We thought Henry was an angel. A perfect puppy. Not a chewer of furniture or otherwise. We obviously had mad skills at dog training since our dog was "so amazing". (As long as you don't count the "spaz out when new people enter the house" thing...)
We were wrong.
In our entry way we used to have a light green shag rug that I really liked a lot. Unfortunately so did Henry and several times we caught him pulling out the shag pieces individually and then batting them around the study. He chewed off an entire corner before we made him buy me a new one with his budget money.
(Henry does have an allowance in the budget for his food, shampoo, etc...don't make fun. He's just lucky he had some left over to purchase me a new rug.)
Turns out that Henry is just an all-around loser. He's had house roaming privileges for about two months now, and he's always waiting for us by the front door when we come home, looking as angelic as can be.
Until yesterday.
We came home from our errands last night to find my new brown rug had been dragged over by the laundry and torn to shreds. He now owes Mommy another rug.
Additionally, he took one of my silk pillows down from the futon and sucked on the corner of it thereby making it soggy and strange looking.
Oh, and he also took to chewing on the white sheers hanging in the study.
Suffice it to say, our dog no longer has free reign of the house. He slept in his kennel last night and, in fact, is in there today.
Busted.
So much for our "perfect" dog and otherwise "perfect" dog parenting. We were due for a reality check and our number was obviously up.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The MRI
My left wrist has been hurting pretty much all the blessed time lately. When I bend it, don't bend it, try to lift anything...you get the idea.
So I made the mistake of telling my doctor. He gave me a brace which, oddly enough, made the stupid thing hurt worse. When I told him this he sighed and said, "Well, I think I'll have to send you in for an MRI."
An MRI?! Aren't those for major head traumas and otherwise life-threatening injuries?
Apparently not. My doc just seems to dole them out like they're a carnival ride or something. And so that is why I, Jenna Woestman, went in for my first (and only) MRI this morning.
I was happy that I had scheduled the appointment late enough that I could sleep in a little bit (if you call 7:15 sleeping in). But it was lovely; after I got up Henry and I took a nice walk. I had plenty of time to work on two of my Bible studies and still not be late for my 9:15 appointment with the Tube of Death.
I arrived at the diagnostic test center and promptly was informed by the jumpy desk clerk that they had been robbed the day before. This was why she had no computer, TV, fax machine...etc... She completely flipped out when she saw me; it appears I had startled her by walking in the door.
Maybe not a good start to the morning?
I was instructed to remove my wedding ring, watch, and earrings. I did so. Before my doc scheduled this appointment for me, I remember him asking, "You're not claustrophobic, are you?"
"Ha!" I responded, "No way." Because I'm too tough for that.
"Well, I don't think you'll have to go in the tube anyway, they'll probably just put your left arm in a smaller tube."
So I'd been banking on that. I didn't remove my purity ring, which is on my right hand. Because of course I wasn't going IN the tube...right?
The tech walked me into the MRI room. "You'll take off your shoes and get onto this" he pointed to a small, narrow, hard-looking plastic bed.
It was quite apparent that I was actually going IN the tube.
"Um, still I have metal on me. Like in my skirt zipper and stuff..." I hesitantly told the MRI tech. I didn't know why I wasn't supposed to have metal on me, but I was hoping it wasn't because I'd become like a fork in a microwave and start sparking.
The tech looked at me like I was an idiot and ushered me back to the room where my earrings and wedding ring were and instructed me to remove all items that had metal in them. (The zipper, for some reason, was fine.)
I did so and hesitantly followed him back to The Tube where he made me lay face down on the board, left arm straight out in front of me and wedged into a foam slot. This MRI tube was a lot, lot, lot smaller than the ones on those Discovery Channel reality shows for people with diseases.
I began to hyperventilate. And I'm not claustrophobic.
"Do not move." The tech said, bending down into my face. "Don't waste your time, don't waste my time. Don't move."
I whimpered, "Ok..."
"This will be about a half an hour. I'm going to put these earplugs in your ears and additional ear protection outside your ears because MRI machines are loud."
MRI machines are loud? I wasn't expecting this.
He pushed a button and I slowly entered The Tube. His last words to me were, "Don't move."
I lay there on my stomach, left arm straight out in front of me like a backwards Nazi salute, as still as can be, trying not to breathe. I then realized that I was starting to hyperventilate. My mom's sage advice came back to me just then: take deep, slow breaths.
The asthma attack averted, I tried to think of something to do. It's really hard to maintain any sort of attention span when your arms are falling asleep and you are being buzzed at different radio frequencies.
I tried to pray but found that I spent more time asking God to calm me down than actually doing any constructive praying.
I tried to determine how many more rounds of buzzing I would have to endure before the guy let me out.
I tried to get comfortable.
I tried to stop myself from squeezing the blue ball that indicated to the lab tech that "I WANT OUT!!"
After what seemed like hours, I finally couldn't take the pain in my left shoulder any longer. My left arm is not designed to be contorted the way he'd placed it, and I couldn't feel anything past my elbow (upside: my wrist didn't hurt...). I was starting to panic in the close space.
Every few minutes I'd make progressively louder and angrier whimpers of pain and frustration. I began kicking my feet hoping that the lab tech would notice my movement and come in to yell at me, at which point I'd let him know that I was Quite Finished with this whole MRI thing.
He noticed my discomfort and came in. "We're almost done. I just need one more, are you OK?"
"I'm really hurting...but I can handle one more." I told him. I felt as though I was quite big for making such a concession.
The "one more" was probably the longest one yet. When he finally pulled me out of the machine I couldn't move my left arm, and my right arm was pretty far gone as well. The MRI tech looked at me like I was a gigantic wimp. I glared at him.
"Did I move too much?" I asked.
He looked at me smugly. "One of them I need to redo."
Not on my life. My doctor is going to make his diagnosis with the images he's got because I am NOT doing that again! Not unless something legitimate is actually wrong with me.
So I made the mistake of telling my doctor. He gave me a brace which, oddly enough, made the stupid thing hurt worse. When I told him this he sighed and said, "Well, I think I'll have to send you in for an MRI."
An MRI?! Aren't those for major head traumas and otherwise life-threatening injuries?
Apparently not. My doc just seems to dole them out like they're a carnival ride or something. And so that is why I, Jenna Woestman, went in for my first (and only) MRI this morning.
I was happy that I had scheduled the appointment late enough that I could sleep in a little bit (if you call 7:15 sleeping in). But it was lovely; after I got up Henry and I took a nice walk. I had plenty of time to work on two of my Bible studies and still not be late for my 9:15 appointment with the Tube of Death.
I arrived at the diagnostic test center and promptly was informed by the jumpy desk clerk that they had been robbed the day before. This was why she had no computer, TV, fax machine...etc... She completely flipped out when she saw me; it appears I had startled her by walking in the door.
Maybe not a good start to the morning?
I was instructed to remove my wedding ring, watch, and earrings. I did so. Before my doc scheduled this appointment for me, I remember him asking, "You're not claustrophobic, are you?"
"Ha!" I responded, "No way." Because I'm too tough for that.
"Well, I don't think you'll have to go in the tube anyway, they'll probably just put your left arm in a smaller tube."
So I'd been banking on that. I didn't remove my purity ring, which is on my right hand. Because of course I wasn't going IN the tube...right?
The tech walked me into the MRI room. "You'll take off your shoes and get onto this" he pointed to a small, narrow, hard-looking plastic bed.
It was quite apparent that I was actually going IN the tube.
"Um, still I have metal on me. Like in my skirt zipper and stuff..." I hesitantly told the MRI tech. I didn't know why I wasn't supposed to have metal on me, but I was hoping it wasn't because I'd become like a fork in a microwave and start sparking.
The tech looked at me like I was an idiot and ushered me back to the room where my earrings and wedding ring were and instructed me to remove all items that had metal in them. (The zipper, for some reason, was fine.)
I did so and hesitantly followed him back to The Tube where he made me lay face down on the board, left arm straight out in front of me and wedged into a foam slot. This MRI tube was a lot, lot, lot smaller than the ones on those Discovery Channel reality shows for people with diseases.
I began to hyperventilate. And I'm not claustrophobic.
"Do not move." The tech said, bending down into my face. "Don't waste your time, don't waste my time. Don't move."
I whimpered, "Ok..."
"This will be about a half an hour. I'm going to put these earplugs in your ears and additional ear protection outside your ears because MRI machines are loud."
MRI machines are loud? I wasn't expecting this.
He pushed a button and I slowly entered The Tube. His last words to me were, "Don't move."
I lay there on my stomach, left arm straight out in front of me like a backwards Nazi salute, as still as can be, trying not to breathe. I then realized that I was starting to hyperventilate. My mom's sage advice came back to me just then: take deep, slow breaths.
The asthma attack averted, I tried to think of something to do. It's really hard to maintain any sort of attention span when your arms are falling asleep and you are being buzzed at different radio frequencies.
I tried to pray but found that I spent more time asking God to calm me down than actually doing any constructive praying.
I tried to determine how many more rounds of buzzing I would have to endure before the guy let me out.
I tried to get comfortable.
I tried to stop myself from squeezing the blue ball that indicated to the lab tech that "I WANT OUT!!"
After what seemed like hours, I finally couldn't take the pain in my left shoulder any longer. My left arm is not designed to be contorted the way he'd placed it, and I couldn't feel anything past my elbow (upside: my wrist didn't hurt...). I was starting to panic in the close space.
Every few minutes I'd make progressively louder and angrier whimpers of pain and frustration. I began kicking my feet hoping that the lab tech would notice my movement and come in to yell at me, at which point I'd let him know that I was Quite Finished with this whole MRI thing.
He noticed my discomfort and came in. "We're almost done. I just need one more, are you OK?"
"I'm really hurting...but I can handle one more." I told him. I felt as though I was quite big for making such a concession.
The "one more" was probably the longest one yet. When he finally pulled me out of the machine I couldn't move my left arm, and my right arm was pretty far gone as well. The MRI tech looked at me like I was a gigantic wimp. I glared at him.
"Did I move too much?" I asked.
He looked at me smugly. "One of them I need to redo."
Not on my life. My doctor is going to make his diagnosis with the images he's got because I am NOT doing that again! Not unless something legitimate is actually wrong with me.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
My Name is not Jennie
You know how sometimes people call you a name that's really close to your actual name...but not quite it? And then you're stuck with the awkward problem of either correcting them, going with it and assuming they meant to call you a sort of "nickname", or ignoring it so as not to cause the person undue embarrassment.
