The police have better things to do on Memorial Day weekend...

"Jen, were them your parents?" - Big James

Why yes, Big Jabba the Hut James, them were my parents. Ah, the saga continues with the Hillbilly Neighbors. I wish the inane questions were the least of my worries.

Yesterday was a beautiful weather day. A perfect spring day. I returned home after running a marathon the day before and was both exhilarated and exhausted. My mood turned to down right pissed off thanks to the Hillbillies.

At first I thought they weren't home so I changed clothing quickly and set out to mow my yard (did I mention I had just run a marathon the day before? My back was killing me! That's how desperate I was to mow the lawn in peace.) when suddenly I hear, "F**k you, you little bi*ch." Yes, Booby Brian was at it with Little James again.

These two were in a knock down drag out fight in my front yard. Yes, in my front yard.

They screamed "bi*ch"at each other several times before I stuck my head out the window, arms on hips, a "WTF" look on my face. Finally, Jabba James came to break it up.

I had HAD it. Home five minutes and suddenly these two are going at it in front of my house.

I did what any rational person would do. My bags were still packed from my weekend away, so I locked up the house to flee. I just couldn't take it.

As I was locking up the front door, Jabba said, "Sorry about the chaos."

I did not respond.

He then said, "Don't worry, someone already called the police."

My response, "Um. I didn't call the police."

Jabba said, "No. we did."

Are you flipping kidding me? You called the police on your own 13 year olds?

He went on, "Yeah, James is outta control."

Maybe your parenting, or lack thereof, is outta control, pal! You are such horrible parents you can't handle them yourselves? Perhaps you shouldn't be parents then. Not to mention, I heard the fight because it happened ON MY LAWN and it sure as hell sounded like Booby Brian started the whole thing.

I turned my back to walk away and poor little toddler girl said, "Hey Jen, where are you going?"

I turned back, looked Jabba square in the face and said, "Away from here."

With that, I took off as fast as my Jeep would go.

This explains why the police were there about two months ago. My guess is mom and dad can't handle the kids so they call the police. 'Cause that's great use of my taxpayer dollars when crimes are happening in our own neighborhood and 'cause that's what good parents do, right?

Upon my return today, the Hillbilly House, duct tape in the front bedroom window and all (that's new) looked quiet. It was raining so I thought I would have some peace and quiet but no, no peace. As soon as Little James spotted me (Yes, he is home and acting like nothing ever happened so I guess he didn't get hauled off to the clink.) he emerged from the house and decided to hang outside in the rain and ask me if I would be interested in buying any baseball cards because he's trying to sell 250 of them.

Oh, and now here we are in real time - Booby Brian just emerged to tell me they have new chairs on their porch courtesy of grandma and grandpa. Goody. I did notice those and let out an audible sigh when unlocking my front door today. My friend and I were just commenting how it is nice they don't have front porch chairs so it is one less place for them to lounge (I love my front porch. My wi-fi works out there. I have Adirondack chairs with pillows and an outdoor rug. And flowers, lots of flowers.) but now I'm losing my front porch. I guess I lost it anyway with the fighting in my front yard and all.

$1,500 for a privacy fence sounds like a bargain right now. I'm calling Lowes in the morning. At least I can reclaim my backyard in about four weeks.

YOLO (Also known as the day I channeled Suzanne Sugarbaker)

Just another ordinary day around here: ran 11 miles, went out for breakfast, went to the shooting range, grocery shopped.

Nope, Kate Spade has not started making holsters, thereby propelling me in to the world of gun ownership, yet somehow today I found myself at a shooting range.

Three years ago this month I had a fleeting notion that I needed to be a gun owner after some of my neighbors were robbed. You may recall I had this clear vision of me coming down the stairs of my house in a Suzanne Sugarbaker kind of way at the sound of a potential intruder...with disastrous consequences of course. I never got that security system  many of you suggested I get (sorry!) but I never got a gun either (yay!). In fact, until today I remained a gun virgin.

Pop!

Long story short: A friend of mine is a Fox News Watching, Hannity listening, higher tax bracketing, gun owning Republican. It's no secret I am Hillary Clinton's number one fan so that pretty much sums up my political views ("Whatever Hilz Says" is my personal motto.). Anyway,this person cannot be in a room with me for three minutes without starting a political debate about everything from Michigan's bridge to Canada to taxes to the Affordable Care Act (what my friend calls "Obamacare") to, of course, gun control.

As a gun owner, he wants me and the other "Obama loving crazy liberals" who want to "take away his guns" to know that legal gun owners are "responsible" people, Americans have the right to bear arms and some other stuff that is processed in my brain as "blah blah blah." He insists I cannot be an informed anti-gun "hippie" since I've never actually been near a gun. I must begrudgingly admit he has a point.

Flash forward to today, when he invited me to accompany him to the shooting range so he can show how responsible legal gun owners behave. Because I was in need of blog material, and this did not involve shooting any actual living things,  I agreed to go on one condition: no engaging me in political debate at the shooting range and no "outing" me as a "hippie liberal" either. I had this feeling the people there would figure me out pretty quickly, sort of like the time I attended a Sarah Palin book signing.

So, let's see, I went along, hopped up on endorphins from an 11 mile run and a ton of coffee from the post run breakfast. Upon arrival I was mocked for asking if the gun would have a "kick back" (I heard that on TV once) or if there would be any chance of me accidentally shooting myself.

This whole shooting thing is a lot of work. You have to carry your locked gun separately from your ammo. You have to take and pass a quiz (!!) after you fill out a questionnaire. You have to turn over your driver's license while you are in the range (I found great comfort in this for some odd reason - I guess it is my liberal love of "big government" playing "Big Brother."). You can only have one person in the shooting booth at a time. You must wear protective gear over your eyes and ears. Then you have to load the gun, make sure the safety is on, fire the gun, put the safety back on, put new targets on the target thingy, blah blah blah. Seriously, this is a lot of effort to do something I could basically do playing a video game. I could have been eating fro-yo at my favorite fro-yo joint or spending money at Nordstrom Rack. You know, productive things.

