Nearing The Quarter-Life Crisis

Today is my half birthday. I am officially 24 1/2.

I'm beginning to feel like I need to drive a silver Mercedes, dye my hair red, start tanning and wear a miniskirt.

Although I don't have this feeling of Impending Doom like some people I've talked to, I am starting to feel old. Joey said something, rather derisively, about "when we're 30" the other day, and I kind of wailed "HEY! That's getting really close!"

As he turned 24 the other day, I think he realized that it IS getting really close too. All he said was something nasty like, "You're going to be 30 before me, hahaha." I usually kick him in the shins when he says that.

Seriously, younger men.

Seeing as we're on a seminary budget, I don't see the silver Mercedes, red hair, tanning or miniskirts in my future. (As everyone heaves a collective sigh of relief that I won't be prancing around in a miniskirt any time soon.)

I see the Quarter-Life Crisis shaking out to be something more like getting my silver Toyota Corolla washed, checking my hair for any signs of gray (I had a false alarm a couple months ago--totally freaked me out), slathering on the sunblock, and asking Joey if my just-above-the-knee skirt makes me look fat.

That's a bit more realistic, wouldn't you say?

Happy 24 1/2 Birthday, Me!

Bigger Than My Body Gives Me Credit For

Joey and I went shopping on Monday and I came home with a pair of 3 inch heels. They're super, super high.
This is fairly monumental as I rarely wear heels much higher than 1-1 1/2 inches. I generally go for comfort over fashion where my feetsies are concerned.

However, I am nearly as tall as Joey (OK, I'm like 5'4") when I wear these bad boys. I feel super tall and elegant, almost like a supermodel or something.

OK, not quite that tall.

But I'm going to get my "tall" self out the door before I'm late for, um, That Place I Go During The Day (ahem, GRANDPA).

Somewhat Stranger Than Fiction

Joey and I were on an island.

We were there teaching school to a rancher family's children. Our home was a lovely, breezy island hut with long flowing white linen curtains and a bamboo floor.

Life was idyllic.

We were getting ready to go back to the mainland for vacation when Joey found something unusual in his desktop computer tower. (Why he was looking in there, I'll never know.)

"Look, Jenna, I found this large pixy stick full of white powder." He said. The shape of the object strongly resembled my lipstick. (I found that very odd.) "Here, look."

He opened the tube and showed me the white powder.

"GOSH, Joey, put that down! It's probably drugs or crack or something!"

He set it down quickly.

"That's odd, it looks just like the one I got from Chick-fil-A last week. I figured it was safe."

"Put it back before whoever put it in your computer realizes it's gone and tries to kill you," I told him. He quickly put the cap back on and replaced it in the computer tower.

Just as we were getting ready to leave, a bunch of armed, masked men showed up and pounded on our door demanding us to come out.

As we weren't carrying any weapons (nor would we know what to do with them if we were), we obliged.

They tied us up and started looking all over the house for that little tube of white powder.

"See?" I hissed at Joey when they weren't looking, "I told you they'd come back for it!"

We heard them talking in the next room and got very quiet so we could listen in.

"....so we can harvest their organs." One of the men said.

My eyes got very large. So did Joey's.

"Good thing we got everybody else on this island too," another one said. "We'll make a killing when we sell their organs back in the States."

Joey leaned over to me and said, "We've got to try to get out of here!"

"I know! They're going to sell our organs on eBay!" (Or something like it.)

He was just hatching a plan when the masked men came thundering back into the room where we were tired up.

And then I woke up, realized it was a dream, and was extremely glad that:
a.) Joey doesn't have crack in his computer
b.) We weren't getting our organs harvested

Joey's Birthday

As promised, here are a few pictures from our festive celebration of Joey's birthday. It is 10:02 p.m. and I am excessively tired, so I shall try to be neither witty nor glib.

Enjoy these pictures at your leisure. Or if you don't want to, then don't. (See, I must be getting sort of grouchy too.)
This is the sweet looking cake I made for Joey. I don't like chocolate cake with chocolate frosting (unless it comes from the Cheesecake Factory), so to me it looks better than it tastes. Joey said it was kick awesome.

Joey wants cake!!
My parents and I went halves on a green iPod Shuffle for Joey which was basically his birthday dream come true. He also got a guitar book which I am too lazy to picture here. Mostly I am super tired and falling asleep at the switch.

So happy birthday Joey. And happy you for seeing the pictures of Joey's happy birthday. The end.

New Skills I Have Acquired

Since moving to Dallas, I have noticed some things about myself that are gradually starting to change. I am, for better or worse, slowly morphing into a Texan.

Observe:
I am quite comfortable saying the phrase "all y'all" even though it horrifies Joey.

I regularly wear black and brown together. I have never seen a single person do this in Iowa, but down here in Texas it seems to be considered fashionable. And so I do it. (I am today, actually.)

I am no longer afraid to cut someone off while moving at semi-high speeds on the freeway during rush hour, or just driving on a regular road. (If I don't get that spot someone else will.)

I wear capris in February.

I lock the doors on my vehicle as soon as I get in les some creepy dude try to carjack me.

I no longer say "pop", it is now "soda". (With an accent.)

I consider something that's a 45 minute drive as being "not too far away".

I don't blink when I pay more than $3 for a 1/2 gallon of milk or $1.75 for a dozen eggs.

I turn the radio up or talk on my cell phone when I'm driving home in rush hour. It's more relaxing that way.

Gross

I waited until 9:15 to have breakfast today. Normally I eat it about 7:45-8:00.

I didn't eat a bagel on Friday, even though that's my day to have a bagel, so I decided that since I'm cold today it seemed advantageous to have a bagel and some hot tea for breakfast.

Whole wheat cinnamon raisin is my bagel of choice and I thought I'd hit paydirt when I saw what appeared to be cinnamon sugar on the counter.

