tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81501982447321131902024-03-05T15:54:20.540-08:00Jen's Divorce Chroniclesjenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.comBlogger124125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-63050191038527736002013-08-24T02:06:00.002-07:002013-08-24T08:40:04.755-07:00ProcrazyationSo (pause for dramatic effect), I got me one of them boyfriends. Yep, that's right. Hell froze over. <br />
<br />
And this boyfriend of mine...he wants to have those baby things one day. Babies. Offspring. Mini-humans. Leave it to me. I finally find the man of my dreams* and he wants to reproduce. One day. Not right now, obviously.**<br />
<br />
We're in our mid 30's (he's 2 years younger than me so he's actually still considered <b><i>early</i></b> 30's. The dick.) so we don't hesitate to talk about the "serious" stuff like marriage and kids. So, yesterday, I asked him, "What's your timeline for the having of the kids?" He said five years. Phew! I was thinking five years, too. I'm in no rush. I know some people I can talk to about the condition of my eggs. I mean, I should probably find out if they're over easy or hard boiled or whatever.<br />
<br />
I told him I was glad he said five years because I'm still very scared and nervous when it comes to the idea of having kids. It was a lot easier when I just wasn't going to have them. He's such a dear, he asked me what my fears were.<br />
<br />
Really? Okay, (deep breath) here's what goes through my head when I think about having a kid:<br />
<br />
Being pregnant is cool because you get a lot of attention. But then every mom you know is a fucking genius and knows exactly what you need and doesn't get you anything you registered for because none of that worked for their perfect little snot dispenser.<br />
<br />
Then you have the baby and there's a nursery to decorate and a cute little doll to dress up. But you have to make sure that cute little doll doesn't <b><i>die</i></b> because it's not a doll, it's a mini-human.<br />
<br />
And then the mini-human starts growing up and you have to make sure it goes to a really good school so it gets a great education and becomes a functioning member of society - and hopefully doesn't get beaten to death or bullied by all the other little assholes it's going to school with (and don't get me started on the asshole parents of those asshole kids). And it'll have friends that are idiots and try to get them to do stupid shit. Or, what if my kid is the asshole that's bullying or trying to get other kids to do stupid shit?<br />
<br />
And it's gonna want to drink and do drugs and have sex and I'm gonna be like, slow down slut, you're 12 [whether it's a boy or a girl]! And it's gonna be like, you don't understand me at all, you have no idea what this is like, I hate you! And I'm gonna <b><i>want</i></b> to say, fuck you, you little shit, I do too understand and I know exactly what it's like, but I saved my sluttiness for after my divorce! But I can't say that because it'll be like, what? you were divorced? You were married before Dad? My whole life is a lie! And then I'll have to explain a whole shit load of shit it won't understand because it's 12!<br />
<br />
Now, in my crazy head, that's just the "normal" stuff. There's a whole other can of crazy worms to open. What if I hate it? What if I think it's annoying and/or stupid? What if I look at it as the thing that ruined my life? Or worse...my boyfriend is quite a creative gem*** so there' s no way the two of us aren't gonna make some dancing/singing/acting triple threat mother fucker of a kid...<i>what if I'm</i> <i>jealous of it</i>?<br />
<br />
And this is just scratching the surface. <br />
<br />
I told him all of these things. For real. And then asked if he still loved me. He said he did still love me. And he didn't brush me off with the typical, "Yeah, but it's so rewarding and we'll have little slaves to take care of us when we're old" bullshit. Instead, he put together a bunch of rational sentences pertaining to his understanding of my fears and why they are valid. Thank God one of us is a grown up. Or we'd be in big trouble. I mean, I'm afraid of unborn mini-humans, for crying out loud.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">*I should probably write about him at some point. It's just that, as it was in high school, it's hard to write about happy stuff! I'll work on it, though. Promise.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">**Well, not obviously to you because you didn't know I had a boyfriend...and that we've only known each other for two months.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">***I found my half gay man!</span></span>jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-87413455310446287122013-05-06T21:34:00.000-07:002013-05-06T21:34:53.621-07:00The incredible shrinking womanAs of a few days ago, I have officially lost 60 pounds. <br />
<br />
I asked my mom to make a before and after picture for me like on The Biggest Loser. The after picture is actually at around 55lbs lost, but I looked thinner in the picture than I was at the time so I figure it all evens out.<br />
<br />
The before picture was taken on Easter in 2008. About 6 months after that I started losing the weight. A year later I was 45lbs down. Then I paused and maintained for a few years. Then I yo-yo'd within a 5-8lb range for a about a year until I started taking dance classes. I re-lost five and lost another five. Then I yo-yo'd again, within another 5lb range, until last year when I did the dumb detox. Then, you guessed it, I've been yo-yoing again. But, I finally broke the barrier and reached my 60lb goal. Only 17 more to go to my pre-wedding weight!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiso4sBWmWDqmP-IzQF9GrEuUFEoQr0BcwoT5Qo5aXyazAVmW01EIJk2JL1Zvdtgd2mt2baOLcoyYCjDhotkiDkxlv5n_X6zM5NY1bEUtQ9-zetPajx8hGC1ePrnyYcty7c_FYhgYr5hQk/s1600/Before+and+After%5B5%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiso4sBWmWDqmP-IzQF9GrEuUFEoQr0BcwoT5Qo5aXyazAVmW01EIJk2JL1Zvdtgd2mt2baOLcoyYCjDhotkiDkxlv5n_X6zM5NY1bEUtQ9-zetPajx8hGC1ePrnyYcty7c_FYhgYr5hQk/s640/Before+and+After%5B5%5D.jpg" width="492" /></a></div>
Yes, those are both me. And no, despite what some of my coworkers said, the fat one is not an app. My favorite response to these pictures was from a coworker who said, "That one on the left, that's a lotta meat on that one. Prime Rib."<br />
<br />
I'd like to think I'm still a prime rib. Just a leaner one.<br />
<br />
<br />jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-33135821283921700542013-05-04T14:45:00.000-07:002013-05-04T14:45:34.146-07:00The after partyWell, I was right that there was no fan. There were a few fabulous people and a lot of wannabe fabulous people. And a lot of very short people.<br />
<br />
At the beginning of the night my friend and I were sitting on a fancy sofa talking and this guy walked up and took our picture. He must've though we were models. He was from China, they have excellent taste there.<br />
<br />
One of my favorite parts of the night was pointing out the <i>actual</i> models. It was like being a kid on a road trip and trying to find the most Volkswagen bugs. Except, instead of cars, it was ridiculously skinny women with painted faces and weird hair that either looked like it had been through a wind tunnel and sprayed in place or wrapped around a Ho Ho on top of their heads and sprayed in place.<br />
<br />
We spent the majority of the night on the dance floor, though. There were photographers all over and a few of them danced with us, but they took pictures of the women all around us. I said to my friend, "They all want to dance with us, but no one wants to take our picture. I guess they can tell we're not models!" She said, "We must look like the escorts!" Fine with me. Escorts get to eat.<br />
<br />
