Stiff Niffles

Diving Right on into Thirty!

2011-05-25T21:27:00.001-04:00

Here is where I bashfully offer up a mea culpa for my extended absence around these parts as of late. I can't help but feel a little like a deadbeat dad whose acting career never took off, returning home and dejectedly walking back in the front door after years of missed little league games and bounced support checks. I hope that eventually your residual feelings of abandonment will dissipate and we can work on having a real relationship again. But if that fails, I'll just try and buy your love by being the cool parent who supplies alcohol for you and your friends.

So let's get started!

Special announcement here folks! --Clears throat, taps microphone-- I have turned thirty years old (and also, um …, 29 years old) since we’ve last spoke! Like ~~every other day in my life~~ other big milestones in my life, the day passed somewhat unsoberly, and it ended with me groggily awaking in a strange hotel room in a foreign country, sans pants. No really, it did. I was in the Bahamas for a friend’s wedding, but withholding that last bit of info really does make me sound more ~~socially retarded~~/~~frighteningly immature~~/~~emotionally unstable~~ glamorous, and I bet it makes you feel ~~thankful that I'm not your child/scared for my wellbeing/frightened for Generation Y as a whole~~ jealous.

Thirty didn’t take me very easily, let me tell ya! I suspect it even had to roofie me into submission, whereas all it really had to do was buy me a few drinks and tell me it drove a BMW. I went in kicking and screaming, but once the last bit of cheap tequila had been processed by my liver enzymes… once that last dehydrated, crow’s feet inducing tear had been wiped away, my first order of business was ~~hair of the dog!~~ to sit down and compose a Dear John Letter to My Twenties. Call me crazy, but rather than admit I'm powerless against certain forces, I find it easier to pretend I’m in a relationship with these intangible things and then "break up with them" because it makes me feel like I have more control over the matter. Uh huh. Oh I agree... it's absolutely genius. Electricity getting shut off? Pffft. No problem, I was totally going to break up with overhead lighting and other modern conveniences anyway. The Rapture* and end of human life as we know it happening on Saturday? I don't care, I am totally over this relationship with earth, it leaves the toilet seat up. I thought writing this Dear John letter would help me come to terms with turning thirty, and by simulating a break up, it would seem like it was my decision, and mine alone - invariable passage of time aside - to not want to be in my twenties anymore. Totally rational.

*Obligatory Post-Rapture Humorous Photo

Wait - Can I interject for a minute? (Of course I can, it's my blog.) I'm freaking THIRTY, guys. I have just entered my fourth decade of life (I'll hang on a sec while you check that logic, but I assure you its correct). I am officially at that age where instinctively turn down the volume of the rap music in my car if I drive by a group of teenagers so they don't laugh at me. It is no longer socially acceptable to have sex in the backseat of a car. I mean, obviously I'm still going to do it, but I won't be able to shake the nagging suspicion that the people walking by us in the Target parking lot are frowning upon it! Furthermore, I just feel old., Very early bird special in Boca Raton-esque. I don't know what my ovaries look like, but I think they probably resemble Joan Rivers.

So where was I before I rudely interrupted myself? Oh yeah... Needless to say, that blog entry did not turn out to be the journalistic crowning achievement I had planned for it to be. I had read similar themed letters in the past which always seemed to possess a certain poignancy that I tried my best to emulate. Instead, mine possessed… Satan himself. It was downright combative which is actually truly remarkable as I am a sole human being writing a sole blog entry. I actually found myself getting offended with the ease in which I belittled and abused myself under the guise of treating My Twenties (and therefore, myself) like a bad boyfriend. It sounded good in premise, but it didn't work out that way, not by a fucking longshot. You see, arguing with yourself is one thing, but actually getting angry and refusing to talk to yourself over something you've written about yourself is another entirely. That's no small feat! Or rather, it’s no small feat if you’re NOT suffering from undiagnosed multiple personality disorder as I suspect ~~we are~~ I am. If one was to read this letter the end result would be total and absolute confirmation that I am undoubtably, certifiably, batshit fucking crazy. But then again, I believe just reading this paragraph is confirmation of that anyway.

So I scrapped the Dear John Letter and instead, as one is wont to do at such a milestone, I decided it was due time to subject myself to the ever joyful, spirit crushing exercise of “Listing My Life’s Accomplishments to Date, All the While Comparing and Contrasting to Similarly Aged Friends and Acquaintances on Facebook to See How I Measure Up” or more easily, The LMLATDATWCACTSAFAAOFTSHIMU List. (I like to keep things simple.) I figured that seeing my esteemed pedigree in print and reflecting back on my accomplishments over the last decade would cheer me right up. Yay for narcissism!

So I got down to business. Upon starting The LMLATDATWCACTSAFAAOFTSHIMU list, I couldn’t help but notice that the trajectory of my List of Accomplishments in direct correlation to my age was not unlike that of the Challenger Explosion of 1986. Lots of excitement and hope in the first seconds of take off. Things are looking good... bought a car at 20 and left the nest at 22!. Optimism, mixed with humbling feelings of pride watching it soar upward: Homeowner at 24! College graduate at 25! I'm proud to be an American! Then comes the confusion and feeling that something is definitely not right here: Soul crushing break up at 26, and a too little, too late learned lesson in variable mortgage interest rates. Then shock sets in as you can't even believe this is unfolding before your eyes: Commence quarter life crisis, complete with quitting my job and self-homelessify myself at 27,. Then of course you all know what happens next, and we've all heard the jokes about finding Christa McAuliffe's head and shoulders off the beach. My point is, you've gotta pick up the pieces... no pun intended.

The good news is, I'm not homeless anymore (yay for progress!), but frankly, I'm not accomplishing a whole hell of a lot either. It's gotten to the point where I write "create to-do list" on my to-do list, just so I have something to cross off at the end of the day. I still have yet to make someone the luckiest man alive by becoming his trophy wife, I still have yet to make my first million (still waiting on that wire transfer to clear from that prince in Nigeria!), and I still haven't experienced motherhood and the luxuries that come with it like using the carpool lane. My accomplishments are on a much less grandiose scale than that. For example, if I may, (and believe me, I may because it’s my blog) my biggest accomplishment of my 29^th year was that I finally learned how to dive. Not SCUBA dive, not sky dive, but… dive. Headfirst. Into a pool of water. From a fixed surface. But not with a running start, that's too scary.

I’ll let you digest that for a minute.

That’s right folks. At the ripe old age of 29, I learned how to dive into a swimming pool, and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t the best in the under seven group swim class at the Y. No longer would I gaze wistfully over my shoulder while climbing down the ladder as my friends dove into the pool all synchronized like extras from that birth control commercial. And of course, there is always some asshole showoff doing a backflip too… just because he can. It’s like I was in the god damned Summer Olympics, and I was still participating in the “Special” League. But now that I joined the ranks of fellow divers, I no longer needed to pretend that the Pencil Dive is “cool” and that’s why I chose to enter the pool like a piece of uncooked spaghetti. Or telling concerned onlookers “no it didn't hurt, I totally MEANT to do that belly flop”, as I fought back the urge to scream at the internal bleeding in my midsection. Instead, I learned how to harness the power of gravity and use it to MY ADVANTAGE to flip my head to where my feet normally go and vice versa so that i could propel myself into a body of water in a graceful fashion, wetting my body from my hair to my feet as if by magic. And I was barely 29 years old! Pfffttt.... Beat that, Similarly Aged Facebook Friends and Acquaintances! Taking their cue of posting pictures of their offspring for everyone to ooh and ahh over, all summer long I posted pictures of me and My Dive. My Dive at 3 weeks old, Me and My Dive up at the lake, Me and My Dive on a boat! etc.

Me and My Dive on our first date

So with that said, my list of accomplishments was also a bust --or rather, it was not accomplished -- but something good did come out of it. I chose instead to make a list of things I haven't accomplished. It's an ongoing piece, and I hope to always be adding to it. Let's be honest here folks, there's a whole lot of stuff out there just waiting to be accomplished, and I, for one, am not accomplishing any of it! High off the glory of recounting my diving success story, I've decided that's enough accomplishment for one decade. I mean, if I could learn to dive, I can do anything! The world is my oyster, and I am ready to.... eat it? That makes no sense. I really don't get that saying at all.

Things I Failed to Do Before Turning 30

Start a gang. A real gang too, not one of those finger snapping dance ones.

Win something. Anything. Preferably something that comes with one of those big checks.

Learn to spell "acquaintances" without having a squiggly red line appear underneath

Play Marco Polo in the grotto at the Playboy Mansion

Learn to stop staring at people in restaurants without my boyfriend having to nudge me

Catch a terrorist. Or even a predator.

Find out what "the world is your oyster" means

Tie my shoes without having to make bunny ears out of the laces.

Pull up to a gas pump with my gas tank on the correct side

Find Waldo

Keep my pin number separate from my ATM Card

Play a corpse on CSI, with a credited role

Sell my eggs

Happen upon a neighborhood game of double dutch and join in on a whim

Balance a checkbook. Or actually use my checkbook. Find my checkbook when I need it. Not waste checks by writing large, fictional sums on them just to see how cool it looks.

To not instinctively say “then why don’t you maaaarry it?” in my head whenever someone says they love something

Successfully learn to sing along to "It's the End of the World As We Know It" even with the lyrics open in front of me on the computer, so that I can impress friends if it happens to come on the radio

Remember to pack my toothbrush when going on vacation. Never fails.

Suppress my urge to skip merrily when the desire to do so over comes me.

Beat Bald Bull

~~Dive Headfirst into a pool of water from a fixed surface~~

Karma Drama

2010-02-02T17:07:00.000-05:00

Wow I can’t believe its February 2nd and this is my first post of 2010. I’ve been very busy with the writing job I referenced a couple posts ago. It takes up an awful lot more time than I imagined it would, and it makes me miss my blog ever so much. I’m thinking of going back in time and lobbying the Mayan’s for an eighth day of the week to be put on the calendar, and if it passes I think I’ll call it “Actuallydoaalltheshityousetouttodothisweekandnothatdoesnotmeanlieinbedandwatchlifetimemoviesallday” I think it has a nice ring, no?

Just to briefly catch you up, Matt and I just returned from visiting friends in California this past Sunday. Our trip was postponed a week due to the incessant rain and El Nino like, “only happens once every ten years” type weather patterns that were scheduled to begin the day we flew in - and of course - end the day we flew out. God hates me, obv, but I’ll get to that later. We had a great time out there, although one day spent ambling along Rodeo Drive amongst the beautiful people was all it took for me to anxiously come to the realization: "I don’t belong here." I felt like I walked into the prom naked (cue record scratch). I literally had to hold my hand over the top of my Starbucks coffee cup to prevent spare change being tossed in by the wealthy passerby taking pity on my (horror!) last season Banana Republic tee.

Oh and did I mention that there was a gaggle of 5’11”, chewed-up-ring-fingered, average-women-self-esteem-destroying, Brazilian supermodels on every corner? I couldn’t get out of there fast enough… eyes wide with fear, slowing backing away and making excuses for the sorry human being I was in comparison to their divinity. (The gym was closed! The burritos were 2 for 1!) I imagine it’s how the perps feel once the girl goes to get a drink and Chris Hansen walks into the room. The playing field had just drastically unleveled itself. As a matter of fact, I was kicked off the team for not making weight. Thank god we got out of there, before I contracted anorexia. Today is my second acai berry and wheat grass free day and I am starting to feel like my old fat kid self again. Instead of riding bikes around Venice Beach all I want to do is nap. It’s good to be home.

So lately I’ve been thinking about karma. Not in an ominously tacky, baby-mama, “you gon’ get yours” facebook status sort of way, but more about how the good that we do will affect us later on in life. It seems like in my case it’s the old adage “no good deed goes unpunished’. Like, I’ll let someone cut out in front of me in traffic, only to watch them sail through the next yellow light leaving me stuck at the red one. Or I’ll throw a dollar or some change into the tip jar at Dunkin’s only to find that later on I need that exact amount to complete a purchase later in the day. I will then use my debit card instead, only undoubtedly I will overdraw my account and get charged $33.00 in bank fees. Or you know, I’ll make a deal with Matt that in lieu of Christmas presents this year, we will instead buy each other plane tickets to California, only the exact week we plan to go, California will experience incessant rain and El Nino like, “only happens once every ten years” type weather patterns thus postponing our trip and costing us an additional $320 in change fees. You know, things like that.

Which segways me nicely into my next point. (Which it should. Because I wrote it that way.)

Yesterday I happened upon a lost wallet on the ground outside my local coffee shop. It was literally brimming with cash, overflowing and stuffed so tight it could barely close. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I looked around briefly before gently picking it up off the ground, fearing a tackle from behind with someone screaming “STOP THIEF!” in my ear. Once in hand, I then approached the only other person outside asking if it belonged to him. The man took it from my hand and started rifling through it, counting the cash, looking at the paystub inside etc. In the awkward minute or two that passed, I took notice of the man’s attire and nicotine stained fingers and realized I had just handed a cash stuffed wallet to a homeless man. So again, I asked… a bit more firmly this time: “Um sir, is this YOUR wallet?” His brain worked overtime as he contemplated his next move, and then honesty (I think he was too drunk to form a lie) got the better of him. He shook his head no, although he continued still to rifle through the wallet as he muttered to himself. Once I wrestled it from his sweaty hand, I brought it into the coffee shop and asked around if it belonged to anybody. Nobody claimed ownership, so I pulled out the ID card and found out that it belonged to a local fireman. I called the fire department and made arrangements to have it returned. I then went about my day and waited – positively giddy – for the heaven’s to shine down on me and for some form of positive karmic retribution of my good deed to come my way.

I quickly got tired of waiting for karma to come my way, and instead went looking for it. First I checked the “abandoned property” list online to see if maybe, just maybe, I had somehow forgotten about a bank account I had opened back when I was sixteen and earning a living wiping wrinkled, elderly ass at my local nursing home. Maybe I had forgotten about a $5.50 an hour deposit I made back then, and the interest had compounded over the years to a cool million or two. Nope, no such luck.

I checked for recently deceased wealthy relatives I didn't know I had, and found none. I inquired as to whether I was due for a raise and got laughed at. I checked my email to see if a book publisher had happened across this blog and wanted to advance me a million to pen my life story, and it hasn't happened yet. Then I started to get desperate. I bought a scratch ticket or two (or six) and lost on all of them. Hell, I even waited at home all night for the Publisher's Clearing House. They never came.

So I implore you karma, why must you toy with me?

A full 24 hours later and nothing good has happened to me. But then again, nothing bad has happened to me either. (Save for getting the finger from a 90 year old relic as she cut me off at the rotary at lunch.) So maybe my good deed was just SO good, that it sort of balanced out any of the bad that was destined to come my way. Maybe I just have to be happy in knowing I made someone else’s day a little better, and post my good deed all over my facebook so that everyone knows what a good person I am.?* Okay. I’ll take it. Works for me. God knows that if I had instead chosen to take the wallet and all the cash, I would have lost a limb in a freak tunnel mishap on the drive home. I’ll definitely take an un-bad day over that.

*At the time of press, Jennifer was up to 14 Facebook "likes", (the virtual form of pats on the back) for her good deed.

Post Holiday Traumatic Stress Disorder

2009-12-30T14:33:00.003-05:00

I hope everyone had a great holiday!

How was my holiday, you ask? Well I’m just happy it’s over and done with. My bank statement is covered in so much red it looks like a crime scene, and I’ve put on about five pounds of pure ass fat from those amazing chocolate-covered peanut butter and crack cocaine filled cookie balls that my boyfriend’s mom always makes around the holidays. I seriously want to roll into the harsh ghetto in my six fo', blast some NWA and smoke those fuckers out of a glass pipe. I’m twitching now just thinking about them.

On a positive note, I somehow made it through the season without hurling a stapler off the face of my Jingle Bell Rock-humming coworker. (Ba dum dum dum... AHHHH!)

Does anybody else feel like the 2009 Holiday Season was... I don’t know… a bit, blah? I just never quite got into the spirit. It’s almost as if a tornado of Yuletide Cheer ripped through my town, and when the carnage was over my trailer was the only one still standing. Everything holiday related just seemed like such a friggen hassle this year, and it all started when I stopped by my local Hallmark store to get Christmas cards for my family and couldn’t find the Dysfunctional Family section. All I wanted was a card that said “Hey mom and dad, even though you chose a Christmas Morning of my youth to break the news of your impending divorce, thanks to years of therapy I have almost no residual scarring or feelings of abandonment! Happy Holidays!”

Yay for progress.

Further adding to my Grinch Mood, I didn’t even get the gifts I asked for this year. May I ask what is so friggen hard about buying about a beautiful piece of jewelry and a nice piece of art to hang over my fireplace?

Clearly Santa has been hittin' the Schlitz, because here's what I got:

It's the thought that counts right? RIGHT?

On the bright side, this wollen vagina necklace is going to go perfectly with my labia keychain though.

I guess everyone's interpretation of art is different. Although I have to admit, I've taken quite a liking to this piece. I don't know, it just "says something" to me.

Something like SHIT.

Check out Regretsy.com for even more awesomely awesome art.)

Christmas Eve was pretty kick-ass. I had dinner and exchanged presents with the family and my brother's new fiance at my mother’s house and then moved on to celebrate with my boyfriend’s family. Odd thing is... I clearly remember everything that happened! Yet another friendly reminder that I’m getting old, I guess. In my early 20’s, holiday eve’s meant drinking to excess. I can’t remember a Thanksgiving Day that I didn’t run heaving to the toilet at the sight of cranberry sauce because it reminded me of the jello shots I’d done the night before. This Christmas Eve I had a few drinks, but I didn’t quite get nascar-drunk like I used to.

Christmas morning I stayed in bed until about 1:30 p.m. watching A Christmas Story on TBS repeatedly. If not for the haggling of my mother to come over to have Christmas dinner – spiral ham with a side of guilt i.e. WHEN ARE YOU GONNA GIVE ME GRANDBABIES! - I probably would have stayed there all day. To me, nothing says Christmas like lying in bed wearing just the tights and bra from the previous nights ensemble, day old makeup smeared across my face, and booze seeping out of my pores. It paints quite the picture doesn't it? Maybe I’ll make that next year's Christmas card.

So that’s my holiday sob story. It makes me long for the holidays of the past, when we’d all open gifts as a family and Santa would come knocking on the door to deliver gifts. Here’s a picture of Christmas of years past. (This is real, mind you) I think it’s a beautiful memory of my brother and Santa Claus. I just wish Santa had remembered to put his beer bottle on the table before the picture was taken. Or at the very least, removed the cigarette from his hand.

This is totally the kind of Santa that would bring you a woolen vagina necklace, no?

My family seems to think that maybe I’ll get more into the holiday spirit when I finally settle down and have my own family. I admit this is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, and I'm not ashamed to admit that Matt's inbox is probably overflowing from all the Blue Nile links I've been emailing him. I just wish he would stop sending them back to me as "undeliverable". (It wasn't funny the first time, asshole!). I’m really starting to think that Matt will make an excellent father, and I honestly can’t think of a better man to have my kids spend every other weekend and designated holidays with. We’re leaving for a vacation in California in three weeks as our Christmas present to one another. I figure whereas we don’t have kids or custody agreements yet, we should probably try and travel as much as possible while we still can. Of course this means I need to kick my New Year's "Get Healthy And Lose The Five Pounds of Chocolate Covered Ass Fat" Resolution into overdrive. I honestly fear that if I put on a pair of shorts out there, I'm going to get mistaken for an extra auditioning for a rap video.