Without taking the time to smell it first, I shook it all over my bagel.

I brewed my tea and happily sat down to enjoy my breakfast. I took a big bite of my yummy bagel and....

...promptly tried to decide if it was considered rude to spit it out in the trash can.

Apparently I'd salted the bagel with some brown sea salt. It was most definitely NOT cinnamon sugar that I'd put on. I chewed as quickly as I could (which is not an easy task when you've got a mouth full of whole wheat bagel that's just doused in salt) and swallowed.

I grabbed the nearest beverage--my piping hot Raspberry Spark tea--and downed a large gulp.

I succeeded in scalding my tongue but not ridding my mouth of the horrid salty taste. I decided to chug some water which helped a little bit.

After realizing the my hopes and dreams of a yummy warm breakfast were foiled, I wilted. Not to be put of I picked up my salty bagel, marched back to the kitchen, threw it away and made another.

It tasted quite good and un-salty, too, even though it didn't have any cinnamon sugar on it.

I Am Too Old For This

Today's Joey's birthday. (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY! Birthday pictures forthcoming.)

We planned to go down to his aunt and uncle's to have a party with the Texas side of the family. Joey's brother (who I will refer to as Specialist since he's in the Army and back from Iraq on leave) was there also.

For lunch we had steak and Uncle actually cut the steak himself. Not from the cow, mind you, but pretty close. It was this big hunk of creepy looking red meat that was about two times the size of my head until he sliced it up.

I was glad that I didn't have that job.

Joey started snitching off the birthday cake before we even sat down to eat lunch. Uncle gave me a spankin' spoon and told me to monitor Joey since he obviously couldn't control himself.

We all sat down for lunch. I, inopportunely, was positioned in between Joey and Specialist. The meal was progressing quite nicely. I noticed that Specialist was looking outside kind of squinty-like.

"What?" I asked.

"Check out that guy out there..." He kind of trailed off.

I squinted. I didn't see no guy nowhere.

I turned back to tell Specialist so when I noticed that he was looking real tricksy and marginally guilty.

"What?" I asked, again. (I felt like a broken record.)

Grinning like a Cheshier cat, he bragged that he'd been snitching cake.

I grabbed the spankin' spoon and poked him in the shoulder.

"HEY!" Specialist cried, snatching the spoon from me. (I tried to get it back to no avail.) "You'll get this back when you least expect it."

We finished lunch and I stood up to clear Joey and Specialist's plates. Just as I headed toward the sink I heard a resounding SMACK! and felt a very pronounced stinging sensation on my bum.

Specialist started laughing.

"OW! Did you just spank me with that spoon?" I wailed.

"I told you you'd least expect it." He was very smug.

"I'm probably going to be super bruised," I glared.

Unfortunately, I have no evidence of bruising.

A Good Scare

I haven't really used AIM since college, but recently I have begun to use it again.  (During the day.)  I kind of turned my back on AIM once I started dating Joey back in college, he used MSN so I used MSN. 

 

A rather girly, nerdy thing to do but, I admit, I did it.

 

AIM hasn't changed much since college.  It pretty much looks the same, works the same, even the sounds are the same.

 

Even The Moo.

 

When you are using AIM you can set it up to alert you when a particular buddy signs on.  They have several pathetic sounds such as a ding, cash register, or door opening but I favored The Moo.  (You know how I like cows and all.)

 

I dated a guy for several years before I dated Joey.  I used AIM to chat with him and every time he'd sign on I'd hear The Moo.  Pathetically, I used to sit around and wait for The Moo every evening. I am quite programmed now; every time I hear The Moo I jump.

 

This brings us back to today.

 

I was standing over by a cabinet when, out of the blue, I heard The Moo.

 

I JUMPED!!  (Quite abruptly, too.  I felt like an idiot.)

 

It has been over three years, but I still jumped!  Pathetic.

 

I definitely started looking over my shoulder, too, as if he was going to show up around the corner or something. (As if that's possible.)

 

Isn't it weird how sounds totally trip memories like that and either make us smile or freak us out?

 

Whenever I hear my John Mayer CD I think of Joey. :)

Hmm

I am just getting ready to crack open a Sprite Zero (because while I may get fat from the cookie I just ate, I don't want to get fat from my soda) and I notice that there are little pieces of dirt and what looks to be an eyelash on the top of the can.

 

I am not sure I am comfortable consuming this beverage.

There are straws in the kitchen but last time I drank a soda out of a straw it got really bubbly and then I burped a lot. 

 

Which is obviously not a good thing. Especially during the day.

 

As yet I have not decided that drinking the soda is not in my best interest.  Even though I realize the the artificial sweetener may (and probably will) cause cancer.

 

I drink soda so rarely (and diet soda even more so), that I figure I'm more likely to get cancer from the burnt popcorn I like to eat.  (Also rarely.)  Anyway, I'll probably get cancer from my shampoo, makeup and toothpaste before I get it from one diet soda every couple of weeks, ain't so? 

 

This does not help me with my current predicament, though.  To drink or not to drink: that is the question.

 

I'll probably flip The Alex Nickel.  (Which, as we all know, is authoritative in all questions that I cannot decide on my own or cannot just ask Alex.  And usually I wind up contradicting its edicts.)  Hold on, let me dig it out of my bag...

 

Heads, I drink the soda.  Tails, I don't.

 

(I just got tails but I'm going to drink it anyway.)

 

Heads, I use a straw.  Tails, I drink it out of the gross can and probably die from germs.

 

I just got heads, but I don't want to walk back to the kitchen. On second thought, I just looked at the can again.  It's REALLY dirty. 

 

I'll be leaving for the kitchen now.  I don't particularly want to swallow someone else's eyelash.

 

 

Hats

We went to Target on the way home from church. (Joey decided that I needed some vanilla ice cream.)