Finally after all the mocking, quizzing and rule following it was my turn in the booth. Thankfully, I did not shoot myself or anyone else and with a little guidance managed to actually hit the target. Frankly, I was over the whole thing pretty quickly. I could have borrowed an X-Box to do this without having to take a quiz or surrender my driver's license. Just saying.

There were some normal looking people there, but, I have to say....I think I spotted some of my "friends" from that book signing milling around the retail side with their children. Yes, children. And I mean TODDLERS. It looked like several families were making their Saturday outing to the gun store/shooting range. Of course, there were no children in the shooting area, but still, I found it a bit disconcerting. But then again, I'm a "crazy liberal" so that's probably normal.

So, yes, this crazy hippie lover of Big Brother shot a gun but I certainly have no intention of owning one. Those things are expensive. Do you know how many new Kate Spade purses I could buy with that money? Not to mention, she still doesn't make a holster and I doubt she ever will so I think I'm in the clear. I know Joe Biden recently told a woman to get a "double barrel shot gun"  to protect her family or something to that effect but, let's face it, I don't really like that guy anyway. I won't be taking advice from the VP any time soon.

Because I'm neither hip nor cool anymore (seriously, what the hell is the "Harlem Shake?" Is it some sort of virus or dance?), I'll put it this way: I got invited to the shooting range and thought, "YOLO." Yes, I'm aware no one says that anymore. I'm aware that by the time I Googled (people still Google, right?) "YOLO" to learn what it means it had become passe. I also realize most people who used this expression were under the age of 18.

Anyway, after this adventure I must admit I feel like my moral compass is bit off  (I also bought gas from BP today, something I said I would never do because, you know, us liberals love the environment.) but YOLO.

Gerri (my old lady gun toting neighborhood watch friend) would be so proud of me.

You and I ( You, you and I)

We.

Single girls only use that term when talking about hanging out with their girlfriends. The term "we" is rarely used in mundane but oh-so grown up phrases such as, "We went to church and then the grocery store" or "We cooked a wonderful dinner, ate and did the dishes."

For a short period of time one of my single friends thought she could be a "we."

Why you ask? Well, she thought she had a parasite.

Turns out she doesn't, but she got the news after she went ahead and named it.

We had a lot of fun talking about all the things she and her parasite could have done together, turning her from a "me" to a "we."

Personally, I'm sad I have no excuse to write her a poem I planned to title "My Parasite and Me."

Ho hum. Better luck next time.

How I spent my MLK weekend (or how Robert Scorpio ruined my love life)

Thankfully, this is nothing like my 2011 President's Day weekend. This is much more pathetic.

On Friday I left work an hour early to hit the gym. You all heard my rant about these New Year's resolution people and, side note, based on my experience at the gym today the crowds are getting worse, not better, but I digress.

I spent an hour on the elliptical and caught the end of the final episode of "One Life to Live." I grew up on the ABC soaps (my stay at home mom needed some entertainment) including OLTL, "All My Children" and "General Hospital." Of the three, GH was my favorite.

Why? Well, to be fair to the other shows, GH, it was on at 3 p.m., meaning it was the only one I could keep up with after school. Yes, I was totally the kid who would come home from school and watch a soap opera. Don't judge me, judge my mom (Love ya, mom!).

I loved soap operas so much that I was an avid reader of "Soap Opera Digest" and one of my many career aspirations was to be a soap opera writer. Seriously. Since the soap opera genre is dying I guess it's a good thing that dream didn't work out.

Couples are the cornerstone of the soap opera and like all soap viewers I have an all time favorite couple. No, not Luke and Laura (boring and before my time). Not John and Marlena ("Days of Our Lives" shout out!). And no, not even Bo and Hope (though they are my SECOND favorite soap opera couple of all time). I'm talking about GH 1989 - 1990 - Robert and Katherine.

Now, you're probably asking, "Who?" OK, you're probably only asking that if you are in tune with soaps in any way, shape or form and therefore, can tolerate reading this entry.

Two years is a blip in the lifetime of a soap but for some reason, this storyline was my favorite and the whole OLTL ending made me think about my favorite soap couple. I wondered if there could be a clip or two on You Tube since I hadn't seen my peeps in over 20 years. After Robert decided he "couldn't commit" and Kate left Port Charles I stopped watching GH (until Sonny Corinthos rolled in to town, I mean, HELLO!) and went on with my life (meaning, I transferred my soap opera addiction to "Days").

Imagine my shock when I stumbled upon not one clip, not two, but the entire Robert and Katherine storyline posted on You Tube. All 817 parts. Yes, 817. Eight hundred and seventeen. Someone out there is even crazier than I am.

Suddenly, I was totally sucked back in time to 1989. First it was my favorite episode ever (Kate returns from the dead,  "I'm not a ghost."). Then the craziest episode ever (Kate's creepy fiance Paul the archaeologist tries to mummify her. "These are linen wrapping strips. They'll keep you warm and protected." Seriously, even if you don't know what I'm talking about, check this out for a good laugh). The saddest episode (the break up) and the one that perfectly sums up the relationship (a knock down, drag out "War of the Roses" type fight).

It is now Tuesday and I'm on part 426. Oh the shame. (I will admit, I finally started watching sequentially in the 200s...and now I may have decided to go back to the beginning and that may have something to do with the fact I'm blogging at 1 a.m. on a week night).

Why did this story and these characters captivate me at the age of 12 and again in my 30s? I have no idea. But, I do know this: Since the age of 12, no matter how fiercely independent I think I am and try to be, deep down I just want a Robert to save me (Robert had to save Katherine many, many, many times). An Australian born ex-secret agent with an Aborigine friend who predicts his death is hard to come by in the Midwest so this is not working out so well (though I have to admit while Robert had boyish good looks in 1989, he really started to age in 1990. He got a bit overzealous with the Just For Men hair color). Plus, I will never be a world famous pianist whose fiance tries to mummify her (at least I hope not. And I mean that. Really.) therefore, I suppose I don't really need "saving."

Damn.

