Jumper

IT'S FIVE MINUTES TO ELEVEN and I'm still in bed. 

It's the 1990's. I'm 5-9 years old, and my parents are trying to drag me to church. Again.

There were a million things not to like about church. The sticky pews, the priest that rambled on about a Jesus character (who at that time was no competition for my Ken doll), the fact that I always ended up sitting behind a pole or having to look at the rear end of a father in front of me. 

I loved God, I loved him with all my belligerent soul. But I hated church.

So I did what us stubborn folk do best: I made things difficult. While Mom was putting on her floral skirt and dad his plaid shirt, I stayed in bed boycotting the idea of giving God an hour of my "BUSY" afternoon. I mean, Christ! That's a whole hour I could be counting my Beanie Babies! 

But I knew they'd march in at 10:58 like clockwork, demanding that I put my church jumper on for 11:00 a.m. Mass.

"You're going."

"NO I'M NOT!!!!"

"You're GOING."

"NOOO I'MMM NOTTTTT!!"

I'll admit, my behavior got a little ridiculous. Even my younger sister gave in, crawling out of bed and getting gussied up in her best jumper. And it was only to my disadvantage, because her and I had to dress alike and whatever jumper she chose, I had to wear that day, too. 

"Are they twins?" family acquaintances would ask. In hindsight I wish I would have responded with some sort of satirical, "Yes. The zygote was wearing a plaid jumper when it divided, the two embryos each got a piece, and bam! Jenny and Heidi, identical twins. NO, dum-dum, we're sisters. Can't you see? I've got a mushroom cut and she's got a mullet. Plus, I hate this jumper. She likes hers."

We never made it to church on time, in fact we were infamous for marching in 10 to 17 minutes late. I can only imagine how disheveled I looked with my weird mushroom cut, flat on the side I was sleeping on (but still mushroomy on the side I wasn't) and the jumper that my dad wrestled me into (or just verbally, by means of some "If you don't…then…" statement). By that point there was hardly a pew open that would fit seven, with the exception of the pew that was tacitly "Our Pew." No one touched this pew, I suspect, because they'd seen, Sunday after Sunday, all of the greasy children sitting on it, and they didn't even want to mess with the bacillus it held.

It was always my luck that I had a runny nose during church. This was like nails on a chalkboard to my mother, who sat with her songbook and watched five children with two eyes. She despised that sniffling sound with much fervor, and any child of hers that was going to make it was sorely mistaken. As my luck would (further) have it, my parents always carried tissues on them—but they were never clean. The good Lord dictated that it wasn't bad enough to have to sniff my brains in to hold back what was trying to creep out my nose, and ergo sent me the saving grace of my father's well-worn, pre-used, warm Kleenex to alleviate my symptoms. Praise be!

There was nary a way to keep me to sit still during those interminable 70 minutes of holy blather. I must have asked 6-8 times per Mass if I could go use the bathroom. Somehow my mom knew I would stay in there for 20 minutes and play with my frilly socks, and rarely let me out of "Our Pew." When I look around the church nowadays and see couples with young children eating Cheerios and coloring, I wonder why on earth my parents didn't utilize these cheats. Honestly, I would have been in my jumper in .02 seconds and sitting awfully restrained if they would have let me bring along a box of markers and a friggin' coloring book. Heck, I might have even drawn Jesus a picture!

Then there was the dreaded Sign of Peace. Not dreaded for my family, but for the families surrounding us that had to shake the hands of greasy small children. (I would say five greasy small children, but my oldest sister always had her ducks in a row.) We were always overly-eager for this part, as it was an opportunity to TALK REALLY LOUD and touch other people with permission from the Lord.

As the years progressed, the choir director heard through some pious grapevine that I played the trumpet. I knew two or three songs at the time, something along the lines of "Hot Crossed Buns", "Yankee Doodle", and "When the Saints Go Marching In." This was skill enough to get into the church band, and I was elated to be handed a novel binder of sheet music to "practice." It was only a matter of time before said choir director realized that "On Eagles Wings" wasn't going to fly. Nuh-uh. I resorted back to "Our Pew" and sulked in the presence of my heavy nasal-breathing father and songbird mother.

Meanwhile, my mom proceeded to push singing on the kids. As the only woman in the entire parish that carried a songbook up to Communion and sang every chord save the thirty seconds that the holy Eucharist disintegrated in her mouth, it was expected that her children do the same. She'd "subtly" thrust her songbook under our noses with hopes we'd belt out some sort of Hallelujah, to no prevail. This subsisted until the year I was rejected from the Western Plains Children's Choir (sore subject), then continued once more when she thought I was "over it" (I never was). Her and I both knew that my younger sister, Heidi, was the better songstress, having displayed such ambitions of becoming the "next Celine Dion." We frequently practiced "I Will Always Love You" on Saturday nights, Heidi on the vocals and me pushing the "PLAY" button on the stereo. This was probably the reason why I didn't want to get up for church in the morning—I was just too worn out from our jam sessions. 

Not to say that going to church didn't have its occasional advantages. Every once in a great while we'd go out to The Donut Hole afterward and I'd get the most righteous maple long john as a reward for all of my rigamaroo. This, of course, is where I got my sturdy physique from. (An entirely different story ending with my older brother comparing me to Igor and imitating my voice with creepy deep breathing noises. Another sore subject.)

I'm not too interesting during church these days. I don't play my trumpet, or sing in the choir. I don't even try to go to the bathroom anymore, and when my nose is runny—I make sure I have something to take care of it with.

I'm nearly 21, and I wear "jumpers" on my own accord. The Donut Hole has long since closed, my sister gave up on her musical career…

…and I am still stubborn, sensitive and grieving over my rejection from the Western Plains Children's Choir. Like I said, a little ridiculous.

Amen.

List

Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack

Pedicure

Orange chocolate

Apple RAM

Haircut. Hair color.

A nice glass of wine.

A massage—a long massage.

Dulce de Leche

and

Something to give me a good, hard laugh.

"Two Thumbs Up" Sunday

Apple's Genius feature 

Why do I love Genius? Like the Segway or Oops I Crapped My Pants, it's just another thing that encourages laziness. 

