Remember Me?

5 12 2013

Hi. My name is Jenny, and I used to blog a lot.

I’m not entirely sure what happened, to be honest. Obviously there was the depression, but that didn’t stop me from blogging, so I can’t use that as an excuse. I certainly didn’t run out of things to say. You can ask any of my friends and they’ll confirm that. If there’s one thing I never stop doing, it’s telling people what I think.

Maybe I just got lazy.

But look! Here I am! Admittedly, I’m here mostly because I’m bored. Some of you might ask why I’m so bored. Here’s a pictoral explanation:

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If you’ll take a gander at the top of my humerus, you’ll notice it’s not quite right. “Good heavens, Jenny! You’ve broken your humerus!” I hear you saying (okay, you’re probably saying arm instead of humerus, because you’re not all into medical stuff like I am). “How on earth did you do that?”

Umm. Well. See, here’s the thing…apparently I’m a 90-year-old woman, because I slipped and fell in the shower. Just call me Grace.

So I’ve spent the past 2.5 weeks bored out of my mind, because yes, that’s my dominant arm. I can’t work. I can’t drive, because both of our cars are stick shifts. I can’t shower by myself.

But I can (finally) type. Lucky you!

Wow, this post is boring. I’m so terribly sorry. But they can’t all be Nobel-worthy. Really, what do you people expect from me? I’M ONLY HUMAN YOU KNOW.

That’s it. I’m done with this post. I can’t handle the pressure.

P.S. I’m thinking about trying my hand at fiction. I’m not sure the world is ready for this.

Oh, screw you, WordPress proofreader. Pictoral and humerus are totally valid words. WHY IS EVERYONE SO CRITICAL?



Christmas is a Feeling

26 11 2012

And I have very strong feelings about it. Specifically, about Christmas music.

Some of you may recall that I previously discussed my all-consuming hatred of the use of “My Favorite Things” as a Christmas song. That hasn’t changed a bit, but I’d like to talk about some more traditional music.

Caveat: I’m not getting into the modern stuff. If you get me going on “Christmas Shoes” my head will explode, and then Christmas will be ruined for my family and it will be all your fault.

I love traditional Christmas songs. Mostly. However, every year one or two songs come up in my rotation that just make me feel…well, stabby.

Today’s offender: “I Saw Three Ships.” I know! I must be some sort of crazy person to hate that song, right? Well, sort of. We all know I’m some sort of crazy person, but I have a legitimate reason for hating this song. Namely, it makes no sense. Behold:

I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day in the morning.

And what was in those ships all three?
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
And what was in those ships all three?
On Christmas day in the morning.

Our Savior, Christ, and His Lady,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
Our Savior, Christ, and His Lady,
On Christmas day in the morning.

Pray, whither sailed those ships all three?
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
Pray, whither sailed those ships all three?
On Christmas day in the morning.

O, they sailed to Bethlehem,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day
O, they sailed to Bethlehem,
On Christmas day in the morning.

Now, I’m going to stop right there and have a little geography refresher course.

Now, if you can tell me just how, exactly, someone sailed into Bethlehem, I might change my opinion. Although it still won’t convince me that any woman wants to get on a boat shortly after giving birth.

If I actually remember, in the next few days I’ll discuss the common Christmas song that Car and I fondly refer to as “the date rape song.”

I know! You can hardly wait, can you?

So Many Syllables

1 02 2012

Today’s blog (as well as the constant desire to up the dose of my ADD meds) is inspired by Big G’s homework folder.

Let’s say I randomly walk up to you in the middle of a crowded room and ask, “Can you tell me three words that have more than two syllables?”

You could do it. I have great faith in you.

What would those three words be?


I Feel Like Something is Missing

15 10 2011

I was going to blog about something else, so if you’re one of the people I told about my potential blog topic, sorry. I’ll still write that other blog, but after tonight’s dinner of Chinese takeout, I have more pressing matters to address. Don’t you love how I’m all cryptic?

Like, say, fortune cookies. Why do we love fortune cookies so much? It’s not just me, right? I love fortune cookies. I will cut someone who tries to steal my fortune cookie, because there’s nothing more awesome than breaking open a stale cookie to read a generic message about my future. Then, for some reason, I will stuff the cardboard-tasting cookie in my mouth. It’s inexplicable, yet I repeat the process every time I get Chinese food and I love it.

Reading a fortune cookie with a 6-year-old doesn’t have quite the same flair.

“What does mine say, mom?” asked Big G.

“It says you are about to embark on a most delightful journey.”

*pause* “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re going to go on a fun trip.”

*pause* “What does that mean?”

Is there a way to more clearly phrase that? I think not.

That wasn’t the point of the post anyway. Neither is this, but I need to get it off my chest: what the hell is up with fortune cookies that don’t have an actual fortune in them? Little G’s fortune: “Discontent is the first necessity of progress.” That’s not a fortune cookie, people. We’ll call that…an aphorism cookie. (I am so trademarking that.)

And then we have my fortune. I took a picture, and then I made it all arty and crap because let’s face it, a picture of a fortune is about as boring as it gets.

No, I didn’t cut off the picture. That’s all the fricking thing said.

It’s not just me, right? Something is missing from that fortune.




…care products?


