Nov. 4: An open letter to my back

Dear Spine o’ Mine:

Why you gotta be so mean?

Alright, I know I’ve taken some good spills this year, and I know they’ve hurt you. How many times do I need to apologize for that? I didn’t fall on purpose! I walked around with a big, black bruise on my chin for a month—you think you were hurt worse than my pride was? And two weeks later, when I had another great fall, I nearly lost an eye and was FrankenJen for weeks afterward. Don’t you think that if I was trying to hurt YOU that I wouldn’t have hurt myself in other visible places?

But besides that, have I really punished you that much over the years? You’ve obviously forgotten about the time I gave up ever being able to do a cartwheel—I was young and you were bendier then, but STILL I didn’t push you, and I have never in my life done a real cartwheel without four spotters. Wasn’t that nice of me, to take you into consideration?

You might remember that my gymnastics training ended at a young age. Maybe my mom saw the futility of gymnastics ever helping me to develop gracefulness and poise, or maybe my instructor kicked me out of class for being an embarrassment. But shouldn’t you be kinda grateful, Spine o’ Mine, that the most gymnastic maneuver I ever mastered is the somersault? And I hardly ever even do one! I ask so little of you.

I have good posture.

I always bend at the knees because I know this alleviates stress on you.

I rarely walk like an Egyptian.

I never run down the stairs. It’s bad for you. Taking the stairs slowly and without excessive stomping also decreases the velocity at which I’ll tumble down them, because I always, always tumble down them. But that’s beside the point. I try to take it easy on you—that’s what I’m saying.

And I bought you that incredibly expensive and fancy mattress this year. BECAUSE I CARE. But have you let me sleep on it? No.

I’ve never been big on much exercise, but I do walk a lot, and I always wear super supportive shoes for you. Okay, they may not always be supportive, but I can promise that they’re always the cutest thing you ever did see. I like cute shoes. Sometimes fashion has to hurt, you know that.

Speaking of doing things just for looks—and let’s just forget the shoes for a minute, please—I’ve never pierced you or anything near you. Never tattooed you either. I keep you shielded from excessive sun exposure.  I got you that spray tan last year and you looked damn good. What else can I do to show you that I care?

I’ve gotten you re-aligned, massaged, x-rayed, and adjusted. I regularly heat you and soak you in warm water.

But now you never stop hurting. You won’t let me lie on my back or sides for more than ten seconds before I jump up in terrible pain. Sometimes you spasm all day long. Even sitting up, which is the only way I can relax anymore—if you can call that “relaxing” (I don’t)—you hurt me. You laugh at ibuprofen—I swear I can hear you. If I sweep or mop the floor, you put me in excruciating pain for hours. It hurts after I try to do all kinds of things around the house—laundry, clean the bathroom, pull weeds, wash the car, or pick up crap the kids leave around the house. Blogging takes hours now, since I can’t sit for more than a few minutes at a time. The dogs hate that I never lay down because they have no one with which to cuddle. Victor has to do pretty much all of the household chores. The kids think I’m always always always grouchy (I am). Trying to get through a day without angering you has everyone in the house on edge. All the inactivity is making me fatter too.

I suspect you’ve given up on me, Spine o’ Mine, and I’d really like to know why—but if you won’t give me an answer, I don’t care, AS LONG AS YOU STOP BEING AN ASSHOLE.

Pretty please?

Love,

Mar. 31: Washer woman

This morning I found a Law & Order: Special Victims Unit marathon going on the USA network. I think they do them every Tuesday. You know what happens when you don’t turn off the TV at the end of a Law & Order episode? The next one starts and you have to watch the whole thing. You have to. It’s, like, the law in Law & Order, I think.

I had things to do at my desk for about an hour, so I kept busy while I watched. But after that I felt guilty not doing anything else BUT watching, and I knew I could easily waste the whole day in front of the TV. So I went upstairs to find something productive to do. Aha! Laundry!

There were quite a few loads to run, as well as piles of clean things that had been left on the table in the laundry room. Those things needed to be folded and put away, and that would take a long time. I had pa-lenty to keep me busy for the whole L&O: SVU marathon. Yay. (Pssst. Don’t tell Victor, but I kinda like doing laundry. It’s a pain to keep up with, but completing it is quite satisfying.)

