Once More with Feeling.

A Christmas Story

Mike's at a Celtics game with his crew tonight, so by defacto I've been  Single-Momming all day. With a little quiet in the house now, thought I'd might update here and thinking what to write....what to write... and then it occurred to me-

I ever tell you all about the time our house got robbed on Christmas?

1994,  I was 21 and living at home, working/going to school.  I lived with my mom and sister, Emily, who was in high school at the time.  The details of how we as a family got together for gift exchange is a little fuzzy as to who was where (I have another sister who was in nursing school and a brother who was living in Baltimore with my father), but I think just the 3 of us exchanged gifts that year at home and then drove to my grandparents in Massachusetts.

We came back home on the evening of December 26th and after going up to our rooms to unpack,  my sister Em noticed that her room had been gone through since some items were missing. After hearing that, my mom also realized  some of her stuff was gone, too.

It was figured out pretty quickly this wasn't your typicial burglary.  As we started to name items, it was pretty tailored to meets the desires of a very specific demographic.

Here's a list of the inventory that I can still recall and see if you can figure it out:

-Fancy Shampoo/Conditioner (Pantene Selects if I recall correctly)

-One Lucky Vanous (Diet Coke guy) calendar (incidentally- my Christmas gift to Em)

                             Help! I've been kidnapped!

-My one pair of Banana Republic jeans that I scored at Marshall's and paid like $20, tapered, light stone wash and I swear made me look awesome when I hit the clubz ( I had no money and so could not afford a "real" pair of BR jeans, so to find these in a Marshall's was HUGE to me.)

(Yes, I'm still bitter, you'll see why...)

-Some of my Mom's rings - including an emerald ring her parents gave to her

-My sister's diary

I'm sure if my sister read this, she could add to the list, since she bore the brunt of theft.

Yes, a teen girl had hit our house. It would be unfair to call this a "break in", since we had an (admittedly bad) habit of leaving the house unlocked, because we lived in "such a good neighborhood."  I would call this more of a "Walk-in" or perhaps "Sneak In".  But what was more obvious (other than our lack of judgment not locking the front door) was who had done it.

There was a girl up the street from us who was at one time friends with my sister, Em. The girl, I'll call her J, was a few years younger than Em.   J was in 8th grade and her mom had on numerous occasions asked me to sleep over their house while she worked the overnight shift at the Post Office. Sometimes my 16 year old sister would take this gig.  While there was another much younger daughter in the house (about age 6 or 7) in play, the need for the supervision was due to J's behavior, since she had a habit of either sneaking out or having people over. And the people she had over were not, um, helping her study or anything.

My family had been very open-armed to this girl, even though I thought she was a total twit. Not that we were the Bradys by any reach, but we were a good crew for her to be around, had kept an eye on her, took her to places with us,  and made her part of our little family because her home life was pretty rocky, and made more so because of a recent divorce.  My mom, also single, empathized with the mother, and I knew J's mom had been pushed to her limits with J, and was doing her best to keep it together, since and she wasn't getting much assistance from the ex-husband.

I knew J had clipped the items. What burglar comes in for a Diet Coke guy calendar and shampoo? I was PISSED she had done this to us. On Christmas, no less.

I  like to think I'm pretty level headed and hard to frazzle in times of crisis. I find it's best to deal with the X-situation first, and then fall apart/explode/rant when all is said and done.

This was not my shining moment.

My exact words to my mom when I Cagney & Lacey'ed the case: "OH FUCK THIS."

A bullshit me bounded over to her house. I knocked on the door. No answer.  Knowing they were home, I opened the door and said a bunch of "Hello?"s.  This sounds strange now, but it really wasn't since her mom had entrusted me with a key,  her kids, and was I welcome there. I went upstairs to the Mom's room and the mom was there.  I told her what I had suspected, and asked permission to search her daughter's room.  She agreed.  I went in searching through the layers of teen-bedroom detritus  and was able to locate a few items: the jeans (which at the time I didn't know were missing, and now had a hole cut into the knee), Em's calendar, now written all through, Em's diary, which now had a few added entries from "Em", including a bit of her first experience with a tampon and liking how it felt going in & out of her (classy), and the shampoo.

The bigger ticket items: the jewelry, an Irish Belleek ashtray, cash were not there.

