Jen's Voices

what the hell happened?

2011-10-24T19:57:00.000-04:00

I read what I wrote and laugh and cringe, yes mostly cringe, and sigh slightly....

I try to write you something else, but I guess I forgot how...

And forgot my words.

And lost my funny.

I can't dig deep and pull out some fantastical nonsense for you.

I can't paint pictures of funny JenJen, wry and witty or broken or bereft...

I want to.

It seems I've lost the ability to find that switch that allowed me to shut the world out, crawl back into the deepuglyballsysassyfun part of me and pound away at the keyboard.

What the hell happened?

Untitled is the Title

2011-08-06T19:55:00.000-04:00

There's just not much to say, it seems when there is so much going on. I swung by to some of my old stomps today, and some of you are still there; writing, writing and making us laugh or think or even cringe.

Sadly, there were a few that I love the most, and "last post a year ago" was the byline. That bummed me out greatly.

Welcome to my disconnected post. I just read those four sentences and they aren't connected and if I was the older me I'd give a shit and re-do it until it flowed freely and pretty and was all rainbow-y.

When I say "older me" I don't mean less pretty or that I am aging backwards--but oh man would that be great.

Just so we're clear on that.

I'm not drunk.

Just so we're clear on that.

So maybe I want to say hi is all. And so maybe I'm just feeling a little uneasy about how to say hi after all this time.

So....

Hi.

Ritual

2011-05-04T11:32:00.000-04:00

~since I posted this last, I've been to several more of these, most recently yesterday...~

Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee

Entering this building with a pressure change outdoors-to-in, noses are assaulted with the smells. Smells that come from people and those that come from the things to cover up the smells of the people. It is a peaceful setting in that it is not quite as comfortable as home, not quite as utilitarian as hospital; sit on a flowery chair, but on the edge of it only. Put your Styrofoam cup of bitter coffee with powdery creamer on the table, but not your feet. The somber mood, circling through the air as if moved by expertly placed oscillating fans, causes even the tiniest of mouths to fall into an involuntary, reverent hush. Ambient temperature; not too hot, not uncomfortably cold. Yet despite the controlled climate, the goosebumps come. All eyes flit floor ward; hands grip walking loved ones a little tighter as the one in charge looks for the room.

Blessed art thou among women,

Bittersweet emotions betray even the most stoic of characters; happiness to see loved ones and confused despair to see the one missing. Hugs that linger a few pats longer than usual, kisses on the cheek with a faint "Thank you for coming" whispered in the right ear. Cold hands, old hands...warm hands and soft ones, some calloused and some stiff--they all fold together in an embrace. As if the embrace can answer the 'why' question if you hang on just a second longer. Feminine hands, aged by wiping tears of their children and of their own, silently finger laps around the beads, working hard at each set of ten.

and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

Jubilant greetings to those you haven't seen in ages (perhaps since the last event similar to this one) are quickly stifled by narrow looks from the old ones. They sit in uncomfortable chairs wearing their mourning clothes, eyeballing everyone who comes in through the double doors, mentally checking them off the "must attend" list they've in their heads. Occasionally, one who isn't on The List comes through the door and one raised eyebrow shot to another old one causes a domino effect until all old ones see who the surprised guest is; this silent but unquestionably deliberate communication between them happens without notice by the general population. The last one to get the look raises to greet the guest, and a collective, but inaudible exhales extinguishes the room's piqued interest. Back to The List they go. And don't get them even started on the flower arrangements and who gave what and my goodness, what sum of money it did (or worse, didn't) cost them.

Holy Mary Mother of God,

As we move towards the front, the volume and intensity of the tears increases as each row of stiff chairs is passed. We embrace family and whisper nonsensical niceties to each other as some sort of weak attempt at comfort. The truth is there are no words. Some in Italian, some in English others still in dialects I've never heard...they all mean the same thing: this day stinks. My family: husband, two kids and I kneel before her; my children are feeling an uneasy mixture of intrigue and confusion at the morbidity. I place my hand on hers and say my heartfelt, whispered goodbye. My daughter lifts her brown eyes at me to silently ask if she should do the same. My single nod tells her that she should do what her heart tells her to do if she feels brave enough. She places her hand atop my own and says her own goodbye.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death

We follow the flagged cars to her final physical home. The radio plays gently in the background and the sun is brilliant in the sky. The hills of the park-like setting are calming as the narrow path winds to the back where the mausoleum is. The pungent smell of incense is heavy on our clothes and in the backs of our throats as the officials tell us the service has ended. As we leave, they wheel her body to her designated place in the wall. We lay flowers at the floor beneath the cold marble markers; a magnified difference in earthly elements in a place where heaven leaves the bodies behind for the living to visit.

Amen.

