tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59112116763512679542024-03-06T01:04:43.059-05:00"Jenny Sue Got Married"I'm soooo
NOT the Domestic Goddess
I thought I'd beJenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.comBlogger244125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-47337988977156499532020-04-24T12:17:00.004-04:002020-04-24T12:17:33.304-04:00THE GREAT QUARANTINE OF 2020: PART 3<div class="_5pbx userContent _3ds9 _3576" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-testid="post_message" id="js_a">
<br />
Okay, here's what I really want to know. Like seriously, I can't wrap my mind around this.<br />
<br />
Way back in the beginning of the madness that is the
corona-quarant-isolatio-pocalypse, it was crucial to get communication
from our schools, places of employment, churches, and WalMart, letting
us know that we could not visit our favorite public places as we
normally would. I'm sure school-kids and overworked employees were
shouting a little bit of praise at the forced time off. In the
beginning, at least. A few weeks of staying home is generally kind of
nice when you get through the harsh winter and ensuing cabin fever
period of February and March. These types of establishments generally
contacted us via email, phone-casts, and mass texts.<br />
<br />
Those were
very helpful and included important messages about how to stay safe, how
to limit, or eliminate completely, our contact with other people who
may have infectious germs on or inside of their person, OR by touching a
surface that may have also been touched by someone who knows Pharell's
sound engineer, who also happens to have worked with Ariana, who is my
daughter's idol, and maybe somehow, someone could make the connections
for her to meet Ariana and in turn, Ariana could introduce me to Harry
Styles. Wait, no, that is something like six degrees of separation.
Anyway, it's helpful to know how grocery stores, banks, schools, and
churches are handling the ongoing threat of COVID-19. In short, they're
all shut down, so don't go there.<br />
<br />
But why, oh why, am I getting
emails from every company that has ever had me on their email list??? Do
I need to know about everyone's approach to COVID-19?<br />
<br />
Take
Capital One, for example, our credit card company. Honestly, why would I
care about their approach to coronavirus? If I wanted to visit their
office in person, I'd imagine it might involve an airplane or an Amtrak
train, and probably a hotel stay. In other words, I do not now and have
never needed to visit them in person. So basically, their message is “We
hereby want to just reiterate that we have never, and we will continue
to not do this: lick, spit, sneeze or cough in the general direction of
your mail." Their additional offer of help, which you will see when you
visit their website, is “We are here to help our customers impacted by
the COVID-19 virus situation.” So, I'm not sure what this means but
maybe they're going to offer more loans and credit limit increases so
they can stay in business.<br />
<br />
Basically, everyone out there wants
you to know that it's “business as usual” but it really isn't, like with
our credit union. “Hello folks. You can still access online banking via
phone, internet, and if those don't work, you can try morse code. Our
branch will still be open a few hours a day, but we obviously won't be
letting people in. We'll be sitting behind our 2-inch thick bullet proof
glass laughing at you as you tug on the doors but those suckers are
going to stay shut tight. We're sorry if you don't have access to online
banking. Why don't you grow the hell up and get with the 21st century?
And how should you go about depositing cash? Haha, silly you. You DON'T!
For heaven's sake, man, cash is a veritable sewage system, holding the
entirety of the planet's germs in its innocent, leafy appearance. And
let's be real here, since we are heading for economic destruction, why
not go the old-fashioned route and stuff the goods under your mattress
like Grandpa used to do? Might not be a bad idea now that we're on the
cusp of another Great Depression. Oh, and feel free to click this link
to find out how to sanitize your money: <a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.notmoneylaundering.com%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR0ZiDTz-RTPt3X2m4e9Ix4qtxma0F-GoBeYV5T5Puc_dSPehTSb2aHckSM&h=AT3g5EQAl42E-FCv9tGmBgkB7XALJkaliP0w5BjETIbn_neza-YZg_tkJyOlvnTgMEHHUZoJeR_agWXMVd7fEvKtE-TwdEL0CAtvaiZbw2hU8F3xJ_U2i4Q6LLw-KRF_5LnJRAwZBUb5QGdI6oSoEKjFBZGI" rel="noopener nofollow" target="_blank">www.notmoneylaundering.com.</a>"
(Note to the FBI: this post is strictly for entertainment purposes.
This is not an active link, and I wouldn't understand how
money-laundering works even if I studied it all of my life.)<br />
<br />
When did Paypal become an expert on coronavirus?<br />
<br />
Why is there a popup on YouTube that asks if I'd like to learn more
about COVID-19? This is completely outside of the limit and scope of
YouTube! People get on YouTube to enjoy mindless skits from Saturday
Night Live and TV show bloopers, or to see what happens when you put a
bullet into a hydraulic press or an aerosol can into the microwave. In
other words, people go to YouTube to forget about the madness (of
COVID-19) for while, in order to indulge in another kind of madness
completely.<br />
<br />
Domino's offers “contact-free” delivery, and they
vaguely assure me that their in-store safety procedures are still as
top-notch as ever. But there's no mention of face masks, gloves, or hair
nets. Still, as the pizza has been fired in a 450° oven, removed with
one of those long spatula thingys (which I've learned is called a “pizza
peel”) that hopefully has a 6-foot handle, the pizza itself is probably
reasonably safe. (But, do we know for a fact that 450° temperatures
kill the novel coronavirus?)<br />
<br />
On the contrary, Little C (another
pizza company, of which I've changed the name to protect the innocent)
happy to let you know that they're still open and that they will not
now, and have never, used gloves, hair nets, or masks to make their fine
pizza, because it is only $5 after all. What do you expect them to do,
make their insanely cheap and greasy pizza in a bubble? Little C offers
the friendly tip - even outside of corona-times - that you may want to
call back on occasion to make sure you don't need a booster on your
hepatitis vaccines as a result of frequenting their store.<br />
<br />
Speaking of vaccines, what are the anti-vaxxers doing now? I'm not
trying to start a fight or some philosophical discussion about
vaccinations. I'm genuinely curious. As everything in the northern
hemisphere, western hemisphere, and probably the southern hemisphere –
hell, the entire planet – is shutting down, are they sitting around
thinking, “I don't care if that vaccine ever gets made. My kids are
strong and healthy.” Or are they actively protesting against a vaccine
because, you know, vaccines are stupid. OR, are they actually having
COVID-19 parties, a la chicken pox parties, getting their kids together
so they can all get it at once and build antibodies together in a fun
and productive way? Someone enlighten me.<br />
<br />
Okay, back to other unnecessary mail:<br />
<br />
From MSU (Al and I are alumni. We both graduated about 25 years ago. We currently have no children attending MSU):<br />
<br />
Dear Jennifer,<br />
As a valued member of the Spartan family, I appreciate the trust you
have placed in me to ensure the health and well-being of our students,
faculty, staff and the entire MSU community blah, blah may feel stress
and concern about yada yada. You are important to us and whatchacallit
blah blah.<br />
I purposely cut off the rest of the message because I
assumed you wouldn't read the entire thing. I didn't either because I
have better things to do with my time and it affects me in no way
whatsoever.<br />
<br />
<br />
Snopes: I do appreciate the <a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2FSnopes.com%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR1WKwUq9DdMm7VM18_Lgv4ijQDOycghftt-d_fCa2AFnaZZCFcYFPYpj00&h=AT2k2-4nC2SrgYmMkYYq2M0XcjrAM-jmzzQrUtymHMynn6J_o21DVW0d4LKdDc53Akjt9Ur8O_0pNI2W5pDZJnykZdVJdljQniUgFVyVxWO103TiIMHD4ehaUxCjw7SHdhMx8VSZcxwl1sI7RPoDmxvPjfAd" rel="noopener nofollow" target="_blank">Snopes.com</a>
emails because they are good and trustworthy when it comes to debunking
myths, urban legends, and plain old stupidity, such as "Coronavirus was
actually a bioweapon created by Russia because they're still pissed
that they didn't get to use more nukes during the Cold War."<br />
<br />
Canva: I use this online design program for an book covers, cards,
posters, and props for my ESL job. Now, just so you understand, I
couldn't go to a Canva location if I wanted to because, and let me be
very clear about this, it is an ONLINE company. So, why do they have to
tell me about their approach to fighting COVID-19?<br />
<br />
Budget car
rental: “Just in case you're stupid – or rebellious – enough to travel
right now, our cars are routinely sanitized and ready and waiting at
your convenience. However, not all of our locations are in operation
because we've been told we're not essential workers, and the governor of
Michigan said that people shouldn't drive cars. Ever.”<br />
<br />
Calm (an
app for relaxation): “Here are some free resources to support you
through this challenging time.” What challenge? We have to stay home.
How stressful is that? (Okay, I get that it is truly stressful for some
people, like extroverts, people who need a paycheck to survive from day
to day, and serial killers, to name a few.)<br />
<br />
<a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2FHotels.com%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR0PvkNX3c_eoXdFNOZKtg40w11ONXpI9hNcj-HJqcErQivlNsCbC8Z0oHg&h=AT0Y3x_2LtraavKU9zeNkbSIixns7Gxs4hfybNlbrDUqknFoTaNgZnTpgTl5I-Arj0rM8EchXCG0SNcWoKUAqsotZREC4wtivIgJf0mcUINjLBTp3-adIKAXBNj_KWyv5lxJpZZegckMnt2VodoSJpGbPWum" rel="noopener nofollow" target="_blank">Hotels.com:</a>
Honestly, I can't remember the last time I stayed in a hotel or used
your site. Why do you still have my email address?! Unsubscribe me, you
stalkers!<br />
<br />
Sears: A company whose name is synonymous with
bankruptcy and has closed the vast majority of their stores, still wants
to sell me name brand appliances. Oh, and they also have some
"valuable" information about coronavirus.<br />
<br />
Speedy Rewards
(Speedway): “We have enhanced our already comprehensive in-store
cleaning and sanitization processes, and continued emphasis on proper
personal hygiene, including more frequent handwashing and the proper use
of hand sanitizer. (How many people have been using sanitizer
incorrectly or improperly? How does that even happen? Unless you're
drinking it, in which case you may have more serious problems than being
at risk for the 'rona.) We have also distributed cleaning supplies
which have been EPA-certified to kill the COVID-19 virus, with
instructions to increase the frequency of cleaning commonly touched
surfaces, including bathrooms, touchscreens, door and cooler handles,
dispensers, and pin pads. Soon, Speedway will be supplying our stores
with hand sanitizer stations for customer use, adding an additional
level of protection.”<br />
<br />
What a very nice email from Speedway.
However, when you go to the actual gas station, don't touch your face
and be absolutely sure that you WASH YOUR HANDS when you get home
because coronavirus could be spread through gas pump handles. And
because your hands usually stink after you pump gas and if you don't
wash them after this filthy task in general, there is something wrong
with you.<br />
<br />
Representative Elissa Slotkin: Vote for me because I
was the one to inform you that the tax deadline has been extended to
July 15. Oh wait, you already voted for me. Never mind.<br />
<br />
New York times: We have the official count of those affected by COVID-19.<br />
<br />
USA Today: No, we have the official count.<br />
<br />
NYT: No, you dumb ninny, we do.<br />
<br />
USA Today: What makes you so special?<br />
<br />
NYT: We're in New York, duh.<br />
<br />
Finally, emails from my neighbors at <a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fnextdoor.com%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR3ZpMcadUg6tbQ3GSV6cIU6YYJqCnD47TJVcZGDiqT7cSaP0XILlEsAUEI&h=AT1QtkgooFcP5ctsUJXyge8ZcOQ4iSJbTGX3vDBel3Y271yZUd5wN8f2vaf38xjdUotwQSxDY26ija1TC76OPLsypl1saCHlPEYCuWsz6GtloXyFPvmrrU_HE4ioxtTsKZCFeaM37sqyM9Dm-DSGtpE4Jd21" rel="noopener nofollow" target="_blank">nextdoor.com.</a>
This is a site that can be customized to the neighborhood you live in,
where people can post just about anything on a community bulletin board.