You know the dollar section that's right as you walk in the door? This week they have these big green hats for St. Patrick's Day (when is that anyway?). I grabbed one, put it on my head, and pranced around the store with Joey.

He sort of shook his head at me as though he were trying not to laugh.

On the way out the door Joey grabbed another one of the hats, put it on his own head and said, "We're buying these."

With that, we paid for our items, put the hats on again and walked out of the store.

"We're pretty much wearing these things to pick my parents up from the airport in a couple weeks," I said.

Joey didn't disagree with me.

Ching.

My Bad Idea

I went to the kitchen in search of grapes.
 

I found them with quite a bit of ease but not before I noticed something very naughty and tempting.

 

There was a huge stack of oatmeal raisin cookies and sugar cookies.  They were calling my name.

 

I glanced around to see if anyone was looking.  They weren't.  so I grabbed an oatmeal raisin cookie and stuck it under my grapes for safekeeping.

 

Not being able to resist, I took a bite.  It was medicore which, for an oatmeal raisin cookie, is not a good thing.  I threw it away and walked out of the kitchen.

 

In doing so I realized that I should have gotten a sugar cookie instead.

 

I'm considering going back.  No, I have made my decision. I AM going back.

 

Let's hope they're not all gone.

This One's For The Kid

Poor, poor The Kid. He had a real rough morning.

I must preface this story by mentioning that Pops wears these plasticy things on his nose at night to "keep him from snoring". They're called Breathe-Rights and they're infamous in our house. (None of us children are convinced that the claims of said Breathe-Rights are accurate. Besides, those NFL guys wear them when they play football. Weird.)

We tend to find Breathe-Rights stuck in strange places, but most commonly on the mirror in the bathroom.

I guess they're better the second time around. Either that or Mom is making Pops be frugal. (Probably more of the latter than the former.) Mom's pretty good like that.

Back to The Kid.

This morning he got out of the shower and was drying off when he felt something odd and scratchy. He examined the towel and, to his great dismay, found a Breathe-Right stuck to the towel.

So of course he screamed.

As I was not there (thankfully), I can only assume that what happened next went something like this. The Kid attempts to get the Breathe-Right off the towel and after much struggle he succeeds. He then cannot get the Breathe-Right off his hand and is hopping around frantically in his struggle to be rid of the thing. After five or ten minutes he manages to disentangle himself from the vice-like grip of the Breathe-Right and makes it out the door to church only a few minutes late.

The Kid tells me that he finds these things all over the house lately. He's seen them on the steering wheel, seat, AND dashboard of Pops' Aurora, on the tractor (Pops has old-timey John Deere tractors), on Paul Cheshier's hat (I am not even sure I want to know how that happened) and in the shower.

Not to mention The Kid's towel.

In Which Joey and Jenna Get Their Futon But Almost Die Trying

Our futon is here.

We ordered it two weeks ago from the Ashley (yay Sister!) furniture store, and they said it would be in on Monday. (That would be the two days from now Monday.) They wanted us to pay $70 to have the thing delivered, but as that was 1/3 the cost of the futon we decided we'd fetch it ourselves.

With what pickup truck, we weren't sure yet. But we weren't payin' no $70 to nobody when we could do it ourselves for free. (In theory.)

We were sitting on the couch this morning when I looked at Joey and said "Hey, why don't you call those gnomes down at the Ashley store and see if the futon's in. I bet it is and they just haven't called us yet."

Sure enough, it was.

I'll leave out the boring logistical details, but Joey dropped Stephanie and me off at the mall, he ran to his Uncle Ken's to borrow his father-in-law's Honda Odyssey and headed down to Arlington.

I have no idea where Arlington is.

Two hours later (and drama involving our oven getting left on at 500 degrees with a sweet potato inside and I was locked out so I couldn't go home and turn it off--don't ask) Joey arrived back home with the futon.

It had barely fit in the Odyssey in the first place, so it was HUGE. Not 'UGE, but actually HUGE.

He popped the back of the Odyssey and I just stared.

"Um, you think we can carry that?"

"I hope so."

I noticed the weight on the side of the box. "125 libs?! NO WAY! I can't carry that."

We had to try, though, because we had to give the van back.

"Worst case scenario is that we shove it all the way to the apartment." Joey said.

As difficult as it was to get the stupid box out of the back of the van, we determined that it was actually Worst Case Scenario. We shoved the box.

Our apartment complex is set up kind of confusing. It's really ambient and pretty, but it's not so easy for moving in. Or for shoving 125 lb boxes full of futon.


We finally made it to our apartment (with the help of some 10 year old boys...they were actually just walking along side us asking some informative questions like "Mom, what are they doing? What's in that box?" and so on) and stared at the formidable stairs.

"How in the world are we going to get it up those?" I asked.

"Um, I think we're going to roll it end over end." Joey said.

"We'll probably die."

I'm sure that anyone who was watching us could have filmed it for Funniest Home Videos and won first prize. I'm not really sure HOW we got the thing up the stairs, but we did. I can't even explain how we did it.

We got the futon out, set it up, and now can't figure out how to lay it back down. It looks nice, though. I really like it.


Before Joey took the box out I decided to see if I could fit in it. I could. I could spread my arms out and still not touch the edge. I still haven't decided if that's amazing because the box is so big, or if it's just pathetic that I'm so short.


At any rate, I think Joey and I both messed up our backs but we definitely saved $70. And I suppose I should feel good about that.

Creepy Eyes All The Time Get Some

Joey and I went in for our eye appointments today. They dilated our eyes. This is the result: we both look like owls and our eyes are excessively sensitive to light.

(We walked to the eye doctor...it's REALLY sunny outside. It was a long walk back.)

(FYI--my eyes are supposed to be brown and Joey's are supposed to be blue)

How Does Your Stamp Pad Grow?

