Dear Wii Fit,

Dear Wii Fit,

Please read and understand the following notice of dismissal from my life, effective Monday, November 24, 2008 at 12:00 a.m. EST. If you have any questions or concerns please feel free to call me between the hours of 8:01 a.m. EST and 8:05 a.m. EST.

Mr. Wii, unfortunately, it appears that you have been having some difficulty fulfilling the original terms of your contract. Your motivational skills are poor and your clients complain that you practice weight discrimination and posess an inate inability to increase morale.

Since your hire date, on or approximately September 15th, 2008, you have only shown up to work approximately eight days of each month. Each of these days, you had the gall to ask a client why s/he had been gaining weight. Was s/he wearing heavier clothes? Had s/he been late night snacking? Was s/he stressed? Perhaps s/he was not getting enough sleep?

When your client informed you that she was extremely guilty of all of these offences, you proceeded to ask her what else s/he had done today. Had s/he been "heavily" exerted today? For how many minutes, approximately? When client complained that she felt these questions were highly inappropriate and perhaps of a disturbingly sexual nature, you advised her to practice Yoga positions to be more flexible. You then called the client "extremely left of centre" and unbalanced.

While we do appreciate the unique skills and assets of every team member, you have proven to lack personality and make things awkward for everyone in the room. You have breached confidentiality a great many times, by announcing a client's weight and then stating very loudly, "THAT'S OBESE". Quite frankly, Mr. Wii, we feel that we have given you more than enough chances to redeem yourself.

An attempt was made to present you with this information in a more personal manner. However, upon our arrival you advised us to "run on the spot" for several minutes. When we were completely finished phase one of your distraction strategy, you proceeded to throw hula hoops at us.

You may pick up your batteries and software at the reception desk, anytime before noon on Friday. We ask that you hand in all company property at that time. You will be escorted by security if any issues should arise.

Kind Regards,

Jennifer

Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got, I'm still I'm still Jenny from the block.

My name is Jennifer.

Yep. That's right.

Just like at least 1,440,203 other girls in the world. Oh no! Not the world, at all! One country in the world - the great USA!. No, seriously, I have a source: Jennifer - Its Origin, Meaning, and Popularity.

So when you call my office and I say Jenn is speaking, and you say "Oh, great! That's just who I'm looking for!", undoubtedly you are going to start talking about something and I am going to have no idea what you are talking about. And I'm going to say, "Excuse me, I'm not really sure that I can help you with that. Do you know which Jenn it is that you are looking for?". And then you are going to say, "No!" and I'm going to have to go through a big long list of everyone named Jenn who works with me or is affilated with the organization for which I work. This could take hours. This could take years. This could take decades.

Facebook: Providing A Mother Near You With Unlimited Passive Aggressive Opportunities to Stalk You

I won't soon forget the night my mother phoned to tell me about this new website she'd inadvertently discovered... the "Facebox". I was not living with her at the time. When I logged on next, I had a Friend Request sitting there mocking me. This resulted in a thorough sweep of the Facebook page. Drinking pictures removed? Check. Smoking photos removed? Er, check. Photos of me in bars in awkward positions? Removed. Friend Request? Accepted.

My mother adores Facebook. Though I live in her basement, she posts things on my wall such as, "What time are you working tomorrow?", when undoubtedly she knows that she can probably ask me that next time I come up to use the loo. And that I typically work from 9 - 5. She writes scathing messages with subjects like "kitchen" with brilliant content, including profanity and extraneous punctuation, that she will relay to me again once I wake up. It is hard to hear the extraneous punctuation in her speech but once accustomed to the language, the listener can quickly determine if it is a "WARNING!" warning or a "WARNING !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" kind of warning.

My every move is tracked. "Why did you accept so-and-so's Friend Request? Why are doing this? Why are you doing that? What does this mean? What does that mean? Why is so-and-so's status set to ________________? Is that from a song? I don't like it. You should take it down. Write a new blog. Please, write a new blog. JENN, write a blog."

So I was a little dismayed to see Facebook's new feature that allows you to comment on people's status messages and Mini-Feeds. Any song lyrics will now be followed promptly with "What does that mean?". All random jokey statuses will be followed with "Explain?" and I really, really, really hope it doesn't let you comment when someone accepts a Friend Request. Hoooooboy. "Why did you ad this person? BE CAREFUL, YOUNG LADY!".

Besides the fact that I am 22 and still receive cute little messages on my wall such as: "Note to self.....if I sleep after supper then I can't sleep at bedtime. I figured you would of caught on to this by now." Yes, mother, I know you have a severe disdain for my napping habit, but now my friends are probably wondering if I sleep in footie pajamas and with a teddy bear. But that's totally wrong. I sleep in duckie pajamas, with a Cabbage Patch Doll. Yeah. Don't make people get the wrong idea here.

Why Some Days I Am Sure I Was Put On This Earth For Someone's Sick Amusement

Life is a joke, it has to be.

In no other animal society, do individuals hoard all they can, selfishly and ignorantly , as we do. Okay, well, I'm sure they do. But damn, am I cynical tonight.

It started off as good a day as any day could possibly be. The coffee was hot. Cigarettes were in supply. (Not abundant supply, but supply). Lucky (well, not so lucky anymore!) pink lighter had been found at the depths of the pockets of the sweater that I had borrowed. The cat hadn't puked on any of my belongings, which is how I measure the awesomeness of an upcoming day - because not stepping catsick is certainly a normal way to gauge how optimistic you should be. My spirits were high and, by golly, by 4 o'clock this afternoon, I was going to have my driver's license.

FULL STOP, BITCHES. No. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. And do you know why? TRAINS, my friends. TRAINS. Apparently, all those little cautiony things they have at train crossings, which to my knowledge include ARMS and LIGHTS and CHIMES, you still have to be observant at these crossings, which I had thought I was being, but no, apparently not observant enough, because my head cannot do 360 degree turns or something.

