet is more fun one handed with a cocktail in your other hand.

3). Fire + Gasoline = Really Big Fire
Fire + Gasoline + Jenni = Really Bad Idea

2). I don’t care what anyone says, to name your bar “The Beer Hunter” is the best idea. Ever.

1). Taking a really violent fall in front of your friends will trigger the following events to happen, in this order.
a). Gasps and genuine looks of concern.
b). An immediate bath of Bacitracen on all open wounds.
c). Pointing and laughing.
d). Overly dramatic reenactments of said fall…all night long.

The one thing I already knew about the cabin that I was reminded of again this weekend: If life isn’t about good friends, a lake, a cabin, some cocktails and fun, then it should be.

(Stay tuned for Jenni’s Fourth of July 2006 Top Ten List.)

D'OH!

Man Arrested for DUI on lawnmower

ST. CLOUD, Minn. (AP) - A St. Cloud man has been arrested for allegedly driving while intoxicated - on a riding lawnmower.

St. Cloud Police said they got a call just before 11 p.m. Tuesday of a severely intoxicated man driving a riding lawnmower through several neighbors' yards, and up and down the street.

Police said they found Karl Benjamin Thompson passed out on his lawnmower in a neighbor's driveway.

The 24-year-old registered a blood alcohol level of 0.23 percent, nearly triple the legal limit of 0.08, police said.

He's being held on second-degree DWI charges, and police seized his lawnmower due to prior DWI convictions.

Although this very well could have been me during a three-day bender at the cabin, I find it extremely hilarious.

The best part is that the police actually seized this guy's lawnmower.

Welcome to Northern Minnesota.

CAPTION TIME!

(1). And that was the first and last time Duane was invited to participate in Northern Wisconsin's Wood Carving Benefit for Battered and Abused Women.
However, his giant hoo-ha was purchased by a "M Jackson" for an undisclosed amount of money and appropriately placed next to the petting zoo at Neverland Ranch.

(2). Lisp and tendency to wear women's underwear aside, with just a few strokes of a chainsaw, Carl Manages to validate each and every suspicion that he is in fact a flaming homosexual.


Got a caption? Leave it in the comments!

I'm Sorry

To the lady at my 6:00 Step class. I’m sorry you have no rhythm. I’m sorry that you can’t keep the beat like the rest of the class, even like the 55-year old Chinese lady that stands behind you can. And when I look in the mirror back in your direction as you violently flail your arms around in what looks like a seizure instead of a form exercise, and crack a smile, I hope you realize that I’m smiling because you look ridiculous. I’m sorry.

To the creepy salesman at one of my dealerships. I’m sorry you creep me out. I’m sorry that when you see me walk through the door you run to me, touch my arm and tell me how good it is to see me, or when I’m sitting in my Finance Managers office and you come in and rub my back and simply say “Hello” how it makes me want to jump out of my skin and hide. It’s not me, really, it’s you. I’m sorry.

To the bag boy at the grocery store. I’m sorry your job sucks. I’m sorry the whole bane of your existence revolves around the question “Paper, or Plastic?” I’m sorry that it’s too much to remember not to put the eggs on the bottom of the bag under the pineapple and carton of soy milk most probably because you were in the back with the other bag boys sniffing the nitrous oxide out of the Eazy Cheeze cans. I’m sorry you’re an idiot.

To the Jackoff in the SUV that almost ran me off the road yesterday. I know your car is HUGE and mine is small. I know you were talking on your phone and most probably didn’t see me to your left as you merged onto the freeway as you made your Tee-time or were talking to your wife who was out buying steaks for dinner. And when you waived at me in apology after realizing that you almost killed me and I flicked you off, I meant it. Asshole.

Airport Stories (Alternate Title: Jenni's Takes A Stab At Racial Profiling.)

Yesterday I had a day trip to Chicago that consisted of flying there early and flying back late. Completely uneventful and totally exhausting. As a matter of fact, to let you all know how uneventful it actually was, the highlight was seeing Jesse Jackson escorted through security while I was standing in line with the rest of the “common folk” waiting to be poked, prodded, and felt up like cattle being led off to slaughter.

I hate airports, and I loathe flying, which I think has everything to do with being suspended twenty-seven thousand feet in the air in a machine with breakable parts and mechanics that are more than likely on strike, or at least preparing to go on strike. So, when I finally made it through security I immediately headed for the bar, which I soon found out is where everyone else went. There were lines outside each bar that stretched for a good city block, all for what I assumed to be a little liquid relaxation

I passed up a few offers to join some tables and decided to hit the convenience shop for some eight-dollar eye drops and Chex Mix to tide me over while I sat at the gate, hid myself from the rest of the world, cozied up in the corner with my book, “The Devil Wears Prada”, and tried to forget where I actually was, which did work, for about 45 seconds.