This has just happened to me.
I was just in the kitchen getting lunch (Au Bon Pain today! Hooray!) when a friend of mine came in. We got to talking about the broccoli cheese soup -- it's amazing -- and how there was barely any left.
"What do you think, Jennie, is there enough left in here for us?" she asked me, poking the ladle into the bottom of the boiler pan.
Lately she's been calling me Jennie. I really can't tell if she thinks it's a cute nickname, or if she thinks my name is Jennie. The kitchen was full of people, so I decided to let the whole incorrect name thing slide.
"I already got mine, but I can help you tilt the boiler so you can get some," I volunteered.
She declined my assistance and proved herself very ambidextrous by tilting the boiler AND ladling the very last bit of soup into her bowl.
"Nice work," I complimented.
I left the kitchen with my soup and sandwich and was very proud of myself when I made it down the slippery marble winding staircase without falling on my bum. Every day I worry about this and once I was so worried about not falling that I wasn't paying attention and jammed my pinkie finger on the railing. I can't win for losing.
But back to the whole Jenna vs. Jennie thing. I HATE TO BE CALLED JENNIE. OR JEN. So for those of you out there who thought you might someday want to shorten my name, please don't. Everyone is named Jennie, and even more people Jen. I like to be Jenna because it's slightly more distinct. (Thanks Mom and Dad, nice choice on the naming business.)
As for my coworker who seems to think that Jennie is my actual name? Well...I'm not going to bring it up with her.
But if you start calling me Jennie I might have to throw down.
This has just happened to me.
I was just in the kitchen getting lunch (Au Bon Pain today! Hooray!) when a friend of mine came in. We got to talking about the broccoli cheese soup -- it's amazing -- and how there was barely any left.
"What do you think, Jennie, is there enough left in here for us?" she asked me, poking the ladle into the bottom of the boiler pan.
Lately she's been calling me Jennie. I really can't tell if she thinks it's a cute nickname, or if she thinks my name is Jennie. The kitchen was full of people, so I decided to let the whole incorrect name thing slide.
"I already got mine, but I can help you tilt the boiler so you can get some," I volunteered.
She declined my assistance and proved herself very ambidextrous by tilting the boiler AND ladling the very last bit of soup into her bowl.
"Nice work," I complimented.
I left the kitchen with my soup and sandwich and was very proud of myself when I made it down the slippery marble winding staircase without falling on my bum. Every day I worry about this and once I was so worried about not falling that I wasn't paying attention and jammed my pinkie finger on the railing. I can't win for losing.
But back to the whole Jenna vs. Jennie thing. I HATE TO BE CALLED JENNIE. OR JEN. So for those of you out there who thought you might someday want to shorten my name, please don't. Everyone is named Jennie, and even more people Jen. I like to be Jenna because it's slightly more distinct. (Thanks Mom and Dad, nice choice on the naming business.)
As for my coworker who seems to think that Jennie is my actual name? Well...I'm not going to bring it up with her.
But if you start calling me Jennie I might have to throw down.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
A Major Pain In The Foot
I am wearing these shoes today.
The heel is 4 inches (quite possibly the highest heel I've ever tried to wear before) and it makes me super tall. Well, I suppose "super tall" is relative. On a good day (with low gravitational pull) I am a whopping 5'1".
OKFINE, in reality I'm 5' 3/4". Can we just round up to 5'1"?
Anyway, I'm super tall today. And my feet are absolutely killing me. My toes have turned a sort of deadish-white and the balls of my feet just throb whenever I have to walk more than 4 steps.
Vanity, all is vanity; a chasing after the wind. Which, in all honesty, I don't think I could do wearing these heels. I'd break my ankle.
On the upside though, earlier today when I was in the elevator a very short man walked in and we were the same height! I felt like a positive giant and thought to myself "so this is what supermodels must feel like all the time". (Because everyone knows that all supermodels are taller than most men.)
So that's been my entire day.
The heel is 4 inches (quite possibly the highest heel I've ever tried to wear before) and it makes me super tall. Well, I suppose "super tall" is relative. On a good day (with low gravitational pull) I am a whopping 5'1".
OKFINE, in reality I'm 5' 3/4". Can we just round up to 5'1"?
Anyway, I'm super tall today. And my feet are absolutely killing me. My toes have turned a sort of deadish-white and the balls of my feet just throb whenever I have to walk more than 4 steps.
Vanity, all is vanity; a chasing after the wind. Which, in all honesty, I don't think I could do wearing these heels. I'd break my ankle.
On the upside though, earlier today when I was in the elevator a very short man walked in and we were the same height! I felt like a positive giant and thought to myself "so this is what supermodels must feel like all the time". (Because everyone knows that all supermodels are taller than most men.)
So that's been my entire day.
The Dare
Last night after practicing a song with some girls from church, I decided I needed to go svelte myself. (That means go workout.) It was kind of dark, but since I'm really tough and strong, Joey had a lot of homework to do, and it really wasn't that far, I thought I could walk over myself.
I made it safely. No one even talked to me, it was great.
After killing myself on the treadmill (while reading and listening to pinkPod, trying desperately to remember I was in public and that, no, I shouldn't break out into song at the top of my lungs) my number was up and it was time to go. Joey and Henry were waiting outside for me, a very pleasant surprise! Joey was checking his email and Henry was shaking with delight that he'd found me. (We can get free WiFi at the club, plus it was really dark out and Joey is a gentleman so he came to escort me home.)
"You were really zoned in there," Joey told me as we started to walk back.
"I was reading and listening to my Pod, of course I was zoned!"
"Yeah, Henry and I stood right outside the window from where you were and you didn't even see us."
"Oh. Well, guess I wasn't paying attention." Obviously.
The lawn sprinklers turned on just then, making us really glad we hadn't decided to walk home through the athletic fields. Overall it was a nice, relaxing sound. One of the sprinklers had gotten kicked or something, because it was shooting straight up into the air like Old Faithful.
"I dare you to run through that sprinkler." Joey said, nudging me in the ribs as we got closer.
A challenge. I can never resist a challenge.
"But...I'm all sweaty!" I protested
"Sweat is like water. You're already wet...now, go run through the sprinkler."
I hesitated. The water was shooting straight up into the air at, what appeared to be, a painful force. "Which part do I have to run through?"
"That part right over there." Joey pointed to where the spray of water was falling back down into the parking lot. It looked much more gentle.
"Oh. That's not so bad." I handed him my book, my pinkPod, my cell phone, my water bottle and the dog's leash.
"One...two...three...go!" Joey yelled. I took a deep breath and ran straight into the water. Henry tried to run after me but was foiled by his leash.
"It's going to be cold!!" I squealed.
It wasn't cold at all. It was a little bit cooler than lukewarm, but it was nothing like the shock of running through a freezing sprinkler in Iowa on a muggy summer day.
"You have to come back throught he sprinkler," Joey insisted, after I tried to walk around the cascading water.
"Nuts." I said. I took a deep breath again, spread out my arms, and ran back through the sprinkler. I screamed this time for good measure.
"Very nice." Joey said, handing me back my water bottle. Between the sweat from working out and the water from the sprinkler, I was really wet. He kept all my technological devices in his pockets so I wouldn't short myself out.
I was almost dry by the time we got home, too.
I made it safely. No one even talked to me, it was great.
After killing myself on the treadmill (while reading and listening to pinkPod, trying desperately to remember I was in public and that, no, I shouldn't break out into song at the top of my lungs) my number was up and it was time to go. Joey and Henry were waiting outside for me, a very pleasant surprise! Joey was checking his email and Henry was shaking with delight that he'd found me. (We can get free WiFi at the club, plus it was really dark out and Joey is a gentleman so he came to escort me home.)
"You were really zoned in there," Joey told me as we started to walk back.
"I was reading and listening to my Pod, of course I was zoned!"
"Yeah, Henry and I stood right outside the window from where you were and you didn't even see us."
"Oh. Well, guess I wasn't paying attention." Obviously.
The lawn sprinklers turned on just then, making us really glad we hadn't decided to walk home through the athletic fields. Overall it was a nice, relaxing sound. One of the sprinklers had gotten kicked or something, because it was shooting straight up into the air like Old Faithful.
"I dare you to run through that sprinkler." Joey said, nudging me in the ribs as we got closer.
A challenge. I can never resist a challenge.
"But...I'm all sweaty!" I protested
"Sweat is like water. You're already wet...now, go run through the sprinkler."
I hesitated. The water was shooting straight up into the air at, what appeared to be, a painful force. "Which part do I have to run through?"
"That part right over there." Joey pointed to where the spray of water was falling back down into the parking lot. It looked much more gentle.
"Oh. That's not so bad." I handed him my book, my pinkPod, my cell phone, my water bottle and the dog's leash.
"One...two...three...go!" Joey yelled. I took a deep breath and ran straight into the water. Henry tried to run after me but was foiled by his leash.
"It's going to be cold!!" I squealed.
It wasn't cold at all. It was a little bit cooler than lukewarm, but it was nothing like the shock of running through a freezing sprinkler in Iowa on a muggy summer day.
"You have to come back throught he sprinkler," Joey insisted, after I tried to walk around the cascading water.
"Nuts." I said. I took a deep breath again, spread out my arms, and ran back through the sprinkler. I screamed this time for good measure.
"Very nice." Joey said, handing me back my water bottle. Between the sweat from working out and the water from the sprinkler, I was really wet. He kept all my technological devices in his pockets so I wouldn't short myself out.
I was almost dry by the time we got home, too.
Monday, September 24, 2007
My Soviet Alarm Clock
My trusty college alarm clock stopped keeping time recently. I'd sync it with Joey's clock on Saturday and the crazy thing would creatively speed up a few seconds every day, and by the end of the week it would be a minute or so ahead of Joey's. I decided it was time for drastic action.
"Can I set this on fire?" I asked Joey, as I came out into the living room holding my alarm clock.
"No. Remember what happened last time you set and electronic device on fire?" Joey asked me.
(It was my old cell phone and nothing really bad happened...except after it was all melted it looked disgusting and creepy, so I made Joey throw it away.)
"Can I throw it off the balcony and smash it into a million pieces on the sidewalk?" I tried again.
Joey appeared to think about this for a minute before finally saying, "Sure, you can do that."
I went out onto the balcony and looked over the edge. I considered throwing my alarm clock off but, since we're only the 2nd story I didn't think it would be worth it. Especially considering that some unsuspecting person might get clocked. (I'M SO WITTY!!)