I spoke to J's mom and told her what I'd found. I said I needed to find J and she has coming with me. The mom gave a a resigned, "Do what you gotta do."

I found J in the basement. With a boy. If they weren't having sex, they were rounding 3rd by the time I made my presence known.  I told her, "Get your clothes on and get upstairs. And guy- BEAT IT."

More enraged, I walked up to the mother, and said, "Oh and by the way, I just found your kid having sex."

When a clothed J finally made her appearance, I yelled.  A lot.  Mostly "what the fuck are you thinking?" and "You fucked with the wrong family."  I dropped probably no less than 20 F-Bombs that night to a 14 year old girl.  Not my proudest moment at all,  but I had felt so betrayed by her I just couldn't keep my shit together. Our family been there for her so many times, my sister had been her friend when they were younger, and THIS was how she treated us:  by stealing from us on Christmas.

It was all I could do not to jack her up against a wall at this point, mostly  because her (fucking) perfected teen indifferent-to-defiant attitude.  Deciding to take a page from the Scared Straight campaign, I said to her, "You're coming with me."

First stop:  My Mom.

My mom had her moments of getting people to spill- and at a minimum, lay the guilt so heavy you couldn't breathe.  When I came up empty with the jewelry (and a few other items), I thought  she could make her get the stuff back.   We learned  J had a partner, and the partner had the other half of the loot.  It was then advised she could call this person at that moment.  I stood beside J as she called, and  her partner in crime said, "tell them I don't have it anymore." That report got J a quick,  "then I guess we're  seeing the Vernon Police tonight."

I drove the 14 year old thief the police station.

Once there, I get some face time with a officer laid out the details. He advised, giving the 2 idiots 24 hrs to give *all* of the items back, and if not, then press charges. I am sure the cop was seeing the crime for what it was, the value of the items and ages of  the criminal mensas, and perhaps rightly thought we would have a better chance of seeing the (mostly sentimental) items returned if we gave a window for them to do the right thing/avoid a rap sheet.

To be honest, this suggestion was not really a favorite of mine. In my eyes, which were only 21 years old then, saw this in black & white- a crime was committed, and I had a person ADMITTING IT, had recovered some of the items at the home of said admitter-er, and I'm to give this girl some slack? What the fuck, V.P.D.?

Begrudgingly, we gave the damn 24 hours.  The next day we returned to the police station to confirm we had our stuff back "mostly satisfactorily" since all but the cash was returned (surprise). I'm not sure if it was stipulated she had to pay us back or what.  The officer from that day was of my mind that we should have pressed charges AND gotten our stuff back. He was my kinda guy, since even though I knew we could drop a charge, I wanted these girls pissing their pants, at least for a little while.

 

 

Baby Carried a Watermelon, I Swallowed a Basketball.

There are many things to say to a woman in the earlier stages of her pregnancy. "Can I hold your hair back?"  "So you know, I can call a guy who "knows people" to take care of that guy who made the tuna." 

As time passes into the early 2nd trimester, and the green face goes back to her normal "beyond the pale", there's not much to report and, to my mind, not much to comment on.  It's a few weeks of a  holding pattern time in gestation. Looks-wise, you thicken up a little, like maybe you did on Spring Break or a semester at college. Well, that's been my experience. I look like I should switch to lite beer.

Spoiler alert: I've just crossed into the 2nd trimester of my 2nd pregnancy.  The first pregnancy ended last April with me getting very sick and hospitalized with severe pre-eclampsia and HELLP syndrome. After 2 weeks of hospital management and bed rest, I had to have an emergency c-section and lost my dear son, Daniel, who lived a short 3 hours.  So here my husband and I are, hoping and praying lightening doesn't strike twice and break our hearts. We are hopeful yet cautious to think that perhaps my body will not dick us over a second time.

Anyway, with this pregnancy, it has been a pretty different experience. I have been puking sick or had times of no appetite whereas last time I felt no differently. On The Nausea/Feel-Like-Ass Richter Scale, probably not a 10 on a 1-10,  but I would say there were 3 weeks I was and 8.5 (yeah, Thanksgiving was a blast - watching people eat) and then worked down  to a 6-7 for another 3 weeks.  As of today I am finally back to my pre-pregnancy weight but have a little pudge. Lah-dee-dah, I know.