Erect Stingers Suck When You're Prissy

2011-04-17T20:38:00.000-04:00

~~~~~Frogs, I'm trying to get back in the swing of things, can you bear a few reposts until I get my words working? Thanks lovies...~~~~~

I want to open by saying I am not the outdoorsy type. At all.

You could say I'm more of a girl who likes her creature comforts: crisp linens atop a down covered mattress, lots of pillows, carpet under my pedicured toes and a glass of water beside my head on my nightstand. I don't own boots for anything other than show. My coat is from Victoria's Secret (one in pink and one in black) and is decidedly not for lingering out-of-doors. I have a white hat and white gloves for when it's cold in the garage.

Damn I sound prissy. Well, here's more to add to that bucket:

So probably not a giant shocker that I despise camping; I think God (or Mr. Hilton) made hotels so I wouldn't have to sleep... outside.

*shudder*

Friends have invited us to go ~~to hell~~ camping with them, and at first I was gracious and declined using busy words like, "oh, w-e-l-l we don't have any...sleeping bags" or "oh hell darnit, we're already out of town that weekend, drat!" Hoping, of course, they didn't see the fear and loathing behind my batting baby blues and angelic smile.

After a while they gave up but ended with this gem: "You know, JenJen, you're depriving your children of the experience of camping!"

For real.

Deprivation by Lack of Camping.

News at 11.

You can't win this argument with me. I will not camp or step foot in a tent. I tried it one time years ago, and I was not loving the outdoor shower and considerable lack of plumbing equipment. I didn't particularly care for the mosquitoes, the smelly bug spray or the less-than-comfy beds, either. Okay, the outdoor shower would have been sensual and sexy had it been at a fab Caribbean resort and not at the KOA in the middle of NowhereNearTropical, Michigan and swarming with unsupervised children and bees.

Oh god, the bees.

I used to have a FREAK OUT reaction to any black and yellow striped flying bug with a stinger on it's butt. I would run and scream like a girl (k, because I am a girl) when one of those effers would even flirt with my bubble. I heard that bees don't like the water, so run into the ~~ocean~~ pond when one comes near you, butt stinger erect.

Turns out that is not true.

A falsehood, as it were.

They will follow your ass into that water and buzz around you until you cry and gallop out of the water, knees high (have you ever tried to run in the water? You can't. It's called galloping. Google that.). I galloped right out of the water, across the sand and into the car and shut it up tight. That little overgrown gnat laughed at me and wiggled it's stinger tush at me.

Then my son was stung at the playground down the street from my house. Minding his own business.
And I waged holy chemical warfare on those assholes. I got all "mama bear" and started thrashing about with a can of RAID, giant shoes (for the stomping once they fell to their deaths, just to be sure they were goners), and screaming GET OUT OF HERE. SAVE YOUR SEEELLLLFFFF!

I'm cured of the bees.

Bring it and your stinger asses...I dare ya.

But

I won't be using these boots to stomp them, no. These boots....they're for show.

And so it goes...

2010-12-01T20:51:00.000-05:00

There seems to be a moment, that when it happens you are forever changed. Forever altered in some way, shape or form.
No one knows when the moment will come; we only know it exists after it happens. Because we are caught off guard, because we go swimmingly oblivious to it hovering, when it hits, well, we are knocked on our fine little asses.
And there we sit.
Pondering the next move.
Should we....Should I?
Here is me, scratching my head and rapping my once-manicured, now destroyed fingertips on the table top.
I say: I should.
I did.

It happened without my explicit instruction; I actually blamed it on the intoxicating scent of him for a while. Inhaling deeply, the pheromones mixed with bottled aromas awakened my skin, my insides...all were ready.

Ready to be taken.

Funny how a scent can do just that. Once fully calm and collected, then in the space between heartbeats: chest heaves and sparkles appear behind your eyes.

Nearly begging, my voice quivers to deliver a single statement.

"I....I figured you had forgotten me."

He touches my cheek, and drips his finger down my collarbone, eyes locked on mine; neither of us blink.
His fingers on my skin leave a trace of goosebumps on my cheek; on my collarbone the effect is noticeable through the thin blouse I wear.

Wore that on purpose, too....we women always do.

My breathing is becoming heavy, and I can barely stand the twitching between my legs. I have never wanted a man more than this one.
Never wanted to feel his skin on mine, pull his hair while he pulls mine, cry out in pleasure together....

"I never forgot..."
"this...."
And just like that, his head bends and a hot tongue traces his finger's path.
"...or this...."
a strong arm pulls me in so that I am convex to his body; middles touching, feet and head arched.
"....or even this...."
One swift movement of the other arm and my head slams into his; I am lost inside a small moment.

As we search for answers inside each other, the frantic nature of the question takes a fever pitch. Once focused, calculated sensual aggression, we have now turned into deliberate, hunger-driven euphoria.

The truth is, we remember more than we ever rightly knew. The taste of my skin, the taste of his....the scent of his sweat and desire mixed with my own...these things are the icing atop a cake we never sampled. Only did we talk about taking a bite, flirt with a nibble. A crumb here, a finger swipe of the frosting there...

Not this time.

No, for this time we fully devour each other. Licking, playfully biting, digging with tightly clenched fingers... I crawl atop, across him, climbing along his length, letting no spot of skin go untouched. He receives me, and in turn yanks, pulls and nibbles; My lips brush against his arm, chest and legs, sampling whatever I can along the way. Sweet, salty flavors. Sounds come from somewhere beneath comprehension, one chasing quickly the one before.

Sometimes, you really shouldn't skip dessert.

August 24th?

2010-10-10T17:40:00.000-04:00

Really?

It's been that long since I grabbed some wine, opened the laptop and began to flutter away on the keys?

I guess it has...

My dear frogs...I've missed you.

In two weeks' time I am going to be guest posting on A Diary of a Mad Woman. I will warn you...it will be of the Jenporn variety (jenporn 1 2 and 3) so if you of a weak constitution, or the general prissy sort, move on--there's a beige blog waiting for you out there for you... somewhere. Chances are though, if you read me you already know that I am nothing close to beige!

I have some tall tales to share from the last few months. My blog may have been silent, but I have certainly been living life. You know how it goes, avoid this and dive into that....

Kiss Me....me

2010-08-24T15:04:00.000-04:00

So my girl Mommakiss has a meme and because she's totally badass and could actually kick mine, I play, so here:

1. coffee or soda in the morning?
Soda? What the fuck is a soda? Pop. And? Coffee please. Keep it comin'

2. ymail or gmail?
gmail since I don't know what ymail is?

3. honesty or little white lies?
I have a carefully crafted web of lil white lies. Sue me.

4. toilet paper roll over the top or from the bottom?
If it is ON the holder I'm happy. Don't care which way.
5. wine or beer?
Wine please. Beer makes me feel full.

6. sex...front? Back? Top? Bottom?
Okay. I'm in.

7. related: rock the pizza slice bush or brazillian?
um. For some reason, I find this question too personal. See #6
8. cowboys or clowns?
ooooh give me a cowboy. No really. Here's my address...

9. talk on the phone or text?
I like texting, except for that pesky driving distraction. Sometimes, I'd love to hear your sexay voices.
10. forgive and forget? or forgive, but hold a grudge?
I never forget a thing. I will forgive most anything, but my memory's fine. Of course unless we're talking about where I was driving to, because sometimes, I forget where I was going-- once I 'come-to' and notice I drove miles past the place I was hoping to end up at.

Snippits of Thought

2010-08-22T22:10:00.000-04:00

I know the common phrase: Streams of Consciousness, but I think more in snippits and bits of thoughts, rather than streams (which makes me think yes, my thoughts are truncated bits and not flowing wisps of intellectual property).

Right now, these days, I think in frantic drips; I'm trying to catch them before they escape into the ether. The harder I try to harness them, to relish in their minute existence, they vanish....teasing me with a fragment left behind. A fragment of nothing, of something....inclusive of frustration.

Boy This Thing's Dusty!

2010-08-11T10:39:00.000-04:00

Hi lovely froggies! In the spirit of whomever the literary genius is/was that came up with Wordless Wednesday (as not a cop out to write, I'm sure....but it is totally saving my used-to-be fine ass today) I give you:

Juxtaposition in Veggies

from JenJen's Garden

ca 2010

baci
J

The One Where I Cracked

2010-07-27T17:12:00.001-04:00

Today I had a conversation with my daughter that, well I wasn't ready for. You think, as a 20-something woman (....what? Watch. It.) I would be prepared for the day this happened. I mean, I have two children. It was bound to come up eventually.

You know that talk?

The one you remember having with your parents. Maybe it was your dad? Your mom? Your nanny (you elitist bastard)?

I remember my mother showing me picture of "these things happen" when it happened to Perky.

I woke up one day, and there Perky was.

Laying on some newspaper. Dead.

Perky was my parakeet.

What the fuck did you think I was talking about?

Jesus. Gutter. Perv.

Anyway this conversation didn't go as I had planned. No. See, first of all, the 'pet' was a frog.

A baby one.

Did I mention I didn't know we had a frog?

She caught it outside. She put it into a tupperware. A good one (only the best for Froggy). Jammed some holes in it (Mother of the Year here, yo. I didn't know she was stabbing a Tupperware lid with a pair of scissors. I bet she didn't run with them though. WIN!).

That little shit snuck up to her room and put it on her dresser. Apparently she fed it water. A lot....of water.

So today we had this conversation:

Girl JenJen: Mom? uuuummmmmm I'llberightback!

I spin around since she never moves that fast to go outside so I knew something. Was. Up.

Me: GirlJenJen, whatcha doin?

Girl JenJen: Nope.

Me...wait. Nope? Nope is not an answer to 'what are you doing?' so Me: Girl JenJen, what are you doing?

Girl JenJen: uuuuuuum Getting some fresh air!

Suspect. It's 90 outside. Yeah. My momdar (radar for moms. Google it.) is all firing up and shit because I'm on to something here!

Me...give her the mom look. The one that can break an eight year old in 2 seconds flat.

2...1...

Girl JenJen: IT WAS THE FROG OKAY?! I MEAN IT WAS THERE AND NOW IT VANISHED, OKAY?! IT HAPPENS! OKAY?!

Me: What....frog?

Girl JenJen: The one I caught the other day outside with Dad.

Drat! Dad. Of course this happened on his watch.

Me: Honey where is the frog?

Girl JenJen: Well I dumped the container outside. But....froggy wasn't in there. But it smelled horrible.

Me: Show. Me. Where. You. Dumped. It.

Girl JenJen shows me a spot behind a bush next to some bottle caps and a few rogue cigarette butts (Dad, again.You sneaky but not so sneaky thing...).

No frog.

No....crispy frog, either.

Me: GIRLJENJEN where have you been hiding this frog?

Girl JenJen: I WASN'T HIDING HIM. I MEAN GOSH MOM HE WAS LIKE ON MY DRESSER JEEZ.

Me....for now I will not address her smartass lip. Me: Girl JenJen, show me.

She takes me to her room, shows me the spot.

And the lid to his 'house.'

That there is a big....air hole.

Or egress window.

I start to shake.

Tears.

And laughter.

She's crying about something like being irresponsible or some shit. She pauses when she sees me cracking up like any minute THEY are going to show up with a soft blankie and straight jacket.

She isn't sure if she should laugh...so she just stops crying for a second. My son comes in and says, "what'd Girl JenJen do and why you laughin momma?"

More on why me laughing is a questionable event in another post entitled: Take Me To a Shrink.

So....fast forward to now. We have a escapee. Or we don't. Since the last time she saw him was yesterday, I don't know if he (she? it? Are they asexual?) jumped away outside like a convict swimming away from Alcatraz or if....

I stop laughing enough to stop my boobs from shaking. Because she said this:

" I know it! I mean every time I let him out to jump around I put him right back in! HAHAH"

Ha. Ha.

And then....here comes my prime suspect.

Our dog saunters in. I swear he was smiling. After all, he probably had his first (and only) gourmet meal:

Here I Am!

2010-07-25T21:22:00.000-04:00

So I know you've missed me greatly. Like pining away wondering where in the hell Miss JenJen has magippeared to and *sniff* when is she coming back?

What's that?

You weren't wondering?

Well piss off.

I'm here and I haven't entirely forgotten about my blog; I just left her alone and unsupervised a bit while I went through some pretty heavy personal stuff.

In addition to my personal ick, I have these two children here that will not leave me the hell alone to even poop in peace. I mean there I was in the bathroom, doing...bathroom-y stuff like texting while pooping or something, and in they walk looking for me to make waffles or get them a damn snack.
A snack?
And? other than Eggo, who the hell actually makes waffles anymore? Grrr.

Lately I have been enjoying too much food and drink and my jeans have revolted by refusing to button. So, we went for a Scab worker in the form of skirts.
I have now turned into an old woman who inexplicably wears skirts daily with support hose. I need some support hose, dammit. Not to hold me up but to hold me in.

I tell yah, I just read through all this....and there is some real self love going on, isn't there?

Remembering, One

2010-07-17T21:06:00.000-04:00

On almost any occasion, Dad was a storyteller; some we've heard for the first time, others still were complicated versions of ones we've heard before. No matter the reason, Dad always commanded our attention when he retold a tale from his youth in Sicily.

This one is my favorite; I paraphrase but told from the voice of Joe....

" When I was a young boy my mother and grandmother worked hard...but the men in the field worked hard too. When my father was here, you know, in America sending money to get me and my sister Vita and my mother to come to the States, we were there."

A childhood like no other; father leaves to prepare for the rest of his family's eventual arrival, eleven years later. Eleven years. Today, that long is a lifetime for some, others cannot imagine the strength and resolve it took to wait for happiness, life and opportunity.
Running through olive trees, yelling in words in a dialect few understand today, he comes into the house...
"My mother and grandmother had this table. It stretched 'this' long. We had to feed the men who were working. So? They [mother and grandmother] made the pasta--you know Jennifer, pasta was a-like peasant food back then, but it was what we had, not like today where someone pays an armannaleg for a bowl of pasta and sauce-my mother and grandmother made the pasta for all these men. To feed them. You know?"

I nod. Yes I know that they need to eat, and I enjoy the "armannaleg" emmensely; he took three words and made one out of it.

"Well the table...the table was long."

He shows me from one end of his kitchen, where he is perched with a beer (added salt for something like flavor or habit), and motions to the other end, near the sliding glass door.

"but, this table, Jennifer, this table was carved in the middle."

He motions something with his hands that my mind's eye showed me as a long table in the shape of something like a canoe; high sides, hollowed, concave in the middle.

"The men, they sat on the sides of the table on a long bench, took a fork and ate."

I asked him, but where are the plates?

He looks at me with piercing, but soft eyes, " Jen, there were no plates. My mother and grandmother, they put the pasta in the table, and they ate out of it."

I have an image in my head and two weeks ago I asked him about this story. Dad told me that it wasn't like a canoe at all, but..."give me a sheet of paper!" and he set to draw a picture for me, to make sure I got it right. He grabbed a crayon (as was the only 'tool' available) got sidetracked, and didn't complete the drawing.

I will be forever sad I didn't see what was in his mind's eye.

You Want Me to Agree to What, Now?

2010-07-12T17:34:00.000-04:00

It probably goes without saying that I've been too busy to blog, considering this is my first post in Google Reader knows how long. And I especially hate it when people start something by saying, "It goes without saying...." like I just did. Sorry 'bout that.

About a month ago, I was approached by a former colleague of mine. He and I worked together at a start-up that had experienced runaway growth and was going through some tremendous growing pains. He acted as the CIO/CTO (for those blessed to not be in corporate-y environments, that's a Chief Information or Technology Officer). I was junior but didn't report to him as an Operations Manager for Reporting and Analytics (you may insert "Jen's a nerd, neener-neener-neener" jokes *here*). After a certain time, I found myself severed from that company...and he soon followed. This was in 2007, and as a believer in "it's a sign" I have stayed home roughly since then (save a 6 month contract role).

So when he contacted me through a professional networking site to "discuss opportunities" to work together again, I was optimistic. I have recently decided that although my children are precious when they sleep, it's time for me to go back to work. We set up a meeting and I left it feeling pretty damn lucky we had a solid working relationship behind us, because this opportunity was going to be great! He said, "We will build this company together! We will succeed! You're perfect!" (duh on the last one, right?)

I was going to do some recruiting for his own IT company. I could work from home; this was great since his company is based nearly an hour from my house. He would pay me as a consultant. I was all yippie-skippy. We verbally hammered out some details, and I waited for the agreement he was drawing up as "a formality" to arrive via email.

A week later....and the agreement arrives.

Hoboy.

It's twelve pages of "hereto" and "therefore" and "henceforth" and oh, by the way? Clauses I couldn't agree to.

Like the one where he said I couldn't work in any capacity that is or might be in the future (future defined as five years) like this role or company.

Like the one where it said I had to provide proof on demand at any time after the severance that I was not infringing on the contract.

And, this one, this one is my personal favorite: it said he'd be taking a life insurance policy out on me naming him the sole beneficiary.

Stop. Short.

He's asking me to recruit candidates. For third parties. Not actually write some super complicated JENCODE or something only 3 people in the universe know how to do that would, if they get knocked off by some rogue scooter chair, cause catastrophic damage to the company, rendering it useless.... Nope. Just recruiting.

So after I tossed it over the fence and asked a lawyer friend of mine (and? I know you're reading this. And I thank you, again) what she thought, and she ended up giving me some tips. I sent him my 'feedback' using the approach that were were on friendly terms--"why the heck are we doing this?" kind of tactic.

He responds with, "Wow , this means you read the whole thing!"
Um, yep. (??)

A week goes by.

And another one.

Did I mention the Time is of the Essence clause?

I send a friendly-ish reminder of who the hell I am and wtf is going on over there? sprinkled with rainbows and butterflies.

Nothing.

Drumming my nails down to the quick, I quick type a HELLO A-HOLE reminder. Short on rainbows and butterflies, heavy on the clouds and bees.

Zilch.

And then....lo and behold...DING! I have a response:

"Dear Jen, sorry. There are many things stopping me from making a decision. I think you will provide great value and are at the top of my list of friends to call. Let's keep in touch."

............

That ^ was the Silent Mad. Sort of like the laugh that is the Silent Laugh because it's so damn funny you laugh without sound? There is a Silent Mad. It's noticeable when the steam escapes one's ears.

....at the top of his... list?
....keep in touch?

So. It has been one week since the Blow Jen Off of 2010. I have finally moved on *sniff* and decided he can go jump in a lake.

Hmph.

Tag

2010-07-06T14:51:00.000-04:00

Leave it to the ever popular and hysterical commenter that is Millions of Atoms to try and bring me outta this clump of funk I am currently wallowing in.

He's tagged me in some sort of Q and A....so here goes:

1. How man M&Ms can you eat in one sitting? Round Up.
I am not a fan of the M and M, unless it is the peanut variety. I can eat as many that are in a single bag (measured by volume and due to settling may not include the same quantity in each bag). I pass on the plain ones; they're too little.

2. Do you own an iPhone, and why/why not?
I do not. I am afraid of all the apps and quite frankly, the touchy screen seems like a moody bitch. There's only room for one moody bitch in my house, and she's typing on this here blog right now.

3.Describe the first time you were aware that you had feelings for me that went beyond the “criminal suspect” feelings that the Police have for me.
The first time I was aware? Hmmm...I don't think I've had a moment like that, yet....

4. Describe the one t-shirt that you should have thrown away five years ago but you still inexplicably find in your t-shirt drawer.

Honey I'm a girl. I don't keep t-shirts longer than one season. But....my husband has plenty. I got rid of one not that long ago (much to his dismay and confusion) that was for Blow Pops. A cartoon dude was blowing a bubble and the speech bubble said, "Blow Me."

5. Why did the new Twilight movie make 30 million dollars in 3 hours?
It's a fad. Like TV.

I'm supposed to tag some of my readers...and ask you some questions, too. This outta be good:

1. If you could be any fried food, what would you choose?

2. How come my son can't wipe his own butt at age almost seven?

3. What song makes you suicidal? (for me it's anything by KidzBop)

4. What would you be when you grow up if you were an actual grown up when it was time to decide?

5. You have a whistler. What do you do?

And you are tagged:

John
MommaKiss
Jaime
Matthew

Crowded

2010-06-27T23:40:00.000-04:00

It's 11pm and I'm propped up with some pillows, a glass of Canada Dry and my laptop. Why aren't the ideas coming?

I'm all set to blog...I can feel words and random thoughts driving around my head like cars on a crowded street. I know they want to hit the open road, one that I will pave just before they need it, sentence by sentence, thought by thought, period by period...

Problem is, there's too many cars in my head.

I think that my writing process is sometimes not actually a process, but more of a gut reaction to something, any thing, that triggers one of those cars to break free from the congestion that is JenJen's brain. I think of being richly descriptive but the car that emerges is a funny car; stupid with clowns (gasp!) and maybe it's yellow and small, like a Beetle. I struggle to let that one merge through because I am wanting a sleek Auburn Roadster to emerge instead; captivating and sexy just by being.

When I feel like a funny, a boring old sedan makes its way out. Nothing but ordinary, like an old K car, or something powder blue with boring handles. (I have a fascination with door handles.) I don't want the sedan, I want the Beetle.

I find myself charged with rant or otherwise ticked off at something, I motion for the red Mustang to roar out of its spot among the beeping, posturing cars and join me in illustrating the inequity which is my topic for the post. Naturally, the grandma-style Cadillac or Buick inches out instead, challenging me to write something soothing and dependable.

And when the Auburn does emerge, taunting me with sexy ideas and beguiling memories fit for a disclaimer preceding actual reading, I find that what I'm in the mood for is something more reliable and stable, like a station wagon with wood side paneling and back big enough to sleep in.

As you can see, it's quite the traffic jam up in my head. So many ideas, snippets of thoughts, threads of nonsensical fantasy; they are all pushing and beeping to be the one let out of my head through my self-manicured fingers banging against a keyboard this night.

Alas, the one that emerges, tonight at 11pm, Canada Dry drained and pillows giving way, is the open air of a rag top Jeep. Looking skyward, endless possibilities stare at me, daring me to pluck one from the heavens. The wind whips through my hair, pulling it in all directions, the stars wink at me and I rush past the old trees along this street that shade the sleeping cars for the night. They whisper a promise that they'll be there when I'm ready to let them drive. Tonight, it's about breathing delicous silence and introspection.

A Name

2010-06-22T23:07:00.000-04:00

Every time we played house or school I was to be known as Ashley. I don't know where I first heard the name, but once I did, I determined I was inexplicably misnamed by my parents. It was exotic to my humdrum Jennifer. The only 'Jennifer' I knew was on Square Pegs (SJP before she was Sexay in the Citay was an awkward teen on TV) or in my kindergarten class.
Ashley....just sounded so unlike me.
And I made sure she was. She was a confident teacher of make believe students. She ran her house of children and pets like a champ without ruffling a feather. And if we played store? She always counted back the change correctly.
Ashley was awesome to my notsomuch. In her I made myself differently. I just put Jennifer on a shelf and she watched while Ashley perfected her perfect-ness.

Of course, the time comes when you don't play house or store...or school because you're too old and it's not cool anymore. I was stuck with Jennifer.

Until... I had met my mother's cousin from Hawaii one summer--well she was exotic. Even though she grew up in an itty bitty town in mid-Michigan, had transplanted herself into Hawaii and married a Hawaiian man, she just ooozed exotic. She wore bangels up her arm and just sort of jingled when she walked even if she didn't have them on. It was like her bare feet made music on the linoleum when before it was just mildly sticky from a rogue Popsicle. Her hair was wildly curly and she was infected with a spirit probably only given by island life and as much hashish an island could offer.
The coolest thing about her, to me was her name: Cynthia. But she went by Cyndi. She just lopped off the 'a' at the end and because no one says "CynTHi" she made the 'th' a 'd' instead.
Genius.
So I was now to be known as Jenni. Lopped off the 'fer' at the end. I went all through middle and high school as being Jenni. With an 'i.' This girl went through the uglies in middle school wth a short hair cut fit for someone with a penis rather than budding boobs, a mouth full of metal and no idea how to penny-roll her jeans. In high school, Jenni was a cheerleader--her hair grew out, metal came out and pfft on the penny rolling of the jeans. My cheerleaders and friends even dotted the 'i' with a heart or a star sometimes. My yearbooks are written in that left-slanted high school cursive that's very fat--all beginning with Dear Jenni.

The thing is...college came along and I didn't want to be known in the diminutive. So I went for Jen. Sounded less stuffy than 'Jennifer' but not as blond and cutesy as 'Jenni.' Nothing really exciting to report being called Jen in college. It was just...beige.

Naturally I came full circle and decided that 'Jennifer' wasn't so bad after all, and Ashely was a name of a man in Gone With the Wind. Albeit the man of Scarlet's intentions (but not her lust), but a man just the same. So after college and on my resume, it's Jennifer. I began to like my name more. To embrace the changes it had been through....that I had been through. Leaving Jenni behind also meant letting go of a tremendous amount of pain and I was damn happy to do that. Jen in college feigned confidence, sex appeal and only rarely at the start revealed smarts. Jen was the protective coating over Jenni, Ashely and even JJ which my father called me (my maiden name begins with J).

The thing is...they're all me, aren't they? Ashley with the determination to be everything my mother wasn't (didn't take a shrink to figure out that one), Jenni who was trying on growing up, out and over. Jen who was not quite settled but more so every day....and Jennifer who decided how the world saw her was up to only one person: herself.

Today I am known as Jen or JenJen. JenJen is the name my friend's daughter called me years ago. It's my favorite version of me so far.

Excuses, Excuses...

2010-06-21T06:00:00.007-04:00

Hi Frogs,

I've been neglecting you. And my blog. (And the laundry but that's a matter I'll take up with the maid.) Since the kids have been out of school, they've been asking for, like parenting and stuff --things that get in the way of my social calendar, to be honest.

Frankly, I'm annoyed.

So here's a lil re-cap on all the things that have been keeping me from you.....

Well the kids...they're here every day. Like all day long. I'm figuring if I plan it right, I can VBS them till like August or something.

My kids are both playing ball, too. Girl JenJen is in softball. It's her first year playing anything and have mercy I'm envious and proud of her balled into one. But there's two games a week with a practice in between. None of those can be at the same location as my son's Tball games/practices which are less fun than plucking my eyebrows out one by one.

Then Girl JenJen gets braces. I swear this is punishment for the mom, too. The slurping of excess spit alone is driving me apeshit crazy. SLLUUUURRRRP. Kill me.

I volunteer in my community and right now we are gearing up for our season. I have eight giant tupperwares in my garage squeezing out my parking space.

And I was approached by a former colleague to do some work for him on a part time consulting basis. I've been up to my ears with researching for this role. It's not something I've done in the past, and to be honest I'm a little nervous but anxious to get rolling. I believe things happen for a reason and this role might answer some questions I've been asking of myself lately. I can't wait to find out the answers.

Here's some things I've been pondering:
...........if I lived in a different time, decade...or place when/where would I choose. How can I incorporate the feeling I would get from living then/there to fill a void I have today?

...........my social network has made my world feel so small. But people have been saying, "it's a small world" for ages, right? So what's changed? I think for me, there's a security in my social web and I am not sure if that's a good thing or not.

...............I've been trying to define the difference between hugs you give and hugs you receive.

So, I'm still here, my lovies. Thanks for sticking around while I sort through life as JenJen.

XO
J

Lie to Me

2010-06-14T22:40:00.000-04:00

I'm of the opinion that a little white lie here and there can do more good than harm, despite my grandmother's constant insistence to the contrary.
Now I'm not talking a whopper of a story that would sell gabillions and be featured in the NY Times Book Review, but something more like:

"No, that dress/shirt/shoes/mascara doesn't make you look fat." I really don't want to be told I look less than desirable. I know if I don't look good. Usually when I ask if I look okay, it's because I want you to notice how goddamn hot I look, and I want you to say so.

"We didn't go to the strip club for the bachelor party." That scene in The Hangover was so friggin funny, wasn't it? When he was all, "..its disgusting...someone's daughter..." and she believed him. Atta boy. I never ever want to know what happens at a bachelor party. I don't need to believe you think it's a disgusting pool of creepy crawlies you wouldn't be caught dead stepping foot into, I just need to think you went golfing and turned in early. I have a very visual brain and I'd rather think you were hitting balls than having some hussy fondle yours.

"It wasn't me." This only works if your kid farted, blames it on you and you're in line at the grocery store. Or if it really was you, he blames it on you and you need to deflect the blame because you are in line at the grocery store.

To be fair...here's some 'truths' of my own:

"No, of course I don't take it personally." Now for reals, if someone delivers the "don't take this personally..." line you more than likely will a)want to cry after they walk away b) want to claw their eyes out with a dog brush c) take it damn seriously. I will lie to you and say I won't take it personally, but I do.

"It wasn't me."

What?

What do you lie about....to save face or someone's feelings?

Accidental Nudity

2010-06-10T17:54:00.000-04:00

When my kids were little(-er) they'd l-o-v-e to be naked. My son especially. He'd run through the house with his cutie lil tush and not-so-cute but little just-the-same Johnson bouncing around....oh the good ole days when modesty was instead: "why not?"

Of course....adulthood comes and you cover your shit up out of necessity, embarrassment or because it's Michigan ten months of the year, cold and well, our naked bodies morph (unpleasant shrinkage for the men, things that 'indicate' on us women) when the mercury skinny dips.

When you're an adult, you tend leave the naked moments for bathing....and for those brown chicken brown cow moments in the ~~beau~~ ~~bowde~~ ~~beaudrower~~ bedroom.

Except when it's onna accident. This recently happened to me (I know...NO WAY right? Cuz I lead a perfectly beige life where nothing, nothing ever happens to me leaving no opportunity to write a blog for one year straight).

When my family and I were on vacay last month in Florida we decided to avoid the money grubbing bastards we fondly call the Seven Dwarfs for something a little less sugary. Aquatica.
Aquatica is wiz bang fun for the whole family! (I'd totally do a more adequate review for you know...tickets.)
Anyhoozle. I haven't' laughed that hard in so long. The kind where your belly hurts but your face hurts more from all that goddamn smiling and laughing you're doin. That kind. The kind where you can't catch your breath and end up squeaking your way through? Maybe that last one is just me....
So we go down the Toilet Bowl of Fun (not sure what it was called, exactly) where you go roundy roundy roundy and slide into a hole. The rapids then shoot you out at warp speed through a tube into a pool that is approximately 4" deep (you Brits will hafta do the conversion on your own to centimeters).
Hay you know what isn't designed for shooting through a tube at warp speed?
Bathing suit tops.
There I was, cheeks flapping (warp speed is crazy-fast), hair slicked straight back flying down this tube, laughing and whooosh! right into the puddle that is waiting for me at the end.
Hmmm what's that?
Why is that lifeguard looking at m--oh. Heeeey, I still got it. Brown chicken... waitadamnminute.
I feel...hm... something's off.
What's that around my neck? Oh God. A rope! A rope is around my neck! Who the hell would need a rope at Aquatica?? They check your bag for contraband Cheez-its but a f*cking rope makes it's way in?!
I reach up and pull...my bikini top.
Apparently, warp speed is the new boob lift. Lifts them right into yer neck. Then when gravity grabs ya....and oh, it does....it lets the boobs fall, but the bikini top stays water-glued to your neck.

That's a Nice Belt Buckle, Occifer!

2010-06-07T19:22:00.000-04:00

I begged them to let me go; it was the first party I was invited to so it was imperative that I be there. More than imperative; it was critical for my success and advancement in the High School Pecking Order. It's a tough world out there in the halls of secondary education and by God, come hell or high water I wanted my spot.
The approval I got was based on a set of falsehoods I delivered as answers to some tough questions:
"Will there be drinking?"
"bah. Heh. ...No...duh? We're not old enough pfft. meh..I mean..come on mom.."
Even at sixteen I was the picture of calm and cool, much like today really.
"Will her parents be there?"