In the end I would up putting it in the trash can, but not before leaving it on the table for a day to see if Joey would reconsider letting me set it on fire, which he never did.
The next day being shopping day, I added "alarm clock" to the list. I'd purchased my college alarm clock for $4.99 back in the day, and I was hoping to find something in a similar price range. (All I wanted it to do was tell the time and beep obnoxiously to get me to wake up.) Joey was rather dismayed that I was replacing my alarm clock in the first place, but when I showed him that it was no longer keeping time, he acquiesced.
My college alarm clock was rather sleek and rather a la The Jetsons. It was all rounded and trendy looking. I had high hopes of finding something equally amazing since it was about seven years ago.
Target either has bad alarm clocks, or my hopes of finding a sweet, cheap alarm clock were very off base. Although they did have one for $4.99. And it looks like this.
Obviously whoever took that picture did something to it, because it does not really look like that in real life. It looks more like something you'd find on the Red October in The Hunt For Red October, minus the Cyrillic writing of course. It's unnecessarily big and boxy.
"This alarm clock kind of gives me the creepies." I said to Joey after I got it all plugged in and set up.
"Yeah...it's not very awesome." He agreed with me.
"It looks like it houses some Communist Russian bomb or listening device..." I trailed off. I was kind of working myself up.
"It's not, though." Joey assured.
So the alarm clock still gives me the willies. And before you laugh and point the finger, YOU try waking up to a Communist alarm clock every morning and see if that doesn't get you right out of bed all creeped out.
Even if my alarm clock has some sort of tracking/listening/spying device in it (I haven't yet checked to see where it's made, but if it's from Russia I'm going to set it on fire no matter what Joey says) the snooze button still works. I know because I use it often lately.
Although who knows, it may be transferring my lazy-data on to some submarine off the coast of Texas in the Gulf of Mexico. I should really stop hitting snooze; just in case.
You can never be too careful...
"Can I set this on fire?" I asked Joey, as I came out into the living room holding my alarm clock.
"No. Remember what happened last time you set and electronic device on fire?" Joey asked me.
(It was my old cell phone and nothing really bad happened...except after it was all melted it looked disgusting and creepy, so I made Joey throw it away.)
"Can I throw it off the balcony and smash it into a million pieces on the sidewalk?" I tried again.
Joey appeared to think about this for a minute before finally saying, "Sure, you can do that."
I went out onto the balcony and looked over the edge. I considered throwing my alarm clock off but, since we're only the 2nd story I didn't think it would be worth it. Especially considering that some unsuspecting person might get clocked. (I'M SO WITTY!!)
In the end I would up putting it in the trash can, but not before leaving it on the table for a day to see if Joey would reconsider letting me set it on fire, which he never did.
The next day being shopping day, I added "alarm clock" to the list. I'd purchased my college alarm clock for $4.99 back in the day, and I was hoping to find something in a similar price range. (All I wanted it to do was tell the time and beep obnoxiously to get me to wake up.) Joey was rather dismayed that I was replacing my alarm clock in the first place, but when I showed him that it was no longer keeping time, he acquiesced.
My college alarm clock was rather sleek and rather a la The Jetsons. It was all rounded and trendy looking. I had high hopes of finding something equally amazing since it was about seven years ago.
Target either has bad alarm clocks, or my hopes of finding a sweet, cheap alarm clock were very off base. Although they did have one for $4.99. And it looks like this.
Obviously whoever took that picture did something to it, because it does not really look like that in real life. It looks more like something you'd find on the Red October in The Hunt For Red October, minus the Cyrillic writing of course. It's unnecessarily big and boxy.
"This alarm clock kind of gives me the creepies." I said to Joey after I got it all plugged in and set up.
"Yeah...it's not very awesome." He agreed with me.
"It looks like it houses some Communist Russian bomb or listening device..." I trailed off. I was kind of working myself up.
"It's not, though." Joey assured.
So the alarm clock still gives me the willies. And before you laugh and point the finger, YOU try waking up to a Communist alarm clock every morning and see if that doesn't get you right out of bed all creeped out.
Even if my alarm clock has some sort of tracking/listening/spying device in it (I haven't yet checked to see where it's made, but if it's from Russia I'm going to set it on fire no matter what Joey says) the snooze button still works. I know because I use it often lately.
Although who knows, it may be transferring my lazy-data on to some submarine off the coast of Texas in the Gulf of Mexico. I should really stop hitting snooze; just in case.
You can never be too careful...
Friday, September 21, 2007
Me? A Dallas snob?!
I spend my days enjoying gourmet catered lunches, organically stocked kitchens with anything I could possibly want, conference room tables inlaid with copper flecks that glint in the sunlight from a wall of nearly floor to ceiling picture windows, mosaic marble floors, and mahogany office furniture.
Can you say "Jenna is really spoiled"?
I was sent to an Excel seminar on Tuesday and Wednesday of this past week. Fortunately I learned a lot (yay!). Unfortunately I got lost really bad. But I digress.
The seminar was at The Sterling Hotel on Regal Row. For those of you who don't know much about Dallas, Regal Row is in a fairly shabby, industrial neighborhood. There's really nothing wrong with industrial neighborhoods, or shabby ones. I'm just not used to them.
I was in for a wake up call when I walked into The Sterling Hotel (which is really more tarnished than gleaming sterling silver). It was dark, dingy, and the carpet was bunching up in the highly trafficked areas.
After checking in, getting my conference materials and making a slight perusal of the hotel's amenities, I determined I needed to find a Starbucks. (Food at a seminar is reimbursable...)
"Is there a Starbucks around here?" I asked the front desk.
They pointed to a little bar in the worn, lumpy carpeted lounge area. The sign read "Proudly Serving Starbucks Coffee."
"No, I mean a real Starbucks." I said, feeling like an absolute snob.
The girls at the desk didn't have a clue what I was asking, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I thought I'd seen a Starbucks kiosk a few miles back on the freeway, so I was going to go find it.
The seminars were held in shabby ballrooms with faux parquet floors, dusty pink partitions, and dirty chandeliers. Quarters were tight and smelly.
For lunch I decided to try a sandwich place nearby. It was called Soup and Sandwich No 2 and I thought that it sounded all cute and trendy.
I was mistaken.
After ordering my food (the kitchen looked like the one from East Iowa Bible Camp, only dirty) I decided to go to the bathroom and wash up. The toilet hadn't been recently cleaned, if ever in the past year, and there was a dead cricket in the corner of the grimy floor. Around each baseboard for several inches was a thick layer of dust. Oh, and the walls were stained.
Not knowing what else to do, I decided to suck it up and finish my lunch.
The entire two days was like that. I'm not sure if it was really all that bad, or if I'm just used to my ivory palace. I have a feeling it's more the latter than the former.
I don't want to be a Dallas snob!
Can you say "Jenna is really spoiled"?
I was sent to an Excel seminar on Tuesday and Wednesday of this past week. Fortunately I learned a lot (yay!). Unfortunately I got lost really bad. But I digress.
The seminar was at The Sterling Hotel on Regal Row. For those of you who don't know much about Dallas, Regal Row is in a fairly shabby, industrial neighborhood. There's really nothing wrong with industrial neighborhoods, or shabby ones. I'm just not used to them.
I was in for a wake up call when I walked into The Sterling Hotel (which is really more tarnished than gleaming sterling silver). It was dark, dingy, and the carpet was bunching up in the highly trafficked areas.
After checking in, getting my conference materials and making a slight perusal of the hotel's amenities, I determined I needed to find a Starbucks. (Food at a seminar is reimbursable...)
"Is there a Starbucks around here?" I asked the front desk.
They pointed to a little bar in the worn, lumpy carpeted lounge area. The sign read "Proudly Serving Starbucks Coffee."
"No, I mean a real Starbucks." I said, feeling like an absolute snob.
The girls at the desk didn't have a clue what I was asking, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I thought I'd seen a Starbucks kiosk a few miles back on the freeway, so I was going to go find it.
The seminars were held in shabby ballrooms with faux parquet floors, dusty pink partitions, and dirty chandeliers. Quarters were tight and smelly.
For lunch I decided to try a sandwich place nearby. It was called Soup and Sandwich No 2 and I thought that it sounded all cute and trendy.
I was mistaken.
After ordering my food (the kitchen looked like the one from East Iowa Bible Camp, only dirty) I decided to go to the bathroom and wash up. The toilet hadn't been recently cleaned, if ever in the past year, and there was a dead cricket in the corner of the grimy floor. Around each baseboard for several inches was a thick layer of dust. Oh, and the walls were stained.
Not knowing what else to do, I decided to suck it up and finish my lunch.
The entire two days was like that. I'm not sure if it was really all that bad, or if I'm just used to my ivory palace. I have a feeling it's more the latter than the former.
I don't want to be a Dallas snob!
Thursday, September 20, 2007
An Open Letter Which I Have Written To The Kid
Dear Alex,
I am in my Excel seminar for the next two days. Hopefully you kicked your test's bum when you took it – I prayed for you, man. You're way smrter than me so I am sure you will get a 5+.
I went to lunch at this shady sandwich place today. It was not amazing. The floors were dirty and the walls were stained, plus the toilet hadn't been cleaned in a long time. And there was a dead cricket in the corner. Very lame. My food wasn't even that good. L But I get reimbursed…fortunately. I got chips, candy (chewy Gobstoppers!) and some raspberry white tea. I'm real spoiled. Unfortunately, the combination of an entire box of Gobstoppers and the white tea has is making my stomach hurt now.
We bought Henners a padded pump-a-kin costume, but it was a wee bit small. We took it back and now I'm wishing we haven't, so I might go back and rebuy it. He was real cute in it, that's for sure.
The apartment guys came buy today to change the locks. Poor Nosy Neighbor! She will be so upset, but Joey and I figure this is just our idiot tax. Who knew?! We'll never give a key to someone we barely know again. I seriously wish there was some way to know if she'd been letting herself in to get Henry, poke around in my dresser, look at Joey's books…it's truly anyone's guess. I haven't noticed anything out of order, but if she was just getting Henry out then we probably wouldn't notice. It'll be interesting to see if she gets real upset "randomly." Then we'll know she was breaking in!
Drama, drama, drama…
I have been debating spelling my name differently. You know, to throw people off. Actually, this all came about because I spelled it wrong on accident when I was really tired one night and we were playing a game with some friends. I wrote "Jenne" down on my score sheet instead of "Jenna" and it really confused our friend who thought he'd been spelling my name wrong the entire time.