At one point, some dum-dum grabbed our hands and started dancing us around. My friend was able to escape his grip and go talk to this cute guy who I thought was gay but turned out to be German (the whole European thing threw off my gaydar), so I was stuck with Grippy McBreak My Hands. I had to keep saying, "Please don't hold my fingers so tight!" and, "You are going to break my fingers!" and, "When you dance with a lady, you need to loosen your grip on her hand! You are squeezing the fuck out of my fingers!" Finally, I took a few of his fingers in my hand and squeezed the shit out them to show him how it felt. I said, "That's what you're doing to my fingers! You need to hold a lady's hand like you would hold a piece of fruit. Be gentle or you'll crush it!" He started to mumble something about making excuses, but was interrupted by a phone call so I took my chance to escape.<br />
<br />
<br />
So, to sum up my first fashion event after party, I didn't have gorgeous, straight men vying for my attention, but I also didn't bump into anything or trip over my own feet. I'm counting that as a win!<br />
jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-18558982275930143572013-05-03T16:48:00.000-07:002013-05-03T16:48:11.463-07:00Are you one of the models?I'm going to an after party for a fashion event thing in the city tonight. I've never been to something like this so my imagination is running wild.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what's really going to happen or who's really going to be there, but in my head it's going to be like a scene out of Entourage full of models and fabulous people. And in my head, I'll walk in in slow motion with a fan blowing my hair. And in my head, people will come up to me and be like, "Are you one of the models?" and, "That dress is fierce!" And I'll be like, "Me? A model? Oh, stop it! Go on." and "This old thing? I only wear this when I don't care <i>what</i> I look like."<br />
<br />
And in my head there will be gorgeous straight men all over the place vying for my attention and looking at me like they're confused by my beauty. And I'll just be like, "Hey." And then walk away as if I have something much more pressing to do - such as studying the pattern on the walls in the bathroom - making me all the more mysterious and attractive to them.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm thinking what will really happen is there will be no fan and no straight men and I'll spend the majority of the night switching off between sweating profusely, bumping into things, and tripping over my own feet.<br />
<br />
I like the scenario in my head better. I'll let you know how it goes. Stay tuned!jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-32413820060107897152013-05-02T19:35:00.000-07:002013-05-02T19:35:20.360-07:00The new man lady doctorI was due for my annual visit and my lady doctor up and moved on me. My best friend, Rebecca (the vagina nurse), recommended a new doctor at her office - a man lady doctor. I've only seen a man lady doctor once in my life and he was extremely awkward. Rebecca assured me that Dr. D is not awkward and I should just suck it up and get over my weirdness about man lady doctors. I've been listening to her for 20 years, why stop now?<br />
<br />
I made my appointment and sent Rebecca this text: "scheduled to have my hooha inspected by dr. damn D tomorrow. He better not be good looking or i will pee on your face!"<br />
<br />
I learned that Dr. D is a handsome man, but handsome in a you-could-be-my-dad's-friend way, not a how-about-you-throw-away-that-speculum-and-use-your-penis-instead way. So, all good there. But it's still such an uncomfortable situation, I can't help but be inappropriate.<br />
<br />
When he walked in he introduced himself, "Hi Jen, I'm Dr. D and this is nurse A who will be joining us." I replied in a sing-song, "It's a party in heeere." They laughed, he looked over my chart (which wasn't a chart like on the TV shows, it was a file on a computer right there in the exam room) and then explained what he would be doing. "I'm going to start with the breast exam and then do the pap and pelvic exam." I said, "Are you gonna buy me dinner first, D?" He laughed again and said, "We might have some coupons up front." <br />
<br />
I laid back to get felt up (in a breast cancer inspecty kind of way, of course) and as he started the exam he said, "So what kind of food do you like?" For a split second I thought he was trying to lamely distract me from any boob-in-his-hand induced awkwardness, but then he said, "So I know what kind of coupon to look for." Nice. Well played Dr. D.<br />
<br />
Then it was time to scoot my ass (literally) to the end of the table and prop my feet in the stirrups. I said, "Usually when I get in this position, people think I'm a slut." Dr. D. laughed and tried to fight the urge to comment, but couldn't resist. He said, "How often do you get in this position, Jen?" Loving Dr. D.<br />
<br />
I made it through the most uncomfortable part (with the help of back and forth jibber jabber and nonsense to keep us all laughing) and when we were all done he said, "This has been my most entertaining appointment!" I said, "Oh, good, so I haven't been banned?" He said, "You have carte blanche to this office!"<br />
<br />
Sweet. I've been given carte blanche to a place where invasive, embarrassing and uncomfortable things happen. I really need to learn to harness my power.<br />
<br />
<br />jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-55778292309651008312013-05-01T22:06:00.000-07:002013-05-01T22:06:19.914-07:00The Scooby SnackThe Scooby Snack is a guy seven years younger than me that rented out some wiener time in my hoohah for almost a year. There are a lot of stories revolving around this beautiful piece of man candy, but right now I'm only going to tell the last one.<br />
<br />
I had gone out with some friends who got me nice and tossed. I cabbed back home at the end of the night and called Scooby as soon as I walked in my apartment, around 2:30am. I was like, "Hey, wanna have sex?" Or something equally charming. And he was like, "Yeah!" Or something equally agreeable. There were other words exchanged, but I don't really remember them. Not because it's been a few months since this happened, but because I was that drunk.<br />
<br />
He came over, we had the sex, and the next thing I remember is waking up in the middle of the night to find him slowly and quietly getting dressed. I found this highly irritating. Why, you ask? Because I was drunk! In fact, for the sake of time, let's just assume that the answers to all of your questions are going to be, "Because I was drunk."<br />
<br />
So, I'm drunk and irritated and I say, "Are you seriously sneaking out right now?" He said he had to go. I rolled over, facing away from him, and said, "Fine! Sneak out like I'm some cheap slut!" He climbed in bed and snuggled me and tried to kiss me. Very sweet attempts to soothe me (the drunk, profane baby that I was), but they did not soothe me. I kept turning my head away from him. I was like, "No! Just go! Just leave like I'm some cheap slut!" He said, "You woke me up because you slapped me in the face and then you farted on me." Instead of laughing, which would've been the proper response, I said, "Good! You deserved it!"<br />
<br />
I think he still kissed me goodbye after that.<br />
<br />
The next morning I sent him a text asking why he left in the middle of the night. He replied, "First of all, it was 7am [ooooooh, shit]. It just seemed like the middle of the night because of the 3 hours of sleep. And I've often left at that time to feed my pup. I tried to wake you up. I dropped my keys to make noise, I dropped my phone with a loud thud, but it didn't wake you. And then when you did wake up you turned mean. It was not appreciated."<br />
<br />
So, yeah. Drunk, mean and disgusting. That's how you scare away a perfectly good scooby snack. In case you were wondering.<br />
<br />
jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-64967986833306342622013-03-22T17:56:00.000-07:002013-03-22T17:56:03.802-07:00The inevitable cat postI am a single, divorced cat owner. A post about my cat was inevitable. I named her Princess Dot (after the baby ant from A Bug's Life. A Disney character, of course), but little did I know that when I got her at 6 weeks she would fully live up to her name one day. That day has come.<br />
<br />