This is exactly why I'm still single. I will never find my Robert Scorpio.

About Jen's addiction: Jen is a recovering soap opera addict. After quitting GH in 1990, she took up "Days of Our Lives." For a period of time in the mid 1990s, Jen did both GH in "Days." In college, she had to cut back and, therefore, never scheduled a 1 p.m. class, thereby sealing her addiction to "Days" for the next five years (yes, five, not four). Eventually, Jen broke her soap opera addiction (it was called getting a big kid job and not having reliable VHS player). She had a brief relapse two years ago when her cable provider offered SoapNet for free for several months. Today, Jen leads a happy, normal life though she does use soaps recreationally on days off work and extended vacations. Jen does not, however, have a subscription to "Soap Opera Digest" and has not picked one up in at least 16 years. Jen should probably delete the You Tube app on her iPad if she wants to remain a normal, productive member of society.

Excuse me, I think you left your DNA in my yard....

First, let me say I will never go this long without a blog entry again. I apologize to the whole three of you who read this blog on a regular basis!

THIS is worth the wait.

So, you know my neighborhood is sort of, well, ghetto and keeps getting worse, right? In fact, my neighborhood is in such a downward spiral that two weeks ago someone was CARJACKED outside of my home. CARJACKED. IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. AT GUN POINT.

You get the point.

I find this incredibly disturbing. Here's the thing, I personally have no fear of being carjacked. I drive a beat up Sebring with constant flat tires and 135,000 miles. Take it - please! In fact, if I were to witness a carjacking I would probably stop the car, run out and offer mine. And then I'm sure the carjacker would laugh in my face. Or shoot me, leaving my car behind, of course.

Where was I? Oh yeah, fantasizing about getting a new car....anyway, I don't fear being a victim of this particular crime. However, I fear the fact that this crime would take place IN FRONT OF MY HOME.

Not to mention, this carjacker must not have the highest standards. Seriously, you should see some of the cars that drive down my street. This is not exactly Mercedes-ville, ok?

As if the carjacking isn't bad enough, today my next door neighbors told me they're walking away from their home. Awesome. There goes my home value and, even worse, there goes the neighborhood. Other than that time they (wrongly) thought Gracie killed their cat, they are nice, normal and quiet. Seriously, I'm fortunate because at least the people on each side of me and directly across the street are normal. I am seriously freaked out about who or what will move in next door.

The neighbor dropped the bomb this afternoon while I was doing yard work. The yard work eventually took me behind my garage where I plant my garden. Since it's Michigan I have yet to plant anything - I was just going back there to check out the weed situation.

That's when I spotted something irregular.

Something that does NOT belong in one's garden.

Something round, white and latex.

And I'm not talking about a balloon.

Yes, friends - there, on the ground where I will plant tomatoes, was a USED CONDOM.

I want to know how a used condom got in my garden. Wait, sorry, I am gagging a little.

Gracie goes back there all the time. She has probably sniffed it or worse - uh, gagging some more. It has been back there at least three weeks.

Should I get Gracie a STD test? I want to just go and Lysol the dirt. I know that sounds insane but I feel so violated.

Am I overreacting? I don't think so. No one should have to worry that when she goes into her garden to pick peppers and cucumbers she going to find a latex surprised filled with the DNA of a stranger.

I am so utterly disgusted.

Anyone wanna buy a house?

Am I being P'unked? In other words, Paris and Lindsay you are not....

Last night I visited the salon for a much needed hair cut and color. It was unusually quiet for a week night, but there was a client in the chair next to me. When I arrived she was already sitting there with foil throughout her hair which covered much of her face. Judging the way she was dressed (like a slut) I figured her to be about 18 years old. A little sidekick with skin that looked like leather (also dressed like a slut) sat next to her chatting while her highlights sat.

I generally ignore other clients at the salon and did my best to ignore "Lindsay" and "Paris" as they droned on and on and on about "partying," how much hangovers suck, how "hot" they are, how not hot other girls are, more "partying," "doing it," tanning, "partying," and a little more tanning. They mentioned the name of a local community college a couple of times, reaffirming my guess that they were both about 18 years old.

The stylist told the girl getting the highlights (she's the "Lindsay" of the pair) that the color wasn't taking and the whole process would take longer than anticipated. That's when "Lindsay" and "Paris" both freaked out. "Paris" yelled, "Well, like, our ride is coming at, like 8? What are we gonna do?" The stylist, who herself is probably 19 years old said, "Why do you need a ride?"

"Paris" responded, "I don't drive yet."

"Yet?" OK, this caught my attention.

The stylist was taken aback. She said, "How old are you?" (emphasis on "are") and the response "Paris" gave? 15.

15.

Really? Yet she's publicly talking about sex and drinking like she's on an episode of "Jersey Shore" (I've still never seen "Jersey Shore" but I bet they not only talk about sex and drinking, they probably do both on camera - a lot) and thinking nothing of it? Wow!

The stylist then asked "Lindsay" her age.  Guess what? "Lindsay" is a whopping 16. Although she's legally old enough to drive, she is only allowed to drive ten minutes from home because she has already been in two car accidents. Since the salon is more than ten minutes from home she had to catch a ride. Not sure if this is court-ordered or mom-ordered but you now see why she's the "Lindsay."

Turns out "Paris" and "Lindsay" are from an ultra conservative suburb - one with a reputation for being uber-religious. They don't quite fit the stereotype with their leather-like skin, mini skirts and partying ways...but what I was most taken aback by was their ages. These two ding dongs are just, well, pathetic (and I'm referring to our Midwestern "Paris" and "Lindsay" not the real Paris and Lindsay - they've been judged enough haven't they?).

Was this sitation was for real? Was I being punk'd? These two clearly view celebrities like Paris Hilton and LiLo as role models but hello, this is the Midwest - no matter how short your miniskirt, how many trips to the tanning salon or how many times you say "partying" and "hot" you still will never be Paris or Lindsay...and you know what, sweethearts? That's a good thing! Get over yourselves, go buy a Hannah Montana poster (though I hear Miley is on the road to Lindsay-ville), download a Justin Bieber song (I just had to Google his name so I would spell it correctly), buy some non-slutty clothes at Hollister or some teey-bopper store and call it a day!

