Jun. 20: How ya like my time machine?

Along with my 1994 journal I found the other day, I also ran across a very interesting (read: totally raunchy) letter I’d saved. While it appears to be from a partner in a law firm in Tillamook, it was actually written by an employee of that firm. I’m quite sure the attorneys had no idea that three pages of their letterhead and a pre-stamped envelope were used for such depravity. They’d probably fire her right now if they knew. Good thing she hasn’t worked there in nearly 20 years.

The author? That dear girl I commonly refer to nowadays as Kim F’n-W. Circa 1989, she was a delightful person with, apparently, an untreated mental illness. Circa today, she is still a delightful person. I’m not sure about the other part.

The envelope was addressed to Jennifer “Bunny” Saltmarsh at the dorm at Walla Walla College. I do not remember why she called me “Bunny,” nor do I have any recollection of earning the nickname “Puff,” which she used in the body of the letter. This is the unfortunate part of growing old, because I’m sure the story behind those nicknames is side-splittingly funny.

When I opened the letter, a picture cut out of Playgirl magazine fell out. (Remember? Untreated mental illness.)

October 3, 1989

Bunny Saltmarsh
Foreman Hall
College Place, WA 99324

My Dearest “Puff”:

First of all, I want to express my sincere gratitude for your last letter, which kindly included that list of helpful guidelines to follow before I jump, rather, get thrown, into bed by all of the beautiful men out to pursue a body only like mine. You can’t be too careful in my line of work. “Sales” have jumped, as have the men who are buying, due to my including the aforementioned list in my brochures (only available through the Tillamook Chamber of Commerce, as I prefer to work locally and adore the feeling of rolling around in the fragrant smell of wet hay and cow manure). I hope you don’t feel that I have over-stepped my boundaries by using your marketing techniques. I feel confident in the fact that we are not overlapping our working “districts” and therefore there should be no direct competition, except for the obvious two or three “regulars” that we share, “just because we are friends.” Although, the other day while sitting at the rodeo (ro-day-o), one of the bull riders accidentally dropped one of your brochures in the dust, and of course I found it. I was hurt, to tell you the least, but after a while, this same cowboy (lets call him “John”) and I went to the Greenacres Motel (aka Rat Hole) where he reassured me that there was nothing between the two of you—I’m sorry Jen, but he was just using you. I am planning on going on some “business” trips in the near future and I intend to visit your area. We can talk about business strategies then.

Here are some points I must make:

1. I do not remember writing or sharing the “helpful guidelines” to which Kim F’n-W refers. They were obviously spectacular, and I hope they are still in existence somewhere.
2. We were not actually prostitutes, then or ever. Well, I wasn’t. I guess I shouldn’t speak for Kim. She sounds awfully knowledgeable…
3. I love that, even way back then, she was making fun of Tillamook. Tillamook is highly make-fun-of-able. (For those unfamiliar, Tillamook is an Oregon coastal town best known for its dairy and Pig-N-Ford races, and the only reason it ever makes the news is because it floods EVERY TIME a drop of rain falls from the sky.)

Continuing on… (By the way, my transcription is identical in wording and punctuation to Kim’s letter but-cept for the two spaces between sentences. I tried to keep them, but my typing fingers just wouldn’t allow it. I also tried to keep the two misspelled words but my auto-correct fixed them and I thought it would be rude to go back and re-correct them because Kim is usually an excellent speller.)

Honestly though, (I know you thought I was being serious, which I was to some degree, but…) I made the mistake of giving a copy of that list to [her paramedic boyfriend]. Needless to say, it had circulated around the hospital by 5:00 (NO JOKE) and people only know that it came from that “sweet little angel that dates [the paramedic]!” It was kind of funny because everyone loved it. It didn’t stop there, though. They took it down to central dispatch (911) and shared it with everyone there, including all the officers and such. I didn’t know this was happening until the recipients confronted me with their disgust, but they were laughing. I’ll never hear the end of it, but that’s my own fault.

Again, I really wish I knew what that list was.

[a bunch of stuff about her sister getting married]… They know each other because they dated in 6th grade. You know how close and intimate you can get with a person at that age. It was my sexual peak, anyway.

Ah, my Kimmeh. You can’t NOT love her sense of humor.