But wait! I discovered two hampers in the laundry room that were full of clothes. I knew one of them had clean clothes in it—there were dryer sheets in there—but I couldn’t tell if the other stuff was clean or dirty. Because who puts clean clothes in a hamper??? My husband does, that’s who.

Now, using the hamper to get clothes from the laundry room to the bedroom for folding would be efficient if they were taken out of the hamper immediately so as not to confuse them with clothes in hampers that had not yet been washed. But it appears that someone else in my house that does the laundry does not think about that. It is very, very frustrating for the other people in my house, particularly me.

I cannot express to you how difficult it is for me to leave the above paragraph un-bolded and un-huge-ified and un-emailed anonymously to Victor.

Don’t give me that “at least your husband does laundry” stuff. I’m lucky he does the laundry, I know. But if he leaves clean clothes in a hamper, where dirty clothes belong, then there’s a good chance they’ll just end up getting washed again. So “my husband does the laundry” is actually more like “my husband moves things around the house and leaves me to wonder if those things have already been washed or not so I wash them again to be on the safe side and then nobody really wins.”

There’s a happy ending. I got to watch the marathon most the day without feeling super guilty. The table in the laundry room has been cleared, the hampers are empty, and our dresser drawers are full. Yep, it feels good.

Feb. 9: Extreme griping

Katie’s birthday was today. It was nice. Her party was yesterday. It was also nice. I ran around all day but didn’t do anything fun. Early this evening I felt a sore throat coming on and it turned me super grouchy within an hour. Now it hurts when I talk and breathe. And I just wonder, why can’t I ever have just a regular ol’ illness, like the sniffles? Instead, a migraine makes me puke so much I spend the night in the emergency room. A simple little cold turns into emphysema. My twisted ankle ends up requiring an appendectomy. My split ends? Blame a flesh-eating virus. This sore throat will undoubtedly necessitate amputation of all my extremities. You know what? I’m tired of it always being something. I want it to be nothing sometimes. Is that too much to ask?

Pfft. I’m going to bed.

P.S. Sherilee, dinner was fab, even though it hurt to swallow every Perfect Bite™. I’ll post birthday party photos soon, Mom. Kath, I’m trying to get blog ideas for you. Yes, I definitely want to see “Milk,” Lori. And Dana, I’m not ignoring you and will reply soon.

Jan. 31: Way TMI, etc.

Yay, Jen! I haven’t puked since about 8:00 p.m. yesterday. I thank the good drugs.

I still feel terrible though. My back still hurts. My headache is as bad as ever. I feel very weak. I’m able to eat but don’t have much of an appetite so I really have to force myself and that’s no fun at all. For some reason, applesauce on peanut butter toast is just about the only thing I’ve managed to eat. And bananas. I love bananas.

I’ve peed, like, TWICE in the last 24 hours, even after all those IV fluids. This just shows how dehydrated I must have been (and probably still am). I’m guzzling Gatorade and lots of ice water. It makes me cold and kinda angry.

The carnival at the school seemed to go off just fine without me. I went, but bailed pretty quickly as soon as I found out there were plenty of people to cover the prize room where I had been assigned. After a quick chat with Dawn, I headed home. I fell asleep almost immediately and didn’t wake up until the kids came home very noisily.

Weird stuff goes on in my brain when I’m on potent drugs. This afternoon I dreamed they had way too many Charleston Chews to sell at the school carnival. Then I had a new house and was married to Jay, one of my co-workers at Catapult (I know, Ed—you’re relieved it wasn’t you for once). Victor lived with us and did not seem to enjoy the situation even a little bit, especially when I was trying to get Jay to make out with me. And then I was spraying glass etching stuff on stencils all over the walls and kept saying it was really going to make my mom mad. I also have a vague memory of dreaming that Erin’s dad was putting out records—yes, the VINYL stuff—and we were all trying to be supportive but they were awful. Also, they were VINYL.

Sherilee, I watched the last half of a Top Chef episode rerun when I woke up. It was the one with the farm food. Interesting. It’s hard for me to read your reviews each week and not get sucked in. Now I might have to curse you because I might just be hooked on yet another show. I really hate reality TV and its unnecessary drama, but at least the people on that show have some talent.