It's kind of nice except when I get repeated emails about Nancy's
missing cat. Anyway, the recent messages have been about several home
and auto break-ins.<br />
<br />
Great, the looting has started. Grab your shotgun, lock your doors, batten down the hatches. It's gonna get rough.</div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-43170100474947753822020-04-20T10:50:00.000-04:002020-04-20T10:50:04.490-04:00Thoughts on Quarantine, PART 2<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Will you keep reading if I promise there are no poop and puke stories in this post? </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Okay, let's move on to the second installment of our 3-part series on the Great Quarantine of 2020.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">THINGS TO DO DURING YOUR<span style="font-size: small;"> <strike>FORCED
CONFINEMENT</strike></span> <b>EXTRA FREE TIME. </b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><span style="font-size: small;">(Subtitle: Things I tried to do, at which I failed miserably )</span></i></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">1. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Spring Cleaning</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It is spring.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Spring is traditionally the time for
spring cleaning, hence the name <span style="font-size: large;"><i>spring</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">
cleaning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">And hey, we're stuck at home, so it's a great time to get some things done!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You probably know where I'm going with this. I
have a house full of able-bodied kids who are not going out to work
or school, and generally not sneaking out to see their boyfriends or to get a whiff of fresh air, generally found outside at parks and such, but occasionally also found at Meijer (especially when the air outside is tainted with snow. In April!)<br />
<br />
What a great time to do some spring cleaning. My thinking, long before Easter, which is my usual deadline for spring cleaning - was "Let's get
this house cleaned and decluttered and let's purge everything we
don't need!"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There were several flaws with this plan.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The first problem I encountered was that that teenagers and young
adults like to sleep. A lot. At unpredictable times of day.
Especially when they have nothing else to do. And also when they have
school work to do. I mean, they get their school work done, too, but
their waking schedule is from like 1 PM to 3 AM. So we don't touch
base as often as I'd like. And of course, when I announce that there are chores
to be done, there is a lot of <i>pretending</i> to be sleeping going on.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Another problem I faced was that, even if
everyone in my house was ready, willing and able to clean (which, in
and of itself would probably signal some very significant change in
the laws of the universe or maybe the impending apocalypse), we
didn't have the proper tools at our disposal because there is no Lysol
anywhere, in a liquid, solid or gaseous state. No bleach, No Clorox wipes. No rubbing
alcohol. No hydrogen peroxide.<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Not even on Amazon! </b>I
don't know about you, but when Amazon starts running out of things,
that's when I start to panic. If Amazon runs out of it's Amazonian stash of Instant Pots, the softest sheets in the world, Poo-pourri bathroom spray, or every book known to man, the world will stop turning. Yes, I know that it used to function just fine without Amazon, but now that Amazon is here, it has become a permanent and very-much needed fixture in our lives, especially because I have free Prime shipping! </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Let me clarify that, although there
hasn't been rubbing alcohol on the shelves in several weeks, there's
been plenty of other kinds of alcohol, and no matter how much you try to convince me that vodka can kill novel coronavirus (it can't!), I wouldn't
waste such a necessity at a time like this. And I don't really want
our house smelling like a distillery. Besides, our drink of choice in this house is a well-crafted gin and tonic. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here are a few other obstacles I ran
into, while attempting to simply clean my house: You know all that garbage you tend to find when you're deep
cleaning? It feels so good to just toss out bag after bag of junk
that you can't repair, don't want to repair, or never wanted in the
first place. Well, our garbage company told us to limit our trash
to what can fit in the dumpster. <i><b>Can you imagine? How rude!</b></i>
I guess they don't want their employees handling our possibly
infected trash. I mean, before they were just fine handling trash
with poopy diapers, rotten food, and many other things that surely
contained dangerous levels of e.coli, salmonella, botulinum toxin and
who knows what else? But add coronavirus to the mix and now they're
all "we ain't touchin' that $hit". Okay, so we have to
throw away the stinky, smelly garbage like normal and keep it to one
dumpster full, and stuff all the rest of the paper trash, broken
radios, toys from pre-Y2K, and keep them in a nice dry spot in the
basement until we can safely dispose of them.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oh, and all those returnable pop
bottles that we bring to the store once every three to six months, which earns us enough money to buy a few rounds of pizza? We absolutely cannot
return those right now. (Note: Michigan is one of those states where
you pay a 10¢ deposit on each pop and beer can or bottle and you get
the money back when you return them. It makes you feel like you're
getting free money, but you're not.) We're talking infection
central when you think about how many mouths have touched those
things, so I get it. But it really sucks because we can't even
flatten the bottles and cans in order to save space while we save them for later because
then the automatic code readers can't read them. So, we have several
bags of rinsed, ready, and clanging returnables nesting right along
with the other trash in our basement.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And what about all that stuff that we
want to purge so you we get out our spring and summer clothes? No
can do. Ain't no way they're taking our "corona-shoes" or
"virus-socks" until probably around the year 2025.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What will it be next? Don’t open your
windows because other people don’t want your contagious air. Don't
close your windows because you don't want to trap the virus inside.
Don’t dust because you’ll be inhaling the dead skin cells of your
family members past and present. (This is always true, I just thought
I'd point out how gross it is.) <br />
</div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">2. Creating new habits.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Okay, most kinds of cleaning are off the table, except the occasional spritz of Lysol spray, which is being carefully rationed. How about cleaning out my pantry
and deciding that <b>this is it</b>: This is when I will finally get rid of
the junk food and pack the fridge and cupboards with good, clean, healthy
foods, only to arrive at the grocery store to find out that the
pickings are slim: Hawaiian pizza, Hot Tamales flavor Peeps, vegan
cheese (and TBH, every other vegan food ever invented because most people won't eat that crap, even with their dying breath), Kraft cauliflower pasta (what were they smoking when they
invented that?), and a single 1.75 quart container of Scooperman ice
cream.<br />
<br />
Okay, so I'll have to wait on the total revamp of our fridge, pantry, eating habits, and health in general.<br />
<br />
Great.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">3. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Catching up on tasks I've been meaning to do.</span> I figured I could sit down and write
thank you notes, a job that usually piles up for 11 months until I
finally tackle it and send cards to people who forgot what they did
for me and why. Anyway, I started this task, but then I realized that
some people are wary of the mail right now. So I felt compelled to
leave a small note on each envelope assuring people that yes, I did
wash my hands before writing this and not I did not breathe directly
on the cards, even though I have absolutely no symptoms of COVID-19.
You just can never be too careful. And I most certainly did not lick
the envelope to close it; well, not after I remembered anyway.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">4.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> Yard work.</span> Forget yard work because the
Christmas decorations are still up and they look rather lovely with
the thick blanket of snow that Mother Nature forgot to dump in
January.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">5. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Learn a new hobby.</span> Right. If
you're an overachiever who decides to learn Swahili during this
forced vacation from reality, freaking whoop-de-doo for you! I doubt
you'll ever use it. Or if you decide to get your yoga instructor's
license online, I'm happy for you and your delusional waste of money.
Just don't post about it because your overachieving, self-righteous,
smug little toned butt is making everyone else feel like crap about merely surviving.<br />
<br />
Some of us are happy to just subsist on whatever food we can find, practicing the occasional necessary hygiene, and keeping a fresh gin and tonic in our hands. <br />
<br />
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-14059672266996320392020-04-18T10:22:00.002-04:002020-04-18T10:23:54.860-04:00Thoughts on Quarantine, PART 1<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiKaaNv-bNWgS8hWpFrDLhNdsnYrDLDXDD3MZnHBe5G8EGj70xev89N5vQHVJz2UKfkHKAwYqb6fLwg6G-nsPOfJMgIiZY9KL6cPxBtr49dPhQgoLooqEmfqqtXDm00hwXPw_TBsDkyGcj/s1600/pixabay+people-314481_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="847" data-original-width="1280" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiKaaNv-bNWgS8hWpFrDLhNdsnYrDLDXDD3MZnHBe5G8EGj70xev89N5vQHVJz2UKfkHKAwYqb6fLwg6G-nsPOfJMgIiZY9KL6cPxBtr49dPhQgoLooqEmfqqtXDm00hwXPw_TBsDkyGcj/s320/pixabay+people-314481_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Why am I writing this post? I mean, you're probably sick to death hearing "quarantine this" and "social distancing that" along with the occasional political argument about whether or not COVID-19 is a government conspiracy, an exotic meal gone wrong, or just a heaping plate of leftovers dished out from the plagues of Biblical times.<br />
<br />
What else could Jen Yarrington possibly have to say about all of this that hasn't already been said?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Honestly, I don't really know. I'm just writing because I need something to do while being stuck at home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ah, quarantine. This actually reminds me of the good old days. When our kids were small, we would quarantine them for a week or so before we went on a trip to Grandma's
house or on some other significant excursion during which we absolutely couldn't have children coughing up interesting colors of phlegm, spiking fevers or otherwise projecting bodily fluids in the general direction of whatever fun we were having.<br />
<br />
However, it wasn't always a foolproof method. It <i>may</i> have happened (read: it most definitely
did happen) that our children got sick at Grandma's house over the holidays. One managed to do the civilized thing and throw up in the house on some easily cleanable surface and that was it. However, her younger sister managed to wait until just the right time, which was when were traveling on a long and lonesome stretch of Highway US 2 somewhere in the Upper Peninsula. If you've never traveled this stretch of highway, you may not realize how few and far between the gas stations or other public establishments are. Meaning, as soon as you leave Manistique, it's just you and God's green earth (well, it was white at the time because, you know, winter) for the next <strike>85 miles</strike>. Wait, is that right? When I looked up this distance on Google maps, it said 85 miles. I can't believe someone got it so wrong. That expanse of deserted highway has to be at least 492 miles.<br />
<br />
So we were moving along, slightly above the "recommended" speed limit of 55 mph and I handed out the sippy cups and a few snacks. It wasn't long before the previously unaffected child began to fuss. I looked back and she had
just chugged a sippy cup full of yummy, red, juice in .00278 seconds flat. First came
the whine, then the whimper, then the unmistakable look on her face
that makes all parents panic, causing them to grab their kid in a
football hold and sprint towards the nearest bathroom, knowing that
vomit is imminent. And this vomit was. Imminent, I mean. Not to
mention very red. And projectile. It's a wonder Al didn't get it in
his hair (that's right folks, Al used to have hair) since the barfing
child was situated directly behind him.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We pulled over on a deserted stretch of
US 2 (have I mentioned how there's nothing on this stretch of highway?) with one kid puking, Al and me gagging, and the other kid
looking an interesting shade of greenish-white. I threw the van doors
open to get some of the smell out and let the frosty cold winter air
in, and I began to dig through out luggage, but alas, there was not a
single set of clean clothing to be found. So I resorted to digging
through the dirty clothes bag and I found a warm and cozy sleeper
that happened to smell like dirty socks, among other things, but it was far better than
the pervasive stench of upchuck currently wafting through our vehicle. I managed
to clean the kid up and wipe away residual puke from her car seat and
other things as much as possible. Somehow we made it home with just the hint of "essence de chunder" for the next five hours.<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Anyhoo, back to the word quarantine. It has been used in different ways over the years. We
used to use it as a way to let the kids know that once we were within
a week of any fun and/or family-centered event, they would forego
their young social lives which consisted of play dates, preschool,
and the occasional birthday party, all for the sake of having a puke-free vacation.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Was that whole anecdote necessary and relevant to what we're facing here in 2020? Not at all. I just
really wanted to tell you the puke story. If you're ever interested,
I have some other pretty good puke stories. And a few poop stories, too. Oh, and one time, one of our kids had the most disgusting rash on... well, never mind. (<span style="font-size: x-small;">Send me a private message and I'll tell you</span>.)<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So during this current state of quarantine
and/or isolation that is being “strongly suggested”, “mandated”, or potentially enforced by say, martial law, I'm completely at home in
my element. I'm an introvert to the worst degree. It's so bad that
when I am wanting to tuck in and stay at home, I instinctively want
my kids to stay home, too. Why? Because going out stresses me out.