The flight that was supposed to have taken off from the gate my flight was landing at hadn’t, and had been sitting there for about 45 minutes while the mechanics were fixing something, so my flight was moved a few gates down from B9 to B4.

I gathered up my things and made the trek down to my new gate passing a bar that had since cleared from the swarms of people that had earlier occupied it. Finding myself a seat next to a modern day hippie reading some vintage Jane Eyre, I ordered a glass of red wine and zoned out. It didn’t take me long to realize that no one at this bar was smiling, they all ordered their beers, and cocktails and sat there, staring at the television that was broadcasting CNN which was covering a story on Al Queida.

Seriously, though, CNN? In an AIRPORT? They might as well just show footage of the two commercial aircraft flying into the World Trade Center again…just to refresh our memories. Why don’t they broadcast something fun and lighthearted, like “Sponge Bob Square Pants”, or “Good Times?”

15 minutes to board. I finished my glass and headed for the gate, which was packed. I positioned myself behind the last row of seats, set down my computer case and did something I do every time I step foot on an aircraft…I scanned the crowd.

First, I do the natural thing and look for all the people of Middle-eastern descent. Shut-up, you know you do it too. If I see more than four of them I get a little nervous. In this instance there were only two or three, one I couldn’t really tell if he was middle-eastern or just really tan. They didn’t appear to pose much of a threat, at least not enough for a bomb…maybe a little C4 in the shoe, but definitely not a bomb.

I glance to my right to see what appears to be an escapee wearing a dingy green t-shirt, jeans, combat boots, and prison tattoos that cover both arms and part of his neck. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Charles Manson and is staring directly at me. I forego the possibility of using the bathroom for fear of ending up in pieces in the duffel bag he has resting at his feet.

Next, I look for the huge black dudes to counter-act the Muslims. You know, the ones that are at lest six foot five and weigh over three bills, which is ironic because if I were to seek them out in a dark alley I would most probably be frightened, but on an airplane they’re my best friends. I see one of them and he’s collapsed on the floor taking a nap.

Now it’s time to find the kids and pray to GOD that they are not sitting next to me. I see a family of five with three kids ranging in age from five to nine and watch in horror as they polish off a four-pound bag of gummy bears.

And finally, the geriatrics. It is here I look for the man, at least 50+ years old with the beer gut and cholesterol that is higher than Lindsey Lohan on a Friday night. I see him directly in front of me shoving the last fistful of his BK “Meatwhich” into his mouth as I calculate the possibility of having to do an emergency landing in Milwaukee in the event that the very last pinhole of his heavily clogged artery is finally closed for good. After he’s able to breathe again, he wipes the sweat from his brow, washes the meaty mass down with a chocolate shake and opens a Snickers. Shit. I’m screwed.

Loogies And Plaster.

There was no loogie in the drinking fountain this morning, at the gym, of which I am extremely thankful. Last Monday before my 5:45 am. “Step/Sculpt” class I went to get a drink of water only to come face to face with this slimy, disgusting loogie that was lodged in the drain of the drinking fountain which sent my irrefutable bad mood into a winding tail-spin that only got worse throughout the day. Seriously. I had to take half the day as a mental health day after telling one of my clients that I felt like “ripping out all of my hair and setting it on fire in the middle of my living room.”

Which coincidentally is how I felt Friday night. Do you know what this is?

THAT, my friends, is hell in a bucket. Please take note that in the instruction for application it does not give you fair warning that you are about to spend four hours of you life in pure, excruciating plaster hell, and that prior to application you should have already gone to the liquor store to equip yourself with enough booze to keep your mind and body numb during the process.

Don't get me wrong, I LOVE my house, but you see, my house is a bungalow that was built in 1925, therefore it has plaster walls that are, well, 81 years old and crumbling. The downstairs walls are in relatively good shape, but it’s the upstairs walls that need help, top that with eighteen layers of wallpaper and the unevenness of it all is enough to make you mad. So, instead of just doing what every other sane person would have done and thrown another layer of wallpaper over it, called it a day and enjoyed their Friday evening, I choose to go with “Option b.”