Nevermind the reasons, which I can assure you are stupid and idiotic, such as: the Ontario Government does not want you to collide with a train, and the Ontario Government does not want you to collide with anything else, and the Ontario Goverment wants $40. Whatever. I mean, I don't mind paying $40 to take my road test each time, because I figure THE ONTARIO GOVERNMENT DOES NOT HAVE ENOUGH MONEY. You know, besides the money they get from GAS and from my PAYCHEQUE and from EVERYTHING I PURCHASE, they are poor.

But seriously now. Does the Ontario Government think I WANT to fail my roadtest? I mean seriously. There isn't much that sucks more than people being all happy and like HOW DID YOUR TEST GO, than to have to shake your head and say, "AWESOME. IT WENT AWESOME. AND IT WAS SO AWESOME AND I HAD SO MUCH FUN THAT I GET TO GO AGAIN."

I propose a card system, like they have at sandwich shops. You give me a card, Ontario Government, and stamp it every time I fail this fucking test. Every three stamps should be free. I CAN'T PAY FOR ANY MORE ROAD TESTS, ONTARIO GOVERNMENT, BUT IF YOU CERTIFY ME THAT I CAN DRIVE, I CAN GIVE YOU MORE MONEY VIA GAS TAX.

I'm not too familiar with academic failure, besides mathematically. I have not failed any "tests" per se, until now. I can study things and memorize things and take great pride in my ability to spell big words and correct errors of people who are smarter than me. BUT BOOK SMARTS DO NOT HELP IN A ROAD TEST.

In closing, I did not hit anything. I did not hurt anyone. No horns were sounded. No animals were hurt in the production of this road test. Looking forwards to seeing you again, Ontario Government and Your Delightful Minions!

Yours,
Me.

PS: Don't ever say WHY DID YOU FAIL YOUR ROAD TEST. I did not set out to do it. kthx.


Another topic of Why Some Days I Am Sure I was Put On This Earth For Someone's Sick, Sad Amusement: EYEBROWS

Eyebrows are stupid.

The more you look at them, the stupider they look.

You try to tweeze them and get them looking not stupid.

But they still look stupid.

They are a strip of hair that goes OVER your eyes and looks STUPID.

And the more you look at them, the stupider they look.

The more you yank at them, the more they get red and owie.

And the more you yank at them, the more profane you get.

I HATE YOU, EYEBROWS.

Ahem, you may now return to your originally scheduled Wednesday evening.

Stress Dot

I went to a meeting tonight about effective ways of dealing with stress and such.

We were each handed these tiny black dots and told them to put them on a pulse point.

I took one and placed it on my wrist.

A few minutes later it was still black.

I took another one and put it between my thumb and index finger.

A few minutes later it was still black.

I was laughing and such, pretty relaxed, no dice.

I came home, chilled out, still black.

Now, what are the odds that two dots are defective? Not too hot, no.

I drank a couple cups of tea, figuring sure, that'll relax me.

Nah. Still black.

I fail at relaxing.

So I do some googling, right, and find this: http://www.onlineorganizing.com/PopupProductInfo.asp?page=249&info=182

HOW TO USE STRESS DOTS

• apply a dot to the back of your hand between the thumb and forefinger
  measure your present stress level by matching the color of your dot to the chart
  colors corresponding to higher skin temperatures signify deeper levels of relaxation H'okay. Done and did.
  
• increase your level of relaxation by practicing the simple techniques on the card
  Oh yeah? Simple techniques on the card include laughing, and spending time with a loved one. So I go down to see Socks and I notice she has vomited on my wicker chair. Still black.
  
• measure your stress level again by matching the color of your dot to the chart
  if your dot has changed color to a higher skin temperature, you are more relaxed Right. But what if that doesn't happen? If your dot stays black, do you have a black heart of darkness? What did I dooooo?
  
• leave the dot on your hand to monitor your stress level throughout the day IT IS JUST STAYING BLACK.
  
• will increase your awareness of your response to stress YES. IT WILL STRESS ME OUT TRYING TO MAKE IT TURN A PRETTIER COLOUR.
  
• if you note a change to a colder color, practice a relaxation technique HOWS ABOUT IT JUST STAYS COLD, YO?
  

FACTORS INFLUENCING YOUR RESULTS

• dots will react to any mental or physical stressor Yeah, one like CONSTANTLY WONDERING WHY THE DOT IS STILL BLACK?
  
• you will register a cooler temperature if you are sick SO NOW I AM SICK? THAT DOESN'T STRESS ME OUT AT ALL!
  
• you will register a cooler temperature if you drink 2+ cups of caffeinated beverage DING DING DING DING DING WE HAVE A WINNNNNER!
  
• you will register a cooler temperature if you have just eaten
  
• you will register a cooler temperature if you have not eaten in a long time
  
• you will register a cooler temperature if you just finished exercising PSHAW. THIS IS NOT WHY.
  
• check your skin temperature at least 1/2 hour after exercising or eating
  
• designed for use in ambient temperatures of 68°-78°F.
  
• the temperature you start at is not as important as the learned ability to relax
  

I hate you, stress dots. You cause me insane amounts of stress.

I NEED AN ADULT!

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My chicken fingers are burning, the cat is on the television, my mind is completely elsewhere. I'm hoping for Publisher's Clearing House to tell me I won the big bucks. The Ontario government to come by and tell me they owed me money. Some random person to tell me that their Mercedes ran out of gas in front of my house, and that now it is my problem to deal with, here are the keys.

No. No. No. And No. It is some random woman. I open the door. She does not immediately tell me why she is here. "I'm looking for an adult", she explains. Wonderful. "I'm uhm, 22." "That's great, honey, is your mommy or daddy home?" Fail.