Top five things I don't need to know about you (or your spawn)

I enjoy Facebook. Yes, I post status updates and I am sure I annoy people with them. I post a lot about running, complain about winter weather, cheer on my favorite college football team, etc.

If I am down and out with bronchitis or something I will share (via Facebook and blog) but I don't get into the dirty details...well, most of the time. There was that one time Gracie had bloody dog poo (in my defense, my house looked like a crime scene from it! I had to explain.), but beyond that I don't share information about body fluids or functions. However, some of my Facebook friends do not use the same restraint. In honor of those friends, I feel compelled to share the Top Five things I do not want to hear about on Facebook:

5. Your ongoing health problems that aren't real health problems. If you have cancer or something then yes, I care, and I want to hear if chemo is kicking your ass or if you had a good day. However, if you have something like say, a "mystery illness" and you just feel like crap all the time and use Facebook as a platform to complain about it, guess what, I don't need to know. Especially when you get all dramatic and say that you just don't know what is wrong and you're just so miserable. If you're so miserable and your doctor isn't helping, get a second opinion rather than trying to illicit pity from your Facebook friends!

4. Your mucus. Ick. That word grosses me out. Seriously! Spell it. Say it, "mucus." It just sounds gross. I don't want to hear about how much mucus you have, what color it is, etc. Period.

3. Projectile vomiting. It's bad enough when Facebook friends share, in detail, how little precious baby puked in their hair, on their clothes, etc. but it's even worse when I have to read about how said baby projectile vomited on the airplane, in the car or on a little friend at daycare. It's too much of a visual for me. Sidebar - as far as the airplane goes - as a frequent traveler let me say if it were up to me there would be family only sections on airplanes, if not family only flights, so people like me don't have to smell dirty diapers or baby spit. I'm a jerk, I know it. Anyway, what's worse than hearing about your child's vomit? Hearing about the vomit coming from you or your significant other. Seriously folks, a vomiting kid is one thing but a vomiting adult? That's just a whole new level of gross (especially if the vomiting is not induced by alcohol - if alcohol induced it's sort of funny and, therefore, tolerable).

2. Your child's exploding diaper. Seriously, I know more about the bowel movements of the spawn of some of my Facebook friends than my own bowel movements. I don't need to hear how your little precious one pooped on the floor, in the tub, on the dog or how he or she dropped a big bomb in his or her diaper. It's just gross, ok, and is not want to see as I scroll down my newsfeed while eating my turkey bacon for breakfast.

1. Your exploding intestines. Let me make this clear: I do NOT need to know if you have diarrhea. I do NOT need to know if you are constipated. I bet none of your other Facebook friends need to know either. I have nothing else to say on this subject because, well, there's just nothing else to say. What happens in the bathroom should stay in the bathroom, got it?

A trip down the stairs and an all time low

"And I'd finally die fat and alone, and be found three weeks later, half eaten by wild dogs." - Bridget Jones

Many single girls have this fear - dying alone (and fat) and not being found. I'll admit this fear creeps to mind every now and then.

Today, it almost became a reality.

Yes, after what has been one crappy week after another this month, I hit an all time low today when I slipped and fell down the stairs in my home. That's right - like a frail old lady. Boom, boom,boom -there I went down eight steps! Thankfully my stairs turn mid-point and the turn stopped me from going down all 16 steps.

Once I stopped I just laid there not moving, with a death grip on my BlackBerry, in pain and in tears.

The jury is still out on this numbness in my right hand and arm (can't be good, right?) and these shooting pains I am now feeling in my hip, right butt cheek and right shoulder....but I am just thankful I fell backward and not forward.

Seriously, peeps, if I fell forward I would not be typing this right now. I'd be lying there dead, unconscious or paralyzed. Since I live alone and keep a crazy work schedule and already talked to my mom and sister today no one would look for me until at least Friday...and that's only because I have plans to run a holiday themed 5k with a friend that night.

By that time Gracie the dog would get hungry and would start munching on my cold, dead corpse. And then the cats would join in. That's even worse than being eaten by wild dogs!

I would be a punchline on the local evening news: "Spinster's corpse eaten by pets!"

While still on the stairs I BBMed my friend Emily to let her know about my mishap. She's local and has a key to my house. I didn't need assistance...but I just needed someone to know I totally could have just died!

I know, I know, I'm being a total drama queen....but it's a little freaky.

Tonight I'll thank my lucky stars I fell backward rather than forward and hope I don't wake up with a forearm the width of a basketball. I bet I will have some wicked bruises on my back tomorrow! In the mean time, I am going to sit here and watch "Bridget Jones's Diary."

Oh God, I really am Bridget Jones. Shoot.

"Have you got a boyfriend? A real one?" - Bridget's dad to Bridget....yes, I could see my dad asking me this...if I actually had a boyfriend - that is.

These are the people in my neighborhood: Summer edition

Though summer is winding down here in West Michigan, there are still plenty of outdoor events to attend around town. For example, last weekend I ran a 5k sponsored by a local television station. Two of the TV personalities ran the race and the lead weatherman for the station sort of walked it - I mean, he had a number and everything but was dressed in Dockers and a button up shirt - not exactly what one would run in. Anyway, the day had two highlights. First, I set a "PR" or a "personal record" for myself (I would post the time, but if you are a runner you would spit out your Diet Coke because the time is nothing to brag about, trust me). Second, when I saw random woman in a long denim skirt (again, what's with the attire at the 5k?) sneaking to take a photo of the weatherman and acting like she was stalking George Clooney or something. It was nuts. I mean, he's the weatherman. And he's old. You could tell she was totally star struck.

I also recently attended a little festival in my neighborhood I lovingly call "Crackfest." The reason? It took place in an area where a lot of arrests have been made (according to the crime alerts I receive from my local police department) for selling / possessing crack. Yes, crack. As in "crack is wack" crack. Not cocaine - crack. Awesome. Crack always attracts quality. And I just love that I can take a five block stroll through my neighborhood to secure some.