"Ahem...mom..of course they will be. I mean I'm sure. Like totally sure..."
How this even passed as an valid answer shows that either my parents were setting me up or they were stoned and didn't realize they were being set up.

When I received the nod, I ran frantically to my closet to try on everything twice and then again with shoes only to find, much like this morning: nothing to wear.
Such is life for a girly girl, I guess.
I decided on something mint green and pink...I remember the outfit. It was my favorite at the time. I called up my friends from my bedroom and we made plans to meet at a house down the street. One can of Aqua Net, a tube of pink shimmery lip gloss and a bazillion plastic bangle bracelets and I was r-e-a-d-y to fly.

Would you believe that there was drinking?
Shocking.
And?
Her parents were actually in Myrtle Beach?
I know. How irresponsible. Of them.

I was offered my first beer. I remember thinking, "well crap this tastes like...well, crap. And dirt. Mixed with soap."
Totally awesome. So I had another.
And a few more "anothers" after that.
So much more "anothers" that when Brian K. knocked over the speaker through the glass door, I didn't really notice.
So much that when I heard, "the COPS ARE COMING!" it took me a little bit too long to react.
So much that when I tried to scale the tall red fence in my Keds, I laughed because I couldn't grip the wood to climb over and ended up tush down on the damp grass below.
So much that when I decided to just simply leave via the driveway, in a run, I laughed when I ran into someone.
"oops! Sorry, hey..." I was brushing the grass from my behind, "...the cops are coming, you gotta split."
And when I look up?
Officer AntiTeenDrinking is standing before me.
Not pleased.
I ran into him.
Totally. Busted.

He was nice enough to drive me home. All four blocks and four blocks of lecture. Did I stop drinking at parties? Heck no.

I learned to wear shoes with better grippy souls.

Put Some Perk Under Your Skirt

2010-06-03T07:00:00.003-04:00

I heard about this today and I just needed to share it with my lovies (that's you. duh.)

You know that moment when someone turns you on, or you find someone attractive? Your body goes into Ready Mode: ready to touch and be touched. Your heart beats a little harder. Your sense of smell, a little keener. Eyes flicker. The blood rallies through your veins, flying rapid-quick here and there...and especially to there.

And because of all this activity in your body another body picks up on...something.

Pheromones.

Today's fun is about the sex pheromone (there are lots of others, but they aren't as exciting right now).Humans release this chemical to other humans as a signal.

A signal to get it on.

Rawr.

For the last decade, scientificy professionals have been telling us that pheromones are an aphrodisiac; male pheromones come from the armpit area, and women tend to emit these odorless, well, odors before and after ovulation. So? Gimmie a sweaty man right before my period and well, don't come knockin, baby.
Marketing professionals have naturally gotten on board. And the latest gadget is....

The Perky Panty wash.

So the gist: I'm supposed to wash my panties in this special soap and voila! I will be beating the men off me and my ass.

But here's the thing.....and stop me if you think I'm off base, my man friends.

Consider the following:

I'm walking down the street. I have a skirt on and it's fluttering in the wind while I walk. My legs are nicely toned; at one end in a set of 50's style pumps and the other end...well they go into my panties. I see you. I smell your scent. And I want you.

The wind blows just so and you catch a glimpse of what's underneath.

But, alas...washed in plain ole Tide or Gain or whatevs.

You telling me that at that moment, in that situation you wouldn't want to have the sex because I didn't wash them in Perky Panty? So I'm not getting any?

Please.

If I need some quasi pheromone wash sprinkled with fairy dust to get a man to show me the moon, well that is just plain sad. The product is advertised to allow me to, get this: Control a man with my sex appeal.

Hmmm.

Women...tell me. Where has this advice been? I can control a man with.....sex? Dammit if I only knew! Why has this secret been kept so tightly? How incredible rude for you men to be so difficult to understand!

Can You Help Me With Any of These? (Probably Not...)

2010-06-01T09:30:00.000-04:00

There's some thoughts driving around my head like cars on a freeway....and we're in a major traffic jam right now. Here we go....!

I want to wear cowboy boots and look like they belong on my feet.

I want to wake up to the sounds of the waves combing the sand; I want it to be so damn loud it almost bugs me. Almost.

I want to have a smaller house with a screened in porch so I can have coffee or a margarita without being assaulted by flying things that sting me.

I want to have this noose around my neck dissolved so that I can embrace my parents without judgement, but with acceptance. I want them to be able to do the same.

I want my children to speak another language; via me sharpening my own Italian so I can teach them myself.

I want to figure out what I am meant to do with my life. And I really want it to slow down while I figure it out.

I want my nails on my right hand to grow at the same pace as my left.

I want to look like I belonged in that bikini instead of a lawn-and-leaf bag.

I'd like to get a job. I think. Maybe.

I want my kids to brushtheirteethgetdressedpickuptheircrap when I say to. Just once.

I'd like to figure out how to not be bitchy to my daughter when she does the same to me.

I know, it's all about me today...sorry lovies. Oh. Any ideas for another PSA? I had one started for May, and then I was feeling....bad that I was making fun of people. I know. I should seek out Mr. Condescending for advice on that one.

Have a peachy week!

They Didn't Make the Bed Before They Left

2010-05-23T22:06:00.000-04:00

I want to take a minute to thank the lovies that made my blog a great and wonderful place to visit while I swam in salt water (not swam, really, but more like 'lounge by'), drank a gallon of margaritas and burnt mahself to a crisp in Flo-Rid-A.

These people took on a great challenge, in my opinion. I have guest blogged only twice before and it was tough to come up with content that would do my host blog proud. I failed both times (sorry Dan and Mo) but these frogs of mine, they elevated my blog to some bullshit unattainable-for-me-to-repeat level.
So I'm 'happy' about that.

Kidding.

So giant thank yous and bear hugs to:
Matthew for reminding us it sucks growing old.
Jaime for sharing that porn is a fantabulous industry...
Eva for giving us the going rate for my shriveled eggs.
Mo for making us wives thank God we're not married to him.
Mommakiss for farting.

Dan for showing us that he actually does have feelings.

How Much for That Eggy in My Ovary? (An Egg in the Hand..Guest Post)

2010-05-21T16:30:00.000-04:00

Today I am super happy to have Eva Gallant writing for me. She's got quite the following, and really has a quick and witty sense of humor.

The post below...makes me wonder and pissed off all balled into one. Read on!

An Egg in the Hand…

I recently heard on the news that chickens aren’t the only ones selling their eggs. It seems there’s a market out there for human eggs as well. And with the economy being in the state it’s in, more women are willing to offer up their ova for financial gain. The ‘going rate’ is $3,000 to $8,000 or more, depending on said egg’s credentials. One campus newspaper is running an ad which promises $25,000 “if the donor is 100% Jewish, has high SAT scores, is attractive, has a healthy body weight, and is free of genetic diseases.”

I thought I had come upon a way to supplement my retirement income! Think about it: I’m not using my eggs, I have plenty of time to go through medical testing and procedures, being retired and all, and I would be happy to help a couple in need. Well, wouldn’t you know….they don’t want my old eggs! All my wisdom and experience counts for nothing! Candidates must be between 20 and 30 years old. Yet another instance of age discrimination! Of course, I might have had a little trouble with the required lifestyle changes: no smoking, no drinking, and no sex!

There is one comforting thought, however. Reproduction is one area where women command better than the usual $.70 to the male dollar in earning power. While women are paid from $3,000 to $25,000 for one of their eggs, men donating sperm only get $100 per “deposit.” Sorry, guys, no get rich quick schemes here for you!

Please Don't Inquire (A Guest Post: Dan But Really Jeff Reveals His Sweet Side)

2010-05-20T16:30:00.011-04:00

Today I welcome you to my blog and have the distinct and unusal pleasure of having an Ignorant Slut as my guest. Well, he's not a slut (I don't think his wife would approve...) and he's not ignorant but he writes at Jane, You Ignorant Slut. If you haven't checked out this blog it's tons of fun. Go. After you read and comment below, of course...

The noise was deafening.
Anger, fear and the defense of 2' by 4' parcels of plastic and steel turf filled the large concrete room, manifested in growls and barks dozens of dogs. The dogs, all afraid, all wanting nothing beyond having a warm, loving place to belong and call home.

Among them was the most unusual dog I'd ever seen. Not quite an adult, he had the body of a labbish mutt, his big ears and even bigger feet filled the tiny crate that was his home. Though he was a big dog, the ribs bulging from his chest told me he hadn't eaten well in a long time. But none of that is really remarkable when you're at the Humane Society.

What was remarkable was his coat. "We're calling him a 'Tiger-Lab,'" the staff member said. Beautiful streaks of orange and blackish brown made him look more like he belonged roaming the jungles of China, not the cold, January woodlands of Wisconsin. But that's where they found him; the middle of the woods, shivering, starving, and afraid.

I noticed a bright pink sheet of paper attached to his crate as I kneeled to take a look at him. On it was written "Please don't inquire about adopting me. I'm having trouble adapting to my surroundings and I'm afraid of people. I may bite you."

"What's the story with this guy?" I asked.

The staffer told me about finding him in the woods, that he's afraid of men and children, and that they suspect he'd been beaten as a pup and was just left out in the woods to fend for himself.

"So why the note? I mean, what's gonna happen to him if nobody asks about adopting him?"
"We're probably going to have to euthanize him in a few days."
"Well then. Seems silly to not at least give him a chance, right? Let him out. I wanna meet him."

After giving me their requisite warnings, they took me to an enclosed, outdoor area to wait while they pulled him from his crate, and introduce him to me.

Once outside, Wendel was a different dog. His hackles lowered, his bared teeth put away for the time being, he was an energetic puppy desperate for affection. He was completely unskilled in the ways of house dogs; he excitedly charged around the pen, stomping in poop, then leaping on me.

But covered in brown pawprints from chest to knee, I fell in love. Unfortunately, mine wasn't the only test he needed to pass. Ripley, our other dog, needed to approve of the new addition as well. And he was a tougher judge. An alpha male from the day he was born, we'd visited with several other potential companions, partners in crime for Ripley. He didn't like any of 'em.

But from the moment these two met, they were meant to be. For a full 30 minutes Ripley and Wendel charged around the yard at the Humane Society, chasing, tackling, roughhousing. Like brothers separated at birth.

Wendel wasn't going to be euthanized. Not today. Today, he was coming home with us.

The next six to twelve months showed us the emotional damage this lanky, scrawny dog had already survived. He cowered anytime he saw my hand above his head, no doubt waiting for it to fall painfully to his body. He never laid on his side, for fear of exposing his tender underbelly. And even the sound of children playing on television caused him to run to the opposite corner of the house, hair raised, growling.

But he was in a loving home now. And he had a patient tutor in Ripley.

Over the next ten years Wendel learned not to fear. He learned he always had a safe, warm place to sleep beside our bed. And as we added two wonderful children to our family, he learned that kids weren't a source of teasing, but a source of table scraps and love.

I was so proud of him for conquering those fears. For learning to trust, and to love. For being an unquestioning source of affection for me and the entire family.

But ultimately, Wendel wasn't able to escape euthanasia's needle. A week ago, after developing a wheezing cough and losing interest in eating, we got the worst news a pet owner could receive. Wendel was dying. Spiderwebs of cancer had completely filled his lungs, making it hard to breathe. The cancerous lesions were leaking blood, making even resting in his bed, next to ours, impossible, the pooling blood in his lungs slowly drowning him.

When I was 15 we had a dog named Sandy that had developed an inoperable brain tumor. We left her at the vet to be euthanized, dying in an unfamiliar place, among strangers. It's one of the greatest regrets I've had in my life.

Nobody should die alone.

When Wendel was found, over ten years ago, he was cold and afraid. And alone. I'll be damned if he was going to leave us the way we found him.

So I held him. Sitting on the hard tile floor in a veterinary exam room, I held him, as he panted to catch his breath, his energy depleted from lack of nourishment and lack of sleep. His legs buckled as his strength gave way, relying on me to help him these final steps.

The doctor administered the injection and in seconds, Wendel fight was over. He collapsed into my arms, lifeless.

And I cried. Cried to mourn the loss of a friend. Cried to remember to love of a warm-hearted dog who hadn't been given much of a chance. Cried for the pride of seeing this family member who had overcome so much.

I probably stayed another twenty minutes, stroking his still-warm fur, recounting for him all the fun times we had in those ten years. And apologizing. But for what, I didn't know. Maybe for not finding him sooner as a pup, so that he wouldn't have had to struggle so hard in the early days. Maybe for not being able to do anything to help him get better at the end. Maybe for not giving him more table scraps when we had the chance.

Goodbye, old friend. I'm sorry. We really miss you.

The Perfect Male Mind (You Know This Is a Guest Blogger By The Title)

2010-05-19T16:30:00.006-04:00

I've had the pleasure of bribing (promises, promises) Mo Stoneskin to come and blog for me while I'm on vacation this week. He's super witty and funny...and now I'm convinced all of you will ditch me for him...damn. Guest Blog FAIL.

If you know nothing about me, other than the fact that I was misguided enough to volunteer when Jen is out on the razz, then let me tell you this. I don’t suffer from OCD, I just *ahem* have a perfectly ordered mind. I simply like inanimate objects to live in their ordained homes, prefer it when they line up neatly, when the doors shut properly, when the rug is straight and...

I also have a tendency to “go off on one,” so you’ve been warned.

So there I am, in the wardrobe rummaging for boxers and socks. Not truly naked, mind, but towelled and dripping, smelling fresh and y’know, clean as a bean. Not really rummaging either, as my underwear drawer is completely and utterly empty, just like Mother Hubbard’s. Just like her cupboard, I should clarify, it’s not like we know about that drawer of hers.

Not only is the drawer empty, there is not even the tiniest piece of lint. In fact, this is the second consecutive day that I’ve had to search for underwear, starting at my official, religiously-ordained and, I would hope, universally-accepted underwear drawer and leading on to laundry baskets, drying racks, and airing cupboards. Ours, not Hubbard’s.

The search continues. Upstairs, downstairs, into the garage and before I know it I’m fossicking about in neighbouring houses, gardens, even into the grounds of the manor house down the road and it is not long before I’m wandering aimlessly about their poncy garden, where two stone cupids wrestle on the fountain...

I may have gone off on one there, led astray by my deranged imagination, but it’s not like I didn’t warn you.

I’m back upstairs in the bedroom, still towelled, though at least now I’m dry. And hot, bothered and sweating like a Turkish wrestler. Out of sheer desperation I check the other wardrobe drawers. There’s no logical reason to check them, the top drawer has been my underwear drawer ever since we first moved in, but I’m pretty desperate now.

My wife is awake now, rudely disturbed by the sound of an elephant crashing about the house.

“What ARE you doing?”

“Um, looking for boxers and socks. Why are they in the second drawer? I mean, the top drawer is my underwear drawer, and always has been!”

I think this might just be another illustration of the fundamental differences between men and women. They say we can’t look for things. Wrong. We are excellent at looking for things if and only if they are in the correct place.

Mommy Farted (Not ME...of course. I mean, duh) A Guest Post

2010-05-18T16:30:00.002-04:00

Note from JenJen: MommaKiss is one of the first blogs I started reading when I was a newish blogger (I'm still new I think) and she is so funny you'll pee yourself laughing. And? She's good people. Enjoy!

Note from MommaKiss - if you don't read me, I don't share my kid's name on the Internet. I have 2 boys. Big Kiss was almost 3 at this point. And Little Kiss about 6 months old. Also, I'm supremely honored to be a guest voice at Jen's place. She's my co-hort in all things bitchy and we're totally going to make out one day. If you're good you can watch.

Mommy Farted

Now that Monday’s almost over, here's my weekend in a nut shell. Big Kiss NEEDED to get his hair cut, so we decided to take on that task on Saturday morning. I left Little Kiss snoozing while Mr. Kiss “babysat” (whole separate issue) and headed out. On the way, I had to explain our “ervands” to Big Kiss. Get mommy a coffee, get Big Kiss a hair cut and then go to the toy store. Repeat. He was all tough, “I’m a big boy, I don’t cry.” From your lips to God’s ears, little man.

I’m quite sure they run and hide when they see us coming at Snip Its because this kid hates getting his hair cut. He even hates getting his hair washed. It’s a scream fest. We started out OK, but had to wait for 45 minutes (that’s like 3 hours in kid time) and I have to say Big Kiss did great. We were playing w/ the toys, the computers, the mirrors. And he kept watching the other kids get their hair cut. All good. Until they said “hop up.” Ensue screaming.

Consistent with every other trip to Snip Its, I had to hold him (wrestle him) so that the process could begin. She asked if I wanted a cape on me. Nah, just bring it on, lady. I’m a pro now. I know how to hold him, esp those kicking feet! She’s actually really good at it, just keeps cutting and buzzing. The last time we went was New Year’s Eve, so the kid needed more than a trim…but we got thru it and now he’s handsome as ever ;) The best part? As soon as he was done and we were cleaning up, he gave the lady a hug and said thank you.

Afterward, we did go to the toy store to get a gift for a b-day party we’re headed to soon…and because he toughed it out, I got him a Diego toy. Go Diego Go is kiddie crack for Big Kiss. So we got him Click the Camera and he was in heh-VEN.

That afternoon, the rain was pouring down and we had to get ready for a visit to a friend’s house. Hadn’t seen them in months and it was a pretty big gathering. The host and Mr. Kiss used to be room mates and it was great to catch up w/ everyone. I swear, there were 20 kids there! Many babies, many being introduced for the first time. Big Kiss had a blast, he’s so well behaved around others, it makes my heart swell w/ pride. I was sorta in charge, tho, as Mr. Kiss was enjoying his Bud Lites.

Most memorable moment…Little Kiss was trying to nap in his infant car seat (love that thing!) and just couldn’t get comfy. So I pull him out and realize we have a Code Brown. Shit everywhere. And it’s the one fucking time I don’t have an extra outfit. Just a spare onsie. So I’m over in a corner going thru wipes like there’s no tomorrow and Big Kiss comes over to survey the sitch. I told him “Go get Daddy, tell him I need help.”

I couldn’t leave Little Kiss laying there b/c there were a zillion balls and dolls being tossed around God’s creation. I’m waiting. And waiting. And waaaaaiiiitttting. I finally asked another mom to watch him so I could clean up a little. Got some more wipes, borrowed some pants from another mom (said pants were pink and size 6mos) and went to find Mr. Kiss.

He’s like, “What’s w/ the pink pants?” I said, “dude, didn’t Big Kiss tell you that I needed help?” He said “No, he came over, yelled Mommy Farted and then left.” MO FO 3 yr old throwing me under the bus, and I din’t even fart. (that time). I said, “Um, no, we had a Code Brown, but the situation is under control, no thanks to you.” And I had to walk around knowing everyone thought I ripped one in the corner and blamed my infant son. Good times.

Truth Hurts (Gues Post Obvs...I Don't Write This Well)

2010-05-17T16:30:00.003-04:00

I'm so happy to have the Great and Wonderful Oz, er Matthew, from Abode One Three as my Guest Blogger today. If you don't know Matthew, you will be blown away by his pinpoint descriptions of all things ranging from soup to nuts. (I don't think he's actually written about soup or nuts, but...you get the point.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The smallest area and the smallest shifting. Somewhere low, deep in my lower abdomen it wakes from its slumber to pop; unexpectedly, instantly – and suddenly there is nothing but serrated flashes of pure, unadulterated agony.

I stagger back to my desk, my body slicked by a tacky sheen of sweat, my vision diluted. I can smell myself - not dirt or deodorant but that rising sense of this newly-broken version of me; that essential essence which is exuded when something is fundamentally wrong, when my equilibrium has shifted. I hunch in my seat, head down and eyes shut and there is nothing I can do that does not hurt, no movement I can make which does not brings pain riding on a wave of nausea.

A hernia. It has to be a hernia. I’ve never had one before but I’ve heard about them. The pain’s in the right area for my diagnosis to be accurate and I reach down, feel for a lump. No lump. I press in, gingerly probe around the general area and there is no pain. I pull my fingers away and still, no pain. I swivel at the waist and there it is; pain flaring from my core and flashing behind my eyes. Suddenly there is white noise again and I take a moment, count my breaths, wonder what the hell’s happening . This can’t be a hernia - I’m 38, not 68 and only old people get hernias, don’t they?

The realisation changes everything and suddenly I’m no longer feeling secure in the comfort of my late thirties. Suddenly I’m feeling two years off forty, closer to fifty than twenty-five and only getting closer to that half century with every ragged breath, every passing day. If this is a hernia, I can expect the pain to stay until it’s treated. I’ll need an operation and I’m not in a health fund so it will be costly, involve a lengthy stay on a waiting list with all the other decrepit paupers. Waiting in pain, for an age, and I’m not sure how I will cope with that, how I could possibly live with this pain for the foreseeable future – and for the first time in a long time, I find myself worried about the future; about getting older.

Some people worry about the ageing process; about losing their hair, their looks, their figure. Not me though – I had always thought that ageing would be an adventure, an exciting time to experience and see how it played out. I looked around at my family and contemplated how the years ahead would go and it was all good. My hair would recede, I decided. I would go pretty much totally grey, I decided. I would shave off my beard if I ever wanted to look younger, I decided. I had it all worked out and getting older was going to be an unaided and sprightly walk in the park – what I had not considered was that growing older can involve pain, discomfort, dull aches, lack of breath and mobility. Those five friends had naively been left out of my grand plan for seniority – right until this moment.

I was naïve; assumed that I’d done my hard yards in my teens, my twenties and it would be easier from here until eternity. Some people undoubtedly get lucky in their older years, so why not me? Why not assume that you will be one of those people who have made all their mistakes early on and whose years post-forty or post-fifty will be much smoother sailing than those formative, rockier years which preceded them? Why not be one of those people who make that middle patch of life a truly golden age and live a healthy and long life? I had myself down to enjoy that kind of future because I thought I’d earned it over time – but slumped in pain at my desk now, I realise the glaring and undeniable truth; that there are no promises and that previous form and karmic dues count for nothing. My grand plan was just one side of a coin but that coin’s flip-side is revealing itself to me as I sit here in agony and I am scared that coin will land, settle with the bad side face up and that will be it.

Because best laid plans and assumptions offer no guarantees - and maybe just as we’ve worked out how to be comfortable in our own bodies, those same bodies will start to fail. Maybe the twinges and aches won’t diminish as quickly as they used to and maybe there will be pain - serious pain that never disappears totally and can only be reduced, treated, tolerated. What scares me most is that this will never go away for good now – that will only ever dull down or flare up. Maybe this is the beginning of a pivotal, inaugural event which will breed other events, other complaints. It’s possible – after all I spent the best part of fifteen years abusing the hell out of my body and maybe I was wrong when I thought that I’d cleaned up my act in time, before any serious damage had been done. Maybe there was just a decade of slumber, respite – and maybe something has stirred now and will never fully sleep again. I realise that I have absolutely no idea, no control, just a great deal of pain – and that scares me.

Two heavy duty horse tablets later and I can move around gingerly. There is still pain but it has reduced, dulled to infrequent twinges and I am mobile, able to walk out of the office at 5pm and meet my wife. I tell her about my experience, my fear that it must be a hernia because surely no abdominal muscle strain could produce such pain. I explain that I will go to the doctor’s first thing on Monday if it does not improve over the weekend and I am sure that I will be booking the appointment; sure that the pain is only reduced because of the painkillers I took and that it will return once those tablets wear off. There are sporadic twinges for the rest of the night and I continue to wait; wait for the medication to leave my system and for the pains to return with stabbing, sapping intensity. Finally the night ends and I am glad to get to bed because in bed there is only unconsciousness, minimal movement, pain-free dreams until the morning.

The pain is not there by the time morning arrives. The muscle area feels sensitive, weaker - but movement does not produce even a twinge, let alone yesterday’s scarring agony. Nevertheless I am cautious with my movement, careful not to give myself a clean bill of health too soon. I do not go to the gym as planned, move gently for the rest of the day and it is only later that night when my wife asks me how I am feeling that I allow myself to say it out loud; that the pain is gone. It looks like I might have stayed lucky after all, avoided getting myself a hernia after all. What I cannot fathom is how one small muscle I did not even know existed could have produced such crippling pain, but my ignorance no longer takes me by surprise. If this incident has reinforced one truth, it’s that there is plenty I have accepted, overlooked or taken for granted – but when life is reduced to its basics, there is very little we really know for sure, very little we can stake our lives upon. Most times all we have are faith and optimism – and armed with these rudimentary tools we face the hidden days ahead and we hope....we just hope.

When Swinging Isn't Just For the Playground (Guest Post -I'm Lawyered Up)

2010-05-15T15:00:00.002-04:00

Jaime...is one of my newer frogs; she's funny and sassy--possibly why I like her so much. She says I kicked her ass in a competition, and well, she'd be right. However....there's no proof since Mr. Condscending never came through with my Major Award. Bastard.

While you're reading this, Jen is probably off sunning herself somewhere by the pool. And if she broke out the big guns, her man is watching the kids while she enjoys a very large, very cold fruity umbrella drink without a care in the world. (Bitch) Meanwhile, I'm in the office wishing I were doing the same...

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Jaime. Attorney by day, mom by night. (Um...sorry Jen. I think you may have lost a follower or two when they heard "attorney." And when they find out I'm also a Jersey girl... yup...shit...there goes another one.) I promised Jen I wouldn't write about vampires over here, so if you want to read about demons and bloodsuckers, you'll have to head over to my place.

I thought long and hard about what to write about for this post. Since Jen kicked my ass in a words of lust contest (yup...still a bit bitter), I figured this as my best bet for a guest post...

After awhile, the cases get routine. There's only so many times you can look at a rear end hit at a stop light where the plaintiff has a herniated L4-L5 disc with radiculopathy... Only so many times you can read about the family owned business that falls to pieces because 1 sibling screws over another because he wants more than his equal share of the company.

Every so often a case comes along that's so new, so interesting. It brings back the excitement of being a lawyer. And that's where I come in.

I usually get the cases that no one wants...That's the problem (or the benefit) of being on this side of the letterhead. Though why people don't want these cases, I'm not sure.

I've fallen into the role of what you might call the adult entertainment expert.

We represented a town that desperately wanted to find a way to get rid of a swingers club operating within its borders. I spent months reading up on this club that had a very extensive and informative website. I learned all the rules of swinging.

Rule #1 - don't talk about fight club.

Oops... wrong list.

Rule #1 is really "attendance at a party is not consent to have sex with you."

If they were hosting a party, the white twinkle lights would be flickering throughout the property. Each party had a theme. Naughty school girl night. The obligatory sex toy party. Bondage night. Cowboys and Indians. Each party was written up in painstaking detail on their blog. I was actually all set to go undercover to their "ice cream sundae Sunday social" when my dad called my boss and threatened to kill him if I went to the event. (Damn spoilsport)

I've read every case that exists on the constitutionality of the right to swing. And I wrote the brief that was so compelling that the swingers moved to another town - one we don't represent - rather than fight me. I like winning, even if it wasn't on the merits. It still feels damn good.

Enter the next case...the porn shop. It involved truly in-depth research into the various movies, magazines, toys and other articles they sell. I can't imagine why the town thought that the shop was a front for drug dealing... There was just good clean fun going on there... And a few special prizes hidden in select toys which may not have been entirely legal.

Most recently, the porn star. I'm sorry. Adult entertainment actress. (Does that really sound any better?) Try to make this case stick: a hostile work environment claim on the set of a porno! Since that one's still active, I can't get into more detail than that - I'll let your imaginations go wild... you're probably accurate with whatever you're thinking.

Oh yeah...this is my work. My little niche in the law. Just call me the expert.

Itsy Bitsy Bikini...But Yellow Isn't My Color

2010-05-13T23:22:00.000-04:00

On Saturday morning I will board a plane with my husband, two kids, our best friends, their three kids and all of our crap we don't need while we leave the crap we do need at home on the kitchen table.

Because, really that's what happens when you prepare to travel, right? You spent the night before (what? Don't even pass go if you pack sooner than that. I call bullshit) rummaging through your drawers, cabinets and cupboards searching.

Searching for?

Sunscreen. 15, 30, 50 100, face-only, neck only...blah blah SPF bullshit.
Toothpaste.
Saline Solution.
Goggles. 2 pair. Two kids, four eyes.
Deodorant.

And....searching for the dreaded, EmmmEfffing bathing suit.

I have tweeted this (@jensvoice) but it's worth repeating if I do say so myself:

Bathing suits are assholes.

I've said this before but hear me out before you go all "NO WAY" okay?

I think it'd be better to go to the beach naked.

*crickets*

Because why? Has JenJen gone mad?

No Sir.

Bathing suits cover the girlie bits. But they do so by assault with strings and elastic.

Triangle tops are for those who either have no boobies or who don't care if they fall out the sides. Bandeau? Yes those are bullet boobies. Halter? Better. Bra top? Well duh.

Bottoms that cover most of your ass except that part that they don't.

Naked?
No straps. No creases. No ass cheek peeking out from underneath the confines of your bikini-boyshort-skort bottom.

Alas, this isn't a vacay where I think anyone (besides dirty old men and my husband) would appreciate my ~~flabby~~ fab ass and ~~droopy~~ perky tits gallivanting on the beach. And I will, of course, cajole my tush into a bikini bottom and tatas into a halter (no triangle for these girls) and grumble and moan at the injustice.

While sipping a margarita. All while wearing SPF 340 and a floppy hat, sunglasses and a cover-up.

Because while I'd like to go naked, I don't want to have a prematurely wrinkled butt.

They're called standards, people.

PS. Next week while I picking sand out of the hair of five children and thoroughly pickling myself with tequila, I have some awesome bloggers here a casa di jenjen. Here's a schedule (say it like shhhhhedule, not skkkkedule since there's two Brits (ish) in the line up and they'd appreciate the nod.)

Saturday Jaime
Monday Matthew
Tuesday Mommakiss
Wednesday Mo Stoneskin
Thursday Dan but Jeff by JYIS
Friday Eva Gallant

Everything You Didn't Know You Wanted To See About Detroit...

2010-05-12T14:02:00.000-04:00

Wordless Wednesday

(and total props to whoever started this but since I don't know, here's my disclaimer: I know this isn't my idea. I just don't know who thunk it up first. K. Thanks.)

My good friend Jason, pusher of blogs and all things cool (like the shoes he wore that I swear were made from aluminum foil...true story and you know they were) is a photographer among his other many talents. He has graciously allowed me to use some of his photos of Detroit for today's post.

(Warning to Thieves: These photos are copyrighted and I have permission. You do not. He'll kick your sorry ass (and I'll cheer him on) if you steal them. You've been warned.)

Here is his Flickr link if you want to see more....

* a quick note about next week. If we've talked--you know who you are. I'll publish a list and schedule tomorrow or Friday....Thank you to everyone who volunteered. I'm amazed.

Crap. This is wordless anymore is it? Sigh....*

Well Hello There, Cupcake....

2010-05-11T13:08:00.001-04:00

Dear Lovely Frogs,

First, I want to tell you that I love you all. I have tried to find my voice through your support and comments; I think I have the best readers and commenters in the blogosphere. You encourage me, make me laugh and consider the world outside my little Midwestern bubble.

My blog has reached her First Anniversary...a " Jenniversary" if you will. On May tenth last year, I started my blog because a friend encouraged me to. His name is Jason. He knew I wanted to write and suggested I start a blog to 'hone my skills.' Jay, I'm not sure I've honed much...but I know I'm grateful for that advice. Love you sweetie. xo