I am stymied. How can I enjoy a fortune cookie if I can’t add the words “in bed” at the end? Because that, folks, is some high-quality humor right there. (Please tell me I’m not the only one who wants to be brain-wiped of that juvenile, overused trend and just go back to enjoying crappy fortunes.)

The fortune cookie manufacturers obviously need a proofreader. I hereby offer up my services.

They can pay me in cookies.

*At least they got the “admirable” part right. Rock on, fortune cookies.

**Not so much with the firm, though.

***Unless they’re talking about my resolve or something.

****But if they’re talking about visible parts of me, firm is not a word I’d use.

*****I just realized mine isn’t a fortune cookie either. It’s more like a Retrospective Cookie.™

Don’t Mess with Date Night

21 09 2011

Friday night Car and I went on a date. I know!  Like, babysitters and everything! Okay, we didn’t really pay the babysitters, since they were my niece and nephew and babysit in exchange for pizza (best deal EVER), but still. This is not something we do often.

We really need to go on dates more often, because I like my husband. As much as I love my kids, I like spending time with Car away from the small people in our life, as they tend to demand attention. Lots and lots of attention. And let’s be honest—when Car comes home at the end of the day, if all I’ve done is hang out with the boys and run errands, I’m not exactly runway-ready.

So I put on a pretty shirt and some makeup. I spent extra time on my hair and I even—brace yourselves—put on perfume. We went out to dinner and finally, two months after its release, went to see the last Harry Potter movie. Yay for being adults!

We got to the theater just as the movie was starting, and I immediately noticed two teenage boys up in the far corner of the theater were talking. Loudly. It’s okay, I told myself. They’ll stop in a second. The movie is starting.

They didn’t stop. They kept talking at full volume, and I was getting mad. I realize two movie tickets might not be a big deal to some people, but when you’re strapped for cash and you hardly ever leave the house anyway, it’s a pretty big deal. Plus talking during a movie is just plain rude.

The couple next to us turned around and called, “Hey! Shut up!” The boys either didn’t hear them or simply ignored them and kept talking.

I was seething. It was my date night.

Enough was enough.

I handed my wallet to Car and stalked up the stairs.

“Listen,” I hissed, “I go to about three movies every year and this one of them. Either you shut your mouths or I will shut them for you.”

Here’s the thing: Am I argumentative? Ornery? Mulish? Yes, yes, and yes. However, I’m normally quite conflict-avoidant in this sort of situation. I’ll hope someone else takes care of things or, if worse comes to worst, I’ll go find a manager and ask him or her to take care of it.

But I was pissed. Also, I wasn’t going to miss any of the movie because some dumbass kids wouldn’t shut up.

Of course, once I was in my seat, sanity kicked in and here’s what went through my head:

  1. How, exactly, would I shut their mouths for them?
  2. What if they’re in a gang?
  3. What if they have knives?
  4. Or guns?
  5. Or scary mothers?
  6. Or scary friends?
  7. Oh, crap. I hope I don’t die just because I wanted to watch the last Harry Potter movie on the big screen.

Fortunately, we didn’t hear a peep from them for the rest of the movie. And look! I’m still here AND I’m remarkably uninjured! Hooray!

I’m thinking maybe if we go on dates more often I won’t be quite so…territorial about them. It’s worth a try, right? That’ll be my persuasive argument. “We need to go on more dates so I stop scaring children.”

Best. Reason. Ever.


Pop Quiz, Hot Shot

17 08 2011

We have a nice set of picture cards that we can use to play Memory with the kids. (They also came with Bingo cards, but just try to keep a 5-year-old and 3-year-old focused on a game of Bingo until the bitter end. Go ahead. I dare you.)

These cards are large and have pretty drawings. I like them…with one horrifyingly painful exception. I try to ignore it, but every time I clean up the cards, this one card taunts me. I’m actually contemplating removing the pair from the deck because I can’t cope with it.

Yeah, I have issues. Still, take a gander and tell me what you think.

Name that flower:

Pretty flower! It’s pink and white, and so very lovely! What could possibly be wrong with such a flower?

Only one thing, really, but it’s oh-so-important:

No. Just…no. I even covered up the word on the card and asked Car what flower it was. His reply: “Um, tulip?”

It’s like they do these things just to mess with me.

As I continued my rant, Car interrupted with, “Well, roses are red…”

“But it’s not even red! It’s pink!”

That’s when I realized the time had come to write the best “Roses are Red” poem known to man.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Admit that’s a tulip
Or I will cut you.

*Update: It’s the next morning and I’m fixing a grammatical error. Who let me write a threatening “Roses are red” poem late at night?

**Went a little crazy with the ellipses, didn’t I?

***I just realized my children are frighteningly quiet. No more asterisks. Time to investigate.

My Little George Takei

9 08 2011

Big G has picked up a new phrase. I’m not sure where it came from or why he uses it for every imaginable situation, but I love it more than words can express.

Tonight we were playing Chutes and Ladders, and he landed on a space with a chute. “Oh my!” he exclaimed as he slid his piece down. Soon after that, as is the way of Chutes and Ladders, he landed on a space with a ladder. “Oh my!” He slid his piece up the ladder.

“If you eat a good dinner you may have a piece of cake,” I told him. “Oh my!” he said with a gleeful look on his face.

It’s like living with a little tiny George Takei. Except he’s not Asian. Or gay.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.