Did I tell you that I am taking an EMT 1 class so I can work part-time with the ambulance, too? I’m really enjoying it so far, and learning a lot, even if I never do pass the test. At least I know what’s happening when I ride on the ambulance now. I love it! (No more fishing lately)

Kim did pass the EMT 1 test, and went on to pass a lot more tests and now she’s a paramedic extraordinaire. Really. I think that’s even what her nametag says. Oh, and the fishing thing? Not long before this she had handed me a package of photos of “a fishing trip” at the Tillamook River. The photos were mostly boring until I realized the catch was a friggin’ dead body, and after that they were mostly horrifying. The images are still burned in my brain. Thanks bunches, Kim.

[a paragraph about the paramedic she was dating]

Yawn. (You would agree with me on that, Kim.)

YOU’LL NEVER GUESS!!! i got my haircut. shhhh. I really liked it at first, then I wasn’t sure, then I decided I couldn’t do anything about it except give it time to grow out again, so now I like it again. It’s not real drastically short, but definitely different. Some people say “I really like your hair – it makes you look older” while other people say “Oh – you got your haircut”. Thank you. I HATE that. Tell me you don’t like it, I don’t care. Just don’t sit there with that constipated look on your face and remind me that I got a butch.

A whole paragraph about a haircut. I love that haircuts were that important to us back then.

[weird work stuff, too incriminating to share]

(Kim, I’ll email you that part.)

Well so now I’m sitting here trying to look busy, and I think I’m succeeding. I can’t believe I’m sitting here writing letters when I have so much to get done. Oh well – you’re worth it. Nice, huh?

Gotta love the work ethic of the youth.

Jen, I haven’t been out of Tillamook since my birthday, therefore I haven’t had a chance to get your birthday present! I feel terrible, but I also know that you probably don’t want a bronzed cow pie. Or do you? And I thought I knew you! Either that or a shirt with a picture of a cow’s butt saying “It’s a moooooving experience!” What do you think? I plan on going to the “valley” (a true Tillamooker line) soon, so I am going to get your present then. By the way, for you Walla Walla people, the “valley” is Portland or the like. Well actually, I guess it’s more like Eugene or Salem. Oh well, I call everything the valley. You valley you. So tell me what you need for your room or what you want – I need Christmas ideas, too.

Ah, the days when celebrating birthdays were such a big deal. I almost miss ‘em.

[questions about some mutual friends, also too incriminating to share] Oh, tell [some guy with a common name] hi, too. Tell him I won’t write again until he writes me. He probably doesn’t care. WELL NEITHER DO I. Just kidding. I would like to hear from him. Even if he just wrote “hi” on a piece of paper and sent it, I would be happy and probably get regular again. Fiber Con just isn’t working.

Time to dig up an old MASK and figure out which [guy with a common name] she was talking about that had the potential to make her poop.

Well, Jenni Bunny, I really should be going. Lunch is approaching, and I have some eating to do. By the way, I am going to lose 20 lbs. before Christmas. I need something to do – I’m bored.

I wish the paragraph ended there. Unfortunately, it goes on to say things that are typical of our priorities at the time—looking perfect enough that someone would consider dating us, or in her case, continue to date. Pffft.

No, I just have been feeling so rotten about myself lately, so I decided to do something about it, for [the paramedic boyfriend]’s sake too. I promised him I would try. Especially since I have to actually be seen in a swimsuit by next Spring for when he gets his boat. I don’t think the boat will fit in my bedroom.

I love this girl.

Here’s her closing:

Gotta run, Puff. I miss you oodles and hope to see you soon for a weekend of EATING!!!

I love you!
Hugs and Kisses,

[signature]

Kimberly A. Felkley
(Pretty official, huh?)

This whole thing is probably more amusing to me and Kim F’n-W than anyone else, I know; it’s amusing to look back at our 1989 selves. It’s funny to see things like the 25¢ postage on the envelope, the typewritten letter, and yes, the very odd inclusion of the Playgirl photo.

Well, maybe not THAT odd. We were 21-year-olds, after all.

What I most want to say about this, though, is that I hope all of you have a Kim F’n-W in your life—someone who has been there for such a long time, in such an important way, and who shares so much of your past—the silly/embarrassing memories, as well as the serious and maturing moments. These kinds of friends are the mirrors into our souls, and we are better because of them.

Jun. 19: Happy Father’s Day

Happy Father’s Day to all you dads out there! Today especially, I’m grateful to my husband for being the good dad he is to our kids, and I feel fortunate to have a kind and loving father-in-law. This holiday is different now that my own dad is gone, but there are still plenty of special people to honor, so we celebrate BIG in our house. Like, soooo big: today Vic is doing laundry, I’m organizing my office, and the kids are playing outside. Yep, we go ca-razy.