I decided to water the stamp pad. When I say "water", I mean "add tons of liquid ink". I found a big bottle of it and, basically, I just wanted to use it.

First I dismantled my red date stamp. I got red ink all over myself and wound up looking more like I'd murdered the stamp than anything else. Not good. Then, when I took the lid off the ink bottle, I noticed that the ink was black. Not red.

So I'd made myself look all gory for nothing. Rats.

I dug around for a black stamp and was quite pleased when I found one. I popped out the ink pad and laid it on the counter for inspection. Like a gleeful child, I squeezed a blob of ink on the pad.

Its inky blackness was beautiful. It spread over the stamp pad and.....over the edge onto the counter. There is now a black ink smear by my right elbow. I'm trying to avoid it because I don't want to get it on me. I'd clean it up, but then I might get it on me. (So you see, I'm in a pickle.)

For fun, I squeezed more ink onto the pad, this time watching the edges. I have repeated this proces four times, currently. I think I'm going to see how much ink I can get this inkpad to hold.

Hehehehe.

OH SWEET, I JUST FOUND ONE THAT IS EVEN MORE DRIED OUT!!!

I'm probably going to make a huge mess.

I Am Short

This morning I went to fix myself a cinnamon raisin bagel with Smart Balance. I enjoy bagels, but they have so many calories that I only have them on Fridays. 

 

I just decided that this morning and was quite excited to have a bagel as it has been a week or two.

 

I walked into the kitchen. Naturally I was not at home but was "wherever I go during the day" (ahem....GRANDPA!), so the kitchen isn't quite as set up for short people as I would like.

 

There were no plates on the counter.

 

I looked around and wasn't able to spot any.  This meant only one thing--they were in the cupboard.  The high cupboard.  Above the refrigerator.

 

I can't even reach the bottom of the cupboard if I stand on my tiptoes, so I located the step-stool, climbed on, and opened the cupboard.

 

Mind you, the base of the cupboard was still above my head.  I couldn't really see in very well, so I kind of leaned back precariously and pawed around to try to feel the plates.

 

I came up empty.

 

On the top shelf (still out of my reach, even with the stepstool) I noticed a very large, long, heavy tube of paper plates.  My concern at the moment was that if I got those plates down, they'd throw off my counter balance and I'd go sprawling to the floor.

 

A very tall woman walked in.

 

"Jenna, be careful!  Do you need help?"

 

I determined that it was best to give up entirely on the fetching of the plates rather than to admit my defeat.  I climbed down and said, "No, it's OK."

 

I used a small, small plate that I found on the counter instead.  And my bagel was very tasty, thank you very much.

Valemtimes Day!

Last night, when I came home from work, a lovely and wonderous surprise was waiting for me.

HEART SHAPED KRISPY KREME DOUGHNUTS!!!!

Joey, being the sweet guy that he is, walked to Krispy Kreme, then walked to the bank to attempt to get his Social Security card and deposit some checks (they closed 10 minutes before he got there), and then walked over to the mall to get me a Sacher Torte.

It was 35 degrees yesterday afternoon. He was still a little pink-cheeked when I got home.

I'm eating my doughnut right now. Yummy to my tummy.

Thank you, Joey!!

my odd Valentine's morning

(Disclaimer:  My morning was not odd because of anything Joey did or didn't do.  All of the oddness occured after I left the house.  Joey is great and I love him very much.)

 

I got underway 10 minutes late this morning.  I had been loafing around reading a book when Henry hurt himself and needed a hug.  He had been sitting under the coffee table and jumped up to the couch, but he wasn't clear of the coffee table and wound up smacking his furry little backside somethin' fierce.

 

Poor guy.

 

Once I finally got on the road and determined that I was not late enough to just be sitting on the freeway (anything much later than 7:30 and it's not a pretty sight around here), I was in business.

 

I did not notice any accidents, ugly cars, or otherwise run into stationary objects, thank you very much.

 

I parked quickly and decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator.  This was useful for two reasons: 

1.)  I realized that I can get into the stairs from the garage, but not from upstairs (what good does that do?)  so I can only take them in the morning.

2.)  I was reminded that I am way out of shape

 

Quite relieved that I did not get locked in the stairs (no cell phone signal in there and it could be construed as tacky to pound on the doors and cry until someone came along and let me out), I walked through the lobby.

 

The security guard, quite cheerily, said "Happy Valentines Day!" to me as I walked by, catching me quite off guard.

 

(I have never been wished a happy Valentines Day by a random guy, much less a security guard.) 

 

It was then that I learned, much to my dismay, that Krispy Kreme has been making heart-shaped doughnuts with sprinkles on them.  And I drove right past and didn't get one.

 

And I probably won't get one either, since I have our only car and it's down here with me.  They probably ran out by now anyway.  <sigh>

 

Krispy Kreme, though, is only about a mile away from us.  Just far enough away that we could walk to get our doughnuts, walk back, and feel positively blissfull about the entire caloric experience, what with "walking it off" and all.

George Foreman Dies

Unfortunately it happened right when I was making dinner, too.  I plugged in the George and it was heating up nicely.  On a whim, I decided to put Italian seasonings and parmesan cheese in the burgers I was making. 

 

I have a problem with proportion, thickness, and adhesiveness when I make burgers.  They're usually too small, too plump and they fall apart because I didn't "spank" them enough.  (To quote my Mom.)

 

Well, last night I proportioned them, I squished them together so they were so smooth, and I spanked them down to the right thickness. 

 

They were perfect.

 

George was ready, so I threw on my three burgers.  They sizzled nicely and began to smell very aromatic and tasty.

 

A few moments later I realized that the "ready" light was off and the burters were no longer sizzling. 

 

I laid my hand on top of the George (not a wise thing to do).  Nothign really happened.  It was warm, but not HOT.  I didn't yelp or feel uncomfortable.