It was about time they invented something like this to put together a playlist. With my Brobdingnagian collection of tasteless and refined music (my iTunes library is proof that Aqua, Ludacris, and Beethoven DO have a place together), I was getting a little exhausted. I mean, I had to set aside an entire day to make a playlist for a long car ride. Genius lets me choose one song, then finds other songs like it. So if I want to listen to, say, Aqua—Genius will say, "Cool, you want to listen to more songs from NOW 3!!" and get me some Cherry Poppin' Daddies  and Marcy Playground.

It's, well…genius. 

POM Tea

I could drink POM Tea every day. If Keystone Light was substituted for POM Tea in a game of "Tippy Cup" or "Beer Pong," I would play. If POM Tea came from my faucets, I may very well shower more frequently. And if POM Tea were single…I would date it. It's that good.

Rick Steves

I met Rick Steves this past month. Not literally met him, but we've been traveling through his books Best of Europe 2009 and Mona Winks together. Rick has been telling me how to survive in Europe, and he has the know-how about everything down to how many pairs of underwear to pack. This man knows his stuff. I wish I had a little Rick Steves to put in my pocket. Is that creepy?

Getting On Your Boots, Boots

I've read a lot of negative feedback on U2's new single 'Get On Your Boots.' Sure, it's no Joshua Tree, etc. But I admire that they are marching forward and changing it up a little. And coming from a lady that wears boots 8/7 days of the week, this is one song you can find me J-A-M-M-I-N-G out to in my car at a red light. I know you're looking at me, and I really don't mind. Hey hey hey! OOOOO TUUU 's new album, No Line on the Horizon, hits shelves 03 March. Oooo!

Bathrobes

When I was approximately 16 years old, my mom bought me a big, fuzzy, ugly bathrobe for my birthday. I was not amused, and looked upon the gift receipt as my golden ticket to return the glorified towelcoat. "Bathrobes, psh." I said, then turned my nose up at the creature.

But before I could take it back to it's home in the Women's department at Herbergers (where it clearly was philandering and running a drug circle) I decided to give the robe one chance.

Have you seen Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat? Joseph puts on this psychedelic half coat/half rainbow double-breasted, shoulder-padded safari/dinner/bomber jacket concoction and immediately has this awesome aura surrounding him. 

I don't know what happened, but that one time I stepped out of the shower and put that robe on, I tell you, my whole world changed. I was Joseph, and my fuzzy bath wrapper was my dreamcoat. Towel coats are like crack!

If you don't have robe, I suggest you invest in one. It will blow your mind, and you'll feel exceedingly important for the 8 minutes a day (or for me, 8 hours) that you wear it. I know I do.

Snail Mail

Everyone and their mom (but mostly just my mom) knows how much I love sending and receiving mail the good ole fashioned way. I'm not talking about e-mail (which has weirdly been kinda/sorta around since 1965 when supercomputers took up 6 cubic miles of space) or teleporting (which comes in a close second). No, I love me some good mail delivered by the handsome fellas and gentlewomen at the U.S. Postal Service. Delivery by horseback messenger is wonderful, too.

This concludes "Two Thumbs Up" Sunday. Stay tuned for "Two Thumbs Down" (day pending)!

muchlove

jc

Preamble to the Bathroom Strangers

Read these next two posts if and only if:

1. You will eat food off of the floor

ii. You are not aware what kind of germs are on your cell phone

c. You like hearing about the facts of life (and I'm not talking about babies)

4. You can stomach the off-putting truth about your local friendly comfort stations.

Cheers,

jc

Bathroom Strangers I

I WAS BRUSHING MY TEETH THIS MORNING at my clogged bathroom sink, when I thought it time to take action.

Jesus Moses anyhow, the thing's been stuffed up for well over a month and it's half-inch coating of toothpaste and saliva proved it. I hate to resort to these details, but it was pretty terrible. Five minutes for a sink to drain is just not right.

My roommate and I (but mostly just my roommate) had put in repeated work orders, and gone to the main desk to reiterate our pleas about the bathroom sink with an identity crisis. They didn't seem to care that we were clogged. It wasn't their hair corking up our pipes. "Bathroom sink clogged. It's really gross!!!!" my roommate wrote on the most recent work order she'd submitted. Well true, it was really gross—but mostly because we'd made it REALLY gross.

So I spit out my toothpaste and reached for the 409, then sprayed the living porcelain out of our sink. I was satisfied when I saw my reflection, and even more so when not 20 minutes later, I heard a knock at the door.

There he was. Mr. Maintenance in his work hat, a young fellow with his tool kit n' all. 

"You've…got a clogged sink that's…REALLY GROSS?" he questioned, hoping that he was in the right place, and not—God forbid—at the apartment with the clogged sink that wasn't REALLY GROSS. That would just be too easy.

"Sure do. Come in!"

I directed him to the freshly-sparkling indisposed waterhole. Before he de-gunged our sink, I was sure to tell him how lucky he was that I'd just cleaned it, listing off the illnesses he could possibly have contracted during the job.

"Syphilis, AIDS, scurvy, West Nile, mad cow, polio…"

The man was friendly enough, but you can never be to sure what strangers are doing in your home. So I went to the kitchen and started making an epic pita for lunch, listening to every tinker and hiss coming from the bathroom.

Tink, tink. Swchhhhhhh. Pwhhafud! Tink tink. Swchhhhh.

Suddenly I heard the toilet flush.

The toilet?! What's he doing messing with the toilet?! I said SINK! Come on man, I didn't get around to cleaning that! My mind shifted to the last time it'd been cleaned. Oh…NO.

I continued to frantically build my pita, I continued to listen, confused.

The shower turned on.

OH NOT THE SHOWER. NOT the SHOWER. He is not seeing inside my shower right now. I remembered seeing a hairball nestled in a corner earlier that morning. DAMMIT! He is going to KNOW!

If this said "Mr. Maintenance" had, in fact been a female, none of this would have mattered. But I am a woman, and I know that we occasionally take pride in being "civilized," living up to our stereotype as divine creatures that possess skin of ivory, breathe ideality and smell like roses. And we make certain that men know this, or at least know that we are good at faking it. 

