Your Scissors and My Cervix: A Love Story

First and foremost, I’d like to address my recent blogging absence. As is true in most facets of my life, without fail I will start a hobby and just as I'm starting to get good at it, I will then abandon it without warning. It's been a full two weeks since my last blog entry, and I’m surprised I haven’t lost any readers yet. Needless to say I've obviously been quite busy between the Thanksgiving holiday, my Ten Year High School Reunion and a host of other engagements, therefore I just haven’t had the time. Plenty of blogging inspiration, just no time to write it all down for your viewing pleasure. Lucky for you, I'm no longer on vacation and now have company time to do so! So please accept my sincerest apologies. I won’t let it happen again.

With that said, since I didn’t lose any followers over the past two weeks, I figure I might as well try my hardest to lose them now. DISCLAIMER: I'm about to get pretty deep into some "Womanly Stuff" - all for the sake of humor, of course - so please stop reading now if you’re opposed to the sensitive subject matter. You’ve been forewarned.

As I alluded to above, I recently had a medical “procedure” performed. I’m not going to go into too much detail about the actual procedure itself since my dad reads this blog. Call me crazy, but I’d prefer to continue the habit of looking him in the eye when I see him. I’m sure most of the females who are reading this are pretty in tune with what procedure I'm talking about, but if not, I've included some helpful hints in picture format.

My procedure involved the use of THIS:

And THESE:

And scariest of all, THESE:

All served with a side of utter humiliation.

My doctor’s office called a few weeks ago to inform me that I needed to return after my annual physical for further “investigation” and that I needed to schedule the appointment with a doctor for the procedure. I’d never before seen an actual doctor at this location, only a Nurse Practitioner, so the receptionist was kind enough to select a doctor for me on my behalf.  I hung up the phone satisfied with her selection of a doctor for me – Dr. McNeer – and imagined a pleasant procedure, abetted by an older, ruddy cheeked, jolly Irish lass with a hearty brogue. I waited out the few days patiently for my appointment, and by "patiently" I mean I drilled everyone I know for information about what I was about to experience. It appears that the procedure itself is pretty standard in the world of “womenry”, as most everyone I’ve talked to has had a similar experience, but I was still nervous nonetheless. I don’t like anyone poking and prodding in my nether regions without buying me dinner first. Yes, I just went there with the requisite gynecology “buy me dinner first” joke. 

I’m so predictable.

On the day of the appointment, my mom came with me in the exam room, armed with her clipboard of questions and a myriad of printed out pages from WebMD. As my mother launched her PowerPoint presentation about common medical malpractice and negligent risks, she drilled the nurse with incessant questions about my "condition". Namely, "IS SHE STILL GONNA BE ABLE TO GIVE ME GRANDBABIES!?" When, and only when, my mother was satisfied in the repeated assurances by the nurse that contrary to her vast internet medical research her first born daughter was not at risk of dying right then and there on the exam table, did the two finally leave me alone in the exam room to get ready for the procedure. So there I sat on the exam table, naked from the waist down (save for my socks and a paper sheet folded over my lap), swinging my (unshaven) legs and reading about summer trends in an outdated US Weekly.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

A strong, sturdy knock.

A confident knock.

A MANLY knock.

“Come in!” I yelled out in my most singsong “you’re about to see me naked” voice.

The door opens with a click, and then I hear a booming male voice from the other side of the curtain.

"Hi Jennifer, I’m Dr. Robert McNeer." He rounds the curtain and faces me, his outstretched hand awaiting mine.

Oh my friggen lord.

“Um. Hello.” I manage to eek out as I limply shake his hand. My mind starts racing... “Sir, I think you’ve taken a wrong turn. YOU'RE IN THE WRONG ROOM, SIR. WRONG ROOM. We’ve got WOMEN business going on in here. Where is your WIFE, Dr. Roberta McNeer with her ruddy cheeks and Irish brogue?”