I blame myself, really. I think it's all the organic food I feed her. She's become so high and mighty! Sure, she'll lick the pancake batter out of an unsupervised bowl. A stick of butter? She'll make it her bitch. But swat down a nice juicy fly (with the nearest towel, while wincing, swearing and gagging*) and she turns up her nose like she didn't just lick the grease off a pan left out on the stove for too long. Oh, she'll steal a piece of chicken right off your plate, that little trash can kitty.<br />
<br />
So line up, single men! You've found what you were looking for! A foul mouthed, mildly offensive, mostly inappropriate, high maintenance cat owner. I mean the cat is high maintenance, not me. Clearly, or I wouldn't leave so many things on the counter for that little asshole to lick and then throw up later. Oh yeah, she's a bulimic little bitch, too!<br />
<br />
The end. <br />
<br />
(This post was not proof read, Deal with it.) <br />
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<br />
*I hate bugs. All bugs. Especially spiders. Those evil little bastards, they can smell fear.jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-10492056332381407752013-02-23T18:48:00.000-08:002013-02-23T18:48:03.379-08:00Annoying Encounters: 3<span style="font-size: large;">Last night I went to Saddle Rack with a friend of mine. It's a really fun place, especially if you have a weakness for all things cowboy and country. Which I do. Which is why it sucks when all things <i>not</i> cowboy <i>or</i> country hit on me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This was my favorite exchange of the evening:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Manchild: What's your name?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Me: Trixie</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Manchild: What?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Me: Trixie, ya know, like the cereal Trix? But Trixie.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Manchild: I'm... </span>(I don't remember his name<span style="font-size: large;"> b</span>ecause I wasn't listening because he was 11)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He introduces himself to my friend and then starts to ask another question. Probably where we were from because that seemed to be the standard question of the evening.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Me: </span>(interrupting)<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> I'm sorry, I was just in the middle of talking with my friend.</span> (Go back to talking with my friend)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">A few moments later: </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Manchild: Can I get your number?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Me: No, I'm sorry, that's not a good idea. I'm a lot older than you.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Manchild: Does age really matter?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Me: It does when you're my age.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Manchild: So it doesn't matter than I'm attracted to you?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Me: No.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Manchild</span> (storms off like a manchild)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Poor, sweet little goober. I mean, okay, I do look a few years younger than I am, but not 10! Why are the manchildren hitting on me? Seriously? You can do better than that, universe! Work it out!</span>jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-45599223181350455432013-01-19T09:34:00.000-08:002013-01-19T09:34:09.826-08:00Walking penises<span style="font-size: large;">I want to meet a man I <i>don't</i> want to sleep with.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Not because I'm <i>not</i> attracted to him, but because I <i>am</i>. Because, when I look at him, I don't just see a walking penis. Because the first thing in my head is, "This guy is a cool human," instead of, "Hmm, would I bang this guy?<span style="font-size: large;">"</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes I feel like a dude. Only looking for a lay because looking for actual potential is scary in that it requires a great amount of vulnerability and opens the door for a vast amount of heartbreak. It's much easier just to have the sex. You know what you're in for and expectations stay low. And simple. And heartbreak free.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">With low expectations one doesn't picture holding hands* and going on surprisingly romantic dates. With low expectations one doesn't start hyphenating their last freakin' name and imagine taking freakin' mini breaks together. With low expectations things can only get better, right? In theory, yes. In the life of Jen? Not so much.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So I'm not sure I want my expectations to stay low, scary as it is to admit. I don't know, maybe I'm growing out of promiscuity like one grows out of their clothes. So, I feel like I have two choices. I can keep my expectations low, simple and heartbreak free with the life of a cat-lady spinster looming in my future; or I can remember that I have impossibly high expectations. And my impossibly high expectations will either lead me to the greatest love of all (thank you, Whitney Houston) or devastating heartbreak with the life of a cat-lady spinster looming in my future.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Considering cat-lady spinsterhood is a<span style="font-size: large;"> possible</span> outcome either way, I might as well aim high. This doesn't mean that I don't have anymore old sexcapades to share. It just means that (hopefully) I won't have any new ones. Goodbye to walking penises! Hello to men I don't want to have sex with! Ya know, at first. I'm still a woman for cryin<span style="font-size: large;">'</span> out loud.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">*Holding hands, in my opinion, is one of the most beaut<span style="font-size: small;">if<span style="font-size: small;">ully </span></span>intimate gestures. I know it doesn't seem so. But when you think about it, when do we hold someone's hand? When we're in a crowd. When we cross the street. <span style="font-size: small;">When <span style="font-size: small;">w<span style="font-size: small;">e<span style="font-size: small;">'re <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">running</span> away from<span style="font-size: small;"> a bad guy in a movie.</span></span></span></span></span></span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">It's a way to keep someone close<span style="font-size: small;">.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span>It's a gesture that implies if I let you go, I might lose you.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;">And then the bad guy will g<span style="font-size: small;">et you because<span style="font-size: small;"> I run faster. Okay, <span style="font-size: small;">I got a little carried <span style="font-size: small;">aw<span style="font-size: small;">ay, but you get the idea.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-73811029589337547702013-01-05T12:02:00.000-08:002013-01-05T12:02:13.979-08:00The No More Alimony/White Trash PartyJune 2012 was the last month of my 3 1/2 year divorce induced alimony. I was on my way to being poor and, by extension, depressed so I did the only thing I could do. I had a party. My last divorce related hurrah. I thought it fitting to make it a white trash theme, and that way I would have a legitimate excuse to make my guests bring food and drinks (I don't think one should host a party unless they can actually afford to <i>host</i> the party, but I'm a bit of a snob that way). I created an event on Facebook:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span itemprop="description"><span class="fsl">Hey ya'll, I'm about to be poor, so dress in your best white trash garb and celebrate my last alimony check ever! </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span itemprop="description"><span class="fsl">In true white trash form, this party is BYOE - Bring Yer Own Everthang!