What does she want? She wants to make sure we bought a dog tag this year. My dog has wandered up to the door and is barking at her, clearly displaying his dog tags. I show her said dog tags.

"Where are your parents? Are you sure they can't come to the door?"

"The dog has his tags."

"You're right, but I need to confirm..."

"What? That he's wearing a collar? With TAGS ON IT?"

"I guess you're right, have a good night."

Awesome.

You are old. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

I worked 9-5 today.
I made a dentist appointment.
I got a $87 tax cheque.
I went to the grocery store.
I bought granola bars.
I bought oatmeal crunch cereal.
I bought gingersnaps.
I bought Wool-Lite to wash my dresses in.
It was fun.

And then I realized.

I am not 22.

I am at least 40.

I can't hear you through all this...everything.

Blub blub blub blub blub blub blub.

Lips are moving in synchronized noise and phones are ringing. Blub blub blub blub.

A box of Kleenex on my desk loses another comrade every three minutes or so. Blub blub blub blub blub.

I squirt hand sanitizer on my hands, my keyboard, my computer mouse, my Tylenol bottle. Blub. Blub. Blub. Blub. Die, vile cold germs, die.

From her desk, my coworker holds up two sheets of construction paper. One is yellow and the other purple. "Do these blub blub?". I'm assuming she's asking if they go together. "Sure," I reply. In my head, it sounds more like "blub blub."

My boss sits at her desk about five feet from mine. She wants to know how to do something in Word. I can vaguely hear her, but I cannot discern whether she is on the phone or not. Blub blub blub blub blub. "Blub blub blub text wrap," I mumble. "How do you know that?" "Blub blub, I used to do a lot of this blub," I reply.

And so is working as a receptionist with a cold. Fail. Uber fail.

Blub blub blub,

J.

Take Your Childhood and Edit It

Random House, famous paperback publisher, has recently updated and re-released the Sweet Valley High series of books. With this, I have no problem at all. I wonder why, but still, anything that gets kids to read is a good thing.

What I do have issue with? The following letter:
in which Random House proudly promotes eating disorders.

In this, we find out that the Wakefield twins, who used to be "a perfect size six" are now "a perfect size four". They no longer drive a red Fiat, but instead, a red Jeep Wrangler. Elizabeth is no longer an editor at her school's newspaper, but is now an editor of the school's website and an Anonymous blog writer.

SERIOUSLY. Please, please, please, whoever's idea this was: do not pass go, do not collect $200. I understand it's just Sweet Valley High. It is not earth shattering literature by any means, in any way, shape, or form. How could you? HOW COULD YOU? Mutilating my childhood in order to make it a "perfect size four", a red Wrangler, and last but not least, killing the Oracle?

This makes me really sad for no reason in particular. Series like Sweet Valley High and the Babysitter's Club had a hokey 80s quality about them that should not be messed with. It's just not fair and it shouldn't happen. Those characters existed BEFORE websites and Internetz and MP3s. Keep them that way.

I know SVH is no Shakespeare, but c'mon. Even Nancy Drew classics, while edited of some of their original racism and other things that weren't completely necessary, stayed true to their stories. Are you trying to tell me kids today can't fathom a life before computer screens and cell phones? That they can't even use their imaginations to identify with a story where a main character writes for a newspaper, like an actual paper one?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be in the corner reading me some Goosebumps and thinking of simpler times.

Peace,
J.

Buckley's Bad Taste Tour, Varsity: The Word

It's all too familiar. That annoying tickle in the back of your throat that punches you in the face and says, "Damn bitch! I hope you enjoyed getting drunk this weekend, because you are not having any fun this week at all! Bahahahahaha."

And so it goes. And it goes and it goes and it goes. So anyway I'm rooting around the house for my Buckley's and I figure out I've either used it all or it's been lost officially. So I go on the Buckley's website because I can't remember the name of the specific Buckley's that is awesome.

What do I find there? The Buckley's Bad Taste Tour. Where you post a picture of your best "bad taste face" in the hopes of securing a five year supply of Buckley's.

The practical person in me says, "Who would need a five year supply of Buckley's? How do they figure out how much Buckley's you need for five years? Wouldn't it expire?".

The girl getting a cold in me says, "That's the best idea I've heard all day."

Dear Carmex, Tim Hortons, and Oh Henry:

Please put up a contest like the Buckley's one. That way, save for getting up and going to work, I will not have to leave my dwelling for the next five years.

Love,

Jenn

Also, one more rant before I sleep: The word varsity.
When I was a youngin, I had a green tracksuit that read Varsity Girl all over it. I recently purchased a pack of "hipster" panties from lovely Wal-Mart. Because these are the panties of the 6 for $6 variety, I rarely examine the patterns. They are $1 a pair. I do not care. I make sure they are mostly pink, they are the right size, and they are not opened and never have been. Five of the six pairs of these new panties feature no writing. The sixth? In really giant purple letters it proclaims "VARSITY" with a fake coat of arms. But I decide I don't really know the definition of varsity and look it up: "of or pertaining to a university or school team, activity, or competition".

My panties are advertising a team, activity, or competition? Interesting. Very very interesting. Somewhat disturbing. Wal-Mart - your underwear designers are a bunch of pervs.

Carry on.

The No Cussing Club No Cussing Challenge

I am standing in the gym at work, doing a basketball relay course in high heeled shoes and a blue flowered spring dress, despite the fact that March has entered like a lion, and, well, carried on...like a lion. I am quite worried I am going to break my ankle, having been off high heels for a very long time. The challenge is to be the first team to successfully run the relay while dribbling the ball, with a beanbag on your head. I am quite worried my tank top has sunken down and that I am leaning over a bit too far, as I meander slowly around the pylons in an attempt to eventually clumsily throw the ball into the basket.