It’s never easy to shop for Father’s Day gifts and cards for Vic, because most of the stereotypical dad things just don’t fit him. He doesn’t wear ties or play golf (regularly) or fight for the remote or work in the garage or fix cars or use excessive amounts of duct tape (my dad did ALL of those things). Victor does, however, work in the yard a lot and the kids always veer toward garden stuff when we shop for him. I try to discourage them because the time he spends in the yard is not exactly joyful to him; new garden tools are something he buys only when he absolutely must.

Instead, Katie and Jack chose to make this candy card/poster for Vic. They proudly presented it to him this morning:

Before they started writing and gluing, I helped them compose the note and asked which candy they wanted next to their names. Katie shouted “Smartie!” at exactly the same time Jack shouted, “Airhead!” That was a lot easier than I expected. Don’t say our kids don’t know themselves.

Grilling for dinner. Yum.

Jun. 18: A trip back to 1994

In my continuing effort to get rid of things I no longer need or use, today I worked on my office closet. I went through files and discarded, shredded, and for the things worth hanging onto, put them in the new/appropriate places. But I’m at a loss as to what to do with my old journals.

I kept a journal from high school through the late 90s. I did it because writing was a good way to record my memories and sort through the deep thoughts of my teen- and twenty-something-ness. Except for a few brief hiatuses (hiatii?) I pretty consistently wrote every day for 15 years. In other words, I have TONS of notebooks full of handwritten blathering. What are they like? Imagine this blog, minus the crazy-ness of pets, kids, home ownership, and excessive volunteering, and you’ll have an idea of the kinds of things I wrote about in my journals. Oh, and throw in a large helping of immaturity, a steaming pile of boy-craziness, and a dash of narcissism. That was my life back then.

For some reason, the 1994 journal was separate from the others, and I flipped through it today, thinking perhaps it held a long-lost screenplay and that’s why I’d set it aside long ago. But such a work of art was not to be found. It was the standard, typical, yammering on and on about work and friends and all the movies I saw that week and boys. Lots of stuff about dates; mostly going on them and wanting to go on them.

At the beginning of 1994, I got a phone call from a guy I’d dated briefly three years earlier. Things  had ended weirdly between us and I think he felt guilty about it. He was working in Portland for a week, and we arranged to get together for dinner. I hoped for nothing more than to make my memory of a bad situation better, but I had forgotten how easily we talked. Over the next several days, things started up between us again. Our time together—like, in-the-same-room together—was very short, but my analysis of his thoughts and behavior was all-consuming and went on for at least two months. Ugh. How could anyone stand me back then? (Lest you attempt an answer: ‘twas a rhetorical question and you’re a jackass for even considering it.)

Fortunately—at least from what my journal shows—I didn’t bother him with my over-analysis as much as I will my ancestors when they eventually read these notebooks and will be all WOW, GRANDMA JEN WAS A PSYCHO DRAMA QUEEN.

I went on a trip to San Francisco with three girlfriends. It was the ten-year anniversary of our first visit to SF, and we had fun re-living our 1984 sophomore class trip as adults. I didn’t write a lot about it at the time, but one of my best feeling-like-a-grown-up memories occurred on that trip, when I ventured out into the city on my own for a day.

What stands out in this 1994 journal, more than me being a borderline mental case, is that I went out with my friends a lot. We tried new restaurants and went to movies more than once a year and made long phone calls and stayed up too late and traveled all over the world together. One of my favorite sentences was written on a Sunday evening: “I was so lazy today. What makes me mad is I have plenty of things to do—sewing, stamping, writing letters, etc.—but no ambition whatsoever.” Yep, poor Jen, poor, poor Jen… she kicks herself for sitting around instead of doing fun stuff because she had no real responsibilities back then and nothing better to do anyway and OMG I THINK I HATE THE 1994 JEN.

Mid-year, Victor and I began the slow and painful transition from being BFFs to dating. I had forgotten how difficult all of that was, and even though I know there’s a happy ending to the story, reading through the things I wrote back then still make my heart hurt. It was such a risk we took, and I can’t imagine if we’d lost each other permanently. We were nearly inseparable before that all began, then we didn’t speak for a horrible few months, and then we worked things out and smiled a lot. Yay, us!