Must be PTSD from the diaper days when I had 4 children, ages 5 and
under, and going anywhere meant, wrangling children into a
particularly small, enclosed area of the house, making sure each had
gone to the bathroom, brushed their teeth and hair, and that they
were wearing at least some kind of footwear. Oh, yes, it happened on occasion that my kids arrived at various public locations without shoes on because I assumed, wrongly, that footwear was an obvious choice for all living, breathing human beings who were leaving the house. And then there was the
car toy check and the snack check and the diaper and wipes check, and
depending on the age of the current baby, the spare outfit check. And
honestly, that was just to go to Meijer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
Well, and don't forget the aforementioned puke and poop that occasionally happened while on an outing and the whole thing gives me flashbacks to battle scenes, mortars exploding around me, rockets whizzing by overhead, etc.<br />
<br />
And I also remember the occasional, "well-meaning" (i.e. "nosy") individual who would make some snide remark upon seeing my teeming brood of children. One time I had one of those wonderful extended carts at Meijer - the ones that have a full seat behind the actual cart and handled like semi truck - and I had a preschooler and a kindergartner on the bench, a toddler in the backpack, and a baby in the car seat in the cart. Now I was feeling rather proud of myself for accomplishing a shopping trip like this. But as I wandered down an aisle, minding my own business, a woman leaned into my field of vision and very authoritatively told me, "You need to stop!" I'm pretty sure she meant I had to stop having children, but I was so shocked at her audacity that I didn't come up with a really good comeback until much later, like when the baby started Kindergarten.<br />
<br />
I have many thoughts on quarantine, some are insightful, some educational, and some, well, let's just say they may be the product of madness. Stay tuned for Part 2. </div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-41207077268662740422015-03-25T10:38:00.002-04:002015-03-25T10:38:18.549-04:00CCMRS, A Deadly Disease<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Three of my four children were born
with a rare disease. It's heartbreaking, and it's often terrifying
for the parents of afflicted children. I have never told anyone
before, because this disorder is little known and not very well
understood. Most professionals who hear of it for the first time
refuse to believe that it's a <i>real</i> sickness. I assure you that
it is. I'm finally gathering my courage to talk about this openly because I
<i>know</i> that there are other families out there who suffer with
this illness. It's time for us to stand together as parents and know
that we are not alone in this fight.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Aside from the chronic symptoms that
plague the children, mothers are often drastically affected by their
children's disease. Most are the ones who usually live with the
effects of this disorder every moment of every day. Most fathers are
affected to some extent, but they're often in denial about this
phenomenon.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What is this horrific sickness? Believe
it or not, it doesn't even have a name yet, but I call it CCMRS. I
will list the common symptoms of this little-known, yet incredibly
widespread syndrome.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The most common symptom, present in
over 90% of the kids who suffer from the disease, is the complete inability to clean their rooms. They are often blind to the fact that
there is a thick layer of dust coating their dressers, desks, and
bedposts. These children seem to deny the existence of their closets
and dressers and opt, instead, to heap their clothing, dirty or
clean, into a gigantic pile in their room. On rare occasions, when parents have taken
it upon themselves to help their suffering children, they often
find that a gaping, smoldering hole has been burned into the carpet by the
toxic contents of the pile. Another common indicator is that there is
usually some kind of food, dirty dish or utensil lying in some hidden
spot. It's not uncommon to find a fossilized hot dog under the
child's bed. Dirty underwear is scattered about, and trash of
unknown origins is usually strewn over every square inch of the
carpet. Only a handful of the people who have attempted to research
this phenomenon will agree that the kids who suffer from CCMRS have a form of blindness that makes these elements in their rooms completely
invisible to their eyes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A particularly chilling sign of this
disorder is a wet, mildewed towel at the bottom of the laundry
hamper, with the damp, black crud seeping into the nearby clothing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Another very common symptom is the
inability to pick up towels off the floor after they've been used,
inability to pick up trash that has missed the garbage can on the
first try, and absolute muscle failure when they try to hang up their
coats and put away their shoes.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Short term memory loss is another
common indicator, such as when children are asked, “Who made this
mess?” Children with CCMRS will be completely dumbfounded. Most
sufferers regularly lose their memories of where the dishwasher, dish
soap and sponges are located, causing them to leave dirty, sticky
dishes in stacks in the sink, around the sink, on the stove, and
sometimes, even on the floor where the dog licks the plates. In CCMRS
families with pets, the animals often suffer an unpleasant side effect of the
disease when they excrete the nastiest stuff you've ever smelled,
from both ends, as a result of noshing on leftovers strewn around the
house.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The most frustrating part of CCMRS is
that parents will repeatedly try to teach their children to hang up
their clothes, put food back into the refrigerator and cupboards,
clean up the globs of peanut butter that are frequently left on the
kitchen counter, and for heaven's sake, take a shower once in a
while!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This leads to our next symptom. Boys,
in particular, seem to have a variant of the illness that causes them
to have complete and utter disregard for their hygiene. Boys with
this condition seem to have absolutely no knowledge of their own body
funk, and subsequently, they do nothing to get rid of it. In fact,
it's so severe in some cases that, even if the boy is followed around
by a hoard of flies and has a distinct fog emanating from his
armpits, he will still deny – violently, on occasion – that he
needs a bath or a shower. Look inside this young boy's mouth
(although experts highly recommend you wear a surgical mask, possibly
even a gas mask before attempting this), and you will find remnants
of last Friday's pizza and various levels of tooth decay, gingivitis,
and yellowing of the teeth. He can't seem to comprehend the fact that
his mouth smells like formaldehyde and no one wants to be within a
ten-foot radius of him at any given time. The sad truth is that, for
as many dental visits he's had, as well as parental nagging, he
simply does not possess the ability to brush his own teeth. Often, he
lacks the muscular ability to raise a stick of deodorant to his
armpits, his fingernails and toenails are reminiscent of the tragic
Edward Scissorhands. And frequently, there is a small family of rodents
nesting somewhere in his tangled mop of hair. This symptom has also
been observed in girls, although it's less common in the female
gender.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The most alarming trend, though, is the
fact that parents will frequently develop symptoms of the disease
after they have been around their infected children for long periods
of time. A higher number of children in a family seems to increase the appearance of
symptoms in parents.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's time for us, as mothers, to take
some action. CCMRS, or <i>Can't Clean My Room Syndrome</i>, is recognized by parents across the globe, yet the medical community refuses to acknowledge it and consequently, there is little or no funding available to allow research to find a cure. It has been estimated that at least 95% of all children
suffer with some degree of this disease. Call your local politicians
and tell them that you want to start a task force to research this
horrible, debilitating illness. Have courage and take any kind of action you can to alert the medical community of this ravaging disease.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm thinking of organizing a telethon.</div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-21341978192893172542014-08-22T10:05:00.001-04:002014-08-22T11:02:34.357-04:00An Open Letter to Harry Styles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZ67NiiGuSuqEsAmhg0KdZFP46CMqOupKZvOMDNrrNhEOtbybgPo_6FirUczdmlwAQlhELhYkeYeHDJQtGlRJmYYtKkR6ga8XC4S4Jf98BETfyFU_JeqVD9BJmnzbNbhiW1wInkId-BzR/s1600/Open+Letter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZ67NiiGuSuqEsAmhg0KdZFP46CMqOupKZvOMDNrrNhEOtbybgPo_6FirUczdmlwAQlhELhYkeYeHDJQtGlRJmYYtKkR6ga8XC4S4Jf98BETfyFU_JeqVD9BJmnzbNbhiW1wInkId-BzR/s1600/Open+Letter.jpg" height="320" width="222" /></a></div>
<br />
Dear Harry,<br />
<br />
I just want you to know that it's over between us. It's been a wonderful few years, darling, but our relationship can no longer continue. I can't deny the chemistry between us, but our relationship just isn't moving forward as I hoped it would.<br />
<br />
First of all, you hardly know I exist. I mean, come on, honey. Couples are supposed to make time for each other. But as of yet, you haven't spent any time with me.<br />
<br />
Second, you made so many promises that you haven't kept.<br />
<br />
The first time I ever heard your voice, you told me that I was so beautiful that everyone else in the room could see it.<br />
<br />
You told me I stole your heart and that every time we touched, you got this kinda <em>rush. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
You told me I was your kryptonite, your weakness.<br />
<br />
You said you wanted me to be your last first kiss.<br />
<br />
And you promised that you would always come back for me. You told me over and over again that we could make it if we tried.<br />
<br />
But I think communication has been the biggest problem for us. I haven't gotten any of your phone calls or texts or emails or tweets. I never received the plane tickets you were going to send for our vacation in Spain or the ones for our rendezvous in Rio. <br />
<br />
Do you know how much I've done for you? I've followed your career since the very beginning. I've watched every news clip and video about you, I've listened to every single song at least a hundred times, I've sent you countless Tweets reminding you that I was thinking of you.<br />
<br />
You looked great when I saw you in Detroit last weekend, babe. I mean, I had hoped you would have invited me to your hotel or out to dinner. You could have at least waved to me in the crowd or dedicated a song to me. But you didn't even look my way.<br />
<br />
I know I'm a bit older than you and I know I'm not as pretty and fit as some of the girls at your concerts, but I thought we had something special.<br />
<br />
I guess I was wrong.<br />
<br />
It's over, Harry. Don't try to convince me otherwise. Don't tell me anything you've told me before because I will no longer believe you when you say that I make you strong.<br />
<br />
Remember when you told me that you were half a heart without me, half a man, half a blue sky? I believed you, Harry. I believed it when you said you were in L-O-V-E. And I might still believe you if you say I'm still the one.<br />
<br />
I have to end this letter. It's killing me because I really want to say that it's over, but I'll give you one more chance, Harry. One more chance to get addicted to me. One more chance to make it right.<br />
<br />
Is it too much to ask for something great?<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
JenJenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-39959068414217141002014-08-21T10:32:00.001-04:002014-08-21T22:15:59.367-04:00Confessions of a Middle-Aged One Direction Groupie<em><strong>Attention: People of the male persuasion may find the descriptions in this post disturbing</strong></em>.<br />
<br />
It wasn't long ago that I was an old
fuddy duddy, grudgingly watching <a href="http://jennysuegotmarried.blogspot.com/2011/11/fuddy-duddy.html" target="_blank">Cody Simpson</a> performing at the Capitol
building in Lansing during Silvers Bells in the City. He was a punk
who looked like he just turned 12 and he wore these ridiculous purple
pants that sagged down to his thighs. The young girls in the audience
were yelling, “I want to marry you, Cody!” I was yelling, “Pull
your pants up, kid!”<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what has transpired in the
few short years since then. Maybe it was my girls' evolution into
teenagers that fueled my passion for the “younger” music
scene, but somewhere along the way, I fell in love. Not with Cody
Simpson, you pervs. I fell in love with a much older, sophisticated
group of boys: One Direction. <br />
<br />
Oh, my heavens, I have 1D fever so bad, it
hurts.<br />
<br />
My girls introduced me to 1D that same
year. I heard my daughter talking about the boys in 1D and,
attempting to get in on the conversation, I asked, “Oh, which
classroom is that?” <br />
<br />
My daughter's eyes rolled so far back
in her head that I'm sure she caught glimpses of her pubescent brain.