I'm not really sure how I spelled my own name wrong, but I definitely did do it. It's a pretty amazing name spelling though. Joey disagrees which is a major deterrent.
Different ways to spell your name that I thought of while sitting here:
Ahleks Alix
Aleks Aelex
You do realize, though, that your name in its original spelling is alcoholic, right? Ale-x?! Mom and Dad obviously weren't planning well. I think ale is illegal at Cedarville, so you had better just go by X; it's much more better. I advise changing it as soon as possible. I will begin referring to you as X in a prohibition effort.
Obviously I am getting bored and going nuts. This guy is teaching stuff I already know right now, so I just figure to write you some lame letter. How am I doing?
Andrew and I figure that in Boundary Waters we can harness Hen's energy (he's got even more of it after we take him on a mile walk!) and make him pull the canoe. Otherwise that guy will just sit on the packs and cry (he's a whiner) or he'll run around on them trying to get in the water. Henry's emotionally unstable. No, probably more like mentally unstable, eh. Are you sure you trust that guy in your tent? Either way, he's still coming and so are you.
I hope you did real amazing on your Zulu speech. It seemed really interesting when I readed it for you, so I give you a 5+ for certain.
Guess what? I bought some new shoes and they have 4 inch heels. It's so amazing! I am unbelievably tall when I wear them, I come up to the middle of Joey's head instead of the bottom of his chin. Maybe someday you can try them on. Wait, no. You can never try my high heels on. Never.
Remember back when I used to put tons of yours and Andrew's underwears on me over my clothes and on my head and run around the house? I think it was a couple years ago, maybe 2 or 3. Anyway, it would make him and Pops so mad, but I thought it was inspirational.
Anyway, this is getting really long, and probably boring too. I think you are quite amazing, X, so let's be friends.
Love,
Jenna, your older sister who is cool
Monday, September 17, 2007
I shouldn't admit this, but...
I am one of the most gullible people in the entire world. I also read fast. Sometimes when I read fast I miss a word here and there, and missing that word could really affect the outcome of some circumstances.
Please observe just such an event from this weekend.
We were at Irving Bible Church for our Spiritual Formation kickoff. Joey and I are facilitating a group, and we really like the people who are in it. They're very cool.
One of the group bonding games was something called The Hendricks Cup. The prize for this game was a huge, golden cup (it was probably 3 feet tall) and the honor of having won it. The questions were from The Worst Case Scenario game only adapted slightly with DTS references. You can guess what they were like; pretty hilarious stuff.
We were frantically reading and answering our questions to try to get done in time, because our group had been late getting to the worship center. Joey and I read the schedule wrong. (But at least we were all together in our wrongness...)
One of the questions had something to do with how to moisten your lips if you don't have any lip balm. The correct answer had something to do with grease from your nose, which is really disgusting.
I thought about this question for the rest of the day. I was at home later that evening boiling some water for tea (which I may blog about later, depending on the amount of discretionary time I have in front of the internet today; it's a detailed story) when I decided that I needed to try this whole lip-moistening thing.
It said grease from the inside of your nose, right? I thought to myself. I took a deep breath and then....stuck my finger in my nose, whirled it around once or twice, and then rubbed it on my lips.
It was disgusting. But it worked.
"That thing about the chapped lips does seem to work," I told Joey who was sitting on the couch reading some theological tome.
"Oh...that's nice..." he said, absentmindedly.
Yesterday we were having lunch with our friends Mike and Zoe. I made the mistake of mentioning The Kid and how it makes him really mad when I stick both of my pinkie fingers halfway up my nose (which I can do) and then follow him around.
Unfortunately, Mike made me demonstrate. He was sufficiently disgusted by my skill. (I can get the tips of my fingers all the way into my nasal passages, if you were curious.)
That reminded Joey of the question involving noses and chapped lips.
"I didn't realize you could use the oil from the outside of your nose to moisten your lips, though." He said.
"Yeah, that does work." Mike replied.
I turned pale. " Outside of your nose?" I squeaked.
"Yes, outside. Why..." Joey asked hesitantly.
"Well, I thought it was the inside. And I tried it yesterday, remember?" I was beginning to feel sickly.
"Wait, you stuck your finger up your nose and then rubbed it on your lips?" Mike asked.
"Yes!!" I wailed.
Joey is now convinced that I am disgusting and has said that he may never kiss me again. I prefer to blame it on my speed-reading tenancies. Obviously I missed a Very Important Word (being, of course, "outside") and am now going to have to figure out some way to get my credibility back.
Please observe just such an event from this weekend.
We were at Irving Bible Church for our Spiritual Formation kickoff. Joey and I are facilitating a group, and we really like the people who are in it. They're very cool.
One of the group bonding games was something called The Hendricks Cup. The prize for this game was a huge, golden cup (it was probably 3 feet tall) and the honor of having won it. The questions were from The Worst Case Scenario game only adapted slightly with DTS references. You can guess what they were like; pretty hilarious stuff.
We were frantically reading and answering our questions to try to get done in time, because our group had been late getting to the worship center. Joey and I read the schedule wrong. (But at least we were all together in our wrongness...)
One of the questions had something to do with how to moisten your lips if you don't have any lip balm. The correct answer had something to do with grease from your nose, which is really disgusting.
I thought about this question for the rest of the day. I was at home later that evening boiling some water for tea (which I may blog about later, depending on the amount of discretionary time I have in front of the internet today; it's a detailed story) when I decided that I needed to try this whole lip-moistening thing.
It said grease from the inside of your nose, right? I thought to myself. I took a deep breath and then....stuck my finger in my nose, whirled it around once or twice, and then rubbed it on my lips.
It was disgusting. But it worked.
"That thing about the chapped lips does seem to work," I told Joey who was sitting on the couch reading some theological tome.
"Oh...that's nice..." he said, absentmindedly.
Yesterday we were having lunch with our friends Mike and Zoe. I made the mistake of mentioning The Kid and how it makes him really mad when I stick both of my pinkie fingers halfway up my nose (which I can do) and then follow him around.
Unfortunately, Mike made me demonstrate. He was sufficiently disgusted by my skill. (I can get the tips of my fingers all the way into my nasal passages, if you were curious.)
That reminded Joey of the question involving noses and chapped lips.
"I didn't realize you could use the oil from the outside of your nose to moisten your lips, though." He said.
"Yeah, that does work." Mike replied.
I turned pale. " Outside of your nose?" I squeaked.
"Yes, outside. Why..." Joey asked hesitantly.
"Well, I thought it was the inside. And I tried it yesterday, remember?" I was beginning to feel sickly.
"Wait, you stuck your finger up your nose and then rubbed it on your lips?" Mike asked.
"Yes!!" I wailed.
Joey is now convinced that I am disgusting and has said that he may never kiss me again. I prefer to blame it on my speed-reading tenancies. Obviously I missed a Very Important Word (being, of course, "outside") and am now going to have to figure out some way to get my credibility back.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
I Am Not Dead
Long time no write. I have been...extraordinarily busy lately. And we discovered which of our neighbors we'd been freeloading the internet off of when they moved out two weeks ago, leaving us with no connection to the Outside World (save our cell phones). All in all, it's been difficult to blog.
But I am back on the horse now.
On Tuesday it was a gorgeous evening. I think it was 85 degrees. Anyway, Joey decided after dinner that we could not let this gorgeous evening go to waste. We had heard about a dog park a few miles from our house, so we packed up Henry, put on our tennis shoes and headed out to the park.
We weren't sure how Henry would do surrounded with other dogs in an open area, being the only-child city-dog priss that he is. Poor guy, it's not his fault.
The dog park was not officially open (there were chains and padlocks on the gate) but, honestly, when has that ever stopped us? There were some other people who had "broken in" with their dogs, so we figured we might as well too. Joey climbed over the fence, I passed a terrified Henry over to Joey, I climbed in (gracefully, of course), and we were in.
Surrounded by freaking out, drooling dogs.
Henry was not sure what to do. Joey unhooked the leash and Henry jitterbugged around our feet. We quietly slipped away from him and watched from a safe distance. He stood there, whipping his head around from one side to the other, every so often taking a step or two. Suddenly a large mutt came up and slammed his nose into Henry's bum.
That got him moving.
The mutt chased our purebred around for quite a long time, leaving us to wonder if it was such a good idea to get a wimpy furball in the first place. The kid can't hold his own at all. Finally the mutt decided to leave Henry alone (to our great relief, we were getting all anxiety-ridden) and Henry decided he'd go try to make a friend.
Nobody wanted anything to do with him. The dogs he'd approach would chase him away or try to jump on him. Joey and I remained in our corner, huddling together and whispering back and forth "should we go rescue him? Poor baby!" Probably similar to the first time you drop your toddler off at the 2s and 3s class, right? "Will anybody play with him? Is he going to be OK? Will they pick on him?"
Yeah, all those emotions. Over a dog.
Just as we were about to give up, Henry made a friend; a white Bichon who had a scraggly tail. They played for a few minutes (and were chased off by the mutt) before Joey and I got sick of dogs running by us and slobbering on our arms. We climbed back out of the dog park and went for a quick walk over to the lake.
This walk, unfortunately, involved a shaky concrete and steel bridge that I made Joey run across because it was freaking me out. (Please recall that I absolutely hate bridges, especially after the 35W thing. Joey's doomed.)
To add more randomness to this already incoherant post, I must insert that I am currently sitting at Panera thinking "I need to go work out before I lose my opportunity...", and it's quite true. I've been here since 6:45 (and it's 9:15) having a lovely time with THE HOLMES FAMILY!!!
But more about that later. I think the fruit I ate is going to my hips as I sit here writing about it.
Hasta manana, mis amigos. (I know that's spelled wrong, but I can't figure out how to make a tilda on that "n". I'll fix it tomorrow. Maybe.)
But I am back on the horse now.
On Tuesday it was a gorgeous evening. I think it was 85 degrees. Anyway, Joey decided after dinner that we could not let this gorgeous evening go to waste. We had heard about a dog park a few miles from our house, so we packed up Henry, put on our tennis shoes and headed out to the park.
We weren't sure how Henry would do surrounded with other dogs in an open area, being the only-child city-dog priss that he is. Poor guy, it's not his fault.
The dog park was not officially open (there were chains and padlocks on the gate) but, honestly, when has that ever stopped us? There were some other people who had "broken in" with their dogs, so we figured we might as well too. Joey climbed over the fence, I passed a terrified Henry over to Joey, I climbed in (gracefully, of course), and we were in.
Surrounded by freaking out, drooling dogs.