The last thing I wanted was the plumber to know what my bathroom fixtures looked like—and I lost.

When he emerged from the bathroom, I had just begun stuffing a handful of alfalfa sprouts onto my pita. And all I could see in his head was one giant math equation, something like (food) + (digestion) = your disgusting bathroom.

This man knew that women do not smell like roses, and I did not like that. I felt that I'd broken the unsung code of womankind, the female alliance that states no male shall know of our faults. Ladies, I'm sorry—I've let us down.

"Your sink had a lot of hair in it. Oh, and I fixed your toilet and shower, too," he said with a smile, and I responded with an apology.

"No!" he quickly countered, "It's my job, you keep me busy. Keep…shedding!" He wished me a good day before wandering out the door.

And I knew he wouldn't tell a soul. 

Bathroom Strangers II

'DETAIL CLEAN BATHROOMS.' 

That was the number one duty on my cut list tonight at work. The bathrooms—their details—I was in charge. 

I don't know if you've ever had to clean a public bathroom before, but let me tell you something: GOOD LORD. We are ANIMALS. There is no aiming and zero sympathy. There is just shit (sometimes literally) ev-ery-where.

The only time you wish that male and female bathrooms were consolidated is when you have to clean both of them. This is the case at Huhot, when after I finish scrubbing down the ladies' muck, I get to barge into the M-E-N's room. Then I get in there, and I know I shouldn't be in there because I'm not a dude, and it clearly says M-E-N on the door, and I feel cool. It's the worst kind of special feeling you'll ever have.

Then I see what I have to deal with. Shit.

I'm not trying to pass off men as being barbaric, but let me break this down for you:

(Woman) + (≈ 2 plates stir fry) + (bathroom) - (Diet Pepsi) = mess

(Man) + (≈ 3 plates stir fry) + (bathroom) - (first plate of stir fry) = MESS

Now you see what I'm working with here. 

So this evening, I'm cleaning the details of the men's bathroom, feeling cool because I know I shouldn't be in the men's bathroom. And I get interrupted by a man.

I saw him enter and looked up from the mirror I was cleaning. "Oh! I'll leave—" I started to say as he marched toward the urinal. After all, I was on his turf.

"Oh, no! That's alright! I've just gotta pee."

And I saw the horror unfold before my eyes, so quickly, and so disgusting. I made a beeline for the door before you could say "detail clean bathrooms."

I was disgusted to think that I'd have to go back in, finish the job and retrieve my supplies. Five minutes later I moseyed back to the M-E-N's room, vowing to make it quick.

Quick! Hurry! I commanded myself, but it was too late. Billy the new line filler had to GO.

"I'll leave!" I told him when I saw him waiting at the door, his eyes googly with constipation. 

"I gotta GO!" 

Fearing that I might relive the same incident that had occurred five minutes prior, I grabbed everything and dashed out the door. Go, Billy, go.

I was done detail cleaning the bathrooms, no matter how unclean the details where. There was no way I was going to scrub another bowl or watch someone whip it out again tonight. No way.

But that Billy, bless his soul. He came up to me shortly after to thank me for leaving so he could use the john, claiming that "I'd saved his underwear."

Well, shit. Ain't that special.

Hornwatchers.

hello? anybody?
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

I WENT GROCERY SHOPPING TODAY.

I know, this isn't really news, or exciting, or exciting news. I happen to find the grocery store to be a really interesting place. 

I mean, think about it. You work at a hardware store and all you see is men looking for drill bits and chainsaws. You work at Hollister and you see 15-year old girls looking for XXXSmalls. But when you work at the grocery store—you see everybody. Not everyone needs hardware or teenie bopper garb, but everybody needs food.

What does this mean? The grocery store is prime people-watching ground.

I'll admit, I'm a people-watcher. I don't watch people to make fun of them, but to guess what their lives are like outside of the place I'm seeing them, or what they've been doing all day. At the grocery store, I can gather both of these things AND what they're going to be eating for dinner. It's a phenomenon. 

I haven't yet calculated the exact demographics of the grocery store, but I do know there are a staggering amount of elderly folk, most in brightly-patterned polyester and head scarves. A lot of these people only come out of their homes several times a year: six times to grocery shop, and once on Christmas Eve. Some of the elders examine the meat, poking at the fat and hand-weighing it. Some check for harmful ingredients in the frozen vegetable medley. Others stroll around on electro-scooters and nearly collide with anything in their path (which today, was me). The grocery store is an interesting…dangerous place.

Then there are people like my sister who could care less about anything that costs more than a dime, and head straight for the free samples. Near the bakery there's a generous tray of semi-soft cookies and/or sugar-coated donuts. I'm not one for donuts (too healthy for me), but my sister usually takes a few and shoves a couple more into her pockets. She would. She so would.

The donut corner is popular with the husbands, by and large the older gentleman that Edith or Thelma pried from their recliner parked in front of the TV. These men are grumpy, and with reason. I mean, I would be royally irked if my spouse ripped me away from 60 Minutes to buy a block of cheese and a couple cans of beans. I feel their pain.

By far the best sight I've ever seen at the donut corner occurred several months ago. Two gentlemen, golden-aged and spry, strolled through the store. It appeared as if their wives were out of town (or otherwise), and they could buy whatever. Whatever. Whatever they wanted.

Buying whatever you want at the grocery store is exciting for two groups: The very young, and the very old. Young people, when given sway over the grocery selection, will spring for sugary cereals, fatty pizzas, and high fructose corn syrup-coated high fructose corn syrup. Does it have sugar in it? Yes? In the cart. Now.

(Note: College students do not get excited about buying whatever groceries they want because this is all they get to eat…ever.)

Old people are the same way, and these men were no exception. Clearly fed up with Dorothy and Judith's cabbage soup and meat pie, they breezed over to donut corner and, much like my sister, grabbed a dozen. Then they perused the pastries for a while, and from the glorious self-serve case, each selected a donut of their liking. They disappeared from my view for a while, and when I ran into one standing behind me in the checkout line, it was clear what his diet would be for the next couple of days (or forever): powdered sugar donuts and chocolate milk.

