“Oh Jen – I made the best chili this week! It was so spicy that it gave your dad a nosebleed. Twice! I still have some in the freezer if you want to take a bowl home with you.”
“Mm… tempting, but no. Call me if you make him some egg salad that gives him diarrhea, though.”

[Happy birthday, mom! I love you to pieces!]

Filed under: General on July 21st, 2006 | 17 Comments »

I recently realized that last month marked the two year anniversary of this blog. Two years. That would almost qualify as a long-term commitment. In fact, in some states, this blog would be my common-law wife.
Now get me a Pabst and fry me up an egg sandwich, dammit! Lazy good for nothing blog!
While my first year of blogging was filled with change and the slow climb back from unemployment to financial stability, this second year can be summed up in two words: digital camera.
What a sap I was during that first year, always trying to think of stuff to say, worrying about grammar and shit. Now that I have a camera, I can just swear, put up a picture of a light bulb, and call it a day. See what I mean? I just said “shit” a minute ago and no one did anything. What are you gonna do? Call the internet on me? Ha. Here’s your damn light bulb:

No wonder I always preferred the “show” to the “tell” as a child – it’s so much more efficient. Now, if only someone could explain to me what white balance is all about, my life would be complete.
But still, I have to admit that I did learn a lot about myself during this past year. This blog isn’t all about giggles and candy, you know. Sometimes it’s my private little refuge, the place I visit when I want to be alone with my thoughts in a completely public forum. But then I think, two years is a long time. But it ain’t long enough. Sixteen years ain’t gonna be long enough. Hell, I wouldn’t care so much if there hadn’t been so many things I haven’t done yet. So many damn things I ain’t seen or done. Shoot, that time when you and me was in Windrixville was the only time I’ve ever been away from my neighborhood. You listenin’ to me, Ponyboy?
Whazza? Anyway, with that, let me share a few of the important self-discoveries I… discovered. About myself. [Aside from the fact that scotch makes a nice chaser to lemon/lime popsicles.]
1. Tattoos turn me on, in a big, BIG way.

2. I have an unhealthy obsession with my cats.

3. I :::heart::: macro.

4. Bloggers rock my world.

[And for those of you who prefer the “tell” to the “show,” I linked to some of my favorite entries from the past year over in the sidebar.]
I said fried egg, dammit! This is scrambled!

Filed under: General on July 19th, 2006 | 36 Comments »

Once, what now seems like eons ago, I worked for a Dutch company. At first, I loved the idea of working for an international organization, and dreamed of one day getting to see our headquarters in Amsterdam. According to corporate lore, our company was known by all in the Netherlands, and our brand was so strong there that we could command twice the price of our nearest competitor. But eventually, I would come to understand what it meant to be the unprofitable country within a global firm’s portfolio.
Whenever someone from “headquarters” paid a friendly visit to one of the US offices, it would inevitably end in tragedy. Within one month of giving a tour to one of our Dutch counterparts, we would have to initiate a complete reorganization, cut staff by 20%, and increase profits by 35%. And stop using so many envelopes. Because of this, we began to live by the mantra, “Trust no Dutch.”
Time and distance taught me that perhaps it was unfair to apply this standard to an entire country. I mean, I really do like tulips, and I think they make Edam cheese there, which I find quite tasty on a Stoned Wheat Thin cracker. I will admit, however, that I am still perplexed by the Holland/Netherlands thing. Why must they have two names for their country? What are they hiding?
Naming conventions aside, I realized that I could not pass judgment on the people as a whole based on this one experience. I learned to overcome my aversion to people with blonde hair, blue eyes, and double “a’s” in their last names. Everything was going fine… until this past weekend, that is, when I paid a visit to my local apothecary.
As I browsed through rows of tinctures and cough lozenges, I came upon a shelf of European candies. One bag in particular caught my attention: Licorice Made in Holland – Double Salt Salty kind.

I thought, I love salt, and I love licorice, and if the Dutch deem it a worthy combination then surely it must be divine! I bought a bag and headed out to a movie with fellow blogger, Dave, who happened to be in town for business. Somewhere in the middle of Pirates of the Caribbean, during a particularly noisy fight sequence, I ripped open the bag and grabbed one of the tiny discs.