Henry was not sure what to do. Joey unhooked the leash and Henry jitterbugged around our feet. We quietly slipped away from him and watched from a safe distance. He stood there, whipping his head around from one side to the other, every so often taking a step or two. Suddenly a large mutt came up and slammed his nose into Henry's bum.
That got him moving.
The mutt chased our purebred around for quite a long time, leaving us to wonder if it was such a good idea to get a wimpy furball in the first place. The kid can't hold his own at all. Finally the mutt decided to leave Henry alone (to our great relief, we were getting all anxiety-ridden) and Henry decided he'd go try to make a friend.
Nobody wanted anything to do with him. The dogs he'd approach would chase him away or try to jump on him. Joey and I remained in our corner, huddling together and whispering back and forth "should we go rescue him? Poor baby!" Probably similar to the first time you drop your toddler off at the 2s and 3s class, right? "Will anybody play with him? Is he going to be OK? Will they pick on him?"
Yeah, all those emotions. Over a dog.
Just as we were about to give up, Henry made a friend; a white Bichon who had a scraggly tail. They played for a few minutes (and were chased off by the mutt) before Joey and I got sick of dogs running by us and slobbering on our arms. We climbed back out of the dog park and went for a quick walk over to the lake.
This walk, unfortunately, involved a shaky concrete and steel bridge that I made Joey run across because it was freaking me out. (Please recall that I absolutely hate bridges, especially after the 35W thing. Joey's doomed.)
To add more randomness to this already incoherant post, I must insert that I am currently sitting at Panera thinking "I need to go work out before I lose my opportunity...", and it's quite true. I've been here since 6:45 (and it's 9:15) having a lovely time with THE HOLMES FAMILY!!!
But more about that later. I think the fruit I ate is going to my hips as I sit here writing about it.
Hasta manana, mis amigos. (I know that's spelled wrong, but I can't figure out how to make a tilda on that "n". I'll fix it tomorrow. Maybe.)
Friday, September 07, 2007
Brother
My Brother Andrew (also known as Brother) has it out for Henry. Granted, Henry is crazy and certifiably high octane (too much energy or something).
This was just received from Brother over Google Talk. See for yourself if I am correct...
This was just received from Brother over Google Talk. See for yourself if I am correct...
Andrew: Hendersonite = Those who belong to the tribe of Henderson.
Andrew: "And the LORD told moses to drive all inhabitants of the land before him and not to spare even the youngest of them. For the LORD had said "The people are a evil in my sight, especially the Hendersonites, they must be completely destroyed.""
Andrew: "For the octane levels in the region had risen to a level so high that the Israelites had to wear masks with olive filters in them."
me: what version are you using? I can't find that in mine...
I think the problem here is twofold:
1.) Andrew has it out for Henry as was made evident in the telegram I received from Old Threshers. (It said "Wish you were here. Except for Henry.")
2.) Andrew has obviously got himself some kind of heretical translation. I'd stand back and watch for lightning.
I think the problem here is twofold:
1.) Andrew has it out for Henry as was made evident in the telegram I received from Old Threshers. (It said "Wish you were here. Except for Henry.")
2.) Andrew has obviously got himself some kind of heretical translation. I'd stand back and watch for lightning.
Disgusting.
I was so proud of myself this morning, I was out the door by 7:10! I don't normally try to get in by 7:30, but this morning I had extra motivation since I knew my day was going to be a shambles. (I'm moving locations and everything is a complete disaster, most of which is my own fault for being slightly disorganized yesterday.)
But I have digressed.
As I was walking to my car, I saw a lonely "Wall Street Journal" sitting on the sidewalk.
Oh! I should pick that up! I thought. I walked past because I was in a hurry, but then doubled back. You never know what the WSJ will come in handy for.
I picked it up by the corner and noticed that it felt oddly heavy. Suddenly, brown squishy logs fell from the underside of the paper onto my hand and barely missed my feet.
"AAAAUGH!" I screamed, dropping the paper back on the ground.
Dog poo. Large, fresh dog poo was on my right pinkie finger and had very nearly been all down my jeans had I not jumped out of the way in the nick of time.
I left the WSJ on the sidewalk, needless to say, and huffed over to my car where I pulled out the fancy waterless hand sanitizing foam that Sister/Hose got me for my birthday. (Many thanks, Sister!) I sanitized myself as best I could, which I'm not sure was all that great considering it was FRESH DOG POO. So disgusting.
On the upside, I made it downtown in 15 minutes today, and that's from the car to my chair.
On the downside, I just realized that I forgot to wash my hands after I got to work. I'm going to go do that right now.
But I have digressed.
As I was walking to my car, I saw a lonely "Wall Street Journal" sitting on the sidewalk.
Oh! I should pick that up! I thought. I walked past because I was in a hurry, but then doubled back. You never know what the WSJ will come in handy for.
I picked it up by the corner and noticed that it felt oddly heavy. Suddenly, brown squishy logs fell from the underside of the paper onto my hand and barely missed my feet.
"AAAAUGH!" I screamed, dropping the paper back on the ground.
Dog poo. Large, fresh dog poo was on my right pinkie finger and had very nearly been all down my jeans had I not jumped out of the way in the nick of time.
I left the WSJ on the sidewalk, needless to say, and huffed over to my car where I pulled out the fancy waterless hand sanitizing foam that Sister/Hose got me for my birthday. (Many thanks, Sister!) I sanitized myself as best I could, which I'm not sure was all that great considering it was FRESH DOG POO. So disgusting.
On the upside, I made it downtown in 15 minutes today, and that's from the car to my chair.
On the downside, I just realized that I forgot to wash my hands after I got to work. I'm going to go do that right now.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
My Run-in With The Law
Sunday evening was one of those halfway muggy, halfway lovely Fallish nights; the kind where you can't decide if you want to jump in a pool or go for a walk. Joey and I opted to go for a walk, so we harnessed up Henry and took the long way to Half Price Books.
Henry loves Half Price Books. And we like sneaking him in. Fortunately for us, Half Price Books is all about being Green and eco-friendly and, therefore, they're totally into animals. So we haven't gotten kicked out. Yet.
We pranced right on through the front doors, big as you please, Henry jingling his way along and looking up at everyone with his large, emotive eyes. People walked by us whispering, "Ohhh, what a cute dog!" and, "do you see that puppy?"
Henry and I split off from Joey (who was sitting on the floor in the Theological Dictionaries section) and walked over to the Christian novels. Neither of us saw anything we were interested in, so we wandered around looking for heretical books to hide.
A non-heretical Family Bible Quiz book caught my eye, so we sat down on a stool in a little alcove and I began quizzing Henry.
He wasn't doing very well.
Joey came around the corner and I asked him, "In what book are the Apocraphal books not found?"
He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "In the Bible..." he said, tentatively.
"You are correct." I said, and held up The Family Bible Quiz book. "That was supposed to be a Level 2 question, but I think it's easier than Level 1. Henry's not doing very well at this."
Joey was not surprised at this. "I'm going to go and look at their Greek texts," he told me.
"We'll be right here." I said.
We love the Half Price Books near our house, because lots of DTS students sell their textbooks and Joey is able to find really helpful books for a fraction of the cost they are sold at the, um, DTS bookstore.
But Henry and I sat there on the stool quizzing each other when a little boy came around the corner. Henry began crying and skittering around excitedly. He obviously wanted to play with the little boy Quite Badly.
The little boy's mom came around the corner too and politely asked if her little boy could pet Henry.
I obliged and held Henry down so he wouldn't lick the little boy's face and frighten him. Henry sat like an angel. He wagged his tail furiously and otherwise showered his affection on the little boy.
Someone wearing all black had rounded the corner and was standing very near the little boy and his mom, watching Henry and I. I glanced up and my heart stopped.
It was a policeman. Armed.
Busted!
I was about to start apologizing all over the place for bringing our dog into the store when the policeman smiled and said, "Thank you!" He then took the little boy's hand (who also thanked us, at the policeman's reminder) and they walked away.
Henry and I (mostly me) sat there with our hearts pounding. That cop had really scared me. I put away the Bible Quiz book and went to find Joey. I told him about the policeman and he laughed at Henry and I. We're such chickens, you know.
We all left the store about 15 minutes later, unscathed. (After, of course, we hid another book that Joey wants to buy but can't yet afford. We've got a whole big stash going behind a staci of about 50 copies of The DaVinci Code.)
Henry loves Half Price Books. And we like sneaking him in. Fortunately for us, Half Price Books is all about being Green and eco-friendly and, therefore, they're totally into animals. So we haven't gotten kicked out. Yet.
We pranced right on through the front doors, big as you please, Henry jingling his way along and looking up at everyone with his large, emotive eyes. People walked by us whispering, "Ohhh, what a cute dog!" and, "do you see that puppy?"
Henry and I split off from Joey (who was sitting on the floor in the Theological Dictionaries section) and walked over to the Christian novels. Neither of us saw anything we were interested in, so we wandered around looking for heretical books to hide.
A non-heretical Family Bible Quiz book caught my eye, so we sat down on a stool in a little alcove and I began quizzing Henry.
He wasn't doing very well.
Joey came around the corner and I asked him, "In what book are the Apocraphal books not found?"
He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "In the Bible..." he said, tentatively.
"You are correct." I said, and held up The Family Bible Quiz book. "That was supposed to be a Level 2 question, but I think it's easier than Level 1. Henry's not doing very well at this."
Joey was not surprised at this. "I'm going to go and look at their Greek texts," he told me.
"We'll be right here." I said.
We love the Half Price Books near our house, because lots of DTS students sell their textbooks and Joey is able to find really helpful books for a fraction of the cost they are sold at the, um, DTS bookstore.
But Henry and I sat there on the stool quizzing each other when a little boy came around the corner. Henry began crying and skittering around excitedly. He obviously wanted to play with the little boy Quite Badly.
The little boy's mom came around the corner too and politely asked if her little boy could pet Henry.
I obliged and held Henry down so he wouldn't lick the little boy's face and frighten him. Henry sat like an angel. He wagged his tail furiously and otherwise showered his affection on the little boy.
Someone wearing all black had rounded the corner and was standing very near the little boy and his mom, watching Henry and I. I glanced up and my heart stopped.
It was a policeman. Armed.
Busted!
I was about to start apologizing all over the place for bringing our dog into the store when the policeman smiled and said, "Thank you!" He then took the little boy's hand (who also thanked us, at the policeman's reminder) and they walked away.