It never even crossed my mind that my doctor might be the opposite sex. I’ve never before seen a male doctor, and I was particularly shaken about having a male doctor for this particular procecure which involved having a massive microscope akin to the Hubble Telescope inserted into my body, followed by several biopsies on my cervix. What did this man know about cervixes? (cervixi?) I quickly scanned the room for exits with my peripherals. I frantically tried to determine how to best make my getaway, albeit a naked from the waist down getaway, although looking back I’m sure I could have fashioned the paper sheet to look like a wrap dress if I tried real hard. Sadly, I realized that even if I did manage to escape the exam room, my mother would block my exit from the building like a linebacker, and drag me back in to Dr. McNeer by the ear shouting all the while "Oh no you don't! I WANT GRANDBABIES!".

Escape not being an option, I decided to just grin and bear it. I cursed myself for not shaving my legs that morning. Women doctor's understand that sort of thing! It’s winter for chrissakes! Razor cartridges are expensive! In the same thought, I quietly thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t taken my boyfriend’s suggestion of shaving a lightening bolt into my crotch. How embarrassing would that have been? Totally would have sent the wrong message to Dr. McNeer about the type of person who lay legs up in the air in stirrups before him. But a WOMAN doctor would understand my need for individuality.

So I’ll spare you the rest of the awkward procedure, save for the fact that Dr. McNeer was cheerful and pleasant, totally professional, and even tried to make a few jokes here and there. Unfortunately I was still miffed at the recent turn of events, therefore I was having none of it. I was simply not interested in making pleasantries. Dr. McNeer took a couple of biopsies, and informed me that for the most part “everything looked good up there”.

I was confused.

Again, this was a MALE doctor, so when he said "Everything looked good up there" did he mean everything looked good up there as in “I’m healthy” or everything looked good up there, as in “he wanted to be seeing more of it?”

I debated slapping him, but thought better of it. One will never know his true intentions, I guess.

Shoeless, and still buttoning my jeans, I rushed out of the exam room and into the waiting area where my mother sat chewing her fingernails in wait. I grabbed the magazine from her hands, threw it on the chair next to her,  pulled her out of her seat by the coat sleeve, and whispered “Let's go. NOW.” through gritted teeth. Looking back, I don't suppose it would have looked any different had I been holding a gun to her back.

Once in the safety of my car, I called my boyfriend and told him all the lurid details about having been violated by a man. Of course he wanted to know immediately how this procedure would affect him personally, so the first question out of his mouth was – excuse me – SECOND question (the first question was “so did he wear a lighted miners hat?), was "so when can we, you know, do IT again".

I broke the news that it would be a good seven days before we could, you know, do IT again.

To which he replied “Oh good, so basically nothing will change”.

I hate men.

UPDATE: My boyfriend is defective

This is Matt's father's email response to my earlier post about Matt's night terrors. Seems there's a bit of family history here. Funny. I don't recall ever having been made aware that I might spend my nights fending for my life while I slept in my own bed.

Hey Jen,

I have to admit he gets that gene from me. I outgrew it before I actually killed anyone or more likely hurt myself. When Matt lived at home, he would wake us all up and I would have to go into his room to try and settle the madman down. By the age of 16 he was already bigger and stronger than me and at that age I'm sure he would have loved to take a swing at me and "pretend" he was sleeping. His brother Mike was useless as he was usually cowering in his bed with the covers pulled over his head, and his mom would simply cheer me on from the safety of our bedroom.

Jen, this is why you're treated like royalty when you come to the C-Family household. We look at you as if you are a decorated soldier serving in Iraq. Lots of down time with danger lurking around every corner.

If it's any consolation, I outgrew it at just about his age. I think you can also take solace in the fact that if he didn't attack me when he was a teenager you should be pretty safe.

Just remember, sleep with one eye open. 

Hey thanks Matt's Dad! I appreciate the advice! Very timely of you too, I must say. Not only can I not hang coats or shirts in the bedroom -- I once woke up to find Matt tackling an "intruder", turns out it was a perfectly non-threatening and unarmed Michael Kors jacket hanging over my bedroom door -- but now I have to remove all the friggen walls in my bedroom too. Lovely.

Sleep tight everyone!

My boyfriend is defective

I’m a little tired today.

Not terribly unusual for a Monday but today's a little different. Why you ask? Well I'll tell you.