I popped the candy into my mouth, bit down, and was instantly struck by the overwhelming taste of Play-Doh and Palmolive. Now, I am a grown woman, properly raised in the ways of social graces, but the taste of this candy, and the flood of saliva that immediately followed, forced me to audibly retch the licorice into the half-empty bag of popcorn at my feet. I then took a napkin and wiped the last remnants of it from my tongue. Five swishes of water later, and the taste still lingered.
Of course, this did not stop me from offering a piece to Dave at the end of the movie. “No, really. It’s so bad, you have to try it. It might be the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Dave graciously acquiesced. And then retched the licorice into his empty soda cup. He couldn’t even bite all the way through it, it was so bad.
So once again, dear Holland – if that is your real name – you have betrayed me. And if you think I’m just going to forget about this, you’ve got another think coming. I’ve got my eye on you, Netherlands. Trust no Dutch, indeed.

Filed under: General on July 17th, 2006 | 25 Comments »

What would you do if you came home from work and found that the floor of the back stairway leading to your apartment had just been painted, and your front door was deadbolted shut from the inside?
I think I would probably go back to my car, pull two grocery bags out of my trunk, and tie them tightly around my nice work shoes, thinking that plastic wouldn’t stick to the paint as much.
In this case, I would be wrong. Dead wrong.
As a Plan B, I might want to walk up to my neighbors’ doors in the bagshoes, so that no one could trace the bagprints back to my apartment.
That’s what I think.

Filed under: General on July 14th, 2006 | 17 Comments »

“Hey, Jen. Sorry I missed your call – I was at a poetry reading.”
“Of course you were.”
“So did you end up seeing Strangers with Candy?”
“No, I mostly spent the day at the cemetery.”
[silence]

“Viv? You still there?”
“I’m here. Okay, now exactly why were you at a cemetery?”
“Well, it was really gorgeous out on Sunday, and it just seemed like such a waste to spend the day in a dark movie theatre.”
“So you spent the day in a graveyard instead?”
“Mmm hmm.”

“Did you go with someone?”
“No, just myself.”
“All day?”
“Mostly.”
“Weren’t you creeped out? Crazy people live in the cemetery!”
“Well – it’s not like I went at midnight! It was the middle of the day. Although, there was one point where I got a little weirded out. I saw this dripping faucet that looked kind of cool, so I squatted down to take some pictures…”

“Uh huh.”
“…and one by one, about thirty crows flew into the two trees next to me. They didn’t come all at once – it was very Hitchcockian. And then they all started cawing at the same time, so I got the hell out of there.”
“You are such a freak.”
“What? It’s the largest cemetery in Chicago, and I’ve never been there. It just seemed like a good way to spend the day.”
“Taking pictures of dead people.”
“Not the people, just their tombstones. Did you ever notice that the ground in cemeteries is really soft? It’s kind of hard to walk on. And the next time I go, I’m going to be sure to get a map. I kept getting lost and having to listen for traffic to find the way out.”

“Oh my god, you’re crazy.”
“But then I saw this group of people who didn’t quite seem like mourners, because they all had sandals on and were carrying water bottles, so I casually followed them toward the exit.”
“Did you duck behind tombstones to hide from them?”
“No, but I did pretend to be taking pictures of this one angel statue.”

“Jenny, I really think you need to get involved in some group social activities.”
“What do you mean? I do stuff! What’s so wrong with going to a cemetery for fun? People do it in Europe all the time!”
“So on a gorgeous summer weekend, you decided to spend the day – by yourself – getting lost in a labyrinth of death and decay, and photo documenting the entire thing?”
“Well, geez, when you put it that way…”

Filed under: General on July 12th, 2006 | 30 Comments »

Since I know, as well as you, that it’s a really bad idea to write about work on a public website, please understand that the story I’m about to share is based on a discussion I had with a friend of mine. It has nothing to do with any place I have ever worked. But I’m going to write it in the first person so that you feel more connected to the story. You know, since you don’t really know the friend I’m talking about, and all.
There’s this person I work with who brings in candy all the time, which normally I would be really happy about, since I enjoy candy as much as the next guy. Actually, probably a lot more than the next guy. In fact, I’m eating a Charms Blo-Pop as I type this. But the thing is, she brings in deceptively awful candy. All the time. It looks like brand name candy, has the logo wrappers and everything, but at about the second chew, you immediately realize that something is just not right.
Did you ever get a bad peanut in your M&M’s? Where it kind of tastes burnt, or it’s harder than a normal peanut and you check to see if you chipped a tooth? Usually you can cover that taste up by popping another one in really quickly, but just imagine if the next one, and the one after that, were all equally as bad. Where the exception would be the M&M that actually tasted good. This is my world.
Is there a place you can go to buy really old candy that no one wants anymore? Like the Payless Shoe Source of sweets? Does the Dollar Store sell reject bags of candy? Because I just don’t understand how someone can consistently bring in old stale candy. Once in a while you might get a bad run of Snickers, sure. But every time?
You would think the tip off would be the off-holiday themes, like the pastel egg-shaped York Peppermint Patties suddenly appearing in August. Or the black and orange M&M’s in May. Or the E.T. themed Reese’s Pieces. But people apply different standards to office food. It’s like we’re on Survivor and suddenly fish eyeballs just seem like a really good source of protein.
Anyway, so today it was Nestle Caramel Treasures. I resisted at first, I honestly did, because my gut told me it was too good to be true. I smelled a trap. I mean, who gives away good caramel? I’ll tell you who – no one, that’s who. No one gives away good caramel, but what they do give away is dehydrated caramel. Desiccated caramel dust resting inside a waxy shell of chocolate, all wrapped in seductive purple foil.
Was this sitting in her attic for two years? Or perhaps frozen and defrosted fifteen times? How can you even make candy that inedible? And the worst part is that it didn’t get any better by the fourth one.