“They don't go to our school, Mom! It's<em><span style="font-size: large;"> One Direction</span></em>!” Soon I
became acquainted with their first hit, “What Makes You Beautiful”
and I. Was. Hooked. <br />
<br />
Extremely catchy song, adorable boys from England
and Ireland. <br />
<br />
No going back. <br />
<br />
It was over. <br />
<br />
Stick a fork in me, I was
done!<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Since then I've been following them
right along with my girls, fueled by an insatiable appetite for their
music, their latest videos, their newest albums, and their adorable
accents. Maybe this has something to do with the fact that I married
into a British family, I don't know. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My girls tentatively accepted me as a
“Directioner,” and they still think I get a little carried away
sometimes, but since I'm willing to take them on road trips to see 1D
in concert, they have little room to complain. Except when, during the
concerts, I shriek, “Will you marry me, Harry?”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
However, I am getting “older.” My
constitution isn't what it once was. I'm not in great shape, not used
to screaming at the top of my lungs, and my middle has expanded to
make me look a bit like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man. These little
quirks proved to be a hassle during our recent One Direction
escapade.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For 1D's most recent concert in
Detroit, the girls and I chose to stay overnight so that we wouldn't
have to drive out of a grid-locked downtown Detroit after a
late-night concert. I got a pretty good deal at the Renaissance
Center Marriott, so we booked a room.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here's one thing I learned: do NOT stay
at the Renaissance Center unless you have trained for a triathlon and
have a degree in physics. I'm sure the place is an engineering
marvel, but I would personally like to strangle the architect with a
pair of control-top, reinforced pantyhose. I'm pretty certain that we
parked somewhere in Canada and dragged our luggage through all four
towers until we finally found the elevators to our oddly-shaped room
in the middle tower.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From now on, I think I'll opt to stay
at a nice, rectangular-shaped building that has all its doors facing
the parking lot, preferably one-story place; two stories, max. When
you get to be my age, taking a swift-moving elevator to the 35<sup>th</sup>
floor tends to throw off your equilibrium. I staggered to our room,
certainly turning a lovely shade of chartreuse, and immediately took
some motion sickness medicine, hoping it would kick in before I had
to take the elevator back down to go to the concert.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The girls and I got ready for the
concert – <i>they</i> looked adorable in their 1D gear. However, in
my skirt and 1D t-shirt, I looked a bit more like a black, white and
red bowl of jello with a smattering of 1D insignia here and there,
especially over the parts of me that tend to jiggle the most. However
I did get a very nice compliment from a middle-aged, gold-toothed
gentleman as we walked past him on the way to the concert: “Cute
Mama.” Um, at that moment, I was extremely thankful that there were
literally thousands of people walking to Ford Field along with us.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Speaking of walking, it was only eight
blocks from our hotel to Ford Field, but again, being of slightly
more portly stature than most 1D concert-goers, I found that by the
time I reached the concert, I had a terrible rash on my thighs. About
half-way through the concert, I felt my slip...slipping, so I ran to
the bathroom where I discovered that it had indeed lost all of its
elastic. What were my choices? I certainly didn't want to wad the
thing up and stuff it into my purse. It was useless anyway and I
didn't want to be seen carrying a piece of lingerie to the trash can,
so I neatly deposited it into the <i>other</i> receptacle
conveniently located in all women's bathrooms.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The concert itself was fabulous,
despite the fact that an Amazon-sized woman deposited herself in
front of me, and that buying water and pizza required a small
business loan, and that every time I put my hands up in the air, I
hit the girl next to me in the butt, and that at the end of the
concert, I had such severe chatter in my ears that I sincerely
thought I had gone partially deaf.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After the concert, we were all herded
out like cattle, along with the Tigers fans who had “conveniently”
exited Comerica Park at exactly the same time. When we finally
reached our room at the luxurious Ren Center, we discovered that we
had gotten neither the rollaway bed we had requested nor the
refrigerator. The yogurt we had brought for breakfast spoiled, and my two teenage girls and I shared the king-sized bed, hoping for a peaceful night's sleep in preparation for the next
day's activities.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What were the next day's activities?
You may ask. Why, nothing but <strike>stalking</strike> staking out the hotels where
the band might be staying. Our first tip was that they might be at
the MGM Grand. We took the People Mover, a fun yet terrifying
little contraption, which dropped us near the MGM Grand. We joined a
small group of girls who had parked themselves on a small triangle of
land facing the back side of the hotel where there were five or six
tour buses parked. And we just sat. And watched. And nothing
happened, except that my girls caught sight of Drake, who was also
staying at the MGM and performing in Detroit, along with Lil Wayne. I
have no idea who those people are; my heart belongs fully to 1D and
partially to 5 Seconds of Summer, the opening band for 1D for the
second year in a row.<br />
<br />
So we spent the better part of the
afternoon on a wild goose chase, following their scent, pursuing each
Twitter clue, tracking each tip and chasing every group of screeching
girls when they suddenly dropped everything and sped to a new
location.<br />
<br />
We finally ended at the Westin Book
Cadillac, dehydrated and high on diesel exhaust fumes. We
discovered that some of the One Direction crew was actually staying
there and we all got our panties in a bundle when we saw them come
out with their 1D backpacks and start loading up the tour buses. But sadly, we never saw
Niall, Harry, Louis, Liam or Zayn. The hotel manager eventually came
out and told us, in no uncertain terms, the stars were <strong><em>not </em></strong>staying at
that hotel. We ultimately gave up, as it was late in the day and the
boys were likely already over at the arena, preparing for the
evening's concert, and I had to pick up my other kids from their
weekend locations and make the hour and a half drive back to Lansing.<br />
<br />
When we picked up my 2<sup>nd</sup>
daughter who stayed with a friend in Ypsilanti, she got into the van
and told me, “Mom, you have lipstick on your teeth.”<br />
<br />
My oldest daughter, who had been
chasing and fangirling and shrieking and running with me all weekend,
spoke up. “Oh, yeah Mom, that's been there all day.”<br />
<br />
I'm so glad we didn't meet One
Direction.<br />
<br />
However, let me leave you with these photos. If there was no other reason for me to be a One Direction fan, these pics would still convince me: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq8InUbLHjXnFjZMzN2BR0DAIlZc1k79ZrbX7F9clgjxA-jNL0zwMKfItDzjiqJ8rU7a6jCoUk1qD31np6OYKJpSYvzhf-pG-IUnLQMCBSYScYqQmgK9iHG8GuUXSwHfHiH7C1Gdgiz-Dy/s1600/Niall+badger+fan+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq8InUbLHjXnFjZMzN2BR0DAIlZc1k79ZrbX7F9clgjxA-jNL0zwMKfItDzjiqJ8rU7a6jCoUk1qD31np6OYKJpSYvzhf-pG-IUnLQMCBSYScYqQmgK9iHG8GuUXSwHfHiH7C1Gdgiz-Dy/s1600/Niall+badger+fan+2.png" height="400" width="274" /></a></div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-85255309883740783762014-08-13T19:11:00.003-04:002014-08-22T11:03:03.885-04:00Where Have I Been???So, it seems I've all but abandoned this blog, but have no fear! I do intend to come back and continue writing about my foibles and failures as a domestic diva.<br />
<br />
But here's what I've been up to. I travelled down a different road for a while and wrote THIS BOOK:<br />
<br />
<div align="center">
<a href="http://amzn.to/1mfyqr4" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Strong</span></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<em>In a whirlwind romance, Kate falls in love with Chase, who has been partial paraplegic since a horrific car accident at age 17. Kate and Chase quickly make plans to spend their lives together. But when Chase decides to pursue a risky, yet promising, procedure that could potentially heal his paralysis, Kate has to wrestle with her faith in a God that she holds at arm's length, and confront her fear to find out where her strength ultimately lies. Set in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan</em>.<br />
<br />
Most of you know that my husband was disabled over three years ago by a stroke. I've dabbled a little bit in fiction writing, but I feel like this story was inspired. I have another book already in progress, and I have plans for writing more about people with disabilities.<br />
<br />
It would mean so much to me if you could check out my book on Amazon, and if you're interested, please purchase a copy, although I know it may not suit everyone's interests, so there's no pressure. It's only available for Amazon Kindle for now, but if you don't own a Kindle, you can download the free Kindle app for your computer, tablet or phone. <br />
<br />
Thanks so much for checking it out!Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-91328370452076515652014-04-01T07:11:00.000-04:002014-08-22T11:04:55.230-04:00April FoolsI've never been crazy about April Fool's Day. Mostly because people <b>expect</b> to be pranked on April Fool's Day. Why not just declare some random day each year to be "Fool's Day," like "August 28 Fool's Day," and the next year it would be "February 3 Fool's Day"? That would throw everyone off, so it would be much easier to fool people. Seriously, the April Fool's Day council should appoint <span style="font-size: large;"><b>me </b></span>their official April Fool's gamemaker, don't you agree?<br />
<br />
Anyway, on to more serious things. I personally love the passages in the New Testament about foolishness and becoming fools for Christ.<br />
<br />
<span class="text 1Cor-1-23" id="en-NIV-28387">1 Cor. 1:23-25: "but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles,</span> <span class="text 1Cor-1-24" id="en-NIV-28388">but to those whom God has called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.</span> <span class="text 1Cor-1-25" id="en-NIV-28389"><sup class="versenum"> </sup>For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength. (Whenever I finish that sentence, I just want to pump my fist and say, "Yes!")</span><br />
<br />
<span class="text 1Cor-1-25" id="en-NIV-28389">Christ. Jesus Christ crucified on a Cross by His enemies. It certainly looks like foolishness to those who don't believe or understand. He preached and healed and claimed to be the Son of God, but He ended up dying a horrifying death at the hand of his enemies. I can see how the world might think, "Well, that was certainly a foolish way to waste His life." But for us who believe, Christ IS the power of God. All of His willingness to look like a fool, to appear insane to the Jewish leaders of the time, to say some really absurd things - all of that was for <i>me. </i> For<i> you</i>. For our salvation. It is the power of God for those who believe.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="text 1Cor-3-19" id="en-NIV-28430">1 Cor 3:18-19: <sup class="versenum"> </sup>Do
not deceive yourselves. If any of you think you are wise by the
standards of this age, you should become "fools" so that you may become wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in God's sight.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="text 1Cor-3-19" id="en-NIV-28430">I have to admit that it's hard for me not to feel a little smug about this verse. Compared to all of the knowledge and wisdom that has been carefully crafted and cultivated over thousands of years, God's wisdom is still far superior. Because I know Christ and have access to all His power and wisdom, I have something far more valuable than all the annals of science and journals of medicine and books of philosophy. I have Jesus Christ and His everlasting words to me in Scripture.</span><br />
<span class="text 1Cor-3-19" id="en-NIV-28430"><br /></span>
<span class="text 1Cor-3-19" id="en-NIV-28430">Happy April Fool's Day! May you become a fool for Christ! </span>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-87817262208259295952014-03-14T18:47:00.000-04:002014-03-14T18:55:10.303-04:00Gotta Have pi<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
work part-time at a school. Therefore I am surrounded by nerdy math
teachers and science geeks, all of whom spent the week reminding the rest of the staff that today is pi day. You know – March 14, or the number
3.14, which is </span></span>the ratio of a circle's circumference to
its diameter. (Why is this important? I don't know.) <span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">My
children also reminded me, more than once, that today is pi day.
That's because they are nerds, too.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
However the idea got planted, I couldn't get it out of my brain that
I needed to eat some pie. It doesn't take much to convince me to eat
pie. Pie is my favorite dessert in the entire universe. The crust
is the best part. If you put me on a deserted island and gave me
lifetime supply of pie crust and <s>water</s> <a href="http://jennysuegotmarried.blogspot.com/2013/02/my-coffee-addiction.html" target="_blank">coffee</a>, I would definitely survive.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
My other mission today was to acquire some much needed groceries for
the family. They can be so demanding, this brood of mine. They
insist on having some “new” food in the house every week or so.
“<i>Good</i> food,” they say. By this they mean food that has
the maximum amount of high fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated fat,
and the minimal amount of fiber or nutrients. They also regularly
request food that food that hasn't expired. (I'm a bargain shopper,
what can I say?) There is just no pleasing them.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
That being said, I knew I could easily combine the day's two missions
into one: get food and get pie. Well, pie <i>is</i> food, but you
know what I mean. I'm happy to give in to my children's sweet tooth
once in a while, especially if it involves pie.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
First, I went to Horrocks. I love Horrocks, and I normally wouldn't
pick on one of my favorite stores, but today they had a total of
three pies. Apparently they didn't get the memo that today is pi
day. None of the available flavors promised to satisfy my family.
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
Next, I went to Aldi, which has a little bit of everything. Except
pie.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
On the way home, I stopped at Quality Dairy, home of donuts, muffins,
scones, coffee cake, and a wide variety of other addictive, yet
legal, sugary baked goods (and, oh yeah, dairy products; hence the
name Quality <i>Dairy</i>). But guess what? No pie.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
The helpful QD staff suggested that I try Roma Bakery just down the
street. Nope, no pie.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
I came home and unloaded the groceries. I was tired. I took a nap.