At 3:00 a.m. I was in a blissful state of REM sleep when out of nowhere, my boyfriend bolted up to a sitting position from a dead sleep and in a panic started repeatedly screaming "I CAN'T FEEL MY HANDS" and flapping them about. I then in turn woke up in a panic and started shrieking and slapping him away from me because I was half awake and had no idea what the fuck was happening. He then jumped out of the bed – I assumed to escape my open handed punches - and started repeatedly beating his hands against my wall. Not sure why. Maybe to prove he still had them? To get the feeling back? It’s all a mystery to me.

So there I was, cowering in fear on my side of the bed absolutely in shock over what I was witnessing. I'm gripping my pillow for protection, and peeking out over the top of it because I literally can not look away from the horror that is taking place before my eyes. I'm trying to shake off the haze of sleep to make sense of it all, and for a couple seconds I even convinced myself I was still dreaming, as there just couldn't be another explanation for this: My boyfriend is screaming "he can't feel his hands" and beating up my wall at 3:00 in the morning. I was a little afraid that he’d grow tired of the wall since it didn’t seem to be putting up much of a fight, and instead try beating his hands against my face, when out of sheer luck my incessant screaming seemed to halfway rouse him. He then stops mid-scream, turns, looks directly at me and yells at the top of his lungs “WHAT THE FUCK JENN! SOMEONE TOOK MY HANDS! LET’S SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN SOMEONE TAKES YOUR HANDS" and with an irritated huff, he climbs back into bed and falls immediately back into a blissful sleep - hands happily attached where they should be - like it never even happened.

Great. How typical that somehow, of course, I’m the asshole in all this. How unsympathetic of me. Someone took my poor boyfriend's hands and all I can do is yell at him to stop beating his arm stubs against my totally non-threatening wall.

I myself had a little trouble falling back asleep after all that excitement. Not to mention I figured I should probably just stay awake in case one of the neighbors heard all the screaming and hitting and called the police to report a domestic altercation. What would I even say? "Oh, sorry about that officer... someone stole my boyfriend's hands. You know how it goes. My apologies. Have a good night now, you hear?"

The best part is that he remembers none of it this morning. Not a damned thing.

So I just wanted to give a big "thanks for the heads up" to his family for forewarning me that is the potential that my boyfriend could inadvertently murder me in my sleep by smothering me with my own pillow should he someday dream that I'm a ninja cornflake come to life on a mission to kill his family.

Like i don't have enough to worry about.

I Aim to Please

You win, random blog hits. You win.

After months of random “two pump chump” blog viewers, I’m throwing in the white towel. I figure that since you’re here, I mine as well give you what you’re looking for:

Recipe for Niffles
Ingredients are eggs, flour and water or milk. Slightly beat the eggs, then add tablespoon of water (or milk) and add flour a little at a time until somewhat stiff. Form mixture into a long noodle, and slice off dumpling sized pieces into boiling soup or stew, cover and let cook. Allow to cook until the inside of niffle looks like bread when sliced open.

As an alternative, create niffles per instructions above, but instead of using in soup, pan fry niffles in darkened butter and serve along with sour kraut sweetened with brown sugar, sliced pork loin with granny smith apples, or hot dogs.

I mean really, who knew that a “niffle” was a German food item? I certainly did not. For if I had this knowledge prior to my blog creation, then chances are I probably wouldn’t have named my blog Stiff Niffles, nor would I have bought the domain stiffniffles.com, etc. Boy do I have egg on my face. How does one come across such information about an obscure German dumpling type soup accoutrement? Well, I’m guessing the same way people keep finding my blog. By googling the word “niffle”. GENIUS! I wish I had thought to do that! But let’s be honest, I’m trying to build a brand here! Who has the time to conduct such incalculable, immeasurable amounts of research while trying to build an empire from the ground up? Googling the word “niffle” would take what, like two minutes? I just don’t have that kind of time.

So needless to say, someone in the Marketing Department is getting fired.

Funny thing is, I probably would never have caught on if not for my Site Meter stats informing me that a shit ton of people have been inadvertently clicking on my website looking for a recipe… a recipe for “stiff” niffles no less. So not only is a “niffle” a food item, but a “stiff niffle” is a method of preparing said niffles. All these misinformed, lost souls wandering around the blogosphere looking for a niffle recipe have been unintentionally stumbling across my website, and undoubtedly leaving disappointed. I just can't have that. So I concede.