Yikes. Suddenly I’m worried I might have imagined that Top Chef episode. Please tell me it was real, Sher. They sent home that headband/too-much-spray-tan girl, right? Gah.

As I’ve mentioned a thousand times, I hate football. I usually make an exception for the Super Bowl for the commercials, especially if Justin Timberlake is in one. Please tell me who I should root for, Lori or someone else I like in spite of their football feevah.

I finally finished reading The Cider House Rules yesterday. That took for-freakin’-ever! It was an interesting story, though, and one more check for my 100 Books to Read list. I haven’t decided what I’ll tackle next. Right now my dreams are way more mysterious and strange than the plot of any book I can imagine.

Dr. Kelli said this pain medication should be in my system “a while.” Frustrating, since it’s not doing anything good for me anymore. Until I start getting some strength and sanity back, you can expect these meandering types of posts. So sorry. Sorta.

Dec. 14: When! I said WHEN!

Alright, who do I talk to about getting this snow to disappear? I’m done.

It was fun for a few minutes. I loved hearing the kids’ reactions to it when they woke up. Getting them all bundled up to go play in it. Watching them sledding down the hill with their friends. Helping them warm up with blankets and hot chocolate. Snow here is so rare that it’s a real treat.

But now school’s cancelled for tomorrow, and the forecast calls for more snow mid-week. The way Portlanders handle snow (the city pretty much shuts down), we’ll probably have more school closings until the temps go up again.

About four inches fell in Clackamas today. It was very wet snow, as it usually is here, and it’ll undoubtedly turn to ice overnight. It’s right that the schools will be closed tomorrow. Unfortunately, it isn’t going to keep enough cars off the road. Few people around here have any clue how to drive in snow, much less ice. I don’t care who you are, no one can drive in ice. And yet every time we get snow in this city there are idiots who think they can drive down steep hills just fine and then end up on TV because they can’t.

What I enjoy least about the snow is having to drive in it. I don’t do well. But it’s other people’s driving that really, really scares the crap out of me and keeps me at home. And I have a bunch of work to do this week, at least one doctor appointment, a meeting in Salem, volunteer time at the school, Christmas shopping to finish up, and packages to ship. I’m afraid that snow just doesn’t fit in my schedule right now.

So who do I talk to about getting rid of it?

Dec. 11: Lame-ish excuses

I’ve been delinquent in my blogging duties. Presley’s birthday was Sunday—she turned five!—and Wellington’s was yesterday. No one’s quite sure how old he is. I planned long, celebratory posts with pictures and stories and then didn’t write them.

Lori e-mailed more photos from the big San Francisco weekend to which I was not invited. I would like to showcase them in a post or two, along with snarky comments about not being invited.

I have half a post written about crappy Christmas lights in my neighborhood—thankfully, none of them on our friends’ homes, or I’d have to censor my critiques and NOBODY CENSORS JEN’S CRITIQUES—but I have no energy to finish it. So let me ask this: neighbors, have you seen the blue icicle lights that are sort of hanging on that one house? I’ve driven around the block several times just to see them again because they’re so unbelievably awful and they make me laugh and feel fortunate I’m not married to whoever is responsible for such hilarious workmanship.

The fan in our master bath stopped working. After our showers the room stays full of steam for way too long. It makes me want to take my shower in the kids’ bathroom except I don’t because it’s the kids’ bathroom and the cooties in there are bigger than I am.

Yesterday the toilet in the half bath was running so I took off the tank lid to jiggle the float and it snapped right off. And now I have to go to Home Depot and try not to giggle when I ask where I can find a ballcock.

Christmas shopping is finally done and I’m happily sitting back, waiting for orders to be delivered. That’s a relief. I do all the gift-wrapping after the kids have gone to bed, though, which has put me behind on the TiVo-watching I usually do in the late evenings. I don’t like when I get behind on TiVo because there’s so much good stuff on there, I can’t possibly delete without watching. I’m able to transfer to DVDs to watch later but I tend to forget about the DVDs so that doesn’t work so well. Maybe I’ll take everything to Sunriver and spend the holidays watching CSI and Law & Order and Bizarre Foods and Dirty Jobs. (That oughta make anyone feel grateful for an uncomplicated life.)