So that's all folks! Work's a little slow today, so I think I'm going to google “I hate the holidays” and find others to commiserate with there. Misery loves company.

Happy New Year all!

Under Pressure

2009-12-15T12:31:00.000-05:00

I had a dream last night where I stuck my finger in a monkey’s mouth and dared it to bite me.

True to form, the monkey did in fact, bite me. And let me tell you, it freaking hurt. My frontal lobe certainly didn’t lack for imagination in dreaming up some ferocious, razor sharp teeth on those fictional dream monkeys, and let me just say that I definitely don’t want to be meeting those guys in a dark alley again anytime soon without a pair of gloves and a tranquilizer gun (note to subconscious: be more prepared!). My finger hurts just thinking about it.

I woke up this morning (late as usual) and while simultaneously brushing my teeth and peeing in the shower (I’m nothing if not a multitasker) I got to thinking that this dream is in some way symbolic of my nature to always “bite off more than I can chew” “get in over my head” and a host of other idioms regarding my work ethic, but mostly how this aggressive way of life always tends to bite me in the ass.. or in this case, the finger.

You may have noticed I haven’t been posting as much… or you may not have noticed, so in that case SCREW YOU. But for those of you who have noticed, I feel an explanation is in order. I love my blog, I love interacting with all you great bloggers I’ve since met out there in the blogosphere, and mostly I love the creative outlet that blogging provides me that I don’t currently get to exercise in my professional life. My absence certainly cannot be attributed to a lack of inspiration as I have about 65 draft emails, a folder full of half finished Word documents, and even self-addressed text messages all with great blog ideas.

Instead, my lack of posting can be attributed to the fact that I have no time. Once again, I have bitten off more than I can chew and I am now the proud owner of FIVE JOBS. That’s right. Five. Count ‘em. - One Two Three Four FIVE. In addition to my full time, 48 hour a week position, I also have two cleaning jobs, one job I found on craigslist that I wrote about here, as well as the newest one that I’ll tell you about in a moment. My boyfriend has taken to calling me Ryan Seacreast, and I’m starting to feel guilty about taking away all these jobs from our nation’s abundance of illegal aliens who need them. If I’m going to keep this up, I may have to trade in my Jeep for a 1984 Toyota Corolla with ground effects and illegal tint. It’s the law.

It’s not necessarily that I need all these jobs to make ends meet. I could certainly get by on just my salary from my full-time position, but each time I consider giving one up I have a change of heart and convince myself that the effort and exertion required is certainly worth the benefit of extra cash. For example, last week alone I made an extra $506.25 from the Craigslist job and another $200 from the two cleaning jobs. That’s some serious extra cash when you are supporting yourself, living alone, and paying off the student loan equivalency to a modest ranch house in Kansas.

So if it’s not a need for money, and if I’m already pressed for time, then why in hell would I take on a fifth, you ask? Adding further intrigue is the fact that the most recent job I’ve taken on is by far the most time consuming, yet the lowest paying of the four “extra” jobs I have. So again, why would I do this to myself? ? Because this fifth job it’s a paid writing job. (!!!) Of the four extra jobs, it’s the only one that will benefit my resume and hopefully someday lead to bigger and better things. Taking this job on means that I am officially a “paid writer” with actual published material which I’m sure most of you know is a huge benefit when trying to score other freelance writing jobs. Furthermore, since I’m now a paid writer, I can finally use the word “gig” ala “writing gig” and sound oh so PROFESH.

This new job requires me to write about retail, specifically online shopping, and most importantly - ways to save money shopping online while simultaneously promoting the website itself. I get to write with humor, and use personal, relatable experiences so I like to think it’s like Stiff Niffles 2.0, the Thrift Niffles Version. I’ve committed myself to writing five, 500 word articles per week, and though I’m certainly not going to retire of the income they’re paying me, in all honestly I probably would have paid them for the opportunity for exposure.

But let’s keep that part between us.

So now that writing has officially become “work”, I feel as though my blog has suffered the most. While I’m still actively reading all of your posts, I'm finding that there are just not enough hours in the day for me to add my own lately. I want my personal blog to be something I’m proud of. Each and every entry. I don’t like the idea of filler posts, and I’m not really an everyday blogger so I’m hoping that brief absences shouldn’t really impact my readership too much. For that matter, you could probably reverse the order of my blogs and it wouldn’t make a difference... you really don’t need to have read the first to understand the last. Blogging is very cathartic for me, so I have every intention of keeping it up and if I have to push through the same way I pushed through college – coffee and Ritalin – then so be it.

So needless to say I think it’s going to take a little bit of time for me to settle in to the new routine, and maybe after the holiday I can determine where to cut from in all these extraneous jobs. In the meantime, I just want you guys to know I'm still alive, and stalking your posts on a daily basis. And of course... here's to hoping that my over-achiever tendencies don't end up biting me in the ass!

Your Scissors and My Cervix: A Love Story

2009-11-30T15:59:00.005-05:00

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

2009-11-16T16:58:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-16T12:20:00.004-05:00

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

2009-11-10T14:45:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-11-09T16:17:00.009-05:00

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

2009-11-06T13:25:00.025-05:00

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

2009-11-04T13:08:00.009-05:00

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

2009-11-03T12:31:00.000-05:00

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.

Hi there. I don't believe we've met.

2009-10-30T15:40:00.007-04:00

This morning, I came across a version of a 25 Things quiz I did about a year ago on my facebook page. I figured I'd update and repost it so I didn't have to exert any real effort actually writing a blog post today, only instead it backfired on me because it's taken me all freaking day to come up with new and interesting stuff to write about.

So finally, I present to you for your viewing pleasure, 25 things you didn’t know, and didn’t really NEED to know about yours truly. I hope you'll reciprocate and post your own!

1. I once watched a PETA video and couldn’t eat bacon for a month. Then I read something that said “if they didn’t want us to eat animals, they wouldn’t have made them out of meat” and I got over it.

2. I watch Intervention to feel better about myself. Hey, I may have been slightly overserved at the babyshower last weekend, but at least I’m not huffing on computer duster to get my fix.

3. Sometimes I astound myself with the horrific things that pass through my own mind. For example, I’ve had such bad work days in the past that I’ve found myself wishing that I could just break my leg so that I could have a few weeks off on short term disability. A broken femur, in my eyes, is a small sacrifice to make for a few blissful weeks spent on the couch. After one particularly god awful day at work a few years ago, I honest to god found myself wishing that I could get pregnant just for that glorious, three month stretch of maternity leave that comes prepackaged with the deal. That in itself isn’t TOO bad of course, but as the rest of my “plan” went, when my three month sojourn was up I’d then give my child up for adoption because motherhood simply “wasn’t for me”. I even shocked myself with that one.

4. When my little sister Samantha was born, I bit her finger to see if she’d cry. She did. I was twelve years old so this was clearly unacceptable behavior.

5. I have no rhythm. Thus, I can’t dance… although to be quite frank, I have yet to try dancing while sober. When I’m drunk, I’ll “dance” and blame the lack of rhythm on the fact that I’m drunk. It’s a vicious circle, really.

6. I grew up resenting my parents for saddling me with the most generic moniker known to man, save for “John Smith”. I have no qualms about even posting it on here because it’s so common. Take the 1st most popular girls name of 1981 – Jennifer – and add it to the 6th most common surname in the USA – Martin – and the end result is that I am virtually anonymous. It used to bother me when I was younger, like when I was seated next to another Jennifer Martin in my first semester of college biology class. Or when I lost my library card and they had to sit there impatiently while the librarian sifted through the 25 other Jennifer Martin’s in my town to find the right one. “did you ever live on Elm street?” No. “Hmmm… how about Franklin?” NO. As a youth desperately seeking the quirky independence that would set me apart from the crowd. I tried to differentiate myself from the fifteen other Jennifer’s in my graduating class by drawing little stars as the tittle in the I’s in my name. I imagined as I grew up that the trademark tittle star would become my identifier, and that eventually I could just sign christmas cards and checks that way… just an “I” with a tittle star, like the artist formerly known as. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to not only accept it but APPRECIATE it even. Especially in the age of the internet where endless information about a person is readily available at your fingertips, my name has proven itself quite useful for maintaining my anonymity. The exact opposite of what I sought as a self righteous, wannabe enigmatic youth.

7. I know in my heart that most all of you immediately thought something dirty when you read the word “tittle” above. No worries. I did too. There's no secrets here. We're all friends.

8. I firmly believe that if I ever have a chance of being “discovered” it would be in a suburban shopping mall. It seems to me that every celebrity profiled on the E! True Hollywood Stories gets their big break that way. Cue voiceover… “Little did Gisele know that her decision to hit up the Macy’s One Day Sale Double Coupon Extravaganza would forever change the course of her life”. For this reason, I toss my hair and smile seductively as I pick through the sale racks at Banana Republic, just in case a talent scout is observing my behavior from behind the wool, pleated style trousers. The secret is to never let your guard down. I feel it’s best to operate under the assumption that every middle aged man screaming into his cell phone while overdosing on MSG via Master Wok is a talent scout on the hunt for the next Heidi Klum. I don’t know what I’m expecting to be “discovered” for, but whatever it is, I want it discovered in a suburban shopping mall.

9. The most famous person I ever met was the Lizardman. My friend Danielle and I spent an evening taking Jagermeister shots with him outside a tour bus in some parking lot in Worcester one night. But he’s a reptile so he doesn’t count. Or is he an amphibian? Any bio nerds out there that can clarify this? I was too busy being tormented by the presence of another Jennifer Martin in my first semester college bio class to pay any attention to the difference.

10. I buy self help books and never read them. I just like the way they look on my bookshelf, how they make it appear to the occasional houseguest that I’m trying to “better myself”. I suppose I should buy one on overcoming pretentiousness next.

11. I can’t decide what my official stance is on the whole 12/21/12 business. It seems that most anybody who is not indifferent and actually has an opinion on the topic feels very strongly one way or another, either “yes, we’re all going to die a slow, burning, painful death” or “no it’s just going to be another day in our boring, monotonous lives’. I find myself thinking about it often, yet my opinion seems to flip flop based on how I think 12/21/12 would impact me given whatever is presently conflicting me. For example “should I really put yet another pair of brown suede boots on a credit card?” My answer is: “Yes it doesn’t matter how off balance your income to debt ratio is because the world is going to end in 2012 anyway… Get the purse too!” or “I can put off getting married and having kids for awhile. I mean, it’s not like the world is going to end on 12/21/12 or anything.” That’s right folks, I make 12/21/12 WORK for me.

12.Even though I live alone, in a big, beautiful apartment, I still hang out in my bedroom nearly every night like an angsty teenager. If I start writing bad poetry in my Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper, I think it’s safe to say I’m regressing.

13. I'm skipping this one because I want you to think I'm superstitious, but in truth this used to be #25 and I simply ran out of things to say.

14. My brother and I both share the same obsession with zit picking. He’s been known to drive to my work just to have me pop a zit that he can’t quite reach on his back. And I’m honored to do it for him, actually grateful that he’s chosen to bless me with the opportunity to extract the puss from his inflamed pore. There’s nothing more satisfying then a successful whitehead pop, second only to the triumph of locating and extracting an ingrown hair. My obsession is the sole reason I won’t buy one of those lighted, magnifying “Face Picking” Mirrors because I know I’d have to see a reconstructive cosmetic surgeon and get a face transplant after I had a few hours alone with it and a pair of tweezers. It’s a disease, I swear.

15. Brushing my teeth in the shower affords me the luxury of spending an extra two minutes in bed each morning.

16. Peeing in the shower affords me another two minutes in bed.

17. Right here between piss and cankles, I'd like to give a shout out to my family. I'll keep it brief, and simply say that I am fortunate enough to consider every immediate member of my family one of my best friends. That goes for my mom, my dad, my brother and my sister. Despite our dysfunctions, I consider myself pretty blessed to have been given the family I was born in to. I’m incredibly close to each and every one of them, all in different ways.

18. I have cankles and I’ve learned to accept it.

19. The whole “don’t make that face, it’ll freeze that way” line that my mother used to threaten me with when I was a kid scared the crap out of me until I was about 12 years old, when I finally caught on that it wasn’t true. These days I can make “that face” without a care in the world.

20. I suffer from omphalophobia and I am not alone. I have this neurotic fear of anything touching, entering, or coming anywhere close to the general vicinity of my belly button. The area from my ribs to my hip bones is a “No Access Zone”, and I don’t even like wearing fitted shirts. Too close for comfort for this kid. This fear spans over twenty years, from when I was in the third grade and a friend of mine told me of a dream she had about the point of a mathematical compass stabbing her in the belly button. Since then, I’ve lived in near constant fear of it happening to me. I wish I could permanently sew it closed or put a band-aid over it. I hate it .The near relentless (and wholly irrational) worry of having to protect my belly button is too much of a burden for me. I. Don’t. Want. It. On. My. Body. Anymore. It's too big responsibiilty for me, and I'm just about fed up with it. It's like being forced to carry around a house made out of playing cards and being tasked your whole life with making sure it doesn't collapse. And if it does, it'll cause you extreme pain. I imagine that this is what being a parent must be like.

21. Jello makes me gag.

22. I get into near weekly battles with my father over my cell phone etiquette. I feel as though my phone is for MY convenience – you know, that whole I PAY THE BILL thing -- thus if I am otherwise preoccupied I do not always answer the phone, but I always call back when I am free to talk. Furthermore, I only check my voicemail when it nears capacity, and only then just to clear it out. Weeks can go by before I hear your voicemail, because after wasting countless days of my life listening to messages that simply say “hey it’s me call me back’” I just never bother anymore. My missed call log tells me the EXACT same thing. You called. You want me to call you back. Oddly enough, his argument isn’t about me not answering the phone, it’s about me not listening to my voicemails. His argument is “what if I’m in the hospital?”, to which my usual response is “Well than thank god I called you back immediately instead of wasting precious moments listening to your voicemail!!”. I once let my voicemail fill to capacity so that nobody could leave a new one, but he couldn’t handle the frustration. He all but demanded I clear it so that he could leave me messages, because "how else would I know he called?" So even though he knows I don’t listen to voicemails, he still insists on leaving them for me. That’s perseverance for ya.

23. My friend Shannon and I came pretty freaking close to getting arrested in Mexico in 2002. I'm not at liberty to disclose the reason why (my parents read this blog) but it makes for a great "oh yeah, well I can do you one better" type story, let me tell you.

24. When I was 20 years old, I took the two kids I was babysitting for and my sister to a miniature golf course as a special treat. While there, I caught the business end of a golf club to the face because I was standing too close to the backswing. I got knocked out and when I woke up I was lying on the ground next to a windmill, and the owner of the course was waving free passes in my face, in a frantic “please don’t sue me!” sort of manner. I wound up with a scratched cornea, a blow out orbital fracture of my left eye, and a pretty nasty black eye that lasted almost a week. The injury left me with semi-permanent damage such as impaired night vision, and occasional lazy eye due to fatigue. The person wielding the club that did that much damage? My eight year old sister, Samantha "Tiger Woods" Rose. I think it was payback for that whole finger biting thing.

25. I've been trying to use the word "harken" in a blog for the past couple of weeks now. I've been unsuccessful in my endeavors to date, so I'm just going to write it out for you. Harken. There it is. Done.

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold…. Or With Meatballs

2009-10-28T08:11:00.006-04:00

Imagine my surprise this past weekend when I inadvertently stumbled across some old files belonging to my ex-boyfriend while cleaning out my laptop. All these years have gone by and I didn’t even know I had them on there, as they were expertly hidden in a folder called “Jenn’s Important Financial Info" the contents of which are of zero interest of mine and never will be of any. I figure I must have unconsciously transferred the files over to a CD during one of my many midnight B & E reconnaissance missions to the home we once shared to reclaim my belongings. It's hard to really focus on the task at hand when you have two cats strapped to your chest in a Snugli, and are otherwise preoccupied with lowering a bureau out the window in the dead of night. Needless to say, things didn’t exactly go down amicably between us towards the end. But I’m over it. Really I am. No unresolved anger issues to see here! “Let bygones, be bygones” is what I say!

Anyway, one document in particular caught my eye – a text document, ominously titled “Confidential Document That Is None of Your Business” – password protected and all. I typed in my best guess of a password (it worked!) and a slow, satisfied smile spread across my face when I clicked it open and saw that it did in fact contain the holy grail of Italian Family recipes – the centuries old, passed down from generation to generation, heirloom, sacred, Italian Family Gravy Recipe, (or “sauce” to us non-Italians). Rumor has it that my ex’s great-grandfather (or Great-Nonno if you will) wrestled the stone engraving of the recipe from the hands of Moses himself (which is why there’s only Ten Commandments, not Ten Commandments and the Family Gravy), then when the stone got too burdensome for him to carry on his back as he traversed Italy by foot, he had Leonardo DaVinci draw it out for him on parchment. Later on, he sat at the right hand of Jesus as they ate the family gravy with some nice crusty bread (which Jesus then broke for the sole purpose of wiping his plate clean) during the Last Supper. Great-Nonno then crusaded on by smuggling the recipe out of Italy during the First World War and family legend has it that he held it clenched in his fist to draw strength from when he punched Hitler in the face, thus bringing an end to the Second World War. When the parchment it was written on got too tattered from the salt water breezes during his sail over the mighty Atlantic aboard the Santa Maria with everyone’s favorite Paisan, Christopher Columbus himself, he carved the recipe into his own skin with the teeth of the world’s last saber tooth tiger so that it would always be with him. Upon his arrival to America, my ex’s great-grandfather is said to have introduced the idea of “a pasta course” during the first Thanksgiving with the Indians and the Pilgrims, a tradition that still holds true today.

My guess is that this didn't exactly go down the way I wrote it above, and that maybe, just maybe, over the years the family history got a little convoluted, but try telling that to an Italian Family. Take it from my past experience, should you happen to question time frames, war history involvement or the fact that Great-Nonno would be oh, say, 2000 fucking years old and not sitting at the head of the marble table right now beaming and nodding along as his story is once again recited as it was last Sunday at noon at “supper” and the Sunday at noon at “supper” before that, you will immediately be chastised and admonished with around the room signs-of-the-crosses and gasps of "MADONNA MIA!”.

So I learned to let it go.

Besides, like they said to me many, many times back then when this friendly, family dinner table banter took place… I couldn't prove he WASN’T there, now could I? Nevermind that "I was just jealous because my descendants were too busy gallivanting around looking for pots of gold to do anything noble, nevermind that they were all too drunk off whiskey to remember anything anyway." Boisterous laughter would erupt around the table and Uncle Vinnie would clap me hard on the back as though trying to dislodge a piece of proscuitto from my windpipe. I would stare down at my gravy in silence, knowing that the battle was lost. Although to be honest, their broad assumptions about my ancestry actually weren't too far off from what my family is presently doing today.

But as the saying goes, the battle may have been lost, but the war had yet to be won. I'm sure that what I’m about to do now is a whole lot worse then questioning a little family history anyway.