Filed under: General on July 6th, 2006 | 24 Comments »

[The overdue conclusion to Dinner: The Birth of Squirrelly-J]
Still reeling from the gift of breakdance poetry, I flip through the book as Natasha and Farnsworth lead me into our favorite bar. Having recently discovered that this bar has a secret list of “off-the-menu” drinks, Farnsworth is on a mission to become an insider.
This week, it is some pomegranate martini that looks and tastes exactly like Robitussin. My mouth waters a bit, and not in the good way, as I take a sip from Farnsworth’s glass, but he seems to enjoy it. Natasha and I are feeling like scotch, so we order a Glen of some sort.
Three seats open up at the corner of the bar, and we quickly move in. As I stir my scotch, waiting for the ice to melt a bit, I can hear two men having a loud conversation behind Natasha.
“Who’s that woman – she was in that movie…? Thelma and Louise. Who’s that woman?”
His eyes were barely half open as he leaned into his friend at the bar.
“Uh, oh wait. I can totally picture her. Davis. Geena Davis.”
“No, no. The other one. That other woman in Thelma and Louise.”
“Uh… I can’t-“
“SUSAN SARANDON!”
He yells this loudly, but the bar is noisy so it doesn’t quite make a scene.
“SUSAN SARANDON! That’s who you look like! You. You look just like Susan Sarandon.”
I suddenly realize that he’s talking to me. He is pointing at me with his martini glass, its contents sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
I glance over at Natasha, who is holding back a laugh, then back to the man and say, “You’re very kind – thank you.”
“No really. You look just like her.”
“Maybe it’s the hair,” Natasha offers, clearly questioning any true resemblance.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you look like Susan Sarandon?”
I suspect that this conversation could continue all night, so I agree with him. “Yes, someone once told me I looked like her.”
“Really?” Farnsworth asks, equally incredulous.
This isn’t a lie. I know that someone did tell me that, but can’t remember who it was. For a moment, I think it was Vivian, but then recall that she used to tell me I looked like Lesley Ann Warren, who we both agreed was the poor man’s Susan Sarandon. So I suppose this would make me the poor man’s Lesley Ann Warren.
The two men go back to their side of the bar and focus their attention on getting another round of chocolate martinis. This bar works in cycles, we always note. There will suddenly be a mad rush of customers, smiling people arriving in groups of four and five, and then just as quickly, we will look around to see open tables and available bar stools.
The tide flows, and suddenly Natasha is being shoved off her seat, unintentionally, by a crowd of noisy men who have just arrived. She leans in to whisper something to me.
“I don’t even have half a cheek on the stool anymore. I think both those guys are sitting on my seat!”
I laugh as I see her carefully trying to balance herself with one foot on the ground, the other one hooked under the stool so as not to entirely relinquish her claim on that seat. Suddenly, Natasha’s eyes widen and her back arches. The man behind her touches her shoulder and starts to say something.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you arright?”
I see Nat grabbing a stack of cocktail napkins, and realize that this man has just spilled his drink down her back. Or more precisely, due to the way she was perched on the stool, down her ass. She takes it remarkably well, considering.
“Please just tell me that wasn’t a chocolate martini you dumped down my back.”
“Wha-? No, iss just a vahka gimlet. Iss all alcohol.”
“Nothing to worry about Nat, that’s really just an antiseptic,” I say reassuringly.
As she works to pat dry the bottom of her jacket and top of her jeans, the man walks over between us. I turn to Farnsworth who is sitting next to me, hoping he will come to our aid. He has now ordered a cherry martini that smells like Luden’s cough drops, and I note that the evening has taken on a distinctly medicinal theme.
It becomes apparent that I am on my own, as the man begins asking me random questions.
“D’you live in this neighborhood? My friends over there are always trying to get me to move up here. Do you own or rent?”
“Rent.”
“Yeah, iss so fuggin’ esspensive.”
“No kidding.”
“’Specially if you’re single. Fuggin’ married tax credit.”
I nod my head yes, as though I have some idea what he is talking about. He rambles off a few more thoughts on married people, and then launches into a discussion about the Log Cabin Republicans. I can’t tell if he’s for or against, partly because I am singularly focused on preventing him from spilling the remainder of his drink on me.
As he sways back and forth, getting more and more passionate about rising property taxes, I have to steady his hand at least twice. In the end, I am unsuccessful, and grab another stack of napkins to sop up the spillage on my jeans.
“I think it’s time for you to switch to water,” I say, rolling my eyes at Natasha.
“Yeah, I’m really pretty drunk. I sh’go talk to my friends over there before they get pissed.”
I watch as he stumbles over to the other side of the bar, ping-ponging his way through the crowd, to join the movie buffs from earlier in the evening.
Nat, Farnsworth and I finish up our drinks, and then decide it’s time to head out, as this latest wave of bargoers doesn’t seem to be dissipating anytime soon. Just as we are leaving, I hear, “Susan Sarandon!”
I grab my jacket, look up and give an acknowledging nod to the man at the end of the bar. He lifts his glass to me and says, softer, “Susan Sarandon.”