At work, I'm a pretty private person. I have a few people I share stuff with, and given the sensitivity of having a high-risk pregnancy coupled with losing my son last Spring, I haven't exactly been chomping at the bit to tell everyone at work I'm pregnant. A few people were told - my manager, my "work husband", and 2 other colleagues (1 was told because I was so sick, I blurted it in a moment of vulnerability (swearing her to zip the lip); the other was just the other day - as I said to her I would officially announce it soon).

Now I want to play take-backs on that last idea of telling people. As I was explaining some work-related issues with a co-worker, out of nowhere she says:

    "Jen, you look like you swallowed a basketball."

People, I am 15 weeks pregnant.  Yeah, sure -  some shit has moved around and not looking too cute, but when you account for the 0 lbs change on a 5'7" frame, ...FOR THE LOVE. A BASKETBALL? I look different but I don't look DIFFERENT, if you know what I mean.

So without missing a beat, I grunt, "uh-huh" and continue right along with my work issues.

She knows - I heard there's been some chatter. Maybe someone in the Trust Circle of Tree blabbed or maybe someone overheard something or put 2 + 2 together on one of my bad days. I do not know. P.S. I do not care. But I think if you want to open the diologue for a woman to say, "hey, I'm pregnant", here's a thought:

Don't insult her. 

So, fuck it. Not telling her or the people around her desk. I will suck it in as long as I can. Or I will get so big to the point it's comical and be all, "well, I guess I could be hitting the gym a little harder."

As a result of that gem, what I've decided to do here is to take the remark (and my pettiness) and turn it into useful information. Consider the following a Working Pregnant Dictionary of Sports Equipment Metaphors. If you've read this, there's no reason to fuck it up anymore. Pay attention.

(I would like to thank my husband Mike, who busted me in the earlier stages of this documentation, and helped me take the majority of the photos here.)

(Also, please note theses photos were taken on the day of the comment, after which I put on tighter clothing, watched some Idol, ate dinner, flossed, and then did these. This is the day's worst case scenario.)

Fig. 1: The Players

Left to right: Football, deflated Soccer ball, Ab Slide, Softball Glove with Softball, Basketball (regulation size), deflated volleyball.

Fig 2: The Pregnant Model with Absolutely No Modeling Experience.  (no, really):

Figure 3: "Mama's swallowed a softball" baby:

Fig 3.1 Homage to Heidi Montag-Pratt "I'm not addicted to plastic surgery. I'm just obsessed. BIG DIFFERENCE, YOU GUYS."

"I swear, that 3rd boob just came out of nowhere." 

Fig. 4: "Awww, it's a softball glove. How cute are you?":

Fig. 5: That Pats are a touchy subject 'round these parts. Let's just move on, shall we? (aka The Football):

My husband thinks I'm weird. I wonder why that is.

Fig. 6: In the year 2000, in an effort to help her out, I once lied on my sister Em's resume and stated under "Interests" that she played volleyball. Both this photo and that resume have two things in common: 1. the volleyball and 2. they're both padded.

Fig 7: OKay, so the Ab Slide was a little tricky

Fig 8: The Soccer Ball:

Look as the model spontaneously commits to an action shot. A natural.

Fig 9: The ACTUAL BASKETBALL. PAY ATTENTION, FRIENDS.:

Fig 10: For handy comparison, again - the "work basketball":

At the end of the day, none of these comparisons matter. Really.  So long as by June, me and my abdominal region are looking something like this, I will be bullet proof to any comparison you throw at me.

Classmates.com presents: The Douchebag

I've almost written this post a few times, but held off for fear that I would come off like the bigger jerk or possibly set myself up for a "Ur jus jelus he don't lik u"  for writing it.  And really,  who am I to bring a person down?  I mean, I'm not exactly perfect.  Well, not  "technically".

But when a person and the situation only gets even more ridiculous, and it's in that moment you feel as though you've been given the green light.

Thank God I've been given such the green light.

Alright, you know how there's that one guy you went to high school with, that, despite however low your social ranking was, and inspite of how decent looking and joe varsity he was, you knew that he was, Ew, That Guy?

At my school it was a kid named Paul.

I had met Paul in 5th grade and for a few months I had a crush on him.  He was (it kills me to say) a very good looking kid: tall, blonde, classically handsome, dressing in the finest parachute pants money could buy. 