 

I unplugged the George, then replugged him in.

 

Nothin'.

 

Last time I used the George this happened, but I just plugged him back in and he worked like a dream.

 

After 10 minutes of hoping that the George was still warm enough to book my burgers, I gave up and pan-fryed them.  Not ideal, but it worked, especially since we were supposed to be at some friends' house at 7:00 to play Catan.

 

Now we have to buy a new George and I'm real pouty about that.  But at least we can get one with removable plates...

 

Poor George!

Nostalgia?

I smell like my high school English teacher, and it's not a pretty thing.

 

I was kinda tired this afternoon, so I went to Dr. Flavia and was perscribed a Level 2 Breakfast Blend coffee.  Which I drank.

 

Being kind of tired, I went back to Dr. Flavia and grabbed a Level 4 and sat down to consume it.

 

The jittery jibblies began to set it.  I tapped my pen repeatedly.  I fidgeted in my chair.  I got up to go to the bathroom.  Twice. 

 

I am now unable to concentrate and my breath is really, really bad.  I have brushed my teeth, Listerined, and chewed gum.

 

Perhaps Dr. Flavia's advice wasn't such a great idea?

Poor Me

Since my pops won't probably number his calf 19-50, I have decided to use subliminal messaging to get my way. I doubt it will work.

In church last Sunday (yes, I was paying attention), I drew this picture. If you look carefully, you'll find quite a few 1950s.

I figure that when Dad sees it he'll be like "oh, that's great" and then a few minute later think to himself "I know exactly what to number that calf! 19-50!"

And thus my brilliant plan will be exacted.

Stalking and Other Adventures

Joey says it's only stalking if you get caught.

This afternoon, when I was at that place that I go to during the day (ahem), I decided to see what would happen if I googled Charles Ryrie.

I got his address and phone number.

So I googled that to see where it was. Fancy that, it was a block off my route home! So of course I told my Sister and my husband The News.

After dinner Joey and I decided to google some other "famous" people down here. Our searches were to no avail. So we got on the DTS Stalker-Net and found one address worth checkin' out. (We actually found two, but the other was in Frisco and there ain't no way we're drivin' to Frisco just to stalk.)

Howard Hendricks, as it turns out, lives less than a mile from us. Right across the highway! We thought that was about the sweetest thing since sliced bread, so we drove by his house first.

Then we headed down a few more miles to drive by Ryrie's place.

Super weird. Super weird.

Oh, and as far as Other Adventures, my "introduction" went pretty good this morning. They made me sit right to the left of the guy the camera was focused on, but by the time my little face got satellite beamed all over the place, I looked pretty small and fuzzy.

Which was a good thing.

I had abolished the coffee breath by a good long teeth-brushing, Listerine, and a piece of gum, but naught could be done for the pouffy hair. (That'd be my own fault for getting up 30 minutes before I had to leave....)

And thus ends my Monday.

nuts

I was just informed that I am to be "introduced" today.  I do not care to be introduced, especially as I am dressed rather unfortunately today. 

 

I got up at 6:00 and decided that was a bad idea, so I reset my alarm for 7:00. I was out the door by 7:30.  In that small amount of time I managed to put my shirt on backwards, not be able to find the correct color of stockings, and screw  up my hair.

 

I am currently wearing the incorrect color of stockings.  I did manage to rectify the shirt on backwards bit, although I was tempted to just leave it as it was.

 

With only 45 minutes until The Introduction, it is imperative that I run to the ladies room and freshen up before strange images of myself get beamed via sattellite from San Fransisco to London and back again.

 

It's Monday.

Diana Ross

My Texas driver's license finally came in the mail today. I say "finally" because it was a month ago on Monday that Joey and I went in to get them switched. I think that a month is kind of an excessive and pathetic turn-around time on driver's license.

Joey opened the envelop from TxDOT first, smirked at the picture, and then handed it to me.

"You look like Diana Ross," he said.

"Diana Ross?!" Understandably I was a little confused. Tactfully put, um, she and I are not even the same ethnicity. (And I think she's a lot older than I am.)

"Yeah. Your hair does."

My hair?

Granted, it was about down to my chin then...and I'd pulled my bangs back...but I still don't see much of a connection between me and Diana Ross. Actually I'm not even sure what she looks like.

Hold on, let me Google her.

Yeah, I just did that and we look nothing alike. Especially not the hair. Maybe Joey needs to get his eyes checked?

Why I Must Pay Better Attention

I suppose the only proper way to begin this post is to admit that I ran my car into the wall in the parking garage this morning. 

 

Now before you go off thinking worst case scenario...

 

When I was coming in on 75, I noted that people were being a bit more reckless than usual.  I, too, began to drive in such a way--I figured it was safer than getting sideswiped by some crazed lane-changer.

 

About a mile from my exit, traffic began to slow.  Not moments before, some SUV had rear ended a car and I guess people were slowing down to check out the damage.  (They'd pulled to the side of the road, fortunately.)

 

I drove by safely, quite glad that I hadn't gotten into a fender-bender on MY way to work!

 

Soon I was descending (and squealing my tires) into the parking garage.  I was on the lookout for a good spot as I don't particularly care for parking 5 minutes away from the elevators.  Luckily, I found the perfect spot just a few spaces away from them.

 

Elated, as usual, I whipped into the parking spot.

 

On my right was a large, creamy yellow, old-timey Land Rover.  It was very ugly.  Instead of properly looking where I was going as I parked my car, I looked at the ugly Land Rover.  I considered what it would have been like had that Land Rover caused the accident on the freeway this morning. 

 

And that's when it happened.

 

THUMP.

 

I was rocked back into the present when my car ran into the wall of the parking garage.  It's a solid concrete wall.  (My airbag did not deploy, which was quite a relief.)