Henry and I (mostly me) sat there with our hearts pounding. That cop had really scared me. I put away the Bible Quiz book and went to find Joey. I told him about the policeman and he laughed at Henry and I. We're such chickens, you know.
We all left the store about 15 minutes later, unscathed. (After, of course, we hid another book that Joey wants to buy but can't yet afford. We've got a whole big stash going behind a staci of about 50 copies of The DaVinci Code.)
Thursday, August 30, 2007
My Amazing Birthday Cake
When Joey and I were looking for a bakery for our wedding cake, frosting quality was the #1 priority for me. We found a place (Jules Bakery in Marion) that had killer cake and amazing frosting. It was a match made in heaven, just like the two of us.
The day before my birthday as Joey was dropping me off at work I reminded him, "Now don't forget to make me a birthday cake. With lots of frosting."
"I won't, I won't," he assured me.
"I like Funfetti." I offered. Joey likes it when I don't hint, I just tell him. I am learning. Slowly.
One year (the first year we were married) I had to make my own birthday cake. That was kind of a traumatizing event; Joey now knows that it's Very Important that I not have to make my own birthday cake.
So on Tuesday, poor Joey went to class and then immediately ran home where, unbeknownst to me, he loaded up my new pinkPod with all my favorite songs. That being done, there was no time for cake building.
When I arrived home from work we hopped straight in the car and went to the movies (50 cent night...) and then to dinner. Halfway though our very romantic birthday date, he admitted to me that the cake was not yet built.
"But I'm going to build it when we get home. Even if we have to eat it at 11:00 tonight," he assured me.
We arrived home and Joey began building my cake with speed and agility. (Women make cakes, men build them. Joey is adamant.) As it turns out, we were short 1 egg. So we had to run to the grocery in the middle of Joey's cake-building eggstravaganza. The cake was finally in the oven about 8:45.
At 9:15 Joey pulled out 2 gorgeously browned, perfectly moist layers of my yellow butter cake.
"Sit down. I am going to cool this and then I will frost it."
I sat.
Joey stood in the kitchen looking at the cakes on the cooling rack. (A watched cake never cools...) After 15 minutes he gave up and began whipping the frosting he'd bought (two tubs! for one cake!) in a bowl.
"I'm making it light and fluffy for you," he explained.
After 20 minutes he lost patience all together and began frosting the cake. I was told not to come and watch, so I remained on the couch, happily reading my book.
I heard strange shaking noises coming from the kitchen but, being so commanded, stayed on the couch. A few minutes later, a sheepish Joey came running out of the kitchen.
"Do we have any candles?"
"Yes, they're behind..." I explained where they were. You really don't care where I keep my birthday candles, do you?
He dashed back into the kitchen where I heard quite a bit of rummaging. (I keep my candles in a very inconvenient location since I only use them twice a year.) A few minutes later...
"Happy birthday to you!" He sang to me, holding a very frosting-laden cake covered in Funfetti sprinkles and ablaze with candles.
"WOW!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands in delight, "It's amazing!"
He finished "Happy Birthday" and I blew out my candles. (All five of them.)
"I put tons of frosting on it for you," he said as he cut me a piece cake that was so top-heavy with frosting that it broke in half on my plate.
"I know, I can tell. It's the most beautiful birthday cake anyone has ever built me!" I assured him.
And it was.
The day before my birthday as Joey was dropping me off at work I reminded him, "Now don't forget to make me a birthday cake. With lots of frosting."
"I won't, I won't," he assured me.
"I like Funfetti." I offered. Joey likes it when I don't hint, I just tell him. I am learning. Slowly.
One year (the first year we were married) I had to make my own birthday cake. That was kind of a traumatizing event; Joey now knows that it's Very Important that I not have to make my own birthday cake.
So on Tuesday, poor Joey went to class and then immediately ran home where, unbeknownst to me, he loaded up my new pinkPod with all my favorite songs. That being done, there was no time for cake building.
When I arrived home from work we hopped straight in the car and went to the movies (50 cent night...) and then to dinner. Halfway though our very romantic birthday date, he admitted to me that the cake was not yet built.
"But I'm going to build it when we get home. Even if we have to eat it at 11:00 tonight," he assured me.
We arrived home and Joey began building my cake with speed and agility. (Women make cakes, men build them. Joey is adamant.) As it turns out, we were short 1 egg. So we had to run to the grocery in the middle of Joey's cake-building eggstravaganza. The cake was finally in the oven about 8:45.
At 9:15 Joey pulled out 2 gorgeously browned, perfectly moist layers of my yellow butter cake.
"Sit down. I am going to cool this and then I will frost it."
I sat.
Joey stood in the kitchen looking at the cakes on the cooling rack. (A watched cake never cools...) After 15 minutes he gave up and began whipping the frosting he'd bought (two tubs! for one cake!) in a bowl.
"I'm making it light and fluffy for you," he explained.
After 20 minutes he lost patience all together and began frosting the cake. I was told not to come and watch, so I remained on the couch, happily reading my book.
I heard strange shaking noises coming from the kitchen but, being so commanded, stayed on the couch. A few minutes later, a sheepish Joey came running out of the kitchen.
"Do we have any candles?"
"Yes, they're behind..." I explained where they were. You really don't care where I keep my birthday candles, do you?
He dashed back into the kitchen where I heard quite a bit of rummaging. (I keep my candles in a very inconvenient location since I only use them twice a year.) A few minutes later...
"Happy birthday to you!" He sang to me, holding a very frosting-laden cake covered in Funfetti sprinkles and ablaze with candles.
"WOW!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands in delight, "It's amazing!"
He finished "Happy Birthday" and I blew out my candles. (All five of them.)
"I put tons of frosting on it for you," he said as he cut me a piece cake that was so top-heavy with frosting that it broke in half on my plate.
"I know, I can tell. It's the most beautiful birthday cake anyone has ever built me!" I assured him.
And it was.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Fair Warning: It's Not Safe To Eat at Potbelly's
I was sitting at my desk, happily eating my chicken salad sandwich from Potbelly's when I bit down on something. Hard.
It felt too large to be a chicken bone. A bit too hard as well. I rolled it around in my mouth to try to figure out what it was. I determined that whatever it was I shouldn't eat it, so I politely spit it out into a napkin.
I unfolded the napkin and, to my great surprise, there sat a screw. (A regular one, not a Phillips one.)
Since the screw had just come out of my mouth with a bunch of chicken salad, it looked Very Disgusting. I dusted it off as much as possible and tapped it on the desk. It made a very metallic and disconcerting sound.
I carried it over to our catering manager and said, "I hate to be a whiner...but I found a screw in my sandwich."
I was met with a lock of shocked horror.
"A what?" She asked.
"A screw." I held it up for her to see.
"Oh...that makes me mad! I am calling them right now." She proceeded to call the store manager and tell them that it was not acceptable service to have screws in people's sandwiches.
I cleaned off the screw a little bit more. People were wanting to see it and there was still a piece of chicken stuck to it.
The general consensus was that it was horrifying to have a screw in one's sandwich, and did I break my tooth?
No, I did not break my tooth. But it still kind of hurts.
I don't think Potbelly's is going to refund us the cost of the entire order, either. (Which I definitely think they should do.)
Unfortunately, I see way more humor in the situation than anyone else does. So I was sitting here giggling about it when I was informed by those wiser than I that I could have had Very Serious Intenstinal Damage had I swallowed that screw.
Oh. When you put it like that...
Well, it was still kind of funny. In a "that would only happen to Jenna" sort of way...
It felt too large to be a chicken bone. A bit too hard as well. I rolled it around in my mouth to try to figure out what it was. I determined that whatever it was I shouldn't eat it, so I politely spit it out into a napkin.
I unfolded the napkin and, to my great surprise, there sat a screw. (A regular one, not a Phillips one.)
Since the screw had just come out of my mouth with a bunch of chicken salad, it looked Very Disgusting. I dusted it off as much as possible and tapped it on the desk. It made a very metallic and disconcerting sound.
I carried it over to our catering manager and said, "I hate to be a whiner...but I found a screw in my sandwich."
I was met with a lock of shocked horror.
"A what?" She asked.
"A screw." I held it up for her to see.
"Oh...that makes me mad! I am calling them right now." She proceeded to call the store manager and tell them that it was not acceptable service to have screws in people's sandwiches.
I cleaned off the screw a little bit more. People were wanting to see it and there was still a piece of chicken stuck to it.
The general consensus was that it was horrifying to have a screw in one's sandwich, and did I break my tooth?
No, I did not break my tooth. But it still kind of hurts.
I don't think Potbelly's is going to refund us the cost of the entire order, either. (Which I definitely think they should do.)
Unfortunately, I see way more humor in the situation than anyone else does. So I was sitting here giggling about it when I was informed by those wiser than I that I could have had Very Serious Intenstinal Damage had I swallowed that screw.
Oh. When you put it like that...
Well, it was still kind of funny. In a "that would only happen to Jenna" sort of way...
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
My Super Great Birthday
I like birthdays.
Even though I get older and subsequently acquire more gray hair (my pops reassures me), I still think they're fun. (I always feel really selfish admitting that, though.) In any case, I like getting excited about things and a birthday is a great thing to get excited about, in my estimation at least.
Here are some of the things I have to be thankful for on this particular birthday!
I'm going to go play with pinkPod now and snitch some frosting when Joey's not looking.
But...all in all...it has been a very fantastic birthday.
Even though I get older and subsequently acquire more gray hair (my pops reassures me), I still think they're fun. (I always feel really selfish admitting that, though.) In any case, I like getting excited about things and a birthday is a great thing to get excited about, in my estimation at least.
Here are some of the things I have to be thankful for on this particular birthday!
- All of my wonderful 12 Days of Birthday gifts from Joey, my two new books in particular
- It's a beautiful day outside!
- My new digital oven thermometer from Mom and Dad, and I promise I won't set this one on or near any burners
- The return of my Sense and Sensibility movie from Sister, hooray!
- My very handy Double Lock Security Bracelet from Gramps and Gram Laird, complete with a lightweight pink cell phone and lovely ring (which I have been actually wearing around.) Henry, unfortunately, discovered the lightweight pink cell phone and chewed a large hole in it while trying to make it ring. He was very upset when I confiscated it from him.
- A whole slew of Ann Taylor Loft clothes that Joey and I got on megasale with my birthday money from Gramps and Gram
- The ginormous blueberry Frappuccino and card that my co-workers gave me. The Frappuccino even had whipped cream on it. Yummm...