At first I thought, this isn’t SO bad, it’s a little tedious, but can definitely be done. About ten minutes into it I realized that I’m not even close to being done and if I keep this up at a consistent speed I won’t be done for another, what, FOUR HOURS. I walked downstairs, opened a bottle of wine, and took a huge swig...directly from the bottle.

If you would have come over to my house halfway through the process you would have found me swearing as I rolled this shit on, trying to avoid getting the sloppy mess all over my molding and hardwood floors. It was all over my arms, on my face, in my hair…I looked like the abominable snowman with some sort of skin condition. It was pathetic.

And speaking of pathetic, towards the end I was literally sobbing, cursing the good folks at Behr paint and their product that I was convinced had to be the spawn of Satan as I sat in the upstairs hallway surrounded by my own personal hell.

There is a bright side, despite the pain I endured I did do a pretty good job and it looks much better than it did when I started, however, I swore that I would NEVER, EVER do that to myself again. And I won’t. Ever. Again.

Insensitive Pricks...Funny Insensitive Pricks.

This morning I was over at The Dump reading about how the Belligerent Intellectual wore his Analrapist shirt to his sister's 16th birthday party and how he regretted it after he was eyed down by numerous people with looks of complete disgust. He thought it was funny, I think it's funny, but apparently the world is not as funny as he or I.

Which brings me to a similar situation I encountered while up at the cabin this past Memorial Day. I was wearing this t-shirt.


This t-shirt cracks me up. I bought it from this site, that has oodles of sweet and equally funny t-shirts, including, but not limited to the other one I bought..

My friends actually made me turn it inside out...Can you believe that? You see, wearing this t-shirt in the city, and wearing it up in Northern Wisconsin where the Native American population at the bar (where incidentally we were heading) is FAR more prevalent...Wait...I didn't mean to make it sound like that. Ummm...There are more Native Americans at the bar up in Wisconsin than in Minneapolis? No? Not better? Damnit.

Well, without throwing out any unnecessary stereotypes I'll just say that before we entered the bar to sing karaoke and ensue with our garden variety tom foolery, my friends made me turn my shirt inside-out in an attempt to avoid offending "anyone." Which I did...While it was dark outside...With the light on INSIDE THE CAR so EVERYONE IN THE BAR COULD SEE MY BOOBS...Since we were parked in the front row directly in front of the large window. I was wearing a bra, but still...I got a few whistles upon entering, which I immediately blew off because, well, I was already a little tipsy.

So, to get down to why I'm writing about this, I would really like your opinion. I don't think the t-shirt is offensive...Am I totally insensitive and just plain wrong? It's just a play on words...Right?

Air Guitar...Happens?

Tonight marks a special event in the history of Minneapolis. No, the president is not coming to town, NO, Lindsey Lohan is not shooting another movie...what's going on is FAR bigger.

It's the Regional 2006 US Air Guitar Championship and it's being held right here in my home city. TONIGHT!
(2005 US Air Guitar Champion Fatima "Rockness Monster"Hoang)

You thought YOUR city was something to brag about? PHSSSSSST. You ain't got nothing on this.

What boggles my mind is that there's actually a competition for this. So, instead of just jamming out in my underwear in the living room to some sweet guitar solo by Eddie Van Halen, I could be on stage, in front of, what, TENS of people doing it for PRAISE AND DISTINCTION?

I needed to know more, so I visited their website and found this under the heading "Why Air Guitar?"

Whatever the reason, air guitar is so ingrained in the fabric of American life that it has become an almost instinctual response. Play the right riff and for many of us, air guitar simply happens.

Air Guitar Happens. I can see the t-shirts and bumper stickers now. Don't even think about stealing this gold-mine from my money grubbing grasp. It's all mine.

Some see air guitar as musical self-expression, others as competitive sport, and other still, as a form of performance art.

(?) I see air guitar as an opportunity to get waisted at a bar, get up on stage and make a complete fool our of yourself infront of a live audience.

In a time when US military and economic leadership faces unprecedented criticism around the world, it is our belief that air guitar represents the one field of human endeavor that our country can dominate without controversy. The US Air Guitar Championships is here to make this possible.

We don't need PATRIOTISM, we don't need JOBS, or NATIONAL SECURITY, we just need AIR GUITAR!


I HAVE BEEN MISSING OUT PEOPLE! I have been cheated out of what could have been my only claim to fame! The claim to fame that although would definitely place me within the trailer park crowd, would launch me into Air Guitar fame that is rightfully mine.

Eeh, maybe next year.