Team building exercises are fun like that. My peers are cheering me on optimistically, "Get it in the basket, Loos!", and I toss the ball. It goes nowhere near the hoop. The beanbag falls right off my head. "Shit!", I whisper. The team has gone silent. My four letter word echoes off the walls, "Shoot!", I exclaim, a bit louder, attempting to make a recovery. Everyone knows I did not say "Shoot!" in the first place. It's common knowledge. I put the beanbag back on my head, kick off my shoes, and run back.

The other day during first aid class, our instructor opened her bag of dummies to find that one was missing in action. "FUCK!", she sighed. "Oh, I said that out loud, didn't I?". Yep, you sure did.

Enter the No Cussing Club (tm). 14 year old McKay Hatch (how pretentious can your name possibly be?) explains that his friends were cussing way too much and it was offending him, so he came up with the No Cussing Club, whose slogan is the eloquent, "Ya wanna hang with us? Don't cuss!". Oh, McKay. He goes on to explain that if his friends could say no to cussing, they could also say no to drugs, violence, and pornography. McKay's parents raised him with values, he says, and that is why he doesn't dig any of that nonsense.

McKay, McKay, McKay. Seriously? You're a fourteen year old boy. In California. Who is offended by four letter words and the idea of your middle school friends stealing a glimpse at a Playboy. Wow. In addition to this awesomeness, McKay invites people all over the world to start their own No Cussing (tm) chapters. For the low, low price of $300 (and your free speech) you will be permitted to make 50 shirts with the NCC logo and slogan on them, to hand out at your school or your church to advertise your chapter. You are advised to hand out certificates at your school and your church to those folks that are willing to end cussing forever.

So, for shits and giggles (that was somewhat intentional), I have joined the NO CUSSING (tm) club.

Check out my membership form. I filled it out like I thought someone who genuinely wanted to join this club would fill it out.



I waited patiently for my automatic electronic response from McKay himself. And behold!



Now, of course, this is just an exerpt. If you want all the No Cussing (tm) goodness, you'll have to join the club yourself. But aren't you excited at the prospect of five free hug cards and a copy of "Raising a G-Rated Family in an X-Rated World?".

I did a little bit of research on McKay's page and quickly unearthed some truths. The book Raising a G-Rated Family in an X-Rated World appears to be written by his parents. Could the No Cussing Club really just be an outlet to hawk more books for them? Oh, McKay, how could you f*cking fool me so? But there was still more to unearth, and I wasn't about to let such a delightful conservative website escape my grip quite so fast. The worst part about this is this book claims to have sold 3.5 million copies.

Behold, the Power of Positive Hugging:


Quite honestly, this picture creeps me right the f*ck out. It's also a venture from this uberconservative spawn's parents. Apparently, you are to press the button to figure out how many hugs you require on a given day. I'm not concerned with how awesomely lame this is, like, not all. I am a bit concerned with how bizarre these bears look. I mean, of course, they must be married, because they are like, all close and stuff, and unmarried people never touch each other in Conservatopia. But why does Mama Bear look completely trashed out of her mind? Why doesn't papa bear's shirt reach all the way down to his pants? And that skirt on Mama Bear... I mean, it isn't even ankle length. Blasphemy.

This thing only works at room temperature, apparently. I suppose it is the same premise as a mood ring. But would the hug card know if you were swearing? Doing teh drugz? Looking at teh nekkid peeps? Srsly. This shit is marketed to HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS. If you had handed me that thing when I was in HIGH SCHOOL, I probably would have PUNCHED YOU IN THE NOSE, and I was not a violent kid by any means.

People in the real world swear. I have seen the most proper of teachers and professors and doctors and nurses and other professionals let the odd F-bomb drop. Instead of giving four letter words so much attention, why not just let them go? If people think you have a problem with it, they are going to keep doing it. Seriously. Find something better to protest, something that seriously matters. I heard there was going to be some protest about women wearing pants or small children getting ahold of the lingerie section of the Sears book, McKay. Maybe you should track down the address.

But thanks, McKay, for letting me into your club. I won't even end this with a hearty "Go F*ck Yourself".



I mean look at that hot certificate. Your Paint skillz totally rival mine. Awesome work with the whole letting your parents pimp you out to sell books!

So you should all check out McKay's site at www.nocussing.com, and until next time, DON'T SWEAR!

(DISCLAIMER: because the website seems so totally all about the (TM) symbol, I really have to tell you that all graphics contained in this post are screenshots from the NO CUSSING CLUB (tm) website. Carry on.)

jobly-ness

squeeeeee.

The Wisdom Teeth Saga

Never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever again.

The other three will remain until I either forget about how much this hurts or they start to hurt more than this hurts.

I am about to attempt eating some macaroni and cheese, even though my jaw is not really working. Will report back.

Division of Capital - Household Pets vs. Twentysomething

Puggles is considered the richest because he cost the most at the time of purchase. I don't know exactly how much he cost, and it's rude to ask him, so I'm going to say $300. He also owns two (2) blankets, for an estimated total of $20, and he has approximately $70 worth of toys. It probably cost about $100 to get him fixed. He owns a bed ($50), and I would say his share of the couch is equal to about $110. Therefore, of the pets, Puggles has the most capital ($650).

Socks is next because she is the senior executive of LoosCatsCo and therefore she don't take no shit from no one. She is worth an estimated $152. She was free from a farm, so she doesn't have an initial investment cost. I pay her $1 a year to keep my pillow warm ($12). She owns a CatSpa, which I estimate to be worth an approximate $20 value. She currently owns approximately $5.40 in cat treats. I estimate, after depreciation, her surgery to get spayed probably cost about $90 (12 years is a long time.) The remaining $24.60 is what she plays on the stock market.

I estimate Willy/Babycat has an estimated asset value of $50. This is for when she finally gets around to writing the heartwarming story of my stealing her from the high school courtyard and bringing her into a nice, warm home. It's going to be one of those Hallmark movies. When she gets around to it.