Have it at Recipe Seekers! But while you're here why don't kick off you shoes and stay awhile? Are you sure I can't interest you in a story about bugs in the bathroom, or maybe you'd like an heirloom pasta sauce recipe to go with your niffles? Please? It's only fair.You've come this far, now READ MY SHIT.

Thanking you in advance,

Jennifer Martin
Head Chef
Stiff Niffles, Inc.

How do you like your eggs? Unfertilized.

Like most almost-thirty-but-not-quite year olds, I’m grappling with the fact that my youth is more or less behind me. Seemingly out of nowhere, I’ve found myself at the age where I need to double-time it in making plans for my future and settling down with a good job, a great man, and an even better nanny. Lucky for me I’ve always looked younger than my age, so I guess my sedentary lifestyle and steady diet of cheap wine, fast food and cigarettes has done me well. Or so I thought.

Dun dun dun…

About a month ago I was standing in line at my favorite sub shop. It must have been a half day for the local school system, because standing before me in line was about 15 oversized backpacks attached to a group of 13 year old boys. Immediately, I found myself irritated. Like most hormonal, Peter Brady sounding boys their age, they were pushing and shoving one another in line, counting pennies to pay for their plate of mozzarella sticks, swearing loudly so that the rest of us customers in line could see how “mature” they were, and most annoyingly of all– they were standing between me and my turkey pocket and my 30 minute lunch break was rapidly dwindling.

The one kid immediately in front of me is next up in line. Before placing his order, he turns his head briefly to scan the room.  When he sees me he does a double take and stares at me, eyes wide, for about thirty seconds. Now I don’t like people staring at me. I don’t even like babies staring at me, but I cut them some slack because they don’t know any better. For some reason, my angry vibe seems lost on them. But for some reason it didn't seem lost on this kid. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but thirty seconds is a long freaking time for a stranger less than a foot away to stare, mouth agape directly at your face, so in the awkwardness that resulted from the lack of his social skills, I forced a closed mouth smile and raised my eyebrows as if to say “can I help you?”. Now not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but I occasionally get a double take from the opposite sex, though I’ve never experienced one from one as young as these kids. Regardless. I rolled with it, and I'll admit my near-thirty year old self was maybe even a little pleased. "I still got it,” I thought to myself’. “Oh yeah, I’m a hot bitch”.

Kid In Front of Me in Line whispers to one of his friends, and the friend turns around and looks at me as well. Now this is just out of control. Jesus Christ, I know I’m really, really, really, really, good looking, but let’s not make it so obviously here, kids. You guys have a lot to learn till the days when you’re grinding all up on those hoes at your local discotheque. (See, I’m still in the know . I’m hip to the jive.)

Sigh. It appears it’s time for me to teach these kids a life lesson.

Before I can spout a randomized selection of my vast and infinite knowledge on the subject of courtship and dating within your age group, Kid in Front of Me in Line removes the lollipop from his mouth, smiles at me, and says the following:

Are you Zach’s mom?

I take a step back as though I’ve been slapped. I stand there stunned, eyes blinking and slack jawed  trying to fully digest the weight of the insult he has just hurled at me. I don’t think I’d be any more offended if he had just said “Hey there ugly. Just a heads up that your 401k’s SHIT and you’re wasting your college degree toiling away at a thankless job. Me and my buddies tag teamed your grandma last weekend, and later on we’re going to beat up your disabled father for kicks.”

The Little Shit in Front of Me in Line was patiently waiting a response. When I finally regained my composure, I finally said "No, I'm not Zach's mom". 

Here's what I really wanted to say: "No,you little PUKE, I’m not Zach’s mom. Do I look old enough to have a kid your age? What the EFF is wrong with you. Now, granted I don't know what Zach's mom looks like, but I imagine she must be breathtaking. But, she's gotta be a hell of a lot older than me. Put on some freaking glasses and you’ll see that I’m in my goddamned PRIME. Now I suggest you put that freaking lollipop back in your mouth, turn the eff around, get your mozzarella sticks and get the hell out of here. And pull your friggen pants up, you little twerp."

So I leave the store. Ego totally deflated. As much as I didn’t want a 13 year old kid to undress me with his eyes, I certainly didn’t want him to think I was his friend’s mom. Later on I invested in some age defying eye cream and came to terms with the inevitable onset of premature old age.