I'll only have a few snacks and a tub o' cocktail slop to fill up your
red solo cup, so please bring your favorite trashy snack/drink combo to
share.<br /> <br /> Hope to see ya'll there!<br /> <br /> P.S. Please keep in
mind, this is a no kids function, ya'll. We don't want to be corruptin'
their sweet innocent little minds before their time!</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
I invited about 60 people thinking only about 20 would attend. I ended up having closer to 40 R.S.V.P. so my parents were gracious enough to let me use their home as the scene of the crime instead of my tiny apartment. I should note that my parents were there, as were a lot of their friends. One thing I like about being a "grown up" is you get to party with your parents. That is, if you have fun parents. Which, fortunately, I do.<br />
<br />
My plan was to talk with a southern accent the entire evening. And I did. I wore an old jean skirt, a white tank top I got online that said, "If you can read this, you're about to fuck me" and a hugely padded purple animal print bra with the straps falling down. I let my hair dry naturally into a wavy friz and then teased it up like the dickens. I set up a tattoo station. I bought almost 200 temporary tattoos and laid them out with a bowl of water and a washcloth so folks could apply 'em themselves. I put one on my ankle, belly button, bicep, chest, wrist, back of my neck and the cherry on top of the white trash sundae - a tramp stamp. Feast your eyes on this:<br />
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<br />
I got the idea for the shirt from a friend who ordered <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">one</span></span> that said, "I'm not with stupid anymore." She also wore a fake pregnant belly. She was a runner up in the costume contest along with my sister who wore matching leopard print bra and shoes with short shorts and a too-low halter top (you know, so as to expose the bra that matched the shoes) and we drew tattoos all over her with eyeliner and lip liner. We drew "tattoos" on her of hearts, each filled with a different man's name and "4ever" and then drew exes through them. She had about 10 of them all over her back, chest and arms and she used a combination of smudged eyeliner and eye shadow to make bruises on her knees, but even that couldn't beat my friend who dressed up as a toddlers in tiaras girl. It was fantastic. She wore a mint green, strapless, tulle puffed dress with a sparkly tiara and carried a fan made of fake money and a handful of pixie sticks. The prize was a 40 of beer. Jealous?<br />
<br />
I had my last alimony check blown up into poster size (thank you repro
department at work) so that people could sign it. It's not surprising
that the combination of alcohol and a white trash theme equaled multiple
drawings of body parts.<br />
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<br />
I set up a red solo cup stand and made a tub full of a Hop, Skip and Go Naked. It's made with Pabst Blue Ribbon (or Natty Ice), vodka and frozen lemonade (not mixed with water). It's surprisingly delicious and has a tendency to hit you like a ton of road kill. Especially if play beer pong with it. And flip cup. Which we did. <br />
<br />
No party - white trash or otherwise - is complete without jello shots, so I made four different kinds. Margarita (orange jello, tequila, triple sec and sweet & sour), Sweet Tea (lemon jello and sweet tea vodka), Adios Alimony (berry blue jello, vodka, tequila, rum and sweet & sour) and my favorite (pronunciation is key here): Peenya Cohlahda (well...strawberry cohlahda. It's more fun to say peenya cohlahda, but I couldn't find pineapple jello, so I used strawberry jello, rum and pina colada mix). I'm thinking I need to start a traveling jello shot business because my jello shots are, as Barney Stinson would say, legen...wait for it...dary!<br />
<br />
My parents have a huge island in the kitchen of their triple wide (as one of my friends cleverly named their house for effect), and it was covered in the most delicious of all junk foods. I filled a crock pot with cocktail wienies and called them Pigs That Can't Afford the Blankets (to be pronounced Peeigs That Cain't Afford the Blaynkits). Everything else I left up to the expertise of my guests. <br />
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<br />
And my favorite creation? The winner of the costume contest brought me this cake along with a sympathy card expressing her sorrow for the loss of my (ex) husband ('s money). Does it get any more awesome? I submit that it does not!<br />
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<br />Between the "American Made, American Played!" playlist (containing 4 hours of drinking songs), beer pong, flip cup, penny can, costumes, tattoos, southern accents, jello shots, beer drinkin' contest and general shenanigan-filled merriment, you would think there was nothing else I could possibly squeeze out of the night. You would be wrong.<br />
<br />
One of my guests was an old crush I had in junior high and high school. Thanks to the magic of Facebook we had reconnected. And thanks to the magic of bars we had bumped into each other a few times since I'd moved back. He didn't get to the party until later in the evening but that didn't stop me from tattooing his muscle rippled arms and making sure his red solo cup was regularly topped off. And wouldn't you know? He wasn't able to drive home that night because he drank too much. I suppose I wouldn't have been a very good host if I didn't let him crash at my parent's house. And I'd have been an even worse host if I left him there all by himself. No, the polite thing to do was to crash with him. What's the big deal? It's just sleeping in the same bed. It's not like I had dirty white trash sex in my parent's house with them sleeping upstairs. Oh no, wait. That's exactly what I did.<br />
<br />
<br />
This was my last divorce-induced party. It's like the end of an era! *tear* *sniff* *sigh* I think you know you're completely healed when you're more sad about not having any more divorce related parties than you are about being divorced. Damn, I'm good. I should have that engraved on a pillow.jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-42113383906642942392013-01-03T20:51:00.000-08:002013-01-04T06:16:09.225-08:00The Hangover - but for realsLooking over last year's new years resolutions I realized the only one I accomplished was to lose 15 pounds (thank you, dumb detox). Sadly, that was the most realistic of my resolutions.<br />
<br />
We're already three days into twenty thirteen and I haven't thought of any resolutions (except for the old faithful - lose 15 pounds). I'm not gonna be too hard on myself though. At least I didn't wake up in the ER again. Wait, you haven't heard the New Year's Eve 2011 story? Well, good thing I have no shame. Gather round, kids! Pull up a cocktail and lend an ear! Here goes:<br />
<br />
There were seven of us. We went to Walnut Creek. Well, first we had a few pre New Year's Eve party cocktails before the New Year's Eve party...and not quite enough food to go with them...and then we went to Walnut Creek. It was one of those wasted-hits-you-like-a-ton-of-bricks situations, if you know what I mean? I don't remember walking to the second bar. I don't remember taking my shoes off. I don't remember walking outside and sitting on a bench. <br />
<br />
I vaguely remember throwing up on myself. I vaguely remember a police officer offering me a ride in either his car or an ambulance. (Even in my hazy blur the drunk tank sounded way worse than an ambulance, so I chose ambulance.) I vaguely remember calling all six of my friends and only one answering.<br />
<br />
Then I woke up on a gurney in the ER with no shoes, no purse and no people. (I didn't have alcohol poisoning, they didn't pump my stomach. They did nothing but stick a saline drip in my arm. Which did NOT help with the hangover the next day. Thanks for nothing, John Muir.) They had me sign some paperwork and asked if I had anyone to pick me up. I had no phone and no money for a taxi. I have my sister's phone number memorized, but when I called her phone went straight to voice mail. Guess what other phone numbers I have memorized? Yep! My parents'. I had to call my parents to pick me up from the ER at 5am. They were so proud.<br />
<br />
When I woke up at their house later that morning I called my sister. (NOW she charges her phone.) I said, "Soooo, I'm tryin' to piece together the puzzle." She laughed. And then I laughed. Because really, what else were we supposed to do? It was like The Hangover minus the tiger and the baby. Even with all seven of our stories combined, there were still holes. Here's what I did find out:<br />
<br />
My sister and three of our friends didn't even make it to the second bar, they took a taxi home - because a police officer made them. So there was only me and two of our friends at the second bar. They weren't allowed in the ambulance with me so they followed in a taxi. They were going to hang out in the waiting room until I woke up, but got kicked out for being loud and obnoxious. And took my purse with them. Which is why I woke up with no money and no phone. As far as the no shoes part; I took them off, set them on the bar top and left them there. Luckily, the bartender put them behind the bar and I retrieved them the next night.<br />
<br />
It's definitely laughable now, but I'm literally still paying for that laugh - in monthly installments. In case you're wondering what the moral of this story is, it's not be more responsible or don't drink so much. No, <b><i>it's memorize more phone numbers</i><i>!</i></b>jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-14453844843824904792012-11-17T14:08:00.001-08:002013-01-03T19:34:14.552-08:00Share and share alikeLast night, girls night, we went to a bar called Dan's in Walnut Creek. (I call this place The Scene of The Crime, but that's a story for another day.) We managed to secure ourselves a table so we'd have somewhere to sit when we needed a break from dancing. During one such break, a stumbly drunk red headed dude approached our table. He introduced himself, asked our names and shook our hands. His girlfriend was standing a few feet away and struck up a conversation with me.<br />