Crackfest was what I expected and more.

This woman dressed and acted like she was on crack. So I know where she bought the crack but where did she find that outfit?

And this unfortunate fellow...they were too close to get a good picture of him. Focus your attention to that bulge of flesh above the shoulder of the woman in the blue T-shirt there on the right. This big, fat slob of a man was walking around with his pants and boxers positioned well below his love handles and was shirtless. His "moobs" (man boobs) really just looked like boobs. It was just vile. If a woman walked around like that she would be totally scrutinized. This man was with a rag tag crew that included that lovely smoker lady on the left and several children, including the one in the arms of lady in blue. Made me sad for the children who are surrounded by adults like these.

I know...there I go being all judgy again! What should I expect living five blocks from the crack capitol of West Michigan, right? It goes with the territory. What can I say? Crack is wack!

Tales from the road

Today I spent about ten hours in the car driving from Grand Rapids, Mich. to Indianapolis and back. What a marathon!

While driving through Kokomo, Ind. this evening my colleague was flipping through the stations and what did we hear? Low and behold - "Kokomo" by The Beach Boys. Kokomo in Kokomo. Aw, how cute! However, this Kokomo is not in the same ranks as Aruba and Jamaica or Bermuda and Bahamas. It is more like Dayton (OH) and Naperville (IL) or Fort Wayne (IN) and Auburn Hills (MI). In other words, no one is fallin' in love to the rhythm of the steel drum band down in Kokomo, Ind.

While driving through Kokomo we discovered not one, not two, not three but seven "Jesus" radio stations! Seven! Does seven equal Heaven in this case? Not sure why there is a need for so many Christian radio stations in one relatively small area but we enjoyed counting them. That's a whole lotta Jesus, that's for sure.... Especially for a city that would expel a little boy from middle school for contracting HIV through a blood transfusion (anyone remember the Ryan White story from the 1980s?). Would WOULD Jesus do? Just saying, Kokomo, just saying. Maybe they are trying to make up for misdeeds of the past. I shouldn't judge, but I do find seven Jesus stations to be a bit much.

Ineterestingly, this was not the only day I had a discussion about The Beach Boys in the car. Today I shared a story of the car ride with my mom and dad this weekend. They came to visit me and we traveled to a Lake Michigan beach town. We had a couple of disturbing conversations during the car ride....

First, in regard to The Beach Boys, we discussed Katy Perry's "California Gurls" and the rumors The Beach Boys are suing her. My mom said, "Oh please. Those two songs are nothing alike. The Beach Boys don't say anything about 'being so hot we'll melt our popsicle.'"

I don't need to hear my mom talking about anyone's popsicle melting, ok? Shudder.

Within five minutes of that incident my dad, drifting in and out of sleep, picked up on part of another conversation my mom and I were having and shouted out from the back seat, "I've got myself a Detroit 'ho!"

Me:  "Dad, are you talking about mom?"

Dad: "Yes."

Me: "Do you know what you just called her? Do you know what that word means?"

Silence.

Me: "Dad, do you know "ho" means "whore?"

Dad: "No."

Me: "What do you think that means?"

Dad: "I thought it meant shovel."

Me: "So mom is a shovel?!?"

Dad: Silence


Without a doubt, the next time I hear The Beach Boys I will think melting (about how no one's tropical drink is melting in their hands in Kokomo, Ind. and how much I did not enjoy my mom talking about melting popsicles) and shovels (otherwise known as "hos" or, in my case, Mom).

I can't help falling in love with you!

I met my new love interest in Atlanta a mere two weeks ago while shopping at Lenox Square.

I saw my new love again at The Galleria in Houston a few days after our initial encounter.

Since that time, I cannot get the object of my affection off my mind.

I haven't felt this way in awhile.

Meet my new love...

....Bow Regard Maryanne

Oh, Kate Spade...you did it again!

I know I am sick. But let's look at Bow Regard Maryanne from another view:

Isn't she lovely?

The metallic leather! The gold dot interior! That bow! That handle! Oh my!

When we first met in Atlanta it was difficult for me to leave her in the store. She looked perfect on my arm. Like we were meant to be. I think I actually heard her calling my name as I sadly left the store.

Alas, I do not have $445 to splurge on her. I mean, American Express could pay for it but then I would just end up paying off Bow Regard Maryanne for the next ten years.

Wait, I just realized that is almost the exact same amount of cash I plunked down at the vet to nurse Gracie back to health. Cruel joke, universe, cruel joke.

However, I must say, I haven't felt this way about a Kate Spade bag in awhile.

Damn you, Kate, for making such beautiful handbags!!

Life, liberty and the pursuit of lawsuits

I know I am a tad behind on my 4th of July post but the delay is worth it, trust me!


This year I spent 4th of July like a true American....drinking beer at a baseball game that was immediately followed by a patriotic fireworks display. Can't get more American than that, right?

Well, my friends and I learned you can.

God bless America. Indeed, we celebrate many freedoms here. Including a freedom I know our Founding Fathers just absolutely wanted us to be able to exercise...the freedom to file frivolous lawsuits!

You know George Washington was out there at Valley Forge, cleaning his wooden teeth, yelling at officers about getting STDs from the local whores (true story - saw it on The History Channel) and thinking, "Gee whiz, I hope someday people in this country will be free to fake injuries in the hope of personal financial gain!"

Without a doubt, what I witnessed at the baseball game will result in a frivolous lawsuit.

You know those T-shirt guns? The mascot was shooting T-shirts into the crowd and people were clamoring for them as if the mascot was shooting out bundles of Benjamins or something.

An orange T-shirt hurdled toward a group of people about four rows in front of me and my friends. Hands shot up to catch the prized T-shirt and a tall man at the game with his family caught it.

All is well that ends well, right? Not so much.