Let’s fast forward a month or so, shall we?

Its Halloween night. Matt and I are in my Jeep on our way to a Halloween Party. I’m dressed up as a sheriff and Matt is sitting in my passenger’s seat beside me, sulking at the fact that I’ve made him wear a bright orange onesie as my “escaped con” costume counterpart. He was so orange, he probably would have drawn less attention to himself if he arrived at the party bare-assed naked. (I made it up to him by frisking and arresting him later, but that’s another conversation for another time.)

Wicked Orange 

I make a quick stop at a convenience store to buy some cigarettes, and as I pull up out front, two shaving cream covered kids wearing backpacks walk by my car. They see my sheriff badge from my car window and do a double take before realizing it’s only a costume. I jokingly say to Matt, “Wow, they must of thought I was going to arrest them for the carton of eggs you know they have stashed in their backpacks. Stupid kids.” Matt says nothing as he’s still fuming about he orange onesie. I sigh as I open the door, tip my sheriff hat, and make a “don’t escape now, ya hear” joke as I step out of my car and walk into the convenience store.

Surprise, surprise… standing before me in line are the two shaving cream covered kids. They’re patiently awaiting their turn to purchase two cartons of extra large jumbo eggs. Baking a cake, I presume. Again, I’m immediately irritated. (Are you sensing a pattern here?) As kid #1 puts his stash on the counter to pay for it, Kid #2 quickly scans the store for authority figures. He turns around and sees me. He does a double take, nudges his friend, and whispers something in his ear. His friend turns and looks at me, shrugs his shoulders and continues paying for his dairy products.

Now I’m confused. There’s no way this kid thinks I’m really a cop... I have fishnets on for chrissakes! So obviously I narrow down the other plausible explanations, and realize that he just thinks I’m smoking hot and wanted to point me out to his friend. I can dig that. Although, he does look oddly familiar....

Then he turns and opens his mouth.

What do you think he says?

Yup. You guessed it.

ARE YOU ZACH’S MOM?

I couldn't even friggen believe it. Same freaking kid, once again standing in front of me in line, once again asking me the same freaking question, once again DEFLATING MY FRIGGEN EGO. I figured the anti-aging cream would have kicked in by now.

I finish making my purchase, and walk out to my car to share the story with my still-sulking, citrus-hued boyfriend. His response?

"Damn, I want to see Zach's mom".

Whine Flu

I’ve never been one to buy into the hysteria of the myriad of farm-animal bred diseases that traverse their way around the globe and back again. I’ve never feared e.coli, bird flu, mad cow disease or any of those things you read about on CNN.com under the headline "FARMAGEDDON" in the morning when you’re drinking your coffee at work and have the internet open, shielded by an excel spreadsheet that you can quickly click on to pretend you’re actually working should the boss walk by. (Holy run on sentence!) I have better things to worry about: Making rent on time, for example. Hoping Shaw's doesn't cash my grocery check before my direct deposit takes effect. How far I can get once the red "low fuel indicator" light appears. (Anyone else sense a common theme here?) Anyway, to be honest the only thing that’s ever truly frightened me is the Ebola Virus, and that just because it is some SCARY SHIT. But odds are that since I’m not living in a tent in sub-Saharan Africa, beating on drums and hunting down warthogs for protein, I’m pretty confident I'm not going to start hemorrhaging out of my orifices any time soon. With the more localized illnesses – Swine Flu specifically, I just figure that it’s going to strike down some old guy living in a trailer in Rural Alabama before it gets to me. I’m a Young Urban Professional for chrissakes. I have health insurance, a flexible spending account, and I take a One-A-Day like every other day. I'm a vision of health and vitality.

This weekend I had my sister visiting for the weekend as a house guest. We did all those sisterly type things you rarely see outside of a Candace Cameron Lifetime Movie: I donned my "I'm the big sister shirt", and she wore her matching "I'm the little sister" one while we baked brownies in the kitchen, both sampling the batter from the same spoon. We shared a rootbeer float or two, and when she got chilly she borrowed a sweatshirt from me. We made a makeshift tent in my living room and huddled together while we told ghost stories and made smores in the fireplace. Then, when it was time to retire for the night, we both climbed into my bed with our matching pj's and snuggled up against one another as we drifted off to sleep. We braided each others hair, shared make up, borrowed each others clothes, and prank called boys we liked. We hugged and kissed one another goodbye when it was time for her to leave, etc. You know, all those things you do when there’s no fear of impending doom of passing on disease ridden germs to one another. She’s my sister for chrissakes. We share the same DNA. (Although mine's better.)