The Italian Family Gravy Recipe is undoubtedly the most closely guarded secret an Italian Family holds near and dear to them. I’ll even go out on a limb and say that despite this one particular Italian Family’s technological mishap, it would probably be easier to sneak into Area 51 and take photos of yourself salsa dancing with aliens to post on your Facebook page than it is to get the Italian Family Gravy Recipe. They won’t even tell you what’s IN IT, never mind how they cook it. Even in the past when I would try to make casual conversation at family dinners by exclaiming, “Wow this is fantastic! Is that basil that I taste?”. Silence would momentarily fill the room, and the only sound to be heard was the plastic couch protector crinkling as someone uncomfortably shifted their weight to fill the awkward silence. I’d be met with a steely glare followed by a wooden spoon knuckle wrap. “Fugghedaboutit!” they’d say, “Just shut up and mangia!”. They'd then exchange smug looks to one another, proud of themselves for once again fulfilling their duty to protect the sacred recipe and keep it from the hands of the undeserving. Potential intelligence breech once again thwarted by wooden spoon.

So anyway, I think we all know where this is going. Now, I know what you're thinking... but despite what some may say, I’m not a total asshole. I wouldn’t POST the family recipe on my blog for the whole world (by whole world, I mean 34 followers) to read just to settle an old score, make up for past misgivings and misdeeds. All in all, I’m a pretty decent person, so I do understand that this is a serious thing to them. This would be a sacrilege to the Italian Family, and lest I have a desire to wake up with a horsehead in my bed, even I know better than to do that.

So instead I'm posting MY recipe.

MY recipe (which I made this past weekend, and I must say it was bellisima!) is essential this Italian’s Family Gravy Recipe that I tweaked with my own ingredients. Or ingredien(T) that is.

I added salt.

So here it is, in all its glory… Jenn’s Famous Italian Family(style) SAUCE Recipe. (Oh I love it. I JUST LOVE IT. I am beaming as I type this.) Now of course, I don’t have all the history that they have…I didn’t smuggle it out of Jerusalem in a balloon shoved up my rectum as I rode bareback on a T-Rex to confront the Confederates or anything like that. My tradition starts right here, right now. And I hope the rest of you enjoy it and make your own memories as well. For you Irish out there, feel free to add some cabbage if you feel so inclined... Mexican's, I'm sure this would be delectable with a little beans and salsa.

And because I am a good person, a charitable soul if you will… how do ya like these apples: Feel free to duplicate this recipe and send to everyone you know.

Jenn’s Famous Italian(style) SAUCE Recipe:

Cover bottom of sauce pot with olive oil--not too much--thin layer of oil
Saute 3-4 cloves chopped garlic (if you burn the garlic, start over… the whole sauce will taste burnt)

Add:
3 cans Pastene kitchen ready tomatoes
3 cans tomato paste
3-4 medium size Hunt’ss sauce
Add about 1/2 cup-1 cup water
Add some fresh basil
Add about handful of romano cheese
And now for the SECRET INGREDIENT… dun, dun, dun….
A pinch of salt

In a separate fry pan add oil -.not a lot - and brown pork chops and sausages to a nice deep golden brown. Salt and pepper your meat when you are browning it. Add meat to the sauce. You can use the same oil for the meatballs as long as it hasn't burned. Pour some of the oil from the pork chops and sausages into the sauce for flavor before browning the meatballs. Add more oil to the pan before I brown the meatballs. You can also buy salt pork and brown that in the bottom of the pot, instead of adding oil, before sautéing the garlic.

Let it cook a good while....don't let it boil....just simmer....I turn it off when I see the oil come up to the top of the pot. Let it simmer 3-4 hours after the meat is all in. It always tastes better the next day after all the flavors mix in.

Ciao,

Jenn

Oh and P.S. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the fact that should a couple guys donning track suits and chewing on toothpicks show up in my driveway in a Cadillac requesting that we "go for a little ride"... Just so you know I'm not afraid of you. As a matter of fact, at 5 foot 4 inches, I'm probably taller than you. But to be on the safe side, I'll be having Matt start my car for me in the morning anyway.

Put your mind to it, go for it… get down and break a sweat!

2009-10-23T17:07:00.002-04:00

A decision has been made.

I’m going back to the gym. Seriously. Like I might even go tomorrow, that’s how serious about this I am. I MEAN IT.

Although knowing me and my inherent lack of grace, this will probably happen:

I feel like when I go to the gym on a regular basis, I make healthier lifestyle choices overall. When I wheeze away on the treadmill for an hour and witness just how much friggen effort it takes to burn a measly 250 calories, it makes me think twice about the things I put in my mouth to consume those 250 calories to begin with. For example, right now I am eating Tropical Skittles and washing them down with a Lipton Brisk iced tea. If I was actively participating in the gym membership I’ve retained for the past two years, I’d probably forgo my 370 calorie, sugar laden afternoon snack. Especially whereas I just had a BLT for lunch. And a Dunkin Flatbread with hash browns a few hours before that for breakfast. And Burger King mozzarella sticks around midnight last night because I had like six beers while at dinner (which by the way was a TGI Friday’s Chicken Sandwich with French fries) and therefore had the drunken munchies. See what I mean?

I bet some of you are suspicious that I am getting advertising revenue for all the fast food name dropping going on in this post, but alas no... that's actually what I've eaten in the last 17 hours. The "Old Me" would have thought it's okay because I popped a multivitamin at some point therefore I was "healthy". The "New Me" is mentally doing the caloric equations and is alarmed at the realization that a week straight spent on a treadmill wouldn’t burn that shit off.

Ever since I hit my late 20’s things have just gone downhill. Granted I don’t always make the healthiest choices, but I feel like my lifestyle is starting to take its toll on me. I’m tired all the time, my jeans don’t fit, I’m miserable because my jeans don’t fit etc. I eat more because I'm miserable because my jeans don't fit. It's a vicious cycle, really.

I’m not really sure what brought me to this monumental crossroads, but for once I’m going to choose the path less traveled. No longer will I stand idly by and let Planet Fitness take $20 a month out of my bank account to pay for nothing more than a tag hanging from my key chain. I’m going to USE that key tag, chin held high and proud when I walk in there at night, leotard on, sweat band around forehead, leg warmers scrunched just so. Maybe instead of just getting the polite smile, they might even start to remember my name if I become a regular. As a matter of fact, I may become such a professional gym-goer that someday I might finally understand how the hell you work that stupid heartrate monitor thing without the screen flashing and beeping at me every thirty seconds demanding I put my hands on the sensors.

Hell, I might even eat a vegetable.

One that’s NOT on my burger or in my steakbomb that is.

Wish me luck.

A really long winded post about nothing really important. Enjoy.

2009-10-22T17:36:00.006-04:00

Like most Generation Y “nine to fivers” out there, I am addicted to Facebook. I am logged on to the site for at least eight hours a day while at work so that I can mindlessly check it for updates every hour or so when I get bored. I think it appeals to my (self-diagnosed) ADHD, like when I’m in the middle of typing out a work email, and inexplicably and without warning stop in the middle and check for new Facebook updates. It’s also a reward system so to speak. Wrap up a phone call? Check Facebook. Finish filing? Check Facebook. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if my employer ever restricted Facebook, I would probably quit my job. In the past year since I’ve been a Facebook member (prior to that I was on the archaic MySpace) I’ve used the site to join a book club, promote my blog, “meet” several members of my extended family in Illinois, hell I’ve even made several “real life” friends through Facebook. Furthermore, anything I need to know I ask Facebook. Can you recommend a good wine, has anyone seen Paranormal Activity, where can I find a good tailor? Facebook is all knowing, and I am a Facebook Professional. With my Professional Status, there are two things that bother me about Facebook. Scratch that. THREE THINGS that bother me about Facebook. One is Facebook Drama which I might write about someday if I feel like alienating a bunch of people in my life. The second is Facebook Illiteracy… My general thoughts on the matter are if you don’t know how to use it properly, LEARN TO (but I will get to that in a minute). The third thing that irritates me is the Facebook Crazies. Instead of wasting time explaining what a Facebook Crazy is, I thought I would just show you a prime example of a convo I had with one a while back:

hi
Between You and FACEBOOK CRAZY

FACEBOOK CRAZY
January 23 at 10:49pm
Any chance you are bi?
28/f
-ericka

FACEBOOK CRAZY
January 25 at 10:33am
i'm sorry to bother. i guess you're not interested. let me know if you change your mind. -ericka, 28/bif

Jennifer Martin
January 25 at 2:03pm
Sorry Ericka I guess I had issues with my Mobile Message feature. No unfortunately I am not bi, although I am flattered you asked! Take care... Jenn

FACEBOOK CRAZY
January 25 at 2:08pm
Do you know anyone who is? Or who is open to just bisexual talk on the phone?

Jennifer Martin
January 25 at 2:09pm
Um, no... sorry.

Aaaaaannndd… “BLOCKED”

Disclaimer… Sorry if any of you happen to be this particular Facebook Crazy. And if you are her...again, I’m very flattered. I wish I had the nerve to post her name because it is HILARIOUS. Seriously. Email me and I’ll tell you. And if you're interested in bisexual talk on the phone, email me and I'll hook you up.

So anyway, back to Facebook Illiteracy. Because Facebook plays such a major role in my life, I decided to sign my boyfriend up so he could understand what I was talking about when I said things like “How funny is it that Tara tagged me in that picture as her arm because I taught her that skinny arm photo trick?”, or “I mean seriously, does anybody even use the poking feature?” or “Holy shit! Stop with the incessant over-liking!” In the beginning I was really excited about Matt joining Facebook… I thought we’d exchange cute little wall posts to make all my friends jealous, mutually tag one another in pics, maybe someday we could even change our relationship status to “engaged” or something (HINT MOTHERFUCKING HINT). But alas, he is just not interested in Facebook like I am. He never posts a status, never adds pictures, never comments my witty wall posts… nothing. Every once in a while he logs in, but he’s like a silent predator... he checks the scene, views upcoming events, sees what his friends are up to etc. and then as quick as he appeared, he’s gone. It is all very sneaky and gosh darn it... I DON'T LIKE IT ONE BIT. Let your presence be known for chrissakes! Post a status so I can comment it! As a Facebook Professional, I post incessant updates every five minutes. Go ahead and block me, I don’t care (and by “I don’t care” I mean “I’d be devastated”).

So a few nights ago, Matt stops by after work, walks into the kitchen where I’m cooking dinner (aka microwaving a Smart One) and he has that LOOK on his face. If you’ve ever been in a long term relationship you know The Look. It’s the look that says “It’s been a little while since we’ve had this discussion, but I feel it is my obligation as your significant other to occasionally remind you that I am a highly desirable creature capable of soliciting unwarranted attention from other beings. Though I would never act on it, I think you should be aware that at any point in time, I could act on my right to trade you in for a younger, newer model. I won’t, but just a friendly reminder that I could if I wanted to. Just keeping you on your toes.” Yup. I got all that from a Look. Don’t lie. You’ve used it before too.

Now I needed worry, for I’ve never been more secure with any other person in my whole life. I’ve never - in all these years - had even one iota of a feeling that Matt would ever act on his right to trade me in. He adores me as much as I adore him. But let’s just say that over the years, I may have let my guard down in the keeping up appearances area just a tad. Let me back up a second and explain that of all people in my life, Matt has seen me at my absolute worst, many, many, many times. This has EVERYTHING to do with the fact that we first started dating when we were in 8^th grade (that particular relationship ended tragically after five months when I had my 8^th grade BFF call him and break up with him for me. She said he sounded heartbroken), and over the past 15 years he’s held the title of “My Boyfriend” about five different times. Although we’ve been more “off” than “on” over the past fifteen years, nevertheless he has remained a near constant presence in my life which means that Matt has been with me through my awkward adolescent years, through my rebellious teenage years, my hard-partying twenties and beyond.

With Matt hanging around, it’s almost like being on the Truman Show because this kid remembers EVERYTHING. He especially seems to have the memory of an elephant when it comes to things that I personally would love to forget. You know, like the time I crashed a moped into a tree at full speed, thus permanently losing feeling in my left knee... or like the time his cousin threw a bender of a party where I had way too much to drink and Matt had to put me to bed for the night. Matt still gets grossed out when he tells the story of how he woke up the following morning to discover his t-shirt drenched in my urine because I peed the bed while passed out next to him. Yeah… all that sort of stuff you don’t really want to remember as you get older and more “mature” because things like that don’t happen to you anymore. Yeah, I DEFINITELY don’t do things like that anymore. For example, this past Sunday, Matt didn’t have to carry me fireman style from the bar and clean the puke out of my hair after I drank way too much wine at a baby shower. (He didn’t have to, because I probably could have walked.) And maybe this past Saturday he didn’t witness me as I came jogging out of the convenience store towards his waiting car, only to trip in front of him over my own shoe, lose my balance and hurl myself down an incline… rip my jeans, skin my palms, cut my knee, and provide a couple minutes of entertainment to break up the monotony of sitting at a red-light for at LEAST five waiting cars at a busy intersection (maybe Matt was the sole person that happened to be looking the other way?) Needless to say, I’ve provided him constant, near endless fodder of breakupable offenses.

So back to The Look. Matt recently got a Facebook enabled phone and he walks in and starts waving it in my face proud as a peacock taunting me and saying “I still got it! Haha! I’m a handsome mothereffer, and you better watch out because others are taking notice!!” So I take the phone from him, scroll down and see that he’s received a Facebook message from some hot young thing saying “Hey there, you are GORGEOUS! Are you single?” So now I’m pissed. Of course, I don’t dare show my hand and give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m pissed so instead I play on his Facebook Illiteracy and mumble something like “oh, I get emails all that time like that… it’s nothing, probably spam, and it’s just your lack of Facebook experience that makes you believe it’s anything but spam” because I am a Facebook Professional and he is NOT so he has to take my word for it. It’s friggen Spam. I said so.

The next day, I go to work and immediately log into my Facebook. I quickly scan Matt’s friends list for any new additions of potential threats and check out his “wall” for any new happenings. Right then and there, I immediately decide that I hate this girl. Again, Matt doesn’t ever DO anything on Facebook, therefore his entire page is all my posts to him. Tagged pictures from Bermuda, little cutesy love notes etc. How could she even ask (type?) with a straight face whether or not he had a girlfriend? Didn't she do her Facebook homework? By looking at Matt’s page, it would be hard to determine he had anything BUT a girlfriend in his life. So she’s either another Facebook Illiterate, or she’s dumb as rocks. I’m going with dumb as rocks. So now my psychotic side starts to get the best of me and I decide I’m going to compose a sarcastic little post... You know, pee on the bushes a little, mark my territory. Something to the effect of “clearly you have a girlfriend” to put on his wall to let little miss Hot Young Thing know that my boyfriend and I have an incredibly open and honest relationship, and that we are so secure in our togetherness that we laid in each others arms all night laughing at her message and the very idea that she could ever come between us. Only I can’t post my cleverly crafted message about how he “obviously has a girlfriend” on his wall, or I would look like a friggen moron. Why would I look like a friggen moron you ask? Because right there on Matt’s wall there was a little blurb that said “Matt is now meeting singles in his area on Date-App!”

Well isn’t that nice! My boyfriend’s now meeting singles in his area via a Facebook Dating Application! I had to laugh… (that is… I had to laugh AFTER I called him and told him he had five minutes to remove the post before I had my BFF call him and break up with him for me). Facebook Professionals such as myself know that you don’t click on any of those third party applications unless you fully consent to them raping and pillaging your friends list, having full access to your last five years tax returns, and sending out Christmas Cards on your behalf. They are the electronic equivalent of a cold sore. THEY DO NOT GO AWAY. Playing with them just makes them stronger. Matt was bewildered when I called him to tell him, and went so far as to google “how did Date App get on my Facebook page” as proof that he was not out philandering with the gorgeous single ladies of Facebook. Of course, I know better anyway. He’s a Facebook Illiterate after all. Plus I love and trust him and all that shit.

THE END.

Okay, maybe not the end…

P.S. I obviously did MY Facebook homework and consulted another Facebook Professional to get the skinny on Miss Hot Young Thing. After all that worrying and thinking I had to start cooking more meals and giving more frequent blowjobs,imagine my surprise (and relief) when I found out that Miss Hot Young Thing is a Facebook Crazy. She's the type that does this sort of thing all the time... Randomly messages guys in her area asking to get to know them etc. My fellow Facebook Professional insider gave me about six examples of different guys we both know that have gotten the same message as Matt. So obviously I took immense pleasure in informing Matt that it wasn’t has devastatingly handsome good looks that drew her in to his profile, nor was it his biting humor and sharp wit, his caring and sensitive nature or any of those things. She’s just a Facebook Crazy. But on the bright side… all those things are what made him draw ME in… five times now and counting.

Two Years Ago Today

2009-10-09T09:01:00.002-04:00

Two years ago today I had the day off from work. It was a Monday, Columbus Day, and I was lounging in bed with my laptop, wasting the day away on MySpace. I remember clicking on your page and saw that you had uploaded a few new pictures sometime over the weekend. I clicked through them, and found the one of you, me, and Jesse. I smiled when I saw that your caption for the picture was “I love these two”, and I typed back a quick “I love these two, too!” and hit send. Today, that comment has still never been approved and posted because by that time… two years ago today on a Monday morning… you were already gone. At the time, I just didn’t know it yet.

Two years ago today I remember getting the phone call that told me you were gone. I can remember every word of the conversation as if it were yesterday. Jesse asked me if I was sitting down, and when I assured him that I was he then broke the news that you had been killed the night before in a car accident. I remember being in shock, and accusing him - and hoping – it was nothing more than a sick, practical joke. I half expected you to pick up the phone and say “Obviously we’re joking Niff! Be ready, we’re coming to pick your ass up!”

Two years ago today, I picked up the phone to call Kristen and tell her that you had passed away. I wanted her to hear it from me… her cousin… her own flesh and blood. Her voice was still clouded with sleep when she answered the phone, and I remember feeling awful that I had to break the news to her while she was barely half awake. I wanted to ask her to go get a cup of coffee and then call me back, but I couldn’t take the chance of her hearing from someone else. She knew immediately that something was wrong when she heard me crying, and her voice changed instantly from half asleep to wide awake. I remember how badly I didn’t want to say out loud the words that I knew were going to hurt her so deeply… I’m sorry Kristen, but Leah died last night. Your best friend was killed in a car accident. I didn’t even sound real when it came out of my mouth. She was momentarily stunned as she processed the news, and then she just said “I’m on my way”. I remember hanging up and thinking that at least I had a few hours that morning absent of the knowledge that you were no longer with us, thinking you were still alive. I wish Kristen had been afforded even ten minutes of the same luxury.

Two years ago today I remember the influx of mourners that gathered at your home as soon as they heard the news. I remember sitting with your mother in her bedroom, amidst a scattering of your aunts, uncles, close friends and loved ones, hugging her and telling her how sorry I was. How truly, truly sorry I was that we had to lose you. I can still hear her voice as she asked aloud the one question that nobody could answer over and over and over again. “Why did it have to be my Leah?” she would sob as she rocked back and forth, clutching the framed picture of the two of you in her hand. Listening to your mother cry for you was absolutely heart wrenching, Leah. I looked over at Kristen and saw her fighting back the same tears that threatened to spill over my cheeks any minute, as we tried our hardest to be strong for your mother. I remember feeling grateful that I had my cousin there to go through this with me. That at least we had each other.