The woman in front of him, perhaps angry she didn't get the T-shirt, perhaps looking for some quick cash, suddenly doubled over in "pain," putting her hand on her side/lower back. It appeared she implied she was somehow shoved/pushed/punched by the man who caught the shirt. That definitely did NOT happen.

This woman was a drama queen. She tried to get up and walk and "collapsed" while her male companions kept shooting death looks to the poor guy who caught the T-shirt.

Speaking of T-shirt guy, he was totally bewildered. His wife kept putting her hand on his back and his kids had total looks of "WTF" on their faces.

"Injured" lady tried to make it the four seats to the end of her row and just couldn't, so a Good Samaritan flagged down "help." While waiting for "help" to arrive, poor T-shirt guy offered his prize to one of "injured" woman's male companions. The guy looked annoyed, but he accepted the T-shirt. Really? If your friend is truly injured do you care about a free T-shirt? Crazy!

She was suddenly surrounded by all kinds of official looking management people, as well as a paramedic. Suddenly a wheelchair appeared. The "help" tried to get her in a wheelchair but then realized we were surrounded by steps so that wouldn't work.

Meanwhile, the fireworks started and they were super....but I couldn't be help but be intrigued by the side show taking place in front of me!

Finally, a stretcher arrived. A freaking stretcher. They made her climb on, cross her arms in the manner of Hannibal Lector, and whisked her away.

T-shirt guy and his family jetted out of there before anyone could take his name and vital info. Good for him. The guy did not injure this woman. And, unless this woman had a pre-existing condition, there is no way she was injured. I mean, for real, if you have a bad back are you really going to lunge to grab a stupid free T-shirt? Probably not.

Given the fact that there was a slightly delayed reaction to the T-shirt catching and this woman's injury, I believe she was simply opting to celebrate the 4th of July in a uniquely American way...by faking an injury to file a lawsuit.

Farewell T-shirt guns at the local baseball games. Since T-shirt guy split before she could sue him, my guess is she'll go after those dangerous T-shirt guns.

I have a very American thought for her: T-shirt guns don't injure people. Idiot people jostling for free T-shirts that are worth .50 cents injure people (themselves).

Happy freaking (belated) birthday, America.

How to offend your friends 101

I didn't intend to offend my Facebook friends today. They know I can be a total bitch. Hello! It's me! Do they not know me?

Somehow, I did manage to offend a few because today I took offense to one of those "If you have the best husband in the world-gag-me-with-a-spoon then copy this" stupid status updates that I despise.

This particular one is making its second round on Facebook. I ignored it with disgust the first time, but this time I can no longer hold my tongue:

"Snobby girls come from New York, sweet girls come from Alabama, but we Michigan girls have fire and ice in our blood...We can ride four wheelers, be a princess, throw left hooks, and drink with the boys and if we have an opinion, you know you're going to hear it.... Re-post ...if you're a ...TRUE.....MICHIGAN GIRL!"

I did NOT "re-post" this.

In fact, I posted this:

"Am I the only one offended by that 'Michigan girl' status update that talks about riding four wheelers and 'throwing left hooks?' I do neither of those. I also don't go 'up north,' I don't own any 'snow gear' and believe Michigan people have horrid accents. Clearly I am NOT a 'Michigan girl!'"

If the original author of this status update wants to stereotype, he or she simply should have written, "A 'Michigan girl' can wrangle a deer with her bear hands while cooking pasties (not pronounced like the nipple covers, by the way) and drinking a Faygo pop or a Labatt Blue during a weekend up north in 'da UP."  I think I covered several Michigan stereotypes there.

No one likes being reduced to a stereotype, especially one so....rough? "Throwing left hooks?" Really? I am not sure if the reference is to fishing (which is a big sport here in the Great Lakes state) or bar fighting but either way I am offended. I know it is just a stupid Facebook "thing" but it just really got to me.

What I did not expect was the dialogue it started on my Facebook page! Some agreed with me, while others did not.

And I never should have opened the door on the whole "accent" thing. People who don't get out of this state much really believe Michiganders don't have a regional accent. Yes, they do. Trust me on this. I have been back in this state for six years and it has totally crept back - I work hard to keep it at bay, but alas, when surrounded by it, you eventually surrender. For example, "Mom" is pronounced "maam" in Michigan. Don't believe me? Ask The New York Times travel writers! A few years ago one of their writers did a review on Grand Rapids (man, we thought we have MADE it then!) and featured a city landmark, The B.O.B., in the article. The writer took time to say, "The B.O.B., or as the locals call it, "The Baab." No joke.

What is the point of all of this? I am not really sure. I suppose to share a couple of lessons:
1. Offending people you like on Facebook is not a good idea
2. Don't get offended by stupid Facebook cut and paste status updates made up by people who have nothing better to do

Notice I did not take offense to the drinking reference. Though, as a refined, fabulous woman, I would much prefer sipping martinis at cocktail hour with the girls than shot-gunning beers with the boys. Unless Ryan Reynolds was one of said boys. Then I'd be totally down (or as we say in Michigan "Eye'd bee totally daayown").

Sick...and not as in "That Lady GaGa concert was totally sick" either; or, I have reached an all time low

I love that line. A co-worker who is at least  three years older than me (meaning mid 30s) said something to that effect, referring to Lady GaGa as "sick" and for a moment I was taken aback. I thought, "Is Lady GaGa ill?" Then I realized this co-worker was trying to be like those hipster kids by using their newfangled terminology.

Anyway, I am the other kind of sick. As in "ill." Bronchitis to be exact.

You know when it sucks to live alone? When you're sick. In other words, living alone is not sick (cool) when you're sick.

Seriously, tonight I have hit an all time low and I am not afraid to share it with you. I am laying in my bed, drinking orange juice, popping antibiotics, using two inhalers and sharing said bed with two cats and a dog while watching QVC.

Yes, you read that correctly. QVC.

I am feeling less than fabulous right now.

In QVC's defense, I do occasionally purchase Philosophy and Bare Escentuals from QVC because their prices on these things are much better than in stores or on the company web sites. So sue me. At least it's not the Home Shopping Network. I feel the Home Shopping Network is the Wal-Mart of television shopping. QVC is, on the other hand, the Macy's.