Sunday night, Sam complained of a bit of fatigue but I just figured it was because she was worn out from all the sisterly love and bonding we shared over the weekend. The next morning, she was well enough to go to school. By 10:00 she was in the nurse’s office complaining of feeling ill. By 10:02 she had a temperature of 101, by 10:03 she was quarantined with a face mask. By 10:05 she was dismissed. A couple hours later her temperature had skyrocketed to 103, and her primary care doctor officially diagnosed her with the Swine Flu.

That's a little too close to home for my liking.

So needless to say, I’m taking a brief respite from drawing up my will to compose this last blog entry. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but per my WebMD self-diagnosis, it seems I’m one of the unfortunate souls who are destined to contract a brand new, never seen before, incurable strain of the disease. Granted I have yet to get it, but I assure you when I do, the brain tumor I’ve also self-diagnosed myself with will counteract with the virus and it will manifest itself to cause a near-immediate and violent death. I am SO not looking forward to it. If there’s anything of mine that you’d like to have for your own when I pass, please have your people call my people to make arrangements. Furthermore, I have a few loose ends I'd like to tie up, and would also like to outline a few things I've been thinking about in regards to how I'd like to be remembered after I'm gone.

Since it's Fall here in New England, I think it's seasonally appropriate that I be waked in my Hudson Jeans and new suede boots. I’ve decided Ill leave the sweater choice to mom’s discretion, but I would like something cashmere that brings out my eyes. Just promise me it won’t come from the Macy’s clearance rack. Please? I know you just love a bargain, but for the love of god, I only get to die once, and I think I have a right to look ravishing when I do it.

And I've been thinking... I think the color palette of the event should be comprised mainly of black, grays and muted peach tones. I don’t know, it just seems very “H1N1-y” to me, don’t you think? Guests should work their funeral ensembles around this color scheme. If I may make a suggestion, I know Alexander McQueen has some wicked funeral wear out this season. One of his black, silk, tuxedo-style pantsuits paired with a pair of peach toned, patent leather Jimmy Choo's would be devine. I'd be applauding you from my cloud above.

Also, please be advised that it's expected of you to bring a little something to leave in my casket that reminds you of me. A token of your affection, so to speak. Something from the heart would be ideal, though be forewarned all items will need to be screened for appropriateness and cleared through me prior to my death. I want to make sure they send the right kind of message to the big guy about the sort of person he's got standing before him applying for residency up there in H-town. I imagine it'll be intimidating as it is, so please no cigarettes or bottles of Jagermeister, or anything of the sort. It's just not the impression I'm trying to make as I’m being atoned for my sins. Not to mention it’s simply too caucasian debris, and I plan to develop a taste for dirty martinis in the afterlife since I’ll be hanging out primarily with the Rat Pack on their cloud. I’d also like to make a special request that Sam bring my favorite North Face hoodie to leave in my casket for me to wear as I make my big post mortem debut. I imagine it might get chilly as I stand behind the velvet rope awaiting clearance from the big guy with the clipboard to stamp my hand and let me pass through the pearly gates. And I'd be remiss if i did not add that since one can never really be too prepared for this sort of thing, I might want to be ready for the alternative? While I'm pretty sure I'll be heading north upon my departure from earth, I still haven't gotten the Travelocity confirmation email. To be on the safe side, you may want to throw in a bikini and some sunscreen just in case my last confession didn't cover all the bases. I really freaking hope I'm not headed to an eternity of woe and anguish in fire and brimstone. **Crosses fingers**

So where were we?

Oh yes, the soundtrack. Ideally, my preference would be to have that dead Hawaiian guy' version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" playing as guests arrive for mourning. For some reason I can just see the doors opening as the camera pans out and the flock of mourners ascend the stairs to where I lie in eternal wait.  Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” should be playing faintly in the background as my guests are gingerly placing their flowers (rare orchids only, please) atop my bedazzled casket. I guess in theory any song that brings to mind the headstrong, enigmatic, independent woman I once was will do fine. If there is a church service, any of the requisite Jesus Jams will do just fine - Taste & See, Hosanna, and Hallelujah. My one special request... No Sarah McLachlan angel music crap is to be played at anytime during the event. Too cliché.