It's a BIRD! No...It's a PLANE! No....IT'S...WTF?...Shit, I really don't know what the hell that is.

I practically live out of my car on a daily basis, driving around from client to client I have come to know the Twin Cities Metro area like the back of my hand, knowing each and every shortcut. That being said, I have seen and driven by some pretty weird shit. Like yesterday when I was stuck in standstill traffic on 694 because a “Biffy” truck had flipped into the ditch and caused a MAJOR mess. Gah.

However, nothing quite compares to this:

(Note the semi-truck in the background as a marker for actual size)

I have driven by this God-awful statue that stands at the entrance of a trucking company at least every other month for about four years and every time I catch myself saying out loud “What the fuck?” Sometimes I make myself turn my head and pretend it’s not there, but it’s too hard, like when the Biffy truck was in the ditch…you don’t want to look, but you just can’t stop yourself.

When I actually pulled off the road and onto the shoulder to take this picture I was contemplating going inside and asking the owner why he felt the need to erect a three story high statue of what appears to be a little boy in his shorts holding a truck. But then I decided I probably would rather not know, and the possibility of coming face to face with such a man was…well…frightening.

Now, I may have to endure the viewing of this thing 5 to 6 times a year max, but the real losers in this situation are the people that live across the field with full view of this monstrosity. Can you imagine waking up every morning, looking out of your large beautiful windows that cover the entire side of your house and stare directly at THAT? Seriously, if it were me and I lived there it would probably take me a total of 3-6 hours before I snapped and was found with an axe swinging madly at it’s ankles in an attempt to ground the fucker.

But that’s just me.

Cabin Memories (Alternate Title: Random Drunk Story Number 1)

This weekend I'm heading up to the cabin in search of relaxation and fun. In honor of this event I have decided to repost one of my most embarrassing/drunk/dangerous moments that took place at the cabin Labor Day of 2004. Enjoy!

Riding Lawnmowers and Beer; A Really Bad Idea. (Posted May of 2005)

Have you ever realized that your best ideas come to surface when you've been drinking? Such an idea surfaced last Labor Day while at my friend's parents cabin for the weekend.

We decided to clean out the shed (which is actually really cool with screened windows and wooden screened door), and turn it into the "Ultimate Tiki Bar." In order to do so we had to remove the two riding lawnmowers and park them next to the garage where the other riding lawnmower resides. So, after the tiki bar was established and more drinks were consumed someone mentioned how cool it would be if we were to have lawnmower races. At the time I thought it was most probably the best idea I have ever heard. At least the best idea since about 5 minutes earlier when we did the whole put your head on the baseball bat thing and spin around ten times and then run. Which Josh did and ran smack dab into the side of the tiki bar...Ouch, but still, I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants.

So the lawnmower races ensued, there was a track, and finish line, and I even started the race standing between two of the lawnmowers in a dramatic rendition of Cha Cha's race starting moves in the movie Greece. The races went off without a hitch and the real drama didn't begin until Chrissy and I decided to take two of the lawnmowers down to the store to get ice.

To set the scene, their driveway down to the cabin is really long and the total trip to the store and back is just under a half a mile each way. Usually, the road is empty, however since it was Labor Day the resort next door was packed from the "turtle races" and there were cars lined all the way down the road on one side. I was on the older lawnmower and watched as Chrissy's step dad Pat started it for me. He lifted the hood and pulled the cord and it just started, that's all I saw. All he said was that the rabbit makes it go faster and the turtle slows it down. Simple right? Wrong.

We made it up the driveway and Chrissy was ahead of me, naturally I wanted to go faster, because fast is a good idea on a riding lawnmower when you've been drinking. I was messing with some levers and ended up stalling it. Chrissy kept going while turning around to see what I was doing. After watching Pat start it I flipped up the hood and pulled the cord. Nothing. Pulled it again. Nothing. This time I took all my energy and violently pulled the cord and watched in awe as the lawnmower sped across the road and slammed itself into the tire of a 4 door sedan of which I refuse to name for legal reasons. It was at that point I realized that I forgot to put the mower into neutral.

Chrissy turns around to see me run across the road and try to pull the girating lawnmower off the vehicle as it is viciously ramming itself over and over again into the side of the car and caught under the body above the wheel. Laughing hysterically with tears in her eyes she managed to come over and assist in turning off the lawnmower while we both pulled it off the car in front of us.