Then there's me. I have an estimated value of -$17,000.

Therefore, a designer mutt, an old cranky calico, and a smelly midget cat that lived in the high school courtyard all have a higher net worth than me, an almost 22 year old, human, career college graduate.

Win!

Injuries that only a Jenn could get

Alright, so my tongue has been bleeding pretty constantly for approximately four hours.
I bit it while eating spaghetti.
So I decide that I'm sick of swallowing blood and it's starting to make me feel pretty sick.
I do some Google-fu, which tells me to rinse it with salt water. And then apply a moistened teabag to the area, as something in it will soothe the pain or stop the blood or something. So I do this.
Even in October when I got drunk and fell over a bike, thereby putting my bottom tooth through my lip, I did not do a saltwater rinse. Holy fuck, that is so gross.
But sucking on a teabag is absolutely as disgusting as it sounds.

Carry on.

Fun in the Bathroom: Part Two - Aussie Natural's

Natural's what? What belongs to the Natural? I am so confused.

Nitpickedly,

Jennifer

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Grammar

Total fail.

This paper does this all the freaking time.

You would think if one worked at a paper they would have a basic understanding of what those flying in the air apostrodealies are. But no. They live to make my hurt.

Plz hire prufreeder, kthx.

No love,

Jenn

no groundhogs allowed

i hate you, groundhog day.

grrrrrr.

(no, i have no ethical issues with groundhog day. i just hate the day for other reasons.)

yes, i am irrational enough to have a deep hatred of groundhog day...why do you ask?

i have been a typist for far too long... groundhog looks like such an amusing word.
but don't let it fool you.
groundhog day is evil.

Dumb Labels in the Bathroom: Volume One - Avon Peach Bubblebath

"Umm... the sweet aroma of fresh, juicy peaches. Fruity and fantastic in mountains of bubbles that leave skin softly scented. All without a bathtub ring."

Umm?! You started your freaking label with Umm?! FAIL! You can kind of picture the girls in the design department...

"Ummm... what is in this anyway? Oh yeah, fresh aroma... juicy...blah blah blah, k? Umm... Cassie, you got that? Umm...okay good. Let's get this shit did so we can go to Starbucks."

I tried to take a picture but the text was too small to be legible.

I certainly hope they were going for "Yum" rather than "Umm...". It sounds like they have a sixteen year old co-op student writing their packaging. Seriously. "Umm..." to start a label?

A label that starts with Umm is less than awesome.

For shits and giggles I have run "Umm..." through Sloganizer. Here are the all so confident results:

*Umm... never sleeps.
*Umm... the revolution.
*I'd do anything for Umm...
*Heal the world with Umm...
*Umm... wonder.
*Don't play with fire, play with Umm...
*Be a part of Umm...
*There is no life without Umm...
*Umm... for everyone.
*The Umm... spirit.
*Umm... is rolling. The others are stoned. (Umm... No comment.)
*Umm... I want it all.
*Once Umm... always Umm...
*Umm..., it's as simple as that.
*Umm... kicks ass.


Long story short, I decided to do some nitpicking towards Avon. I sent them the following on their webpage:



Which of course, you won't find amusing at all unless you find stupid things amusing.
Hopefully I will have a reply with which to update you soon.

Mole Watch '08 Ends, Wisdom Teeth Take Over: The Terrible 22's?

Mole Watch '08 officially ended at approximately 10:00 p.m. Saturday night, when the tiny loop of "surgical" thread was discovered on my belly whilst changing into my jammies at my friend's house. The mole offered no parting sentiments, and did not write a note of thanks for its many years of habitation on my body. All that remains is a minuscule pink bump.

However, my body, unhappy with recent proceedings, decided that SOMETHING had to be done... after all, now the ratio of flaws to normalcy was completely askew. So approximately midnight, my teeth started hurting something terrible. The pain was in the lower teeth at the very back, and kept me up most of the night with its dull radiating. Awesome, says I. Approximately 5:30, I get up to get some Tylenol, hoping perhaps that will fix it. "How can I have MORE cavities?," I wonder to no one in particular, "When most of my teeth are already made of filling stuff?". (What is that stuff, anyway?). Anyway, I accept that I have been far too lax on my toothcare (despite my battery operated Tigger toothbrush), and vow to brush 5,000 more times a day if the pain will just cease.

Long story short, I end up at the most despised person in the world's workplace: the dentist. No fault of his own, he is a very nice man and all - but nobody LIKES going to the dentist. I tell him what's going on and he takes a look. "Not cavities," he reports. Then he says it... "but this wisdom tooth will have to be extracted."

"Extracted" is the nice dentist word for "yanked out of your mouth". "Oh," says I, "I don't have money for that. If that's all it is, I guess I'll just live with it." "I really advise you to get it out," paraphrases he, for I cannot remember exactly what he said, but it was something like that, "it is going to keep causing you pain."

There's that pain guy again. He and I do not get along well. Also, because I do not have a health plan, I will be going to the University dental clinic, where a bright young student will get the responsibility of yanking the aforementioned tooth from the aforementioned mouth. Awesome.

So apparently I am teething. Welcome to the terrible 22's.

What A Good Day!

Firstly, I would like to remark that I hate how all the freaking paparazzi shows are saying that Britney is schizo because she likes to talk in different accents.

As someone who would much rather speak in a false accent than my actual voice (and who often does), I feel very badly for the poor girl. It is such fun to speak in a fake accent. I do this all the freaking time.

Do people think I am schizophrenic? Maybe. Do I have a hell of a lot of fun? Yes.

So stupid entertainment shows, you fail at life.

And I promise I will stop with the celebrity related entries very soon.

