The Penguining

Last night in the kitchen at work, I spied two lonely paper plates. The penguins they were decorated with were begging me to be set free, so I obliged them. I spirited the plates back to my desk, borrowed a co-worker's scissors, and began the arduous task of breaking the Penguin Six from their papyrus prison. Deftly, carefully, I cut the penguins out. I also cut out some snow flakes, because after all, what are penguins if they come without snow I ask you? I'll tell what they are, plain old birds, and the world has enough of those. I decided that my new friends would be relocated to a sanctaury not far away, a wonderous and clinically clean place called Marie's Cubicle. I could think of no better place to set these happy fellows free. After everyone was gone, I took the penguins to this wildlife refuge and put them here and there along with their maroon-colored snow flakes. In the morning, Marie, the keeper of the Cubicle, asked me if I had "penguined" her cubicle. "Who me?" I asked wide-eyed, feigning my knowledge of the incident. The conversation went something like this...

Marie: did you penguin my cube?
Jen: penguins? You have penguins?
Marie: somebody penguined my cube
Marie: it's festivus overhere
Jen: that's hysterical
Marie: was it you?
Jen: penguinas festivus
Marie: oh, it's you
Marie: i've got my eyes on you, missy
Marie: i'm doing the two fingered eye point thing
Jen: I'm dying... who ratted me?
Marie: well, i went through all the usual suspects
Marie: and everybody came up empty
Marie: so you are Kaiser Soze
Jen: yes, yes i am
Jen: They told me to do it
Marie Honme: evil evil penguiner
Marie: LOL
Jen: When the penguins talk, I listen
Marie: oh, the voices again
Marie: i should have known
Marie: the drinking is not just for the weekends, is it? is it?
Jen: hahahaha. Yeah, the opium is during the week
Marie: nice

When the penguins talk, I listen...

Sorry Santa, I can't tell you what time it is

So a) I never believed in Santa, and b) Santa visited my 1st grade class and was handing out oranges. I was wearing my mom's watch, but I still couldn't tell time. It was more of an accessory thing. Anyway, the Santa asks me what time it is and I can't tell him, and he asks why I am wearing the watch if I can't tell time. Santa shamed me.

Why did Santa do that to me do you suppose? That Santa sucked rather large kibble if I do say so myself. Many humiliating events occurred in my elementary years. Once upon a time we were playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey; the teacher spun my little blind-folded face round and round, and when I went to pin the tail, I just kept walking. When the laughter started, I ripped off the blindfold and saw that I was no where near the board. They had spun me and left me facing the wrong direction. Damn them. Damn them all.

Another time I was being tormented by a couple of boys. I remember the bigger one's name was Donald, and he had one of those continuously hoarse voices and wore overalls. He had a small side kick with uber blonde hair that reminded me of Woodstock. One day at recess I believe I was trying to get away from them and fell ass first into a mud puddle. These were the days when I still wore dresses. My white tights were soaked and now a cafe au lait color. I remember nothing after that. Oh the formative years... sucked. Sucked hard.

Say Cheese!

The other morning I walked into the kitchen here at work, and instantly I was assaulted, assailed, and accosted by a co-worker who saw that I was pulling a container of cottage cheese out of my back pack to put in the refridgerator. She told me that the people in my work area had a discussion about the evils of this nefarious food even before I got into work that morning. And I was the catalyst for this haranguing because as of late I've been bringing in cottage cheese and fruit as a snack, the ambrosia of old people everywhere. Then she told me that the thought of eating fruit and cottage cheese together was abhorrent, not in words, but with a grimace and a shudder of epic proportions.

Apparently I live in a world of cottage haters. Let me give you a bit of trivia: One of President Richard Nixon's favorite breakfast foods was cottage cheese covered with ketchup and/or black pepper. How's that for a cottage combo? Makes my peaches sound relatively harmless.

Why do people find it necessary to tell me that what I am eating disgusts them? Do I tell them that the massive bowl of Ramen they are eating has like 32 grams of fat in it and really, do they think they need it when their ass is as broad as a small card table? Do I say, "Wow, that casserole concoction looks like braised baby hearts?" or "Gee, why don't you eat a vegetable instead of that third donut Fatty McFatterton?" No, I do not, and here's why: It's none of my fucking business what other people eat. If you want to eat rutabegas, then I say eat them until you blow up. What about sweet breads? Never had them, but if you eat them, well, let me know how the brains of others taste. And if you're in to eating other people, there's a guy across the street I'd like you to meet.

Is cottage cheese really that heinous? No one went into the woods to shoot a cottage cheese as it gently lapped water from a stream. No one electrocuted the cottage cheese to get its silky white curd coat to make a hat. No, someone squeezed a cow's teets to get some milk to make some cheese. So get over it, move on, and figure out something else to do with your time. I've got some curds and fruit to eat.

Oh Mickey You're So Fine...