<br />
Girlfriend: Sorry. He's so drunk!<br />
Me: Oh, no worries.<br />
Girlfriend: Hey, your hair is amazing! It's red, right? Sorry, it's dark in here.<br />
Me: Yes, it is, thank you!<br />
Girlfriend: He's (referring to her boyfriend, the stumbly drunk) the first ginger I've ever had. We've been together 2 1/2 years. We LOVE redheads!<br />
Me (inner monologue on account of the speechlessness): Wait, what?<br />
Me (out loud): It's self inflicted, I dye it.<br />
Girlfriend: It's beautiful! <br />
Me: Thanks.<br />
Girlfriend: I don't want to sound weird, but you have a great rack!<br />
Me: Oh, uh, haha, thanks, that's just Victoria's Secret!<br />
Girlfriend: Hey, me too!<br />
<br />
At this point she says something to her ginger boyfriend and he introduces himself to me - again - and shakes my hand - again. I say, "We already met!" He just stares at me blankly, still shaking my hand. And I'm pretty sure the girlfriend is playing with my hair. Yep, she's playing with my hair! And he just smelled my hair! I do my best to ignore all of that and with my free hand, pull my caged hand out of the ginger's and swap it with the girlfriend's free hand. So now they're holding hands and she has stopped playing with my hair. Then they leave.<br />
<br />
I turn to my friends who all say some version of, "What the hell was that?!" I relay the conversation I had with the girlfriend and say, "Um, I think they wanted to have sex with me!" They never actually asked, but I'm thinking when I took my hand away and put their two hands together, instead of, I don't know, wrapping their hands around mine threesome style, it must have been the international sign for, "No, I do not want to have sex with you, couple." <br />
<br />
Take note. It could happen to you.jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-79046533733599327532012-10-29T19:24:00.000-07:002012-11-18T08:38:24.782-08:00Grandmas say the darndest things: another batch of crazy<span style="font-size: large;">Grandma got some tests done and it's official: she has frontal lobe dementia. Apparently it's a pretty difficult form of dementia and often times the "signs" aren't recognized for many years. In other words, before you call your grandma a bat-shit crazy bitch, take her to have her brain x-rayed. Or whatever it is they do. Anyway, here are some more of the stories she's made up:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The house she's living in is going to be divided into 2 pieces (no, it's not). In one half will be the old people who can't take care of themselves, you know, the kind that need help walking and wiping their own ass (people like her). In the other half will be my sister's ex-ex-boyfriend and a few of his police officer buddies, because they're going to help take care of said old people. Not her, of course, she's going to have to move out because...wait for it...she's getting married!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Yep, she and Laurie (if you recall, Laurie is her first love and the 90-something year old man I'm trying to steal from her) are getting married! When, you ask? Well, when is the party? What party, you ask? The one my mom is throwing for her (she's not throwing a party for her) on Sunday, that's what the party is for, after all! (Hey mom, remember that mystery party you're throwing for grandma? It's her wedding! You're gonna have a new daddy! It's important that you remember that just because she loves Laurie, it doesn't mean she doesn't still love you). Which Sunday, you ask? She doesn't know, it's whatever Sunday comes after she moves out of the house (you know, after it gets divided into 2 pieces. You gotta remember the details if you're gonna keep up. If you're having trouble remembering the details you might want to have you brain x-rayed. If this conversation made you dizzy, welcome to our world).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My favorite new story of hers is, of course, about The Ex. You see, The Ex has been chanting my name in the middle of the night (possible, but not likely) and his new wife didn't take too kindly to that behavior, so...she shot him. Now, I'm not saying that my Grandma's stories are premonitions, but she <b><i>has</i></b> always been a little clairvoyant. Just sayin'.</span><br />
<br />
<br />jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-72017742489045312892012-10-13T17:44:00.000-07:002012-11-04T14:36:43.810-08:00The ugly, lame, cliche dork date<style>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> A few months ago I went on my first
date in a long time. If you haven’t
heard of a free and popular dating website called Plenty of Fish, then you’re
not missing anything. I have found all
manner of freaks, weirdoes, (this is how spell check wants me to spell
weirdos), perverts and yes, one time, a vampire on this site. I mean; this pool of fish has been seriously
peed in.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> So when a seemingly normal, human
guy emails me, I tend to give him a few moments of my attention out of pure
suspicion. I inspect his profile for
grammar errors and douchbaggery, rifle through his photos waiting to find
pictures of his dog, truck, boat, partial profiles of ex-girlfriends’ faces
that have been poorly cropped out, and, of course, the obligatory jet ski photo
that I think every guy has stolen from somewhere on the internet.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> I’m not sure who these guys think
they’re fooling with these pictures.
It’s like, here’s a picture of my dog because I’m sensitive, here’s a
picture of my truck because I’m macho, here’s a picture of all the cool places
I’ve been because I’m well rounded, here’s a picture of me rock climbing
because I’m adventurous, and here’s one tiny picture of my face 50 feet away
because, well, I’m ugly. Guys, just so
you know, that’s what you’re telling us with those 11 annoying pictures of
landscapes.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> But I digress.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> The seemingly normal guy was very
nerdy looking. Typically, after one
look, I would ignore his email and log out.
But he had seen me at a piano bar and then recognized me on the site. I didn’t remember seeing him at all (which
was probably my first warning) but I loved the idea that someone had noticed me
that I hadn’t noticed and then found me on a dating site and couldn’t pass up
his chance to meet me a second time. It
was all very Nicholas Sparks. So I let
the voices in my head (thanks mom and sisters) that say stupid stuff like,
“people get better looking when you get to know them, he could have a great
personality, you need to give the guy a chance,” rule my decision to respond and
agree to meet him in real life. Letting
those voices have a say should have been my second warning and seen as a sign
of desperation. I learned years ago
after my very first post-divorce date that one should never go on a date just
to go on a date but, unfortunately, I have a loud family and their three voices
drowned out my one.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> We agreed to meet at a wine
bar. Casual. Not as big a commitment as dinner, but not as
lame as coffee (I don’t consider coffee to be a date, anyway. Buy me a real drink, jackass). I kept trying to forget that he wasn’t attractive
at all in his pictures and telling myself that maybe he’s just not
photogenic. Partly because it made me
feel superficial to care so much about what he looked like and partly
because…well, let’s be honest, I just didn’t want to feel superficial; regardless
of whether or not I was slash am.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> As soon as I walked in the door I
wanted to run back out. He was uglier
(apparently spell check doesn’t recognize that as a word) than his pictures and
nerdy had changed to dorky. Nerdy can be
cute, sometimes sexy, because nerds are smart.
Even geeks, with their real life video game battles have potential when
they’re in costume, but dorks are just…dorks!
There’s no helping them.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> I didn’t run away. He could see me. I may be an asshole, but I do my best to limit
my assholish acts to those I could stand having done back to me. I would never want someone to take one look
at me and run while in my path of vision.
So I powered through. As I walked
up to him he got up from his seat, flung one arm out for a half hug and said,
“Happy hump day!” I wanted to punch
myself in the face. Why had I agreed to
this stupid date! You know why? Because I’m a lunatic! When I hadn’t been on a date in several
months and was feeling desperately low and insecure, I let the voices talk me
into this date when I knew it was a bad idea.
Now that I was on the date, I was highly overconfident and couldn’t stop
wondering how someone as beautiful and overall fantastic as I could be on a
date with such an ugly, lame, cliché dork.
Yeah, I like to call it “passionate” not “crazy.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> He continued to dig himself deeper
by saying stupid shit, like, “I thought the Lollipop Guild was a club in San
Francisco for midgets.” Yes. He actually said those words. I was flabbergasted; caught between hoping he
was messing with me and scared that he wasn’t. My response went something like this,
“You…the...what?...that’s…it’s…the Lollipop Guild is from The Wizard of
Oz! And I don’t think you’re supposed to
say midget.” I don’t know what my face
was doing during this stammer but I don’t have a very good poker face, so it
couldn’t have been kind. He said, “Well,
I know that now because I actually offended someone once asking if it was a
club in San Francisco.” Oh. My.