But I still wanted some damn pie!</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
I had to take my daughter to a babysitting gig at 2:00, so I decided
I would continue my quest for pie. And then it hit me, “Why not go
to the Grand Traverse Pie Company?” Really? It took at least
eight hours for my brain to dig deep into its fatigued memory stores
and come up with that? It has the word <i>pie</i> in its name, for
heaven's sake!</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">After
dropping my daughter off, I drove downtown. If you haven't been
here, Lansing has a nice little downtown area: neat shops and
restaurants, brick streets, and....parking meters. Shoot. I forgot
about the meters. Did I have one stinking quarter on my person or
anywhere in my van? No. But instead of doing the sane thing and
going inside to ask for change, I decided that I would drive a few
blocks south and hit my favorite thrift store. I needed to look for
some household items anyway. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
bought three pairs of shoes. And of course, I got a few quarters for
the meters. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
headed back north on Washington Avenue and, just as I came up to
Kalamazoo Street, I realized, “Oh, yeah, the library is just a
block away.” I had been meaning to go to the downtown library to
do a bit of research on a book I want to write. I parked, sloshed
through the melting snow in order to feed the meter, and entered the
library. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
wandered around aimlessly, looking for inspiration. I finally
decided to check out </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Lost
in Yonkers</span></span></i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
which has absolutely nothing to do with the book I want to write. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
library is now so high-tech that I just had to scan my library key
tag, then scan the book and I was on my way. However, when I passed
through the security sensors, the alarm went off and I returned to
the customer service desk, feeling sheepish that I had ignored the
reminder on the screen that I owed $.80 in library fines. “I'm
sorry, I'm sorry,” I gushed. “I can pay the fine.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
library ladies had a hearty laugh and assured me that the alarm
hadn't gone off because of my unpaid fines. The scan just hadn't
registered yet. I got my book, and they had a good chuckle at my
expense.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Finally,
finally, FINALLY, I arrived at GT Pie. Another meter, another
quarter, and another pile of slush to wade through. All in the name
of freaking pie! (Oh, my gosh, did I just say that out loud? I'm
sorry, pie, I'm so sorry. I love you. I would do anything for you.)</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In
the end, I bought one chocolate cream pie. The bonus was that GT Pie
was not only </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">aware</span></span></i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
of pi day, but they were also promoting it shamelessly by offering a
free slice of pie with every purchase. I promptly ate my free slice
of strawberry rhubarb with crumbly topping, so that I wouldn't have
to share it with the rest of the family. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I told you I love pie.
Don't judge me.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">And
so, here I sit, enjoying my slice of chocolate cream, relaxing after my lengthy pursuit of pie and other
things. The only thing left in my mind is: why </span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">is</span></span></i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
pi so important?</span></span></div>
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"></span></span>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-22900539942617049252014-03-12T06:37:00.002-04:002014-08-22T11:06:00.876-04:00My Neck Injury<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I was in college, I overextended a
muscle in my neck. I was doing something so foolish, so extreme,
that I deserved the vicious pain that followed.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was getting out of bed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
More specifically, my loft. Getting
out of a loft bed is much more strenuous than getting out of a normal
bed, just so you know. It involves turning over with exact precision
so as not to fall on the floor from six feet up, finding a ladder
with only your feet because it's too dark and you can't turn on the
light to wake up your roommates, and then positioning your body
accurately over the ladder, again so as not to fall from your
six-foot-tall bed.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know, I know. You can't believe I
endured such a wretched situation. But I lived to tell about it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That one particular day, I turned over
and got ready to hoist myself out of bed and toward the ladder when I
felt a snap in my neck. The next thing I knew, I couldn't move my
neck or head without excruciating pain. So I made my way, very
carefully, down the ladder and called the campus health clinic. I
canceled my morning classes and made my way to the clinic.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My car was parked in the dreaded F-lot.
If you lived in any of the south campus dorms, you know that F-lot
was where all cars went to die, or at least hibernate for all of the
semester, because it was much easier to walk anywhere, including
Detroit, than to retrieve your car from F-lot. Even if I had been
able to retrieve my car, I would have had no place to park, since MSU
has about 27 total parking spaces for a campus that serves 50,000
students.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In short, I walked many, many miles
that day, with my head held high, and not because I felt proud. I
just couldn't move. I arrived only to have the doctor tell me that I
had pulled a muscle. He gave me a soft cervical collar, and probably
some heavy-duty pain meds and sent me on my way.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The most embarrassing part of all this
was that, during dinner in my dorm's dining hall, I was swarmed by
concerned friends all asking, “What happened? Did you get in a car
accident?” Imagine my embarrassment if I had told them I had
sustained the injury by getting out of bed. So my response was,
“Yes, it was horrible. Ambulances and fire trucks everywhere. My
car was totaled.” At least I didn't have to worry about them
discovering that my car was, in fact, still intact.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was still parked in F-lot.</div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-86437802671091058842014-03-09T20:09:00.000-04:002014-03-10T05:57:24.275-04:00Beauty Wars<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">A long time ago, in a hospital not too far away....</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Three young maidens were born within three years of one
another, maidens of unsurpassed beauty: two with golden curls and
blueberry eyes, one with chestnut locks and orbs the color of cocoa. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">During their young lives, they drew the admiration of
nearly everyone who knew them. They wore frilly frocks of pink,
yellow, and purple, with ribbons in their hair and sparkly shoes adorning their feet.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">However, as with all fair young maidens, they had been
relentlessly pursued by a force so evil, so insidious, that none had
ever escaped its power.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The enchanting young maidens slowly and painfully
succumbed to the power of....adolescence.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The sweet innocence of childhood has been replaced by
moodiness and rebellion. Flaxen hair once content with a mere
brushing is now subject to the heat of curling and straightening and
the suffocation of a multitude of hair care products.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Cherubs who once carried the sweet scent of babyhood now
battle the funk of body odor. </span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The home of the young maidens is now drenched in
estrogen.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Where once lay fair skin, now there is acne. </span>
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
young maidens have waged war against their mother, the one who
once had sole access to the beauty products in the home. The girls
regularly plunder their mother's wealth of cosmetics, leaving the
poor woman to her own devices. It is now a common occurrence for
their mother to resort to using men's deodorant in the absence of her
own feminine antiperspirant. Not only that, but she must use dried
out lipstick, her husband's boar bristle hair brush, and a
skin-colored crayon to finish out her look for the day.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Adolescence
is a frightening time for all. Pursued by her daughter's insatiable
hunger for beauty, the mother races against time to find a way to
protect her own beloved skin from the ravages of age. Will she emerge
victorious?</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Please
stay tuned for the next episode of “Beauty Wars.”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">(I'm
just kidding. There is no next episode. I'm going to bed. I hope I
can find the toothpaste.)</span></span></span></i></div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-37899581957659423652014-02-25T06:00:00.002-05:002014-08-22T11:01:30.343-04:00Exercise Can Kill YouIt's been several years since I've had the motivation, energy or mental wherewithal to attempt to get in shape. If you've ever been through a trauma or a sustained period of grief, you get exactly where I'm coming from. It takes all your energy just to survive.<br />
<br />
Now, after three years of trial and grief and struggle, I feel like I may possibly be able to thrive. Maybe even <i>grow</i>!<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the years of stress have taken their toll on my 44-year-old body. I am in <i>serious</i> denial about this. I still think my body should behave like it did twenty years ago. I should be able to go out and walk a few miles without breaking a sweat. If I don my running shoes, I should be able to jog by the end of the week and run a 5K by the end of April.<br />
<br />
Ha ha ha ha ha. I'm so stupid.<br />
<br />
My body mocks me.<br />
<br />
Last week, we had one gorgeous afternoon when the sun was shining and the temperature was, remarkably, above freezing. I knew I had to get out and take advantage of it. I donned my running shoes (which have never experienced actual running, by the way), put on a long-sleeved shirt, and gloves and I was off.<br />
<br />
It was quite the glorious walk/jog, I'll have you know. Even with the thaw, there were still gigantic snow piles that I had to leap, slushy puddles for me to navigate, and icy patches to negotiate. I even had to duck under some branches that had been broken by the ice storm we had in December. It was like a delightfully sunny, snowy, slushy obstacle course. And to top it off, I jogged up and down the skywalk at the end of the street.<br />
<br />
Not too shabby for an old lady, hey?<br />
<br />
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I kept hearing this little voice telling me: <i>Take it easy. Don't overdo it your first day. Don't push yourself too hard.</i><br />
<br />
I brushed it off, thinking it was my cynical, tired old body trying to tell me it would be sore the next day. So what? I could handle soreness. I was going to beat my body into submission.<br />
<br />
Plus, it felt too good to stop, so I pushed myself.<br />
<br />
In addition to the inevitable soreness and fatigue that followed, I also developed a cough. This is normal for me for a day or so after a workout like that. But when the cough lingered into the weekend, my chest and my back started to hurt. And I could hear funny rattling noises bubbling up from my lungs when I breathed.<br />
<br />
I finally went to see my doctor today.<br />
<br />
He actually laughed as he listened to my lungs and reported, "Jen, you have pneumonia!"<br />
<br />
Now, you have to know a bit about my relationship with my doctor to understand why he laughed. We've been friends for years, since my husband and I met him at MSU. Dr. P and I did random evangelism on MSU's campus. Dr. P and I once went into the woods and built a lean-to from scratch, just for fun. Dr. P knows that I did missionary work in the Philippines where I subsisted on fish heads. <br />
<br />
He laughed because he knows I'm a little too hearty to subscribe to the idea that I would catch pneumonia from playing outside.<br />
<br />
But indeed, I caught pneumonia from playing outside. <br />
<br />
It probably won't kill me, but I will be much more wary of exercise in the future.Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-29084910710044009832014-02-17T12:13:00.001-05:002014-08-22T11:02:06.097-04:00Soccer Mom<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i>Here is another post in my "rerun" series. It was originally posted in 2009.</i></span><br />
<br />
Today my girls had soccer practice. They're involved in a Parks
and Rec team, a very low-key activity with the main goal being for the
children to <i>have fun.</i> And really, that's about <i>all</i> I've seen so far. I'm not seeing any learning of useful soccer skills, such as how to actually make your foot come into contact with the ball.