Finally and most significantly, work is exhausting me. I’m still on a ginormous project and have reached the most challenging stage. I keep thinking I’m at a halfway point and then another issue pops up that takes twelve people to resolve and my progress gets delayed again. I’ve got every living brain cell working and because my noggin’s not used to such strenuous activity, I’m pretty sure it’s on the verge of striking back.

So there ya go. I have a bunch of reasons to blog and but other things are getting in the way. Pfft.

Dec. 8: Bah, bug and hum

I spent the entire weekend burning CDs, applying labels, writing and printing and stuffing, oh my. The cards are in the mailbox and I should just shut up now and get to the next thing on my Christmastime to-do list. But no, I need to bitch a little more.

Because why do I let Christmas cards stress me out like this every year? Getting our cards in the mail is always such an ordeal for us, and I keep hoping next year will not be as bad. It always is. I even wrote a small database to help ease the load a little; it collects addresses and creates fancy reports that help me manage the address list when I’ve tackled it in small batches, which I usually do. I keep track of who we receive cards from and every year I analyze the who-we-sent-to-but-did-not-receive-from report to decide if we should keep certain people on our list. It could not be more efficient. And still, I grow to despise the process before it’s done.

Not sending cards is not an option. It’s not that I’m so sure people are dying to hear from us—I’m pretty sure they’re not, in fact—but for me, it’s part of the holiday season. And leading up to the addressing, stuffing, sending, it’s a fun part of the holiday season. Also, I’d be heartbroken to receive fewer Christmas cards, so I don’t dare jeopardize my place on friends’ and family’s lists.

When we started adding our Christmas music mix CDs to about half the envelopes a few years ago it increased the effort required of the project even more. I gather music throughout the year, so deciding on the playlist is not the stressful part; burning and labeling the CDs has become the busy work that gets old fast. And one year when we sent out CDs that were broken in transit, I decided we should use lightweight cardboard CD sleeves to protect them better. This meant the sleeves needed labels too, which meant more work. (Stoopid reindeer need to learn to tread more softly on the mailbags, wouldn’t you agree?)

Oh, and then there’s the Christmas letter. I like to receive letters with photos, lots of family news, all that good stuff that helps me re-connect with family and friends. The Christmas letter we send out every year contains none of those things. Our Christmas letter is mostly fabricated. In fact, I don’t even post it to my blog lest someone believe any of it is true. Oh sure, it’s all based in some level of truth—but then that part of my brain that isn’t hooked up quite right takes over. The only section of the letter that is 100 percent true is the part people never believe (the “things we actually said” list). Trust me; it’s a lot of work to write a whole letter that contains absolutely no information whatsoever.

This year I did something I’ve never done before: I printed labels instead of hand-addressing the envelopes. Please don’t put me on the naughty list, Santa. It’s crazy that I worry people will think me impersonal for not hand-addressing, I know. I’m kind of old-fashioned/traditional when it comes to this sort of thing, I guess, which is why I haven’t done it before now.

See? I bring it all upon myself. I suppose none of you even care that the return address labels match the images on the letter which are also on the CDs and CD envelopes. And some of you may chuck the CD without a glance. Or throw out the whole card without even opening it. (I hate you, by the way.) I take full responsibility for our Christmas cards becoming a much bigger monster than Santa ever intended they should, but I will continue to complain about myself.

“It’s just how I do.”

Oct. 3: Seasonal Affective Disorder?

Yeah, so the debate and other election-related stuff are the hot topics in the blogosphere right now. But the other thing people keep writing about is how much they love fall. And I’m just gonna come right out and say it: I do not love fall. It’s my least favorite season.

It’s not because of where I live; in fact, this time of year is quite pleasant in the northwest weather-wise. It’s not unheard of for the really cold weather to hold off until mid-November. But I guess I’ve just never understood the appeal of autumn. To me, it is a season of dying. To me, it is not pretty.

For starters, the skies change from a beautiful clear blue to grey and rainy. Bleah.

The leaves fall and mess up the sidewalks and gutters. The tree-lined streets in my neighborhood go from green and shaded to dead and bare. Bleah about this too.

I don’t like getting up in the morning when it’s still dark. (I realize this continues all winter long, but by winter I’m used to it; I still don’t like it, but I’m used to it.)

The kids can’t play outside as much—or at all—and bug me to find ways they can entertain themselves indoors. That’s what Disney Channel is for, Children.