I would go to the grocery store every day to watch people, if I had enough pluck to do so. Unfortunately the designated and self-proclaimed "people-watching bench" near the entrance/exit is more often than not crowded with husbands that opted not to go to donut corner…

…and instead watch me load my cart with beans and cheese, sugary cereals and high fructose corn syrup. Because hey, if you can't beat them…watch them.

Love.

Bracing Myself

FIFTH GRADE WAS ROUGH ON ME. The gold-rimmed ovals fixed themselves lopsided on my face, and untamed eyebrows reached beyond their parameters. My skin was oily, my hair was confused. "Should I be curly?" it contemplated, "Or straight?" Pausing for a moment of brief assessment, it decided it would be both— and greasy to match.

It was the dawning of a new adolescent, of awkwardness, and apparently, probably, ugliness.

The best part about this age is also the worst part. You're too young and into your Beanie Babies and sticker collection to realize you smell like garbage, and so continue your blissfully ignorant ways. Then 2009 rolls around and you unearth that dreaded 8 x 10. You know which one I'm talking about. That's the worst. Your friends love that moment.

I wouldn't say I was a "babe" (that title was reserved for girls that wore tech vests and french braids) but closer to an ogre. "Confused" is a safe adjective, for lack of a softer word for "fugly." My mom frequently had to drop hints for me to clean myself up. "Your hair…eh…might need…" It was pride that kept me a tomboy, and with gusto I deemed myself the best girl at kickball, the one advantage of my rugged sturdy legs.

Then there was the snaggle tooth. 

The snaggle tooth, like sturdy legs and the semi-Dumbo ear, is another trait you'd rather not acquire from your father. My siblings, I presume, carry a secret resentment that I scored all three traits, the covetous "trifecta" of Christen attributes. My dad and I had nearly identical snaggle teeth, but his hid pretty well behind his upper lip. I was always flashing mine during a kickball match, and in hindsight, it probably instilled more fear in my opponent than I could ever imagine.

The snaggle tooth had many friends, most living across the street on my bottom jaw. Together they were a twisted and crooked pack of incisors and bicuspids, radically heinous toward the Shake and Bake and Fruit Rollups they often encountered. It was all image, gold rims and confused hair held up by sturdy legs. Surly beauty.

These things can only scare people for so long before they need to be corrected. My parents decided to start with the snaggle tooth. The day the metal was glued into my mouth, the snaggle started what was a slow decline. "What colors?" I can remember the orthodontist's assistant asking me the first time I chose my rubber bands. I pointed to the purple and teal. "These two." There was no other way.

At the time, braces were somewhat archaic. The glory of headgear had faded and tinsel was last season's trend. I showed up to class, the only "brace-face" in the room (didn't get the memo). I can vividly recall trying to eat a granola bar that afternoon at lunch, one of the most vexing experiences of my life. It honestly would have been easier to solve a Rubik's Cube with my tongue.

"How am I supposed to eat?" I said to the other girls at the table, who looked on blankly, then continued to eat their sandwiches. They'd be sorry when I starved to death!!!

Well, I lived after I learned to eat the granola bar, graduated 6th grade and moved on to what were the most wistful and ugly years of my life. Two years down the road, in the heat of *Junior High* (OH-em-GEE), the bands were removed to reveal a straight smile. Snaggle teeth cleaned up well!

It was that day in 2001 when the orthodontist superglued more contraptions into my mouth, "post-braces braces" or somesuch. These wires' duties were to keep the snaggle away. I was 13 at the time, and can remember him telling me that the wires would be removed "in my 20's."

Long after my sparkly purple butterfly retainer found it's place in a neglected bathroom cubboard, the wires remain, waiting for me to rip them out with a Whatchamacallit bar (sidenote: Whatchamacallit registers with spell check!), or peanut brittle, or molasses—or just rip them out.

And therein my braces experience, I find room for analogy. For just as these wires have been holding each tooth in it's place for the past eight years, acting as fixtures to ward off a crooked flood, so, too, is a day of life. What has taken years to gain, be it acceptance, respect, or simply straight teeth—one snap of a wire and it will shift all the same.

So I carry on, warding off the crooked flood.

So it has been, So it must be

20/365 | Brah Nights II
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

Today
is
new,

new

is 

good.

For the Next Meeting

Holly:

Please review for next Finer Things Club meeting. You're in charge of the Henry's, I'll be discussing contrasts and social order of 18th century England.

Also, ensure that Sparkling Cold Duck is well-chilled, spreadable cheese is spreadable, and cheap crackers of choice pass as "classy."

See you soon!

Jenny

Oh Really?

Who in the halllllllllllllllll decided this was happening?

This explains a lot about my role as a mule in the 6th grade Christmas program…

The Sunday Dinner Edition: Fill in the Blank

(After sitting down to a scrumptious signature Sunday meal prepared by Momma Trace, Father, Mother, and the Christen underlings of lesser cooking skills submit to their traditional passive babble.)

(Younger brother Tyler and Father Danno shove forkfuls of food in their mouths, exhausted and famished from a hard afternoon of watching football.)

TRACE: Did you guys say 'Grace'?

(They didn't—and she knows it.)

(Family proceeds with 'Bless us, oh Lord and cheese thy gifts…')

DANNO: Oh, boy! What is this, Chicken _____________ (Stroganoff, Cacciatore, Casserole, Helper, Loaf)?

TRACE: It's chicken. Breasts and thighs. (Points at chicken) Those two are thighs, those two are breasts. 

(Undecided as to whether he'd like a breast or a thigh, Danno takes one of each.)

DANNO: Well…Jenny…what'd you do today?

JENNY: Uhhh…____________________. (Insert white lie: worked, went to the mall, visited friend, walked dog, volunteered at the soup kitchen; I actually slept all day.)

DANNO: Hmm. Say, Tyler, will you dish me up a ___________ (smidge, dribble) of ___________ (beans, cheese)?

DANNO: So who's playing ____________ (tonight, tomorrow, this week)? The ______________ (NFL, NBA, or MLB team) and the ________________ (another team)?

TYLER: ___________________ (incoherent mumbling).

DOG: HELLO. DOWN HERE.