As for the menu selections, I think it would very tongue in cheek if we served scallops wrapped in bacon at the afterparty? Maybe some pork rinds, teeny ham salad canapes, and other swine type entrees? I think it would be deliciously ironic and people would just Eat. It. Up. Make sure to give me credit for the idea though so people can remark about how wickedly dark my sense of humor is. It would be best if when they said this, they choked back an anguished sob into the tiny peach napkin used to hold the hors d'oeuvres, as though just realizing the weight of my absence from their existence.

Perfection.

And last but not least... My dearest Matthew. Nobody is going to expect too much from you during the event, as you're going to be too enraptured by your own anguish and crippling grief over the loss of your beloved soulmate. Therefore, it should be a pretty easy ride for you the next couple of days. You're welcome. With that said, I don't think it's too much to ask the following of you. I think it would speak volumes about the "once in a lifetime" love we shared and your devastating loss if while overcome with emotion and a fit of wracking sobs you had to be pulled away from the casket? Or maybe as I’m being lowered into the ground you can hurl yourself over the edge, crying out“I want to go with you!” or something to that effect? (Don't worry about falling six feet down, someone is bound to grab you and pull you back). It’s totally your call whichever you decide to do. Just take solace in knowing I’ll be smiling down at you, pleased with either choice you think would be more of a tearjerker for my fans guests. You're such a good sport. It's almost a shame to leave you behind. Maybe I'll cough all over your face later so you can come with me.

Anywho, I should probably get a move on with dying and all that. So without further adieu, I bid you farewell my dearest eight regular blog readers (and the gaggle of others who sometimes click on here looking for a meatball recipe). I leave you with this Irish blessing to remember me by: May the wind always be at your back and the sun not in your eyes or some shit like that. I'd google the real saying, but I'm pressed for time as I clearly have a lot to plan for the big event. Based on the way my throat is feeling **insert dry, hacking cough here** it looks like I may need to move the date up a couple of days! Things can never go according to schedule. Story of my (soon to be over) life.

My Latest Obsession: Picnik.com

I want to start off by saying that I usually don't take the time to write about the positive experiences I've had with products and/or companies. I liken myself to be more of a "bitch and moan" type of person, and therefore I take great pride in composing seething, anger fueled rants about the poor experiences and shitty customer service I've encountered in my travels. God helpeth thee peon who doth been subjecteth to the wrath of my angry email to management, because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned by a Panera Turkey Bacon Bravo sandwich suspiciously devoid of bacon.

With that said, I sometimes feel as though my "positive" reviews come across like bad advertisements. They mine as well shout to my audience "RE:RE:FW:RE: increase your penis size!". Simply put, I'm just not good at it. Even still, I took the time to write a positive review today because I honestly feel that I would be doing an injustice to the E-Community if I didn't clue you in to my latest obsession: www.picnik.com. Folks, get ready to digitally increase your penis size.

All of my digital photo taking, facebook album creating, adult life, I've been on the hunt for a user friendly, yet comprehensive photo editing site. I'm pretty amateur with photo editing, though I consider myself to be pretty well versed in the art of cropping, and lord knows I can remove red eye with the best of them. But let's face it - we've all had pictures ruined by the occasional outbreak of adult onset acne, or teeth that were less than pearly white. I really don't have the time or the patience to learn photoshop techniques like applying vector masks or layers to fix my photos, and I'd much prefer to click a button that simply says "fix blemish" or "whiten teeth". It's so simple, yet so illusive. Til now, I'm embarrassed to say that I've been relegated to removing zits from my photos with Paint.

Well folks, I stand before you today, elated to announce that the geniuses (geniusi?) over at Picnik have finally answered my prayers. Their website takes the need for a graphic design background out of the equation and makes photo editing a snap. You can enhance your pictures with user friendly tools like eye brighten, teeth whiten, etc. You can even add spray tans, and highlights if you feel so inclined. My favorite part of all?- You can pull your photos right from Facebook (or MySpace, Picasa, Flikr, etc.) edit them, and then upload them right back to where they were. Here's an example of a picture that I played around with last night:

Matt and I with our natural, god given, stunning good looks.