Filed under: General on June 26th, 2006 | 24 Comments »

I think I just discovered the cure to my intense aversion to hugging coworkers: five Heinekens and six karaoke duets. It’s hard not to hug your VP of Sales after you’ve just executed the perfect rendition of Paradise by the Dashboard Light together.
But oh, my head. Stop screaming. Please?

Filed under: General on June 22nd, 2006 | 24 Comments »

“Fat Albert, you’re like an out of work school teacher.”
“Huh?”
“Nooo class.”
“Hey, hey, hey!”

No, that doesn’t have anything to do with anything, but I’m really at a loss right now. My knees are aching, I wince when I bend, and the muscle spasms between my shoulder blades have just now stopped. Why? Because some out-of-shape 35-year old office dweller thought that her god-given rhythm and unconditional love for Michael “Boogaloo Shrimp” Chambers could carry her through a Hip Hop/Funk dance class. Stupid, stupid rickety ass old hag.
Holy effing eff, you effing 22-year old skinny effing dance majors who have effing taken this effing class five effing times already. How I effing hate you. From this day forth, I shall call you all Midge.
Effing A.
Here’s what we were taught:
The motorcycle
The lean and rock
The pop
The stab
The side slide
Here’s what I learned:
The carpal tunnel
The spinal contusion
The abdominal spasm
The blown ACL
The whiplash
Mofo.
Well, I’m gonna pop and lock a few Tylenol PM’s, chase them with some Maker’s Mark, and dream of Big Daddy Kane, gold tooth and all. Tomorrow’s another effing day.

Filed under: General on June 20th, 2006 | 22 Comments »

As a friend, you learn that there are boundaries you must not cross. Honesty is essential in every friendship, but that must be tempered with kindness and common sense. There are rules we all know and understand: you never speak ill of their siblings, you must not reveal that you always hated their exes, you concur with them when they tell the officer the light was still yellow.
These are universally understood. But no one ever sent me this addendum to the agreement: thou shalt not criticize thy friend’s corporate vending machines.
Natasha: “Oh, I have to stop in my office before we go. I need to pick up my laptop.”
Jenny: “That’s cool.”
[The two arrive at Natasha’s office. Jenny waits in the hallway while Nat gathers her things.]
Jenny: “Hey, what’s up with your generic vending machine food?”
Natasha: “Huh?”
Jenny: “Crunchitos? Honey Buns? Big Texas Cinnamon Rolls? What kind of broke ass company do you work for?”
Natasha: “Shut up! What are you talking about? We have normal food in there!”
Jenny: “Oh, you mean like the Austin Vanilla Cremes? Or the Choco Layer Cookies? What the hell is a choco layer?”
Natasha: “Shut up! Well then… what do you have in your vending machines?”
Jenny: “Uh, Nutter Butters? Oreos? Hostess Twinkies? Perhaps you’ve heard of them?”
Natasha [voice getting softer]: “Shut up. The Austin Vanilla Creme cookies are fine. People have too heard of them.”
Jenny: “What?”
Natasha [trailing off]: “I mean, it’s not like I even eat anything out of there…”
Jenny: “Huh? What’d you say?”
Natasha: “Nothing. Let’s go.”
[Twenty minutes later, in Natasha’s car]
Jenny: “You totally work for Hydrox Corp.”
Natasha: “SHUT UP!”

Filed under: General on June 8th, 2006 | 21 Comments »