(Pause)

DANNO: I had lunch with _____________ (Les, Pete, Nick) today.

TRACE: Oh? Did he mention anything about ________________ (the church fundraiser, his vacation, his wife, his mom/dad)?

DANNO: No…no……

(Pause)

DANNO: I ran into _____________ (old friend/acquaintance) at the _____________(Post Office, hardware store, at lunch). He was _______________(mailing something, buying parts for his snowblower, eating with a friend). He said that _______________ (someone's in the hospital, he was wearing coveralls because his wife liked him to, he's retiring).

TRACE: Oh? Did you ask him about _______________ (his business, his family, his love life)?

DANNO: No…no……

(Pause)

DANNO: (To Trace) ________________ (your brother, your old flame) stopped by The Shop today.

TRACY: Hmm.

DOG: FEED ME.

DANNO: I _________________ (fixed his brakes, fixed his blinker, bought a raffle ticket from him).

DANNO: Tyler, after dinner I need you to help me ________________ (snow blow the driveway, mow Grandma's lawn, shovel snow off the roof, fix something unfixable).

TYLER: _______________ (grumbles).

JENNY: How about those _____________ (brownies, cookies)?

MOM: Bring them over to the table. WILLOW ________________ (sit, lay down, stop breathing on my leg).

(Dessert ensues)

DANNO: Well, honey, that was ________________ (wonderful, outstanding, a culinary extravaganza)!

(Jenny reaches for another ____________ (brownie, cookie), men go back to watching football, scene fades.)

 

The show must go on.

To A Best Friend in the WWW

Dearest Lady,

It's been well near a month since I've seen you. Snow's fallen, the choirs and carols long since hushed by faces consumed with Christmas leftovers and New Years' drinks. Wrapping paper concealing the socks and electronics we had on our list, it's somewhere in a landfill now. The candy canes are on clearance, and cherub stuffed Santas returned to their box deep beneath the stairwell, in the heart of the basement. The trees we stripped of their ornaments, their dignity, long ago tossed to the curb to see a new life in an unfriendly forest. 

This break, it's almost—so close to being, almost so close to over. 

What I'm trying to say is, I'm ready to come back. The trays of sweets diminished weeks ago and my bedroom walls are caving in. I'm starting to like TV, and it's scaring me. I saw a man with an egg shaped head tonight, that was my sign; I know for certain that my time here is near expired.

Anyhow, how've you been? 

Good? Fantastic? I bet you're still witty and beautiful. You've probably been watching a lot of the History Channel, and I can almost see you curled up on your be—excuse me, the couch, getting a mouthful of sleep. I hope you've been taking absurd amounts of bubble baths (I want to see that Princess bottle EMPTY, ya'hear?) and working on your egg sandwich-making. Not that it needs work, just—working on it.

Oh, I'm fine. Getting by, one midnight snack at a time, one sleepless, meatless, longing and thought-provoking day at a time. My nails need a painting and I've been itching for a back massage. The good news is, well…the good news is…

…we're merely weeks, a dozen chocolate bars and a bucket of reduced fat ice cream, a large half-pepperoni-half-pineapple pizza and one all-nighter away from being utterly content. It's going to be beautiful, and profound, and ridiculous—you can count on that. And we will gain 10 pounds. Count on it.

I can't wait!

A few things before I sign off:

• My closet is your closet, excluding undergarments

• There's a bag of meatballs in the fridge. They're yours. Feel free to add them to your cereal.

• If someone calls the apartment looking for a robot, take a message.

• If someone calls the apartment looking for eight pounds of maple syrup, it'll cost them $3 with free delivery within the U.S.

• If anyone asks what happened to your roommate, tell them I'm on tour and will be back in 2019.

• I did not count the Oreos in the pantry, so feel free to smuggle.

• In the event that my submarine does not make it back to shore, you are entitled to inherit my duvet cover, laundry money, and that giant bottle of Redken conditioner under the sink. (I know you use Garnier or something comparably soft and seraphic, but you might be able to sell it on Craig's List.)

• I love you the way mothers love children, dogs love bacon-flavored treats, leprechauns love their lucky charms, and hamsters love those crazy wheelie-bobbers. I do not love you like old men love little boys, or the rugby team loves the rugby team. That's just not right.

• I am sorry I just compared love to bacon treats, leprechauns and hamsters.

• I really miss you.

Your long-lost kangaroo sistah from another marsupial,

jenny

P.S. I'm concerned about you falling asleep in the tub. Careful or that WalMart soap will put a spell on you.

P.P.S. Do not, under any circumstances, go to Mexican Village without me. God knows that place is crawling with double-popped collars and you're not ready to experience it on your own.

P.P.S.S. I'll forewarn you, I'm going through Starbucks detox right now. This may or may not have an adverse effect on my mood, resulting in bouts of drinking pickle juice and watching MSNBC. I'm sorry.

Bono:

Why you gotta be so crazy rockin 24/7?

(And don't get me started on the pants…oh! The pants…)

& equally as insane/beautiful:

Yes, indeed…

Note: do not listen to these songs in sync; the result is a 

crazy mess of 1993, 2005 and the search for…heroine.

This is just…insanity.

Who's with me?

SNOW HAS SETTLED IN ONCE AGAIN, leaving me grounded at home all afternoon. Not to say that I didn't enjoy spending time with my mom (no work) and brother (no school), ambling around the house in our pajamas—it was fun for a half hour, until I began feeling like a caged animal.

I was reading the Minot Daily this morning (I know) and was drawn to the headline Lawmaker says N.D. governor needs new house. I don't usually read things like this, but for the sake of hindering myself from banging my head against the wall out of boredom, I decided to scan the article. 

As a master of macaroni and cheese eating and connoisseur of key commands, I understand that I am in no position to scrutinize the governor's "mansion." I mean what, I live in an apartment on campus. This makes me about as square as a watermelon. But Jim Kasper is reppin', entitling him to say things I am not qualified to! Jim, could you raise your hand for all the people to see? There he is, folks, a Rep. from Fargo. 

I don't know what ticked me off more about this article, Kasper painting the governor's mansion as a stable for lawn knomes or his tenacious snubbing of Hoeven's stable insistence that "the facility that we have is fine."

