200TH POST BITCHES!!!!!

First of all, I believe everyone should have an Andy Warhol inspired photo of themselves. This one was taken yesterday and was modified with my kick ass windows garden variety photo editor tonight. I invite everyone to do this to one of their photos and post it on their blog.

Do it now.

You know you want to. ( I.marzipan, this includes you...I feel abandoned and all alone...sniff sniff)

Now, on with the business at hand...In order to commemorate the 200th post on Swank or Skank I thought about writing an opinion blog on something important. Something like the war in Iraq, world hunger, or whether or not I feel our President is doing his job. I realized there are so many important issues that I should be considering, perhaps dissecting, or analyzing and while I thought of this I reached for my lipgloss.

ThatÂ’s right LIPGLOSS.

Which made me stop. At that very moment in my car I was surrounded my EIGHT count them, EIGHT tubes of lipgloss in assorted colors, shine, and flavors.

When did my life spiral out of control and when did I become so dependent on lipgloss?

And it's not JUST lipgloss...It's chap stick too, or as I affectionately call it, "chappy." If I don't have a tube of chappy on my person at all times you might as well forget about it as I will become cranky and non-functioning.

It can't be just ANY chappy either. It has to be Burt's Bees chappy.

Before I was introduced to Burt's Bees it was Carmex, which I believe was the gateway chappy to my addiction. Carmex is evil. It has that cooling menthol feeling that I liken to a sort of crack-induced haze that can only be relieved with another application. It's waxy-evil in a palm-sized jar, that's what it is.

I even have a process for application.

First, I apply the chappy, wait at least one minute, and then I apply the lipgloss.

Without them I feel naked.

Which brings me to the EIGHT TUBES of lipgloss that have found their way in my car. The eight tubes that took prescedence over evey other uber-important world topic that could have occupied my mind at the time.

I think I have a problem.

Twelve step program perhaps?

A bucket full of beautiful sorry.

He didn't get me flowers for our anniversary...Or a card for that matter...And I'll be the first to admit, I was upset. Not so much at the fact that he walked through the door empty handed...o.k. so it was totally at the fact that he walked through the door empty handed.

However, I soon got over it because (THREE DAYS LATER) not only did he buy me flowers, he bought me a BUCKET OF FLOWERS from the farmers market downtown, and a card that inside read, "Sorry for being a jackass...You make me a better person. You are the sweetest!"


That's right. He actually admitted he was being a jackass...In writing.

I love this.

In other news, I've lost 6 more pounds and am now fitting into my "skinny" jeans. Jeans I haven't been able to fit into for...Ahhhhh...Who am I kidding, I've NEVER been able to fit into these jeans until now. They're Abercrombie and Fitch ferchrissakes! They're not 30-year old jeans! They're pre-pubescent-I'm still in highschool and my metabolism is sky high therefore I can eat whatever the hell I want-jeans.

So, not only did my other half admit he was a jackass, he admitted it to me while I was wearing my skinny jeans.

Life is good.

Random Salad (Alternate Title:"No Mo Toothpaste In My Carry-on."

Last night on the evening news the bulleted rundown that appeared on my televison screen before the first commercial break went something like this:

-Terror Threat Foiled
-Heightened Terror Alert
-Passengers Left Waiting
-Aniston/Vaughn Engaged?
-Man Shot in Northeast Minneapolis waiting for Bus.

Seriously? The state of Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn’s relationship is more important than the poor guy gunned down at the bus stop? Really? I mean, I know being shot in Northeast has become a regular occourance lately, but COME ON! I suppose the director also had to play with whether to put that or the terror thing on first, because I know not being able to fly with lipgloss or toothpaste in my carry-on should totally be second to a Hollywood engagement…but maybe that’s just me.


Also, while sitting in traffic I saw an interesting homemade license plate cover on a navy blue Dodge Durango that read : “Geo. W. Suck’s.”

Have I been using the comma wrong when it comes to the word “sucks” all these years? Should it REALLY be “suck’s” or “sucks?” I suppose it depends on how you use the word “sucks.” But really, even if you use it correctly it should still be “sucks” because if it’s not used correctly and you’re writing it and somehow all of a sudden you become concerned about the English Language and grammer? Well, you have issues.

Speaking of having issues ( like needing glasses or a new pair of contact lenses) one of my finance managers told me that I was “The most beautiful bank rep that comes into his dealership” which totally made my day because I THOUGHT I was having a bad hair day…turns out it wasn’t so bad after all.