Same pic, just way over-edited becuase I tried every single touch up feature the site offers

  And finally... Matt and I as zombie vampires. Because I got bored and tried to turn him into Edward.

Within five minutes of playing around on the website I was hooked. They reel you in by allowing you to play with all the features, including the more advanced "premium membership features" as part of the site, but the only thing is that you can't save the pictures you've edited with premium features until you join and pay for the premium membership. Which I did. Immediately. The way I see it, the yearly membership is only like $25 a year, which breaks down to $2.08 a month. $2.08 a month is a lot cheaper than the $19.99 a month I'm currently paying for my gym membership. And who needs a gym membership when I have thigh slimming capabilities via Picnik?

Many, many thanks Picnik. I look forward to many years of deceiving all my Facebook friends with my digitally enhanced photos.

P.S. I'm not being paid for this, I just truly love the website. Come on, my blog averages like 8 hits a day. Get with it now, be serious.

Jennifer Martin Likes This

I’m going to start this note with a disclaimer that I am not pointing any fingers at any one person in particular, and instead I am just making a generalization based on my casual observance (e-stalking) and personal participation (rampant addiction) of a certain social networking site we call Facebook. It is meant to be taken in jest, and if you find yourself getting offended, then chances are YOU could be a Chronic Liker.

Fellow Facebookers, I would like to call attention to an issue that I believe is single-handedly undermining the very foundation of our favorite screw off at work past-time, and that is Chronic Liking. Chronic Liking (also known as Rampant Liking, or Overliking) is defined as continuously “liking” stuff that is not worthy of being liked. When the “like” button is abused, it begins to lose its effectiveness. From a personal perspective, while I do not consider myself to be anti-like button, I do use it as I would use garlic and that is sparingly. Not everything tastes good with garlic, as not every status update is worthy of being “liked”. A little goes a long way, my friends.

 I'm conservative with my likes. I save them for the well deserved posts… The witty ones, the well thought-out ones that literally make me laugh out loud, and those that make a strong statement that I wholeheartedly agree with. Sometimes, I even go there and “like” the ones where you wouldn’t expect a like i.e. “I’m having the worst day ever” or “My dog just died” just because I’m an asshole like that. If you post something that falls into the above categories, you can expect a like from this kid. Less is more my friends. Trust me, when I get a “like” out of someone who rarely “likes” things, I am honored, flattered and a little humbled.

Now don't get me wrong, I like stuff. I like a lot of stuff. I like when it’s sunny and 80 degrees on my day off, I like when I reach in my pocket and find a $20 I’d long forgotten about, and I like when my boyfriend brings me flowers for no reason. Conversely, I don’t particularly “dislike” that you’re “sick of all this rain!”, or that you’re “having drinks at the Border”, or that you “just got a free Iced Coffee at Dunkin’s and it’s not even Free Iced Coffee at Dunkin’s Day!” but I don’t really “like” it enough to have to prove it to you by clicking the “Jennifer Martin likes this” radio button. Trust me. If I tell you I’m “having dinner at dads”, I assure you I'm not going to be offended if you don’t “like” it. Seriously, it’s ok. I’m just keeping you posted.

If you suspect yourself of being a Chronic Liker, I suggest trying to keep in mind the “Less is More" mantra above, or by following what I’ve provisionally titled the Facebook Liking 1% Rule. If you have 500 facebook friends, then you should only dole out 5 likes a day. Next time a new generic status update saying something along the lines of “T.G.I.F.!!” shows up in your newsfeed, and you find yourself thinking “I should click “like” so that so-and-so is aware that I am ALSO happy it’s Friday” just remember that we’re ALL happy it’s Friday. If your mouse pointer is hovering over that “like” button, get up and WALK AWAY. Let’s not reward mediocrity folks.

Fellow Facebookers, if you take away anything from this post, take away this: The less frequent your “likes” are, the more they’ll be appreciated. And remember folks , Chronic Liking is not just the Like-ee’s problem. It’s EVERYONE'S problem.

Thank you for your attention to this important matter. Now back to your regularly scheduled Facebook.