 

I glared at the Land Rover, the cause of my problems, and tried to figure out what to do next. 

 

The first course of action was to frantically look around and make sure no one saw me run into the garage wall.  No one had--good.

 

My second course of action was to back up the car so that no one could tell what I'd done.  (Particularly the owner of the Land Rover.)

 

Then I tried to get out.

 

I had parked too close to the 2 foot wide concrete post and could only open the car door about 5 inches.  Not wishing to risk another bump into the wall, I decided to try to squeeze.

 

It was a tight, tight squeeze.  I thought I was going to get stuck permanently and have to call Joey to come and bring me food and water.

 

Somehow I made it out (not sure how I'm going to get back IN the car when it's time to leave...I might climb through the passenger's side) and determined that it was probably not a good idea to try to survey any potential damage done to the front of the car.

 

I might get stuck and never get out.

 

And I was getting later by the minute.  So I tossed my semi-stacked, mousey brown, undyed bob, got out my cell phone to call Joey and tell him what I'd done before he had to read about it on my blog, and headed in for the morning.

Burnt Crisp

In order to be economical and healthy, I make my own bread.  (I do not stand in the kitchen for an hour kneading it, I use a bread machine.)

 

Two weeks ago I bought some hamburger buns (oddly enough they were labeled "hot dog buns" but were most definitely hamburger buns) and Joey and I didn't eat them all. 

 

I was planning my menus on Saturday and thought that croutons would go perfectly with the chicken caesar salad I'm making for dinner tonight.  Storebought bread makes better croutons than homemade bread because it's not quite as dense and, as we had quite a few leftover hamburger (hotdog?) buns, this made my economical self quite pleased.

 

Last night I determined to be organized and make my croutons ahead of time.  I whipped up a quick batch (seriously it takes about 2 minutes), turned on the oven, and set the timer.

 

The recipe called for 25 minutes, so that's where I set it.

 

I ran to the grocery store and left Joey in charge of the kitchen. 

 

I was gone for the whole 25 minutes because I got distracted in the floral section of the grocery store.  (So many pretty flowers!) 

 

When I walked in the front door, I immediately noticed that something was amiss.  The air was hazy and there was an oddly acrid smell permeating the apartment.

 

"What happened?!"  I asked.

 

"Well...."  Joey said, pointing to a cookie sheet of charred croutons on top of the oven.  "I took them out right when the timer went off, but they were already long gone by that point."

 

I could see that he was right.  They looked like mini bricks of charcoal, and they smelled positively carcinogenic. I dumped them into the trash.

 

I gave them another go this morning before work.  This time I set the timer for 15 minutes. 

 

They were perfect.  Can't wait to have them for dinner!

Spring Fever

Although it is February 7, I have what can only be construed as a major case of Spring Fever. It is 70 degrees outside, sunshiney, and altogether a gorgeous day.

 

I cannot concentrate.  I cannot sit still. 

 

Pretty much what I have been doing all day consists of this:

 

Do some stuff for about 20 minutes, then discover that I'm sitting, staring out the window and twirling my hair around my finger.  Twirling my hair around my finger!  As though I were some silly schoolgirl!

 

(There are those who may argue that I am still a silly schoolgirl, but I choose to ignore them.)

 

Do some more stuff for about 20 minutes, then discover that I'm just sitting, staring out the window and twirling my hair around my finger... (etc, etc, etc.)

 

Joey is mean and told me that he and Henry were outside playing frisbee with JP.  I am now insanely jealous because I want to be playing frisbee too.

 

But, as that's not likely to happen, I must be content sitting, staring out the window and twirling my hair around my finger. 

 

Perhaps the sun will go down later than normal today so I can get a throw or two in before it gets too dark.  I pretty much LOVE TEXAS WEATHER!!!

 

Mousy?

I was inadvertently informed today (read: I was eavesdropping) that natural brown hair looks mousy.

I have natural brown hair. I suppose this means that I, too, look mousy? (I could have told you that--most of my clothes are "wrong", half of my shoes are "wrong"...I'm pretty much a country bumpkin down here!)

Dallas has more plastic surgeons per capita than Hollywood, so I suppose it is natural for people to think that it's normal to spend $200 every 6 weeks on a cut and dye job. I do not think that is normal. I think that is more than my food budget for the month.

I am having to come to grips with a new social order, one in which I will never truly fit in. Yesterday I decided that was going to be just fine with me, too.

I may shop at Ann Taylor (Loft, though), but it'll have to be on super sale or I'm not shelling out the money. I may buy some trendy boots, but they'll have to be department store closeouts, and I'll probably not spend more then $30. I will not, however, start dying my hair just so that it will be some color other than brown.

So me and my mousy brown hair are going to go have a great rest of the day! I'm gonna go get some cheese from the kitchen... :)

I Am Cool

You know how highschool boys--er, I mean guys, think it's really cool to peel out and squeal their tires?

I totally did that this morning.

 

I was parking in an underground garage that has really windy ramps and every time I'd go around the corner I'd accellerate just for fun.  I noticed a strange squealy noise that sounded a lot like tires.  Could it be me?!

 

I accellerated a little bit faster on the next corner.

 

SQUUUEAL.  Yup, it was definitely me; there was no one else around!

 

It was oddly satisfying to I realize that I had not only peeled out my tires, but I'd done it several times and the last few were on purpose.  I felt like I needed to start wearing really saggy pants, put on a low-billed baseball cap, grow my hair out all ruffian-like and act like I'm cooler than everyone else in the world.

I Think The Kid May Actually Be Famous

After posting about The Kid and all his nicknames, a very unusual thing happened.

I GOT, LIKE, 10 MORE HITS ON MY BLOG THAN NORMAL!!!

I know this sounds piddly, but I normally have around 20 hits a day on this blog. Just posting about The Kid shot it up to 30!