However, in bed at 8 p.m. on a Friday night with pets watching QVC? I feel like I have crossed a line that can never be uncrossed.

Off to make some night time TheraFlu and put myself out of my misery. At least for tonight.

TheraFlu? That stuff is totally sick!

Of Mice and Wigs

Less than one week ago, "Wiggy" was in her bedroom getting dressed for work when suddenly, she spotted a creature staring at her. She has no pets, and it wasn't a peeping squirrel or anything. It was a "mother f**king mouse" (her words). As a hater of all things furry, mice especially, "Wiggy" wigged out.

A male co-worker went to her house that day and set some traps and blocked the vents in her room (apparently "Wiggy" is not concerned about carbon monoxide - just mice). Despite the traps and mouse-proofing, "Wiggy" has refused to go back in to her bedroom since that fateful morning.

As her friend I took pity on her and offered to come to her house and investigate the trap situation and retrieve any items she may need from her bedroom, which is being held hostage by that "slut mouse" (again, her words, not mine).

Upon my arrival, we consumed some wine and strategized my plan of attack. Convinced the mouse was living the life of luxury in her bedroom, "Wiggy" and I had a discussion about where the mouse may have possibly taken up residence. Suddenly, I saw the light bulb go off in her head.

"That mother f**ker is living in my wig tub," she said with all sincerity and a defiant look in her eyes.

"Wiggy" keeps a tub of "old jacked up wigs" - "just in case." The problem is, the tub had no lid, and therefore, could possibly have been an excellent place for a mouse to nest.

My assignment was clear, in order to help "Wiggy" try to re-claim her bedroom, I needed to go in there, check the traps, retrieve her clothing (ALL of it) and along the way, shake each item out to ensure a) a mouse wouldn't fall out and b) mouse droppings wouldn't fall out. Did I mention when I said ALL of her clothing that included a giant pile of dirty clothing on the floor of the closet that spilled onto the top of the wig tub? Oh yeah, the wig tub, I almost forgot. I would need to search that damn wig tub too!

"Wiggy" gave me a pair of rubber gloves, some garbage bags and wished me luck. She couldn't handle the sight of me sorting through her stuff because she believed with every fiber of her being that "slut mouse" would scurry out at any point in time.

I checked all the clothing and stuffed it all in to garbage bags (so it could all be washed at some point in time)....and then it came time for the wigs. The wigs freaked me out because as I started to dig through the tub I convinced myself a mouse could quite possibly have taken up residence among the acrylic locks of hair.

"Wiggy" agreed the best course of action would be to throw away all the old wigs anyway. She has totally upgraded to a different type of wig (that I cannot tell you about or she will kill me) made of real hair so she's much less flammable then she used to be and therefore, doesn't need her old wig stash.

Anyway, before I could stuff the wigs into the "toss" bag, I had to retrieve one "back up wig" for her. She insisted it had to have bangs. And it was "just in case." The woman has many, many, many other wigs...so I wasn't sure why I had to spare one of these "lesser" wigs but I did.

Clothing and wigs packed up, I thought my task was complete. "Wiggy" even brought herself to enter the room after I confirmed spotting no evidence of a mouse.

She took two pillows off her bed. She told me she had been sleeping on the couch for the last five days and didn't even have pillows (that's how scared she was of the "slut mouse").

"Wiggy" was feeling better about life but then she thought of one thing in her bedroom she couldn't possibly live without...one thing the mouse could have "contaminated."

The one thing? Her "special box."

I won't elaborate on the "special box" if you are a woman, single or otherwise, I think you know what I am referring to...a grown up toy box....and if you don't get what I'm telling you, well, I don't know what to say.

"'Wiggy's' special box" is a K-Swiss box she stores under her bed ("Easy access," she said). As she pulled it out, she suddenly looked sick, and expressed how angry she would be if that "slut mouse" made a nest amidst her battery operated toys. Oh, the irony. I guess if the mouse is a slut, as she likes to say it is, then this would be an appropriate place for it to nest!

Unable to bring herself to open the box, she made me do it. I opened it and, seeing no evidence of a mouse, I quickly closed it. The whole thing was a little traumatizing, I must admit.

Once I confirmed the coast was clear, she swept the "special box" up and into her arms.

So, there she was - after all of that - a woman with her basic necessities - a jacked up back up wig, two pillows and her "special box."

As I drove away, all I could think was, "I missed 'Lost' for THIS?"

Jenny get your gun?

As an urban dweller, crime should not phase me.

However, Grand Rapids is a pretty darn safe city. I personally don't know anyone who has been a victim of a random act of violence.

This weekend my false sense of security came crashing down around me. The house across the street and over two was broken in to on Sunday morning.

Scary stuff. Thankfully, no one was hurt and the homeowners seem to be doing well (they're the unfriendly Illinois people I wrote about in the "Won't You Be My Neighbor" entry. One would think this would have brought them out of their shells - but they're still walking around acting like they are better than everyone).

Me, on the other hand? Not so much.

I live alone. Granted, I have a dog but she's more likely to lick an intruder than attack one. However, she looks pretty fierce. Just seeing her in the window could deter potential intruders - especially those who fear German Shepherds.

What is a gal to do?

I suddenly had this flash - me walking down my stairs holding a gun as intruders try breaking in - just like Suzanne Sugarbaker in that episode of Designing Women where someone was trying to steal her pig (if you've never seen this show it is a must see - one of my all time faves!). Light bulb!

End result - Suzanne accidentally shot Anthony. A small voice inside told me I would accidentally shoot someone or myself. But, I still thought getting a gun was a brilliant idea. I've never even seen a gun in real life (except you know, at Wal-Mart, which is odd but whatever) and have always been anti-gun, but I just kept thinking about Suzanne Sugarbaker and how she just carried that gun around with her all the time. I shared this brilliant idea with my very rational  friend Rachael. She quickly put the kibosh on that. She's right and I know it but still - I was thinking a gun would be the way to go.