And then Paul would go and ruin everything:  he would open his mouth.

F to the Y.I. I have it on good authority that Paul is one of the better names to place right after "Shut up,".  Aside from hearing it from the girls at school when Paul would say something stupid, I encourage you to rent Beautiful Girls sometime, and listen to how Jan (played by Martha Plimpton) says it to her ex, Paul (one clueless Michael Rappaport): "Shut up, Paul."  It just ...it  just warms my heart.  Really, Plimpton's pitch for exasperation-meets-total-disdain-but-I'm only tolerating-even-this-much-because- I- have to is so on point just with her utterance of  'Paul'. (you really need to see this movie) that her tone could write this post for me. 

Anyway,  back to the Paul from high school...

My 5th grade crush remedied itself pretty quickly (who knew a 10 year old me would be so smart?) and I went on to do whatever you'd have classify me as (I like to call it "The Neither Here Nor There" existence) and he went on to enjoy a popular jock  who gets away with being an annoying tool-life (see: any teen flick with Jennifer Boob Hewitt/Sarah Michele Gellar in it.) 

But life goes on and people don't stay 17 forever. They experience this and that and  grow in one direction or another and you leave town and you move on and forget about these people.

Well, you hope people grow- grow the hell up. But even after 15+ years have passed, a certain website will notify  you that no, some people will stick to their wheelhouse of being a total douche.

From "Shut up, PAUL" (my new pet name for him)'s  announcements page at Classmates.com, completely unedited with exception to the removal last names:

(March 2005)
Subject: ROCKVILLE CUTIES

"LOOKING FOR THOSE OLD ROCJVILLE CUTIES. I KNOW MANY OF YOU HAVE 2 OR 3 KIDS NOW BUT IF YOU STILL LOOK GOOD GIVE PAULIE A SHOUT. CANT WAIT TO HEAR FROM YA ALL."

This was the first that had my mouth drop.  "If you still look good" after having children, the third person "give Paulie a shout".   

"Easy stomach," said I.

From there...
(December 2005)

"Subject: Hello Ladies I am looking for Alison[lastname], Amy [lastname], Kristen [lastname], Lori[lastname] and many others. Ladies if you happen to read this leave me a message. Thanks." Yeah, I suppose could be fairly innocent on its own,... I guess but if you knew the guy and/or read it after the first announcement,....still, ew. However, Robert Herrick here saves his best work for last: (July 2007)           "Subject: 1991 Hotties Dear ladies. John [lastname] and myself are holding a party a my home in Avon. Its a females only party so NO HUSBANDS ! We are now accepting reservations. Check back soon for further details." How do I follow this? This,...orgy invite?  I bet he winks a lot. Would anyone be surprised to learn he is a used car salesman? Because he is.  (Alright, according to his profile he is a partner in two lots and if that is true, is probably doing well for himself, but still, this guy? A used car dealer?  You don't say.) My theory (or possibly, my fantasy) here is that women his (our) age don't put up with his stupid ass (because we don't have to)and that he has to go back in time where he was joe cool and the the women who did tolerate his stupid ass (because they had to) who just happened to be... teenagers at the time. So, anyone have any colorful experiences or run-ins with former classmates that lead you to believe John Hughes was onto something?   Or maybe there was the jerk with a heart of gold?   Or have a classmate you never really knew that well e-mail them out of the blue? I'd love to hear your stories.

 

Mean Spams

It has been without any formal consideration that I have taken a sabbatical of sorts from exercise...since June.  It just sort of happened that way.  I didn't rejoin the soccer league I was in because I do not want to show up at my wedding with a busted wrist, a black eye, a bruised nose, a fat lip, a limp, a scabby knee, all of which have been injuries I've endured over the past 12 months.  But the regular workouts ("regular" being something a subjective term here) have been virtually non-existent. I mean, if pressed I would say to you, "well, I walk kinda fast and I take the stairs when I can" would be all I could offer you at this point.

Having said that, somehow I have been able to find time to sit on my ass and read the e-mails in my Hotmail account.  I don't know if spam is getting more advanced these days in trying to get you to open them or what, but I have a spam notes from Emily and Kate (coincidentally both my younger sisters' names) that the subject line reads:

IS YOUR THYROID MAKING YOU FAT?