I don’t like the filth and wet the kids and dogs track in every time they’ve been outside.

Oh, how it sucks to watch poor Victor rake and rake and rake.

Our weekend neighborhood gatherings end, and we sometimes don’t see each other for months.

Although the changing colors in the hills around us are interesting to see, golds and browns and oranges are my least favorite colors in the spectrum. I also know that in a very short time those trees with the changing leaves will be bare and look dead. Remember? I don’t like that.

I hate the spiders and other many-legged creatures that look for shelter inside my house. They don’t realize they’re committing suicide—between Vic’s big shoes and our bug-eating kitten, the inside of my house is definitely not a place called hope.

I’m really not fond of my body’s apparent desire to grow its own layers of warmth as the temperatures cool. Stupid body.

Here’s what I don’t mind about this time of year: the cooler temperatures, always having an excuse to curl up with a blanket and a good book, the knowledge that Christmas on its way. That stuff’s not so bad.

But spring—that’s my season. All that new life. Blue, sunny skies. We can shuck sweaters and long pants. Tulips, daffodils, crocuses. Everything looks clean. The dreariness of winter ends... to me, that’s beauty.

I’m just biding my time.

Aug. 7: Thursday Thirteen #8

Thursday Thirteen time again. Even if you don’t participate yourself, follow the link—you may discover some fabulous blogs.

13 random things that sometimes enrage me

1. Waking up with a headache. It just says, “Hey, Jen! Your day’s gonna suck!”
   
2. The doorbell. It rings all day. It’s not that I mind visitors or that our doorbell is an especially unpleasant sound. It’s the reaction of our dogs, who bark for five minutes straight, that makes me want to scream. (And sometimes I do.)
   
3. The smell of natto filling my house. Victor and Jack both like natto, which is garbage. More specifically, it’s fermented soybeans and is slimy like mucus and smells like ass. I am not kidding.
   
4. People merging on the freeway at 40mph. This does not work, people. It creates traffic jams and you will get flipped off. (Though not by me; my interaction with other drivers is limited to things that are not likely to get me shot.)
   
5. Reruns in prime time. I pay good money for… oh wait, I don’t pay anything at all. But I still hate reruns when there should be new episodes of my favorite shows.
   
6. Zits. WTH? I’m almost 40 years old. I rarely had zits as a teen but I’m more than making up for that now.
   
7. People driving/walking like no one else is around. I don’t know how people can be so completely oblivious to their surroundings. Use your turn signal. That’s the bike lane, genius. You’re blocking the doorway. You’re driving 45mph in a school zone. The light is green, so MOVE.
   
8. Forgetting my cell phone. Every time I leave the house without it, I’m sure I’ll get a flat tire or worse. When I have my phone with me, of course, I rarely need it.
   
9. Ann Coulter. Words cannot express how rude, ignorant and horrible she is.
   
10. Traffic in non-rush hour times. I don’t plan for this, and I’m always running behind—which, yes, I know is my own fault.
    
11. Skips in my CDs or DVDs. Might as well just throw them away. I’ve never found a repair product that really works. Of course, maybe if I stopped storing my CDs with the sandpaper…
    
12. An hour-long wait for a table when I’m really hungry. Why does everyone else want to try this new restaurant at the same time as me? Oh, because it’s new? And they’re all hungry too? Dang.
    
13. My husband’s habit of leaving drawers and cabinets open. As accident-prone as I am, is it any wonder I am always running into the drawers and cabinets he’s left open? I don’t know why he can’t close them but I’m pretty sure he’s trying to kill me.

What makes you want to kill someone? Leave your aggravations in a comment or your own blog. Happy Thursday!

Dec. 3: Here's yer $%@*# countdown

'Scuse the ads.

---

Note that my invitation to this trip has still not arrived... my hostility as such shall be revealed in subtle and vindictive ways, i.e., poorly Photoshopping certain people in family pictures.

Dec. 1: Phonics are off the hook

I hate telephones sometimes. Among many, many other things.

I just had to call customer service for a web site I have shopped from several times. There was a problem with my last order and I e-mailed them twice about it but hadn't heard anything back. It's one of my pet peeves about ordering over the Internet; if you tell customers to contact you via e-mail and then don't respond for a week, you should not have an Internet business.