In other news, I bought a Keno ticket tonight and won $9, thus almost tripling my life savings. Unfortunately, I put this $9 down on the purchase of three shiny new lotto tickets - A Deal or No Deal, another Keno, and a Lucky Lines. (Click to see diagram in it's original splendor).


In even cooler news than me not winning thousands of dollars, BUT it being totally okay because Skor bars are on sale, mum and dad took me to Michael's craft store tonight where I was able to purchase my very own embroidery hoop. It is green and very sexy. But not as sexy as my new glasses!

Exhibit A:

These gorgeous reading glasses feature a delightful pattern of tiny teacups. They also magnify everything I look at, which could come in handy when deciding whether the cup is half full or half empty. (Okay, that's a lie, but perhaps whatever is in the cup will look bigger?) They will also remind people that I enjoy the occasional overdose of caffeinated beverages. And they're pink. And they have a matching case. And they are regular $24.00 on sale for $5.00. Could this day get any better?!

Yes, punk. It can. Because when I'm in a punky mood, I have glasses to match. See exhibit B:

These feature all the same advantages of Exhibit A, but are a bit more hardcore than teacups. For the times I'm just feeling grrrrr, you know. Grrrrr.

In short, it has been remarked that Britney uses accents as costumes, and that they are no different than changing from "white framed sunglasses to black ones".

I challenge her to a duel. Come up with cooler accents, Brit, and some rad glasses. We can have a rehab party. You bring the money, I'll bring the rehab. And the embroidery, and the chocolate.

If she's schizo...what am I, pray tell? I am sometimes English, and somedays I wake up feeling a bit Australian. Sometimes I talk like Jeff Foxworthy. And sometimes I just grunt my approval, disapproval, or apathy regarding the situation at hand.

Also, thanks to everyone who has written to express concern about the breast situation. I have been following Mole Watch '08 with great interest, and support most of the candidates. My money is on Falloff Already, who is leading the campaign by great strides. I am happy to report that everything is going according to plan, and the tiny mosquito loop of thread that is determined to give me West Nile the freaking willies is still thriving in his its glory. The doctor has until Sunday before he reaches his five day guarantee. (Guaranteed to fall off in five days or... we'll give you more freezing and try it again!).

The Hottie and The Nottie

This is seriously the name of a movie.
Srsly. It's Paris Hilton's latest "acting" project.
Not only will I not be seeing this movie (which was a given, anyway), I predict I will have to hide from advertisements for quite a while. How does that title not just grate on your ears? For serious. My ears are bleeding. My eyes are cringing, and it's not just because of Paris wearing her "I heart Paris" dress.

Like, seriously, Paris. The dress is a nottie. No, honey, not "naughty". Just nottie.
I hope that does nottie hurt your feelings.

In short, if this movie makes any sort of money (which it very well may), I am packing up my shit and moving to Australia. I'm sure they have Paris Hilton there, but they also have warm beaches and such.

Nottie impressed,
Jenn

Tallies

People who IMed me tonight explicitly to ask about the state of my tit: 4

Odd questions:
*"Was it the big boob or the not so big boob?"
*"Is it still frozen?"
*"Will it be frozen for the whole five days?"
*"Are you srsly wearing a tshirt under your bra?"

(Answers: The big one. No. No. Yes.)

Odd hypothesizes:
*I have a ginseng plant growing under my boob, due to my overconsumption of tea - the ginseng in which I am unable to digest, so it is emerging underneath my tit.

I love my friends.

And I promise that soon the posts about my boob will cease. But right now I just think it's pretty fucking hilarious.

So far...

The cold ones are different colours.
They are different brands.
One is a Boh and the other is something else.
Yep.

We're going to party like it's 1853.

WARNING: THIS ENTRY TALKS ABOUT MEDICAL PROCEDURES. AND BOOBS. IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH YOU MAY WISH TO AVOID IT. IF YOU READ IT ANYWAY, DON'T COMPLAIN TO ME, kthx.

So I went to the doctor on Monday to get what I thought was a mole removed from the underside of my right boob. You know how doctors are like "If it grows fast, come get it taken off!" so yeah. I decided that was probably a good idea. So I went to the doctor. At which point I am informed that it is not a mole at all, but in fact a "harmless skin tag". Gross. If it is so harmless, why for is it owie and bloody? (Owie is a medical term. I swear.)

Anyway, the doctor then tells me that removal of such a thing is awesomely easy. "Just tie a piece of thread around it and it will fall off in five days." What is this... 1853? Besides, it's under my boob. I couldn't tie a knot around it AND manoever around it if I tried. Besides... OWIE!

And if it's so easy, can't he do it? Yes, yes he can, but it would have to wait until this morning. Deal. I can deal with that. So I go in there this morning and he freezes my boob. The right side of me is adequately prepared for a long game of dodgeball. He ties some special "surgical thread" (I assume this is thread purchased at Michael's as opposed to Dollarama, but I can't be sure) around it, and tells me to wait for five days.

So, it's only a piece of thread chilling out under my boob. But it's pretty much the most annoying thing ever. And it's still frozen. It feels kind of like a small insect is very determined to give me West Nile disease. I assume this will only get worse as the day goes on.

Also, I am discovering my inner superhero. I have devised that it will be less annoying to the mosquito if I wear a sports bra OVER a t-shirt and then another t-shirt on top of that.

I'm bring sexy back, fo' sho.

Can You Decipher This Sign?

(Click for larger picture.)

I'm getting:

"Note. Please don't cross from the Door's Awning as Smow may drop any time Thanks Don't Play With Wine".

What do YOU think?

It's been perplexing me for quite some time but I've not been ballsy enough to take a photo while the store was open.

Confessions Of An Addictive Personality

I have an unfortunate problem.

When I decide I like something, I decide I really like it.