I was thrilled.

Perhaps The Kid actually IS famous and I just didn't know about it? It's hard to tell.

Anyway, props to The Kid for making my hits go up yesterday. Here's to hoping that posting about The Kid again will take me up to 40 hits a day. (I doubt it will. He's not THAT famous...)

My Day Is Boring

Since I have nothing interesting to blog about today, I'll force you all to look at a picture of Henry.

He's cute and, by default, more interesting than anything else I would have to say.

(He put himself in the chair that way too, he's not even posed! Isn't he a wonder dog?)

The Kid Wants Fame And Fortune

After reading The Kid's comment on my last post ("The Kid Is A Sneak"), it is clear to me that aside from being a sneak, The Kid wants only one other thing: fame and fortune.

He seems to think that I am the person to give him said fame and fortune, too.

Allow me to post his comment here for our general edification and subsequent analysis.

"And the funny thing is... my password is written on a piece of paper on the desk directly in front of you when you sit down at Dad's computer. It says, "Alex ------" I'm not really sure why... I just noticed that yesterday. I think people are probably confused too, because you call me "The Kid," then over on the right you say "Coolyguy's Blog," sometimes you call me "Little Man," and on very rare occassions you use my real name, which I won't grace your blog with it's presence at this moment. You should probably clear all that up for everyone... So what is a stacked bob haircut, anyway?"

First of all, The Kid, a stacked bob haircut is what I have now. But you probably don't know what that looks like since you haven't seen me in ages becaue I live in Texas and you live in Iowa. So come visit. Now.

I'm waiting; why aren't you here yet?!

Second of all, the whole password by Pops' computer does me no good at all since that's up in Iowa and I already tried to strong-arm Pops into telling me your password. He refused. (And he was laughing while he did it, too.)

And third and most important, it is clear that The Kid intends to get his fame and fortune from having this whole business of his multiple nicknames cleared up. On my blog. On the internet. For, like, the entire world to see.

(Because we know that SO many people read this blog...)

To make an excessively long story a little bit shorter, The Kid has always had tons of nicknames. (Well, actually, mostly since I've been in college and gotten weirder by the day.)

Back in 1988, Pops and Mommy named The Kid Alexander Douglas Laird. That was back when he was born and we just called him Alex until he was older and we all knew better.

Some of his earliest nicknames were extremely affectionate. We called him Pukeface, Puker, and The Puke after he threw up for about two days in the Boundary Waters back in 2003. (He pretty much got dehydrated and then started barfing all the time.) It grossed me out a lot and I was kind of a mean sister then, so I started calling him Pukeface. Naturally that ticked of Pops a lot but, unfortunately, the nicknames stuck for about two years.

We began calling The Kid "Little Man" around that same time. We got it Homestar Runner when he says to Homsar "What do you have to say for yourself, little man?"

The Kid was the shortest one of us all then, so it fit pretty well. He is no longer the shortest one of us all; I will not divulge who actually IS the shortest.

Sometime inbetween Little Man and The Kid, Coolguy originated. Not really sure where that came from, the The Kid is pretty much a cool guy.

And...somebody started calling him The Kid, and it's pretty well stuck. We probably said something like, "Hey, where is that weird kid?" and...well, the rest is history.

So there you have it, faithful reader, Alex=Pukeface (et al)=Little Man=Coolguy=The Kid.

No one is allowed to be confused any more, and now The Kid can be happy since he is probably about as famous as he's ever going to be.

The end.

The Kid Is A Sneak

Yesterday I got on Facebook to do something or other, and I noticed something Very Unusual.

Some geekface (presumably The Kid since he has my Facebook password--I couldn't figure out how to set it up and he helped me) had gotten into my profile and added a bunch of stuff that I most certainly did not.

Exhibit A:
Grad School: Shorter Tech '06 (Shorter Tech?! That's the best you could come up with The Kid?!), Shortness Professional Counselor, Shortness Appreciation. (Apparently that part was my degree.)

Exhibit B:
On every aspect of my profile such as "favorite movies" "favorite quotes" "favorite TV shows" and "about me" The Kid has added a line that says:

"I AM SHORT! I LOVE JOEY! THE KID IS COOLER THAN ME!"

Exhibit C:
Once a week or so, when I log into Facebook I notice that someone (Alex) has changed my status to simply read "short". (For those of you who don't use Facebook, this means that whenever someone logs on to my page they see something that says "Jenna is -----" and then I type in whatever I am. On the days The Kid hacks in, it says "Jenna is short.")

And so, members of the Jury, I vote for stringing The Kid up by his toenails. When I called last night to "bawl him out" he pretty much just laughed at me. I tried to get his password so I could hack into HIS Facebook, but he wouldn't give it to me.

Pops has is. Mommy has it. The Brother has it.

Dad won't give it to me, he says I'd have to do something really nice to get it out of him. That's not likely to happen anytime soon. Mom, cute as she is, has forgotten the password and so she's absolutely no help. And The Brother wouldn't answer his phone when I called.

The Kid is pretty much a sneak and he should be monitored at ALL TIMES.

Stacked Bob

What the stink is a stacked bob hairstyles?

(Oh wait, I just figured it out. Drat.)

Anyway somebody in Milwaukee googled "stacked bob hairstyles" at 12:30 a.m. and it got them to my blog. And the weirdo actually clicked the link and got recorded on my stalker page.

Which is why I am now making fun of them for searching for something so ridiculous.

I didn't know Bob was so famous...

(Actually I must admit that I thought someone was searching for a bunch of dudes named Bob stacked on top of each other and then randomly threw in the word "hairstyles". But, of course, I just realized that they were looking for pictures of a stacked-bob hairstyle. I am a complete and total moron.)

