Peroxide Sunday

Sitting over the bathtub with my hair soaking in Red Rose tea, I couldn't help but think anything but, "this would probably be something I should blog about". Or not, because it definitely will make any sane person question my (questionable) intelligence. But nevertheless, I hope you can enjoy this story of my Peroxide Sunday.

Perhaps it was wrought by watching too many episodes of Green Acres, with Lisa in her pretty dresses and tarty blonde hair. Perhaps it was brought on by my missing my old schizophrenic hairstyles, back when I would decide on a whim that I wanted burgundy hair and would dye it myself and cut it a few inches shorter all in a half hour timespan, when I didn't care if it wasn't straight because I was younger and I could just pretend that I was trying to go for the non-conformist look, like that time I convinced my hairdresser to do opposite spikes at the bottom of my longish hair, so I had blonde streaks that were a good three inches longer than my brown hair. Anyway, whatever it was, and despite any excuse I can think of, I can hear my mom in the back of my head saying, "Damn. Well, that was stupid."

Anyway, I decided that my reddish brown hair with non-tarty blond highlights that I'd been salvaging since December was no longer fun. I decided to bleach that bitch, bleachier than I've bleached it ever before. And so I decided that I could do it myself, despite all the advice I've ever received ever in my life. Whims are not brilliant things, you know. The first bleach job turned it a fierce shade of orange, which would have been really awesome if I were auditioning to be Carrot Top's stage crew, or maybe Ronald McDonald's cousin... but not so much for my conformist occupation as a clerical assistant. So I turned to Google. Google advised me that I probably shouldn't dye a darker colour over it. It might turn purple. Or green. Which I would have valued in my youth, but today... not so much. So being the ohhh so intelligent (snerk) person that I am, I procured another container of bleach.

And this one promptly took away the orange. Yay! Unfortunately, it only stripped the orange at the top. The top was left a lovely shade of white, leaving the bottom to be a lovely shade of orange. The sad thing is, this has happened to me on more than one occasion. You think I would learn. But damn, that was stupid.

I furiously turned to Google once more, where I read about naturally dyeing hair with coffee and/or tea. Seemed easy enough. Brew some tea. Dunk head it in. Horrible hair colour gone, yes?

So I considered myself lucky that I had just bought a box of 48 tea bags. I made a big pot of tea. I waited for it to cool down. I dunked my head in it. It ran down into the bathtub, dripping and dripping. I got an old cloth, saturated it in the tea, and sat there with it on my head, laughing hysterically, holding a pair of scissors, willing myself not to cut my hair into a Pixie cut. I dipped my brush in the brown water, ran it through my hair...waited and waited and waited. Nothing. Soaked my hair. Nothing. Got out the hairdryer. Furiously blew my hair dry, hoping the heat would cause the stain of the tea to set. Nothing. Ran out to the kitchen, grabbing the 3/4 cup or so of coffee that was left in the coffee pot. Soaked the top of my hair in that. Nothing. Except now my hair smells of coffee.

Moral of the story? Stick with your natural hair colour. Not that I'm absolutely sure what exactly mine is. The second moral of the story is that two wrongs don't make a right, especially when the wrongs involve overpriced bottles of peroxide and being mistaken for Carrot Top's little sister. Or something like that. Breakfast drinks probably can't fix it, though I did not yet try orange juice. I live in mortal fear now of anything with the word "orange" in it.

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

90s revival and other such things

We spent the last two weeks attempting to beat Super Mario Brothers 3. That's right. We paid cash money to purchase Wii points to purchase a game that was released in 1988. When we were two. Videogames have come quite far in the past twenty one years.

For one thing, even though we could play this game upside down and backwards in our sleep when we were youngins, we had the assistance of the Game Genie back then. I remember my mom used to write the codes out for my brother and I on giant posterboard in thick red magic marker, which she would hang on the wall beside the TV. This leads me to believe that I was playing this game before I could read, because otherwise I would have just read the book myself. It also leads me to believe that it is quite sad that I can remember stupid things like that but not my own cellphone number. But I digress.

Anyway, regardless of the fact that my thumbs still sort of knew my way around, I could not fly this time. I did not have infinite lives. I could not put in a code and start at world 8. I could not pass world 8.

Alas, it took us WEEKS. I would come home from work and sit down and play this horrible horrible mindsucking game. I would cuss at it and stomp my feet and get very angry.

And tonight we passed it.

And what did we do?

Started that thing right over again to beat again, that's what.

In other news, I have finally found my iPod. It was in my laundry hamper, and no, I do not know why. I had finally given up on looking for it, assuming I had left it somewhere and it had a new home. I was hoping the new owner was enjoying the eclectic mix of Counting Crows and Travis and Elton John and Radiohead and everything else that is awesome, that I was missing. I was cursing myself for not having any of that music backed up. And as soon as I started looking for that $200 piece of freaking plastic, I found it. Moral: Quit looking for things and they will appear in absolutely ridiculous places.

Stupider still was my attempt to clean off music from said iPod to replace it with new music. I couldn't delete the Spice Girls. It was like stabbing my youth in the back. I couldn't delete the Barenaked Ladies, either. I am still in mourning over Steve's leaving the band. Deleting any of his work would be impossible. I am more than happy to be reunited with my Counting Crows, as I was getting sick of listening to Films About Ghosts over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Also: my mother has been badgering me on Facebook to write a BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG every 2.43 seconds like some sort of small mechanical dog stuck on repeat, so if it seems like this entry is contrived or about nothing it is all her fault. :)

Blog.

Blog blog blog blog blog blog.

That is all.

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