And sometimes you have no idea what that Internet business is actually like. I mean, they could have a snazzy web site and appear to be a huge and very busy company. But in reality they could have hamsters running the show. I guess expecting a response within the 24 hours they promise might be a high expectation.

So, I dialed 'em this morning... and I think I woke someone up. Actually, the guy was probably using a headset because it sounded a little fuzzy (like a hamster) or underwater. He said something like, "Thank you for calling ****, please give me your e-mail address frajergoijly."

I replied, "I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

He said, in the same tone and volume and hamster-fuzziness, "Please give me your e-mail address forgetically."

HUH??? I chuckled a little and said, "I'm sorry... I can barely hear you." What I meant was "I can barely understand you," but I didn't want to be mean.

He actually said, and I quote (hence the quote marks), "Oh, PLEASE."

Picture me doing something like this:


(There were also a few f-words going through my head but I couldn't find a good graphic for that.)

I could hear him messing around with something and then said, "Can you hear me now?"

I said, "Sort of..." because NO, I COULDN'T and was also still making that face above.

And he said again, "Please give me your e-mail address traumatically."

WHAT did he say? He didn't have an accent, so besides speaking a little fast there was no reason for me not to understand him. Grammatically? Last time I checked, it didn't start with an "F" but maybe the rules have changed. Frenetically? Frogmatically? Fergie-licious? I had thought at first he was saying phonetically, which made no sense if he was using that to look up my account, not to mention the fact that there is no "R" in phonetically.

Alas, I shall never know. I hung up. I'll call back later and hope the guy's on lunch break and another hamster is answering his phone.

Stupid Internet companies. If they'd train their employees to answer their e-mails they wouldn't HAVE to teach them fancy words to use on the phone.

Nov. 26: “Savings” cards, my arse

Can we all agree that the club cards at grocery stores are just flat tools of the devil? I hate them. I hate having three extra cards in my wallet just so I can save 47¢ on a box of cereal. And I only carry the ones from Albertsons, Safeway and Fred Meyer; I know there are a lot more stores that make its shoppers use them. The little key fobs they give out aren't any better; I don't want a bunch of extra shiat hanging off my keyring. I prefer to shop at stores that don't use club cards, but they're inconvenient and/or smell like very full litter boxes (think that one Winco on 82nd).

Add these to your driver license, Costco, library, debit, credit, and Bikini Inspector cards and you've got a George Costanza-like wallet. It's insane.

This might help a little bit. A web site called Just One Club Card will help you create a single card that holds up to eight barcodes. There are even instructions to make a windowed sleeve that hides the other barcodes to make scanning a little easier. Give it a try. Or don't. I don't care if your spine has to be realigned on a regular basis because you carry hard candy in it...

Dummy.

Aug. 28: Annoying ads

I've not been complaining enough lately. Therein lies the lame excuse for this morning's post.

There's a mortgage company advertisement I regularly see on my Yahoo! mail page, news sites, and a number of other sites. I hate it and I think it might make me insane(r). Sometimes it's an alien dancing around, sometimes a guy in a trenchcoat, sometimes a wizard. I didn't realize that it's possible to do a bad impression of Napoleon Dynamite. Apparently I was wrong. If you don't know the ad I'm referring to, you're lucky. Look around the main page at KGW you'll probably see it.

The "angus" Jack in the Box commercials make me mad because I just don't get them. What the hell is so funny?

I hate the Burger King ad when the guy looks in his rear view mirror and sees the plastic king in his back seat. All I can say is, "oops, I crapped my pants." I think that plastic guy is the creepiest thing I've seen in a long time, but that particular commercial is, hands-down, the worst.

That's enough for today. I now return you to my normally positive, uplifting, praiseworthy posts.

—Jen


One more thing... I can't resist including a link to another Letterman Top Ten List, this one a video performance of Napoleon Dynamite.

Aug. 15: A lesson in footwear

In no way do I claim to be a fashion goddess, nor do I think anyone will ever mistake me for a credible fashion critic. But there's one thing I simply cannot abide: shoes that don't fit.