When I was a youngin', it was ice cream and Pogs. When I was in high school, it was Carmex. (Although I did have a brief fling with Burt's Bees, and a very short affair with Blistex, I always returned to my first love.) I've tried the tubes but I always return to the old standby, the disgusting little jar that is probably teeming with bacteria of all life forms.

A jar of Carmex is a quarter ounce of love, made of natural ingredients. It is a legal addiction, and to my knowledge does not cause cancer or hallucinations. The formula has not changed since 1936. It is perfect just the way it is.

There are jokes about there being a special wing of the Betty Ford Centre for Carmex addicts like me. Perhaps there should be. As I sit here at the computer reading random articles, I find myself diving into the tiny tub every three minutes. There is a characteristic streak on every pair of pants I own, from where I wipe my goopy finger after I take a hit. Exes were informed that if they couldn't live with my Vicksy aroma, they would have to go. One boss, who suggested I switch lip balm brands, quickly retreated after I gave her the Jenn Stare of Death(tm).

People sometimes remark that something smells slightly medicinal when they are around me. I grin. I know I smell like a granny. I rub my lips together compulsively as if they are sticks and I am trying to start a fire. When I did my clinical placement at a nursing home, I wore Carmex under my nose so I would not smell any of the unfortunate smells around me. I need this shit to function. Chap Stick just doesn't have the same rush. That expensive Mary Kay crap is expensive. And crap. Avon lip balm is okay, and tastes really yummy, but I tend to lick it off immediately because it tastes good.

I am addicted to a $2.99, nondescript, tiny jar of HEAVEN. When I find places that sell it in the jar, instead of the gawdawful tube, I usually buy 2 or 3 of them. I have a tradition when a jar of Carmex is opened, a specific shape that must be carved into its waxy innards. I cringe a little bit when someone asks for a swipe - not because I am worried about what their bacteria laden fingers may introduce my sterile little tub to, but because I am worried they will swipe the wrong way - and what then? I am just slightly obsessive compulsive, I swear.

The facial expression on a first time user of Carmex is pretty priceless. "OH MY LORD WHY WOULD ANYONE VOLUNTARILY PUT THIS SHIT ON THEIR LIPS?" is the usual consensus. That's what I said the first time, too.

I have a problem.

My name is Jenn and I'm an addict.

Please don't look in my pants pockets. No, not my housecoat, either. Actually, just stay out of all my pockets. If you need some Carmex, they sell it at the drug store across the street.

*runs*

Have a Happy...Sandwich?

Have a Happy... Sandwich?

I've discussed my hatred of most major advertising campaigns before. Everyone knows my utter hatred of that stupid Whiskas cat (no meat, NO HUBERT!), the toe nail fungus dudes, and the most sophisticated thing I'm told I'll ever pee on. Gross.

But today, when I was flipping through daytime television, deciding who would rot my brain less - Dr. Phil, or Judge Judy, I saw it. It! I saw the most infuriating advertisement ever. An innocent grilled cheese sandwich, made with Kraft Singles (mmm, nothing like Kraft Singles, although I wonder if they ever get lonely?). Alas, this was a "happy" sandwich. That's how I like my food. I like my food fucking happy before I sink my teeth into it, grind it up, and send it stomach bound. But wait... Have A Happy Sandwich?

Hasn't this been used before? Oh yes. Ohhh yes. Always. Have a Happy Period. Just what I want to think about when I think of grilled cheese sammiches. It seems someone in Kraft's advertising department is a lazy sack of shit.

"Have a Happy Period" is ridiculous enough. I've ranted about the stupidity of this before, I know. But srsly. If you're going to use such a dumbfuck slogan, at least make the commercials funny. Show it like it is. Instead of riding horses or going swimming or wearing skimpy little white dresses, show it like it is. I dare you, Always, I fucking dare you. Show me a fat chick sitting on the deep freeze in her long johns eating Heavenly Hash right out of the container, and I'll show you a "happy period". Die.

But now the dumbfuck stupidity has escaped the realm of feminine hygiene and infiltrated food. FOOD. Now, what the hell made the advertising department think I would want to think of THAT while I am shopping for cheese slices? You can't tell me I'm not supposed to make a connection between these two slogans. "Have a Happy ____" is four words. Now, I'm no mathematician, but that means these slogans are seventy-five per cent the EXACT SAME. Fail. If I'd written a paper in school that was seventy-five per cent the same as something else, that would be called plagiarism. But on TV, it's perfectly fine.

How about Tylenol wishes me a happy headache? Head-on wishes me a happy... directly to the forehead? Toe fungus dudes wish me a happy... toe fungus? Hubert wishes me a happy foray into veganism? Smirnoff could wish me a happy detox, I guess. The Geico gecko could wish me a happy insurance claim. Those "make your own will" folks could wish me a happy divvying up of my meager possessions. Febreze could wish me a happy half-assed cleansing of my home/clothing/furniture. But no.

If this shit goes any further, I am moving to the middle of the forest and living off the land. I will be a happy hermit, eating my happy sammiches.

Jenn's Rules of the Road

A Guide For Everyone But Me, On The Occasion of My Re-Learning How to Drive

1. Kindly stay the hell away from the car I am driving. Your presence freaks me out.

2. Yes, today I am abiding by the speed limit. Perhaps you could follow my example. Also, a safe following distance would be nice. I'm a new/old driver - and even though I may appear calm (to the blind observer), my over consumption of caffeine products tends to make me a tad bit jumpy.

3. If you are a transport truck, get the hell off my road.

4. In the same vein, if you are a piece of construction equipment... shouldn't you be off constructing something, kindly quite far off my road?

5. In a parking lot, you should give me the right of way, if only because I'm cute, damnit.

6. No, I don't effing know how to angle park. If you are a parking lot designer, you should take note: YOU FAIL AT LIFE for designing such an evil thing.