Surprisingly, there was no damage to the car. If the mower would have been a little to the left, or a little to the right we would have been screwed. Plus, no one was around to witness the disaster and except for a few scratches under the wheel rim on the backside of the body everything was fine, except for the lawnmower, which had definitely seen better days. The hood was brutally dented in and we were unable to latch it, not to mention I was in shock and my mind was going a mile a minute to try and think of a story to cover our tracks.

We quickly assesd the situation, and decided that there needed to be a cover. There was no WAY we were going to tell ANYONE that I had just caused the lawnmower to crash into someones car and then leave the scene of the accident. So we lied.

While driving back down to the cabin we thought up a story to tell everyone that I had hit a tree. As we arrived, we were ironically showered by our friend Ian who ran towards us shaking up two cans of beer and spraying us with them...shotgun style. We were able to coax him into bending the hood of the lawnmower back to its original (sort of) state and explain what happened only to the tree, not the car.

Later that night while sitting in the tiki bar the truth came out and everyone learned what had happened. I was really embarrassed, but now thinking back it makes me laugh. Hysterically.

So here's to riding lawnmowers and alcohol, only one of many of my really bad ideas

My Life On Backorder

It seemed as though nothing was going my way. I mean, being an individual of instant gratification (which includes, but is not limited to having the patience of a six-year-old) it makes waiting for things…well COMPLETELY unbearable.

The beginning of last month I ordered a pair of outdoor drapes from Pottery Barn for the pergola that covers part of my deck.

Aren’t they charming?

Anyway, when I ordered them online there was a notation in red that read, “This item will not be available until after May 5th.” Naturally I was hesitant because, waiting three weeks for something is NOT in my nature. But I ordered them and waited…and waited….and eventually the second week in May I called the customer service line searching for my purchase.

“Oh, well, we’re expecting another shipment in on the 18th.”

“Great! Can you check to see if I’m in that shipment, Thanks.”

“Well….it’s more complicated than that because there’s a list.”

“O.K., how long is this list?”

“Well…there’s 400 orders on this list.”

Little did I know that outdoor curtains from Pottery Barn would be in such high-demand. So I decided to wait and call back the next week.

“Yeah, apparently you weren’t on the list for that shipment, let me check with my manager and see if you’ll be on the next list.”

“Thanks” (Listens to jazzy Pottery Barn Music while on hold. Dances a little in the living room, perfects the “mambo” while incorporating a little “ball change.” Thank God for cordless phones.”

“Hello? Yeah, looks like you’re on the next list, they should be there before June 1st. It looks like you have another order here, would you like me to check on this one also?”

Yeah, it seemed that the whole “backorder” thing has become addictive because while perusing the Pottery Barn catalogue I came across this really cute star clip light-bulb cover that would go PERFECT in my upstairs hallway.

So sassy.

Anyway, I HAD to have it and when the same backorder message came up I shrugged my shoulders and ordered it anyway. Looks like the Pottery Barn School of Backorder did a little work on my tolerance.

That is until I recently ordered a pair of Dansko’s from the shoe shop in my neighborhood.


Look how cute! RED shoes! I’m a veritable effin Dorothy over here!

Anyway, they were out of my size so I had them place an order for me. The lady said it would be five to ten days and although two weeks seemed like an awfully long time for me to be able to tap my heels together and wish for home, I agreed and place the order.

So, yesterday, since it had been EIGHT days, I called to check on my order and the guy that answered the phone said “Oh, yes! Well, these shoes are on backorder until June 26th.”

“June 26th! Sweet Jesus! I’ll never get home!”

“What? Do you want to still keep the order?”

“Sure. But is there anyway you could get them faster? Like tomorrow?”

“Sorry.”

“Fine. Thanks anyway.”

So there you have it. Everything in my life is on backorder. But the good news is while I was typing this I received a shipment conformation from Pottery Barn and my drapes have been sent! So, at least I can look forward to that.

It’ll be like Christmas…only not.
Oh well.

Sign Savy

I hate it when people post dumb signs that tell you to do or not do the obvious. Like the tampon sign that's always hanging in the bathroom to remind us Laides not to flush our tampons or tampon applicators down the toilet.
The following is a sign I happened upon while visiting the Ladies room at one of my dealerships.


What this sign should read:

Congratulations! You’re a FREAKING retard! Even more so if you are able to read this sign and lack the common sense to figure out how to lock and unlock this door.
How do you make it through life? Please press the large red button on the wall to the left of you (your other left) and wait for the large man in the yellow short bus to come and take you back to the first grade where you can associate with people of similar intelligence and door locking and unlocking know-how.