This Kasper guy seems to be a big, whiney dude. What is it to him, that Govna H. have a new pad? So what if he went to a party there once and didn't see any curb appeal in the property, I bet the get-together was classy as hell and he had a sensational evening at worst. He probably got buzzed on delicately aged wine and Lancashire cheese, then talked about important figures and his first-name basis with them ("So George calls me up and says…"). I would like this Kasper man to see where I've partied. Run down holes with sketchy couches and posters of Cosmo Kramer for decor, and the guest likenesses of Ron Diaz and Natty Ice. Sure, I didn't like the places—at their hazard level, drinks might as well have been mixed with bleach—but I didn't crawl to the pot of gold at the end of North Dakota's $1B rainbow. "STUDENT SAYS MOORHEAD NEEDS NEW PARTY HOUSES," the headline would read. "STAT."

This argument is ludicrous at best, and terrible at worst. 

In conclusion, my paraphrasing of the article in a conversation between Kasper and Hoeven:

K: YO GOV'NA you's gotta git yo'self a new CRIB. Yo's house is UG-LAY.

H: The facility I have is just fine, yo. Git' gone.

K: Aww naw naw! You da leada of da great state'a No' DAKOTA, fool! We'z got da surplus up da YING YING! Can't have no stank! Spend, ma brotha—SPEND!

H: When we've needed to make improvements to it, we've raised the money privately, Dawg. Chill.

K: Aww c'mon drop them 3M's and hook a gov'na UP! I know you gots expensive taste.

H: And I knows you's annoying as $%@!

K: Thinka'bout the statement ya'all's making, brotha. 

My only question is, with a surplus of $1B, why doesn't someone propose 635,000 iPhones?

Discuss.

How to Brush Your Face

How to Brush Your Face

Minot and Impossibly Possible Ridiculous Amounts of Fluffy White Precipitation

We have snow. Lots and lots and lots of snow.

It makes one want to frolic—or just straight up hibernate.

Hip-Hip HAPPITY BLOGGO-VERSARY DAY!

TODAY marks ONE YEAR of APPROXIMATELYES!

There is definitely a celebration in progress right now. I am actually stuffing my face with packing peanuts and licorice. It's out of control. 

Here are a few snaps from earlier this morning:

Shit yeah! I am the QUEEN! Approximatelyes getting down with the cake, staying fly!

The party goods, minus the keg (on it's way!!!!), Jell-O shots (in the fridge!!), and Grandma's fruit soup (a HIT!!! *yOu Go GrAnDmA!!*)

And of course, what *PaRtY~ is complete without…

Polished. Pristine. And totally ready for tonight's PLaY*!

APPROXIMATELYES is 1 !!!!!

pARtY oN!!!

First Attempt @ a Semi-Podcast in my Pajamas (The Special Limited Edition)

Pathetic? Yes. "Podcast"? Hardly. I am definitely new to this game.

31 Things My Mom Taught Me

 

1. I am your mom, and your dad is your dad.

2. Going to church doesn't make you a better person, but singing in church does.

3. There is a reason why God put side mirrors on vehicles: to rip them off when pulling in or out of the garage.

4. You can never put too much pepper on your food, but you can put too much food on your pepper.

5. If you wear flip flops in the winter, you are an idiot.

6. You need no reason to give a cookie platter — and a recipient will never turn one down.

7. Thongs are not real underwear, just glamorized string.

8. Label, label, label. 

9. Expiration dates are only suggestions of when food should be consumed, and not mandatory.

10. There is really no need to use any noise above a whisper.

11. Dog is Mom's best friend, and long walks and table scraps are in the contract. 

12. Always keep track of the time, but never be punctual.

13. A person can never receive too many cards in the mail…

14. …and they can never have too many stamps on them.

15. Put Velveeta cheese in anything, and it will taste good.

16. It is okay to answer the door without a bra on, as long as you make sure that your company knows it.

17. When returning from a shopping trip, never let Dad see the bags.

18. Giving buzz cuts to the males of the family is cheaper than any barber around, so long as they're okay with a few nicks.

19. Caffeine after 7 p.m is absolutely unacceptable,

20. soda is Satan's venom,

21. ice tea keeps your coat shiny.

22. Always brush your furry teeth at night, and again in the morning. Your breath is potentially fatal.

23. If I can't sew it, you don't need it (but I can sew anything).

24. Jeans make your mid-section look ginormous. Avoid them at all costs.

25. Keep current on everybody's love lives — ev-ery-bod-y.

26. Encourage your children to date people that you like more than they do.

27. Grocery shopping is best done at midnight.

28. You can never have too many magazine subscriptions

29. Or seasonal decorations

30. Or gallons of milk

31. You are only the age that you feel

xo

jc 

For Tuesday

06/365
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better
Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it

(j. kerouac)

OH NO you DI'INT (OH YES — yes, you DID)

IT'S A GOOD THING I'VE STARTED WORKING AGAIN, and not solely for the sake of my pocketbook. It turns out that sleeping all day is a really crappy job that doesn't provide a lick of conversation material.

FRIEND: Hey Jenny, what'd you do today?

ME: SLEPT. I slept. All day. I've been sleeping all day.

FRIEND: Oh really? That sucks. I worked, then went to lunch with my mom. Then I bought a lottery ticket and sure as shit, it was a winner! So we went to Denny's to celebrate and who's sitting there but Angelina Jolie. With some guy, he looked like Brad Pitts or whatever. They had about twelve kids with them, must have been babysitting or something. So she sees me and's like, "Hey, you look snappy, watch my kids." And I was all, "OK." So I start on Monday I guess. I guess it pays well, but heck, I'm a millionaire. So how much'd you sleep?

ME: ALL DAY. I said all day.

FRIEND: Oh. That sucks. You prolly missed Grey's.

My job is not cool. I don't work as a video game consultant, lumberjack, window dresser, or any of those other things that well-connected professionals do for a living. All of those jobs present adequate amounts of danger and human interest, two things that most people love more their family pet. Not mine. What am I doing instead of chopping down trees (for good reason, of course) or saving whales? I'm working at the same Godforsaken restaurant I worked at when I was 16. And 17. And 18. And 20.