There are a handful of journal entries I’d written in WordPerfect and printed and glued to notebook pages. I have to confess: Every one of them has two spaces between each sentence. I am so embarrassed about that.

Easily, my 1994 writings show that I was an over-thinker (still am) and that I thought my life was stressful when it was anything but. However, there were some indications then of the person I am now. Here are questions I answered (from a self-help book, no doubt):

1. My goal in life is: to feel I have a purpose on earth—to feel that my life is not rewarding just to me, but to others as well.
2. My deepest fear is: losing someone close to me.
3. My most frequent feeling is: happiness when I’m with people I care for.
4. Three things about myself I want to change are: being open to others’ points of view, being less moody, and enjoying the present instead of trying to predict the future.
5. I feel anger when: I make mistakes.
6. My highest value is: my relationships.
7. My idea of a dream career is: low hours, high pay, artistic demands, very rewarding.
8. To me, death is: the scariest thing.
9. I have the most fun: planning get-togethers.
10. I take great pleasure in: doing things for people I love, making them happy.
11. What disgusts me: are feet and gross smells.
12. When I have spare time, I like to: take a bath, watch TV, daydream, talk to friends.
13. The thing that bothers me most about my body is: my extra weight.
14. What hurts me most is: a misunderstanding with a friend.
15. The first thing I notice about someone is: their smile.
16. When I am my best self, I am: in a good mood, talkative, having a great time, totally content.
17. When I am my worst self, I am: grumpy, headachy, no fun to be around.
18. People should: stop hating.

So, the 1994 Jen and the 2011 Jen aren’t totally different people. My priorities and goals are very similar now to what they were then, and I still be hatin’ the haters. But the most important sign of growth, really, is that I got the sentence spacing thing figgered out. Wouldn’t you agree?

Jun. 16: Birthday cake fudge sweat

I’ve mentioned Pinterest, haven’t I? There are so many fabulous things to be found there, and it’s a total time-suck and I love it so much that I almost hate it. Every time I realize I’ve wasted an hour searching and pinning and repinning and liking, I curse Sherilee’s name a little. She’s the one who introduced me to Pinterest and that means she’s a very, very bad influence on me and my new way of wasting tremendous amounts of time IS ALL HER FAULT.

Anyhoo…

Among the many lovely/evil things I’ve found on Pinterest are recipes for many delicious-looking foods. Do I have examples? You bet I do:

• crockpot mac and cheese
• strawberry bruschetta
• cinnamon roll waffles
• sugar cookie truffles
• watermelon balsamic appetizer
• gin and tonic cupcakes
• veggie bouquets

See what I mean? How’s a girl NOT supposed to pin those things??? And make them? And eat them? And regret eating them?

The night before our last-day-of-school party last week, I made birthday cake fudge, another Pinterest recipe find. It’s like regular fudge, but has a bit of cake mix thrown in that’s supposed to make it taste like cake. It also has a lot of sweet things to make it taste like fudge. It was quite sinful. I don’t know if I’d ever made “real” fudge—the kind that requires extensive stovetop work and things not normally found in my kitchen, like marshmallow crème—and I didn’t really like how much effort was required. The ingredients, though, could only turn out to be delicious, so I forged on.

Three cups of sugar, evaporated milk, and butter, boiled to perfection… white chocolate chips, marshmallow crème, aforementioned big ol’ spoonful of yellow cake mix, vanilla… spread in a shallow pan… topped with sprinkles… is your mouth watering? If it isn’t, it’s because you’re body is too busy sweating sugar right now; how could it NOT be? This is some very sweet stuff.

The recipe said to swirl blue food coloring on the top, but I thought it called for a more summery color, and went with a light orange color instead. It was very pretty. After putting the pan in the fridge to cool, Vic and I “cleaned” the spoon and saucepan—can’t waste all that chocolate, right? We both felt sick within a couple minutes. Did I mention how sweet this stuff is?

The next day I cut the fudge into small squares and arranged them on a plate, then put it on the table with the other snacks our guests brought. And there, next to bagel chips and a veggie platter, my fudge looked like cheese cubes. Cheese cubes with sprinkles. See for yourself:

If I were to make birthday cake fudge again, here’s what I would do differently:

• Use less sugar. Even a nibble of this stuff was overwhelming. Seriously. I love sweet stuff, but this was insaaaane.
• Swirl a color other than orange. Why would I want fudge to look like cheddar cheese? That was a bad choice on my part.
• The only thing “birthday cake” about this was the sprinkles. I don’t know if more of the cake mix would make it taste more cake-y, or maybe less sugar would do the trick. I didn’t think it tasted like cake at all, and that was disappointing.