Did you ever wonder what happened to Mickey Rourke's face? He was so darn cute in the 80's. Yes, I know, the 80's was a long time ago, and Mickey Rourke has aged, but that's not why he looks so frightful. He looks frightful because he has a syndrome. It's called "In an effort to assuage the ravages of time, I got a bunch of plastic surgery, too much in fact and now I look like a freakshow creep with too little skin on my normal-sized skull" Syndrome, or IAETATROTIGABOPSTMIFANILLAFCWTLSOMNSS Syndrome. Oh Mickey, we hardly knew ye. Where did ye go? All your sweet face and movie star career was left on some surgeon's operating room floor, rinsed away into the drain in the middle of the tiles. How could his agent let that happen? You would think he would have his best interests at heart, since Mickey's salary paid his salary. Maybe the agent was a sadist who wished ill will on Mickey, and boy did Mickey get it. And what good surgeon would keep cutting on pretty Mickey's face when he had so little to work with? The only thing to do now is invent a time machine and go back and warn Mickey of the Past about Mickey the Assuager so that he doesn't become Mickey of the Present. Britney Spears says time travel can be done, and I believe her. So now I shall retire to my drawing board and begin the plans for my Mickey Rourke Time Machine. If all goes well, you'll see a new Mickey soon. An aged Mickey to be sure, but a Mickey without the Sleestack qualities we know so well. Wish me luck.

Touch my Chicken and Die

Is it normal to be ravenous all the time? I could eat a whole pot roast right now. And some fried chicken. And a chocolate cake. One after the other, just like Wheat Thins. The problem is that my little body loves, absolutely loves the fat in these types of victuals. Therefore, if I give in to my ravenous...ness, I shall balloon. No, no string here, just a massive cartoon-like figure bobbing down the lane, listing from side to side, in an effort to remain upright. Such a pretty girl I am.
When Macy's has its parade, I will be front and center. You'll know me because I'll be the one with a giant chicken leg in one hand, and an ice cream cone in the other. Keep your distance... the chicken is mine.

House of Milquetoast

It has come to my attention that I have no style. No edge. I am bland, boring, milquetoast. Has this been going on long? Well I don't know. Apparently no one's had the heart to tell me that my outfits are about as exciting as the Bamboo Dance on Lawrence Welk (which oddly enough is one of the more upbeat numbers that I ever saw Bobby and Sissy do). Today I wear a black button up shirt with white polka dots and subtle ruching, jeans and black (fake) croc boots. Sure it sounds cool, but it's puke. Do you know how I sauced it up? A red belt with grommets. That you can't even see. Cause the shirt covers it up. Some one shoot me into space. I long to wear things like lacey high-collared blouses, but I would look like someone's semi-retarded step sister from the Victorian era. I did in fact try one on the other day at the Buffalo Exchange, the local consignment shop. My friend Kara took one look at it and said, "It fails." That's right, my F is not for fashion, it's for failure. Soon enough I won't care about what I wear. As the years pass me by, I can look forward to polyester pants and bedazzled acid-washed denim hats. Oh what bejeweled joy awaits me.

We are Jennifer

So let's talk about my name shall we? It's Jennifer. One of the, no wait, THE most common name ever. It's like every mother from 1968 until 1980 had a virus: Jenniferus Namimicus. What the hell were they all thinking? Do you know how many times I had two other Jennifers in a class with me? It's like the Borg, only we were pimply-faced teenagers and the hardware was on our teeth instead of shooting out of the back of our heads. Once we found out that there were legion of us, we had to go through the whole naming convention. Ok, picture this, it's 1983, and I in my super cool rainbow shirt and head gear am deciding who's going to go by what. "Ok, you can be Jennifer, and you can be Jen, and I'll be Jennie, with an ie." People don't realize that I know when you are saying my name with a y instead of an ie. I can hear it. But no matter, because no one is allowed to call me Jennie. Ever. EVER. But I digress. Don't get me wrong, I love my name. People tend to think of it as cool or smart or even sexy. But it reeks havoc when there is more than one of us in the vicinity. I figure the only logical solution is to have all other Jennifers killed, or at least disfigured so no one wants to talk to them anyway. That way there would be no confusion. I would be the Jennifer. The Jennifer. But perhaps if you're lucky, you can call me Jen.

Ohhh-hhhh Domino

So apparently, the world is full of herpes.

Herpes here, herpes there, herpes herpes -- and I'm not kidding -- every where. Several people I know recently found out that they have it. Like a big herpes domino set up, down they all came, one by one, until they all had it. Except me. Well, what I'll have to do is go and get tested, and most likely I'll have a simplex that no one has ever heard of that causes ear mold and burned toast. One in four has the dreaded beastie; either simplex 1, which is most often a cold sore (which I have and is soooo much fun), or simplex 2, which I am sure that the devil himself created one day when it was raining outside and he was feeling particularly irascible.

The word itself is derived from Latin, from Greek herpEs, from herpein -- to creep. To creep! Yes, and that's how the evil thing gets from one person to another, sheet creeping. Spit swapping. Intermucosal mingling. I totally made that last one up, but it sounded really good. Oh man, I just can't take it. I have enough problems as it is. A dysfunctional colon. Bad feet. A tin spine. I don't need another catastrophic disease, especially one that burns up my nether regions. Pray for my girl parts.