7. Pedestrians - when you were very young, perhaps as young as four or five, your mother took you by the hand and explained: "Look to the left, now look to the right, and if all is clear, and it is safe, you can cross the street." You seem to have warped this in your head to, "You are the pedestrian. You should be texting and/or staring at your shoes, and wear your MP3 player on super duper deafening high, so you're sure never to see or hear a car. Drivers like it when you just pop out in front of them, because it keeps them on their toes!"

8. School children. I know you get chaffeured to school on your spiffy yellow school bus. Would it kill you to cross the road where normal people cross the road? And dangnabbit, PULL UP YOUR PANTS. Why, in my day, folks wore the crotch of their pants at their crotch instead of their knees. Or if they could only afford ill-fitting pants, at least they tied a stylish plaid flannel shirt around their waist. You are a distraction to my learning. Please obtain a belt. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

9. Dear Gas Pedal in Best Friend's Car,
It has been brought to my attention that sometimes you like to go faster than the sign posted on the road. However, as a lowly typist, I lack the funds that it would cost for you to maintain such speeds, in the event that you got caught. So please, pay more attention to the signs.

10. Dear too-big ripoff "Doc Marten" shoes,
I still love you. Even if you make my foot a little too heavy on aforementioned gas pedal. It's okay. He should know better anyway.

Back in the D-Dot

Well, my last foray into the city, I'd say would be probably my last, if not forever, but for a very long time. (Holy awkward sentence, Batman!)

I'm back home in Dutton, where it's pretty much physically impossible to get in trouble. The things I had been doing the past few weeks were extremely out of character and stupid, so here I am, back in my hometown. Woot.

I'm trying to secure my future in carpal tunnel system, by cross stitching the "Cold Ones" scene from SBemail 39 (it's going to look somewhat like this). So far I have this:


I'm just going to back stitch the "Cold One" on the bottles, and as the craft store only had pink aida cloth, stitching in the blue background should be...fun.

Anyway, believe it or not I have been rather busy. I have secured my G1 license back (with only one question wrong - "How far away from a pedestrian crosswalk can you pass another car?". I chose 60 m. I was wrong. I am still unsure of the correct answer - but meh. I don't do a lot of passing anyway. Especially anywhere near those damn pedestrians.) Had a job interview Tuesday - it went alright, I suppose. Other than that, I'm still doing typing work and random stuff like that. So things are coming together, I guess.

Everyone watching American Idol? Kinda like a two hour advertisement for better mental health care in the US of A, no? Although I really did enjoy the "Brother" song from last night. I fear music's future, but I am entertained.

All is fair in love, war, and cheese and crackers.

The new year has been, needless to say, INSANE so far.

a) The "vomitting virus" is going around my complex. We all caught it. For quite a long time.

b) The very very very end of last year I had a brief fling (it was minute) with a boy who was definitely not deserving of a very delayed Jennrebound. Any boy who has ever been involved in a Jennrebound knows that it is just an opportunity to get hammered with a girl in flannel pj's and long underwear, perhaps hug it out, and then get the hell on with our lives. This one, bless his heart, didn't understand that.

c) But that's okay, because... I can do way more awesome. And he's far away.

d) Also, if you ever take a Greyhound bus to someone's house, proceed to unpack your belongings and stay a couple days, and make yourself quite at home by eating their food and such -- you have no basis to dictate how that person lives their life. Make no comment about how much tea or coffee the person consumes, or how many cigarettes she smokes.

e) In the same vein, bringing the most giant bottle of rye in the world and then calling that person an alcoholic may not be the best idea ever.

f) In the same vein, bringing the most giant bottle of beer in the world and then calling that person an alcoholic may not be the best idea ever.

g) New cat, Cheech. New cat Cheech is an anomoly among felines. He just moved in with us, and he's totally awesome. I bathed him the other day with very little resistance, which was good, because I was under the curse of the vomitting virus and the conscience bug at the time.

h) I am trying to cross stitch to get rid of the wanting to smoke-ness. So if anyone has some extra aida cloth and embroidery thread laying around, let me know. I can give you twenty six cents and a button. Or I can like, bake you a batch of cookies. Ghetto cookies, but cookies nonetheless...

i) Oh, it's what you do to me... Oh, it's what you do to me. (Hey There Delilah is playing. I fucking love this song. Couldn't resist.)

j) I have a whole high school society going on. It's pretty awesome how most of us ended up here. Rad.

k) But apparently when I make cheese and crackers I cut the cheeses too small. ;) (jk)

K is as far as the list goes tonight, folks.
Be well,
j.

High School Yearbooks + Drunk Chicks = Not Quite So Good

It's 4:41 in the morning.

I am dead. Roomie and I have decided we will go to bed at 5.

I have had beer, some sort of weird cocktail, another weird cooler thing, a ceaser, some vodka, and my first taste of gin. (Yes, I made it to 21 without my first taste of gin. Go me! Pretty sweet ass stuff, yo.)

I can still type English or something that resembles English.
After drinking for like, 12 hours. With people I haven't seen since high school.
This fucking worries me.
Am I learning to drink responsibly? No.
So what the fuck's the deal?

Perhaps I will read this tomorrow and discover that it isn't English at all.
But right now I feel pretty confident.

CRACK

Jenn says:
my parents brought 2 things of cookies, 1 thing of chocolates, 2 bags of chips, ritz, and vegetable crack
Jenn says:
crackers
Jenn says:
lmao
Jenn says:
awesome type
Jenn says:
typo

New Year

I brought in the New Year in ways I will never repeat again.

It was followed by three days of insane guilt eating, in which I forced myself to eat multiple cheeseburgers and a lot of pizza. And booze.

This was followed by three days of the worst gastrointestinal exploits ever.

Srsly. I have never been so sick in my life. Just today I have regained the ability to move without feeling like I will puke.

Karma, I have learned my lesson.

Please fix me.

I'll be good this year. I promise.