Dumbass.

Dr. Effin Doolittle

I really don’t know if I give off some sort of “vibe” for lost animals, but they always seem to find their way to me.

Last week it was the blue parakeet that landed on my patio furniture, and this week it was the limping geriatric canine.

I was relaxing on the sofa after a long days work when Lola began barking at whatever was outside the window. I told her to be quiet, but she would just look at me and continue on with her barking…which is REALLY annoying. So, I got up and looked out the window only to see this poor old dog limping down the street, I watched it for a little while, thinking maybe its owner was somewhere around, but no such luck. So I ran down the block to catch him.

Isn't he sweet?

I think he has arthritis, either that or a broken foot as it was looking a little deformed, although he didn’t appear to be in too much pain. He was wearing a collar that read “All American Dog” but unfortunately, didn’t have any tags so I brought him into the backyard and gave him some water, which he quickly drank.

I ended up introducing him to Lola and they became fast friends. I summoned one of my neighbors to come over and take a look to see if he recognized my new little friend, but no such luck. I even sat on the front steps with him on a leash hoping that someone would come by looking for him. He appeard to be well taken care of, someone HAD to be missing him, right?

Anyway, I ended up calling Animal Control to have him picked up…I didn’t know if his foot really was broken and I didn’t want to risk it. This really nice lady came to get him and said they will keep him there for seven days and if nobody claims him they will put him up for adoption.

This is where my eyes well up with tears thinking of my new friend familyless in a kennel somewhere. I couldn’t bear to think that no one would claim this dog…makes me so sad just thinking about it. So, I’m afraid if this guy doesn’t find his home, or “a” home for that matter I’ll end up with another dog. It kills me to think that he may spend the rest of his life, however long that may be, in a cage. I can’t have this hanging over my head…damnit!
Somebody please say something to make me feel better…PLEASE!

And now....On with The Toilet Monster

My sister voted for Bush…I know, sad. Ever since then, I haven’t let her forget it. I buy her stupid Bush things and then have them sent to her house with notes attached like “Hey, you brought this on yourself.” Like the time I sent her the book of “Bushisms.”

More recently I was surfing the net and found “The Farting Bush Doll” here. I HAD to have it, and I HAD to have it shipped to my sister with an enclosed card that read. “Here’s your President, busy stinking up the whole damn country. Nice Job.”

Anyway, you pull his finger and he says things like “(Farts loudly)That’s what I call the flatulation proclamation.” And “(Farts loudly) America, I just S*!t in my pants.” It’s great.

Oh, the Toilet Monster…ANYWAY, ever since I bought the Farting Bush I get a newsletter via email from The Prank Place, and the other day they sent one titled "The Toilet Monster is on the loose at Prank Place" featuring, the one and only “Toilet Monster” which is funny, because a few years ago Josh and I bought his Dad the EXACT SAME toilet monster as a gag gift for Christmas. (Because what else to you buy a man who already has a remote control fart machine?) Wanna know something even more funny? Josh’s dad had already bought the toilet monster for HIMSELF.

It gets better.

So, one day Josh’s dad thought it would be funny to install The Toilet Monster in their hallway bathroom (which is right by the door to the garage) in a really lame attempt to scare Josh’s mom who was out running errands.

Now, unfortunately for her (and the toilet monster) she pulled into the garage and had to pee…really really bad. So, she rushed into the bathroom, flipped up the toilet lid not paying ANY attention to the red plastic monster that was lunging at her ass, sat down and…yup…peed all over the toilet monster.

She was pissed…literally. She had to not only clean the entire bathroom, but also had to boil the toilet monster and wash all of her clothes.

All for a prank. A prank that ended up being much more funny than intended, all thanks to The Toilet Monster.

Happy Birthday Lola!

I was going to write about the Toilet Monster but that's just going to have to wait because...IT'S LOLA'S BIRTHDAY! Yes, ladies and gentelman, my favoirte little Jack Russell Terrier turns the big TWO today, so tonight she's going to have gourmet doggie treats from her favorite store "Lulu & Luigi", a new collar and leash, and a nice long walk around her favorite lake.

You can visit Lola any time you like at her Dogster Dog Page.

Yes, my dog has a web page...you got a problem with that?

Didn't think so...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOLA!

Jenni; Against All Odds

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "Damn! Who are these fabulous looking folks in the picture that Jenni posted?" And don't worry; I'll get to that.