But at least they're having fun, right?<br />
<br />
Tonight, the soccer
coach decided that at the end of practice, the children should play a
scrimmage against their parents. In her words, she thought it would be
"fun". Well I don't necessarily agree with her definition of fun,
because in my estimation, it would be more in the category of torture. I
hate playing sports. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I am
deeply tormented by memories of any attempt at playing sports
throughout my life. I had extremely bad experiences of gym class from
the earliest elementary years all the way through 8th grade. You have no
idea how heartily I rejoiced once I finished Junior High and I was no
longer required to participate in Physical Education.<br />
<br />
The
year 1976 was an Olympic year, so our gym teacher thought it would be
"educational" to set up gymnastics equipment. I really have no memory of
any of the other equipment besides the rings. For some idiot reason,
the rings were suspended about 20 feet off the ground. OK, so it was
probably not quite that high, but I was in Kindergarten so I was only
about 3 feet tall and <i>everything</i> looked really high to me. We had
to climb up on a small platform to reach the rings. The platform was
high enough to scare me, but then my teacher had to hoist me up on the
rings and make me do a somersault. And I'm sure I was visibly terrified
because I knew at any moment I was going to plummet back to earth with
an ungraceful splat. However, the teacher made me do it anyway. You know
I could probably go back and sue that gym teacher for all the emotional
distress that he or she caused me, if I could remember his or her name.<br />
<br />
In
about 2nd grade, Ms. PE teacher had the brilliant idea to teach us
basketball, and by teaching I mean she simply said "Play." So, I had no
stinkin' clue how to actually dribble a ball or what responsibilities that
players in different positions had. We just had to play, and it appeared
to me that everyone else knew what they were doing except me. So, when
we had basketball days in gym class, I would conveniently excuse myself
to go to the bathroom until gym was over. I think my teacher eventually
caught on, but it still never occurred to her to actually teach us some
darn basketball skills.<br />
<br />
In 5th grade, I tried to sprain
my ankle during dogdeball season. I would run really fast down our
gravel road and purposely step in the potholes. I used to deliberately
irritate my older brother so he would inflict some kind of brotherly
agony upon me, and then I would shout, "go for the ankle!" I once had to
get a plantar wart removed, and I asked the doctor to write a note
excusing me from PE for the rest of the year. He didn't. I even tried
climbing up on our gigantic console TV set and jumping off. But it was
all for naught, as I was still forced to participate in the misery of
team sports.<br />
<br />
Even in college, a friendly game of
volleyball with my dearest friends would throw me into a panic. I could
usually hit a volleyball with some degree of consistency as long as I
was not involved in an actual game. But if the ball ever came to me
during a game, I was either completely immobile, or I was flailing
around like an injured animal. And then of course, I would say some
dumb thing like "the sun was in my eyes," or sometimes I would choose
the simpler option which was to feign death.<br />
<br />
Suffice it
to say, I have never had any desire to participate in team sports, even
for "fun". Because although it may be "fun" to some people, I'd rather
have one of my limbs severed.Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-57598508846923538192014-02-14T03:06:00.001-05:002014-02-14T03:06:15.283-05:00The Spelling BeeI'm a <s> gud </s> good speller. I always have been. I think it's because I have a photographic memory. For real. If you show me how to spell something one time, I will remember it forever. Even a moronic word like Kashyyyk. One thousand points if you know what that is without having to look it up. (Don't try too hard. This is the blog where everything is made up and the points don't matter.)<br />
<br />
My kids have inherited my good spelling gene. I guess Al has one, too, which surprises me a bit because he is also a math genius. I thought you had to be one or the other, but I guess he was blessed with both. In fact, the psychiatrist who evaluated Al's post-stroke brain functioning told him, "The stroke knocked you down a few notches so now you have a normal brain like the rest of us."<br />
<br />
Because of their exceptional ability to spell, my children have swept the school spelling bee every year. I'm proud of them, but it's getting a little old. And spelling bees are quite stressful. I'm a total sideline screamer when it comes to watching the kids participate. Except that I just have to scream in my head, otherwise, I would be ejected from the game.<br />
<br />
If you've never been to a spelling bee, it can get quite tense.<br />
<br />
The first task is usually the most daunting. The judges tell every competitor to approach the microphone and spell their name.<br />
<br />
Joey steps up to the mic. "Joey. J-O....Can you use that in a sentence please?"<br />
<br />
The problem I've found with spelling bees is that no matter how intelligent a child is, if you put them in front of an intimidating crowd with a microphone and require them to spell something out, they will forget every word you ever taught them. Why can't they just take a spelling test and have it graded in front of everyone?<br />
<br />
You can totally see the strain on every parent's face when their student begins a turn. They're mentally calling out, "Okay, Sally. Take a deep breath. Concentrate."<br />
<br />
The word Sally is given: love.<br />
<br />
Sally begins. "Love. L............................U....................................V........................................E. Love."<br />
<br />
Sally's dad jumps out of his seat and "Come on, Sally! You know that word!" He throws his pocket dictionary across the floor and is escorted out of the gym by armed security guards.<br />
<br />
Next comes Johnny.<br />
<br />
Johnny's word is: antidistestablishmentarianism.<br />
<br />
What happens with these exceedingly long words is that the kid gets lost in the middle somewhere.<br />
<br />
Johnny begins, struggling just to pronounce the word, let alone spell it.<br />
<br />
"Antidistestablishmentarianism. A-N-T-I-D-I-S-E-S-T-A-B-L-I....." Because there are enough <i>i</i>'s in this word to fill an entire dictionary, Johnny forgets which <i>i</i> he's on. The rules say that he cannot go back and change the spelling. So, for several extremely painful moments, he stands there, with everyone and their dog staring at him, while he tries to remember all the letters he just said. He finally finishes up by sputtering out, "I-S-S-I-P-P-I. Antidisestablishmentarianism."<br />
<br />
The problem here is that the audience is not allowed to applaud or give any kind of feedback until the round is over, which is why Sally's dad will be banned from the school grounds for the next six months. However, everyone knows immediately whether the word was spelled correctly or not, so the student only has to scan the faces of the people to know whether or not he was successful. His parents have fake smiles plastered on their faces, nodding encouragingly. His fellow students are snickering. Grandma has buried her face in her hands and is writing Johnny out of her will as we speak. <br />
<br />
Now, you're probably thinking that I'm some cranky old curmudgeon who thinks that spelling bees are a waste of time. Well, you'd be right, but I <i>am</i> proud of my kiddos for their accomplishments.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHyquzikfG2iBjmje7rdjxr9d3QYPBebNTQUH2ETudGh_Bbr5UXPZwtlRsOyuJYVnE3XJBJ2PlJS6QyVyInnmKbau3edj29kSPAvgRX8qkQq0TnAmAaBue4ZJIUnBMR3Lir_4yZPWL1f5u/s1600/Joy+and+Evan+spelling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHyquzikfG2iBjmje7rdjxr9d3QYPBebNTQUH2ETudGh_Bbr5UXPZwtlRsOyuJYVnE3XJBJ2PlJS6QyVyInnmKbau3edj29kSPAvgRX8qkQq0TnAmAaBue4ZJIUnBMR3Lir_4yZPWL1f5u/s1600/Joy+and+Evan+spelling.jpg" height="251" width="320" /></a></div>
Way to go, Evan & Joy. Way to make mama look good! ;)<br />
<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-70217554178759785392014-02-10T19:37:00.002-05:002014-02-10T19:38:51.622-05:00The Coldest Winter<i>Okay, friends. I know you've all been dying with anticipation to read my next spectacular blog post. But guess what? I'm writing a book instead! (Pray for me and wish me luck!)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So, I've decided to re-publish some of my older posts. Hopefully you won't mind reading them again. I should be writing on my other blog soon, too, but I'm not making any promises.</i><br />
<br />
<i>I originally posted this in August 2012. It seems a bit more fitting to post it now, in the middle of the longest, coldest winter ever. (By the way, if you know me, you know that I. LOVE. SNOW. And this winter has not turned me off yet, although I occasionally receive death threats when my status update on Facebook asks, "Don't you just love this weather???"</i>)<br />
<br />
I grew up in Northern Michigan (i.e. the Upper Peninsula, the UP, da
Yoop). It's the closest you can get to Canada without actually being in
Canada. But the people still talk like Canadians, eh? I find it
humorous when I go home now to hear such a distinct accent from dem
Yoopers when I only live 400 miles south.<br />
<br />
I don't have
to exaggerate much (but I might exaggerate <i>a little</i>) when I say that the
winters were cold in the UP. They were bitter cold, the kind of cold
that causes a truck engine to make a low-pitched squeaaaal-rrr-rrr, and
then swear and go back to sleep. It was a dangerous kind of cold that
would cause people in current times to stock their pantry with canned
food, cancel every activity for the next 3 months, lock their doors,
stuff something like this under every door to keep out the evil cold,
and hope to God they had enough furniture to put in the fireplace in
case they ran out of wood.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This
cat-themed draft stopper can be found at www.potpourrigift.com, or if
you happen to live in a place like the UP where almost everyone is a
taxidermist, you can have one made with all the stray cats that wander
up to your house.</span></span></i></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi575czdueR7LV9hC6tPN9r3ityubm3nncHlDwTyGLRU3OSQplXjOY_Y6HAoMIN8hT5KJF57gRQREQvqdnPBpWWv-Hf1mMDfEBX9Q9PY-T7ssi8FgF3Jg06f1ZsbwFsW8k1a9wrdH0PlLKq/s1600/catdraftstopper.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi575czdueR7LV9hC6tPN9r3ityubm3nncHlDwTyGLRU3OSQplXjOY_Y6HAoMIN8hT5KJF57gRQREQvqdnPBpWWv-Hf1mMDfEBX9Q9PY-T7ssi8FgF3Jg06f1ZsbwFsW8k1a9wrdH0PlLKq/s320/catdraftstopper.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><br />
Even
on those coldest of days - the days that my father had to use an engine warmer to get my old Delta 88 started - I must have sneaked past my parents when I
went to school on basketball game days, because I would wear my cheerleading skirt
to school. With bare legs. Or sometimes I would wear flat shoes. In
the snow. Without socks. To this day, I'm absolutely certain I have permanent damage in my legs and feet, which never warm up unless they're
being roasted over an open fire. <br />
<br />
One
day, my best friend Cari came by with her parents. She is also my
cousin - you can't be choosy when you live in a village of 300 people. She invited me to accompany her to wherever she was headed, but first we had to
stop at yet another cousin's house. (Yes, everyone is related in the UP, get over it.) When we arrived at said cousin's house,
we told her parents we would wait in the van. They assured us that they would only be a few minutes. They didn't even keep
the van running for heat. Why would they? It was only -30 F. Being high school girls who don't care how close we got to each
other, we huddled up on the front seat of her parents' van so we could
stay warm. We put our feet on the dashboard so they could stay toasty in
the sunlight. (Ha!)<br />
<br />
As we goofed around and acted like silly teenage girls, we simultaneously threw our heads back in laughter and kicked our feet.<br />
<br />
CRACK!<br />
<br />
A
giant fissure appeared in the van's dashboard.<br />
<br />
So
we did what any two level-headed teenagers would do once we realized how brittle
the dashboard material had become in the subzero weather: we pushed just a little more. Just to see what would happen.<br />
<br />
A few more times and the entire
dashboard disintegrated in a flash of 1970's goldenrod glory.<br />
<br />
Sh*t.<br />
<br />
At that very moment,
yet another relative came out of the house, observed our predicament, and proceeded to laugh so hard that he wet his pants.<br />
<br />
What do you tell your parents when you destroy the entire dashboard of the family vehicle? We
considered going into the house and playing it cool, like, "hey, Auntie
Betty and Uncle Tom, we thought we'd just come inside and warm up a
bit." And then when we all went out to the van, they could be all
shocked and say, "What happened to the dashboard?" and we would
be all, "Wow, I can't imagine how something like that could happen."<br />
<br />
In
the end I think they figured out it was us. And I think the punishment
must have been inordinately lenient because I don't remember what it
was, except maybe a little lecture and possibly some yelling on both of
our parents' parts.<br />
<br />
The moral of this story is: there really isn't one. Except that you should wear socks in the winter. <br />
<br />
<i>If you give lots of happy feel-good comments, I promise to start posting more! :)</i>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-39650214186738892392013-12-01T14:02:00.004-05:002013-12-01T14:04:21.227-05:00The Paper PlightPaper is my new pet peeve.<br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
Since Al's stroke
almost 3 years ago, I'm quite certain that an entire forest full of
little woodland creatures has been evicted because of us. I've seen
them holding cardboard signs at the street corners, saying, "Will thump
for food" and "Hunters killed my mom." Between LTD, SSD, STD (that's <b>S</b>hort-<b>T</b>erm-<b>D</b>isability,
people!) DHS, BCBS, FMLA, BYOB, ASAP and TEOTWAWKI, there is no end of
paperwork. And the exceedingly annoying fact is that, in order to
determine whether something is <b>actually</b> important, I have to read every. single. piece.<br />
<br />
It would actually be helpful if the papers came with a headers like: <br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">YOU ABSOLUTELY MUST KEEP THIS DOCUMENT OR ELSE A GUY NAMED LENNY WILL COME AND CUT OFF YOUR BIG TOE.</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">YOU SHOULD PROBABLY
KEEP THIS DOCUMENT BECAUSE YOU WILL NEED IT TO PROVE THAT YOU ARE
DISABLED, EVEN THOUGH IT'S VISIBLY CLEAR THAT YOU ARE DISABLED. WHO
KNOWS? YOU MIGHT BE FAKING IT.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">THIS IS A PIECE OF INFORMATION THAT IS PROBABLY NOT NEWS TO YOU, BUT WE THOUGHT YOU SHOULD HAVE IT. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">THIS LETTER WAS SENT
TO YOU BY A PERSON IN AN OBSCURE DEPARTMENT WHO HAS TO CONTINUE LOOKING
BUSY OR HE WILL GET FIRED. THIS LETTER CONTAINS NO HELPFUL INFORMATION
WHATSOEVER. </span></i><br />
<br />
When did we decide that it is so important to have <b>so much</b> communication? <br />
<br />
One
example is the agency that is handling the claim for the discharge of
Al's student loan due to our bankruptcy filing. It is quite complicated
to discharge a student loan through bankruptcy, so we've had to jump
through some hoops. But now that our filing is complete, we have been
getting letters like this almost every day. A large header states:<br />
<br />
<b>PLEASE
READ THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION CAREFULLY TO DETERMINE WHETHER YOU NEED
TO TAKE ACTION. The purpose of this letter is to inform you that your
application for loan discharge based on total and permanent disability
has been received and appears to be complete.</b><br />
<br />
Then
the letter goes on to state, in intricate detail, what we have to do if
Al's situation changes; for example if he goes back to work, or
miraculously stops being disabled. As far as I can tell, we do not need
to take action. Yet, the U.S. Dept. of Education insists on reminding
us, on an every-other-day basis, that we need to take action if anything
changes. Rather than spending money on something useful, like
education, we get letters basically stating the following:<br />
<br />
1. Hey, everything looks good, but don't forget to let us know if something changes.<br />
2. Hey, everything still looks good, but just a reminder, let us know if something changes.<br />
3.