What I liked about this recipe was that the ingredients were all yummy things. There wasn’t anything offensive—as in strong orange or mint flavors, for instance, like some fudges surprise me with—and although I would use them in different proportions in the future, I would probably stick with the same stuff. There’s big potential for this being extry-good. I also loved how fun and festive the sprinkles looked on the top. The recipe source shows a photo of the fudge cut and packaged in cellophane bags as party treats—what fun, different goodies! I love doing fun, and I love doing different.

Let’s move on to a savory recipe now. Today might be a good day to try that crockpot mac and cheese. Or maybe I need to head back over to Pinterest for some more searching and pinning and repinning and liking and OMG SHERILEE YOU’RE GONNA GET IT.

Jun. 15: 6-month follow-up

The major component of the follow-up care since getting my clean-ish bill of health in December is that every six months I have a CT on my chest-abdomen-pelvis and a huge amount of blood is taken on which a number of tests are run. This was done last week and yesterday, with a mammogram thrown in for kicks. Victor and I met with Dr. O to review the results. 

And the results were good.

Chest: There is no mediastinal, hilar, or axillary lymphadenopathy.

That means my lymph nodes are in good shape. No cancer.

Heart size is within normal limits without pericardial thickening or effusion. Right internal jugular Port-a-Cath tip extends to the cavoatrial junction. There is no posterior mediastinal lymphadenopathy. Lungs are clear. There is no pleural effusion. Thoracic osseous structures are intact without bony destructive process.

Do you know how many of those words my spell-checker says are not words? Lots. But my spell-checker is an idiot, because they are words, and altogether they mean that I’m okay. Moving on now…

Abdomen: Geographic low density involving the left hepatic lobe medial segment projecting adjacent to the falciform ligament reflects benign focal fatty infiltration of no clinical significance.

There’s something on my liver, but they don’t care.

Liver is otherwise normal without intrahepatic duct dilation or focal hepatic mass.

Uh… yeah. I’ve never been a fan of intrahepatic duct dilation.

Spleen is normal.

I doubt this will ever be uninteresting to me. My dad had his spleen removed in 2001 because it was “enlarged”—turned out it weighed 18 pounds. A normal spleen usually weighs half a pound, at most. Because some chemotherapy drugs can enlarge the spleen—which is what Dad’s doctors thought was the cause of his spleen trouble—the memory of this made me incredibly nervous during my year of chemo. Does the tendency to grow a massive spleen run in the family? Probably not, but “spleen is normal” will always be good news, as far as I’m concerned.

Pancreas and adrenal glands are normal. Gallbladder is normal.

Yay.

Right kidney demonstrates moderate regions of chronic cortical scarring of no clinical significance.

They say this type of kidney scarring is usually the result of kidney infections, which I had frequently as a kid. Mom says if I wasn’t so weird about public restrooms that my kidneys would be in much better shape. Whatev, Mom!

 

Right renal upper pole calculus measures no greater than 0.1 cm and is unchanged.

This is a really weird way to say that I have a teeny, tiny kidney stone of no concern. How dare they use the term “calculus” when referring to my guts? I hate math!

There is no right hydronephrosis. Left renal upper pole demonstrates small focal regions of chronic cortical scarring. Kidneys are otherwise normal.

Hydronephrosis (I looked it up) is a swollen kidney. I don’t have one. Or two.

Visualized bowel within the abdomen is normal. There is no bowel mucosal thickening. Gastric and duodenal mucosal contours are normal.

No idea what this means, but I don’t really like the way they throw the term “bowel” around, like it’s not totally embarrassing that now you know I have one. Sheesh.

There is no intra-abdominal lymphadenopathy.

No abnormal lymph nodes in mah belly = no cancer.

Mild hazy fat stranding projecting along the right and left diaphragmatic crus reflect site of previous lymphomatous involvement. There is no residual lymphadenopathy identified.

Seriously, mild hazy fat? Now it sounds like a bad poem. And is lymphomatous really a word? It sounds suspiciously like hippopotamus, and I don’t appreciate that one bit. Oh, and crus? I am totally using that one in Words with Friends. I’m pretty sure they know no one’s actually reading the report anymore and they’re just throwing shit in here to sound fancy.