I hope everyone has a great weekend…enjoy the summer while it’s still here to enjoy!
Peace.

BMW:1 Wild Game: 0

Sunday while driving home from my sister’s lake home I killed what appeared to be a pheasant. No, NOT peasant…PHEASANT, like in BIRD, DUCK, WHATTHEFUCKEVER. I felt really bad and it appears my stint at being the Animal Whisperer is now officially over. I was actually following my niece and her husband, who were driving in front of me and managed to miss the whole flock of pheasants, but have no fear…I took care of that last one, or should I say, the blow from the windshield of my speeding automobile took care of that last one.

Now, for those of you who have been reading my blog, you’re probably asking yourself “BMW?” What the hell happened to The Rollerskate. Don’t panic. I still have The Rollerskate, but just a few short months ago there was a purchase of a used BMW X5 at the Jenni household for more cargo capacity and to also aid in polluting this great planet of ours. Global warming, global schwarming…fill me up with $65 worth of premium and let me do my work.

Oh, I should also mention that about 7 hours prior to the gruesome pheasant massacre I was given a speeding ticket while PASSING A DEPUTY going 75 in a 55 all while trying to show my 70-year-old mother how to use her cell phone.

Yup.

In my defense he was driving an unmarked navy Trailblazer and going WAY too slow.

Lucky for me he was kind enough to write the ticket down to 65 miles per hour, just 10 miles above the speed limit to not only save me some cash, but also to protect me from something along the lines of reckless driving. Which brings me to this question:

Why do they call it reckless driving when clearly you are capable of wrecking SO MUCH MORE when driving under it's definition?

Reckless is neither "WRECK" nor "LESS." Discuss.


As a matter of fact, I am thinking of taking this to court...can I enter the insanity plea as a defense for my speeding ticket? In all fairness I WAS trapped in a vehicle with my 70-year-old mother and her CELL PHONE ferchrissakes.

Seriously. Let me present "Exhibit A" and let you be the judge.

EXHIBIT A:
The actual conversation that occurred moments prior to the citation. I will be played by Reece Witherspoon and my mom by Phyliss Diller.

(Phone rings in backseat)
Mom: What's that noise?
Me: It sounds like your phone.
Mom: Well, how do you know it's not your phone?
Me: Because that's not my ringtone.
Mom: (Pause) What?
Me: Nevermind. It's your phone.
Mom: (Unbuckles seatbelt and reaches back for her purse, rumages through purse and finally takes out cell phone) A-HA! But it stopped ringing. How do I find out who called?
Me: Open it up and the number should still be there.
Mom: (Opens cell phone, covers cell phone with hand and trys to read the numbers from every feasable angle) 555-6778. Does that number ring a bell?
Me: Ah, no.
Mom: Well, I wonder who that could be? Remember the number 555-6778, 555-6778. Can you remember that and tell it back to me when I'm ready to dial? Because there's no way I can remember that.
Me: Sure, but if you just push the talk button twice it should call it back for you.
Mom: What?
Me: Nevermind. 555-6778.
Mom: HOLD ON! How do I get this number off the phone.
Me: Push the "End" button twice and it will clear it off. Just remember, whenever you're in doubt, always push the "End" button twice.
Mom: IT'S GONE!
Me: Right, now it's 555-6778.
Mom: SLOW DOWN! 5.5.5.
Me: 6778
Mom: 6.7.7.8 (pauses) It's saying it doesn't recognize the number. Maybe I dialed it wrong. 5.5.5.6.7.7.8.
Me: (Speeds the car up a little more)
Mom: NOW I CAN'T GET IT TO DIAL...WHY WON'T IT DIAL?
Me: (grabs the phone out of her hand and dials the number, hands her back the phone) There, now is it ringing?
Mom: (Screaming into the phone) HELLO? HELLO? DID YOU CALL ME? (pause) THIS IS JOAN...DID YOU CALL ME? (pause) WHO? WHO ARE YOU? (turns to look at me and adresses me) I can't hear them...I can't understand them...They said something about Stan...who is STAN? How do you turn up the volume? (Screaming back into the phone) HELLO? WHO? THIS IS JOAN.
Me: (Speeds up the car and passes blue Chevrolet Trailblazer in an effort to escape from the trainwreck that is happening between my mother and her cell phone.)
Mom, it could be the wrong number...you should just hang up.
Mom: (Pause gives me a blank stare)
Me: (grabbing the phone from her) Seriously. Hang. Up. The. Phone.
(glances into the rearview mirror and sees that the 5-0 is on to me) Shit.