So I then mentioned getting an NRA sticker for my front door and back door. She said I would probably have to join the NRA to get a sticker and as a fairly liberal gal I just can't see myself writing a check over to whomever took over for Charleton Heston now that they really did have to pry his gun out of his "cold, dead hands"....though maybe he was buried with a gun? Wouldn't surprise me.

She did suggest (as a cost savings measure) trying to find an ADT or Brinks sign to put in the front yard. Actually not a bad idea....hmmm....I wonder if I could make one. "APT" or "Brocks" (wouldn't want to infringe copyright or anything). Probably wouldn't seem legit.

I mentioned Gracie the dog as a sort of "alarm system" when I am home. But what about all those times I travel? She stays with Grandma and Grandpa in the Detroit area. I am most fearful not of things being stolen but of someone breaking in, leaving a door or window open and Lucy and LuLu (the cats) running away while I am out of the state on a business trip or something. I mean, if a thief wants my broken iPod, my 200 pound television or my original Nintendo - have at it! I am sure there are plenty of people around me who at least have an Wii, a nice Macbook or flat screen tv.

So, I am thinking until Kate Spade starts making gun holsters I will probably avoid them all together (guns, not Kate Spade products). That being said...just to be safe...in that Designing Women episode I mentioned (titled "Full Moon" if you are interested) Suzanne told her friends she wanted to buy a gun. Like Rachael, they told her it was a terrible idea. In an effort to stop her, her friends would quietly murmur "don't buy a gun" every time she was around in the hope of delivering subliminal messages to her. In that case, it didn't work but they could have been on to something. So, next time you see me, do us both a favor and do the same for me. Just in case.

A sad but true story of addiction

I have fallen off the wagon.

Can a true addict ever really be "cured" of an addiction? Conventional wisdom says no. The best an addict can do is keep away from the vice. What am I saying here? I am saying an alcoholic, for example, should probably steer clear of Burbon Street this time of year (or any time of year really).

But, when a vice is dangled in front of an addict-  it is hard to resist.

Especially when this happens every day at the same time.

For me, it was simply a matter of "days"....

My name is Jen, and I am a "Days of Our Lives"-aholic.

It all started in high school, when Vivian buried Carly alive and Marlena was possessed by the Devil himself. It only took a few episodes and I was hooked.

In college I literally scheduled my classes around "Days" - meaning I never had a 1 p.m. class and drove like a maniac from the sorority house to campus to make it for 2 p.m. classes. These were the days before DVR, people, and taping it with my VHS player just wasn't the same as watching it with a houseful of girls!

I spent the first two years of life after college traveling constantly for work. During that time, grounded co-workers would keep me up to speed on my favorite show.

Then I entered a more traditional work world and slowly I started to break the habit, though I would religiously read the now defunct Dustin's Days Page...ah, that Dustin, he was something. He would recap episodes of "Days" scene by scene and post them on his web site - complete with photos.

As time passed I became more and more caught up with work and real life ...at the same time, "Days" started sending away my favorite characters and focuing time on 'tweens. When it appeared the 'tweens had taken over Salem (where "Days" takes place - duh!) I sort of gave up watching - except for Christmastime - I always had to see Gran (Grandma Horton) hang the Horton family ornaments on the Christmas tree!

A year and a half ago I moved, and we all know moving means new cable. With trepidation, I turned the tv on that first day, knowing SoapNet was part of the new cable package and that "Days" was rebroadcast on SoapNet daily. I was determined to stay clean. Fortunately for me, the 'tween stories were the main focus of the show during that time. I could have given a flying flip about Chelsea, Stephanie, Max or the nerdy dude who was a fake Horton...so I didn't give "Days" the time of day. Plus, it was on at 11 p.m. and let's face it - that's about my bed time.

Recently, all of that changed.

It was a cold and snowy weeknight in January. I sat on my couch with a glass of wine to unwind after a long day and started flipping through the channels.

Passing through the 100s, a familiar face appeared on my screen. I stopped. My mouth dropped open. My eyes widened. I set the glass of wine on the coffee table and then moved forward.

There she was  - the queen of mean herself - Vivian Alamain.

I thought "What is 'Days' doing on at 6 and, wtf, Vivian's back?!?"

The episode continued...the 'tweens were gone, Vivian was up to her old tricks, Carly was back (BOO!!! I hope next time Vivian buries her alive she stays buried), Bo and Hope were on but broken up (NOOOO!!!!! LEAVE THEM ALONE PLEASE - THEY'VE SUFFERED ENOUGH!!), Stefano was back and up to his old tricks (the villian we all love to hate)...this is MY "Days!"

And then I thought, "Oh no, I am in trouble."

Like an addict in denial I convinced myself that I would watch that one night only.

That's it. Just get caught up and then end it.

That was nearly one month ago.

Today I sit here fully up to speed on the goings on in Salem. I can tell you who is together, who is broken up, who is back from the dead, who is knocked up, who is on drugs, etc. In fact, I just finished watching today's epsiode.

I thought I had kicked the habit - and that I could stay clean.

Addiction, I am learning, knows no time or circumstance. An addict is always an addict.

Damn you, SoapNet, damn you.

All the single ladies

A friend, who shall remain nameless, is a fan of, likes, loves, worships Beyonce. Eh, what the heck. She needs a name. We'll call her "Wiggy."

"Wiggy" just returned from New York City. She went with me and our friend Rachael. "Wiggy" had never been on an airplane before so I thought airport security would be the most interesting part of the trip but no. No, no. No, no, no.

Long story short. "Wiggy" discovered Beyonce's NYC apartment address. I may or may not have enabled this...or actually Googled this.

"Wiggy" insisted we "stop by" the building while in the city.

We did.

The chances Beyonce would be home while we were there? Or that she actually lived there? A million to one - easy. We should have purchased lottery tickets.

The incident involved an Escalade, a bodyguard and Beyonce herself. It was something.

For the record, her bodyguard is scary. He's clearly very good at his job!

I am just thankful we weren't arrested. Though I wouldn't be surprised if poor Beyonce has restraining orders out for us...