I mean, I hope that this is spam, otherwise, I have some skinny asses to kick.

UPDATED TO ADD: Today's spam from "Emily" was entitled,

I'LL NEVER FORGET THE DAY MY CHILD CAME HOME WITH LICE.

Thank you, Karma.

How Home Ownership Has Changed Me

I say things like, "Oh good, it rained last night.  The lawn really needed it."

(the lawn no longer looks like this but rather, a small plot of short hay.)

I have 47 bucks in my checking account. MAX.

I get pissed when someone doesn't take out the recycling bin on trash day because that means *I* have to lug it out to the corner.  Did I mention the recent rain? And how it is ALSO collected in the recycling bin....that we keep outside. 

Open Letter to Sarah Silverman

Sarah,

Well, you've done it yet again.  You have found a way for me to feel bad for a starlet who, under normal circumstances, I'd be carrying on and on over her 2 digit IQ qualifying/self-entitled/train wreck antics.

Somehow, some way, you managed to score yet ANOTHER hosting gig for an MTV awards show.  My theory is that you must have something on the network, because after your last gig this past spring, where you took cheap, disgusting shot after cheap, disgusting shot at Paris Hilton, I honestly can't imagine why they'd hire you again.

You make me want to have a person like Paris Hilton's back, Sarah.  THAT'S NOT COOL.

Last night, after Britney Spears's mailed-in "performance", you got up and went on about "Britney Spears! Amazing, right?" only then to proceed to do your bit that made reference to how her kids were "the most adorable mistakes".  Then, as if that wasn't enough, compared them to be as "cute as the hairless vagina they came out of", topping off the routine by contorting your face/lips to resemble to said vagina. 

I was so uncomfortable, so outraged with your whatever you want to call that, I changed the channel immediately.

I get it; Brit-Brit is a self-imposed target with all the crap she pulls. Love her, hate her, love-to-hate-her, whatever.  But her children, these babies, seriously, what the hell have they ever done to you to be referred to, on a nationally televised program, as a mistake?  To be compared to a vagina?   And just because you proceeded it with the word "adorable" does not offset the word "mistake", which you made sure to repeat a few times. I have seen many comedy acts in my time and I can't recall of one,  not ONE that has taken a shot at a celebrities' kids, let alone at a couple of toddlers. 

From what I've read, MTV specifically requested that there was no reference to Britney's children**.  I mean, it's an MTV awards show, how hard a request is that to honor? Is there not enough material out there? It's like fish-in-a-barrel season right now, seriously, her kids were a must?   But apparently this was red cape  being waved in front of the bull "artistically" speaking, the opportunity to wave the "Free Speech" pass we enjoy, and you made it your mission to be offensive. Not funny-offensive, just offensive-offensive.

Material that is mean does not = funny. Being mean does not equate to comedic gold. 

Being mean simply put means this: You're an asshole.

It's not "brave", it's not "edgy", it's not "intelligent" or "clever", it's not "out there", it's not "your truth".   You're no Kaufman, Ms Silverman.  R.E.M. will not be penning a song with the lyric "Sarah Silverman was not afraid".  They may, however, feel compelled to write, "Sarah Silverman was quite a bitch."

I don't have children but I think I can imagine how upset, how completely bullshit Britney must have been to hear what you said about her babies.

Really, you must be so proud.

With disgust,

Jen

Edited to add: There has been discussion that no such conversation  existed, that her rehearsal went, "joke, joke, joke, 50 Cent, joke joke joke, Britney Spears...".  Regardless, still maintain it was a pretty shitastic thing to do.

The Barking Crab

This past weekend I was in Chicago, where as luck  had it, BlogHer was being held.  I can't really say I went to BlogHer.  I can say I went NEAR BlogHer.  I hung out with people who attended BlogHer. But I did not participate IN BlogHer. So any recap forthcoming will be more of the weekend spent in one of my favorite cities and how I saw some of my blogosphere homeslices.

But this isn't that post. 

A few days before leaving for  Chicago, I could feel myself getting sick.  Nothing earth-shattering but a sore throat and general "ehh" feeling.  So I sucked it up and hoped it'd rectify itself and went off business as usual to Chicago on Thursday morning. 