Hey, everything still looks good, but you know the US government is
having severe financial difficulties, so we wanted to double check to
see if you can actually pay back your student loan. Because that would
help us out a lot. Well, not really a lot because your student loan
compared to $17,000,000,000 isn't even going to put a dent in it, but it
makes us feel better. Oh, and by the way, we're spending more than
your student loan amount by sending out these reminders to millions of
Americans on a daily basis.<br />
4. Would you be interested in selling popcorn to help us raise money for the U.S. Department of Education?<br />
<br />
And <b>then</b>, there are the repetitive letters from the Social Security Administration:<br />
<br />
<i>Dear Al</i><br />
<br />
<i>This
is the SSA. Just writing to let you know that everything is pretty
much the same as it was yesterday. We like writing letters to you. It
makes us feel like we're doing our job.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Your friend always,</i><br />
<i>SSA</i><br />
<br />
<i>P.S. Please write back.</i><br />
<br />
I
think that the real reason that the SSA may run out of funds is that
they use approximately 8.3 billion pieces of paper per hour, telling
people redundantly superfluous and unnecessary things. <br />
<br />
I
used to go to great lengths to make our garbage as disgusting as
possible so that anyone attempting to dig through it to find personal
information about us would probably just pass out, or possibly die. I
put used diapers in the bags with the precious papers. Used cat
litter. Spoiled milk. Rotten meat. You get the idea.<br />
<br />
I finally purchased a paper shredder to deal with the discarded papers.<br />
<br />
Now I have a giant stack of paper waiting to be shredded.Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-79515299822472044712013-10-23T05:15:00.000-04:002013-10-23T05:21:17.114-04:00Waxing NostalgicSometimes I long for the good old days.<br />
<br />
Days when I didn't have to worry about the mortgage or car repairs.<br />
<br />
Days when I didn't have 4 kids who think I have all the answers.<br />
<br />
Days when I weighed less than a Buick.<br />
<br />
Days when I didn't have a small cactus growing out of my chin....<br />
<br />
Seriously, what the hell is it about age that makes hair suddenly sprout all over my face? I am not a man, in case you hadn't noticed. Mother Nature is becoming senile, I presume, because I am growing whiskers that rival the cat's. For years, I handled those annoying little suckers probably like everyone else - by plucking. Just a small inconvenience for a few small hairs every day.<br />
<br />
But then, a few years back, it was like someone fed them after midnight and they began to multiply exponentially. I plucked in the morning and in the evening. I spent days wishing that I could afford electrolysis or laser hair removal.<br />
<br />
I wondered how my husband's Norelco would feel on my delicate face, and if anyone would notice if I smelled like Old Spice.<br />
<br />
This past summer, I went with my mom to get her eyebrows waxed. (This is a mystery to me because I don't think my mom has eyebrows. When I was growing up, she used to draw them in. Sorry, Mom, don't hate me. I still love you just as much as I ever did.) But the eye opener was this - it was so cheap to get it done.<br />
<br />
But I'm really cheap, so even better, they sell waxing kits in my very own drug store! So, I went to Walgreens and read the labels to find out which was the most idiot-proof. I bought a small pot of wax and proudly brought it home. Now, the instructions sounded really easy. "Microwave the wax in small increments until liquid. Let cool until the word READY appears on the mixing spatula." They forgot to mention that I shouldn't put the pot on a paper plate. Because paper plates scorch in the microwave. And sometimes start on fire.<br />
<br />
So, after the wax was sufficiently melted, I dipped the little spatula into the pot. Still too hot, as the word READY was not yet readable. Ten seconds later, still noT READY. Twelve seconds later, still not READY. Did I mention I'm very impatient? After checking about 72 times, it was finally READY.<br />
<br />
I proceeded to the bathroom mirror. "Spread a thin amount over a small obscure spot on your face. Remove the wax and wait 24 hours to see if you have a reaction." Screw that! I spread a thin amount over my entire lower jaw and both chins. However, the wax that took so painfully long to cool actually lumped up very quickly after it reached the READY stage. So I ended up spreading and matting chunks of wax together over my chin.<br />
<br />
The next step: "Grip one corner of the wax, and, pulling your skin tight with the other hand, pull the wax off very quickly." Done! And it didn't even hurt. <i>And</i> it didn't even work. I saw about 3 hairs sticking out of the wax, and the rest were still stubbornly stuck on my face.<br />
<br />
Back to the microwave, heat, stir, heat, stir, cool. Smash onto face. Rip it off. About 7 more hairs relented. <br />
<br />
I was frustrated, but I decided to try my eyebrows. Now, generally, I like my eyebrows. I rarely have to pluck as they don't grow bushy and they're not very dark. Thankfully I inherited my mother's light-colored brows. So, why didn't I just leave well enough alone?<br />
<br />
The wax kit came with eyebrow guides that looked like sideways commas. OK, I put one over each eyebrow and carefully lumped the wax around each one. What I discoverd, however, is that it DOES hurt when you rip off eyebrow hair. That, and sometimes the wax drips down under the comma-shaped eyebrow guide, and you end up with one eyebrow that looks more like a semi-colon.<br />
<br />
The next time I went to the store, I thought I would find something a little more user-friendly. I decided to try waxing strips. <i>That </i>sounded much easier. I got home and immediately read the instructions: "Warm strips of wax between hands." (Whew! no microwaving or scorching required). "Peel off one side of plastic liner and press wax firmly onto desired area. Carefully peel off outer plastic liner. Get a firm grasp on the wax strip, pull your skin tight, and swiftly remove the wax."<br />
<br />
I tried that. And failed. I was left with a bunch of sticky spots on my face because the wax strips were more like glue traps than actual soft, easy-to-remove wax. I was also left with several renegade hairs. I scrubbed my face several times to get the residual "wax" off, but as I went off to bed, my face stuck to the pillow and my hair stuck to my face. The next morning I managed to scrape off the last remaining bits.<br />
<br />
Last night, I heard my daughters saying, "Hey, let's wax!" I ran to them, yelling, "Don't do it! That stuff will never come off your face!"<br />
<br />
My oldest daughter looked at me and flatly said, "Mom, you just use this finishing oil when you're done to get rid of all the extra wax."<br />
<br />
Finishing Oil? Ahem. I, uh, didn't see that in the package.<br />
<br />
Next time, I'm going to the salon.Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-89487623047678499312013-09-03T20:05:00.002-04:002013-09-03T20:05:47.018-04:00Bubble Butt, Thunder Thighs, Muffin TopBe very jealous - I got 'em all, baby! But not for long. <br />
<br />
You guessed it. This is my semi-annual attempt to lose weight. You may remember <a href="http://jennysuegotmarried.blogspot.com/2012/01/190.html" target="_blank">190</a> or <a href="http://jennysuegotmarried.blogspot.com/2009/02/im-walking-gingerly-today-but-im-not.html" target="_blank">Ouch!</a> or <a href="http://jennysuegotmarried.blogspot.com/2010/07/running.html" target="_blank">Running</a>. Every single time, I was bound and determined to lose weight, get in shape and become a runner. <br />
<br />
I've had this blog for 5 years, and I've written about "trying" to get in shape about 5,000 times. <br />
<br />
I have yet to follow through.<br />
<br />
But this time is different. I feel it in my bones. I'm fed up with being overweight, under-energized, and most of all, I recently discovered this disgraceful fact:<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I currently weigh more. than. my. father. </span> <br />
<br />
Shut up and quit laughing. <br />
<br />
I should focus on the positive here. I mean, way to go, Dad! I'm proud of you for losing weight. But I kind of hate you, too.<br />
<br />
Anyway, if that's not enough motivation to make it stick this time, I don't know what is....Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-51506752187661267402013-09-01T08:07:00.000-04:002014-08-22T11:16:37.923-04:00Our 1D Summer<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today is a sad day. It's the end of
summer. And this was not just any summer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">This was the</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KLqkZauxeBa2vqKPm6gfks1n_8dOGxAX6uDSm_FWQlfHPt1CWhwb7DULJReuE904NL3Bv9GnkgmNsnOxsBL818P8B7KZLVDAOdkLMYJff7ywZ-iaYv2vlx1_7HEGSnSies8S9JjBgbuh/s1600/oneD+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KLqkZauxeBa2vqKPm6gfks1n_8dOGxAX6uDSm_FWQlfHPt1CWhwb7DULJReuE904NL3Bv9GnkgmNsnOxsBL818P8B7KZLVDAOdkLMYJff7ywZ-iaYv2vlx1_7HEGSnSies8S9JjBgbuh/s1600/oneD+logo.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> summer.</span></div>
<br />
Yes, I'm a freak –
a 43-year-old woman who adores <a href="http://www.onedirectionmusic.com/us/home/" target="_blank">One Direction</a>. Their music is so fun and catchy, and the boys are all so stinkin' cute. I like a lot of popular Christian music, but I haven't heard anything quite so upbeat from the Christian genre.<br />
<br />
Last December, 1D was advertising their upcoming 2nd world tour. I remember thinking how much I would love to take my girls to a concert. I thought, "If only we had an extra $1000, then I could get tickets for them to see their favorite band." Less than a week later, a $1000 check showed up on our doorstep! Coincidence? Maybe. But I asked my husband if we could please use just a
bit so my girls and I could go to a 1D concert. When money had been
tight for so long, it seemed a little silly to blow a small wad on something
that seems frivolous, but I wanted to do something FUN with my girls
after a couple of challenging summers. So it happened, (and no, we did not spend even close to the $1000 on concert tickets, FYI. I just think that God is so awesome that He dropped the exact amount in our lap that I had been hoping for, even though it didn't take nearly that much to buy tickets).<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtI2RLBN_g17kDead0eWM5OlU16rhkjne-7pAsXEj4ZYsWXjtRTk_21kKMveTrsTZP6hCT_3zKmjArMr04gYZANxSpLHOTc6eJYo5NXZ5s5ziS_WsGU98LKmsOvyf15Xxpk2qp3lhGEpG/s1600/P1060143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtI2RLBN_g17kDead0eWM5OlU16rhkjne-7pAsXEj4ZYsWXjtRTk_21kKMveTrsTZP6hCT_3zKmjArMr04gYZANxSpLHOTc6eJYo5NXZ5s5ziS_WsGU98LKmsOvyf15Xxpk2qp3lhGEpG/s320/P1060143.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
The girls and I drove to Chicago and stayed with my best friend for a weekend full of the most fun I can remember. Aside from seeing the hottest band
in the world, the girls and I also took a train by ourselves into downtown
Chicago. We walked to Millenium Park and splashed in the fountain. As we wandered around a bit, we would hear a rise in the noise from time to time
and my girls' ears would perk up, and they would peer through the crowd to
see if they might spot the 1D boys, on the extremely off chance that
they might have slipped away from their very busy schedules to frolic
in the windy city. No such luck. We eventually got turned around so we caught a
cab back to Union Station. Being the dork that I am, I had no idea if it
was kosher to sit in the front seat of a cab, so I smashed myself into the
back seat with my girls and ended up on my teenager's lap! <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Wm7qwfaE5N1y8AZslTAJdwajzhGAs-Flmof7eAbImGnETdu4zuANFmGwTWCr4f2BOm5CHQnhggtjciqskKNziMcE6GpjKWOUs3TBFJES2je81Fc7Nl7Yhv8zhq8mlpugf5XnPEVKW00g/s1600/Giant+Pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Wm7qwfaE5N1y8AZslTAJdwajzhGAs-Flmof7eAbImGnETdu4zuANFmGwTWCr4f2BOm5CHQnhggtjciqskKNziMcE6GpjKWOUs3TBFJES2je81Fc7Nl7Yhv8zhq8mlpugf5XnPEVKW00g/s320/Giant+Pizza.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyq4E-7IhkRcB07niFRpKZy7bZoiPH-z-_4o-RoCSgaDLqhKofc1IO8pGEyjWu9rUEL-Ohj5vkrfWelQbKAKnO3APJzuJQ7iYkClFKl5HpA3clxgtc2n27nIvWZt-giH7Nq12-pZ_Lyxbu/s1600/Millenium+splash.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyq4E-7IhkRcB07niFRpKZy7bZoiPH-z-_4o-RoCSgaDLqhKofc1IO8pGEyjWu9rUEL-Ohj5vkrfWelQbKAKnO3APJzuJQ7iYkClFKl5HpA3clxgtc2n27nIvWZt-giH7Nq12-pZ_Lyxbu/s320/Millenium+splash.JPG" height="235" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the concert, we had lawn seats (I told you I didn't spend the whole $1000! If I had, we *might* have gotten a little closer....) It didn't matter in the end - with binoculars and 12,000 other people, we danced and sang the night away with 1D.