There is no mesenteric or omental adenopathy. There is mild, subtle fat stranding of the mid mesentery which is likely within normal limits and if real, almost certainly reflects treatment sequelae of chemotherapy. There is no definite “misty” mesentery. Scattered mesenteric lymph nodes are not enlarged by size criteria, all measuring substantially less than 1.0 cm in short axis dimension. Abdominal osseous structures are intact without bony destructive process.

Here we go again with the fakey words. Time for medical dictionary help.

• Mesenteric: pertaining to the mesentery, the double layer of peritoneum suspending the intestine from the posterior abdominal wall (I think the more common term is “guts”)
• Omentum: One of the folds of the peritoneum that connect the stomach with other abdominal organs (again, another way of saying “guts”)
• Adenopathy: Swelling or abnormal enlargement of the lymph nodes
• Sequelae: A negative afteraffect
• Osseous: Composed of, containing, or resembling bone; bony

Hee hee: bone.

Pelvis: Pelvic visceral organs are normal. Uterus and ovaries are normal. There is no pelvic lymphadenopathy or free fluid. There is no inguinal lymphadenopathy. Osseous structures are intact without bony destructive process.

Are you bored yet? I am so bored. We’re almost done. Here comes the radiologist’s summary.

1. Negative examination for residual/recurrent non Hodgkin’s lymphoma within the chest, abdomen, and pelvis by CT.

This means no cancer.

2. Minimal, nonobstructive right nephrolithiasis with a single right renal upper pole 0.1 cm calculus. No right hydronephrosis.

This means itty-bitty kidney stone.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all this, it’s that I never want to be a medical transcriptionist.

Basically, Dr. O was all smiles and rainbows and unicorns at my appointment yesterday. She says the radiologist’s report and my blood work show that I’m exactly where I should be, and we’ll do this all again in six months. The first two years after treatment have the highest risk of recurrence, so once two years have passed we’ll continue the same tests, just less often. She was not too concerned that I continue to have lingering side effects from chemo—fatigue, low energy, neuropathy, ugly hair—and says those things can take a few years to disappear completely.

In other words, I AM PERFECTLY NORMAL. No matter what any of you say, I will hold to that belief.

PERFECTLY NORMAL.

YES.

NORMAL.

…

…

…and that sounded a little more “jerk store,” than I meant for it to (à la 2:30 here).

Jun. 12: Fuzzy memories

The following things may or may not have happened over the past four days:

• On Thursday, Tina and I hosted a last-day-of-school party at our houses and 72 people (half kids, half adults) showed up. Likelihood that I am making up the number of guests, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 1
• We prepared recipes from the e-book 100 recipes for whipped cream vodka for grown-ups. Likelihood that the shot glass sized sample cups kept us from having a lawn-ful of passed-out adults, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• The weather was perfect. Likelihood that this is finally and fabulously true, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• I asked Cassie to help me pull a piece of celery out of my teeth. She grabbed it with both hands and put a foot against my knee to brace herself, but we were laughing too hard to get anywhere. Victor finally came to my rescue. Likelihood that this actually happened, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 2
• I recorded a video in which I later realized I had a bad case of Narrator Hiccups. Likelihood that my hiccups were actually vodka burps, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• While recording, other things also happened. Likelihood that this is true, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 3
• While recording, other things were also said. Likelihood that this is true, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 4
• I cannot make this video publicly available, as I will soon be a PTO c0-president and it would be highly incriminating—comparable to the head of NAACP telling racist jokes. Likelihood that this is a smart decision, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• ***But come on. If you’re gonna dance to “Single Ladies,” the Chicken Dance is never the right choice. NEVER, I tell you. Never. Likelihood that I am righter about this than I’ve ever been about anything I’ve ever said, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5 ***
• Cassie laid on me in an effort to show her sincere gratitude and to say goodbye. Likelihood that this actually happened, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): a fuzzy 3
• Cassie straddle-hugged my husband on the couch to say goodbye. Likelihood that I was sober enough to actually give her permission to do this, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): a less fuzzy 4
• Dawn stole vodka. Likelihood that this is actually why she found it on her counter the next morning, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 2
• I hugged Rob. Likelihood that we were both totally sober when this happened, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 2
• Unlike last year’s party at Dina’s, I did not spit on my friends. Likelihood that I remember this incorrectly, and did indeed spit on my friends, possibly even more than I did last year, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• Wendy’s daughter’s only word is “drink.” Likelihood that this is hilariously true, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• Friday morning I woke to find my house surprisingly still clean, and we invited friends over for a poker party that evening. Likelihood that this was an excuse to drink more of that whipped cream vodka, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• Hurtful insults were thrown about. Likelihood that most of them came from me or Val, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 4
• I won a large-ish pot with a pair of twos. Likelihood that this made Fancy Lori™ mad, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 4
• Fancy Lori™ played scales on my grade school flute. Likelihood that she’s really good with the low notes, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• Anthony played our ukulele that we’ve never tuned. Likelihood that I said “DUH!” when he said it was “totally out of tune,” on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 4
• Anthony played my grade school flute. Likelihood that this actually sounded good, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 1
• Fancy Lori™ is going to be Funner Lori™ from now on. Likelihood that this will happen, if you ask me and Val, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 3 (we forget stuff easily)
• I slept very, very late on Saturday morning. Likelihood that I totally needed this, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• Victor and I cleaned the garage. Likelihood that we spent all of Saturday and most of Sunday tackling this long-overdue task, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• You could eat off the floor of our garage. Likelihood that I recommend this, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 1
• We filled the van with donations and six garbage bags with trash. There’s another pile that will end up at the dump. This hard work has cleared up enough room in our garage that we could fit a vehicle in there, if we so choose. I have many storage boxes to go through before I feel like we’ve really pared down our belongings. Likelihood that this was still a tremendous and much-needed de-cluttering, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 5
• There is a beat-up old freezer on our front porch. Likelihood that there have been worse things there before (like a toilet!), on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): 4
• Tomorrow you will hear me and Victor complaining about sore muscles from all our hard work this weekend. Likelihood that listening to us will drive you crazy, on a scale of 1-5 (5=extremely likely): BITE ME.