That evening, I went out for dinner with my Dad to the "this is Chicago" steakhouse, Gibson's and we talked about important father/daughter things, like how Lindsay Lohan is so fuh-uccccked and how we both thought her "deadpan" "but it wasn't MY coke in my pants pocket" could secure her a spot on Last Comic Standing it's so hilarious.  Overall, a great night with the old man.

Side story: Do you ever have one of those moments with a parent and in that moment you realize, "ah, so THAT'S where I get it from"?   After dinner we were walking back to his place and he said those magic words,

"Hey, you mind if we just pop in here for a minute - I want to check something out." and when I looked up, I was pretty jazzed.

For you see, even though it wasn't Sephora, or Tiffany's or the Apple Store...

It was the Adidas shop.

Apparently, the man likes their stuff.

It was in that store I learned that, like me, my Dad cannot stop buying sneakers.  He, like me, ends up giving pairs away.  He, like me, is on an unspoken probation from the significant other.  He, like me, knows the last thing we need is another pair. 

He, like me, will not let that stop them for buying another pair anyway.

(This was taken in January - 2 are gone to my sister's house, and I may have bought a pair of Puma's in Hawaii.)

However, Friday morning I woke up and felt AWFUL.  My throat is killing me and (fun-fun) I'm coughing up green stuff which is pretty indicative of a upper respiratory infection.   Long story short, my Dad hooks my up with his doc in Chicago and I get medicine for the URI.

On the way out of the office, I see a man walking over to a chair in a lounge area about to make a phone call .

"Man, that that guy looks a lot like Mike Ditka. ...wait a sec, you're in Chicago, that IS Mike Ditka."

And it was. Who cared how crappy I felt, I had spotted the brilliant, no, dare I say GENIUS actor from Kicking and Screaming.

Still bouncing off my high of spotting an INTERNATIONAL CELEBRITY  Mike Ditka, I headed to the evening festivities of BlogHer, eventually landing at the W hotel, conversing all night with a consistent yell, so as to be heard over the blaring music.

Saturday morning I awoke with no voice (to answer Tammie's question, so no sing-a-longs for me).  I sound a cross between a young Kathleen Turner (sexy), a barking seal (not sexy) and a bicycle horn (also not sexy).  Five days later, I still have a bad case of laryngitis.  I figure between the URI, the yelling in a nightclub, the alcohol (drying to the throat), minimal water consumption,  it was basically the perfect storm for me to end up this way.

Upon hearing my outgoing message at work today, my sister put it best, "you sound ridiculous."

I know, via Dr. Google, that I'm supposed to do a lot of things, like not talk, not whisper, lay off the caffeine, drink room temperature drinks, drink a ton of water, stuff like that.  But my question is - when do I get concerned? Over a week? Am I causing permanent damage to my vocal chords by talking? (I have to work - there's no getting around it.)

Dr. Google says this usually clears up in about a few days to a week, usually when/after the URI has cleared. But I don't feel sick now, so...what gives?

Anyone?

So, who's in charge of getting the strippers?

OKay, it is 11:0031p.m.  and I am BEGINNING to do laundry for the Chicago/BlogHer trip.  My flight leaves at 7:55 a.m. (seriously,  why do I do this  every. single. time.?)

So, in case you missed my subtle reference to the I am going to a "conference" nod in a prior post, yeah, BlogHer.  I'm going.   Sort of.  I have "signed up" (okay,  I WILL have signed up) for the cocktail parties.  The rest of the time I will be chilling with my peoples (all 2, maybe 3 of them).  If you are one of my peoples (i.e read here and I don't bug ya) and this is the first you're learning of my "I'm going" and you're also going, please tell me.  Or e-mail me. Or whatever.  I'm "down". I'm "with it". I'm "hippity hoppity" or whatever the hell it is the kids are saying these days.

P.S. I'm staying at my Dad's place and no Dad around so, y'all know what that means...

PARTAY AT JEN'S DAD'S PLACE!

(Dad, I'm, like, totally kidding.)

(Ladies, it is, like, SO ON.)

(Dad, OMG, that's like, an ex-pressionnnn? Girl lingo. Means, like, we're getting our periods.)

(Man, why is my Dad being so uptight ?)

(Dad, like hellooo, Cramps?)

(OKay, cool,  I believe he's tuning me out now...

(TAMPONS!)