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We also caught the opening night of
1D's documentary-movie, “This is Us.” It was not nearly as
exciting as seeing them in person in Chicago, but it was fun to do it
with my girls.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As if that weren't enough excitement, two other events made this summer spectacular as well. On August 23, my nephew (and
god-son) got married! August 24 was my parents' 50<sup>th</sup>
wedding anniversary, so my entire family stayed at the Radisson in
Green Bay for a celebration-packed weekend.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
My parents with my nephew and his new bride </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(disclaimer - this picture was taken by someone else and posted on my FB page, so I do not take credit for this photo.)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If I had to choose my favorite part of
the summer, I might say it was the 1D events. Of course, the family
wedding and anniversary were extraordinarily fun. But a girls'
weekend in Chicago, complete with a 1D concert, cemented my
relationships with them, and gave us some of those “time stands
still” moments in my children's ridiculously fast childhoods. My
oldest is starting high school. In the blink of an eye, she will be
grown up. I only have 4 more years to call her my own, and then she
will be her own person. Sure, we will still be able to go to
concerts and have girls' weekends together, but it won't be the same.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nothing will ever be quite as memorable
as our 1D summer.</div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-31165945407261224372013-05-12T11:34:00.004-04:002013-05-12T11:34:51.443-04:00Why I Wanted to Cancel Mother's Day<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<i>I wrote this letter to my children this morning:</i></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
The day before Mother's Day, I felt like there was nothing worth
celebrating. All I could think about was how I had failed in
countless ways as a mother. When you, my children, were very small,
I remember a friend telling me that if I were a perfect mother, my
children wouldn't need the Lord. OK, that made sense. It made me
breathe a sigh of relief because I didn't have to be perfect.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
However, sometimes I think I let that truth, and God's mercy,
convince me to be lazy about mothering. I am ashamed at all the ways
I have set a bad example. I have been lazy, crabby, mean, and
selfish. I have set the example of hiding from my problems and
shirking my responsibilities. I have complained instead of
rejoicing; I have worried instead of praying; I have grumbled instead
of giving thanks in all circumstances.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
When I thought about Mother's Day, I thought about you giving me
cards that said, “You're the best Mom in the world,” and it made
me regret all the ways that I have been so much less than the “best”
Mom in the world.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, I thought I didn't really deserve
Mother's Day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But none of us <b><i>deserves</i></b> God's mercy.
None of us <i><b>deserves</b></i> what Jesus did for us on the Cross. So, I have
to face my failures and ask for forgiveness, from you and from the
Lord. Then, I am free to receive His mercy and love because. And then, I have to resolve to “do better.” That doesn't
mean “try harder,” because growing as a mother – like growing
in any kind of holiness - doesn't come from my own sheer effort. It
comes from my submission to Christ and His will for my life. If I
want to be a better mother, a better example of gratitude, joy, and
service, then I need Christ first. I need Him to give me the grace
to say no to my desire to be lazy, my temptation to complain, and my
habit of thinking of myself first.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I apologize for not putting Jesus first
in my life every day. I'm sorry that I haven't worshipped and adored
and glorified God the way He created me to. And I'm sorry that I haven't taught you to do so as well. Forgive me for trying to
be a mother on my own strength rather than through Christ who gives
me strength.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Forgive me for all the ways I have
failed you. I pray that God will help you to heal from the ways I've
hurt you. I know that HE is enough when I am not. I pray mostly
that I will be able to submit to His will to be able to be used by
Him to be the mother HE created me to be.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, on Mother's Day, instead of
dwelling on my own insufficiency, I will rejoice that God is enough.
I will rejoice that love covers a multitude of sins. I will rejoice
that, even though I'm a “failure,” God brought us together as a
family for a reason. Not because any of us is perfect, but because
we're perfect for each other.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I love you!
</div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-52025123367212496752013-03-12T07:18:00.000-04:002013-03-12T07:18:38.883-04:00Please Stand ByHey, there, new and old blog friends:<br />
<br />
I just wanted you to know that I will be taking a little break from my blog for a few weeks - probably until Easter. There's a lot going on in our family right now, and I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed and stressed. <br />
<br />
If you know me personally, or you have read my other blog, <a href="http://postcardsfromtherapy.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Postcards from Therapy</a>, you know what kind of chaos we've gone through in the past 2 years. Thank God His Almighty Power and Presence, the ability to begin anew every morning, and for my sense of humor. If God hadn't given me a lighter side, I'd probably be dead by now!<br />
<br />
Thanks for hangin' with me - I'll see you in a few weeks!Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-53813417998713378662013-03-07T04:30:00.000-05:002013-03-07T04:34:31.235-05:00Ten Random Things I Know How to Do!<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once again, <a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/" target="_blank">MAMA KAT</a> has given us a mission: write about something.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And no, not just about anything. She couldn't risk giving that kind of freedom to amateurs. You will understand why when you read my post. She has to give us guardrails so that we don't careen off the mountainside highway of authorhood. (Yes, I might have just made up that word. That's because I am an established author using Mama Kat's writing prompts. Do not attempt this yourself.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The topic I chose for this week:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Ten Random Things I Know How To
Do!</b></u></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(I feel like there should be theme music playing here.)</span><u><b> </b></u></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">1. In college, I learned how to hold a flashlight and look pretty while a guy who likes me changes
my alternator in a blizzard. I'm proud of myself for learning that valuable skill. Looking pretty, I mean. I have no idea how to change an alternator.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">2. I
know how to fly off the hood of a moving vehicle and get skid marks on
my dress. If I were ever needed as stunt double, I would rise to the challenge. Skid marks on my clothing would be part of my resume.</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">3. I could probably get a job in Hollywood, doing makeup, because I once hid under a dock, covered myself with mud and fish guts. I was going to try to scare my older sister, but she saw me first and I ended up looking like a
complete moron.</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">4. While testing a frozen pond, I found out that I can <span style="font-size: large;">half</span> walk on water. The other half of me fell in up to my thigh and I had to walk back 10 minutes back to my apartment half soaking wet. By the time I got there, half of my clothes were frozen solid.</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">5. I
know how to sing a song in Tagalog (Filipino) for a free cab ride...in the Philippines. I would not try this in New York City.</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">6. I
now know with what caution I should pick up a hot muffler off of the highway after it has
fallen off my van. That would be a <span style="font-size: large;">lot </span>of caution, because after it had been on a vehicle in the hot sun and then skidded down the highway, that sucker was hot!</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">7. I know how to go on my honeymoon with my in-laws. No, that's a lie. Well, I really did honeymoon with my in-laws, but not gracefully. It was a disaster.</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">8. I know how to homeschool. At least for the really little kids who just need to know 1+1=2, and that ABC spells CAT. After that, it got too complicated, so I quit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">9. I still remember how to make Christmas ornaments from when I was in elementary school. I have tried several different ones over the years with my kids. I thought we might get so good at them, we might be able to sell them on Etsy. It turns out, they looked like something made by elementary school kids.</span></span></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">10. I am a sanity daredevil. What does this mean? It means that I have come so very close to the edge of sanity - you know the part where you're standing on the glass-bottom walkway, looking down into the canyon on insanity, and you think, "It doesn't look too bad, maybe I'll give it a try." I start to climb up over the fence, but a small voice in my head tells me it's not quite time yet. "Give your kids a few more years to mature into full-blown teenagers; give your husband a little more time to "sort things out" in his life, give yourself a little more time to juggle 839 with 2 hands. Then, my friend, then you will be ready to make this leap."</span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Now, if you are one of my regular followers, or if you are visiting from Mama Kat's blog, please do this for me: If you are interested in hearing "the rest of the story" from any of the snippets listed above, please let me know in the comments section. I love comments, and I love writing ideas. Because it's hard to come up with my own when I'm on the edge of sanity. </span></span></span></i></div>
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Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-29315249633040811782013-03-02T19:05:00.003-05:002013-03-02T19:05:51.937-05:00How My Parents MetThe Rivards were farmers. My grandma cooked food from scratch for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She made home-made bread and pies every day. I can't imagine how she managed to stay ahead of 9 hungry kids who had been working the farm all day.<br />
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The Rivards were a tight-knit clan, even with countless aunts, uncles and cousins. My dad and his brothers used to party with their cousins - legend has it that the Rivard boys were a bit on the wild side. My dad, Gary, had a cousin who was dating a girl named Darlene. Darlene had a best friend named Marie Johnson. As all swooning young couples do, Dad's cousin and Darlene wanted to set Gary and Marie up on a blind date.<br />
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And so it happened...blind date with Gary, the party animal, and Marie, who happened to be extremely shy and quiet. They stayed out until all hours of the night since Marie was too shy to mention that she had a curfew, and Gary didn't think to ask if Marie's parents wanted her home before 4 AM!<br />
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You can imagine what happened next: my Grandpa Johnson was furious and forbade my mom to see my dad <i>ever again</i>. Well, at least for a year, as the story goes. But as my dad confided in me once, "I just couldn't forget her."<br />
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Not exactly sure how they resumed their relationship after that long separation, but they were married the summer after my mom graduated from high school.<br />
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This year, on August 23, 2013, our family will celebrate the wedding of my parents' first grandchild (who also happens to be my godson - yeah!). The following day, on August 24, my parents will celebrate 50 years of marriage!<br />
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I love my family!<br />
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I joined up with <a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/" target="_blank">Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop</a> this week. Thanks for your inspiration, Mama Kat! <br />
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<center>
<a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="Mama’s Losin’ It" src="http://i913.photobucket.com/albums/ac331/mamakatslosinit/workshop-button-1.png" /></a></center>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-57406531539063099192013-02-27T23:58:00.000-05:002013-02-27T23:58:00.527-05:00My First V-Log: Meet Sally!OK, either I will go down in history as the weirdest mom ever, or I will be committed to a mental institution immediately. Cast your vote - just don't be too harsh!<br />
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5911211676351267954.post-46747404140326095712013-02-21T19:17:00.001-05:002013-02-21T19:17:46.912-05:00Lost in LostI've been having a very strange craving. I want to keep watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0411008/" target="_blank">Lost</a>. Over and over again. This is probably the 3rd or 4th time (maybe 5th or 6th?) that Al and I have watched it from beginning to end. We're somewhere in the second season, in the "hatch." <br />
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Why do I love this show so much? I'm not sure, but I think it's because I'm really beginning to like the idea of <span style="font-size: large;">getting</span> lost. Let's see - a tropical island, gorgeous beaches, shirtless guys (shhh, don't tell Al). Well, minus the violent plane crash and the smoke monster, I think I'd really enjoy it. Sure, having to find fresh water and probably some food and shelter might be challenging, but I would gladly trade some of my current demands for those piddly problems. Really.... <br />
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Well, you know me, I'd have to find a steady <a href="http://www.jennysuegotmarried.blogspot.com/2013/02/my-coffee-addiction.html" target="_blank">Coffee</a> supply, too. But otherwise, I think I'd be set.<br />
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And just in case, I have memorized this bit of information from eHow: <a href="http://www.ehow.com/how_2318299_survive-deserted-island.html" target="_blank">How to Survive on a Deserted Island</a>. I have to laugh about this seemingly serious article. If you were, <span style="font-size: large;">indeed</span>, stranded on a desert island, you would most likely not have a working laptop or wifi to be able to access this article. If you <span style="font-size: large;">did</span>, you might be spending your time sending out a Facebook messages, saying "Help, I'm stranded on a deserted island!"<br />
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Or in my case, I might just message everyone, saying, <span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"<span style="font-size: x-large;">Ha ha!<span style="font-size: x-large;"> <b><i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I'm LOST!</span></i> </b> Do <span style="font-size: x-large;">NOT try to find me!"</span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281420407748540105noreply@blogger.com0