- The very same CO Bigelow lip balm that I have been eying in the store...from Sister! She's real smart. Plus she also gave me this fancy waterless hand sanitizer foam in my favorite scent. Yay, Sister!
- The lunar eclipse tonight
- MY NEW PINK iPOD!!! I have christened my new iPod the pinkPod. It is a joyous occasion.
I'm going to go play with pinkPod now and snitch some frosting when Joey's not looking.
But...all in all...it has been a very fantastic birthday.
Fright Night
I put my book down at 10:24 p.m. last evening and decided it was time for me to go to sleep. Joey had already turned out his bedside lamp, so I clicked mine off and snuggled down into my non-lumpy pillow.
Then, "Did you lock the front door?" I asked.
Joey rolled around sleepily and said, "You were the last one outside...."
"OK," I said, getting out of bed. It was insanely dark so I was walking very carefully so as not to step on Henry, who could be laying on the floor just about anywhere in the house. (He likes to either guard our door or sleep under one of the vents so he can have cold air blow on him all night. He's such a spoiled little thing.)
"Wow, it's dark!" I muttered. It was a full moon last night and I was really surprised by how dark the entire house was. Usually it's a little bit brighter. Perhaps the moon was behind a very large cloud?
I was shuffling along very slowly because I was unnerved by the complete inky blackness of our house. I finally reached the entryway and, just as I was about to turn on the light to look at the door locks--
"BOO!"
Someone grabbed me from behind and shouted. In my sheer panic, I alternated between screaming and yelling repeatedly "I'm afraid, I'm afraid". (I'm surprisingly articulate when I'm terrified. It's a new skill.) I soon discovered that I was also smacking my assailant in the hiney, only I was flailing so badly that I was hardly hitting him at all.
"Hey, hey, it's OK! It's just me!" Joey soothed. I realized it was he and then I got mad but did stop hitting him in the backside.
"I was super scared. That was mean." I glared at him in the dark. I stomped over to the light, turned it on (yes, the door was locked), and stormed back to bed.
"I'm sorry...I really thought you saw me! I snuck out of bed ahead of you..." Joey tried to apologize. (No wonder it was so dark in the house, he was blocking all the light!)
Unfortunately by this time, the initial terror had worn off and I was starting to see the humor in the situation. I was even starting to laugh. In order to make Joey feel bad about this for as long as possible, I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow.
Joey took this as a sign that I was in Severe Emotional Distress. He continued apologizing. I continued trying not to laugh. (It really was kind of funny...)
After a few minutes I rolled over, told him I forgave him and we both fell asleep. I did not inform him of the fact that I found his little caper to be amusing. (In fact, he will be finding that out as he reads this post. I couldn't bring myself to admit it to him last night.)
At 4:30 a.m. I awoke suddenly. Since I was awake I decided to go see what was going on in the bathroom. (It was decidedly less dark this time around.) As I came to the bedroom door, I noticed Joey walking straight into the living room.
So as not to scare him, I whispered, "Hi!"
He completely flipped out. "AAAUGH!" He did this sort of amazing sideways jumping/hop/flail before he turned around, out of breath, and looked at me.
"You scared me!"
"Oh. Sorry, I was just letting you know I was here so I wouldn't, um, scare you."
"I guess we're even then."
We went back to bed and slept, albeit rather fitfully, until 6:15 a.m. It was quite a night.
Then, "Did you lock the front door?" I asked.
Joey rolled around sleepily and said, "You were the last one outside...."
"OK," I said, getting out of bed. It was insanely dark so I was walking very carefully so as not to step on Henry, who could be laying on the floor just about anywhere in the house. (He likes to either guard our door or sleep under one of the vents so he can have cold air blow on him all night. He's such a spoiled little thing.)
"Wow, it's dark!" I muttered. It was a full moon last night and I was really surprised by how dark the entire house was. Usually it's a little bit brighter. Perhaps the moon was behind a very large cloud?
I was shuffling along very slowly because I was unnerved by the complete inky blackness of our house. I finally reached the entryway and, just as I was about to turn on the light to look at the door locks--
"BOO!"
Someone grabbed me from behind and shouted. In my sheer panic, I alternated between screaming and yelling repeatedly "I'm afraid, I'm afraid". (I'm surprisingly articulate when I'm terrified. It's a new skill.) I soon discovered that I was also smacking my assailant in the hiney, only I was flailing so badly that I was hardly hitting him at all.
"Hey, hey, it's OK! It's just me!" Joey soothed. I realized it was he and then I got mad but did stop hitting him in the backside.
"I was super scared. That was mean." I glared at him in the dark. I stomped over to the light, turned it on (yes, the door was locked), and stormed back to bed.
"I'm sorry...I really thought you saw me! I snuck out of bed ahead of you..." Joey tried to apologize. (No wonder it was so dark in the house, he was blocking all the light!)
Unfortunately by this time, the initial terror had worn off and I was starting to see the humor in the situation. I was even starting to laugh. In order to make Joey feel bad about this for as long as possible, I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow.
Joey took this as a sign that I was in Severe Emotional Distress. He continued apologizing. I continued trying not to laugh. (It really was kind of funny...)
After a few minutes I rolled over, told him I forgave him and we both fell asleep. I did not inform him of the fact that I found his little caper to be amusing. (In fact, he will be finding that out as he reads this post. I couldn't bring myself to admit it to him last night.)
At 4:30 a.m. I awoke suddenly. Since I was awake I decided to go see what was going on in the bathroom. (It was decidedly less dark this time around.) As I came to the bedroom door, I noticed Joey walking straight into the living room.
So as not to scare him, I whispered, "Hi!"
He completely flipped out. "AAAUGH!" He did this sort of amazing sideways jumping/hop/flail before he turned around, out of breath, and looked at me.
"You scared me!"
"Oh. Sorry, I was just letting you know I was here so I wouldn't, um, scare you."
"I guess we're even then."
We went back to bed and slept, albeit rather fitfully, until 6:15 a.m. It was quite a night.
Monday, August 27, 2007
The Dead Bug Skin
Last week Joey and I were coming in from walking The Fiend (aka Henry) when Joey noticed something large and disgusting stuck to the side of the building.
"Hey, Jenna, come here and look at this!"
I came over to see what he was pointing at. About two feet off the ground was a white, scaly bug with large eyes and wings. (It was not a cockroach.)
"What is that thing?" I asked, horrified and awed at the same time.
"It's a bug." Joey said, knowledgeably. "I knew you'd want to see it."
He was right, as always.
I got real close to the bug and blew on it. It didn't move, which was OK with me because it was seriously enormous. (Kind of like a bumblebee only about 4 times the size and all white and scaly and with longer, more disgusting legs.)
On Friday night I noticed that The Bug was still there, stuck to the side of the building. I got closer and looked at it again and, after a through examination, determined it to be the skin of a Cicada. Very gross, indeed.
On Saturday while laying out at the pool I was treated to a Cicada flying and buzzing all around me for an hour. (Perhaps it is the same Cicada who forgot his clothes by my front door?)
At any rate, I was pleased. I had never seen a Cicada flying around before and was glad to have something to watch as I floated aimlessly around in the pool on my raft.
Saturday evening as I was reading in bed I suddenly had a Very Bad Idea.
"Will you go get that Cicada off the side of the building for me?" I asked Joey, sweetly.
"Um, no." He said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because. There's no reason for you to need a dead bug off the side of the building, especially if--"
"Yes, I am going to send it to The Kid. In the next care package."
"Oh man. I am definitely not involved. If you are going to mail that thing you have to get it off the building yourself." He was trying not to laugh at me and not really succeeding.
I put on my best "I'm better than you think at picking dead bugs off the side of buildings" look and marched out the door.
I almost chickened out. Apparently Mr. Cicada had dug his nails into the building really, really hard before shedding his skin, and that made it a lot harder to pry him off the building. But, I am happy to say that I succeeded without actually having to touch it.
I took the dead bug straight inside where I put it under Joey's nose so he could be sure to see it very well.
"That thing is disgusting," Joey said. He was somewhere between entirely grossed out that I'd brought a dead Cicada skin into the house and impressed that I'd actually gotten it myself.
"I know, that's why I'm mailing it to The Kid of course." I said. I shook the Cicada skin around in the container a few times. "I'm going to make a bed of cotton balls for it so it doesn't get all crunched by the mailman."
"That's disgusting." Joey repeated and went back to reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.
I dumped the Cicada out on the counter and added three cotton balls. I then scooped the Cicada back into the container. He looked much more disgusting and close now that he wasn't rolling around on the bottom of the container anymore. His nails were digging into the cotton balls and keeping him in place.
"See?" I showed Joey. "It's perfect."
"Yes...yes, that works very nicely." He said, noncommittally.
And so that's why I've had a dead Cicada skin in one of my plastic containers sitting on my dresser for the last two nights. Not that anyone has really been asking, I just wanted to share.
And Grams, I think you're right about poor Joey getting a Double Portion. Not only does he have to tolerate the Cicada, he's also hidden all my birthday gifts in an undisclosed location until my birthday. I tried to open one on Friday and he confiscated it, so now I have no idea where any of them are.
I'm more trouble than a 5 year old...and yet I'm turning 25.
"Hey, Jenna, come here and look at this!"
I came over to see what he was pointing at. About two feet off the ground was a white, scaly bug with large eyes and wings. (It was not a cockroach.)
"What is that thing?" I asked, horrified and awed at the same time.
"It's a bug." Joey said, knowledgeably. "I knew you'd want to see it."
He was right, as always.
I got real close to the bug and blew on it. It didn't move, which was OK with me because it was seriously enormous. (Kind of like a bumblebee only about 4 times the size and all white and scaly and with longer, more disgusting legs.)
On Friday night I noticed that The Bug was still there, stuck to the side of the building. I got closer and looked at it again and, after a through examination, determined it to be the skin of a Cicada. Very gross, indeed.
On Saturday while laying out at the pool I was treated to a Cicada flying and buzzing all around me for an hour. (Perhaps it is the same Cicada who forgot his clothes by my front door?)
At any rate, I was pleased. I had never seen a Cicada flying around before and was glad to have something to watch as I floated aimlessly around in the pool on my raft.
Saturday evening as I was reading in bed I suddenly had a Very Bad Idea.
"Will you go get that Cicada off the side of the building for me?" I asked Joey, sweetly.
"Um, no." He said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because. There's no reason for you to need a dead bug off the side of the building, especially if--"
"Yes, I am going to send it to The Kid. In the next care package."