Two years ago today, we sat side by side on the unmade bed you had slept in just two short nights before. I remember closing my eyes and inhaling your scent that still lingered in the room. I looked around at your bedroom, trying to absorb ever part of you that I could to take with me. It disturbed me that there was so much life left in there. In this very room, less than 24 hours ago you had sat in front of this very mirror and applied your make up for a night out. The eyeliner pencils remained uncapped… the bronzer unclosed. (I think Kristen may have even found her lip plumper that you swore you didn’t have somewhere in the pile.) As I crossed the room to check out the framed pictures and concert stubs adorning the full length mirror that hung on the inside of your closet door, I was careful not to disturb the discarded clothes still strewn on the rug. The scattered shirts and pants you rejected in favor of a pair of jeans, Chucks and a hoodie to go watch the Red Sox playoff game at a local bar on a Sunday night. Maybe you planned to hang them up the next morning, but knowing you… probably not. Dirty or not, they’d go in the wash. It was just easier. I laughed to myself when I saw your quilted down, ankle length winter coat hanging in your closet doorway and I remember thinking to myself, “winter must be coming early this year” if Leah already broke out her Eskimo coat. You always looked so funny in that coat, but the best part of all was you KNEW how funny you looked, and you didn’t care. “Hey, at least I’m WARM kid!” you’d say from somewhere underneath the massive, faux fur lined hood.

Two years ago today I remember sitting on that bed, thinking about the night I met you. Kristen picked me up first on our way to see a local show in New Hampshire, and then we stopped to get you in Reading. I slid over into the middle “the bitch seat” to make room for you and from that point on, when the three of us were together I always had “bitch”. No matter how hard I fought, I never won that battle. Kristen always drove, you always called “gun” so I got stuck with “bitch”. Right there in that very truck, some of my most cherished memories were formed of the three of us together. I can’t always remember the destination, but I remember the scenario because it was always the same: us three in the cab of Kristen’s pickup truck… smoking cigarettes, scheming for gas money, and just chatting away. WEEI was always broadcasting a Red Sox game, and I remember Kristen proudly informing me that you were a REAL Red Sox fan, not the fake kind that wore pink Red Sox tee shirts. (I threw away my pink Red Sox shirt the very next day.) The destination was never the same, but the three passengers always were. That particular night that I met you for instance, I came home wearing no pants and two pairs of underwear. To this day it’s my favorite story to tell people about you… I can remember Kristen shaking her head and laughing in the driver’s seat, while you egged me on as I fumbled to pull my jeans off over my boots in the cab of the truck. (It would have been a lot easier if I wasn’t stuck in “bitch”.) That memory symbolizes everything I loved so fiercely about you Leah, because more than anything, the biggest compliment I can give you, is that I loved who I was when I was with you.

Two years ago today, I sat next to my cousin on your bed and wished with everything I had for just one more minute with you. We sat side by side in silence and shared thought. When I replay in my head what happened next, it has become all the more evident to me that it was your way of reaching out and comforting us when we needed you most, in the way you knew best. Music was such a huge part of your life, Leah. This was evidenced even in your death by the multitude of musicians who showed up at your wake, the songs written for you in the aftermath, and the many benefit concerts held in your memory in the months following your passing. Two years ago today, as we sat in your bedroom and listened to your loved ones grieving down the hall, your alarm clock inexplicably started going off, blaring music throughout the whole house. I remember Kristen and I both jumped nearly out of our skin at the disruption, and she ran over to your nightstand and fiddled with the buttons to silence it. As the stillness once again filled the room, Kristen stood upright from the alarm clock, and we met each other’s eyes. Together, we both started laughing uncontrollably through our tears. We couldn’t help it. It was just like our Leah to set her alarm clock to “rise and shine” at four o’clock in the afternoon. But even more the reason for our laughter and tears…. We knew you were there with us, at that exact moment, and that thought is what has given us peace to get through these past two years without you.

Neither of us had ever been a big believer in signs from the afterlife, but then again, neither of us really ever had a reason to want to believe until we lost you. A few days after your wake, Kristen called me in tears. Unlike me, Kristen had actually paid attention to the song that started blaring in your room the day you died, and had researched the lyrics on the internet. She learned that the song was called Who Knew by Pink and it’s about the unexpected death of a close friend. As Leigh Hunt once said “music is the medicine of the breaking heart”. Sometimes, I’ll be driving along and the song with start playing and I’ll feel nothing, other times to this day, I hear that song and I become flooded with emotion. I believe that these are the times that you are with me.

There is a quote that says something to the gist of “music speaks to the soul in a language that only the soul can understand, yet cannot translate into words”. More succinctly… music is what feelings sound like, so when I cannot describe what it is I am feeling, I usually rely on music to say it for me. On that particular day when you knew we needed you the most, you were speaking to us both in the best way you knew how, in a language we would understand… through music. So tonight Leah, two years to the day when you left us, Kristen and I are going to get together in remembrance of our friend, of a beautiful soul, and of a life cut too short, and we’re going to play some music for you. I hope that you’ll join us.

I love and miss you always, my friend.

“Life is one grand, sweet song, so start the music.”

Kids Say The Darndest Things

2009-10-06T11:20:00.004-04:00

I don’t know what made me think of this particular memory today, but I can’t seem to get it out of my head so I figured I’d write it down to share it with you…

My mother met my father as a late teen while she was babysitting for her next door neighbors’ kids. Those neighbors happened to be my father’s brother, wife and their children, Yvonne and Jason. My dad stopped by one night, met my mother and alas! They fell in love. A few years later, after my parents were married and my brother and I were born, Yvonne then in turn babysat for me. Later on in when I became of appropriate babysitting age, I babysat for Yvonne’s children, and so the cycle goes. (Someday, if I ever have any children of my own, Yvonne's kids will babysit for my kids.)

I think I started babysitting for the kids when Alexia (now 16) was about three years old, and Tyler (now 14) was about one, and I continued on in that fashion up until about four years ago. I would have kept right on regularly babysitting for them (and sometimes I still do in a pinch) but I was getting older, had a “real” job, and had moved further away than was convenient to travel for a night of babysitting. Not to mention that the kids were getting older, and didn’t really require a babysitter quite so often. All told, I probably spent about eight years babysitting them at least one night every couple of weeks so that my cousin Yvonne and her husband Ted could escape the rigors of parenthood and enjoy the company of adults for the night. I don’t even think the kids knew we were related up until a couple of years ago, they just assumed every family invited their babysitter to Christmas Dinner. I think during those eight years, I learned more about children and parenting than I could have ever learned elsewhere save for having children of my own.

One hot summer’s night in about August of 2001 I was babysitting the kids for the evening. We were having one of those hot, humid, New England Summer’s where your legs stuck to the leather interior in your car and the only thing you could do to cool down was literally drape yourself over your air conditioner if you were fortunate enough to have one. Just the act of standing still caused beads of sweat to run down your back, and news reporters across the airwaves warned the elderly of heatstroke. That particular night, putting the kids to sleep was a nightmare as they just could not get comfortable in their beds. The air in the house was heavy and stagnant, and all the portable fans by their bedside did was blow warm air at their faces. They were hot, cranky and miserable. Never mind that at bedtime - 8:00 p.m. - the sun was still up, meaning these kids just did NOT want to go to bed. My twenty year old impatient self, on the other hand, was simply hoping that their sheer act of fighting to stay awake would be enough to drive them to exhaustion.

All in all I probably spent the better part of an hour going from one room to the next. Tucking Tyler in, reading Alexia a bedtime story (or better yet, HER pointing out that I had skipped a page), fetching a glass of water, rubbing their backs, getting cool, damp, cloths for their foreheads, etc. I’d be tucking Tyler in and from the next room I’d hear Alexia kicking off the sheets and yelling “Jeeeennn!!! Can you come rub my baaacckkk” in her adorable, low pitched, scratchy voice that my boyfriend refers to as her “Aunt Sue Voice”. Meaning that he thinks she sounds exactly like his great Aunt Sue did; Aunt Sue who smoked two packs a day of Camel Unfiltered until the day she died, God rest her soul. She was such a precocious kid, and played the role of Big Sister to the hilt. There was no better big sister than Alexia. When Tyler was a baby just learning to speak, she was the only one who could understand him and she did all of the talking for him, like a mini translator.

Tyler: (something illegible)

Me: Alexia, what is Tyler saying?

Alexia: He said he has to go pee, and also he wants you to buy him a new Barbie.

Smart kid.

Anyway, back to this particular night… The kids are getting more and more restless, I’m getting more and more frustrated and then to compound matters, I see a flash in the sky signaling lightening is on the horizon. This massive streak of brightness in the sky of course did not go unnoticed by the kids either and they both looked up at me from my perch between their doorways wide eyed as if to say “Well that does it Jenn, we’re definitely not going to sleep now! Too a-scared!!” So I did what any reasonable babysitter would do in my situation. I let them sleep together for safety in mom's bed, because by the time their parents got home and realized that they had to move two sleepy, sweaty, kids into their own beds I would officially be off the clock and on my way out for the night.

As I’m tucking the kids into mom’s bed, fetching water from their rooms, arranging their fans on either side of the bed, etc. etc. etc. Alexia looks up at me with her big, brown eyes and asks me in her Aunt Sue voice if the weather men predicted a thunderstorm tonight. For the first time I realize she’s really genuinely scared of the lightening. It was a little curious for me to see her in that state because as you know, not only does the role of Big Sister come with it’s perks such as getting the bigger room, and final decision over which movie to watch etc., it also has it’s responsibilities such as being The Brave One. In all of her eight years on this planet, I had never seen Alexia show such vulnerability. By this time, Tyler is pretty much “over it” and already snuggled up on “Dad’s Side” of the bed with his multitude of stuffed animals and plastic trucks to keep him safe. (Yes, plastic trucks on a water-bed… again, not my problem).

I realized that in order to soothe Alexia to sleep, I had to take this opportunity as “A Teachable Moment”. I was not going to simply dismiss her fears and tell her to relax it was only lightening. This kid was genuinely concerned for the safety and well being of herself and her brother, and it was my responsibility as her babysitter and big cousin to calm her fears to ensure a good night sleep for all of us. So I sit down next to her, tuck her bangs behind her ear and tell her that there’s nothing to be afraid of because it’s not NORMAL lightening.

“What do you mean, not normal lightening?” She asks, dumbfounded at such a thing as 'not real lightening'.

So I start slowly, thinking of the best way to describe heat lightening to a kid such as Alexia. She was a smart kid, and if she even SENSED a lie, she'd call me out and we'd be back at square one. “Alexia, do you know how it was really, really hot out today?"

“Yes, Jenn. I know it was WICKED hot! We played in the pool like all day long!?” She says, kicking the sheets off her legs once again.

So I continue, “Well when it gets really, really hot out like it did today, sometimes the earth doesn’t know what to do with all the heat so it takes all of the energy and makes a big, huge flash in the sky just to release all that pent up heat” I use my hands to illustrate this 'big ball of hotness' all the while wishing I paid more attention in biology in high school.

Alexia contemplates this for a minute...“So will it hurt me Jenn?”, she asks.

I smile because I can't help it. “No sweetie, it’s not like real lightening from a thunderstorm… its heat lightening. They call it a heat flash”

All of a sudden, something changed in Alexia’s face. A flicker of understanding shone in her deep brown eyes, and big smile broke out on her face. She clapped her hands together and exclaimed “oh I GET it now Jenn! A heat flash! My Gammie gets those!!!"

At this point I’m trying to fully digest that my adorably precocious baby cousin just told me that her grandmother got hot flashes just like the sky did, that I’m biting the inside of my lip so hard to keep from laughing that I think I drew blood. I mumble a quick, "Yep Sweetie, just like the ones that Gammie gets" and did what I could to make it out of the room as quickly as possible. I finished tucking her into bed, (Tyler was already sound asleep), and shut the light behind me. "Just leave the door open a crack Jenn!” Alexia yelled behind me. I made it all the way down the stairs before I broke out in a fit of hysterical laughter so hard that I literally had tears streaming down my face.

I waited until Yvonne and Ted got home to share the story with them, and like me they laughed until they cried. Even now, almost a decade later it is still one of my favorite Tales of Babysitting stories. Some things seriously just cannot be made up and are, as they say, absolutely priceless.

For You...

2009-10-02T09:40:00.003-04:00

I wrote this about this time last year to commemorate the one year anniversary of a very dear friend passing away. With the two year anniversary coming up on October 8th, i thought I would take a minute and reminisce...

A few months ago while making my routine and astronomically high monthly bill payment to my cell phone provider via their website, I was pleased to learn that since I had been a dutiful customer of Verizon Wireless for the past two years I was now eligible for a complimentary new phone! Hidden in the bottom corner of the website, strategically located just out of eye catching view was the tiniest of all links saying “P.S. you’renoweligibleforneweverytwo” in the most boring, size 6 Arial font one could ever imagine. I have no idea how I ever saw it, but alas, I did (Score: Jenn 1, Verizon 0), and after spending countless work hours searching and comparing and agonizing over the newest and latest phone models available, I finally found one that “spoke to me” directly. I mean it literally spoke to me, as in it possessed the ability to talk. Now this was a huge selling point to me as I am an admitted chronic texter, and - though I’m not proud of it - I have been known to engage in this dangerous behavior while driving. (spare me the lecture, I’m now reformed). Thus meaning this hip, new, voice activated feature was somewhat akin to a life saving endeavor for me. Now I could simply speak out loud the words that I wanted to text and my phone would just input the text for me, meaning no more fumbling with the makeshift keyboard while steering with one knee to type out a quick “lol!” response.

But I digress, back to my point... I completed the online checkout process, and in the following days I patiently awaited my complimentary prize, I mean phone. I couldn’t help but feel like the dad from the movie "A Christmas Story", awaiting my Major Award for being such a wonderful and loyal customer. I guess today’s voice activated cell phone is the shapely leg lamp of yesteryear. After nearly a week spent incessantly hounding the UPS guy, and tracking the location of my package online, (It’s in Connecticut! It’s getting closer!) my new phone finally arrived. I immediately tore the box open, and settled in for a long day of getting to know my new phone. A few more countless hours of work time wasted, and I was in love. Not only did my phone know how to talk, but it also listened… I mean REALLY listened… and good communication is always key to a long-term phone purchase.

Everything with my new phone was going great, until I started to manually transfer over my contacts, one by one. Now I know there’s a much better way to do this, but for me I personally prefer to give each contact in my collection a little one-on-one face time, where after a few seconds of thorough analysis, I make the pertinent and irreversible decision as to whether or not the individual has “made the cut” to be transferred into my new phone. Though I admit that during this rigorous examination I generally have trouble actually deleting any contacts, I certainly do enjoy the memories each contact name conjures up during this housecleaning effort. All in all, it’s just another valiant effort to be super organized like the control freak I am.

All was going well and fine until I got to the “L’s”. Right there between “Laurie” and “Leanne”, was “Leah” staring back up at me in all her Four-Letter-Worded-Name glory, proudly, and a bit defiantly. I could almost hear her saying “what’s up now, bitch!?”. Here before me stood a conundrum that wasn’t really prepared for and I must admit that I had a tough time determining what to do. Did Leah make the cut into my new phone? Certainly Leah passed my rigorous examination questions with flying colors “Had I called this person in the last 12 months?”, “Does this person know of my existence?”, “Would I feel at all uncomfortable if I happened to drunk dial this person at 3:00 a.m. some night?” etc. Though I knew that I would never call her again, there was still something very unsettling about simply deleting one of my closest friends from my phone contacts permanently.

I eventually made the decision to transfer Leah’s phone number over to my new phone, though I knew deep down that I would never see her name flash on my new phone’s caller ID. Nor would I ever get another “GO SOX!” text from her, nor would I ever scroll through my phone’s photo album after a night out and find 15 pictures she’d taken of herself in a drunken stupor. Something about seeing her name in my contacts was comforting. You see, my friend Leah had been killed in a car accident about three months prior to this, and this simple exercise of transferring phone numbers into a new phone was just one more example of how deeply her loss affected every aspect of my life, and how much my life had changed since that fateful day.

When somebody is removed from your life, you are usually somewhat prepared. When it’s a breakup with a lover or loss of a friendship, you’ve usually initiated it or at the very least you “saw it coming”. You can take solace in knowing that there’s always the potential that you’ll see that person again, and maybe even work out your differences, though they’re no longer a part of your every day being, When an elderly relative passes the emotions are a little different, but you can still take solace in knowing that they lived a long and eventful life, and comfort yourself by telling yourself that it was “their time”. You had prepared yourself for the day it was going to happen, and are maybe even a little relieved that their suffering has come to an end.

When somebody is suddenly removed from your life with zero preparation, you learn how to cope with the loss as you go through the motions. Nothing in your past can prepare you for it, and the pain is more intense than any you’ve ever experienced. There is nothing to take solace or comfort in, and therefore anger and frustration set in. For me, the most painful part of the process was that I didn’t get to say goodbye. This sounds very cliché, so I will do my best to put it into words. Leah was removed from this earth one day, and I had no warning or time to prepare for it. I had spoken to her less than one day – 24 hours – 1440 minutes - one lunar cycle – prior to her sudden, tragic death, and I couldn’t remember when I last told her I loved her. I’m sure I ended the conversation with a “love ya!” but had I ever really told her just how much she meant to me? How deeply her existence affected mine? I was panicked. Oh my God… Did she know just how much I loved and adored her? Did she have any idea what she meant to me? More importantly, did she love me back? I would have given anything for just one more minute with her. That’s all I needed… one more minute to tell her how I felt about her. I don’t think you realize the importance of someone until they are no longer with you, and you can’t get them back. Not even for one minute.

In the first few days I coped by surrounding myself with Leah’s friends and family and people who also knew and loved her as much as I did. Their presence was somewhat of a distraction to the matter at hand but then that eventually ended too. Eventually when the services are over, and you’re forced to move on, all you’re left with is your thoughts, your memories, and a mind that is ill equipped to heal a broken heart. It’s during this time that you try your best to hoard memories… pictures… text messages… mementoes of special times the two of you shared together. For me, some of my most treasured items are a favorite belt buckle of hers, and some concert stubs that bring me back to a different time and a different place before I fully realized just how unpredictable this life could be.

Everyone copes with tragedy in their own way, and those of us affected by this loss certainly tried it all. My cousin Kristen focused on staying as active as possible. She was out every night, refusing to let her mind comprehend what had happened and refusing to let the hurt in. She claims that to this day she still hasn’t broken down. She won’t let herself. My friend Jesse, who is no stranger to death having suddenly lost his father when he was 13 years old, simply accepted it with a “well I guess that’s life” blasé attitude. Though he missed her with a ferocity, he simply chose to accept what he could not change right off the bat. My friend Leigh-Ann cried nearly every single day, and reached out to those who were closest to Leah for support. Her agony proved too heavy a cross for her relationship to bear, but she in turn found a partner who understands better than most what she is going through. Another friend of mine who had lost his best friend in High School told me that he coped with the loss by never thinking about it, ever, in the ten years since the accident that took his friends life. Anytime it came to his mind, he forced it out. He even went as far as to sever ties with his deceased friend’s family so as to lessen the pain, and while he regrets it now, he readily admits that that when he was a teenager that was the only way he knew how to cope with the loss.