I wanted to do an ode to my mom for Mother's Day, but I got sidetracked and it has everything to do with this photo I found in a box of photos I took from my parents house.

For those of you who know me, you know that my siblings are MUCH older than me. As a matter of fact, my mom was twenty years old when she had my older brother and was forty years old when she had me, and had two more in between with the youngest being fifteen years my elder.

If I were to guess, based solely upon fashion and the age of my siblings and cousins, this photo was probably taken around 1973, three years before I was born.

My mom is the classy dame wearing the navy sleeveless crewneck, black glasses and hair pulled back in a fancy up-do. Isn't she lovely?

My father is the guy in the white and blue butterfly collared shirt sandwiched between two strapping fells who way to closely resemble Beck,and Kelso, from "That 70's Show." Incidentally, these two just happen to be my brothers.

My sister is sitting down in front on the very left, the one with the barrette and the red pants...who would later move on to become a beauty queen and a hypochondriac. Despite this, I love her all the same.

But there was one thing missing...ME!

Recently my mom shared with me how she found out she was pregnant, which is strange, it took 30 years for her to tell me, or maybe it took 30 years for me to ask. Anyway, it was about a year after my father had brain surgery to remove a tumor from his pituitary gland, and back then neuro-surgery came with a lot more risk than today. (This is also where I believe the seed for the earlier mentioned hypochondronism was planted...Wait, is that even a word? "Hypochondronism?...Whatever.)

Apparently my mom wasn't feeling well so she went to the doctor where they ran some tests and told her to come back the next day. When she did, they placed her in the maternity section of the hospital. Now to any other individual such a blatant placement would probably lead one to believe they were...ahhhh...pregnant. (Hey, I said she was lovely, I didn't say she was sharp...just kidding mom) She said she thought to herself that they must be really busy to put her there and when the doctor came in and said, "Do you know why you're in this room?" It all hit her like a ton of bricks...She was pregnant!

She went on to tell me that the doctor went on to explain the risks of having me, with her being at a ripe old age of 40 and said, "You know, you don't have to have this baby." To which (thankfully) my mom said, "I AM SO HAVING THIS BABY!" And the rest is history.

I've always written myself off as a mistake and I've taken my mom's term "afterthought" as a more polite way to say "mistake." That is until recently. Now looking back on it I realized that after my dad's surgery my parents must have found a new lease on life and decided to give it another go...which I guess is also pretty fortunate for me.

Which leads me to the title of my E! True Hollywood Story "Jenni; Against All Odds." Now I just need to become wildly famous and worthy of an hour-long spot on E! Hey, if Todd Bridges made it, so can I.

In all seriousness though, I hope all of you thanked your Moms this Mother's Day, because without her...well...you know!

The Bird Flew....(hardy har-har)

He landed on my patio furniture and sat there like he belonged, joyfully chirping, singing a song with lyrics only a parakeet could understand, he was free at last and enjoying every minute of it.

“Holy shit! There’s a parakeet on our deck, we need to catch it before it gets away!” That’s the only thing I could say, before Damian grabbed the nearest box and charged at the thing like a…well…a tall lanky man with a box to a parakeet. I can’t tell you how many times we “almost” caught it, till the time we actually did catch it, but I can say this; If we had a video camera we’d be $10,000 richer.

I walked around the neighborhood looking for anyone who may be out searching for a lost bird, questioned a few people and no one seemed to be missing our new friend. We ended up taking it into the house and fed it some finch food from the feeder where it ate like it hadn’t eaten in days. We decided that we should give it a name for the time being, and since Damian was the one who ultimately caught it, we thought that naturally we should name him Omen. The we got to thinking, we could keep it here for a few days and see if anyone posts anything around the neighborhood, but then again, it would be living in a Hefeweizen beer box, which unless you’re a German bird, is not a way for any down-home parakeet to live. Or, we could keep the bird, buy a cage, deal with its incessant chirping and bird shit until it finally drops dead , or we could take it to Petco where the lady said they would keep it for a few days in the back room and then if nobody claims it they will adopt it out. So, we chose option “C”, packed up Omen in a grocery bag and off to Petco we went.

I owned a yellow parakeet once in college, his name was Clem and he was a little bastard. Especially when he hung around with my roommate’s cockatiel “Chicken.” Clem and Chicken would fly around the house together and shit all over everything, while gnawing on the beautiful built-in buffet that was in our dining room…damn, if I only knew then what I know now. I eventually gave Clem away to this little Mexican boy that lived across the street where Clem was no longer Clem...Clem was now "Pedro."