~~~~

Now then, in true JenJen style...let's have a nibble of that fab cupcake and wash it down with some bubbles...shall we? Please do wear your finest attire--pink lip gloss, banana clips and Tretorns...

And now I have a favor to ask you: I need some help. I will be out of town next week. I wonder if any of you would mind lowering yourselves to guest over here next week? I have something fanfuckingtastic for Monday evening's post. If you think you might want to share my space, let me know ASAP--we'll work together for timing and scheduling.

If you'd rather not, I totally get it and there's no pressure of course...

Freestyle, Yo!

2010-05-07T18:11:00.000-04:00

Okay honey frogs,
Today we (well...only me really since I'm selfish like that) go all freestyle an' shit and just lay it down easy like.

Have you noticed I've gone ghetto since Wednesday?
Hmmm.
Let's clean up that.

Ahem.

I've got some randomness that can only be thunk up by the brains of yours truly.....
(better, even with the use of "thunk")

~ I had a dream that I could not speak (husband Win!) because my teeth were all jagged and pointed into the middle of my mouth and breaking off when I would try to speak. It was incredibly frustrating and I woke up gasping for air, looking for tooth bits under my tongue.

~ The next night I had a dream I was picking lice or some such creepy bug from my son's head. And the bugs were laughing at me. How do I know? They were big fuckers.

~ My daughter is in need of help. She needs help with her smart-ass mouth. Please send duck (duct? ) tape.

~ My husband was gone last week; he went to Myrtle Beach for a ~~Bachelor Party~~ tour of the library and soup kitchen circuit. It's my fantasy. Don't ruin it.

~ My friend's birthday was the other day and she was all "waaaa I'm in my MID thirties. mid. Jen...this is depressing..." And I commented that it wasn't as depressing as being in the "upper" thirties. Bitch. Ima totally spiking her drink tonight.

~ Good News/Bad News: Good: My jeans are a little roomy. Even after I washed and dried them (ladies, I know you appreciate that one). Bad: I spent $200 on them in December.

~ My sister was here this week. She is the best aunt to my kids. She played soccer, I lounged. She played lego guys, I lounged. She played 'check in at the hotel' while I ....you get the picture. She is leaving next week for Miami and I'm very sad.
But? We were able to go out in public without having some woman go ape shit acrylic nail crazy on us. Win!

So I thank you for being patient with me while I was absent this week. Absentminded really. And you stayed. And I'm so happy.

Damn.

Now I've realized that I'm sappy and smooshy-- that can mean only one thing: that bitch Aunt Flo is coming to visit next week. WTF?

Have a wonderful weekend. Wonder. Full. Full of Wonder. Yes. Radom posts are awesome.

Wordless Wednesday--Segue Post

2010-05-05T13:02:00.000-04:00

Addicted

2010-05-02T16:36:00.000-04:00

It was destined to end this way: merciless. Hanging onto a whisper-thin thread--wrapped tightly around my fingers so that they turned purple with the effort. I figured the more I held onto the idea...the stronger my grip...the more real he would become.

But things don't work that way, do they?

The strand I clung to, the one I made real through a tenacious desire and irresponsible hope was really only as tangible as a puff of smoke. He wasn't real. Oh sure, his body was certain; supple, muscular and without question begged me to come closer. I wanted him to be mine; to claim me, take me...make me his. I wanted his weight on my belly while we circled the moon together. I would not rest until his fingers were wound in my hair and my legs wrapped around him. I could taste his salty skin on my tongue when he said my name. I could smell his sweet breath and I inhaled as deeply and completely as my lungs would permit.

Intoxicated by the mission I was on, I saw nothing negative, no obstacles. It only furthered my mania to have him just barely outside fingers. My heart ached with craving. I imagined my life with him; I was so close to having him be mine. I was saturated with my fantasy and it was all rainbows and butterflies. I rushed headlong, foolishly, into his life and I was everywhere he was or would be. He would be everything I needed or ever contemplated wanting. This I was sure.

He encouraged me by being tenderly aggressive. He beckoned me with sweet-sounding words that when I heard them, only drove me mad. He said I was intoxicating, gorgeous...he said he wanted me and that I was the woman he could be forever happy with. Those are words a fragile woman only needs to hear once to become filled with hollow confidence. I was so close, my fingers were bloody from scratching at the door, the one he was on the other side of. I could hear him whisper, "Come here Jen...come here darling. I'm waiting for you."

When the door gave way, I fell flat onto my face into a void. The wind from falling stung like needles jabbing me into my chest, eyes, face...the wind shoved my hair off my shoulders and my stomach lurched into my throat, choking me. I spun around looking for something to hold onto, something to right my upside-down nature. Please! Someone catch me. Help me! It was cold, black and it wouldn't stop hurting. Everything I knew to be true turned inside-out and beat me until I was a mangled mess; a disgusting, worn out resemblance to my former self.

After some time, I gathered myself up from the place I landed. I looked into the mirror and looking back at me was a pathetic excuse for a woman: weak and worn with mascara-stained cheeks. Ragged, throbbing in pain from places that aren't supposed to hurt....I stepped lightly into the shower and let the scalding water burn the aftermath from my skin.

This pain was worth something.

Public Service Announcement #8 A Lil Adjustment

2010-04-29T00:28:00.000-04:00

Hello Frogs!

It's that time of the month again!

No, not that time.

*blink

It's the time of the month when I bring you:

Public Service Announcements by JenJen

This is the eighth in my series of trying to assuage the public-at-large to be less annoying, disturbing and generally harassing to the rest of us perfections.

My first seven posts are:
1. The Handshake-flaccid is bad...very very baaaad.
2. Becky's Burping Post (deleted accidentally on purpose by me in case of "Oh no shit? BECKY READS MY BLOG?!")
3. The Ill-Fitting Clothes (muffin tops are ew)
4. Wash Your Hands (alternate title: Conspiracy of the H1N1 scientificy people)
5. Say It, Don't Spray It (Don't talk with your mouth full)
6. Say NO To the Lawn Ornament (Garden gnomes are creepy)
7. Keep Your Smelly Ass Food Out Of My Sniffer Bubble (Don't Eat Taco Bell on an Airplane, Jackass)

The Anti-Movement Johnson, er.. Movement

Okay boys...I know that for the most part you all are packing heat that would make the dude from Hung jealous. I know you absolutely must make adjustments to your Johnson every time you need to or when you think about it (every 15 or so minutes, I guess).

But for the rest of you? I'm thinking you grab your package just to remember it's there....somewhere.

Because you know...I've seen a few dicks (on TV, duh) and they all look pretty much the same size. This is the size known as Not Big Enough To Need Constant Shifting. In My Field of Vision.

This is the thing, my man lovelies...we ladies don't like to be in the general vicinity of you adjusting your junk. We certainly do not want to see it. It's rather disturbing to be in a conversation with you and see one of these moves:

The No One's Really Looking Adjustment: The thing is, we sometimes aren't looking. But then again, we sometimes don't have a choice. You are really not that suave. You're not sneaking it in on us, sunshine. I asked a friend and he said, "well maybe there was a hair pinching somewhere..." and I call foul: We have hair in places, too and you don't see us grabbing our hooies, now do ya? No.

The Grip It and Rip It Adjustment: This one is my personal fave (snort). This one when executed correctly and with expertise, knows no bounds of decency. The user just reaches down, grips the ding-dong and yanks it up and over. This is usually done by those men with anger issues.

The Add a Shake of the Leg Adjustment: This one is particularly entertaining since it not only includes hand-to-disco-stick contact, but also includes a charming leg shimmy. This is generally reserved for the men who are either truly hung like horses and need to wrestle their penises from between their thighs, or they have an underpants problem that can be simply addressed by buying bigger undies.

The Two Hander Adjustment: I've only seen this done once or twice. Two hands go diving in, do some lifting, two hands come out.

lastly...
The Hey Lookit This Adjustment: This one has zilch to do with actual adjusting but in some circles (none of which I run in, you can be sure of that)it is actually some sort of mating ritual for the mal-evolved. I've seen this in movies where trashy people mingle, or I bet they do this on that TV show Jersey Shore: Woman sashays by. Man says something charming like "oooh I'd hit that." Woman giggles (because she's unfortunately not very bright). Man grabs his one-eyed wonder worm, bites his bottom lip and grunts. Woman puts out because...well. Because how can you not after a grunt?

Dear men....I love you. I love the way you smell in the crook of your neck, the way you open that jar with ease and the way you know what all those metal things in the garage are for. I love that you hold the door open for a lady, are nice to your mother and toss kids in the air for fun. I love when you put hard work into something and sweat because of it.

I don't love the adjusting. So please, stop touching your purple helmet, schlong, wonderworm, meat stick, ding dong, wiener, dick, c*ck, sausage, and who knows what personal names you have come up with for your member, in public.

Thanks to my many friends who gave me their favorite suggestions for words that mean penis. Some of them, I can't even re-write because they're either reeallly dirty or I'm laughing too hard to do so.

Practice

2010-04-25T22:12:00.000-04:00

"Please, Jen, come over. I need you now."
"...I...can't, T."
"But you want, to. I know it!"

The inner battle of person-versus-self hit massacre levels.

"No, I don't."

I lied.

"But you said you cared about me. I told you I loved you!"
"I was wrong."

Silence.

"But you...you said it."
"I know what I said. I was wrong. The whole thing is just...wrong. You really have to stop calling me."

Quiet voices don't lessen the punch when the words themselves are loud. I tried to be nice, to tell him softly that he wasn't for me.

We met in the usual way; friends of friends of...acquaintances. He was tall to my short, muscular to my thin frame. A charismatic smile punctuated by cavernous dimples. But there was a warning there that I missed. Behind his chocolate eyes something was...off. I dismissed it because, at the time I listened more to my libido than to my good sense. And quite possibly, the warning came from behind my own blue circles.

And at the time, I was still finding pieces of me in dark, scarcely used corners of this thing called life.

So on we went. Soon after our initial months, I began to notice a change in my behavior. I was short tempered, uninterested. We argued more frequently and sometimes over unimportant things. I remember driving him home after a party one evening, his anger getting the best of him because I refused to fight back. While we drove, he pulled the emergency brake throwing us violently forward as we lurched and jumped to a stop. I remember thinking, "Well, now I'm pissed" and demanded he "get the fuck out of my car."
I began to question my commitment to this before I realized it, and why.
Soon after that night we had an argument and he stormed out of my parents' house.

I stood there.

I didn't follow him.

The very idea that I did nothing surprised me.
And then he came back. Hurt and confused, wondering why I wouldn't fight for him.

That was it.

Indifference.

It occurred to me after another day or so: He was the practice guy. The one I used to fix my broken self. The one I used to 'get better.' I didn't care if he stayed or left because my use for him had been completed. I was better.

And oh, the mess I made.