It wasn’t until about three weeks had passed since Leah’s death until the finality of the situation fully hit me. I was blindsided with a “low” that I had never quite experienced before, and was completely unprepared for. I wasn’t just sad, I was hurt, and I was angry. Three weeks was much longer than her and I had ever gone without seeing each other or speaking to one another and I was starting to fully feel the weight of her absence. There was a void in my life that was hard for me to accept. I used to say that I had a “top five” before “top five” became a Sprint marketing tactic. There were five people in my life that were close enough to me that at any given minute of any given day, I always knew where they were, what they were doing, and what was going on in their life on that particular day. If I was looking for something fun to do I would call one of them. They were my besties, and Leah was one of my “top five”. It was during this time that I clung desperately to the memory of her existence, and all that reminded me of her. I didn’t see the point of talking to people who didn’t know Leah, because they couldn’t possibly fathom my pain. It amazed me that people were able to get up and go to work, or go out to dinner, or see their favorite bands, see their friends, have fun and laugh or do whatever best helped them move on from the tragedy. What was even more shocking was being invited out with them. Are they serious…didn’t they know my friend had died? How can they possibly be okay with this?! How can they accept this? It’s too soon! I just wasn’t ready to pick up the pieces of my life and begin the process of putting it behind me. I just wasn’t ready to start healing. I wasn’t ready to admit it was over… that she was gone… that life moves on.

There is a saying that time heals all wounds, but I think a more accurate description is that “time lessens the pain of all wounds”, or “time takes the sting out of all wounds” but I guess that wouldn’t really have the same flow. Time certainly does not heal all wounds, because if that were true it would suggest that all I had to do was “slap on a Band-Aid and I’m as good as new” since Leah’s death. Anybody who has ever experienced a loss of this magnitude can attest that this could not be further from the truth. While I am no longer angry, I am certainly still sad. There’s still a void. When you lose a friend, it’s like you’re permanently marked for life. I miss my friend. I miss her laugh, I miss her carefree existence, and mostly I miss the person I was when she was around. Time definitely takes the sting out, but it also serves to make the memories I hold so close a little fuzzier as the days go by. A year to the day since I lost my friend, I find that It now takes a little longer for my mind to remember every single last detail of our times together. A few weeks ago it occurred to me that I could not remember what her voice sounded like. I also realized that I have no choice but to accept and make peace with the fact that these things do and will eventually happen. Just because my memory fades, it doesn’t mean my love for her has to.

I’m sure someday there will be a day that goes by that I don’t think of Leah, but that day is not today, it certainly won’t be tomorrow, and probably not next week. What I do know is that there will never be a day that goes by that I am not affected by her presence in my life. Whether it be the friendships and bonds that I have forged with others who knew and loved Leah, my resolve to live my life to the fullest potential in honor of a beautiful life cut short, or simply the act of transferring phone numbers over into a new phone, her life and it’s subsequent loss have affected me deeper than most anything else ever has. I’m lucky to have been loved by her, honored to have been her friend, and inspired by her every single day.

I love you Leah and I miss you every single day.

Craigslist, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

2009-09-22T18:35:00.004-04:00

I implore you dear Stiff Nifflers, is there a better way on this earth to waste time than on Craigslist? I am dead serious when I tell you that it’s everything I ever wanted in a website and more. Click on Craiglist.org and kiss an hour of your life good bye, my friend. Left your cell phone in a taxi while leaving Faneuil Hall in a drunken stupor this weekend? Just leave a description under Lost and Found. Need money to pay your rent this month? List your grandmother’s heirlooms under Jewelry for Sale. Wondering if that guy behind you in line at Starbucks was as into you as you thought he was? See if he’s since posted a generic Emily Bronte quote to “the girl in the red jacket at the Copley Place Starbucks” under Missed Connections. Ever get the urge to spew right wing nonsense about illegal immigrants taking all our good blue collar jobs? Pick a fellow desk jockey who leans to the left and start a heated debate under Rants & Raves. Just realized that it’s nearly noon and you have yet to see a picture of a grown man’s penis? Get your fill under Casual Connections, Rants & Raves, AND Men Seeking Men.

On Craigslist, you can get a pet, meet a guy, buy a bike, rent a room, sell a couch, get a job etc. all in the span of fifteen minutes. Seriously, what did we do before Craigslist? I know it’s gotten a bad rap as of late with the whole “Craigslist Killer” debacle, and coming from a purely marketing standpoint only, I can’t say for sure if I’d be thrilled if there was a “Stiff Niffles Killer” on the loose. (But imagine what it would do to my Site Meter Stats!) Bottom line is that Craigslist is a RESOURCE my friends, and it needs to be utilized to its fullest potential in order to be appreciated.

This past weekend I was looking through the part time, freelance job listings on the site to see if I could find an open position to help me supplement my income. I was looking for something vastly different than my current job, in that it would entail little or no work, and would pay me a lot of money to do it. All I want is less work to do, more time to do it, and more pay for not getting it done. That's all I ask. Imagine my surprise when I came across the following ad:

XXX Company is seeking engaged and enthusiastic Internet users with a little bit of free time.

Okay. That’s definitely me. Reading on…..

The ideal candidate is an Internet junkie – accustomed to the worlds of blogging, online content sharing, and social networking…

Wait… WHAT? Having a Facebook page is a plus?

This person is bright (well if I do say so myself), probably a college graduate, communicative, and willing to take on strange challenges.

Strange challenges? Okay, I'm intrigued.

This person probably already spends a fair amount of time procrastinating on the Internet, often at work or school, and is ready to channel that activity into paid work.

SHUT THE F*CK UP.

This is a freelance, work-from-home-or-wherever position; there is no contract, nor is there a minimum or maximum amount of submissions. If this sounds like you, let us know! Along with your cover letter and resume, please feel free to include one link to a piece of media online (video, photo, text, etc.

Wait a minute, wait a minute, hold up just a goddamned second! Procrastinate on the internet? Find obscure internet media to share? Get paid to do what I already do for free?

I couldn’t respond fast enough.

Submitting a resume in itself posed an interesting challenge. See, I’ve crafted a lot of winning cover letters in my time. I find them fairly easy to compose, and I’ve learned what it takes to separate myself from the pack of “as you will see by my attached resume, I feel my past experience in (obscure corporate position) would greatly benefit your organization” textbook job applicants. But this one was hard! How on earth do you compose a cover letter in which you tout how adept you are at wasting time on the internet to a company that might potentially want to hire you? I decided that honesty was the best policy and went with a professional but mildly funny “Are my eyes deceiving me?” sort of approach. I still wasn’t sure if this was an internet hoax or not, and a part of me was fully expecting a return email in broken English from someone claiming to be a prince of a Middle Eastern nation looking for me to cash a check for him.

Nevertheless I took the gamble. I crafted my response, sent my resume with attached funny media clip, and patiently waited.

The following day I received an email back from the Director of Media Content of XXX company. He was impressed with my use of the word “meandering” in my cover letter, which I used in the sentence “while meandering about the internet this morning, I came across your job posting”. I was as proud as a peacock at being acknowledged for my use of a ten dollar word, and rightfully told him so. Thus began my rigorous interview process in which I was asked to send along a few more pieces of media content per his description, describe in detail exactly how much time per day I spend dallying about the internet, and so forth. Of course, being the cynical gal that I am, I took the time to fully research the company via my expert skills in e-stalking, and to my delight I found that it is in fact a REAL COMPANY. No middle eastern wire transfers necessary. Shortly thereafter I was offered a freelance position with the company, which I happily accepted.

As of this moment, I’m reading through all the paperwork that was sent to me upon my acceptance, and thought I’d take a break and type up a quick blog about my new career. The way I see it, why NOT get paid for doing what I already do for free? It's almost not worth it to NOT do it (Yes, there's a double negative in that sentence but I assure it still makes sense. READ IT AGAIN.) Even if it amounts to a measly ten bucks a month it's worth it. Forward funny emails? Watch hilarious videos on Youtube? Find obscure internet clips? Get paid for it? Obviously Jesus loves me, and that’s that.

BINGO!

2009-09-15T10:48:00.004-04:00

It all started innocently enough, as these things usually do. Last week, while looking for a way to break a $20, I went into the convenience store and discovered that there was nothing I really needed to buy there: I had no need for gum or Altoids, my motor oil had been changed recently, the Louisiana Heat Slim-Jim’s weren’t calling to me, and my “New Car Scent” tree air freshener was still fooling people into believing I had just driven my Jeep off the lot. That’s when I saw them, all in a row, labeled one through twenty and I thought “well here we go, I’ll just buy a scratch ticket. I’ll have a few minutes of fun – definitely two dollars worth of fun - and I have the potential to make more money, maybe even a million!” I was sold.

I waited my turn and hesitantly walked up the cashier, feeling a little out of place and said – “Hi ma’am, can you recommend a good, fun two dollar scratch ticket?” The woman behind the counter sized me up, made a quick, cursory glance to my right pinky finger that was devoid of the telltale metallic ink smudge, and knew right then and there that she had a scratch ticket virgin standing before her. She then turned her back to me to scan the neat rows of scratch tickets, and I did what I thought all scratch ticket people did and yelled “Hey toots! Pick me a good one, will ya?!” She threw me a dirty look, and handed me my ticket. I looked down and saw that it was a Bingo ticket. I made my purchase, got my change and left.

Something inside me changed when I walked out the door holding that ticket. Oh my god I thought, I could be holding A MILLION FREAKING DOLLARS RIGHT NOW!” (Editors Note: the maximum win on a Bingo ticket is $20,000 but I had no idea. Nor did it matter, really. The bottom line is, it was FREE MONEY). I went home, put my things away and sat down and studied “my ticket to the good life”. I couldn’t read the directions fast enough. I had three, neat rows of nine “calling numbers” on the left and four individual Bingo squares on which to play those numbers. I neatly scratched off the four “free” spaces in the middle and commenced my game. I scratched the first number B-12 and discovered that I had a B-12 on each square!! “This is too easy!”, I thought to myself “Like taking candy from a baby!”. Ten minutes later I had finished my game and I had won $10 – Which amounted to A FIVE TIME RETURN on my original investment. I was hooked.

I promptly sent Matt back to the store for more tickets. We decided that we’d take my winnings, he’d invest an additional two dollars, and we’d get three tickets each. Whatever we won (which would be A LOT) we’d split, right down the middle. His father is a financial advisor, so we’d be covered on that front. We’d hire a lawyer if we had to; maybe even elect a family spokesperson to handle all the publicity. We’d figure out the details later. Anyway, Matt returned a few minutes later with our tickets. He got three more Bingo’s for me, and some other kind for himself. Within 30 seconds he had scratched all his and won nothing. A half hour later I was done with mine and I had also won nothing. That is, until Matt looked at mine again, scratched off the middle part that tells you your prize and informed me that I had actually won $15!! I had missed a few numbers somewhere along the line or something like that. I really had no idea how I won, but alas… I did! True to my word I promised him that I’d give him his $7.50 the next evening.

Next day comes, and I go to a new store to cash in our winnings. I get my $15 and decide I’ll take my half of the investment and buy three more. I scratch them and a half hour later I’ve won nothing. I take a second look at each of them to be sure, and ten minutes after that I’m SURE I’ve won nothing. Now I’m pissed. I decide I’ll take Matt’s half of the investment and get more, and just pay him back from whatever I win. This time I win a measly two dollars. I put the $2 ticket in my wallet to cash in later and head home. Defeated. I decide I’m definitely cashing it in, taking my $2 and never looking back… my torrid love affair with scratch tickets is OVER.

Later on I must face my boyfriend and tell him that I’ve spent all of our winnings with nothing to show for it. Matt jokingly asks me where his $7.50 is and I tell him “well Matt, we took some risks today.” What do you mean, he asks? “Well, these things don’t always pan out quite how we’d like them to. I was hoping for a better return on our investment, but with the market the way it is… sadly that wasn’t the case for us today.” So you spent it all on Bingo tickets, he asks? Yes I did, Matt. Yes I did. I’m so ashamed.

I’ve never been a gambler. Not even close. The biggest gamble I ever make is writing a check for $150 to Shaw’s for groceries on a Sunday when I have less than that in my bank account. If I made it until Thursday (payday) without them cashing the check, then I won. I’ve been to Vegas twice and spent a combined $20 each time on slots. The only reason I spent that $20 to begin with is so that I could fool the bartender into giving me free drinks while I “played”. When my winnings were more than my original investment, I’d immediately cash out. I had a bunch of slips to cash in when the trip was over, none totaling more than $5. But I won. I was still “up”. I don’t see the enjoyment of having my hard earned money stolen from me, under the guise of “fun”! What’s fun about that? But something about these tickets was actually fun for me! Each one took about ten minutes to play (thus delaying my disappointment), and I was really just enjoying the game of Bingo itself. The winning money part was a bonus, a bonus that meant I COULD BUY MORE BINGOS.

Later on the next night I go to the convenience store for cigarettes and I remember that I have a winning ticket in my purse. I decide to cash it in, put the $2 towards my purchase and be done with it. Then I watch as the customer in front of me buys a Bingo lottery ticket. I’m momentarily stunned… "Oh my god, that woman’s going to spend the next ten minutes playing my game! WTF, those are MY tickets! What if she wins the money that is rightfully mine?!" Standing before the cashier, something tells me that the next ticket WILL BE the winning one. I decide to re-invest my winning $2 ticket, plus an additional $2 from the change of my purchase for good measure. I win $25. And so it goes.

I won’t get into the lurid details of my binge, but suffice it to say the next morning when Matt woke me up, I felt oddly hung-over. I blinked and took notice of my surroundings. My bed was covered in metallic shavings, there were tickets strewn about, and my pinky has the telltale metallic smudge of a night spent begging for B-14’s, O-56’s and cover-alls. I had a flashback to the night before when I ran to 7/11 right before midnight, elbowing my way through drug dealers and strippers from the gentleman’s club next door so that I could cash in my tickets before midnight. I shake off the vision as Matt asks me if I want anything from Dunkin Donuts. I groggily tell him to “GO GET MORE BINGOS”. His dismayed look does not go unnoticed.

Today I stand before you, proud to admit that I haven’t scratched a ticket in three days. A full week ago today I bought my first ticket, and all told on my four day binge I probably spent a measly $20. But that measly $20 was MY $20, and I earned it fair and square dealing with stupid customers and even stupider employees. I could have bought twenty McChickens, two and a half packs of Marlboro's, or three six packs of Sam Adams Light with that $20. If that doesn't put things into perspective for you, I don't know what will. Simply put, I do not have room for any more vices in my life, and I’m pretty happy to stick with the few that I have now. Of couse, if I happen to get a Bingo as a Christmas present or if someone else happens to decide to buy one for me, I’ll happily play it, and then cash in the winnings, but I’m not spending MY OWN hard earned money on them anymore.

Three Wishes

2009-09-11T14:59:00.007-04:00

T. G. I. am-not-doing-a-mother-effing-thing Today!

I read this somewhere recently and it’s so true: You can’t always put your finger on exactly when it’s going to happen, but there comes a time in your workday when you realize that you’re just not going to be doing anything that even remotely resembles work for the remainder of the day. Sometimes it happens after lunch (especially lunch of the liquid variety), and sometimes you’re so focused on the task at hand that it doesn’t happen at all. It’s elusive, that moment when non-productivity strikes. Today the moment hit me at about 8:00 a.m. I’ve been staring down at this spreadsheet for the last five hours, and I’ve made a combined ten minutes of progress on it. I keep telling myself I’ll buckle down right after this last cigarette break… or after I finish this quiz on facebook, etc. I'll start focusing on the spreadsheet and then I’ll hear the little chime signifying a new email, and like a five year old with ADD I’ll drop everything and furiously click open the window to my Outlook with the heady “ooh! New Email!” rush. So I’m conceding. You win procrastination! As always!

First off and foremost, I’d like to just take a moment to remember all of those who lost loved ones eight years ago today. Eight friggen years ago. Wow. Feels like just yesterday I was sitting in my second period class studying literature when a man burst in the room wearing a fireproof space suit with an oxygen mask. He yelled to all of us to drop everything, leave our personal belongings, and evacuate the premises immediately. Oh and then when all hell broke loose he added tactifully “oh, and don’t panic”. "Don’t panic" says the guy with the oxygen mask and space suit to the crowd of 20 year old kids fighting each other through the doorway with no clue as to what the fuck is going on or what they’re running from. They say every generation has a defining moment when tragedy struck where they remember exactly where they were and what they were doing. When JFK was shot, John Lennon was killed, when Milli Vanilli's back up vocal track started skipping, etc. My generation's moment is 9/11. I will never forget.

On to lighter topics. I had a really great night with my father the night after returning from my trip to Bermuda. Our father/daughter bonding isn’t very typical in that we spent the evening drinking 3 dollar drafts at the Elks Club. Per usual, my dad brought it to the bartender’s attention that he had forgotten once again to give him his senior citizen discount of 25 cents per beer. I then made the required “Hey buddy! Stop stealing my inheritance!” joke, and laughter erupted around the bar. It was great.

Sonny the rip-off bartender kept the beers flowing pretty steadily and before long we were both taking turns regaling each other with the requisite tales of our crazy youths. Different generations, same stories: crazy all night house parties, nights that turned into days, fake ID’s and acid trips. We traded techniques on the best way to smuggle a joint into our border countries (his Mexico, mine Canada), which coincidently was so much easier before 9/11. I love my dad. Soon the conversation turned a bit deeper. He shared with me the story of the loss of his idol, Dale Earnhardt and told me that he died protecting his son from another driver. I’ve never given a rat’s ass about Nascar, but my dad is a huge fan. Well, actually he HAS to be a Nascar fan. It’s a requirement of the trailer park – oh, excuse me, the “mobile home community” - that he lives in. I don’t know if it was also a requirement for him to purchase a quad and do donuts on his front lawn when I bring my boyfriend to his house for dinner, but he does it anyway. Then when I look embarrassed he taunts me in his thick Boston accent: "Come on Jenna! Just hop on I’ll take ya for a spin around the pahhhk! COME ON! Whattayou chicken? Yeah that’s it. She’s a chicken. She’s too uppity to ride on a four wheelah. She’s a big city girl now, wearing suits and stuff using that electronic mail on the computah. That ain’t my daughter. They must'a switched her at the hospital. I’ve been supportin’ someone else’s kid for all these years."

Let me tell you, my dad can tell a story. I sat there at the bar and listened to him talk for a good three hours, absolutely riveted by his words. The only interruption came when the bartender came to give us another round (“Don’t forget the discount this time Sonny, I know you’ve been pocketin' my quarters”). Eventually we started talking about his time in the service during the Vietnam War, most of which he spent as a Military Police Officer in Italy. As he was wrapping up his story he made mention about how he "wished he could go back to Italy someday before he died, although it's just not realistic because it's too damned expensive". Actually, it's more than just too damned expensive. My dad isn't in the greatest health, and among other illnesses he has degenerative disc disease which basically means he's in a near constant state of severe pain, even just sitting or standing. It’s debilitating, and he’s headed quickly towards being wheel chair bound. Chances are he would never be able to handle the plane ride to Italy itself, nevermind the fact that it's a more or less a country best seen by foot. Unfortunately, a trip to Italy is just unrealistic. Then again, since his health is as poor as it is, we both know that if there's something he wants to do in his life, he should go for it sooner rather than later.