Jun. 8: I’m not the only one messin’ with Fancy Lori™

I’m just gonna come right out and say it: Fancy Lori™ is a word Nazi.

We totally love her ‘n stuff, but it’s true. She loves to point out when non-words are used in conversation. Actually, she doesn’t love it; upon hearing a non-word you will often then hear her screech “THAT’S NOT A WORD!!” You can imagine, then, how much fun the rest of us have with this sometimes. It’s hard to describe the feeling I get watching Fancy Lori’s expression change from mild interest to abject horror in the split second before and after someone utters a word like “brung.” (Hard, but not impossible: it’s awesome.)

I hate non-words too, but I also love inventing new/convenient words, so it’s a toss-up. Really, it’s mispronunciations that make me crazy. Saying “expresso” or “nuke-you-ler” or “lie-berry” will make me want to jab you in the eye for sure.

But back to mean ol’ lovable Fancy Lori™. Lookie here! I took a screen shot of the Target ad I saw today:

Yup. The headline’s good, but the ad is better. “Funner” happens to be a non-word I use as often as possible around her because hearing “funner” makes Fancy Lori™ all stabby. Don’t be surprised if Target suddenly vanishes from the face of the Earth.

(After all, I hear Nazis have connections…)

Jun. 7: Honoring Dad

We lost Dad six years ago today. He’s been on my mind a lot lately because I spent the weekend painting an armoire he built for me. Painting always makes me think of Dad, and painting something he made is even more special. A little more anxiety-inducing, too.

Here are many of the ways I would have disappointed him with my project:

1. I painted the armoire navy blue. Although I like the way it looks, Dad never would have gone for such a dramatic color. He also would have suggested an oil-based enamel but OMG, that’s way too much work and the cleanup sucks so I went with latex. Semi-gloss, but still. He would not have approved. Pffft.
2. I painted it the wrong color first. I knew I wanted navy blue, but I was so worried it would look black that I went with a shade lighter. That was a bad decision. It was dark blue, but nowhere near navy; therefore it matched nothing in my house. I spent way too much $$ and time on all this. Dad never made bad paint decisions. They were usually pretty boring, but never bad.
3. I cursed a little. OK, a lot.
4. As I painted, the thought of getting a tattoo crossed my mind. Dad would have HATED that.
5. While waiting for the armoire to dry, I painted both sides of the front door of the house. I did the inside because I thought it would look pretty. He would have frowned on that. No reason, really. Just wouldn’t have liked it.