He wasn't a bad guy, just one that I wouldn't be compatible with for any length of time. He wasn't educated and wasn't very intelligent in non paid-for ways, either. I began to notice all these disdainful things about him in the days to follow: I hated that he idolized me. I hated that his mother wiped his sister's mouth with the same dishtowel she used to dry the dishes--I hated that he thought it was okay. I hated that he said, "Wow...you always take care of yourself!" like it was some kind of Aphrodite-like accomplishment to get your hair and nails done. I hated that his dad warned him not to "fuck it up" with me. My mother said, "Jennifer he is beneath you" and I hated that too. I hated that sex with him was a blinding whirl of bodies at first; I hated that I kept my eyes open at the end.
Worst of all, I hated that I noticed all those things. I hated the person I had become. It was time to call this quits.

"But I thought we were good together."

"I'm sorry, T. It's just that I need to make some changes in my life, and you're one of them."

"..I want to spend my life with you! What can I do to change your mind? I'm coming over. We'll talk about it and you'll see...I'll show you I can be a good man for you."

"T, I don't like you anymore. It isn't one single thing you've done and it isn't one single thing that can be fixed."

"Who are you fucking behind my back?! Who is it? Who is he?"

"T, it's me. I'm not with anyone else. It's just...the girl in the mirror honestly."

"Well that's bullshit! Fuck you then!"

Broken

2010-04-21T07:00:00.003-04:00

I couldn't quit him though I eventually did through no intent of my own; a forced break. One that turned ugly with spineless emotion and regret. The aftermath would leave me needing to be scraped from the floor of pity and self hatred, wet with acid tears and a broken heart. It would leave him broken; his web finally undone with no sure footing beneath him.

Deceit is like that; once the foundation is cracked it's like standing on a bubble.

When I met him I was emotionally anemic; cautiously optimistic that I could have something good instead of the standard toxicity that seemed to be my magnet. The space between my coerced maturity and my artificial confidence was tightly wound with cheap thread, but it was tight nonetheless.

I was attractive; long blond hair with a slight wave, bright blue eyes and a short and thin but curvy frame. I was studying by day and waitressing by night to pay the car and food bill.

He was blessed with lips that begged to be kissed and playfully bitten, with eyes that pulled me in like I was attached to the other end of a string. He pulled me in inch by inch, luring me into his web. I went happily if not eagerly, although I pretended disinterest at regular intervals so as to increase his desire for me.

And naturally, that worked.

It worked so well that I couldn't quit him, nor he me. This wasn't love, no, it was stronger than that but not from a romantic position. It was like his current could only be charged by me, my skin, my touch. When he reached for me, my eyes flashed white hot. His fingertips traced my fingers gingerly, memorizing the every bend and crease and I could swear that his skin was communicating with mine.
The problem lies when this kind of fire dies, destruction is what remains. One day came, and we broke each other.
There was no future here; only combative passion in the periphery. He came undone, and I drifted. We listened to the cries of our bodies a few more times; each time with finality. Ironically, I had no idea the last time was really the last time, even though I'd attempted it months before.

When he was gone and I was left alone, my head would spin out of control; the only way to quiet the screams was to bury my face in a crumpled pillow. The hurt came from some place beyond me, some place wicked and forceful; it knocked the wind out of me.

This wasn't a romantic love, no...it was a sensual addiction that lead to self-destruction.

Spanx Me

2010-04-19T09:22:00.000-04:00

I started this series with the bra. Then, we put on our favorite panties. Now, to complete the holy trifecta of unmentionables we ladies cajole our soft bodies into on a regular basis...

The Spanx.

The theory here is that you shimmy, force, bribe and cry your way into a nylon chastity belt so that your outerwear doesn't get all lumpy-bumpy from your gut or thighs...this is also where our ewww yuck dimples hang out.
I have a few of these straight jackets-for-the-gut in my drawer for the days I want a smooth silhouette. I don't want the evidence of my double cheeseburger (...wha?) dripping around for all to see. What I do want is my hourglass shape to look more like an hourglass and less like a Saltine. Or a brick house.

So here's the process: First you put your bra on. Bend over to make sure neither girl jumps ship when you do (which happens to me. All the time.) When you do this move and a nipple falls out, shove 'er back in.

Second decide either panties or Spanx. You can wear both at the same time, although I'm not sure why you'd want to. Spanx over panties just means more interference!

Today we've decided on Spanx. Select the color (I prefer black or nude, depending on the color and nature of the clothing I'm going to let cascade over it).

Here's where it gets fun: Spanx Aerobics.

1. Spread apart your chosen straight-jacket at the crotch.

2. Step in.

3. Fall over on accident, since to spread them apart takes Herculean arm strength and let's face it: if you had such strength, you probably wouldn't need the Spanx to begin with.

4. Get up, looking around to see if anyone saw that, namely your husband. Try jumping in, both feet at once.

5. Pee yourself because you can't jump after two or more children without peeing your pants. Or no pants which is the case of today.

6. Few more reps and....Success! Both ankles in.

7. Now we shimmy. Tug one side up, then the other, at equally spaced intervals. Do not attempt to walk. You will fall on your face. Again.

8.The easiest part is now over. Now....we are at the dreaded knees-thighs region.

9. Ask one of the reasons you are trying to get in Spanx (i.e. one of your darling children) to get you a drink of water. Or, a beer from the fridge.

10. Pull up the right side as high as you can without pulling yourself back down by way of the left side still at your knee. Do not look at your skin. This is no time for tears.

11.Pull up the left side. I repeat: Do not look at your skin. Now that the top portion of the elastic godsend is up around the hips, you might find yourself faint from all the work thus far. It's okay! Take a swig, brush the brow and get ready. We're at the hips.
12. Grab the right side of the elastic band and.....POP. That noise is completely normal! It's the sound of the elastic, in it's haste to overcome your hip, settling into your waistline.

13.You'll notice the crotch is still around your knees, making you look like a model for MCHammer Underpants. Here's what you do: Squat! Bend those knees! Magically, the crotch finds its way next to your hooey.
*If you have the version that stops here, congratulations! You're done. If you have the high waist version, keep going...

14. This next step really works those arm muscles as well as your hands. Hand-exercises
are really underrated, in my opinion. Carefully so as not to scratch yourself, slide a thumb under the band and curl your four fingers over the other side. ....and YANK and PULL. YANK and PULL.
Eventually, the waistband will be right below the under wire of the VerySexy bra you have on, causing your tits to jet out like bullets.

You might be tempted to look in the mirror, but let me save you the trip: It ain't pretty.

You've moved your muffin top. You now have a Pop-Over.

But your ass? .....damn smooth, baby.

Panty Raid!

2010-04-16T07:00:00.001-04:00

Imma sorry.
Wednesday I wrote that the post was going to be about all unmentionables but when I got on the track of bras, well, I had to cut the post off there. It was getting too long, my froggies.

So today we talk about panties.

Bikini. Brief. Bikinibrief. Thong. Boyshort. Highcutbrief. Hipkini. Hiphugger. Grandma. Period.
Lace, cotton, silk or satin.

My name is Jennifer and I am a reformed thong wearer. I would swear up and down that thongs were the way to go. I cited comfort (they don't go up your ass, it's already there!) clarity (no panty lines here) and sass (I feel ~~dirty~~ pretty).
Then I had kids.
Two of them.
You know when you have kids, there's a plate tectonic-like shift of your...shit that happens.Things move. Things pucker and dimple (not awww cute dimples but ew yuck, dimples). Your ass just isn't what it used to be, and neither is, well...anything for that matter.
Post baby grossness about four years and eighteen months after the birth of my last child, I decided, to try them again.
The thong.
Yeah. Notsomuch. The comfort was replaced with "why the hell am I being pinched? Oh, it's my underpants." The clarity was replaced with "panty lines do not show through mom jeans." And the sass. Well, "dirty" pre-kid is naughty-dirty. "Dirty" post-kid is "Awww yeah there's not one single stain (that is visible) on this shirt!"
So the thongs, RIP.
My husband has this idea that if he keeps buying me lacy (read: itchy as hell) panties I might wear them one day. And one day I might. I mean I have asked the universe to send either Jason Bourne or Edward/Eric to my bedroom....
Right now I'm partial to the hipkini. They are seamless, smooth and cover enough of my ass for me to feel appropriate in public but leave enough skin bare so that if Jason shows up I'd still feel sexy.

VS is fanny full of bins loaded with panties. So's my second drawer. (The top drawer is none of your business, thank you!)
There is one style though, that isn't in there.
It's the commando.
Now I don't know about you ladies, but I have never gone pantyless in my life.
Until recently.
I was wearing a jersey knit dress. And I had cotton panties on. When I walked, the damn thing crawled up my tushy and stayed there. Not exactly a charming look if you aren't going to Walmart for pictures. So my sister said, "Just take them off."
Sorry?
"Take...them off?"
"Yes. Just go without. Unless you have a thong? You can't walk around with your skirt stuck to your butt."
So....I did.
It was the weirdest feeling ever. E-V-E-R.
It was like I had a secret and no one knew but me . And my sister.
It was fun and not so fun all in one ball of hmmmm.
For the sake of keeping this post mostly PG, I'll just say this: I felt like I was breaking some sort of law. And I laughed at the idea of getting hit by a bus without clean underwear on. Without any on.

I imagine the EMT would take pause....

The Technical Parent: Hamlet Had It Easy

2010-04-15T19:04:00.000-04:00

Tonight while I add my edits to my scheduled post for tomorrow, and you wait impatiently for me to respond to your comments (which I do love to do)take a lookie here at what my friend Josh had to say. The guy's fucking brilliant. The Technical Parent: Hamlet Had It Easy

The One About Bras and Boobies

2010-04-14T06:00:00.001-04:00

(fair warning...if you are of a weak constitution or are generally prudish, don't read. There's scary words like penis, boob and nipple below...)

Okay darlinks, today's post is a little more for us girls to have a pity party but I'm sure the readers of the penis persuasion will enjoy it simply because it has to do with ....bras and panties and other unmentionables.

Specifically, undergarments we ladies shove and cajole our soft, luscious bodies into on a regular basis.

We're going for a top down approach (see how I did that? professional lingo y'all) (and a quick un-do of the professional. lingo.)

Today we chat about....
the brassiere.

First and foremost, size is key. Not of the boobies but of the harness. The "over the shoulder boulder holder," if you will.

My personal experience tells me not to buy a cheap bra. I prefer a Victoria's Secret VerySexy or Angels or Whatevs (sized none-of-your-business) to cradle and hold my lovies in place. Like a gentle hug. Not too shoved together (don't want to have a shelf there. Drink anyone?) and not too loosey goosey (because no one should have to choose belt or boob).

Thin straps, wide straps, front hook (why?), back hook--the more hooks in the back the bigger the size--adjustable this and criss-cross that (another why?)

Padded or just simply lined and in a rainbow of colors and designs...the possibilities are way beyond the nude, black and white bras my mother never wore.
Underwire. Water-filled inserts. Demi, full-coverage, triangle, push up, miracle, t-shirt...

Holy jeez there's so much we consider when all we want is a lil lift and for them to look relatively the same shape and size.

My boobies are not huge...but they are bigger than the average 34B. (...and yes. There's a picture of them out there at Scope's site. For a good cause. Pervs.)

I am careful not to wear many shirts that have buttons down the front (damn you, puckering buttons!) and I don't usually wear a crew neck (unsightly pull on the shirt between the nipples and, well, ew.)

Problem is....for me, at least...I can't seem to bend over to do the wash or mop or any number of my wifely chores without one or both of my boobs escaping the confines of my bra. I stand up, shove a nipple or both back in and squat going forward. Too big? Too small? Nope. Nope. Wrong jobs for this girl? Standing jobs only? Yes and yes thank you!

And then there's the sweet release. The moment you unhook that bitch and....ahhhhh.

They Call Me Hotstepper

2010-04-11T22:21:00.000-04:00

So the other night I was feeling all fun and spunky and...fun. My sister was in town to visit before she moves to Miami for work and we were getting ready for drinks at a friends' house.

I had flipped on Pandora through the ole phone and selected Beastie Boys as my tune driver.

Wouldn't you know I got the most awesomest mix of late eighties, early nineties songs??

I was so totally jazzed I started to dance. Ohhhh yeah baby. I got the moves.

I busted out the MC Hammer.

The Running Man.

The Roger Rabbit.

The Cabbage Patch.

I so totally rocked by the way. In my kitchen.

Don't listen to my husband. He's lying when he says I looked like a moron who's suffering from a flair up of irritable bowel.

Big dummy doesn't know style and rhythm if it came up and cabbage patched him in the butt.

I was a-boppin' and a-groovin' all over the house.

Remember the hustle? The electric slide? The....grocery shopping move? What about the lawn sprinkler??

Heavens to Betsey we were so fucking cool I can't stand it. Only thing is, when Hotstepper came on, my sister and I fumbled around with the words.

Don'tcha hate that? When you think you know the words--since 1994 you've been singing a particular verse with your biggest voice--and someone comes along and pops your lyrical bubble with, "You know that's not how it goes."
"Yes it is."
"No, it isn't."
"I've been singing it this way for sixteen years, Lis, I think I know how it goes."
"Well, you've been singing wrong for all of them, Jen."
Enter Google.
There's a part in the Hotstepper song where it goes like this:
"Here comes the hotstepper, wooooord up"
Turns out that isn't how it goes. Google says that it instead of "word up" (which in my defense is a totally believable phrase for 1994, Arsenio Hall) it is actually....ready?
Murderer.
WTF?!
No sir. I will still sing Wooooord Up and I refuse to say anything else.

Are Mad Dogs Pissed Off or Crazy?

2010-04-08T08:06:00.000-04:00

So about a week ago, Mr. Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskin asked me if I'd like to guest write at his blog.
I know.
I didn't tell him he had the wrong Jen. Any other Jen by the same name writes better.

So of course I said yes before he figured it out, naturally.

I'm over at his place today. My week has been all jacked up because my kids are off school and I can't even poop in privacy. Or drink my noontime ~~wine~~ coffee.

Go see me. Share the love, lovies. I have the BESTEST frogs in blogland, don't let me down. I'm looking at YOU.

Freestyle

2010-04-03T23:25:00.000-04:00

I need to get some things off my chest, my friendlies, so bear with the chaotic nature of this post. Thank you.

~ A few weeks ago someone I had just met went berserk on me. Accused me of screwing her husband. Called me a whore and actually tried to hit me. In public. Twice. The fact is I wasn't/am not having sex with anyone but my husband. Here's the thing: it stings. So ouch on that. Trying to be the big girl. Maturity is an upward crawl sometimes, ain't it?

~ I have had two interviews for a position that is a good fit skills set wise, but I'm scared. I'm scared to work again. I stayed home, worked, home and now work? I honestly don't know if I want to work. Am I that woman? Do I need work? Is this home economics job I have as a SAHM enough? Enough of what? Sometimes I want to say "GD feminists for making life hard" "er" because if it were 1950, I wouldn't have a choice, right? No ones feelings will get hurt or childhoods to be "bad." To say I'm conflicted is an understatement. Looking for an answer in a box of Cheerios.

~ My husband is trying to quit smoking. He's a real peach. And is eating dill pickle flavored sunflower seeds all day and driving me nutty. Send help. Or wine. But no smokes.

~ My daughter is being somewhat bullied at school. I am somewhere in the chasm of giving her the tools to get through the day and kicking this little bitch's ass myself. And her mother's.

~ If I relax my gut I look thirteen months pregnant. Approximately.

So that's in my head. Sorry for putting it in yours for thirty seconds.... carry on.

Baci
J

Quickie Friday

2010-04-02T09:51:00.000-04:00

Here's hoping the Bunny fills your basket with sweet stuff this weekend....

See you Monday

Baci
Jen

Midwestern Girls Go Train Riding

2010-03-31T06:29:00.002-04:00

We woke early to analog alarms made digital by our cell phones; time to get up, get dressed and get to the platform for the first train.

Groggy and foggy from my airport bar tour the night before, I stumbled to gather my shoes, clothes; my room resembled a yard sale: things were strewn here and there due to my clouded haste the night before to rid myself of pesky clothes and sink under the blankets atop a bed.

After a quick wash of my face and a swipe of the toothbrush we both stumbled down the stairs; no small feat when you're still dusty with sleep and the slope is breakneck. Quietly we drive to the platform, searching for a coffee shop to jolt our veins and open our crusty eyes. Small talk (did I sleep okay) (how far is the platform?) sprinkles the morning air inside the Volvo.

Pulling into the parking lot we tug on and pull our bags from the trunk and race to the platform.

Shit!

Wrong side. Down the steps, through the tunnel that provides safe passage to the other side, under the railway, back up the steps.
I'm too tired to actually lift my bag, and let it smack each step in time with my feet hitting the next riser.
We wait, giggle at our morning outfits but catch some stink eye from the others on the platform. I looked around for a "NO LAUGHING" sign but don't see one.

The train whirs by, gurgles to a stop and we get on, settle in and begin yapping about our upcoming adventure: two sisters alone in New York City (said with a southern twang). Each of us sprawled in our own seats, backs to the window and feet up; we settled in for a short ride.

"Feet off the SEATS!"
Jesus, am I getting barked at?! I quick look up and see the culprit; she looks official and intimidating while she stares at my feet in ballet flats, crisscrossed at the ankles atop the pleather seat. So faster than a blink, I bend my knees and dangle my feet while I hand her my ticket.

She doesn't smile.
She's quite cranky actually.

Channeling my inner defiant teenager, as soon as she leaves I pull my tootsies right back on the seat, send my sister a text and begin to stifle a laugh. And she does, too. Then, we can't help but get the giggles at Mrs Crankyasspants and full on laugh hysterically. The hysteria is fueled further by her noticing a sign that says "This is a Quiet Car" or some such bullshit.
Now we have to be quiet?

Impossible.

Ever laugh so hard, but behind tightened lips and clenched teeth that it actually bursts out your ears? No? Me either. But it totally happened to my sister.

We get off at a fancier stop that has coffee, snacks and more grumpy people. We're standing in line at a Coffee-Panini-Nail Salon Shop. The worker-bee asks for my order.
"Do you have soy milk?"
Stink eye.
"Er, um...let's see..."
Stink. Eye.
My sister is pushing me along with "look at the damn menu and get going-- these people are getting ancy!"
"Ok! I'll have a grande hazelnut latte, no foam, no whi--"
Before I get the "--pah" out of my mouth he tells me it'll be two something and to step aside.
My phone rings.
I'm yapping to my husband and actively 'stepping aside' when he slides a coffee in my general direction. Nodding, I pick it up.
....and it is ripped from my hand by another guy, "That's mine" he says. Well hell how can you even tell?
Eventually, and exactly three seconds before the next train, he hands me a coffee.
It's regular coffee.
And not grande.
More piccolo.
And with no hazelnut.
My sister laughs and said, "You should have gotten the cappuccino."
Seriously.

The next train is longer and we decide to settle in for a little napper papper. Feet up (piss off lady in charge from the last train who is not on this train), head back against the window...ahhhh.
This train stopped every thirteen minutes, more or less.
And every twelve minutes, more or less, we'd hear this:
"[SOME BULLSHIT] STATION. WATCH THE GAP"
WATCH THE GAP
WATCH THE GAP

This started me and my sister off into a fit of laughter that only increased because we hit another stop and the loudspeaker came on,
WATCH THE GAP
I am laughing so hard that I snorted.
Class all. the. way.

I asked the chief who came over to punch "lead" or "believe" or some other Polar Express gem on my ticket if there was an actual GAP issue.

"Oh, yes. Old people, young people, suitcases, all get trapped in the gap."
And so now, I am afraid of the gap.

it's our turn to exit this train, I WATCH THE GAP and exaggerated my step so as not to get sucked into the abyss with random bottles, papers and ew, chewed gum.
My bag wasn't so lucky.

Since I had this aversion (not strong enough, that's why there's a handle, dammit) to lifting the bag and instead a preference to tug it along, the wheels hit the curb violently.
It flipped around and when I righted it, the darn thing wasn't cooperative. I kept pulling. But it didn't want to come (no jokes at the obvious for the twelve year olds in the house, k?).
I yank and yank. Curse. Yank.