Sign My Petition

My Pops is getting a new baby calf sometime this week. I am, naturally, very excited about this. (I'd be more excited if I were in the same state as the calf, but oh well.)

A year or so ago my Pops acquired the cutest calf that was little and red (aptly named Little Red by The Kid and I...) and we all liked it a lot. Unfortunately for all of us, Little Red died about a week later from lack of colustrum or something like that. Since the days of Little Red, everyone has wished that Pops would get another red (or even brown) calf. He's lacks creativity in his color choices of calves.

When I asked Dad if this new calf was going to be brown or red he said, "No, of course not. It's a Holstein and they only come in black and white." Pops only buys Holsteins. (Little Red was kind of an accident--Pops was valiantly trying to save him from death. It didn't really work; we were too late.)

Joey and I think Pops needs to get with the times. Everyone has HD-TV which, as everyone knows, is in color. Pops is stuck in the 50's with his black and white. BO-RING!! (We made a switch from cows to TV, but in our minds it totally makes sense. If you're lost, I suggest you just give up trying to track with the way our minds work.)

Additionally, Dad has issues with the way he names his calves. They generally are called such things as "9-10" or "15-16". (Pops puts a different numbered ear tag in each ear. Randy, the neighboring farmer, thinks that's weird.)

Joey talked Pops into naming the last calf 31-41 which was kind of a miracle in and of itself. It broke with Pops' numbering scheme, but we got him to do it.

(For those of you who haven't noticed yet, 31-41 is the first four digits of pi...3.141...Joey's weird.)

Since our revelation last night that Pops is stuck in the 1950s with his black-and-white cows, we want him to number/name this next calf 19-50.

So, sign my petition. The more random people we have on the petition, the better. You can either sign by emailing me at Jenna@Woestman.com or by leaving a comment.

I have to go clean my house now. Do your civic duty for Pops' calf and sign!

The Parking Break Is There For A Reason

I got home at 5:30 tonight, and I was super happy. I zipped in the house, said hi to Joey and Henry, and flopped on the couch with a book.

I didn't actually get to read much of that book, but at least I was holding it in my hand.

An hour later, after we'd fed Henry, Joey and I headed to church to go help tear out old carpet and whatnot. When we got to the parking lot, we noticed something very odd.

My car was halfway out into the parking lot.

Not where I'd left it.

We sort of stood there, scratching our heads. "Did you really park it like that?" Joey asked.

"Um, no, I don't think so...I hope not..." I muttered.

He unlocked the door and slid in. "Oh, the parking break's not on. No wonder!"

Fortunately nobody came by and plowed off the end of my poor car; that would really have been sad. When I parked my car just a moment ago I put the break on AND put it in gear.

Double precautions, you understand.

It's Joey's Turn

Joey's been ringin' my phone off its hook this afternoon.  The latest call went something like this:

 

Joey:  Hey, what's your license plate number?

Me:  I have no clue.  Let me check.  (I dug through my purse to get the license number.  But I'm not giving it to you so I'm not putting it on the Internet.)  Why?

Joey:  I had to re-register the car at school.  There was some kind of problem with the system.

Me:  That's kind of sad.

Joey:  OH!  GUESS WHAT!

Me:  What?

Joey:  They have the coolest parking tags at school!!!

 

He was obviously quite excited.

 

Me:  Really?  What are they?
Joey:  They're static cling!

Me:  Static cling?

Joey:  Yeah, they just stick to the window with static.  No stickers or anything!

Me:  Haven't you ever seen a static cling before?

Joey:  No....

Me:  Oh.  Well The Kid has them all over his car.

Joey:  What?!  Those are static clings?!  I thought I had just discovered something new and different...  (I could tell that he was wilting as he said those words.)

Me:  Sorry, honey...

Joey:  GOSH!

 

I think he'll recover; at least I really hope so. 

 

I think he's been hanging around with me a little bit too long because he was REALLY excited about something that's just not that big of a deal.  (If he starts squealing during Settlers of Catan when someone rolls an 8, then we've really got a problem.)

The Nicest Lie Anyone Has Ever Told Me

"You sort of have a 1940s look about you...Kind of like Audrey Hepburn." Said a girl I barely knew at my bible study last night.

 

I was speechless.

"Gosh, I think that's the nicest thing anyone has ever told me!"  I said, when I regained my wits.

 

I don't of course. (Look like Audrey Hepburn, that is.) But it was extremely nice of her to say.

Do I Look Like I Enjoy Trouble?!

It's not even 8:45 and I've already had major technical difficulties.

 

Because I like an early start to my day, I arrived in plenty of time and got right down to it.  The first item on my list was to scan a bunch of things and then put them into a different format.

 

But first, I had to scan them.

 

I got my coffee (I've been corrupted again...sorry, Joey!) and clacked my way down to the scanner, trying not to slip and fall because of my insanely high heels.  I've slipped once already (again, it's not even 8:45), but not fallen.

 

Anyway, about halfway through my stack, the scanner decided that it was jammed.  It wasn't.  I "unjammed" it about five times, and the stupid thing continued to think it was jammed.

 

I decided that if it wasn't going to plan nice, neither was I.  After hunting for an inordinately long time, I found the power cable.  I took a deep breath and unplugged it.

 

The groaning sound that the scanner made was pretty cool, considering it had been giving me as much trouble as it was.

 

I counted to 10 and plugged it back in.  Miraculously, it no longer thought it was jammed.  I was quite happy with my progress, so I began to scan again. 

 

And then the scanner "jammed" itself again.

 

So I unplugged it.  (And so on....)

 

At this point I determined that I better cut my losses and go find another scanner (before I almost break it like I almost broke our Flavia machine last week), which is what I'm about to do.

 

The big scanner better get its act together before noon because I have a whole lot more stuff to scan then.  If it doesn't, I'll be reduced to unplugging it after every scan, and I can't believe that's good for the equipment.