We're both quiet for a moment, and finally I break the silence and ask: "Dad, is there anything else you'd like to do in your life?"

He looks at me for a minute before responding and says "You know Jenna, there's two things-- scratch that, THREE wishes I want granted before I die" So I ask him to tell me what they are and he starts counting off on his fingers: "One, I'd like to go back to Italy, but obviously it's out of the question but I'm including it because I said these were WISHES.” He counts off on his next finger “Two, I’d like to rent an RV and drive cross country, stopping along the way in Las Vegas to see Terry Fator perform at the Mirage.” So I ask who Terry Fator is and he says that he’s a ventriloquist that is absolutely amazing. He got an email forward that had a link to a video performance of his act, and since then he's become a huge fan. Then he tells me he’s never been to Vegas. “YOU’VE NEVER BEEN TO VEGAS?” I ask, shocked! Nope, never been.

So I ask him what his third wish is. He takes a sip of beer before continuing, and counts off his third and final wish and says “I’d like to have a grandchild before I die”.

So it’s my turn to take a sip of beer before continuing. And then another.

And then finally I turn to him and say “So where can we rent an RV on the cheap?

Looks like we’re headed to Vegas!

I'm baaaa-aaack

2009-09-10T17:10:00.024-04:00

Sorry it’s been a bit since my last blog, but I’m currently experiencing a mild case of AVD (After Vacation Depression). I just spent a blissful five days soaking up the sun in a tropical island paradise, where the biggest decisions I had to make were “pool or beach?” and "rum swizzle or pina colada?" (answer to both, is well, both). Now here I am back at work so friggen busy that I barely have time to check my Gmail, update my Facebook status, check my Hotmail, upload my pictures to Shutterfly, work up the nerve to check my bank balance, see what’s up with Jon and Kate on TMZ, or follow any of your blogs. What. Is. That. Crap. All. About? When does my employer expect me to take care of personal matters? On my own time?

But I digress. I had an amazing time. Bermuda is really a fantastic little island, and I’m happy to be able to add it to my list of “Places On This Earth That Are So Much Better Than the Eight Months of Frozen Tundra Four Months of Rain, Hopefully Someday I Can Afford a Condo for Under a Million, State Full of Kennedy Worshipping, Bad Attitude People I call Home” Why do I still live in Massachusetts you ask? Well because I’d have nothing to bitch about if I left. That and because it's the greatest place on earth.

That’s not to say Bermuda doesn't have any negatives. For one, it's even MORE expensive than Boston. After spending five days there living like a Hilton, I’m literally afraid to look at my bank account balance. Nothing says “I can’t pay my rent this month!” like ordering two Corona’s, handing the bartender a $20, nodding at him to keep the change, and walking away feeling like a scumbag because you know you left him less than a dollar tip. I quickly learned that the best way to assuage this guilt was to start paying for stuff in Bermudian money. The exchange rate is pretty much the same as American, so you’re still spending the same amount only it doesn’t FEEL like real money because it’s just so purrrdy. Its pastel colored and has butterflies and froggies and dolphins on it. It's almost as if the head of the Bermudian Treasury Department is Lisa Frank herself. It makes me sad for our American money with the old guys looking up at you all stonefaced with wigs and shit. Our money is serious money. It ain't f*cking around with no butterflies or dolphins. It means business.

So I figured it's only right that I show you a couple of pictures I took while I was on vacation, but instead of showing you the stereotypical crop of pretty pictures of the ocean, the sunset, and the beach etc. etc. etc. to make you green with envy that I was there and YOU WEREN'T (na na na na na) I thought it would be more interesting to let you see the last five pictures I took before I lost my camera battery forever. Somewhere, somehow, someway I lost my my camera battery (along with my dignity, morals, gross motor skills, and the cutest pair of white cotton shorts EVER) while attending the wedding on Saturday night (did I mention it was open bar?), and since I didn’t have a spare battery I couldn't take anymore pictures for the rest of the night, nor could I view any of the ones I had already taken. The first look I got at the pictures I had taken was when I returned home on Monday and downloaded the pictures straight off the memory card to my laptop. So here you have it... the last five pictures I took on my Bermudian Vacation for your viewing pleasure:

EXHIBIT A: Blackness. Deep. Intense. Absymal. Sinister. I like to think this photograph is a reflection of the darkness within ALL of us. What is art? Is art, art? Are WE art?

(I'll make a bet that nobody can guess what movie that's from. Actually, scratch that. I'm a little sensitive to bets after that whole Laney Boggs for Prom Queen thing. "Am I a bet? Am I a F*CKING BET?"

EXHIBIT B: Ah, what have we here? Looks like a lovely moon pic! Well, actually it looks like a moon that's masquerading as a music note. That's definitely sand down below, and the music note moon is reflecting in the ocean, singing its tune to the fishies. (I kill me!) Gorgeous shot by the way. So therapeutic. I might lease the rights to microsoft to use as a screensaver.

EXHIBIT C: Hmmm.... seems my blood alcohol level was still relatively low enough for me to review Exhibit B above, and determine that it wasn't quite perfect just yet. So here's another moon shot, but this time it's brought to you by the letter "J". J for Jenn maybe? Anywho, I think I might have been on stairs here. Not really sure.

EXHIBIT D: I don't want to spend too much time on this one because it makes me seasick. Whatever it is, it appears that I was quite taken with the moment, and wanted to capture it on film to savor it forever. I'm sure glad I have this memory.

EXHIBIT E: Looks like I decided to join the party! I believe this is Matt's sister Jill on the left, and his mother on the right dancing up a storm at the wedding. I'm really happy I could capture such a beautiful mother/daughter moment. Maybe I should have it framed for them for Christmas.

So that's all folks. It's a damned shame I lost the battery when I did, because it would have been awfully cool to have a picture of the 31 wedding attendees (including the bride and groom) who descended into the ocean at 2:00 a.m. drunk and in their underwear* like something out of a bad horror movie.

*Didn't I tell you I left my dignity in Bermuda?

I Dig My Toes Into the Sand...

2009-09-02T18:30:00.026-04:00

Okay peeps... I thought I'd take a break from my incessant, endless packing and let you all know that in less than 24 hours, I will be boarding this:

12:00 p.m. Jetblue Flight out of Logan

And a few short hours later, arriving here:

Welcome to Bermuda!

For the next five days, I will be calling this place home:

Elbow Beach Hotel, Bermuda

And here is where I will spend most of my time during those five days:

Beautiful Elbow Beach

While in Bermuda, I plan on trying a few of their signature drinks:

The "Famous" Rum Swizzler

And spending an afternoon exploring the ocean via a Catamaran/Snorkel Cruise:

Ana-Luna Catamaran Tours

I also plan to explore the island itself via the preferred form of transportation:

Bermuda Moped Rentals

Which means I will probably end up visiting this place at least once during my stay:

King Edward Hospital

And most importantly....

Come Saturday, I will wear this:

My new White House Black Market dress I got on sale!

While on the arm of this handsome man:

My stunningly handsome boyfriend Matthew

While I watch these two exchange their wedding vows:

Congratulations Andrew & Lerin!

And I'll probably have a few more of these:

Well, I gotta get back to (over) packing now! Catch ya'll on the flipside!

Too cute not to share...

2009-08-27T20:54:00.006-04:00

I LOVE THIS!!!

This picture is the first thing to make me laugh in three days! My friend Danielle went through all the trouble of posing her cat Frank (he's a good sport, isn't he?) with tarot cards and photoshopping the whole thing together just to make me smile.

Thank you so much D... you definitely earned this smile. I love you!

Goodbye, Miss Lady Vayda

2009-08-27T18:23:00.007-04:00

I apologize in advance for the length of this entry... this is more of a story than a blog entry. While I normally try to keep things lighthearded, the subject matter of this particular blog is a little heavy. Be prepared.

Five months ago I was blessed with a kitty who needed me. Her name was Lady, and she came to me from despicable conditions, dirty and sick from having spent the last six months of a New England winter living in a cold, dark, dirty basement… She had no human interaction, and she slept under a furnace for warmth. Occasionally, someone would come downstairs to do laundry and Lady would jump up to greet them, desperate for their attention, until she got too sick to do even do that. She had a raging respiratory infection which limited her breathing, she was losing weight, and she had even stopped cleaning herself. Had an angel by the name of Justine (who is my landlord and good friend) not intervened, Lady surely would have died down there. Right there in her fur and vomit covered dog bed, under the furnace, sick, dirty… and most disturbingly of all… completely and utterly alone.

Five months later, I think back to those first few days when Lady came into my life. I remember taking one look at her and being absolutely appalled at her appearance. She was so dirty I didn’t even want to touch her. She would sneeze and cover anything she was sitting on in a thick green mucus. She would crouch down when standing on all fours, because she was literally petrified of all the attention. I remember thinking to myself “I can’t believe this animal was under a person’s 'care'" – and I am using the word "care" very loosely here. She looked like a stray. I honestly don’t believe she would have lived another two weeks if she hadn’t been rescued by Justine.

Circumstances prevented Lady from staying upstairs in Justine’s apartment as Justine has two other animals that would have been susceptible to the infection, so I offered to let her stay downstairs with me until she was in better health. I thought of her as sort of a temporary roommate, and gave her free reign of the house to do as she pleased. Even still she spent the first night curled up on the couch. I think she slept for about 14 hours straight that night. She literally did not move, and we just let her sleep it off... like her previous existence was nothing more than a bad dream. The next day when I got home from work, I found her curled up in the exact same position, only instead of being on the couch she was in my bedroom, perched on top of my bed like she had been there her entire life... and that’s pretty much where she stayed put for our entire five months together.

I can’t exactly pinpoint when my home stopped being a temporary “pitstop” for Lady, but needless to say within a few days I told Justine it was safe to call off the search for a new owner. Although, I did not want or need a pet at the time, Lady definitely needed ME and that’s all that mattered. I felt a very strong obligation to this animal to give her a happy and loving home for the remainder of her days. Her given name was Lady, but we called her Vayda or Lady Vayda, due to the fact that her breathing was so loud from the congestion of her respiratory inflammation that we could hear her come into the room even before we saw her. My boyfriend joked one time that it sounded like Darth Vader just waked in the room, and since then, it just stuck. “Lady Vayda” it was.

The first few weeks were not easy. Lady Vayda was still very ill, and required some serious antibiotics to cure her of her infections. She sneezed on everything, and covered everything with her mucus. She would scarf up her food as though she was never going to eat again. She was still very timid around people, and I remember one time I accidently stepped on her (I was not used to having an animal underfoot!) and she bolted from the room, petrified. I searched for her and I finally found her crouched and hiding behind the furnace in the laundry room. I think she may have derived some sort of comfort from the furnace, as that’s where she had spent the last six months. It absolutely broke my heart.

When we first got Vayda, she had a habit of sleeping directly on top of my boyfriend’s chest. It used to freak him out. He would wake up in the middle of the night and she’d be on top of his chest, literally two inches from his face staring him in the eye. He would pick her up and move her into the space between us, and she’d crawl right back on top of him, and the cycle would repeat itself over, and over again. It used to drive him crazy, but he eventually came to find it endearing. Well, actually he was forced to eventually find it endearing as I made no qualms about the fact that if that’s where Vayda wanted to sleep, well than that’s where she’d damn well be sleeping. He was more than welcome to go sleep under the furnace if he liked.

Eventually it all sort of came together, and it began to feel as though Vayda had always been there. She was the perfect pet. I honestly believe she was genuinely grateful to us for rescuing her and nursing her back to health, and I myself was head over heels in love with her. I looked forward to coming home and seeing her at night, and I took comfort when she slept above my head on the pillow. I would fall asleep every night listening to her purring above me. It was a really a wonderful time in my life for me.

About six weeks ago Vayda started getting sick again, and it was traumatic for all of us involved who cared so much about her – myself, my boyfriend Matt, and Justine. I am honest when I say that I have never felt more powerless in my entire life. I think we all knew what was coming, even before any of us could form the words to say it. About a month ago, we took her to the vet, and she gently informed us that we needed to start making some tough decisions as it was simply “Vayda’s time”, and that we needed to “allow her to die with some dignity”. Vayda was sixteen years old, and we needed to respect that. She did not have a lot (or any, really) options available to her. So we talked to another vet…. and then a friend who works for a vet… and then we tried doing our own research on the internet… the answer was always the same, and it was never what we wanted to hear.

As I stated in my previous blog, the decision to put her down wasn’t necessarily that hard to make. It was actually going through with it that was the hard part. After weeks of putting it off, I finally made the appointment last Thursday, and it was scheduled for yesterday at 2:30 p.m. I only wanted what was best for her, and it was becoming more and more apparent as the days went on that what was best for her was no longer of this world. In her last few days she started doing what cats do when they’re about to die… she was looking for a place to go in peace. I caught her a few times under my bureau, and Justine found her once – sadly enough – curled up behind the furnace.

Knowing that she was virtually at the end did not make this any easier on any of us. For me personally, I think that these past few days have been the most difficult I’ve ever experienced in my twenty eight years. My heart is literally broken in half over the loss of my beloved Vayda, and I am overwhelmed by all the conflicting emotions that I have surrounding the toughest decision I’ve ever had to make. I feel very guilty, although I know in my heart that it needed to be done. I would never have done it if I even had one glimmer of doubt that maybe it wasn’t the right thing. I feel incredibly sad because I just miss her so damned much already. Last night was particularly hard because I didn’t drift off to sleep listening to her purr behind my head as I normally do. Getting ready for work this morning, I was overcome with emotion because she wasn’t standing there patiently in front of her food dish when I got out of the shower, ready to be fed. As I type this, I am sitting at work two hours past closing time as I dread going home to an empty house. And mixed in somewhere with all that guilt and sadness, I am also a little angry that I didn’t have more time with her. Those six months she spent alone under the furnace… I would do ANYTHING to have had those six months with her. Those people had no idea what they were missing.

I know that the healing will take time, and I know that eventually I will make peace with myself for my decision, but right now I just need some time to mourn my beautiful kitty. Yesterday, on August 26th at 2:30 p.m. my beloved Lady Vayda passed away, peacefully, and full of love. It is nothing short of amazing to me that this cat went from being horribly neglected and unwanted to being one of the most loved, adored and cared for animals this world has ever seen. She brought happiness to each one of us, and in turn she was absolutely adored by us all until the very end. I honestly believe in my heart that it was fate that brought Vayda to us, and I take solace in knowing that did exactly what it was that I set out to do – I gave her a comfortable, peaceful home full of love for the remainder of her days, just as she always deserved.

Rest in peace my love.

Love, Miss Jennifer Kevorkian

2009-08-21T12:33:00.008-04:00

The phrase “why do it now if it can wait till later” is pretty much my mantra. If I could count the number of times I’ve put off something I HAD to do but didn’t WANT to do… Well, let’s just say the number would be pretty freaking high. (I don’t feel like counting it right now, I’ll do it later.) It’s one thing when I have a sink full of dishes yet make the conscious decision to watch E! News instead, or when I was in college and waited until the night before it was due to start my semester long research project. Nothing catastrophic is really going to happen if my Teflon pan soaks another night, and really… what’s another all-nighter when you’re 23? That’s what they make Ritalin for. Well, this time the reason for my procrastination is a bit more serious. I’m delaying putting my elderly cat down to sleep.

I’m not going to go into much detail on the matter, as I know most of you are my Facebook friends and have been following this saga for a while. The long and short of it is simply that Vayda is 16 years old, and due to her old age and her sordid past of being mistreated by her previous owner, her body has begun to fail her in many ways. One of these ways is that she can no longer make it to the litterbox to relieve herself, and instead just goes wherever, whenever. It’s really heartbreaking to witness, because I feel (and my vet feels) that she is losing her dignity. More aptly put, it's just simply her time and I need to respect that. If only us humans had the option to die with dignity, I'm sure many of us would choose to do so.

After exhausting all of my options (you name it, I tried it) and after getting several different veterinary opinions all confirming that there was very little hope, I made the decision to put her down. In all actuality, the decision was relatively easy to make. It’s the act of actually going forward with it which is the hard part. I admit, I’ve been selfish. Four the past four weeks since the decision was made, I feel as though I’ve been in purgatory… just waiting. Waiting for what, I don’t know… maybe for her to pass in her sleep on her own, or maybe for her to miraculously get better on her own. Who knows why we delay these things that cause us pain. We're all guilty of it at one time or another.

Furthermore, my poor kitty has been carrying about as normal, totally oblivious to the fact that she’s on death row. Dreading the inevitable, I’ve come up with every excuse under the sun to keep her around for a few more days, ranging from “Oh its rent week, so I’m a little tight on cash right now. We’ll have to do it next week.” or “Well I just bought 10 cans of cat food on sale… waste not, want not!” Being the master procrastinator that I am, I took a huge first step and called the vet last Thursday to schedule the appointment. In a stroke of good luck for me, Vayda’s doctor was in a surgery so I left a message. She called back that same day but I was “busy” so I let it go to voicemail. I stayed “busy enough” that I was unable to listen to the message until the next day (Friday), but then I figured they might close early on Fridays or something so I should probably just wait until after the weekend to call her back. (Do you see where this is going?)

Today, I finally ran out of excuses. I spoke with my vet, and I scheduled the appointment for Princess Lady Vayda Sultanpuss to eternally sleep on Wednesday, August 26th at 2:30 p.m. Unfortunately I will not be able to take her myself. In the same vein that I handle most things in life (ignorance is bliss), I just want to get up next Wednesday morning, feed my cat, kiss her goodbye, come home to an empty house and pretend I was never a pet owner. (I give it exactly five minutes after walking through the door Wednesday night that I curl up on my bed in the fetal position, sobbing hysterically with her flea collar clenched between my fingers.) Lucky for me, my wonderfully understanding, compassionate, loving, brunette boyfriend has offered to do it for me. He’s not thrilled about it either, as he’s grown to love Vayda as much as I do. Furthermore, he feels bad that she has no knowledge of what’s to come. To quote my boyfriend, “This is so unfair… it’s like a mob hit! She trusts us!” Then he goes into the whole Sopranos thing “We’re just going for a ride, that’s all. We’re all friends here.” And thoroughly distracts himself from the matter at hand by his own, hilarious self. (Insert pat on the back here.)

I have yet to really process the news. Five days away still seems like a very long time to me, and I'm sure I'll find plenty of ways to keep myself busy between now and then to keep my mind off the inevitable. Although, something tells me that this time, the wait is going to be the hardest part of all.

I swear, it's natural!

2009-08-20T18:36:00.008-04:00

Late last night, as my boyfriend and I were readying ourselves for bed, we started having a " couple's discussion". Somehow, we started talking about what sort of physical traits we were attracted to in the opposite sex, using celebrities as a guide. It turns out that Matt is more attracted to brunettes - ala Megan Fox, Jessica Beil etc. - but usually dates blondes. I myself am just the opposite. I find I am more attracted to blonde haired, blue eyed guys - ala Cam Giganet (google him, you WILL NOT be disappointed), Paul Walker, etc. -, but usually date brunettes with brown eyes. Well as most of these "relationship discussions" go, it didn't take long for an argument to arise.

When it was my turn to share my physical preferences on the opposite sex to my boyfriend, he was somewhat suprised to find that I was more attracted to blondes. I gave him a few examples (see above) when I got stuck trying to think of another blonde haired, blue eyed guy that I found attractive. At that point he looked over at me, and said "um, how about me. You know... you're blonde haired, blue eyed boyfriend".