The place hasn't changed a bit. They still have little notes hanging up that I wrote two years ago, the busboys are still lazy hornballs, the food still tastes like glorified cardboard. The only difference is it costs more, and instead of being the high-schooler, I am now the has-been. The old, crabby, and overqualified college student. You know — the bitch.

I am that girl. Yes, the one working at her high school job, that people secretly believe will someday be the manager of their high school job. This would be cool if I worked at Vogue or the White House, maybe even Burger King, but a shitty hotel restaurant is hardly reputable. When I go places and see people that I know still working after 5 or 6 years, I stop to ponder for a moment. What has kept them here for this long? I run down the list of things that would perpetually bound me to a place: free Wi-Fi, a chocolate fountain, optional uniforms, or an endless supply of well-inked pens. Assuming that the establishment doesn't offer all — or any of these things (most don't), I infer that they are either running a drug ring from the back office or sleeping with their manager, or in the case of some restaurant workers, have become dependent on particular foods, e.g. "Mongolian" (fancy word for disgusting) stir fry, in order for their bodies to function properly. Then I see the gravestone: Here lies Daniel J. McBuffet, King of the Royal Fork and Father of the Smorgasbord. Eternal rest, greasy soul… 

(I then trail off to think of an old boyfriend or a well-aged cheese I once had at a roadside shack in Wisconsin.)

Does it give me satisfaction to know that I can change a roll of credit card paper or ring up an order with my eyes closed? Yes. Do I take pride in knowing the the choices of potatoes and their substitutions? Of course. Am I cool? No. I wear a name tag and look pretty. I staple receipts and organize drawers. I make small talk with the men that work on the railroad. I eat a lot of food.

As far as I'm concerned, going back to this job makes me nothing but a hypocrite. A really cool, pathetic hypocrite (see this friendly note) and this update from the last time I worked in August.) Thankfully it is for just a few weeks, enough time to make a little scratch while I'm home and before I move the heck on to other restaurants I'd rather not work at. Yes, I realize I really need to get out of this food business, but the money you make is like crack! Nobody turns down some good crack. Nobody. (Unless, of course, you find better crack.)

If nothing else, I am getting some good conversation material out of this job. Jesus knows I love me some 16-year old bois talkin' 'bout their souped-up '99 Civics wit da bumpin' speaks' and 'woofers, boiiiiii. Can't resist me dem homies workin' to pay a brotha back his 6 G's, using complete sentences such as "Shut 'yo ass!" WORD.

More lata, y'all. Work's got me SPENT.

***^%#$%#@~~PEACE.~~@#$^%#***

XO

jc

05/365
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

The Bierrito

Now available at Taco John's.

Do I Know You?

04/365
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

Sunday: Before Monday, after Saturday, the only day of the week that God gives the us the "OK" to take a break. The day that my dad bellows church hymns through the house, and my mom makes scrambled eggs and buttery toast as we listen to Car Talk and the Thistle & Shamrock.

Sunday's the day that my dog lay, like a furry, obese doormat, on any floor or fireplace ledge that doesn't look hairy enough. It's the day that I clean my closet and shuffle through my old belongings in an ongoing process of elimination. It's the day that, no matter what month, there always seem to be 19 football games on 82 channels and everyone knows what's going on but me.

I really dislike football. In all honesty and with all due respect, if it ceased to exist I wouldn't be heartbroken in the least. I know that while maybe it's not my "thing," "I" do not account for the millions of people who actually understand the game. I'm sure there are plenty of people out there that don't know — or care — how a camera or computer work, and that's just fine by them. That's how I feel about football, too. I just. Don't. Care.

Then there's my sister, now she's something different. With all that she knows about sports, I am seriously questioning her gender. Maybe I am running with birds of different feathers, but I can't say I know too many women that would rather root themselves in the couch in front of the TV on game day than, like, do ladylike things. Like. Like. Be a lady.  

But my sister — she's serious. Not four seconds after the final note was sung at Mass this afternoon, she was turning to my brother asking if he saw such-and-such a game and if the (City, Animal) and the (City, Animal) were playing today. I'm sure it was the only thing going through her mind the entire service. "How many sacks did Macho McViking have this past season?" "With the (City, Animal)'s and the (City, Animal)'s records, I wonder if Johnny McPacker can pull off the win?" or "Better brush up on my trades / stats / records / players in jail!"

I love to hound her about this all the time. She's got sarcastic wit, and often fires back with something twice as sassy. Today it was, "What, Jenny? You want me to start doing things that you do?"

She paused for a moment. I stared at her. "No."

"You want me to start painting?"

"I don't paint," I corrected her.

"Fine," she said, "you want me to start wearing berets?"

It fascinates me that my parents created two things so entirely contradicting. Here's Heidi, watching football and eating pistachios off of her belly. Here's Jenny, wearing berets. Oh, no! I don't have a team, I don't know the statistics, and I wear a cloth bean on my head. Apparently I am the enfant terrible.

Things I would rather do than watch football:
• Clean my shower. And sink. And toilet.
• Gnaw on a cauliflower ear. Not an ear of cauliflower — I said a cauliflower ear.
• (I can't believe I just said that.)
• Watch garbage decompose
• Clip my toe nails
• Shovel the roof of my house…in my swimsuit.
• Break my collarbone playing Red Rover
• Immerse myself in a steaming pool of banana juice.

Alright. You get the point.

Happy Sunday trails — !
jc

Jenny & the Jaws of Life

03/365
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

A LOT HAS HAPPENED TODAY, considering that I didn't wake up until one this afternoon.

Alright, it's not my fault I slept in as late as I did. I stared at this computer screen until six and didn't fall asleep until eight. My sleep schedule is so out of whack, I am slowly becoming convinced that I am part robot, part bat, part crazy semi-insomniac chai-inhaling hyena. Or something.

After a pizza party with my good ol' softball team this afternoon, I had a bit of time to kill and wound up at the Goodwill. This second-hand store has appropriately been dubbed "The Rich Poor Store" by thrifting friends and I because of their sickly overpriced apparel and household items. I don't expect a pair of pants with conspicuous stains to come for free; then again, they shouldn't be $6, either. Not that I was considering purchasing something with a questionable spot on it, but you get the point.