Gosh. I may have said that, I may
have just stared at him like he was an idiot.
I may have done both. Sometimes I
have no filter and sometimes I’m shocked into silence. Finally, I just laughed at him and then
apologized for laughing at him and he said, “No, you should be laughing, it’s
funny, that’s why I told you.” That was
when I knew he wasn’t messing with me - he didn’t realize that I was laughing <i>at</i> him, not <i>with</i> him.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> It didn’t get any better after that
and I managed to get out of the date early (I scheduled the date before dance
class so I had an excuse to leave if it sucked. Which it did. I’m a genius.
You can learn a lot from me). I
didn’t let him pay for my champagne flight or walk me to my car and he was wise
enough not to call me ever again.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> Later, when I told my sister the
story, I said, “He just kept saying stupid, annoying shit like, </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> “What’s your gig?” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> “Um, my gig?” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> “Yeah, what do you do?” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> “Oh.
I have a really dumb job, I’m a receptionist.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> “That’s not a dumb job, I’m a
babysitter.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> “You’re a babysitter?” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> “Yeah, I babysit all the salespeople
who work under me.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";">You know, because
he’s so important that he has people who work under him. Way to work that into the conversation. I seriously think guys only ask us what we do
so they can tell us what they do. But
anyway, I just kept looking at him and thinking, all the shit you’re saying maybe wouldn’t sound
so stupid and annoying, might even sound cute and funny, if you had a different <i><b>face</b>.</i> Ya know, just get a
different <b><i>face</i></b>?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Chancery";"> And that is the ugly truth, my
friends. Pun intended.</span></span></div>
jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-19020038974872399282012-09-19T06:57:00.000-07:002012-09-21T23:12:29.927-07:00Chapter 24, or The Lovely Liotta<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My name change had gone through almost exactly a year after
The Ex left [June 2009], so I felt that such auspicious timing should be rewarded with a
party. Are you shocked? I had what I called my Name Change Party (there’s
no such thing as a bad party title). I
sent out an Evite saying this:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Hello, my name is Jen Liotta. Would
you like to come to my party and meet the new me? I'll have snacks and
drinks, games, karaoke, or we can go bar hopping if that tickles your fancy (we
have bars in Chino Hills now!). Whatever we do it'll be awesome because
I'm a Liotta again!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I went to Costco and Bevmo to get
snacks and mixers for cocktails. My plan
was to name everything after me (an all about me party, I’m a genius). I put place cards by all the appetizers. I had pesto and liotta Brie, chipotle liotta
mini tacos, beef and cheese quesadiliottas, and sweet liotta cakes. I made two signature cocktails, one that
represented me and one that represented The Ex.
For his drink I wanted to make some version of an Adios Mother
Fucker. Appropriate, no? I called it the Death to The Ex. And for my drink I wanted something dainty
and delicious, just like me (what, I don’t come across as dainty?). I called it the Lovely Liotta.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The day of
the party I sent an email to everyone I knew saying this: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Okay
family and friends, I finally got myself a new email address!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drum roll please.........</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
disneylady78@gmail.com</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
No more lame “The Ex” email
address, and the Name Change Party is tonight!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Featuring two drinks: The Lovely Liotta, and
the Death to The Ex!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t be jealous
that I’m totally creative.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> If you want to send me an email telling me how
awesome you think I am, please do not reply to this one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Use the fantastic new address above!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
xoxo,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
Jen LIOTTA</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My dad responded with this:</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Awesome
party drink names.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is in them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me suggest that the Lovely Liotta be a
sweet, tasty, and caring drink that will make you feel good, while the Death to
The Ex should be just fun enough to try, containing the latest mix of
rebellious booze that will leave its taste in you for several years, and then
suddenly leave without reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love you,
Dad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I almost peed my pants laughing. I decided to write those descriptions on note
cards and place them in front of the punch bowls. The description of the Death to The Ex was
the hit of the party.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I made my friends in attendance wear name tags that said, “Hello, my name is” and then their first name followed by
my last name. Midway through the party I
made them all take out their cell phones and change my last name. Then it was time to play games. We broke out the Wii and everyone laughed at
me while I kicked ass at Dance Dance Revolution. I guess I looked funny Dance Dancing in a
dress, but not as funny as I looked playing Twister in a dress. I tried to go change into shorts but my
friends would not have that. They were
like hell no, you’re playing in that dress and we’re going to take
pictures. So I was like, fine. They’re the ones that had to stare at my fat
ass.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIl3DMw4P3VrSNEqI4vp_sUudsPL6IyK8pfh5JbUrVBSGe8DQxgiGqyJBZwnfn7uo_qOnLjXFoEnuteVaSpjeQkd1ttFHYth4AecQsLp1oYdcd6YsJ4umycz5__r2RhebDwSGFhxq_8Y0/s1600/Misc+Pics+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIl3DMw4P3VrSNEqI4vp_sUudsPL6IyK8pfh5JbUrVBSGe8DQxgiGqyJBZwnfn7uo_qOnLjXFoEnuteVaSpjeQkd1ttFHYth4AecQsLp1oYdcd6YsJ4umycz5__r2RhebDwSGFhxq_8Y0/s320/Misc+Pics+006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: small;">In case you can't tell, my ass is in my friend's face. Ha to the ha.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am thankful to my friends for celebrating my new
slash old name like they were ringing in a new year.</span></span>
jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-28654851578092155522012-09-10T20:21:00.001-07:002012-09-10T20:25:03.840-07:00Annoying encounters: 2<span style="font-size: large;">I had a date night with my sister recently and towards the end of the evening I got hit on. She went to the bathroom and a man who looked about 70 years old (I'll admit he couldn't have been 70, but he looked a lot older than my dad, who is 64) took her seat.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: (Practically throwing myself on her chair before he can) Oh, sorry, this seat is taken.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Man: (As he sits in the chair) It's okay, don't panic.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: (With a slightly annoyed smile) My sister is sitting there, see - this is her stuff, she's just in the bathroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Man: (Not deterred) I know, I saw her go to the bathroom. That's why I came over here to talk to you. I had to tell you, I think you're beautiful.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: I think you look like my grandpa!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Man: (laughing) I probably do!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: And you smell like him, too! What is it about old dudes that they all smell the same?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Man: Well, if you can smell it, that's a good thing!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: (What the fuck does that mean?) Uh, ha ha ha.