I broke my bag.

The wheel is crippled. Twisted and going the wrong way. More sideways than front to back.
Every time I pulled it to go straight it wanted to go in a circle.
I was not happy to be walking in a circle because my bag wanted to.
So I yelled at it.
...and

Hitting pause here so I can tell you more about our "adventure" in the big city. This post is getting too long!

Silk and Gravel, III

2010-03-29T06:00:00.001-04:00

Last of three parts from a memory...a night at a club with me and a friend. Part one and part two.

...buckle under the weight of my heaving chest or force the heat to fuel a tussle with the bartender...

My breath escapes my chest before I've adequately pulled more in. The resulting dizziness swarms my head like the silly bird-ring of a cartoon character after a tumble.
To say that he was handsome would be a tragic understatement; my eyes could find nothing unappealing about him. And to be frank, neither could the rest of my senses. My carapace tingled with tiny tickles around my breasts and down my navel. My fingers twitched; anxious to reach out and let a single one cascade down his chest.
I was drunk with the scent of him; he was standing so close I could feel the heat from his body mix with mine. The resulting elixir magnified my already-charged body.
So, I decide to tussle.
The music picked up and I began to move my hips, arms, head. I moved through the space around me as if he wasn't there to begin with. I felt the beats pulsate through me as I disappeared into my movements. My womanly shape was made beautiful in the light. He watched; He was the snake, I was the charmer.
I still love to dance.
The room spins around and people move into and away from each other with rhythmic purpose. The beautiful, sinuous flux of bodies and determined faces filled the air with pheromones.
Pauses in dancing invite attention.
He stared at me...through me is more accurate. My heart began to pump blood to all necessary parts of my body; some to use now, some to use later. He bent his head down and came toward me; I back up at the same pace. It isn't an awkward chase; we're posturing.
I postured myself right against a wall. A grin slides across his lips as his chess skills were better than mine. With his right hand, gently brushes my hair from my collarbone and to my surprise and carnal delight reaches behind my head and pulls down hard on my hair.
My neck is tilted back; the pain was delicious, shocking and electrifying. With a fluid movement his lips brushed mine in a way that was opposite of the force he used to pull my hair. With his teeth he bit my bottom lip, pulling it out gently into a pout. I could barely focus on my surroundings but felt weak in the knees.

Against the wall my back is pressed and he is leaning into me, hair pulled tight and the lips of the serpent parted mine with his tongue.

Yaks and Other Animals

2010-03-26T06:00:00.000-04:00

We had just come back on the train from New York a few hours prior. (The train ride is a post in itself for this naive Midwestern girl.) My sister and I dashed to her place for a personal hygiene experience before going to my very first tweet up.

Huh?
Yes. A Tweet-up. Sorta like "meet up" I think, but with Twitter friendlies.

My sister is reluctant to even get ready for the night; she's not on Twitter and really doesn't see the attraction of a brewery, either. But she does it for me (I bribed her with telling mom she's got her belly button pierced...heh) and like a good sister would, grumbly takes her shower.

After the showers I pull out my small selection of clothes.

I hate everything.

I tried on the factorial of five pieces in my possession when she opens the door to my room and says, "What's the problem?"
"ugh. Nothing looks right! See? These jeans make my extra waist come out over the top, like..."
"A muffin, Jen. Muffin-top" She's really hip on the lingo. grrr.

Then she reminds me of my foolproof plan: Whenever I get so confuzzled over choices that I am by all accounts paralyzed, my dear husband says: Plan A Jen. Stick with Plan A.

Plan A outfit was a black wrap style dress with a snazzy belt (stolen from her closet) and my high black boots. It is jersey knit and comfy, but the belt and boots kicked it up a notch.

"Who are we meeting again?" She asks.
"Well, I think there will be a handful, last time I checked. Chestercopa, her husband who I think is a fireman, Monty, his wife maybe, padalbra, maybe Dr Zibbs if we're lucky, and hmmm...." I trail off.
"These people have weird names, Jen"
"Lis, that's their handle...duh" now who's got the lingo, huh?

The ride to the brewery wasn't too long, but I did start to get nervous when we were in the parking lot and started fidgeting with my curls.
"You look great. Stop messing with your hair!"
"I'm nervous!"
"Well you should be, you've never met any of these people before."
[dirty look]

We go inside and immediately rush to the bathroom to...well, bathroom. I tweet that we had arrived and we decide to head over to the bar for a drink.

Did you know that breweries generally don't serve anything but beer? Hmph.
Well I didn't.
The beertender found a bottle of wine left over from God Knows When and poured me a glass.

She and I stood and looked around...and my nerves start acting up again.
Mostly because she said, "Well, where are they?"
"I don't know! I've only seen a picture of Chesterco and she's just tweeted she's running late and...OH MY GOD!"
"Shhh! What?!" She acts like I'm totally embarrassing her. Should have worn the bakery jeans...
"Zibbs just tweeted he was here" and I frantically, while still maintaining my uber-coolness, look around.
"What's he look like?" as she looks around without looking like she's looking around.
"His picture is of a blue yak" I mutter...still looking.
She pivots and looks at me with this sort of blank face. "w...hat...?"

"Hi, Jensvoice?"
I spin on my heel to see a tall man grinning at me, "Dr Zibbs here"
I said, "oh....hi!" I swear I sounded like a schoolgirl because not only is he tall (at 5'2" most people are taller than me) he's incredibly handsome with a boyish grin. Definite swoon.
I think he outstretched his hand to shake mine but I went for the hug instead.
Girl's gotta feel the guns, right ladies?
Yep.
So....he said I was beautiful...sounded like a giant surprise. Obviously he doesn't read my blog because...DUH.

*Snort*

Eventually more people show up and we eat and drink. I met some wonderful people that night. E, P, J, L, L, M, J, J...as well as one or two others that weren't so wonderful so they get no mention here....

The night at the brewery ended with me hugging a new friend and falling onto the floor because, hey...Nothing says I'm a Classy Bitch more than showing your hooey to the world because you're wearing a dress. At . A. Brewery. There's a blurry picture of my awesome purple bra (with studs) hanging out in Twitter somewhere, and someone else's cleaverage (cleavage while drinking is either pronounced Cleveland or cleaverage) has a red mark on it from where I ripped a sticker off. I laughed so hard at some parts of the night I nearly peed my pants. It was easy and fun. This is a great group of people. Really.

Thanks to my twitter friendlies for your hospitality. Sorry I had to block you now...haha.

Happy Friday bitches!

baci
Jen

Public Service Announcement #7: Keep Your Smelly Ass Food Out of My Sniffer Bubble

2010-03-24T18:39:00.000-04:00

Hello frogs!

It's that time of the month again.

No, not that time.

*blink

It's the time of the month when I bring you

Public Service Announcements by JenJen

This is the seventh in my series of trying to assist the public-at-large to be less annoying and generally disgusting.

My first six posts are:

1. The Handshake (firm=good. flaccid=bad. heh) (HA)
2. Becky's Burping Post (accidentlyonpurpose deleted by me in a fit of what if Becky reads this?)
3. The Ill Fitting Clothes-(save the muffin top!)
4. Wash Your Hands (alternate title: Conspiracy of the H1N1 scientificy people)
5. Say It, Don't Spray It (Don't talk with your mouth full, love)
6. Say NO to the Lawn Ornament. (Garden gnomes and cardboard bloomers are trashy)

The Keep Your Smelly Ass Food Out of My Sniffer Bubble or Don't Eat TacoBell on a Airplane PSA

You all know that last weekend I went to visit my sister in the great State of ~~Philadelphia~~ Pennsylvania. Isn't it funny how certain cities carry their state's name more naturally than the actual state's name? Chicago, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, New York...wait. That last one is crafty.

Onward!

To get to my destination I booked a ticket so that an airplane could carry me and my bag o' stuff.

Funny that essentially any flying saucer can be considered an "airplane," have you ever noticed that? Some planes have three rows of the 3-2-3 seating set up. Most have 3-3 I think.

Ever been on one that's 1-2?

And has not one but two propellers?

Well if you haven't, go line up your kitchen table chairs side by side. How's that feel? Roomy? Gooood.

Now?

Have some jerkoff bring in his Nachos Bellgrande and prop it on his lap. Which by the way, you're sharing laps since there is no room for an armrest on this here prop plane.

Once he opens that colorless plastic top, the aroma fills the air.

The aroma is pre-shit. This is what poop smells like prior to the colon-anus tour.

*cringe*

Sorry.

But seriously folks. TacoBell or otherwise is not a plane friendly food. It stinks going in, and holy hell does it ever on it's way out.

Honestly, my own tummy got a contact-gurgle from the smell of that beans and funk concoction atop stale chips. Sour cream is extra! And we spared no expense.

Don't forget the mild sauce!

Rumor has it that shit will take the tarnish off a penny.

So please...do us all a favor? You know us? the 99% of people who do not bring non-plane food onto a plane, and make the rest of the passengers pay for our choices? Yes. Us. Please...eat your tacobell, burgers and sushi before departure. Preferably, waaaay before if you catch my drift.

Thank you!

Ugh...a teaser post.

2010-03-22T09:39:00.000-04:00

Hi frogs,

I am writing today to apologize for being absent lately. I've been all over the map (literally and figuratively) and after a much needed break, have come back energized and full of bubbly spunk.

Yes. Bubbly.

Last Thursday I got on a plane to visit my sister in PA. We went to New York the next day and night, and let me tell you that when people say "wear walking shoes" and you look at them like they've issued you an illuminated fanny pack, instead wearing a very cute pair of ballet flats...Listen to them. I've got those shin splinters (?) and wore the puny sole of those shoes down to nothing.

I have many stories to share with you about our adventure in New York, and as soon as I recover from my trip (what...?) I'll be a-sharing!

The next day we took several trains back to PA and met up with some friends-some new- Saturday night. It was fun for a minute. Then it got no where near fun; let's just say certain women shouldn't be allowed to leave the house without a handler.
More on that...when I'm done regaining and repairing my belief that most humans are decent people at their core.

Sunday we toured a penitentiary; it was eerie and damp; super cool though.

So thanks for sticking around and waiting impatiently for my return. I'm going to go back and respond to your comments from last week now. I read them all when they come in (blackberry magic) and really enjoy reading what you have to say.

baci
JenJen

Well crap there went my boob....

2010-03-18T14:53:00.000-04:00

Hi froggies!

You know I love ya. Everyone...even that one who left without saying goodbye. Totally rude but I get it.

I suck lately.

And?

Today will be no different!

Consistency is Key y'all.

For real though in 27 minutes I am getting on a Big Ole Jet Airliner to take me not too far away to Philly to visit my younger cuter sister (henceforth known as 'bitch'). We will spend the day and night in New York.

Did I mention....I am going a-l-o-n-e.
No kids.
No husband.
No dog.

I know. I am so GD excited I might pee my pants.

I do want to share a lil gem that happened the other day, for a lil laugh...

I live in Michigan. We had a warm "snap" the other day, it hit 62 and hot damn we shed our muffs, hats and space heaters for a bit of vitamin D.
Now being the most excellent wife that I am, I decide to help my husband out by taking down the Christmas lights.

Yes, I know it's March.
And, yes, I know that's a boy job.

The first bush came off easily enough; round and round and round we go. Yes, I got a little dizzy but hell usually that's a state of mind for me and so I didn't really notice it until my son's eyes were rolling and he was walking like he just had lotsa green beer.

The next tree was, well a tree. A pear tree. So round and round and well shit, you get it. But here's the thing: I'm only 5'2" and not particularly fond of ladders. So I figured that since the lights essentially went in a circle but just up high, I could keep going around and eventually get them off.

Except they got a lil stuck.
You know that wasn't one whole strand of lights?? It was several all plugged into each other.

A light strand orgy, if you will.

I was in the street at one point and the strand got stuck. So I come closer to the tree, and flick it.
You know, like WHIP so it would ripple up and get unstuck!
Genius.
Until the peice closest to my body started the ripple right upside my upper lip and nose.
Blasted me right in the kisser.
After getting the chain saw and showing that tree who's boss, I moved onto the next littler tree.
This one isn't as tall as the other so I was able to reach pretty much all of it. Except every time I bent over my boob would fall out of my bra. And every time I reached up my underpants went straight up my ass.
My son and I collect the lights, extension cords and the lonely candy cane and toss the lot into the box in the garage.
I went into wash my hands and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Sweet Jesus.
I looked like mother nature only not the sexy one. Like the one who has actual trees and bushes and lil berries growing out of her head. Dirt all over my face, next to my fat lip. Boob hanging out of the bra and butt cheeks not covered with undiepants.

I'm one classy bitch.
I'm taken, so there's that, too. Men, step away. I know...it's okay.....shhh now.

Have a happy weekend froggies, Smoooooch!

Michael.

2010-03-17T06:00:00.001-04:00

Six years, day in and day out. One hour bled into another; morphing into daylight or moonlight without much notice by me. Blurred in-betweens; I went through the motions, tried to keep up or one step ahead of the next need.
The needs never stopped; they still don't but that's another story.
The needs of children directed at Mom.
Me.
Somehow Jen turned into another woman, but that's another story, too.

At the six year mark, I found myself in a conference room. Nervous as hell...'who's going to hire me after all this time?' and 'should I stand or sit and wait?' 'what if I say something like where's the potty?' these were the thoughts running through my head.
I decided to stand and look out the window. I remember looking out at my SUV, thinking about the miscellaneous crayons, sippy cups and crackers that littered the floor; these will become the decorations in the nanny's car if this interview goes well.
Lost in thought, I jumped when he entered the room. Partially because I was in a ponderous moment but mostly because he yelled when entered:
"BOO!"
and he laughed.
I jumped clear out of my brand new, Ann Taylor LOFT suit and black pumps.
Spinning around, I said, "boy, you couldn't sneak up on anyone, could you?!"
And we laugh.
He invites me to sit down across from him after shaking my hand. I can feel my nerves and they are not cooperating with the explicit instructions to stay under the radar.
After he asked me some questions, his excitement was noticeable, and he went to get his boss. And then it happened again: another boss. Jen wins.

Michael didn't stay my boss for long; I eventually moved up and over and so we became peers, equal colleagues. He taught me so very much.

Have you ever been around someone, that instantly you knew was put in your lap for a reason?

That you couldn't ignore?

Michael has a spirit about him that is infectious; gracious, wicked smart and incredibly charismatic he is unwavering in his positivity. He can charm the most vicious of snakes. He walks into a room and people flock to him.

Not because he's easy on the eyes, although he is.
Not because he's friendly, although he is that, too.
Not because he's wildly intelligent, although he is.

It is because he is carried by a fantastic spirit and he wants you to be a part of it. Consider him your personal cheering section, your champion. Selfless by nature, he wants you to be your best.
Your best mom. Your best employee. Your best friend. Whatever hat you wear; own it and do it happily.
Why the hell not? he'd say.
Because I'm conflicted dammit! I'd say back.

Michael called me the other day, to check in. It's been three years since I left my role along side him and we periodically call to check in on each other. We became great friends; we even joked that we were 'twins' a lot of the time because we could eventually finish each other's sentences and communicate with just a look. Our families became friends and our children played together when we would visit each other's homes.

He's recently moved into a high-level leadership role in the organization.

I wanted to say I'm proud of you, my friend. Everyone should have a Michael in their corner. I'm glad you're in mine.

Love,
Jen

Moody Men are Sissies

2010-03-15T06:00:00.006-04:00

Well you are.

I swear you're worse than a woman sometimes. And, I can say that since I am a woman. This is by way of the same logic that applies to bitching about one's parents; I can bitch all I want but don't you dare insult my beloved mother and perfect father you asshole!

Ahem.

You tell us to keep a stiff upper lip (which is weird since usually it's the bottom one that starts to quiver when the tears threaten to escape). You tell us we're the "weaker sex."

Well hang on JenJen, I'm getting ahead of my self. Let me be clear about some things first:

I love men.
I love the way your arms contour when you lift me onto a bed.
I love the strength you have to open a jar of pickles when I could have sworn it was superglued on and never coming off.
I love that you know instantly how to fix something that's broken or which color plugs go into the correct ports on a TV, making it magically unbrokendammit.
I love that you can open the hood of a car and know what you're looking at.
I love that you know what a wrench is used for, and all those other metal things in the garage.
I love that a hardware store doesn't seem like an impossible labrynth of hoses and pipes to you.
I love the way your voice sounds when you whisper my name, talk to your friends or sing a lullaby.
And the way you smell; I love that too.
I love that when you hold me I feel delicious.
I love they way you love me.
I love to catch you watching me. Hell, I like to catch you watching my best friend, too.
I love men.

But I've got some news for you, my sweet sweet darlings.

You completely suck when you are moody. I don't know what it is, but when something crawls up your ass and ticks you off, everyone pays. And it is swift and harsh and final. And it stings.

And I wonder how such marvelous beings can turn into sissified jackasses on a dime?

A Bittersweet Release

2010-03-10T06:00:00.002-05:00

He was someone that grabbed hold of a stray thought or a moment zipping through my head; still does from time to time. Times when I have a period of fond reflection about my history. Times when I see his name in print-it's never actually him, but the name is a trigger no matter whose body it's hung on.
He was the first that teased and tortured my soul: Testing its limits, my capacity for agony and delirious devotion. The first to carve a hole in my unsophisticated, soft heart. We were connected by more than history, but rather by our hearts singing the same melody back then.
I like to think he still thinks of me on occasion, but I don't know that to be true. He's moved and severed ties to our common links; his life took twists and turns that I don't know anything about.
That isn't how it used to be. The step-brother of one of my friends, he and I grew up together. Grew through the uglies; the "flock of seagulls" hair (his), braces, perms(mine) and awkward bodies. We ran through fields as young kids, throwing balls, catching fireflies, and playing flashlight tag under the moon. As children we laughed until milk came out of our noses, and then laughed at the mess we made.
As teenagers, then, we preferred coffee and MadDog.
He asked me once if I wanted sugar with my coffee because although I drank it, my taste at the time was more suited to the concept of coffee than with the essence itself. He laughed, adjusted his round-rimmed glasses and winked at me. We walked through the fields at a slower pace, chased each other in a hormonal frenzy and used the flashlights to guide our path under the moon. We laughed as we winced at the liquor stung our throats and made our eyes water in response. Nights were spent under the moon, lighting our conversations of changing the world. We made impossible plans and ridiculous agreements with each other.

"If you're not married and I'm not married by say...twenty five, we'll marry each other," he said.
"Yes, perfect. We already know everything there is to know about each other." I said back.

Boyfriends and girlfriends came, went and resurfaced. I was always there, he was always here, in the periphery. I watched him grow into a man and he, he watched me struggle to find my voice. One night he overheard my struggle, locked in a bathroom with my boyfriend at party. He warned me about him; said he was violent, not to be trusted. My cries for help were too much for him, the respectful distance we gave each other had limits: do not fuck with her. So while the door to the bathroom gave a little resistance, my boyfriend did not. I was picked up, head in his right arm, legs over the other and brought safely to his home. His mother patched me up and he stayed with me while I slept. Gently, his lips met mine for the first time. Oddly comforted more than energized, I slept.

Adulthood was an uninvited guest at our fun table.