I haven’t thought much about Clem, or Pedro, or whoever he became, and that makes me kind of sad…yeah…not really, but whatever. And to Clem and Omen, wherever you two may be, may your wings never get clipped, and your chirps never be silenced, here’s looking at you…cheers!

Wow, did this week fly by or what?! (Alternate Title: I'm a Slacker)

I really have nothing to say about my commitment, or lack thereof, to this blog in the recent week. I have been busy though, so I’ve decided to make a photo documentary of what I’ve been up to the past week.

Besides, work, which is the obvious, I decided to take Friday off to give myself a long weekend in order to do some things around the house. Now it’s Monday morning and I’m so exhausted I wish I would’ve taken off work to do nothing but sit around and relax…no such luck.

FRIDAY:

Friday was to be my day for antiquing. I planned on looking for an old bookcase to store books and things in my front entryway/sunroom. I went to multiple antique stores and although I didn’t find a bookcase I found something better…I found a mantle (see below).


Being the clever and crafty individual that I am I decided to purchase this antique mantle (which is shown upside down) from a cute little antique store on 50th and Xerxes, and **make it into a bookcase. The lady at the store was so impressed with my creativity that she was going to have one made for her daughter-in-law when she found another mantle, and she was even the interior designer! I know, I rock.

SATURDAY:

Being the charitable and giving (along with clever and crafty) individual that I am I spent Saturday with Josh, Lola, Chrissy, Luke and sweet baby Lance at the 32nd Annual Walk for the Animals to benefit the Animal Humane Society , which is the largest of it’s kind in the world, raising more money than any other for their organization. I managed to get $175 in pledges and score myself a nice t-shirt.
Here are Chrissy, Luke, Lance and I stopping for a photo-op at the half-way-point.


After our walk we took the top down in The Rollerskate and went for a little ride and then **headed home to do some gardening, mow the lawn, and plant some shrubs. Our neighbor across the street, who is a professional landscaper and owns his own landscaping company gave us some plants and shrubs that were left over from a job that he had recently done and some great advice as to where to plant them.

SUNDAY:

In the morning we took Lola for a bike ride around Lake Nokomis,which is right by our house, stopped at the Nokomis Coffee Shop for a chai tea, ran into Sandra and Laddie and chatted for a bit, and then it was time to head home to spend some time with my parents who decided to come up and hang with Josh and I for the day.
We ended up having lunch at Tuggs on St. Anthony Main, and going to Bachmans to find some plants and flowers for my flower boxes that Josh recently made for me.
This picture is of the front of the house, with the new shrubs, hydrangea and other cool plants we bought to make the house look ever so charming and cottagy.


I have yet to plant the flower boxes, I’m hoping to get those done this week sometime and fill them with flowers like these…


While Josh was busy with the yard, fertilizing, planting some more shrubs and such, I decided to do the neighborly thing and bake my favorite Rosemary-Semolina, Olive Oil and Sea Salt round to give to my neighbor to thank him for his help with our landscaping. However, I couldn’t bake just one, had to make another because when you spend five hours baking bread and can’t have a taste…well…that just sucks.



**Should read have Josh make it into a bookcase.
**Should read, headed home for Josh to mow the lawn, and plant some shrubs.

The Bush Controversy

I can’t quite decide if I’m writing this post because a). I’m an anal retentive shrub Nazi who really wants some sincere suggestions on how to handle this situation, or b). I have the sense of humor of a 16-year old boy.

So, here goes…

This is my neighbors bush.



As you can see, it’s clearly out of control with it’s branches and bushiness hanging out everywhere like some sort of crazy…well…bush.
Normally, people prune these things and make them all nice and straight, kind of like this:

Now, my yard is fairly neat, all my bushes are nice and trimmed because…well…that’s how I roll.

My question is, how do I politely ask my neighbor, who just happens to be female, to trim her bush? Do I say, “Hey, Tiffany, you’re bush is looking a little unruly, you may want to consider giving it a trim?” Or do I offer my bush trimming services and say, “You know Tiffany, I was planning on doing some trimming of my own, since I have my clippers out, I wouldn’t mind coming over and giving your bush a clipping.” OR I could have Josh go over there and give a males perspective and he could say “You know, as a man, we like our bushes nice and neat, maybe you should consider tidying that monster up a tad.”

Hmmmm…so many insulting and unnecessary options, I really don’t know where to begin.

What do you think?

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.

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.