So, what do you think? Insanity plea?

I'm still alive...

I plan on refraining from writing about the imaginary pair of testicles that I do not have (see last post) however, if I did have a pair now would be the time to use them.

Things in my world have been Crazy (Yes, with a "Capital C"). You see we have this new program at work that has taken off like wildfire and has kept me extremely busy with phone calls day and night and visiting clients throughout the state of MN in 100 degree heat that has left me, well, exhausted.

I'm tired. Period. Actually, my sister bought me this awesome deep tissue massage that is calling my name, but I don't have time to get it done. It's like it's at my finger tips, just out of my reach. So frustrating.

To add insult to injury I have to work tomorrow. Albeit at home buying deals, it's still work and takes a HUGE chunk out of what should be my well-earned two-day weekend and turns it into a day and a half weekend. Blah.

I shouldn't complain. I'll stop complaining. I'm doing really well and getting paid equally as well for all my hard work, I just wish sometimes these things would come easier. You know?

GO TWINS!

That's all.

Consumerism: It’s got me by the balls.

Figuratively speaking of course, that’s if I had them…balls that is. I recently fell into Best Buy’s 0% financing for 18 months scheme, and used it to buy myself a nice 32 inch Samsung LCD HGTV. Now keep in mind, I tend to shy away from purchasing things with acronyms, and things that are electronic and have acronyms…MULTIPLE ACRYNOMS…well, they just scare the hell out of me.

I went in with good intentions to spend only $1600 on a television that would not only allow me to view my favorite programs in a new light, but also to help me save space. However, I left spending just over two grand on the tv and it’s “accessories” like a wall mount, high-definition “Monster Cable”, and four-year in home warranty (note: you can ALWAYS sell a salesperson).

Now you may ask, “Was it worth it?”

HELL YEA IT WAS WORTH IT!


Not only can I see every blemish on my favorite nightly newscaster, but I saved myself a TON of space where my old television sat.

I’ll be the first to admit I was feeling a teeeennnyyy bit guilty as I was in my car waiting for the salesperson to bring it outside. I mean, I have ZERO credit card debt and like to pay for things in cash. Actually, the conversation between Josh and I went something like this:

Je(Jenni): Wow, Two-thousand dollars for a TV.
Jo(Josh): Yeah, wow.
Je: But I DID get 10% off the TV, and 20% off the cable, and the wall mount was only like $125.
Jo: Yeah.
Je: And the warranty is really a must have…I mean, you HAVE to have one with everything that can go wrong with the thing.
Jo: Yeah.
Je: And 0% for eighteen months! Shit! They’re practically GIVING it away!
Jo: (Pause) Totally.

That’s my reasoning…”They’re practically giving it away.”

Shut up. My reasoning is working, the television is mounted, the cables are buried behind the wall, and there’s no turning back.

Yup, got me by the balls….er….whatever, you know what I mean.

Knitting: Because That's How I Roll.

EXHIBIT A:


So, as you all know from reading my last post, I learned how to knit. I know what you’re all thinking, you’re thinking, “Wow, not only can she compose a Top Ten List to beat the band, but she can also knit…this chick is AMAZING.” And of course you’re right. However, I have found that knitting has become a tad bit addicting, not addicting to the point where I need to have my knitting needles by my side 24/7, but addicting to the point where when I sit down with them in my hand…well…it’s kinda hard to stop.

You see, once you get the logistics down, knitting is pretty mindless. You can just sit there and allow your mind to go blank as you fashion a scarf (see "Exhibit A"), bag, potholder, or hat. So, not only is it like doing nothing, it’s like doing nothing while actually getting something done.

This comes in especially handy at the end of a busy day. I work in an industry where I have to be quick witted and overcome objections on a daily basis, if I can’t do that I’ll get eaten alive, therefore, from 8:00 to 6:00 my mind is typically running a mile a minute and to be able to come home, and just shut down is welcome. Very welcome.

So, I invite you all to give it a try. It’s harmless and only semi addicting. Come on. Everyone’s doing it. Seriously. You know you want to.

(Yes, I know it's 93 degrees outside and I'm wearing a scarf in the above photo, however I am not wearing the scarf on a regular basis, this was just for modeling purposes...and for days like this)

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.