Years went by, I went to college and he moved. When he came back it was to be in his sister's wedding. He'd aged but was inexplicably more magnetic than before. Blond hair and baby blue eyes that sparkled when he greeted me with a hug that swung my feet out from underneath me. He laughed and said, "Jen, it is good to see you! You look beautiful."
I blushed. I could feel my heart racing and warming up to sing our song even without explicit instruction. He grabbed my hand and starting walking, telling me about his adventures...
And stopped. He felt something. Something he didn't already know about. His sister neglected to fill him in.
He felt my engagement ring.
He raised his hand with mine in it and looked at the stone intently. His sparkly eyes looked into mine and he said, " You didn't tell me. I...I didn't know"
I said, "It's been so long...You forgot all about me, you goof!"
"We had a deal. A pact. Remember when we were kids?"
"I remember"
"...you didn't tell me, we had a deal...." His voice trailed off, lost in a memory stuck behind his eyes.
I whispered through his name, and touched his lapel with my free hand.
A small smile crept through his confused frown, and he bent down to embrace me for the last time.
A bittersweet release.

My Seinfeld Post

2010-03-08T09:42:00.001-05:00

Dammit if I'm not blocked. I usually write two or three days in advance, and schedule the posts for my Monday-Wednesday-Friday cycle that you all love and depend on as your life's nourishment.

I have literally twelve drafts sitting in my blogger thingy and all of them SUCK right now.

I wanted to write something reflective, but my smushy-mushy part of my brain is turned off since I'm dealing with my pesky aunt who likes to visit at the same time every month. This month, she's given me no permission to be introspective and thoughtful. Hell, she's even required that I sleep no more than three hours a night and bitch at everyone in a three mile radius about a rogue shoe left in the hallway.

Then I thought well, I'll finish one of the snarky drafts. You know, make the people laugh! But alas, I broke my funny bone while fighting with a washcloth that was stuck in the dryer. I yanked and pulled and bitched at it for the rogue shoe and finally one of us gave in. I fell somehow into the dryer and whacked my funny bone which left my aunt in hysterics and me grouchy. Who falls in to the dryer? Me, apparently. My grace is unmatched in three states. True story.

So then I thought: JenPorn! Yay. I'll write the rest of Silk and Gravel, sharing the sultry steamy night that followed. Or? I'll write something hot and sexy from my memory banks (as an innocent lamb of course...). But, my aunt laughed in my face at that one. She hovered over me like a shadow, reminding me that I was in no position to be a sultry seductress for this post even with my breathy throaty voice. (Yelling at people for that shoe made me hoarse.) She pointed out that the zit she gave me as a hospitality gift was really too big and shiny for anyone to think of me as a hot mama, but instead? A hot mess.

I plan on kicking that bitch out maybe even today if we're lucky. I'm packing her shit up as you read. After I ice my elbow and go to Costco for a gigantor sized tube of concealer for my gift.

Happy Monday frogs!

What Is..Is That..Ohnoohno!

2010-03-05T06:00:00.000-05:00

There's not a lot that grosses me out. I don't have one of those wussy girlie stomachs that does a cartwheel at the sight of blood or throw-up. I tend to get past any rotten odors without incident which has put me in charge of all things gnarly in my house, as my husband has a wussy girlie stomach (sorry babe).
Not long ago, my sister (younger and prettier, bitch) was visiting from Pennsylvania and staying with us. We needed to go to Target (of course...who doesn't 'need' to go to Target?) and I had to drag my son with us.
I try not to let my kids out in public.
They're embarrassing.
So my sister and I are shopping and my son is playing hide and seek in the racks. Then my sister puts on this goofy leprechaun hat/scarf set and jumps out to scare my son. Family fun at Target. Picturesque, really--a Norman Rockwell setting for the 00's.
And then something catches my eye.
On my son's head.
uh huh...
The thing that does gross me out? The thing that does make me want to run screaming?
Bugs.
So when I was in the aisle and see a white dot, then twenty white dots, I panicked. I bent his head down right there (after all, there's awesome lighting for that in there) and starting parting his hair, looking through it.
My sister?
Mortified.
"Jen," she says through barely parted lips and teeth, "we're in Target. Can't this wait?! You're embarrassing me"
"Lis, bugs won't wait!"
"Shhhhhjeeez!"
I look at her with crazed, swirly eyes. And she shut up.
Pick pick pick...hmmm. Not sure. I kept thinking it'd be obvious right?
"Honey," I said, "does your head itch?"
"Nope. My ear does though"
I pick at the ears.
Okay. We go to the check out and I noticed that we both are staying about two extra feet away from my son.
My baby.
I'm standing away because, after all...he could have the bugs and I for one do not want it. Do you know what that shampoo would do to my highlights?? No way.
So we get home, throwing glances at each other and him in the back seat when I start to itch. Like my skin and my head and my tongue and that spot in the back of your throat you have to "kkkacccckkkagggrah" to get it.
I notice my sister is scratching too.
But you know who wasn't scratching or kkacccckarrah-ing? My son.
In the bathroom I see something else.
I tell ya, his head was like an archaeological dig that day...
I saw something...well, something sparkly.
I didn't think lice were dressed in the finest aluminum foil and were...square.
"Boy JenJen, what did you guys do in school today?"
My sister at this point is flitting around the house with any bug killer she can find from Lysol to bleach to a shoe, stops and pokes her head in the bathroom. She has a "wha?" look on her face.
"oh mom, we had recess and snack"
"uh huh...and? What else did you do?"
"well, that Adrian dumped glitter in my hair"
Glitter.
Square shiny (unless under fluorescent lighting and in the store when it looks white) things in his hair.
Glitter courtesy of Adrian the Kindergartner.
Boy JenJen sat and played wii while my sister and I had a celebratory glass of wine...to relax as this is still a bug free zone.

Silk and Gravel, II

2010-03-03T06:03:00.002-05:00

Part two of a story based on an evening out at a club with a girl friend a while back , part one click here.

Time for a little fun.

The heat penetrates us, igniting a fever which will only be tamed by moving our bodies. Hips move to internal music, rhythms inaudible. Other bodies flit to sounds beating from larger than life speakers. The smoke is in heavy, dense clouds under the canned lights shining on the wooden floor; to the unaccustomed their noses and eyes will burn, but to us it is as intoxicating as the wine.
My friend and I share a wink and a history. We've been down this road before with the motivation of a handsome, rugged bartender to incite us. The euphoria teases and taunts us into a familiar outcome: one that we control, execute and fully enjoy.
Body language; we are fluent in each other's down to the slightest flip of hair or lingering glance. The dance floor becomes our domain; there are dozens of people crammed into the small space and they provide us with the heat we need to keep our fever, our desire aflame. I beckon her to come closer to invade my space and when she readily accepts my invitation I cast a sideways glace at our friend behind the bar. He is watching. Good. She dances with me sensually; orbiting in and out of my sphere while I sway my hips and move with my eyes closed to enjoy the trance we've created.
And then the unexpected happens and I find myself in uneven surroundings. Even she stops; we're not accostomed to our control being trumped.
The bartender is here. Next to us. Did the frenzy of moving parts really just stop? Slowly my friend moves back taking my slightest blink as a sign of "it's okay."
He approaches me with a smirk parting his lips. His icy-blue eyes are locked to mine and I am unable to blink or look away. The fever has reached sticky sweet temperatures in the space between us.
I stand still and he rounds my back to come full on, so close I can see that his eyes are rimmed with fire; a contradiction to the ice-blue between the lids. I can taste his breath and smell the salty, soapy scent of his skin. He stands in front of me, eye to eye, and I need to choose:
Buckle under the weight of my heaving chest or force the heat to fuel a tussle with the bartender.

Smell Me

2010-03-01T06:00:00.001-05:00

Trappers Alley, Downtown Detroit, 1989. Riding the escalator up to the second floor unveils images and aromas at the pace of the mechanism carrying us along: slow, but faster than the stairs. We look up, up up; these walls used to be outside. This accidental interior of a misshapen mall is rustic and antiquated with the peppering of neon 'progress.'

As the escalator clinks and shimmies up to the second story, our noses are ambushed with smells like the pungent odor of almonds roasting and Greek cooking with waitresses yelling OPA! We see almost-famous artists with their paint cans and easels set up just outside an art store. We listen to out-of-tune sax players, and vocal musicians' melodies with pots at their feet to collect our spare change. A background at odds with the Wonder Bread suburb I live in.
I catch the eye of a jewelry "salesman" who perched his wears on a TV tray near the top of the escalator. He displays his baubles, rings and necklaces in a suitcase-turned-diorama complete with a plush velvet interior.
I walk away from my boyfriend who is eyeing some neo-modern art frippery. I think the sharp angles and bright colors to be adolescent and boring. I finger the rings, trying them on when the salesman eyes me intently.
Larger than life, he stands. His eyes, milky-chocolate with skin to match. Sparse hair, with the exception of his face where a goatee frames his bright white teeth. He motions to me to come closer and I do. He bends his head to my ear and whispers, "I want you to have that ring on your finger. Take it but promise me one thing in return."
I think two things: One, if I was going to get a free ring I would have picked out one of the fancy ones and two, I'm too nervous with his Cadillac Coffee breath in my ear and on my neck to say anything.
I nod.
He instructs, "Wear the ring and tonight, when you're alone with him whisper this:
'Smell Me'"

BlogLifting

2010-02-26T18:14:00.000-05:00

It's like shop lifting only it isn't. Since my own post was a redux today, I just had to grab this from Mr Charleston's Termites of Sin blog today because I laughed so hard I was wiping tears. And? You know that kind of laugh where you open your mouth and no sound comes out, but you boobs shake?
Yes.
Read on:

Friday, February 26, 2010

Age Old Questions Finally Answered

OK guys, in the continuing series of "Mr. C's Helpful Hints for Men" I have stumbled upon an explanation and answer to two of man's most induring questions, "Why does it take women so damned long to go to the bathroom?" and "Why does it take two of them to do it?"

Here's your answer, from a woman's perspective:

Ladies, you know when you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied. Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving as you do.

You get in to find the door won't latch.. It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty.

You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one,but there isn't - so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume " The Stance."

In this position your aging, toneless(God I should have gone to the gym!!!)thigh muscles begin to shake.. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance".

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs shake more..

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday -the one that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse around your neck, that now, you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That will have to do. You crumple it in the puffiestway possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious,tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. It is wet of course.

You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of water that covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your shoes.

The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.

At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat.

You're e-x-h-a-u-s-t-e-d.

You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, .....so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting.

You are no longer able to smile politely to them.

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used, and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?"

This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restrooms (rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked questions about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse, and hand you Kleenex under the door!

Posted by Mr. Charleston at 2:41 PM

Blame It on the Carpet

2010-02-26T06:00:00.005-05:00

Okay lovies
I've had another rough day/night. Please forgive my repost of this. I posted it back in June or so when I had 5 followers (on the payroll) so I hope you enjoy it. Back on Monday with some new JenJen. baci~

While at home with toddler and a baby on the way, then two kids under 2, my life consisted of who pooped where, what the consistency was, and how often said poop occurred. I barely had time to shower daily (and never ever alone) and poop in peace between kid poop (lotsa poop 'round here...sorry--my son would think this sentence was HILARIOUS due to the frequency of the word poop, by the way).

Ahem...

I decided, after talking with my husband, that I was due for a round in the wild wild world of Corporate America. My Bachelor's is in Physics, and since that is about as useful as a degree in, say underwater basket weaving, I had to look far and wide for a job. I landed a great opportunity at a plastic surgeon's call center (think Becky the TimeLife Operator times 100) office about an hour from my house. I had about two weeks to get myself a wardrobe that wasn't something that could double as pajamas. I bought blouses (can't stand that word), slacks (ha ha, but goes with 'blouse') a suit or two and God yes, some new kicks.

My first day consisted of a tour. Remember the tours, friends? This is when you are paraded around the office as the New Girl Who Does Something With Numbers, and who will be talked about seconds after your pumps make tracks. I was walked around the building which I was convinced was a labyrinth of offices and people and was finally shown to my office.

I sat at my desk, filled out the requisite Human Resources related forms and tried desperately to log in to my calendar. Up to this point, my calendar consisted of a cutie-patootie kitty calendar on the back of a cabinet door. I fiddled around with it enough to see that I not only had email, but Gasp! I was one minute from being late for a meeting. Damn!

I spun around in my chair, grabbed a pen and paper and wheeled right out my door, hang a right and there's the conference room, just beyond the phone agents.

Exhale.

As I made the "hang a right" out my door, the right heel of my brand new black heel (patent leather baby) grabbed a hold of my left pant leg's cuff. Course, my brain did not know what my feet had cooked up, and so commanded them to continue walking. Which is hard to do if one of your shoes is caught up in the pant leg cuff of the other leg you happen to need to execute the walk. Next thing I know, left leg/foot tries to walk forward, arms go flying forward to break my fall (klutz, practice) and the free shoe sorta kicks off into a nice arc behind me. Sound effects completely necessary and involuntary: WHOOAAAHHH!

Sally, Becky and Buffy the Operators that were near by, rush to my side with "Numbers just fell" conversation. Someone grabbed my shoe and brought it over. My new boss stood over me with a smirkish crooked grin. Sally (who cares really) says, "oh my...you must have tripped over a hole in the carpet!"

Sadly, we all know there was no such "hole in the carpet" and I just looked up, apologetically at my colleagues and mumbled something about "operator error" and shoved my pedicured foot back into my patent leather pump.

Stupid carpet.

Fluffs Plus with Tequila

2010-02-24T06:00:00.002-05:00

Hi frogs!

I have the ick. Yes. It's the kind of Ick that teases the back of your throat, sending you into the bathroom for a hang over the toilet. And then? It leaves. You go back to the couch, steady now and... there it is ...again. So back you go and so on and so forth...Quite fun actually. I think I'll call it "Throwupilates." or "Puka" or "Yogonnabarf" Google that shit.

Anyhoozle.

Nancy at BLissed Out Grandma tagged me with an award. Turns out, she thinks I'm a looker. W-e-llll I can't blame her, really. She said I'm friendly. SMILE.

I'm supposed to write Seven Interesting Things about me. Hmph. I've done the ten of this and that so many times, I don't think I'm all that interesting... She did say she thought I was naughty after Silk and Gravel post...hmmmm there's an idea!

Guilty Pleasures in no particular order other than the order that I thunk them in.

1. Damn. Writing the first one is so stressful. K. Imma skipping it.
2. Watching old episodes of Beverly Hills, 90210. I heart you Brandon Walsh.
3. Sleeping naked. No jewelry, no clothes...just skin and sheets.
4. Sleeping naked with the window open, breeze carrying salty wet air from a noisy ocean.
5. Reading / writing erotica. Yeah. I know. TMI.
6. Nutella. Hazelnut and chocolate? Come on y'all it is deeeelish.
7. Reading my favorite blogs, and finding new ones to love.

So now I have to pass on this lovey to seven naughty people.

Abode One Three. Tell me this picture doesn't purr at you?

Let's Have a Cocktail. JennyMac is all things sassy.

Mr Condescending. Drips sexay sexay.

Country Gone City. Sex kitten, I know it.

Dan at Vacant Mind. He's IN PRINT y'all.

Rita at Fighting off Frumpy. Keepin' momhood sexy.

Mr Charleston. His banner is stickay-sweet.

If I can muster the strength I'll post part two of Silk and Gravel for Friday's post. It's hard to be sexy when you're wearing slippers, a ponytail with 3day old hair and hanging your head over the toilet.

Public Service Announcement #6: Say NO to the Lawn Ornament

2010-02-22T06:00:00.002-05:00

Hello frogs!

It's that time of the month again.
No, not that time.

*blink

It's the time of the month when I bring you

Public Service Announcements by JenJen

This is the sixth in my series of trying to assist the public-at-large in being less annoying and disgusting.

1. The Handshake (firm=good. flaccid=bad. heh) (HA)
2. Becky's Burping Post (accidentlyonpurpose deleted by me in a fit of what if Becky reads this?)
3. The Ill Fitting Clothes-save the muffin top!
4. Wash Your Hands (alternate title: Conspiracy of the H1N1 scientificy people)
5. Say It, Don't Spray It (Don't talk with your mouth full, love)

The Crappy Lawn Ornament PSA

I tell you that nothing brings out the hilarity more than people who pepper their lawns with plastic or giant inflatable penguins.

No offense to the penguins, though. I kind of like penguins. I've been told I have a walk similar to that of a penguin, so I think we're pretty tight.

Anyway.

The availability of air and electrical outlets to the masses have triggered a wave of stupidity at damn near every holiday on the calendar.

In the past, the garden gnome or a statue of the Madonna would find a home nestled among some begonias or a fern. The gnomes are gettin' pissed, y'all. (the Madonna doesn't get pissed...) They're getting sick of being squeezed out of their little happy homes by overbearing snow globes full of hot air and resin frogs.

I think.

At Christmastime, a neighbor of mine lines the perimeter of his lot with inflatable decorations, each equidistant from the previous: reindeer, a Santa, snowmen, illuminated presents and a snow globe complete with elves rotating under falling 'snow.' Pretty sure he's got at least seven of the plastic air balls.

Couple of my favorites...

~ Polycarbonate deer in mid-walk. Set on an oval of "grass" green.

~ Frogs, dogs and various critters.

~Various silhouettes of cowboys smoking a Marlboro leaned against the side of a garage.

What's interesting is that these homeowners place these little gems all over their yards and leave them behind for the rest of us to admire. They go in the house. They can't see them from in there.

But, the thing is, we don't admire them. We roll our eyes when we see the ladies' bloomers as she bends over into her garden.

We cringe when we see something like this in your yard:

Please stop the madness, folks. Flamingos, candy canes, gorillas and toilets filled with poppies don't belong in the front yard. Take your trash to the curb people, don't decorate your grass with it!

Silk and Gravel, I

2010-02-19T06:00:00.001-05:00

Swirls of smoke dance in the air in front of the lights, casting a grey fog in the air. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and my body to adjust to the slight chill in the air.
I scan the room looking for a familiar face among the strangers. Men and women are huddled together; some are leaned in over a flickering tea light inches away from each others lips. Others dance imperceptible moves under the electric stars on the dance floor. The rest, well they watch.
A wave from the bar brings me to a stool and I am more than a little relieved to sit. I take off my jacket and hang it and my purse under the bar top on a hook provided for that purpose. The skin on my arms perks up against the chill in the air and the excitement that is building as I hear the music.
The bartender looks at me and asks what I'll have. He's rough in the purposeful way; deliberate scruffiness along the jawline, dark hair and bright blue eyes. His voice like soft gravel. As he reached over to put a square napkin in front of me, his shirt sleeve raises up and I catch a glimpse of a tattoo.
Damn, I've always had a soft spot for the bad boy.
"House red, please" This isn't the kind of place that will have exactly the wine I want, so anything will do.
"You bet." He turns around and bends to grab an already-open bottle from the cooler. His shirt is tight against his chest where it should be; across his chest and upper arms. Nice denim, I notice.
My friend and I drink, talk and smoke cigarettes, adding to the already intoxicating atmosphere. We reminisce about "old days" when we would come to places like this. Walking through the doors together, feet hitting the floor in beat time with the music, hips swaying and heads high. Before we know it, we've both become silly with wine and smoke and decide to tear it up on the dance floor. She leads me with a soft hand; I've always envied her skin. Olive and smooth-a product of her heritage and source of insane jealousy for many of her friends.
We fall into a familiar routine, and it feels good. A few feet apart at first, we claim our space. My blond hair dances across my bare shoulders as I sway. Her curly brown hair catches the light from the ceiling and it sparkles. My eyes are closed; the music bumps through me. When I open them, I see her smiling at me and she winks. I move closer in time with the notes and she slithers close to me, eyes locked. At simple inches apart, her hand goes to my shoulder and we move together. Her hips touch mine slightly and then fall back in a rhythm identical to the music. Our bodies fall into and away from each other while the music guides us.
We part when the music stops, and head back to our seats at the bar. Flush with sweat and sensual anticipation our hearts race. It's noticeable more people are in the watching population that before, and that's expected.
The bartender looks at me with smiling eyes. He was watching. Another glass of wine is placed in front of me. When I reach to pick it up by the skinny stem, his hand lingers. The slightest touch of his fingertips carry a esurient suggestion. Dragging a finger across my skin sharpens my desire built on the dance floor moments earlier. He keeps his gaze on me for a minute longer than necessary to give me a glass of wine; I don't look away first.
My friend gently, but with meaning, kicks me under the bar top. When I look at her she nods. I close my eyes in agreement.
Time for a little fun.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2010-02-17T13:56:00.000-05:00

I remember the day clearly. I woke up, excited that my mom was going to take me to the curiously named "Slickers, For Hair" salon. My blond hair had grown long; about to the middle of my back. I was in the seventh grade....