I looked over at him, somewhat puzzled and said "Matt, you're not BLONDE!!... you're a brunette!" At that point, Matt recoiled as though I had slapped him and called his mother a whore. A good twenty minute argument ensued where Matt was absolutely defiant that he was blonde, whereas I'm holding my ground that he's a brunette. He threw out a few "It's the gel! The "wet look" makes it appear darker than it is!" and "it's cut short so you can't really tell, but it's definitely blonde Jenn!"

Well long story short, Matt and I clearly cannot reach a consensus on this matter. I'm leaving it up to you to tell me what you think:

Here is my (achingly handsome, if I do say so myself) boyfriend:

As you can see from the date stamp across my face, this is a recent picture.

Here is a REAL blonde:

Please leave a comment as to who is right. Dinner is riding on this!

Things I Learned This Weekend

2009-08-17T14:55:00.010-04:00

1. That “Objects may be closer than they appear” has got nothing on “Just because you can’t see the object doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, thus you are most likely going to hit it”.

2. That Murphy’s Law states that three weeks after spending $600 on four brand spanking new tires, you will back into a retaining wall and tear a hole in one causing an immediate flat…

...while in an incline position on a steep hill...

…where your dinky little jack will prove insufficient to hold up your front end…

…thus you will probably end up going door to door looking for a jack…

…while the entire guest list of the Sweet 16 Birthday Party you just dropped your little sister off it looks on in horror...

… and your 16 year old sister is so embarrassed she pretends she doesn’t know you.

3. That the front bumper of a 2005 Jeep Grand Cherokee is surprisingly resilient, and can withstand the force of being ripped off halfway when you reverse into a retaining wall you didn't know existed.

4. That by jumping up and down while applying forward pressure, you can snap said bumper back into place like a giant lego piece.

5. That jumping up and down on the front bumper while your boyfriend is trying to change your blown tire will cause him to yell at you.

6. That's it's probably best NOT to apply any weight to said bumper once it's back in place, although the theory has not been proven yet.

Things I Learned Today:

1. That Tire Insurance costs $3.00 per tire at the time of purchase.

2. That one tire costs $140.00.

3. That I probably should have bought the Tire Insurance at the time of purchase.

4. That sometimes having boobs does NOT entitle you to a discount at an Auto Body Shop.

5. That the salesmen at National Tire & Battery have no heart.

6. That the NTB Salesman would "give me a good price" on the "front brakes I desperately need."

7. That I would rather take the chance of smashing into a brick wall doing 80mph than give National Tire & Battery any more of my money this week.

Pink Elephant

2009-08-12T11:21:00.011-04:00

Ok so I'm officially five days into my new blog, and I'm excited to announce that I am making progress! (Or as i've so wittily titled it: blogress.) I've already transferred over a bunch of my Facebook "Notes", and even posted a few new blog entries to get the ball rolling. I have to admit, I'm already addicted to blogging. Throughout the day when something out of the ordinary happens to me, my immediate first thought is "Can I blog about this?" and I immediately start forming it into a story in my head. This excites me to no end, as my original plan for this blog was to update it whenever the mood struck, hopefully once or twice a week at least. I didn't want to set an unrealistic expectation of updating every single day because unfortunately, my life just isn't interesting enough to warrant a daily post. Not to mention that in order to continue receiving that paycheck I rely on so much, it appears that I am expected to do some actual work to earn it and not just blog all day long. *Sigh*

Another bit of exciting news to note is that I seem to have been successful in luring in readers thanks to incessantly posting my blog link on my Facebook page, on my friends Facebook pages, through text messsages, as well as repeatedly emailing it to friends and family. Yes, I've offically become a spammer. Anyway, it seems to have worked so a big "gracias" to everyone who's stopped by to check out the action, most notable being my facebook friends, my parents, god-parents, my boyfriend's family, an ex-boss or two, and a couple coworkers who’ve all hopped on the Stiff Niffles bandwagon. I welcome you all, and hope that you like what you see. New friends are always welcome over here at Stiff Niffles. (The name still makes me giggle, so I try and work it in as much as possible.)

With that said, I’m not going to ignore the big, pink elephant in the room which is that I now have my PARENTS, EX-BOSSES (aka referrals!), and COWORKERS reading my blog. Hmmm. This presents an interesting challenge. It seems in my quest to gain readership, I may have forgetten that there are just some things you don't want your parents or bosses to know. I'm the first to readily admit that the topics of my blogs aren’t always exactly “work” and/or “parent” friendly, but I think they're hilarious and that's all that matters right? Right? Maybe not so much when the people you are blogging about are the ones reading your blog. After much soulsearching I've finally come to the conclusion that I'm not going to sacrifice funny for politcal or parent-correctedness (don't even bother googling it, I made it up).

The bottom line is that I refuse to censor myself just because my parents and other such influential people are reading my blog. Nope. I can not and will not be silenced. Fret not - If you were afraid I was going to stop blogging about all the crazy things I've done in my life, well you can breathe a sigh of relief, my friends! How could I NOT blog about that time I almost dozed off in church, (in the middle of a sermon no less!), or about that time I skipped a whole chapter while reading books to the eldery just so I could leave early and grab a milkshake with friends? Just wait til I tell you guys about my experiences with the Peace Corps and how I spent one lazy afternoon playing cards with the locals in Malawi when I really should have been reinforcing their fresh water supply. Oh, and don't even get me started on that time I was supposed to be speaking at the "No Sex Until Marraige" seminar at my congregation, only instead I spent duration sending text messages back and forth with my BFF who was two rows down from me.(I tried my best to save you a seat!). Gosh, just thinking back to those crazy experiences make me wonder how I'm still alive to talk about them! Man I tell ya... I've done some pretty wild stuff in my days.

So in closing, I just want my readers - new and old - to remember that you can always expect more of the same from me. When you visit Stiff Niffles, you know what you're getting yourself into. I will continue to do my best to stay true to myself, all the while regaling you with tales of my wild and crazy life.

Cheers and God Bless,
Jenn

Hi.

2009-08-11T09:51:00.005-04:00

I'm hungry.

Outsourcing

2009-08-10T13:31:00.004-04:00

Namaskar dear blog readers,

I was alerted to this gem this morning by my godmother, who for obvious reasons immediately thought of me when she came across this phone number.

If outsourcing and indian help desk operators infuriate you as much as they do me, please call this number for a good laugh 401-285-0701.

Happy Outsourcing to you all!

Jenn

Andover, India

2009-08-10T12:51:00.009-04:00

Yesterday I arrived at work to discover that our email was down. Our internet worked, but alas no email. This allowed me (a technological genius if I do say so myself) to determine that it was an issue with our email host company. I work for a small company, therefore if something goes wrong and you’re the person who discovers it, you now OWN that issue and it is your responsibility to see it through to completion. So I put on my IT hat and looked up the company on their website and was pleasantly surprised to discover that they were located in Andover, MA. I called their 1-800 Technical Support number and was transferred to some guy who called himself “Bob”. Now, I’m no dialect expert, but I think it’s fairly safe to say that his name wasn’t really Bob, and I’m also pretty sure he wasn’t in Andover, MA. Andover, India maybe… but definitely not Andover, MA.

9:00 Conversation

BOB: Technical support, how may I help you?
ME: I’m having an issue with our email. It doesn’t work. Can you tell me why?
BOB: Have you created a work order yet?
ME: No. How do I create a work order?
BOB: Well you have to email our service department at XXX@hostcompany.com etc.
ME: Um. I wish I could do that BOB, but our emails down. I can’t send emails. I’m calling you to figure out why.
BOB: Oh okay. Please stand by.
ME: (being patient)
ME: (being patient)
ME: (being patient)
BOB: Ok I can’t seem to figure it out for you ma’am. Let me try one more thing. Please stand by.
ME: (being pissed off)
ME: (being pissed off)
ME: (being pissed off)
BOB: Ok ma’am you’re going to have to create a work order. You’re going to have to email the ser---
ME: (interjecting) Sir. I don’t know how else to explain this to you. MY EMAIL IS DOWN. YOU GUYS MADE IT GO DOWN. THEREFORE I CANNOT SEND AN EMAIL TO YOUR HELPDESK. Hey, I have an idea! Why don’t YOU create a work order for ME since that’s why I called you. You know, to get the ball rolling on this whole here thing.
BOB: Oh ok. Please stand by.
ME: (f**king livid)
ME: (f**king livid)
ME: (f**king livid)
BOB: Ok I created the work order for you. Your number is as follows: PEE-EHM-TEE-nine-six-five-six-zero-eight. That’s P as in Peter, M as in… um. M as in… (uncomfortable silence while he consults his Indian to English travel pocket companion dictionary.
ME: (Really eating up this awkwardness)
ME: (Grinning ear to ear)
ME: (Thoroughly enjoying Bob’s discomfort with his second language)
BOB: … Um. Ok it’s P as in Peter, M as in Mother, T as in Tango… etc.
ME: Why thank you Bob, that was very helpful of you. Now what do I do with this number?
BOB: You will soon get an email informing you it is fixed.
ME: Ok let me get this straight. My email is down, so when I get that first email stating the issue is solved then it will be back in action? I’ll be free to email all my friends and you know, do business stuff and whatever?
BOB: That is correct ma’am.
ME: Well Bob, thank you for your help old pal. Have a great morning. Or is it afternoon already? Night maybe? Whatever it is, have a good one.

12:00 p.m. Conversation

BOB: Technical support, how may I help you?
ME: Hi. I'm calling to check on work order number PMT965608. I have yet to receive this elusive email stating my email is fixed?
BOB: Oh. So it’s still not fixed?
ME: Um. No. Hence this phone call.
BOB: DOES u have a work order?
ME: *sigh* Yes, Bob. Yes I DOES have a work order. I. Just. Read. It. To. You.
BOB: Oh okay. Please standby
ME: (f**king beside myself with anger)
ME: (f**king beside myself with anger)
ME: (f**king beside myself with anger)
BOB: Ok ma’am your technician is working on your problem. He will contact you in 20 to 25 minutes when it’s fixed.
ME: Ok thank you. I anxiously await word from my technician. Have a good day night or whatever. Stop calling me ma’am. Thank you. Bye, now.

2:00 p.m. Conversation

BOB: Technical support, how may I help you?
ME: Ok, WTF Bob? Level with me.
BOB: Ahem. Technical support, how may I help you?
ME: This is Bob, correct?BOB: Yes ma’am it is.ME: Ah, hello there Bob! It’s been about, oh say, two hours since someone was supposed to get back to ME 25 minutes ago. Just thought I’d give another check in on the ol’ work order number PMT965608.
BOB: Oh ok. Please stand by.
ME: (checking flight prices to Bombay so I can murder Bob and his family)
ME: (checking flight prices to Bombay so I can murder Bob and his family)
BOB: Hi ma’am? Hi. It seems your account was shut off for non payment.
ME: (silence)
ME: (silence)
ME: Ok Bob. I have several issues with that statement. Let me break them down for you. I’m not even going to begin with questioning WHY this is the first I’ve heard of it, WHY you didn’t call us weeks ago to notify us that the credit card was declined, or WHY it took us to getting our email shut off to be notified of the issue. I don’t even care about that. What I want to know is WHY you couldn’t tell ME this when I called at 9:00 a.m. this morning, but instead it took you FIVE FRIGGEN HOURS, one Work Order and three phone calls to inform me my account has been suspended for non-payment. Second, when were you going to inform me of this? All day long I’ve been getting the run around, and I just so happened to call in now for the third time, and you just so happen to have the answer for me?
BOB: No ma’am, actually your technician sent you an email approximately an hour and a half ago.
ME: SILENCE
ME: SILENCE
ME: You’re kidding me right? HE. SENT. AN. EMAIL. You are aware that you’re my email host company correct? You shut my account off for non payment, and then you SENT ME AN EMAIL to inform ME of the matter? Please explain to ME how that works Bob, PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME HOW THAT WORKS.
BOB: I’ll put you on hold for your technic--
ME: NO BOB, I WANT YOU TO EXPLAIN TO ME HOW THAT WORKS.
BOB: Oh ok. Please stand by.
ME: (FURIOUS)
ME: (FURIOUS)
ME: (FURIOUS)
BOB: We sent an email using the address you provided when you created your Work Order this morning.
ME: I didn’t create a Work Order. YOU DID IT FOR ME.
BOB: (silence)
BOB: (silence)
ME: You know what? I don’t want to argue about this anymore. We have a business to run, I have personal emails to send, and I went to get on with my life and pretend this never happened. Can you please tell me how I can get the account in good standing?
BOB: You need to call back and hit #1 for bill payment.
ME: Thanks Bob! You’ve been ever so helpful. Have an awesome day my friend. Have an AWESOME DAY.

At this point, I hang up the phone and proceed to calling billing. I hit #1 as instructed and the phone rings, and rings and rings. I get a message stating that “although my call is important to them, nobody is available to take my call right now.” And I was instructed to “leave a message and my call will be returned within one business day”. I leave a message informing them that “it took five hours for their help desk to inform me that the reason I had no email was because of non payment and that it was imperative I get a return call ASAP” and hang up. I decide to call right back. Lo and behold, someone answers! I update our account with our new credit card info (the previous one was expired, hence the “unable to process”) and within two minutes we have email again.

Three hours later, I get a return phone call from “Steve” in bill payments regarding my message. I resisted the urge to tell “Steve” he should stick to making slurpies, and instead I informed him the situation had been rectified. Today I get an email stating my account was back in good standing. There’s the “elusive email” I’d been waiting for!

Why do these things happen to me?

My Letter to McDonald's

2009-08-10T12:20:00.012-04:00

Monday, July 27, 2009

Attn: Vice President of Customer Satisfaction
McDonald’s Corporation

CC: McDonald, Mr. Ronald
CC: Grimace

Dear Sir/Madam,

I would like to begin this letter by stating that in addition to being a steadfastly loyal customer of yours, I am now and always have been a big fan of your products. Being the type of individual who often engages in bad decision making due to over-consumption of alcohol, as well as one who is not particularly “health conscious” to say the least, I consider myself to be somewhat of a late night, fast food connoisseur. Now living fairly close to a major metropolitan area, I am fortunate enough to be blessed with a myriad of late night food options readily available to me. There’s the old standbys such as Bill & Bob’s, Kelly’s, Burger King, Taco Bell, etc. If I’m feeling adventurous I could take a ten minute trip into the city and visit the North End for some generic Italian food, or even hit up the Sausage King and eat my late night fare curbside. But ninety-nine percent of the time I choose YOU McD’s. The allure of your Late Night Menu, combined with the convenience of your Drive-Thru make you my #1 Late Night Contender. Your cheap, you’re filling, and most of all YOU’RE CONSISTENT. I can’t tell you how many Sunday mornings I’ve awoken with sweet and sour sauce smeared on my cheek, and a big water stain on my nightstand from the gallon of coke I left there before I "retired" for the evening, belly full, and happy. A night out drinking copious amounts of alcohol just wouldn’t be the same without a late night pit stop at McD’s. This is why I am particularly saddened to say that I am momentarily displeased with your service.

According to the date stamp on my receipt (exhibit A below, please disregard the grease stain), I arrived at your Route 1 north location at 1:55 a.m. Traffic at the drive thru was minimal, and I was prompted to order before I had a chance to fully scan your photo menu for recent additions/deletions, before arriving at my final decision. To buy myself some time, I asked my boyfriend (who was designatedly driving me, I might add) to order me a a Happy Meal, full well knowing it would not be available at this hour. As was expected, I was cheerfully informed that I needed to make my selection from the Late Night Menu, as it was 2:00 a.m. and only Late Night Menu items are available from 12:00 a.m. – 3:00 a.m. As a frequent proprietor of your establishment, I was well aware of this fact before I placed the order, but I figured (as I always do) that it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Maybe, just maybe, a Happy Meal would be available to me. Alas, it was not (please work on this), so instead I ordered my late night regular, which is what you folks over there at the Golden Arches refer to as The Number Ten. To refresh your memory (I know you're busy people over there), The Number Ten consists of the following: Ten pieces of all white meat chicken McNuggets, lightly battered and fried, a large sized fry, and a drink of my choice. (I went with Coca Cola and it was delectable). In addition, I asked for my fries well done and the voice on the loudspeaker assured me this was no problem.

So I pulled up to complete my transaction, hand over my debit card, and pay the $7.54required of me. I asked for extra sweet and sour (for fry-dipping, it’s a must) and extra salt. Here is where my first issue arises. I got A salt packet. ONE. Lowly. Salt. Packet. Are you guys cutting costs over there? One salt packet is barely enough to cover a small fry, never mind a large! Regardless, I had a few extra packs in the glove compartment from last week’s visit to your Laconia location, so jokes on you buddy.

Secondly, per my request the fries were NOT well done. They were border-line cold, and I should know I ate every single last one of them. I’m not going to spend a lot of time on this matter, other than to say that when I make a special request, I expect it to be fulfilled.

And now we arrive at the reason for me writing this letter. After paying and receiving my meal, I drove away and continued on towards home, and began setting up my dashboard for proper nugget consumption. I never make the rookie mistake of putting the sweet and sour packet directly on the dash, as one quick stomp on the brakes and that’s just asking for trouble. Instead I move the nuggets over to the right side of the handy little container they come in, and place my sauce on the left. In general, happiness ensues. Not this time though buddy, not this time. I reached in the bag, brushed away an errant fry or two on top of the “McNugget” box, and discovered that the box appeared to be oddly misshapen for that of a nugget container. “Did they revamp the carton?” I wondered out loud to my boyfriend. I pull out the box entirely, and to my dismay I discover that I have inadvertently received a Number Three, i.e. a Double Quarter Pounder (pre cooked weight) With Cheese. I was flabbergasted! I double checked my receipt and sure enough I ordered a 10 Piece Nugget… so I ask you Mr. VP of Customer Satisfaction - How on earth did I end up with a DQP with cheese?! Did I receive someone else’s order accidently? Were your employees simply not paying close enough attention to one of your best customers? Maybe the Hamburglar was up to his ol’ hijinks again? Now, I may have been a slightly “overserved" at the bar, but I KNOW what I ordered, and I ordered a ten piece nugget. How dare you, sir. How freaking dare you.

Now, I admit that I failed to properly inventory the contents of my bag prior to pulling away, but really, this is just ridiculous. This was an obvious, glaring error on your behalf. Now in the event that you assume me to have been in too altered a state of mind to have made a mistake myself, as further evidence of this injustice, I’ve attached a photo of the Double Quarter Pounder with a copy of the receipt (Exhibit B) thus proving that I did in fact order (and pay for, I might add) a ten piece McNugget meal. Please do not mistake the fact that there are several large bites taken out of the burger to be indication that I was pleased with my substitution. I was just drunk, and it was edible so I ate it. Unhappily, if I do say so myself.

Now, in closing, I’m not going to go ahead and lie and say that “I’m done with you”, or that “I’m taking my business elsewhere” since we know I’d just be hurting myself. You have me by the proverbial balls McD’s, and you know it. Let’s just try a little harder next time, shall we? And maybe a complimentary 10 piece nugget is in order next time you see me at your drive thru.