Today I was delighted to come across a slightly retro and somewhat nostalgic collection of cassette tapes. Among them: Madonna, Whitney Houston, TLC, Paula Abdul, Boyz II Men, even my good brother Yanni that used to ring through the Christen house in my younger days. I feel remorse for cassette tapes, because much like their second-cousin the VHS, they are near obsolete. No one sees a cassette and thinks, "OY! I gotta have that for my Walkman!" No. You know what cassettes are good for? Paperweights, art projects, space-wasting, and dust-collecting. They suck as bookmarks. They don't even taste good on a sandwich.

It makes me really sad to see these things, you know? It's not like they had any clue Steve Jobs and Dee VeeDee were going to come along and make their lives miserable. I mean, really. You don't see me stealing wheelchairs from the nursing home. Same difference! These things were brought into the world to make life more bearable. They were awesome in 1990. They can't help it that they suck!

What does one do in this scenario, seeing a helpless heap of audiocassettes? Keep the dream alive. Paula Abdul was in my hands, and I "Straight Up" just about bought her. Then I noticed something a little farther down on the rack, a little ditty titled "The Joshua Tree" by a small Irish group named something like "U2." I could recall listening to this soundtrack a hundred times, more notably falling asleep to it's smooth melodies on a car ride to the cities.

Thoughts upon the siting:
a) "HEY BONO HEY!"
2) "I think I have a tape player in my car."
iii) "How much am I willing to pay for this?"
6) "This is totally going against everything my new iPod stands for."

Alas, an album with three hits and a place on Rolling Stones' Greatest list has no home at the Goodwill. It's like seeing Prince hanging out at a cesspit. What the heck? You have no idea how it happened, you just know it isn't right.

I gladly slapped down $0.54 for the cassette, to a cashier who nodded her head in agreement of my purchase. Upon retreating to my vehicle I was quickly soothed by the blissful chords of In God's Country and Where the Streets Have No Name.

In other excitement: A wonderful Christmas present from my sister, who has a God-given talent of wonderful gift-giving. Among the goods were this t-shirt (to wear if life is getting me down), this collection of short stories (praised by David Sedaris), and this awesome, awesome book (by David Sedaris's quirky sister!) A gift so wonderful that is made me feel twice as bad for getting her a pair of shoes that she already had for Christmas. Yikes! Thanks, Kace — !

So, today's awesome:
0. Pizza Part-ay
1. U2 cassette
ii. Hospitality Under the Influence
c. The Jaws of Life
4. Loving Life shirt
9. Epic coffee outing with one M. Field (Holla)!
and 10. Seventy-four days until European extravaganza! Eeeeyay!

That's all for tonight —

xo
jc

2/365

2/365
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

Some favorite Jimmy Eat World lyrics, created in a cozy chair at Barnes & Noble in the midst of a blizzard —

A reminder that things can — and will — get better. Always.

Love.

Setting Standards for 2009, Guarantees Not Included.

1/365
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

HERE'S THE PLAN:

Post a photo a day for a year.
Let's see. I think — I hope I can do this!

Here's number one, starting the year off with a self-port. Great.

Love,
jc

Good New Year and a Happy Morning!

This is the list of my 2008 New Years' Resolutions.

• Green = actual achievement. 

• Blue = semi-achievement

• Red = failed achievements (In other words, these transfer directly to 2009's resolutions)

1. Be on time more; fashionably late is becoming considerably overrated.
2. Call people back. Oh, and call people.
3. Be more of the person I envision myself being.
4. Write more. Discover new words. Apply them.
5. Wear my hair wild. Care less.
6. Paint my nails more.
7. Try a banana at least once.
8. WATCH. MORE. MOVIES. [Sorry, but I'm tired of feeling really lame every time someone asks me, "Have you seen [insert sweet movie title here]," and before they even finish the inquiry, I am already responding "No."]
9. Learn to cook. 
10. Bring cease to my over-packing habit (my biggest downfall as a traveler).
11. Step outside my comfort zone, e.g. talk to boys -- excuse me, men.
12. Give country music a chance. (That was a joke. However, for the record: Garth Brooks is an exception).
13. Devise a new way to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
14. Develop my "seafood" taste buds. Proceed to take a liking to shrimp.
15. Visit another continent
16. And the bottom of the ocean
17. And the moon
18. Try not to get arrested so much [this one might prove to be difficult].
19. Rediscover the meaning of life. Write it down this time.
20. Learn to play the banjo, or at least make it look convincing that I know what I'm doing.
21. Get in touch with my Eureeka's Castle and Rainbow Brite roots.
22. Work out. In pearls.
23. Understand football. Pick a team. Go crazy.
24. Support lemonade stands. Guzzle down that 25 cent glass of warm, watery sugar with love.
25. Be ultra thrifty. Spend less, conserve more. 
26. Wear colorful tights. Because they're ridiculous, and I can.
27. Convince someone -- anyone -- that I'm older than fifteen.
28. Master every "Easy" song on RockBand. 
29. Do my laundry before it develops appendages and contacts social services for negligence. 
30. Floss -- constantly.
31. Go green!
32. Learn to be awesome, without actually having to be awesome.
33. Find a dance partner, one who is not afraid to get a little wild.
34. Convince someone to quit smoking.
35. Dress up. All of the time, without any reason. It confuses people.
36. Simplify. Simplify. Simplify.
37. Become a little less nocturnal, a little more normal.
38. Quit parking in the fire lane. It's a pricey space.
39. Save whales.
40. And rainforests
41. And pop tabs for the Ronald McDonald House.
42. Let those that I admire, know that I admire them. 
43. Send more snail mail (with hopes that I will receive more : ) )
44. Learn to give great massages. Woo people with my great massages. 
45. Remain soda-free! (But dangit if I don't miss Diet Coke like hell!)
46. Fit into my prom dress as well as I used to. Just to say I can.
47. Touch an ocean. 
48. Rekindle a friendship. 
49. Feel no shame for who I am.
50. Never. Look. Back.

Whoa. I've got a lot of work to do.