So you're a celebrity. You're wearing a $40K gown, whether you paid for it or not, and you've hired a gaggle of artists to make you look perfect. And just before you head to your awards show or movie premiere or charity auction, you slip on your shoes. Shoes that cost nearly as much as your gown. Shoes that you hope to GOD you don't have to walk in for very long because they're already killing your back. The fact that your toes hang over the ends gets by all of your beautifiers, and you proceed to your event where your picture will be taken by hundreds of cameras, all documenting your perfectly manicured toes hanging over the ends of your gorgeous shoes.

What are you, some kind of idiot?

Here's what I'm saying. If you're wearing shoes like this and your feet don't look like this in them:

CHANGE. YOUR. SHOES.

You're scaring the children. And me.

One more thing. Trim your toenails. You look like a velociraptor.

—Jen (yes, I'm a beeyotch today)

Aug. 9: Tricky gifts

Do you remember opening gifts when you were little and getting all excited over what was pictured on the box, only to find someone had just used a box from a good gift but actually put a different (and usually much crappier) gift inside? I swear, one of the most common refrains around our house on Christmas mornings was, "Can I believe the box???"

Here are some great gift boxes that should not be believed. Yeah, $7.50 is kind of a lot for an empty box, but just think of all the fun it will be to wrap some crappy gifts for the adults that briefly raised our hopes all those years.

USB Toaster 
Salt of the Month Club 
Make Your Own Umbrella Kit (love "The Hong Konger")

Not that I'm bitter or anything...

—Jen

June 5: Apostrophe abuse

It's not just me, okay?

I ran across a great blog today. I do not yet know the author, but I love him and/or her. I do. Check out Apostrophe Abuse. On this fine site there was also a list of related links; one of them led me to the National Punctuation Day web site. It's a good'n, except for the picture of a guy (the founder!) on the front page with very hairy shoulders. I mean, geez! Even perfect apostrophe usage can't make up for a lack of much-needed sleeves.

Another link I found was to the "blog" of "unnecessary" quotation marks. Although unnecessary quoting doesn't bother me nearly as much as other bad punctuation does, it probably will now. Other people's annoyances very easily become my own.

Join me in my punctuation snobbery, won't you? Please? I feel a little lonely sometimes.

--Jen
P.S. My goodness, I am a bitchy wench. Proof: two of my earlier punctuation-related rants can be found at Bite Me, Jackass (follow the "Best Idea Ever" link) and A Word to the Unwise.

Apr. 12: ClubPhoto's demise

I've done tons of research on photo processing sites, and one that impressed me from the start was ClubPhoto. They had low print prices, the same quality of other printers and excellent customer service. They also offered frequent specials. And they quoted me on their "customer testimonials" section so I admired them even more. What's not to love?

A couple weeks ago I started to upload some images to my ClubPhoto account and although I could log in fine, I kept getting errors when I started the upload. It was late at night and I figured maybe their site was going through maintenance and I'd just try the next day. Still no work-y.

I tried again late last night and couldn't even access their site. Again, I thought maybe they were doing server maintenance. I tried again this afternoon and still couldn't get in. Time to Google, no?

It didn't take long to find out what happened. Here's the scoop, according to Michael G at Multiply and recgroups.com. ClubPhoto abruptly shut down their business last month, with absolutely no advance warning to employees, affiliates or customers. You'd think they would at least have a notice on their home page, an apology, an explanation, something. But visit ClubPhoto.com and you'll just get a DNS error.

Time to find another printing service...

If you're a fan of 4" digital prints then here are just a few of the other sites that offer them.

• PEphoto (8-cent prints)
  
• Fotki (9 cents)
  
• Photocheap (10 cents)
  
• Bonusprint (11 cents and up)
  
• winkflash (12 cents)
  
• photomama (12 cents)
  
• Photo Drive Up (15 cents)
  
• Adorama (19 cents)
  
• myPhotopipe (19 cents)
  
• SmugMug (19 cents)
  
• MyPhotoAlbum (15/19 cents)
  
• WebShots (24 cents)

Of these, I have experience only with winkflash. You might want to check out this web site, which rates online photo processing companies and lists prices for common print sizes. It appears to be updated semi-regularly. Oh, and if you're wondering what's so great about 4" digital prints, read Fotki's description. FYI, they are also called 4D, 4xD, 4x, 4x5, 4x5.3, and stuff like that.

RIP, ClubPhoto. I curse the a-holes that bought you and ruined you. --sob!--

--J.