Your loyal customer and #1 fan,

Jennifer Martin

EXHIBIT A - Receipt for a 10 Piece Chicken McNugget Meal

EXHIBIT B - Double Quarter Pounder w/Cheese, next to Receipt for a 10 Piece Chicken McNugget Meal. Where is the justice?

My Weekend at the Lake

2009-08-10T12:07:00.006-04:00

So this past weekend was a great one as far as summer weekends go. Now that my “wedding season” is pretty much over, (three weddings in four weeks) I took the opportunity to go away for a much needed weekend of relaxation. My boyfriend’s family rented a house up Lake Winnipesaukee for the week, and while I wasn’t able to take any time off from work because my supervisor is out, I was able to get up there for the weekend at least. Let me tell you, it was well worth the trip! We spent most of the weekend just lounging around, reading, playing board games, drinking coronas in the sun, floating around on rafts, etc. All of the things that personify a family vacation up the lake. Well, those aren’t exactly the sort of things that personify a vacation up at the lake for MY family… instead my family vacations usually end up with copious amounts of alcohol consumed, a fistfight or two, $2k in fireworks, keys getting taken away, and the cops being called. Ahh, family bonding! (or bondsmen… whatev).

How gorgeous is this view?

But I digress… Upon our arrival on Saturday, Matt and I decided we were going to swim from the dock to a floating wooden raft about 25 yards away from shore. The water was pretty shallow, and we could pretty much walk halfway to the raft before the water became too deep, but regardless I almost drowned anyway. See, I enjoy swimming. I really do. What I DO NOT enjoy is smushy, mucky lake bottoms. And sharks. I do not enjoy sharks. Yes, I’m aware that sharks don’t normally frequent freshwater lakes, but I once read an article about a Bull Shark that made its way up the Mississippi River and now I’m convinced that it’s going to happen in Winnipesaukee. (If you are so inclined, here is the link). There is a first time for everything, and you can guarantee that when it DOES happen it will involve me being eaten alive by a shark while I’m sitting contently on a blow up raft reading US Weekly.

So ANYWAY, back to my original story. Even though the raft was fairly close by, (literally I could probably throw a rock and hit it) and even though I was able to walk most of the way out to it, instead I made the ill-fated decision to swim the entire way from the dock to avoid having to put my foot down either directly into a shark’s mouth, or onto the smushy mucky lake bottom. I’m a little what you would call “rusty” at “physical activity of any sort” so there I was, doggy paddling my little heart out and my smokers lungs were NOT HAVING IT. I was about three quarters of the way to the raft when I decided to break procedure and I went to put my foot down, so I could catch my breath and rest for a minute. I couldn’t touch the bottom. I COULDN’T TOUCH THE BOTTOM. Panic set in. I was going to DIE right then and there in Lake Winnipesaukee. Michael Phelps, I am not. I started frantically treading water and screaming for Matt who more or less had to backtrack, throw me on his back, and swim the rest of the way to the raft with me clinging to his back like a koala. I climbed the ladder, collapsed to my knees, thanked the lord for solid ground and allowing me to keep on living this blessed life, and passed out for about a half hour until my heart resumed its normal rhythm. They seriously need to put a defibrillator on that raft. Or Michael Phelps himself.

Sunday we decided to take a ride down to Weir’s Beach to meet up with some friends of ours who were also in Laconia for the weekend. We parked over at Wier’s and walked over to the Marina where Jessica and Stephen have a slip for their boat. We met up with them just as they were pulling in from a long day out at the sandbar. Stephen told us to hop in their (friggen awesome) boat, and he sped us off over to the Naswa all Miami Vice-like. Now, if you’ve never been to the Naswa then I pity you because it personifies everything that is right with this world. It’s an outdoor beach bar right on the water. You can drive your boat up, tie it up to the dock, and get out and walk right down the dock and order up some drinks for you and your “crew” (pun intended because I’m witty like that). You can kick your shoes off, wiggle your toes in the sand, and even take a dip in the water if you feel so inclined! It’s a great place, and no trip to Laconia or the Weir’s is complete without stopping by for a drink or two (or eight in our case). Well after a few drinks we were all feeling a little famished so we went ahead and ordered up some chicken fingers and nachos, typical pub food. As I picked up the last chicken finger, I took a bite and in my drunken, sloppy state OF COURSE I dropped in the sand. So I did what came naturally to me… I hopped down off the stool, picked it up and yelled “FIVE SECOND RULE” for the purpose of 1. informing my fellow cohorts that I was really planning on consuming the sandy chicken finger, as well as to gauge their reactions to my intent of consuming this sandy chicken finger. Now, the law of “Five Second Rule” generally applies under certain conditions. Rule 1. Said article of food falls onto the floor of someone’s home, and 2. Said article of food isn’t porous or greasy enough to absorb anything that may be on the floor. Oh no. Not in this case. Sandy Chicken Finger broke ALL the rules. It was visibly sandy, and no amount of wiping with my cocktail napkin was going to change this fact. I may as well have just dug it out of the ocean like a clam. Jessica and Matt were visibly horrified by what I was about to do (and I was definitely going to do it) but it was Stephen who gave me the go ahead to get ‘er done. Stephen (like me) saw no problem with eating it, which I believe directly corresponds to our blood alcohol level. Stephen is also a Police Officer, so I briskly informed Jessica and Matt that it was safe for me to eat the Sandy Chicken Finger because an Officer of the Law of our Glorious Nation said it was okay to do so. So I did it. Two minutes later we discovered there was another chicken finger buried underneath all of the French fries in the basket. Story. Of. My. Life.

So that about wraps it up! We went home the next night and we were both so sunburned that we took turns rubbing lotion all over each others backs. Seriously, my poor Irish body hasn’t seen sun all year, and I definitely overdid it, but it was worth it. In addition, I’d like to mention that my BABY SISTER TURNED SIXTEEN this weekend. Watch out Massachusetts Drivers, if you thought I was bad here comes the next generation!

Heebie Jeebies

2009-08-10T11:43:00.007-04:00

Today began like any other day. I was awoken by my alarm at 6:15 a.m. at which point I reflexively hit the snooze button. Same thing 8 minutes later. And 8 minutes after that. At 6:31 I nudged my boyfriend... time to go to work! Must be regretting that you strolled in at 3:00 a.m. now huh sucka! Haha! Then I rolled back over for another 14 minutes of blissful sleep, snuggled up with the kitty. Ahh it's Friday! I feel GREAT!

My boyfriend was gone by the time rolled myself out of bed, and my first immediate stop – like most people - was to the Ladies' Room to get my pee on. So I did my thing, discarding clothes as I went because as the routine goes, immediately after my morning pee concludes I enter the shower. So here I am, naked and mid-flow (a.k.a. at my most vulnerable) when I glance up and see this:

My immediate thought was "holy shit this Thing is going to fall on my face and eat me!" My second thought was "HURRY UP PEE!!! I NEED TO GET OFF THIS DAMNED TOILET BECAUSE THIS THING IS GOING TO FALL ON MY FACE AND EAT ME!!!"

My third thought was: Boyfriend, you motherf**ker. I KNOW you saw this Thing, and you left it here so it could fall on my face and eat me.

This Thing was suspended on my ceiling and was about five inches long, with a leg span of two inches wide, and it had so many legs it looked furry. It was so big I could make out its facial features, and It literally could have held the door for me had I asked it politely. I could see its pulse. It appeared to have just crawled out of my bathroom vent, or as I call it "The Portal" as it seems to be the connection point that separates me and my apartment from some of God's scariest prehistoric and un-evolved specimens. This Thing hanging out on my ceiling looked like it had stepped into Bill and Ted's time travel phone booth in 900 B.C. and asked Abe Lincoln to "press 'Jenn's Bathroom 2008' for me please!" Think about it: If a creature looks exactly the same now as it did when Jesus was eating Dinosaurs with the Mayans, than you can deduce that it simply had no need to evolve over the course of history. If something had no need to evolve over millions of years, than it's obviously been doing something right all this time to skirt the need for further survival mechanisms. Doing something right like eating humans. Humans like me.

So I formulated a plan.

PLAN ONE: I'll just take a shower, and keep my eye on it the entire time. If it starts coming at me, I'll run like a motherf**ker.

REASONS DISCARDED: This idea was quickly discarded because not only is it impossible to not close your eyes or blink in the shower at all, but seriously if it started coming after me I know in my haste to exit the shower and bathroom before carnage ensued, then I'd slip and fall in the shower, split my head open and die right there on my bathroom floor. My boyfriend would come home to find naked, shampoo covered me, with a big centipede eating my face. I just couldn't let it win.

PLAN TWO: Don't shower today. Just get dressed and LEAVE THE PREMISES. When you get home, it'll be gone! Alternatives of Plan Two include: Shower upstairs in my landlord's apartment; rinse yourself off with the hose; Mexican shower; etc.

REASONS DISCARDED: There is no way I could leave the house knowing this Thing is in there. In the past, I've made the mistake of letting spiders live only to find them in places you really don't want to find spiders. Shoes, bed, toilets, etc. Give 'em an inch, they take a mile. Worse is when you don't find them, you just know they are there. Plus, this Thing was almost bigger than the cat and godforbid it ate the cat! And I really needed a shower.

PLAN THREE: Just kill the motherf**ker. Then shower. Simple enough.

PLAN THREE SELECTED AND READY FOR IMPLEMENTATION

Now that the decision was made to kill the Thing, I had to formulate a Course of Action. It could go either way. Literally this Thing was big enough that it could be a fight to the death, but if I methodically took my time and did it right, than victory would be mine. Being that it was on the ceiling posed an issue. If the initial blow from a shoe failed to kill the Thing and simply stunned it, gravity could take effect and it could land on me and eat my face off. Conversely, if it landed on the ground it could run up my leg and eat my face off.

In the end I chose to stand on a chair and use the Ortho Spray from a distance of three feet. I gathered my militia and stood there, ready, armed. I went for it and lobbed the first strike. Shock and Awe like you've never seen. It was a perfect arc, and hit the Thing dead on. It started scampering over towards the shower, wounded, but angry. I kept going, I didn't let up. The thing would not die! Finally, after sixty seconds of solid spray of the toxic substance it stopped fighting. It was dead… or so I thought.

DUN DUN DUN…....

I gingerly stepped down from my chair and went to inspect the damage I'd inflicted. As I drew closer, Ortho in hand, it started flailing about. It had faked its own death! It was a ploy! ABORT MISSION! ABORT MISSION! I ran, screaming and naked from the bathroom and grabbed another weapon – a shoe, Steve Madden circa 2004 with a wedge heel. Heart pounding, I ran back to the bathroom and momentarily panicked when I realized I could not find it. Reality settled in, and I realized that I had made what could culminate into a fatal mistake by letting the Thing out of my sight. Just then, something caught my eye. The Thing was running down the shower wall, tasting freedom with each step of its 300 feet. This was it. Make or Break. I couldn't let it get away. At the last second, I changed my Course of Action and grabbed the detachable shower head and sprayed the motherf**ker. This time, I didn't let up. Five solid minutes of water boarding, and the Thing was definitely, 100% dead. I would not be fooled this time.

I took a few steps back... exhausted, but relieved.

Victory was mine.

(written July 2008)

I knew I had to have you the moment I laid eyes on you...

2009-08-10T10:57:00.015-04:00

...you were about two tons... white... shiny... bigger than the others... and you came equipped with loads of upgrades like a Bose sound system and power everything. All the things that really matter to a girl like me. I looked at you and the earth stood still. It was like my destiny was fulfilled... I've never felt so right about anything in my life. Pathy, I know your time on this earth is short lived. I hear you crying when I start you up, and nobody seems to be able to figure out what's wrong with you. I just want you to know that the 128,845 miles we've spent together have been the best I've ever had. I will forever cherish each and every one of them for the rest of my life.

Pathy, you know I can't allow myself the luxury of reminiscing about the good times, because I just get too upset. You've escorted me as my date to some of the defining events of my youth. You've sped me out of countless bad situations (and into countless more!). You've sung along with me to everything from Justin Timberlake to Alice in Chains (I know how you love my Layne Staley voice).

Hey Pathy! Remember that time I bought you two new shiny doors when I randomly crashed you into the telephone pole at the end of my mom's street? Good times. I also loved the ease in which you ripped that concrete pillar out of the ground in Burlington when I backed you into it. Remember how it just laid there looking all stupid and broken after? You so kicked it's ass. Same goes for that pole at Bank of America in Melrose and the one at the Landmark Center in Boston too. (Okay and the wall in mom's driveway and that big rock last weekend too). For the record... I really thought we could fit in that spot at the Landmark and I'm sorry I broke your passenger side mirror. I promise I'll get it fixed soon! You were also a good sport about the time I crashed into you with the YMCA's Ford F 250 and broke your taillight also. Never a complaint out of you.

Ha! Remember that time you played that funny joke on me and didn't indicate that you were about to run out of gas and you left me stranded on 128 for an hour? So funny. I also like it when you play that game where you you lock me out of you while you're still running. Even though that happens fairly often, it still gets me going every time. But only you would know that. Although you weren't there for the major accident, you know... when I parked on top of that woman in the Honda Accord on the wrong side of the street -- that was your predeccessor 1992 Blazer -- I know you would have done me just as proud.

But I digress... Yesterday you took a turn for the worst and let me know you were slipping further away from me by telling me to "Check Your Engine". You did this once before, but that was just because I drove away and forgot to put your gas cap back on after I filled you. This time I just know it's different. I just don't think you're going to make it Pathy. I'm sorry I authorized that "experimental treatment" a few months ago where I allowed your mechanic to just weld together your tailpipe to the bottom part of your exhaust instead of springing for a whole new exhaust system. Money was a little tight that week... your gas is really killing me! $65 to fill you? Come on Pathy... what happened to $30?

Now that I know our time is coming to a close, I feel like I never got to know the you... I mean the REAL you beyond just P, R, N, and D. What really makes you tick Pathy? What do the extra numbers 2 and 1 after D actually stand for? I am regretful that in all these years, I have never taken the time to read your manual and really understand the real you. If we're being completely honest with each other Pathy, I'm beginning to feel that I can't rely on you anymore. What's up with the speeding tickets? You never did that before! I'm also a little upset about the warrant out for my arrest in the City of Lowell for failure to pay my excise tax. The $440 in parking tickets is another story all together. And just so there's no awkwardness -- I know you've seen me checking out other cars. I have a thing for Cadillac STS's and you know it. You've felt the brochures in your back seat and I know you've caught me looking at them on 93 S. I just want you to know I never meant to hurt you, but I know your time on this earth is short lived and I really need to start planning for my future without you. Trust me though, no car will ever have what you and I shared.

In closing Pathy - we're both getting older and we want different things. It's a natural transition... The Circle of Life, if I may. Your inspection is coming up, and I just don't think you're going to be able to make it through. I do wish you the best though. I just hope that I've been able to do you just as proud as you've done me. I'm getting all choked up here, but I'm really going to miss you Pathy!

R.I.P -- NIssan Pathfinder -- 1998 - 2006 "Pathy"

(written July 2006)

The Art of Driving

2009-08-10T10:24:00.004-04:00

Rule 1: Don't cut me off and then slam on your brakes, because I will hit you. I will. Not necessarily because I want to (which I do) – but because there is far too much going on in my vehicle – cigarette smoking, texting, radio fiddling, mascara application, McChicken-ing, etc. - for me to be paying attention to what YOU are doing too. Trust me, these dents don't come from missing things.

Rule 2: If I should hypothetically slam into the back of your Yaris when waiting to exit the Eastern Bank parking lot onto Route 1 and then continue to apply gas because I think the reason I'm not moving is that I'm just stuck on the curb, could you please have a little understanding that it was a simple mistake? It's called an "accident" not an "on purpose". I'd appreciate it if you did not stare at me like I just murdered and ate a fetus in your presence and then flossed my teeth with its umbilical cord, and tell me that your daddy is going to be "like, wicked mad at me". Because I don't care. I clearly have things to do and places to go. Let's get a move on.

Rule 3: If you are sitting on phone books, have a bingo "strategy", or have blue hair with the consistency of unrefined cotton... I'm ordering you to stay 100 feet away from me and my vehicle at all times. There's nothing I hate more than driving behind a pair of knuckles doing 25 m.p.h. in the fast lane.

Rule 4: If I'm doing 90 mph three inches from your bumper, it's because I want you to move out of my way. Do not slam on your brakes to "intimidate me" because I have cat-like reflexes and you just started a war you won't win. Trust me, grandpa.

*Exception to Rule 4: If I have decided to abandon my days agenda to instead follow you mercilessly because you slammed on your brakes when I was 3 inches from your bumper doing 90mph, do not pull over next to the cop parked on the cloverleaf to 93 South, roll down your window and start pointing at my car screaming "CITIZEN'S ARREST!!" at the top of your lungs. Because that really scares me.

Rule 5: To the city of Lowell: If I'm parked in a "tow zone" it's not that I'm lazy, it's that I couldn't find another spot. Come on… just leave me alone. Enough with the friggen towing bullshit. All the homocides in this city and you have to busy yourself with towing my car everyday.

Rule 6: To the ungrateful passengers in my car: Please don't stomp your foot on the floor looking for your "brake" when I do something that scares you. This isn't the driving school vehicle… there's only one brake and IT'S ALL MINE and I will use it AT MY DISCRETION. There are "oh shit" handles and seatbelts installed for a reason. Use them.

Rule 7: If I should happen to cut my left turn too tight and therefore end up driving on the wrong side of the road coming head on at you, please be paying attention so that we can avoid disaster. I'd hate to have that whole "jaws-of-life-street-shut-down-with-six-fire-engines-help-I-can't-feel-my-legs" type situation occur again. Trust me, twice is enough. Should above situation occur, please take my advice which comes from experience: Screaming at the top of your lungs means that I can't hear the 911 dispatcher. Have a little consideration please. I'm aware that you are pinned inside your car because my car is parked on top of yours. Remember, I started this impromptu Monster Truck Rally on Essex Street in Saugus. I have feelings too, you know.

Rule 8: To the gas station attendant on the corner of Main and Charles – If you're not done pumping my gas, don't tap my hood three times because I think this means that I'm all set to go. If you should do this, I believe you forfeit all right to be upset when I drive away and go half a block with the hose still attached to my gas tank.

(written December 2008)

A Blog is Born

2009-08-07T12:16:00.005-04:00

Here I am. Online. I officially have a web presence.

Those of you who have encouraged me to start blogging probably know more or less what you can expect from this: An outlet for me to share my thoughts and witticisms on my daily life and interactions with others, complain about stuff, write a full two pages about nothing, etc. For the past few days, I’ve been unsuccessful in trying to hammer out an “identity” for my blog, thinking that most people read blogs that are based on something they are interested in. Gardening, mommyhood, politics, math, etc. Unfortunately for me, I’m pretty bland. I have no hobbies, nor am I an expert in anything. I can’t garden because I hate bugs, I don’t have children thanks to my daily dose of AntiKids, the politics thing has been done before, and while I do like to find the coefficient solution to a good cubic polynomial quadratic equation or two in my downtime – hell, who doesn’t? -, I’m far from an expert. I pretty much suck. Like one big Seinfeld Episode, my blog is really about nothing. It has no identity, which is actually a good thing with that whole identity theft thing going on. Nobody’s going to be stealing junk mail from MY blog’s trash barrels late at night.

So here she is. My blog: Stiff Niffles. Ain’t she purrrty?