"Oh man. I am definitely not involved. If you are going to mail that thing you have to get it off the building yourself." He was trying not to laugh at me and not really succeeding.
I put on my best "I'm better than you think at picking dead bugs off the side of buildings" look and marched out the door.
I almost chickened out. Apparently Mr. Cicada had dug his nails into the building really, really hard before shedding his skin, and that made it a lot harder to pry him off the building. But, I am happy to say that I succeeded without actually having to touch it.
I took the dead bug straight inside where I put it under Joey's nose so he could be sure to see it very well.
"That thing is disgusting," Joey said. He was somewhere between entirely grossed out that I'd brought a dead Cicada skin into the house and impressed that I'd actually gotten it myself.
"I know, that's why I'm mailing it to The Kid of course." I said. I shook the Cicada skin around in the container a few times. "I'm going to make a bed of cotton balls for it so it doesn't get all crunched by the mailman."
"That's disgusting." Joey repeated and went back to reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.
I dumped the Cicada out on the counter and added three cotton balls. I then scooped the Cicada back into the container. He looked much more disgusting and close now that he wasn't rolling around on the bottom of the container anymore. His nails were digging into the cotton balls and keeping him in place.
"See?" I showed Joey. "It's perfect."
"Yes...yes, that works very nicely." He said, noncommittally.
And so that's why I've had a dead Cicada skin in one of my plastic containers sitting on my dresser for the last two nights. Not that anyone has really been asking, I just wanted to share.
And Grams, I think you're right about poor Joey getting a Double Portion. Not only does he have to tolerate the Cicada, he's also hidden all my birthday gifts in an undisclosed location until my birthday. I tried to open one on Friday and he confiscated it, so now I have no idea where any of them are.
I'm more trouble than a 5 year old...and yet I'm turning 25.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Henry's Haircut
Henry, being a Shih-Tzu, requires lots of haircuts. He was in the middle of one last night when Joey and I decided we'd better take him to PetSmart to get his nails trimmed and all the hair pulled out of the inside of his ears. (It's rough being a dog.)
Henry really likes PetSmart, but he hates going to the grooming salon. I'd do it myself bu I get so nervous trimming his nails that he gets nervous and wiggles a lot. Then, of course, I wind up quicking him and he bleeds and cries; it's bad.
So there we were walking into PetSmart with a half shaved dog. Poor Henry looked ridiculous, his front half was all shorn close to his body and his legs and back half (predominantly the left side of bum) were still long and fluffy so waddled when he walked.
As we neared the grooming salon, Henry stopped walking. He planted his little paws on the tile floor and tried, to no avail, to stop himself from the inevitable.
Since the floor was tile and he had no traction, I pulled him into the salon where he sat in the corner, trying to hide.
When it was Henry's turn, he walked woefully over to the groomer and sat gargoyle-still on the grooming table. He looked at me with large, pathetic eyes.
"Oh, you're fine." I reassured him. He didn't even blink.
Henry was such a good boy. He didn't cry, he didn't wiggle...he didn't even move while the groomer clipped his front two paws. Then, as the groomer moved to his back leg Joey suddenly cried out, "HEY! Henry, that's gross!"
"What?" I asked, and the groomer looked around to see what he'd missed.
On the floor by his foot was a fairly substantial piece of Henry poo.
"Henry!" I gasped, "Don't poo on the groomer!"
Henry looked guilty, scared, sheepish all at the same time. The poor groomer picked up Henry's little present and threw it away.
Joey and I decided we'd vacate the premises just in case Henry went to the bathroom on the groomer again. We didn't want to be around to see it.
We found ourselves in the dog toy section and Joey stopped us in front of a large display of American Kennel Club toys. Henry formerly had the chipmunk and absolutely loved it but, alas, I hid it somewhere and now I can't find it.
"Let's get Henry a new toy to replace Chippy. You know, for all of his pain and suffering." Joey suggested. "This owl's kind of cute looking..."
"Good idea!" I agreed, pulling down a cute, fluffy stuffed porcupine. "I like this one."
"No....how about this deer. It looks like Bambi, then we could say Henry killed Bambi."
I didn't like the deer. It wasn't very cute. But Joey was so excited about it that I was having a hard time saying no.
"OK...fine...we can get the deer," I acquiesced, putting the porcupine back on the shelf.
We were nearly back to the grooming salon when Joey brilliantly suggested, "We can name him Beer the Deer! You know, to go along with our naming scheme." (Names of stuffed animals have to rhyme with what they are. For instance: Habit the Rabbit, Guppy the Puppy, etc.)
"I suppose." I paused, thinking. "Then we can tell Henry to go get his Beer. Or to bring us a Beer."
Joey laughed quite loudly. "That's awesome!" And it was settled.
Come on, what else rhymes with Deer? I ask you.
Henry loved Beer the Deer from the moment he saw it and he instantly forgot about how much he hates getting his toenails clipped. He chewed on it the entire way home and when I found him this morning, he was sleeping with his head on it and one of his paws wrapped around it.
Unfortunately he carried it downstairs this morning when he went outside and I think he went to the bathroom on it. (Marking his territory and whatnot, I suppose.) It looked like more of a mistake on his part than anything else.
Hopefully Beer the Deer has been hidden/destroyed/stolen/otherwise removed from our house by the time Joey is actually a pastor. It would never do to have someone from church over and to have Henry carrying his Beer all over the house.
Henry really likes PetSmart, but he hates going to the grooming salon. I'd do it myself bu I get so nervous trimming his nails that he gets nervous and wiggles a lot. Then, of course, I wind up quicking him and he bleeds and cries; it's bad.
So there we were walking into PetSmart with a half shaved dog. Poor Henry looked ridiculous, his front half was all shorn close to his body and his legs and back half (predominantly the left side of bum) were still long and fluffy so waddled when he walked.
As we neared the grooming salon, Henry stopped walking. He planted his little paws on the tile floor and tried, to no avail, to stop himself from the inevitable.
Since the floor was tile and he had no traction, I pulled him into the salon where he sat in the corner, trying to hide.
When it was Henry's turn, he walked woefully over to the groomer and sat gargoyle-still on the grooming table. He looked at me with large, pathetic eyes.
"Oh, you're fine." I reassured him. He didn't even blink.
Henry was such a good boy. He didn't cry, he didn't wiggle...he didn't even move while the groomer clipped his front two paws. Then, as the groomer moved to his back leg Joey suddenly cried out, "HEY! Henry, that's gross!"
"What?" I asked, and the groomer looked around to see what he'd missed.
On the floor by his foot was a fairly substantial piece of Henry poo.
"Henry!" I gasped, "Don't poo on the groomer!"
Henry looked guilty, scared, sheepish all at the same time. The poor groomer picked up Henry's little present and threw it away.
Joey and I decided we'd vacate the premises just in case Henry went to the bathroom on the groomer again. We didn't want to be around to see it.
We found ourselves in the dog toy section and Joey stopped us in front of a large display of American Kennel Club toys. Henry formerly had the chipmunk and absolutely loved it but, alas, I hid it somewhere and now I can't find it.
"Let's get Henry a new toy to replace Chippy. You know, for all of his pain and suffering." Joey suggested. "This owl's kind of cute looking..."
"Good idea!" I agreed, pulling down a cute, fluffy stuffed porcupine. "I like this one."
"No....how about this deer. It looks like Bambi, then we could say Henry killed Bambi."
I didn't like the deer. It wasn't very cute. But Joey was so excited about it that I was having a hard time saying no.
"OK...fine...we can get the deer," I acquiesced, putting the porcupine back on the shelf.
We were nearly back to the grooming salon when Joey brilliantly suggested, "We can name him Beer the Deer! You know, to go along with our naming scheme." (Names of stuffed animals have to rhyme with what they are. For instance: Habit the Rabbit, Guppy the Puppy, etc.)
"I suppose." I paused, thinking. "Then we can tell Henry to go get his Beer. Or to bring us a Beer."
Joey laughed quite loudly. "That's awesome!" And it was settled.
Come on, what else rhymes with Deer? I ask you.
Henry loved Beer the Deer from the moment he saw it and he instantly forgot about how much he hates getting his toenails clipped. He chewed on it the entire way home and when I found him this morning, he was sleeping with his head on it and one of his paws wrapped around it.
Unfortunately he carried it downstairs this morning when he went outside and I think he went to the bathroom on it. (Marking his territory and whatnot, I suppose.) It looked like more of a mistake on his part than anything else.
Hopefully Beer the Deer has been hidden/destroyed/stolen/otherwise removed from our house by the time Joey is actually a pastor. It would never do to have someone from church over and to have Henry carrying his Beer all over the house.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
My Push-Up
"I'm eating a Push-Up," I gloated to Joey over the phone.
"What? You're doing a push-up?" He asked, genuinely confused. (I'm wearing a dress today.)
"No, no, I'm eating a Push-Up," I corrected.
"WHAT?!" He yelled, "I LOVE PUSH-UPS!"
"I know, that's why I called to tell you."
"Humph." There was a slight pause. (A pouty pause.) "Where'd you get one."
"It's tenant appreciation day down here, so they gave us ice cream." I replied.
"Was it orange? Can you go get me one?" Poor Joey begged.
"Yes it was. And I can try..." I said.
We ended our conversation and I began my trek down to see if I could find him an orange Push-Up. To my dismay, they had run out at 1:30 which was about an hour before I made it downstairs.
I walked through the kitchen on my way back up and happened to overhear someone mentioning that "there's a bunch of leftover ice cream in the freezer".
Sure enough, three orange Push-Ups. I hid one in the other freezer and am hoping it's still there when I get off work.
The things you'll do for love...
"What? You're doing a push-up?" He asked, genuinely confused. (I'm wearing a dress today.)
"No, no, I'm eating a Push-Up," I corrected.
"WHAT?!" He yelled, "I LOVE PUSH-UPS!"
"I know, that's why I called to tell you."
"Humph." There was a slight pause. (A pouty pause.) "Where'd you get one."
"It's tenant appreciation day down here, so they gave us ice cream." I replied.
"Was it orange? Can you go get me one?" Poor Joey begged.
"Yes it was. And I can try..." I said.
We ended our conversation and I began my trek down to see if I could find him an orange Push-Up. To my dismay, they had run out at 1:30 which was about an hour before I made it downstairs.
I walked through the kitchen on my way back up and happened to overhear someone mentioning that "there's a bunch of leftover ice cream in the freezer".
Sure enough, three orange Push-Ups. I hid one in the other freezer and am hoping it's still there when I get off work.
The things you'll do for love...
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