Mar. 30: A word to the unwise

These are just a few of the things that have been making me crazy.

1. “It’s” and “its.” If you’re using i-t-s as “it is,” use an apostrophe. For example, “It’s so pleasant to sleep with the window open at night.” If you’re using it as a possessive, there is no apostrophe, as in, “The problem with that frog in our backyard is that its constant croaking is going to make me kill it.”
   
2. This one also involves the use of apostrophes. What makes people think they need to use apostrophes for plurals? Why do they do that to me? “We took the kid’s to the pet store to fit them for collar’s and leash’s.” NOOOOOOO! That’s so incorrect! ‘A-member, the apostrophes are to be used when referring to something that belongs to someone (except in the case of “its,” of course) or as a contraction. Don’t make me hit you, mmkay?
   
3. This one is the “and I” vs. “and me” thing, and has come up around our house quite a bit lately because Katie’s been learning what’s correct when. Here’s how I learned it: if you were talking about yourself and would say “I,” then if you’re talking about yourself and someone else, you say, “and I.” Here’s an example: “I bought leg warmers for Kathy,” and “Lori and I bought leg warmers for Kathy.” But if you would use “me” then you don’t say “and I.” “Sheila loaned me her ‘Xanadu’ soundtrack for my road trip.” “Sheila loaned me and Kathy her ‘Xanadu’ soundtrack for our road trip.” It’s not “Sheila loaned Kathy and I her soundtrack.” See the difference? Now you’ll never make the mistake again, right?
   
4. Jack jumping on the bed while I’m taking a nap. But that's a whole 'nother post
   
5. High shipping rates for online orders. But that’s a whole ‘nother 'NOTHER post.
   

And hey, don't blame ME for the inconsistent grammar usage rules of our English language. I love you, I really do. But I'll love you more if you change.

--Jen

Mar. 24: Unspeakable beauty

It's true. I'm incredibly attractive. Especially since I had my brows waxed and got my hair cut this morning. I even took a picture with my camera phone to prove it. See? See why I just can't even stand myself? It really is truly difficult to be me, to walk around with such gorgeousness.

I stopped at Trader Joe's on the way home and they did NOT have stroopwafels, which angered me greatly. But nobody cares. Including you, I bet.

S'OK. I love you anyway.

--J.

Mar. 9: I just calls 'em as I sees 'em

Riddle me this: If Ann Coulter was 50 pounds heavier and had short brown hair, would anyone pay attention to her?

Seems lately she's been taking cues from the Pat Robertson school of media whoring, just in case. For example, she calls global warming "a crock" and vehemently defends Scooter Libby, somehow ultimately blaming liberals for his big mouth. Give her some time and she'll come up with a viable excuse for Newt Gingrich's newly-revealed extra-marital affair during the Clinton probe. But y'know, whatever. She can justify all things conservative, she can say whatever will make headlines, she can flip her hair around like a beauty queen, who cares. It's the brazen, irrational allegations and unprovoked attacks that take away her credibility; they make her a lot less of a political analyst (or whatever it is she considers herself) and a lot more of a loony. See one of the most recent examples of her balls here.

Note: I am certainly no fan of Tucker Carlson, but I mostly agree with what he says in this case. And normally I would never recommend watching anything remotely having to do with Pat Buchanan, but he can barely get a word in between the other two yammer-ers, so it's harmless.

My goodness, after reading a few blog entries on her web site, I feel dirty. Like I've just been enjoying Mein Kampf. Ick. And no, I'm not including the link to her blog because if you're stupid enough not to find it on your own, you're probably stupid enough to say, "Golly, she makes a good point!" Proving just how hateful and ignorant she is, Ann Coulter fights back à la Donald Trump (Rosie O'Donnell says Trump is a poor "moral compass," and he comes back with, "well, she's a fat pig." Huh?). Instead of trying to defend or explain her accusations and assertions, Coulter claims to be misquoted or says things like, "I'm so ashamed, I can't stop laughing!" (her actual response to the John Edwards thing).

"Beyond bee-yotch" is overused in describing this woman's character. I much prefer "narcissistic, attention-craving, uninformed a-hole." A little more wordy, but I like it. It fits.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: (some) people make me hate them.

But you? Ah. You, I love.

--J.