The things of which he would have approved:

1. I primed.
2. I used good brushes and no gadgets. Dad was a purist when it came to painting. I would be less of a purist if he hadn’t once given me a huge box of of brand new supplies. I haven’t bought a brush or roller in forever.
3. I used my awesome canvas dropcloth. Oh, I know there’s no reason to get excited about a dropcloth, I do, but this was one of Dad’s last gifts to me. As I cleaned up a particularly messy project once, I mentioned that I needed a good canvas dropcloth, one that we could open up and it would tell stories about all the projects we’d ever attempted. And a couple weeks later, he brought one to me. This dropcloth definitely has stories to tell, and as of last weekend, it has two more. The first is about Jen’s bad color choice; the second is about when Jen painted the front door for no good reason whatsoever.
4. I made touch-ups using a variety of light sources so’s to get every single inch of the armoire properly covered.
5. I cleaned up my brushes like a good girl.

Here’s my favorite part of the armoire: the back, where Dad “autographed” it. I love this because it’s one of the few things I’ve kept that shows Dad’s oh-so-distinctive handwriting. I painted around it to remind future generations to never paint over it.

I miss you so much, Dad. Whether I’m painting, or washing my car, or eating while driving: (to paraphrase Stephen Schwartz) so much of me is made of what I learned from you. Today and always, you are with me like a handprint on my heart.

Jun. 5: My Drunk Kitchen

If I did an Internet cooking show, this is exactly the one it would be, but-cept I would say ILOVEYOUANDILOVEYOUANDILOVEYOU. I would also giggle a lot, and possibly disrobe. (Warning: not for little ears.)

Jun. 1: No! No Facebook!

Yesterday morning I opened my laptop to find this note from Katie, in which she argues yet again about us not letting her have a Facebook account (click for a  larger image or read the transcript below):

Here’s what it says:

DO NOT THROW THIS AWAY!!! [underlined three times]

Dear Mom,

Of course you know I REALLY REALLY want a Facebook account. One reason is because I’m too young. Give me at least two more reasons why I shouldn’t have a Facebook account besides [underlined three times] me being too young: (you can list more reasons)

1.

2.

(Give back as soon as filled out) [circled!] Love, Katie [smiley]

This was my first reaction:

Facebook terms of service say users must be 13 or older. So there.

My second reaction:

1. I’m your mom.

2. I’m your mom.

Want more reasons?

3. I’m your mom.

4. I’m your mom.

5-infinity. I’m your mom.

My third reaction, and possibly my final one:

I don’t want you to grow up any faster than you already are. I want you to enjoy being a kid. You’re at the tail end of the innocence that goes with grade school years, and I want that to last as long as it can—not just for my sake, but for yours. I know you don’t completely understand that right now, but someday you will. [And you’ll thank me.]

I don’t want to expose you to the icky parts of the Internet—the things that come with putting personal info out there—just yet. The creep factor, the safety factor, the bullying factor, the stupidity factor (making threats that could get you in trouble, posting inappropriate photos, etc.) … you don’t understand the real depth of all that yet, and I don’t want to monitor you to the degree I think would be necessary right now.

You already text and email… isn’t that enough for now? [PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE be enough for now and drop this Facebook thing, because your texting and emailing freaks me out enough already…]

There’s a reason Facebook users are supposed to be 13 or older: there’s a maturity required that kids younger than 13 simply do not have. A lot of kids don’t even have it at 13. We’re your parents, and we have to set boundaries. It’s like leaving you home by yourself when I run to the store—I didn’t do that until I knew you could handle it (and I won’t leave Jack alone until he’s 18, when he can handle it). One of the cool things about getting older is that you’re better able to handle grown-up things. They will come to you when you’re ready, and as your parents, we decide when that is.

To have a Facebook account before you’re 13 would require you to lie about your age. For your entire life, I’ve taught you that lying is wrong. To let you lie to get something you shouldn’t have sends a message I don’t want to give you.

Here’s a selfish reason: I don’t want to censor myself. If we’re Facebook friends—and we damn well will be, when you’re finally on Facebook—I have to be careful of the things I say/post. I don’t want to do that, which is why I don’t have any little friends on FB. Right now it’s my place, where I can be myself. If you’re reading everything I write, INDEPENDENT JEN CEASES TO EXIST.  ;)

Even though I feel strongly about all those things, it’s still so hard for me to tell Katie NO. I appreciate that she’s asking me for valid reasons—it says something about her questioning rules and I respect that—but I think I’ve still gotta play the Mom card with this one.