...so anyway, to get by security, the secret code is "The basselope flies at dawn". Once at my door, knock 3 quick knocks, pause, then 2 quick knocks.  Bring booze, bad boys, and a slightly reckless attitude. Think "la Lohan". That's where I'm at.)

Also, Rules of Engagement henceforth while erstwhile fortooth in my presence:

Ignore the mutliple, only slightly-to-moderately oozing cuts that I have just received as of Tuesday night. (Both knees, both palms.)

Oh, I'm sorry, did the wittle  "oozing" word flip your stomach?

YEAH, TRY BEING THE ONE THAT HAS TO FEEL IT. TO KNOW IT'S THERE. 

LIKE ALL THE TIME.

Yes, I am actually grossing myself out. Now instead of looking cute for the conference ( i.e. Plan A and Plan A-), I am going to be "That Girl with Band-Aid Mosaic". 

Very quickly, the particulars:

Playing soccer, saving a ball from going out of bounds, pulled back on the ball after a furious sprint to get to said ball, ball goes back, body still catapulting forward, only to then learn I am woman with absolutely "no brakes",  proceed to slide, upper body falling forward,  and BITE IT BUT HARD on a **GRAVEL TRACK** that separated the 2 soccer fields.

In front of 25 soccer players, 2 refs, and a handful of teens.

The right knee in particular, if I may be extended some bragging airtime, is the largest, baddest cut  I have ever endured (the left with smaller cut with side dish of road rash). This is saying something. And right knee, it is still, uh,...howyousay ....draining.  It is awful and disgusting and WHY YES, I WIll HAVE SOME KIND OF  BANDAGE ON IT. What do you take me for? Jerk.

Oh yeah, also good times?  Spending a quiet Tuesday night tweezing gravel out of your hands which also broke the fall (honestly, I am VERY  lucky I didn't break my wrist AGAIN, seeing as I am only 4 wks. out of a cast and did you know that E.R. visit ran me over $11fucking hundred???   WHAT?).

Anyway, my point is this:

RESPECT THE SOCCER STIGMATA.

See ya when I see yas.  I hope.

XOXO,

Josie Grossie.

Ways to begin your day...I mean, if you're me.

It's only Tuesday, and this is what I've encountered so far:

1. Monday 6:59 a.m.:

Street graders start their engines right outside my bedroom window.  Along with the roars and crunching sounds one would expect coming from machines designed to pull up a layer of road (AT SEVEN A.M.) there were the competing, high-pitched "BEEP-BEEP-BEEP"s of the MULTIPLE machines assigned to this task.  Windows shut, head under mah pillah, and it still feels like they're in the room with me, like a alarm clock that won't go off, despite the fact that you've hit snooze AND thrown it clear cross the room, taking the plug out of the outlet in the process, only then to continue to go off for TWO MORE HOURS.  My Seventh Circle of Hell realized.

2. Tuesday, my commute:

Spied from the #7 bus, a man crosses the street wearing a garden variety button down shirt, except that he's decided to button it starting around mid-chest.  Upon review of the rest of his subtle ensemble, hope he's at least in fashion/hair industry.  Regardless, I feel there should be rules about this, seeing a man's chest hair this early.  You know the adage about drinking before noon? I don't think there should be chest hair before...well, like ever, actually.  I mean, unless you're on a televised dance show or David Beckham, put that shit away. (seriously sir, does one *really* need to see your pecs before 10 a.m.?)

3. Tuesday, elevator ride up to my floor:

Guy 1: Yeah, today's my last day.

Guy 2:  Oh, really? We're you going?

Guy 1: I'm taking the month of August off and starting school in September.

The man gets to take an ENTIRE MONTH OFF in the summer.  To say that I am jealous would be saying, well, you would be correct in saying that.  A+, you.

MAD-MAD

I've had a run of really great days as of late, with lots of interesting and fun things going on to talk about and I'm sure I'd even write about it right now were it not for the fact that I am so COMPLETELY BULLSHIT and trying to calm the fuck down. 

I wish I could rant about it, for the sake of catharsis and a few "right ons", but this is one of those items that falls under the "Thall Shalt not Talky on Personal Website" domain. Stupid domain, that.

Anyway, I know I'll eventually "set-el" but man....there are some jerks out there, eh?