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Man: Don't worry, I'm harmless.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: (laughing) Oh, I'm pretty sure I could take you down like that (snap my fingers)!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Man: (returned laughter) My 83 year old mother could take me down like that!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: (courtesy laughter while hoping we're finally done) Oh, there's my sister! Nice meeting you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He could've walked by, tapped me on the shoulder, said, "Hey, you're beautiful" and then went on his way like sweet old men do, but he actually waited for my sister to leave and then sat down and made himself comfortable! A behavior more suited to creepy old men. He had balls, though. Gotta give him that.</span>jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-89647408023418287932012-09-08T13:25:00.000-07:002012-09-08T13:25:07.607-07:00Grandmas say the darndest things<span style="font-size: large;">So, my grandma has officially lost her marbles. She has left the building. Literally, in fact, because she now requires 24 hour care. She poops almost uncontrollably, talks to people who aren't there (and some who don't actually exist) and has been diagnosed with the big D - Dementia. Being the kind of person who would rather look for the funny than dwell on the sad, I'd like to highlight some of her more humorous rantings.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Here are some of the ideas Grandma has gotten into her head lately:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">1. My sisters are having a double wedding (one sister is engaged, one is single - Grandma didn't tell us who the single sister is marrying and I'm sure said sister would like to know).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">2. My older sister is pregnant (she's not so much <i>pregnant</i> as she is NOT pregnant).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">3. My dad died. He had heart surgery and didn't make it (he's alive and kicking so, naturally, now we tease him about his tiny dried up little heart).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">4. (And this is the best one) The Ex died and I needed to make money so I moved to LA and became a prostitute (To semi-quote Chelsea Handler: I'm not a prostitute - I don't charge people!). And as if that wasn't enough?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 4a. I brought my sister's ex-boyfriend with me to LA because he needed to make money, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 4b. I am trying to steal her boyfriend. She's been talking a lot about her first love (one day my uncle found her with a packed suitcase and when he asked where she was going, she said, "Laurie is coming to pick me up. We're going to Vegas." Did I mention that she's 92 years old?) so once, when I was visiting her, I asked for his last name and suggested we look him up and find him (the Nicholas Sparks romantic in me wanted to see her reunited with her first love 70 or so years later), to which she responded, "Oh, he's here. He could be under this table right now, but no one will bring him to me." Then, after I left, she told my aunt, "That Jennifer Liotta, she's after Laurie." (Well, I am in the market for a man in his 90s.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I read something somewhere that said, statistically, a husband will die six to 18 months after his wife dies. I couldn't find anything that said how long a wife would survive after the death of her husband, but my Grandpa died 10 years ago and Grams is still kicking and screaming. Literally. She told one of the nurses (who she thinks is her maid/butler/cook), "I'm going to tell my son to fire you! I don't need you here and if you don't leave me alone I'm gonna punch you in the face!" Can you blame her? It's so hard to find good help to wipe your ass these days.</span>jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-19462250202072727602012-08-29T23:12:00.000-07:002012-08-29T23:12:25.802-07:00Dumb Detox, Day 28!<span style="font-size: large;">I did it! 28 days no refined sugar, no gluten, no red meat, no dairy, no ALCOHOL!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At work today, people kept asking me what I'm going to do now. As if I just won the Superbowl. I don't plan on changing much dietary-wise. But come Friday night, I am retoxing cocktail-wise. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">With the exception of Parmesan withdrawals the first couple times I ate rice pasta and the high probability of eating my own arm if I hadn't gotten to eat chicken when I did, I really didn't have any cravings. I put all my forbidden foods on the top shelf of my refrigerator with the intent to take them to my parent's house. Of course, my lazy ass never ended up doing that, so it all just sat there. Eggs, four different kinds of cheese, 9 grain sourdough bread, turkey bacon...and I never even noticed them! Never got tempted. My hippie sister says it's because eating the foods causes the cravings - so if you don't eat them, your brain no longer thinks it wants them. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I was told a long time ago (by one of those emails my mom forwarded to me) that if you're craving chocolate it means your body needs Magnesium, so you should eat an apple instead. I was like, yeah, my body may want magnesium, but my mouth wants chocolate. And you know what doesn't taste like chocolate? A fucking apple! My hippie sister laughed at me when I told her that I haven't craved chocolate at all during this 28 day process and, coincidentally, I have been eating apples on the regular. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I ate quite often, filled up fast, found I wasn't as hungry as usual and lost 9 pounds total. Hippie sister was like, "Isn't it amazing how different your body reacts when you give it food it can actually digest?" Alright, I think I've rebelled long enough. There might be something to this healthy eating business.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Here are some dumb lessons I learned on this dumb detox:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">1. You do have to drink to have fun - if you go to a bar.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">2. You'd be surprised the things you can do - or not do - when you're afraid your hippie sister is going to get even more skinny than you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">3. Detoxing makes you poop a lot. And I already poop a lot.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">4. After being miserably bloated, you do get that burst of energy that people talk about - and it turns you into an asshole who says the kind of annoying, positive, motivational shit you used to enjoy making fun of.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">5. Rice bread tastes like cake...if cake tastes like cardboard.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">28 down, 0 to go! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Thanks for taking this journey with me! I hope you enjoyed a few cocktails while reading.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-82273610752316381162012-08-28T21:31:00.001-07:002012-08-28T21:31:51.055-07:00Dumb Detox, Days 25-27<span style="font-size: large;">On the eve of the final day of this dumb detox, I can't help but think that in about 27 hours...I can have WINE again! I want to pour wine in my food and in my mouth. (I may not even take the time to use a glass.) I want to take a wine shower and wash my hair with drinkable wine shampoo. I want to sit in a bathtub full of wine while sipping a glass of wine. I would have wine for breakfast on Thursday morning if I didn't have to go to work. Hmm, maybe I should call in sick.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">27 down, 1 to go!</span><br />
<br />jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-74158506046262229892012-08-26T12:47:00.000-07:002012-08-26T12:47:12.802-07:00Dumb Detox, Days 22-24<span style="font-size: large;">This weekend I met some friends at the local piano bar. I couldn't eat (or drink) there, so I had to plan ahead. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Since I can't have beef yet and I'm not sure if bison
(Buffalo...Buff...Tatonka) counts as a game meat, I thought I would be
clever and make a meat loaf out of ground chicken. It was not clever.
I couldn't put eggs, bread crumbs or wine in it, and chicken is not
very fatty, so it ended up tasting mostly like cardboard with a hint
of garlic. Note to self: don't try to be clever with ground chicken.