I knew exactly how I wanted my hair. I wanted a spiral perm in the worst way. I had a hard time asking my mom for a perm. They were (are?) a lot of money and extra money wasn't something we had extra of. So I never quite said the words, "mom I want a perm" to her. I just kept hinting that I wanted something different.

In 1986 or so the spiral perm was totally rad. Everyone had one. My hair was long enough, I figured to hold a perm and still keep it long. I was going to look so cool. My ticket to the popular table dangled by a long blond, spiral-curled lock. I knew it.

We walked into the salon, and I looked around for the rain jackets. (I swear I thought the "slickers" part of the title was some kind of gimmick and they'd all being wearing happy yellow rain jackets. Nope. Leg warmers though...) My mother checked us in and we sat on the black plastic chairs in front of the window to wait.
I was so excited I couldn't stand it. All I kept thinking was SPIRAL-PERM.
"Jennifer?"
She called my name. Oh man this is going to be so radical.
"Yes!" I of course yelled my response.
"This way, hon" how she managed to talk while pounding away on her Big League Chew, I have no idea.
shwooosh shwoosh shwooosh she pumped the foot pedal so I was at the best perm-rolling height.
"What are we doing today, Mom?" she asked.
She asked my Mom.
Oh no. She didn't ask me! I'm the one in the chair! I'm thinking of why I never specifically asked my mother about the perm.
"Well," my mom said, "she tells me she wants something...different," and shrugs her shoulders.

Full stop here a second to share something about my mother. She was a hippie. The hair parted down the middle thing? Yeah. She's never had another style. Ever. So the shrug of the shoulders meant "why would she want anything but the current hairdo she has is beyond me, gotanyweed?"

My mom grabs a magazine and the stylist looks at me and spins me around so that I'm facing the row of plastic chairs and starts cutting.
Cutting.
Oh, all right perhaps a trim before the perm?
A few minutes goes by and I fear something is very wrong. How did I know this? A sixth sense? Nope, it was the six-inch chunks of hair on the "Slickers, For Hair" cape that was currently choking my neck.
The ~~butcher~~ stylist spins me around for the big reveal. Which puzzled me because I swore perms took a long time.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I was horrified beyond words. What the...that's not a perm. I fingered the ponytail holder around my wrist longingly.
Won't be needing that for a while.
She interpreted my 'something different' as 'cut all her hair off' and that is what she did. I looked like I should be modeling haircuts in the men's section of the "Slickers, For Hair" catalog next to the hours-old coffee.
Tears welled in my eyes, and my mother came over to check out the new look. She wrinkled her nose and said, "Jen I have no idea why you'd want to cut off all your hair..."
She paid the ~~hackjob~~ stylist and out we went. For the first time in so long, I felt the breeze against the bare skin of my neck without a ponytail flinging in it.
This began the Year of the Uglies for JenJen.

Doing the Horizontal Vertically

2010-02-15T06:00:00.001-05:00

Party Dress
Condoms
Corsage
Needles

These items littered the wooden floor of the High School gym after the Homecoming dance. The dress lay collapsed on the scuffed, dirty floor; lifeless and wrinkled in a heap without a human to hang on. Three feet from the trash can lay the wilting petals of white roses and thirsty baby's breath--the corsage hand crafted by Country Lane Flower Shop. The dress and flowers-two items of the most importance before the event and tossed aside, abandoned like a glass slipper.
These were the pretty things.
Square wrappers polute a corner of the gym; its mangled contents not far from there. The smell in this place must have been of dead flowers and pheromones. Pointed tips of addiction disguised as ecstasy warn the janitors charged with the clean up of this place.
These were the ugly things.
Both the pretty and the ugly things were found on the floor after the dance. Chaperones say they watched their student body collectively grind to a beat only heard to the eighteen and under population. There is no space between Fred and Ginger; only the width of a dress and a tuxedo--and later those would be left behind for the dumpster. Girls were found in the restroom kneeling before the toilet; a trusted friend responsible for holding her hair while she expelled her liquid courage into the sewer system. A quick brush of the teeth and a sweep of lipgloss, and they weave themselves back into the madness.
This is a high school dance. The administration was so horrified, so disgusted by what they saw, they decided that when it was time for the next dance some four months later, they'd do something about the drugs and sex on the dance floor.

When they did address it, they decided to roll out a Code of Conduct for Dances and expected the student body to sign the contract. The contract would require that the student would refrain from drinking and dancing inappropriately.
Naturally the majority of the students decided this was some sort of censorship. They should be able to dance the way they want. They paid for the tickets, after all. Who are 'they' to tell us what to do. Some even wondered why should the many suffer for the sins of the few?
At these dances the age range is from thirteen to eighteen.

Throughout history, parents have cringed at the antics of their children. But did holding hands morph into sex on the dancefloor? Did sneaking a cigarette from your dad's pack of Kools lead to blowing up a vein in the bathroom? Did the waltz tantalize so much that the natural progression of dance was to bend over at the waist while a boy hangs onto your hips?
Thirteen.
The ugly things.
The pretty things.
The perfect dress, delicate corsage.
The students complained to their parents. Oh...to be cool in your child's eye. A powerful motivator.
One mother, so off-put by the school's audacity to attempt to structure the next dance and completely snowed by her daughter's pleading and baloney stories of "not me" rented out the local hall.
For her fifteen year old daughter. So that she and all of her friends (some new I'd imagine) could have their dance.
A too little-too late effort by the school system to protect the children from drugs and sex, a mother comes in and waves her motherly fix-it dust to unravel it.

Compatibility CHOKE Test

2010-02-12T06:00:00.001-05:00

Oh St. Valentine how I loathed thee as a young girl. The words "Valentine" and "Day" made me curl my lip in a snarl rivaling the King himself. Grrrrrowl.

Allow me to paint a picture of ninth grade JenJen, aw hell: here is an actual picture of me. Note the bad ass hair. I know...HOT. (cringe)

I was known in this part of the US as a nerd. Perhaps you've heard of the term? It is used to denote the tragically uncool and perpetually out of touch with all things below ambient temperature. But, JenJen, you were a cheerleader! Surely you were cool?! Non. Coolness evaded me; yelling at the top of my lungs and being twenty pounds lighter than everyone else gave me the cheer skills, but not the popular ones. I had a few friends (boys and girltypes) that I ate lunch with at the uncool table and essentially slid into the background of most events, if I even attended at all.
Alas, not a pity party pour moi. NO! Because boobs and ass happened and we all know they are the tickets to coolness. Bust. Off!
Ahem.

Anyway the brainiacs in charge at my high school decided that in an effort to fuel more hormone charged dancin-fire they'd do something.....radical.
(1989 people...everything, including Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup was radical, dude. Skidz? Anyone? Bueller? Fine.)
The radical move?
To administer all ninth graders a Compatibility Test. A love test. A 'match quiz' if you will...
Yes.
Premise: you answer the questions honestly (problem A) about what you like, dislike, etc...
Sample:
1. I think smoking is stupid.
2. Getting drunk at parties does not mean you're cool.
3. Have you ever sniffed glue?
4. I'd date an unpopular boy/girl if I really liked them.

You get the drift.
So then get this: Two weeks later we get our results....and those assholes at the compatibility test lab-thingy thought it would be just spectacular if they matched us with people in our own grade. Yep. Instead of saying what our ideal person is, or what career is best suited for us we get this.
Are you kidding me right now?
(problem B if you're keeping track of problems)
So the nerd JenJen was matched with two guys that wouldn't be caught dead with me. Yes. One of them is my dear friend now. Notsomuch then. Probably he doesn't even remember that I was matched with him. I'm not going to tell him. If you know him, shut up. Move on.

The other guy was the problem. He had a girlfriend and well, she wasn't on his list. I was. Jenni-the-uncool was on his list?!
The teasing began.
And I? Smug.
Because although Mr.Way2Cool was on my list and I thought it was quite interesting to say the least, I became a LEGEND in my small group of friends.

When Valentine's Day rolled around those jackasses from the Research Company brought in carnations (see Zibbs for the actual percentage of women who like carnations v roses and how to translate that info into meaningful data) and suggested that the boys buy their matches a carnation.
I waited.
Not with hope, mind you, but with oh Lord why can't these people go away feelings of deep deep hatred for the carnation and for Research Companies.

I did not get a carnation that day.

I was a little sad on the inside.

Happy Fucking Valentine's Day, frogs....

The Land of Nada

2010-02-10T11:09:00.000-05:00

Usually I blog without tapping into the bottomless pit of ideas that is also known as Having Children. Today, though, I need to paint a picture for you.
My artistic ability is limited to my expert use of powerpoint, so bear with me, mmmmkay?
Grazie.

Sucker

2010-02-08T06:00:00.000-05:00

That's me, it seems.

A sucker.

Too nice.

haha better you than me...

I'm talking about the Home Party. To Sell jewelry-potsandpans-dishes-makeup-vitamins-sextoys, Party. I blame the Girl Scouts for this wave, no epi-goddamn-demic, of home crap sales. I know you think it started with Tupperware and whatever you could be right--but for me, the guilt-me-into-it-itis (it's a real syndrome--Google that shit) starts as a Brownie.

I've been bamboozled into hosting so many parties my kitchen/topsecretfundrawer/makeupbag is stocked. The premise is that a person who you sorta liked (note tense) shimmies up to you and says "I'm starting my own business" and that is precisely when you should RUN LIKE THE WIND, BULLSEYE! and feign a number three attack (for the uninitiated, a number three is numbers one plus two at the same time. Also known by Hubs as the PeeP. ...you're welcome).

Here's a peek into the unknown:

The perp comes to your house and sets up a very nice hallmark display of ~~crap~~ lovely things. They speak for three minutes (the exact attention span of a boozed up adult female) and sit back with a calculator (shipping cost of a dildo?) and a credit card swiper thingy.
......and they're done. They sit and wait for the dolla-dolla bills to roll in.

What do you do, as the hostess?

Invite twenty five of your friends and people you can't stand (family, neighbors and a coworker that needs a mint and a hairdo) to your house.
Which you have to clean, even on a Thursday.
Oh? And snacks. Chips, salsa, stuffed mushrooms, little bits of quiche or some such minishit from GFS, pop, wine, tequila....
Oh? Husband? Yes, kick him out.
With the kids.
Oops get a babysitter, Hubs is busy (I thought I told him the date, and a meeting came up? hmmmm suscpicious)
Crap. Babysitter is busy. Kids stay.
Oh? Perp brings her kid to play with your kids.
Snacks for kids now. Jell-O, nuggets and lotsa ketchup and ranch. It's my experience that kids will eat anything that is dippable (yes that is a word, Matthew).
You then call all twenty five people three days before since no one has the courtesy to RSVP in a timely fashion (in realty they are hoping for a better offer) and beg them to come. And bring a friend!
You pick up plates, refill glasses (one for them, three for you) grab pens that work and make sure there's enough toilet paper in the guest bathroom. (God forbid someone should need to use the master bath or GASP the kids' bathroom...).

Sigh.

The friends you don't have anymore will buy approximately $50 in crap they didn't know they needed (and will now screen your calls) plus another $15 in shipping (what size dildo was that?) The people you added to your list for fillers will not buy anything but will eat all the free food and drink your booze and comment on the paint in the kids' bathroom.

My friend Liz, though....she's got her answer all ready: "Jen, I hate those parties. I'm not coming. Call me after and we'll go have a beer."

I love Liz.

Chosen, II

2010-02-06T08:55:00.000-05:00

You won't be anything with out me.

You're stupid.

I didn't mean it like that. I got you this new car phone. Open the bag, it's in there and you plug it into the cigarette lighter in the car.

Your ass looks fat in those jeans.

You might think you're smart because you are going to college, but that doesn't mean anything, you're still an idiot.

I love you. I'm sorry. Here, I got this for you. Those are real diamonds, you know.

Jen. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why did you embarrass me like that, in front of my friends? They think I'm an asshole now.

It's just that I watch my dad yell at my mom and I get so mad, I take it out on you. I know it's not right. Here, let me put some ice on that.

Sometimes the break is easier than the heal. A quick snap, like ripping that bandage off your arm is quick. Not pain free, not quite. What lingers behind is what is allowed to grow, to fester and spread.

At age fifteen, after much begging and with an eventual 'ok' by my parents, I was allowed to date Nick. Charismatic and a year older he had me on his arm like an ornament.

An ornament held together with flimsy tape. Another break, more tape.

At eighteen, after a particularly tragic night that included a shove out of the Skylark with drooping blue ceiling cloth into a parking lot of a movie theatre, Clarity found me.
It found me standing in the parking lot, when so many times before I agreed to "get back in the car."
It found me wincing at the bruise on my back, when so many times before I said, "it's not that bad."
It found me alone in my twin bed in my mother's house, staring at the posters of pasted-on magazine clippings, staring at the clock from my grandmother with a unicorn on it, smelling the detergent and fabric softener my mother used in the laundry as I buried my gasps and last tears into my pillow.
Clarity.
And running right behind Clarity was more courage than the lion had in his tail. I exhaled. Stripped off my clothes and took a hot shower until there was no more heat in the liquid. Cool water sealed me. Out of the shower and back into my room, Peace was waiting on the wings of Confidence.
No more.
Into a box went the bruises and the tape. The computers, phones, jewelry--the ownership, sealed with new tape.
To the curb with a quick call. Presumably me calling to apologize as that was the norm. Rushing over to take my apology from me without my will, he met the law and a box instead.

This was the second and last time I contended with a bully. Eighteen years ago. It feels good and somewhat exposing to write it.

That's Bullshit! (Round 2, DING!)

2010-02-03T07:00:00.001-05:00

A month ago I did a post about conventional wisdom one-liners that flit around like a moth to a flame, or like JenJen to sparkly things, when all in all, it is a bunch of crap.
Bullshit, if you will.
I will.
So in the spirit of calling out bullshit! here's another round of gems that may or may not be bad for you.

1. It's the thought that counts!
Rating: Complete Bullshit or maybe Not Even Close to Bullshit
Have you ever received a gift, gleefully opened it up and said to ownself, "now what the fuck is this?" while you smiled a cheerleader-Vaseline-on-the-teeth-smile? It's the thought that counts, you say? Well lemme ask you this: what were you thinking when you thunk the thought, exactly?? Because I'm failing to understand why on earth a 6yr old boy would want a VHS tape for a gift in the year 2010? (um, mom...what is this, this...THIS?) or why a twenty-one year old JenJen would crave a carbon monoxide detector for her birthday? Piece of advice: If you are going to think a thought that one will use this adage when the gift is opened, go for the gift card instead.
Maybe Not Even Close to Bullshit because you may have just found out what that person actually thinks of you when they do, think of you.

2. It's good...you'll like it...just try it!
Rating: Half Bullshit/Half Truth
Half bullshit because really broccoli, peas and carrots do not taste better than chocolate ice cream, raw cookie dough or a purple Skittle. Half true because if you follow any of the uber parenting sites or any brainy pediatrician, they'll tell you that if your child eats the broccoli, peas and carrots before the sweet potatoes, he'll develop a preference for those foods. Whatever. Most of us are just happy our kids will eat more than mac and cheese with meat sticks.

3. Everything happens for a reason!
Rating: Loosely Based on Truth
I rated this 'loose' because whenever I say this to my ownself, my kids or my husband I'm trying to sooth said person because something shitty or undesirable happened. It's a way to make ourselves feel better by way of blaming the universe. It may not be the 'reason' you hoped for to yieild the desired outcome you banked on, but there was indeed a reason.

4. A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.
Rating: Complete Bullshit
It absolutely does make it an emergency on my...part. Like when your husband peeled off his underpants rendering them inside out. They were washed that way. Folded and put back in the drawer that way. And....put back on the tushy, that way. Then, a call home to JenJen saying, "Jen, what the fuck? My underpants are on backwards! I went to take a piss and the damn hole's at my ass!" And then JenJen says, "Well...look on the bright side? You can shit easier?" If he would have taken them off (planning) I wouldn't have had to get a phone call in the middle of the morning which disrupted Ellen and blogging (emergency).

And finally...the whopper of all whoppers:
5. Size doesn't matter.
Rating: Complete Bullshit
I'm sorry ladies. I know I'm going against the code here, but let's be honest: Numbers matter. Let's tackle that scale, shall we? When I was in high school and the number hit three digits I about shit my pants (thus giving back that third digit). When I recently bought at $200 pair of jeans and the size went up, well that mattered.

And ...the penis. Yep. The penis. It matters. It matters not if it is longer but thin, or shorter but thick, but it does matter. Of course neither of those means a darn thing if neither the target nor the owner know what to do with it... Inches long or inches wide...it matters.

(I have to tell you that number five started me on the longest paragraph/essay on dildos. I deleted it; it's not exactly in support or refusal of the bullshit meter, rather it was a tangent on type and size and media.)

So here's to closing another installment of That's Bullshit by JenJen!

Jen's Voices

what the hell happened?

Untitled is the Title

Ritual

Erect Stingers Suck When You're Prissy

And so it goes...

August 24th?

Kiss Me....me

Snippits of Thought

Boy This Thing's Dusty!

The One Where I Cracked

Here I Am!

Remembering, One

You Want Me to Agree to What, Now?

Tag

Crowded

A Name

Excuses, Excuses...

Lie to Me

Accidental Nudity

That's a Nice Belt Buckle, Occifer!

Put Some Perk Under Your Skirt

Can You Help Me With Any of These? (Probably Not...)

They Didn't Make the Bed Before They Left

How Much for That Eggy in My Ovary? (An Egg in the Hand..Guest Post)

Please Don't Inquire (A Guest Post: Dan But Really Jeff Reveals His Sweet Side)

The Perfect Male Mind (You Know This Is a Guest Blogger By The Title)

Mommy Farted (Not ME...of course. I mean, duh) A Guest Post

Truth Hurts (Gues Post Obvs...I Don't Write This Well)

When Swinging Isn't Just For the Playground (Guest Post -I'm Lawyered Up)

Itsy Bitsy Bikini...But Yellow Isn't My Color

Everything You Didn't Know You Wanted To See About Detroit...

Well Hello There, Cupcake....

Freestyle, Yo!

Wordless Wednesday--Segue Post

Addicted

Public Service Announcement #8 A Lil Adjustment

Practice

Broken

Spanx Me

Panty Raid!

The Technical Parent: Hamlet Had It Easy

The One About Bras and Boobies

They Call Me Hotstepper

Are Mad Dogs Pissed Off or Crazy?

Freestyle

Quickie Friday

Midwestern Girls Go Train Riding

Silk and Gravel, III

Yaks and Other Animals

Public Service Announcement #7: Keep Your Smelly Ass Food Out of My Sniffer Bubble

Ugh...a teaser post.

Well crap there went my boob....

Michael.

Moody Men are Sissies

A Bittersweet Release

My Seinfeld Post

What Is..Is That..Ohnoohno!

Silk and Gravel, II

Smell Me

BlogLifting

Blame It on the Carpet

Fluffs Plus with Tequila

Public Service Announcement #6: Say NO to the Lawn Ornament

Silk and Gravel, I

Be Careful What You Wish For

Doing the Horizontal Vertically

Compatibility *CHOKE* Test

The Land of Nada

Sucker

Chosen, II

That's Bullshit! (Round 2, DING!)

Compatibility CHOKE Test