And don't buy ground chicken.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, when my friend asked if I'd like to go I was like, sure! I can't drink, but I can still be awesome! The thing is, a bar is a very different place when you don't get to drink. I mean, even when you're the designated driver you can have a drink or two early in the night and be fine to drive home by the time 2am rolls around; and you have something to hold and sip throughout the night. When you can't drink you just sit there, disdainfully watching all the drunk idiots, wishing you were a drunk idiot, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The one thing that doesn't change is the people watching. Drunk or sober, it is always entertaining to watch cougars pretend they are not dancing that way (you know what way I mean - hips shifting slowly side to side, one arm up, the other holding a drink, head gently nodding to the music and busting out a WOO! every now and again) for the male twenty-something audience. The sad thing is, there's a strong possibility that will be me in the not too distant future. I mean, let's face it, I'm not getting any less single. Here's what I've learned about how to be a cougar:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">1. Your face doesn't have to be all that pretty, you just have to wear enough make up that it looks pretty from across the bar (I believe this is know as the full on Monet, the 50 yard fake out, and/or the butterface).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">2. You must have a rockin' 25 year old bod that doesn't go with your obviously 45 year old face.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">3. You must dress like a 25 year old to go with your rockin' 25 year old bod that doesn't go with your obviously 45 year old face.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">4. You must dance like you're in a sorority.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm working on the healthy rockin' bod first. 24 down, 4 to go!</span><br />
<br />
jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-62059778275044354102012-08-23T06:49:00.000-07:002012-08-23T06:55:15.092-07:00Dumb Detox, Days 19-21<span style="font-size: large;">I've been so excited about getting to add meat back into my diet that for the last 3 days I've been maybe - possibly - deliriously - happy.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Happy Meatday! Chicken in my salad! Chick, chick, chick chicken in my salad! Ground turkey in my marinara! Ground turk, turk, turkey in my marinara! It's a B-E-A-Utiful day, isn't?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Is Bison considered a game meat? Or does it not count because it's red? Although, lamb is red and it counts.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">(sister) Excellent question, you can eat lamb and really how different are lamb and bison?! ha!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I know, lamb and buffalo are practically synonymous! Well, and it says all "game meats," doesn't that mean all the weird shit like lamb? Maybe I'll wait, just in case. They have lamb shanks and lamb loins...I wouldn't know what to do with either of those. How cute, you can buy AH loin! I don't even own AH loin, let alone many loins that would necessitate an entire lamb. What am I gonna do with a lamb loin?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Hey, let's go to Sprouts to get the ingredients for the chick pea - sweet potato hippie burgers. Then I can get some gluten free hippie bread and taste free hippie snacks!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Dude, seriously? I think chicken gives me gas! I put 3oz in my salad and I'm tootin' like a MoFo! Hoping they're residual vegetable toots. Don't want to give up chicken! But ya know, where's the logic in that, anyway? No one would ever say, "Vegetables give you rich, stinky gas and turn your shit green? You should probably stop eating those!" Although, I wish someone would. Oh, le foof.</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">21 down, 7 to go!</span></span>jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-6882903101385970052012-08-20T21:51:00.000-07:002012-08-20T21:51:47.004-07:00Dumb Detox, Days 16-18<span style="font-size: large;">We got to add back nuts* and beans (or <i>legumes</i> - if you're feeling fancy). This weekend was all about nuts* for me. And because I have the sense of humor of a 12 year old boy, every time I say the word 'nuts'* I think of male genitalia. And I laugh like Beavis and Butthead.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I brought apples, celery and almond butter with me to work on Friday for my snacks and then carried on the tradition Saturday and Sunday. I didn't really explore the bean department - not when I had so many delicious nuts* around!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I eat the almond butter, I have to keep a tablespoon on hand (I even brought one to work) so I am sure to measure my servings. I need that kind of control. Otherwise, my apple wedges and celery stalks become edible spoons for to shovel almond butter into my face hole.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So far, I'm not having any bad reactions. I don't think I'm allergic to nuts*. Unless we <i>are</i> talking about male genitalia, in which case I will definitely say I'm allergic to nuts* if it means I have to keep my face far away from them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">18 down, 10 to go!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />*hehe, nuts</span>jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-68016634279520871042012-08-17T21:35:00.000-07:002012-08-17T21:35:59.455-07:00Dumb Detox, Days 14 & 15<span style="font-size: large;">The ass flush week is over and we get to add things back to our diet now - starting with gluten free breads, cereals and starches and dairy-free dairy products (made from rice - not soy).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Day 14: </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I am such a happy camper today! I had a half serving of oatmeal for breakfast with my shake (wasn't hungry enough for a whole serving!) and brought a salad and rice pasta with marinara to work. I made the marinara last night and it was really had not to put wine in it - or MEAT for that matter - but it's still pretty damn good if I do say so myself. It could use some Parmesan...ahh cheese...Anyway, I blended avocados into the salad dressing (The Magic Bullet - best purchase ever) to make it all creamy. I'm so creative!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Oh em gee. I couldn't finish my pasta. Not because it didn't taste good. But because I am FULL. What? Huh? Yeah! I'm full! Okay, so maybe I served myself 2 portions of pasta and I only ate 1 and a half...but where I come from, that's called PROGRESS, sister! I would please like a medal or reward of some kind? K, thx.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I couldn't finish my dinner pasta either! I have an extra serving for tomorrow! This is totally whack. Sup with the whack detox, sup!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Day 15:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I added arugula to my salad today. Totally spiced it up. And I have a new way of cooking broccoli and green beans. I kinda copied the idea from Buca. I saute them in olive oil and lemon juice with garlic and a little salt. They're crunchy (said like Giada with a strong R) and delicious!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Can't wait for tomorrow - we get to add back nuts and beans! Wow, that may be the dumbest thing I've ever been excited about. Well, probably not, but let's not go there.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">15 down, 13 to go! </span>jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-40321124656538804432012-08-14T22:21:00.000-07:002012-08-14T22:21:40.993-07:00Dumb Detox, Days 11-13<span style="font-size: large;">This string of texts is what happens when you go an entire week eating only fruits, vegetables and rice:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Me: Dude, yesterday was painful. I think my rice went bad. It had a weird sour taste. And my roasted vegetables turned out nasty. I tried just Italian seasoning like you did, but instead of tasting delicious like yours it tasted like dirt and sticks were sprinkled on my veggies. I clearly didn't drown them in enough oil so when I go home I sauteed them with garlic. They only got a little better, not a lot. Sad face. I need meat! Both kinds, if ya know what I mean. This full body detox is really putting a damper on my slutty urges.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sister: haha, that is awesome! I mean it's not but it is. I made more dumb vegetables last night but I also made some dumb broccoli so at least I'll have a different dumb flavor in my dumb mouth!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Me: hahahaha! I had already added dumb broccoli to my dumb vegetables. I jumped the dumb gun!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Me: P.S. I did not enjoy my turnip. I don't know if I picked a bad one or cut it wrong or maybe it was parsnip I liked last time because my turnip tastes like sour ass. How's yours?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sister: I'm worried about the turnip. I didn't like the way it smelled when I cut it yesterday...I'm nervous about it. I'll let you know in a bit when I eat it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Me: It's interesting. I am extremely hungry right now, my stomach was growling a moment ago, but as soon as I start to fork up some salad I become painfully full. I'm beginning to think vegetables are the devil. Maybe I need to start drinking my veggies like the guy in that documentary.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i> Yep. Just took a bite and it activated my gag reflex. Wretched micro-nutrient rich foods!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sister (regarding turnip): It tastes like butt cauliflower to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Me: Butt cauliflower? As opposed to foot cauliflower? Or fart cauliflower?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sister: haha, as opposed to regular cauliflower.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Me: Gross. That's the worst kind! haha</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, these are the kinds of conversations we have. Sometimes it's like we're drunk, except neither of us has had a drop of alcohol in over 2 weeks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tomorrow we get to add back things like rice crackers, rice pasta, rice cakes, oatmeal and other gluten free, bland starches/bread/cereals. I'm pretty impressed that I made it through days 7-13 without getting fired from work/friends/family or life in general.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">13 down, 15 to go!</span>jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8150198244732113190.post-35093713156700346602012-08-12T09:12:00.000-07:002012-08-14T21:50:58.713-07:00Dumb Detox, Days 8-10<span style="font-size: large;">Day 8:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">(On dressing up to see Les Miserables) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">How come I'm thinner than I was when I bought this dress, yet it feels tighter than it used to around my waist? Oh, right, because I'm bloated. Stupid fiber!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Day 9:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">(On my private dance lesson)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We're doing cha cha today? I don't know if that's a good idea. I'm rockin' a major fiber baby right now and I can't be responsible for what might come out if I shake it too much. Damn <i>fiber</i>!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Day 10:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">(On existing)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This morning I weighed myself. Then, an hour and a half later, I pooped and weighed myself again. I pooped a pound!* A whole pound! And yet, I'm so bloated that if I was in a plane and we had to prepare for an emergency water landing, I could use myself as the floatation device. I'm a bloatation device! <i>F*ck you, fiber</i>!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">10 down, 18 to go! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">*I'm such a delicate flower. It's weird I'm still single. </span><br />
<br />jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900359996859274124noreply@blogger.com0