Sometimes, I’m Kind of an Idiot

So I haven’t been feeling quite right for the last several days, more than a week really.  Feet swollen, issues with heartburn, itchy, and other things you probably don’t want details about.  And I couldn’t explain it.  I’ve been eating well, even getting more fruits and vegetables than previously.  I’m drinking plenty of water and everything.

In fact, my employer has started providing fruit in the office.  Why, I’ve been eating an orange or a couple of clementines for breakfast every morning.  Ate a whole pile of orange slices with dinner last night.  They were delicious.  All that vitamin C yummyness should have me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, right?

Oh yeah!  That’s right.  I was allergic to oranges as a kid.  Maybe, just maybe, I should kinda limit my intake of them a bit as an adult.

Duh!  Just because you out-grow a childhood allergy, doesn’t mean you get to go all hog wild on the forbidden fruit.  And really, it shouldn’t take weeks of such behavior before it dawns on you why you might not be feeling so great.

Oh citrus mistress!  Why must you seduce me so?



Start The New Year With A Random Injury

Maybe, just maybe, drunken sparing in a friend’s living room wasn’t the smartest idea. But hubby and I had to do something while they were putting together the hide-a bed for us. Hubby won. I’m way too nice to kick him in his already bad knees.

For Jennifer’s 1st lesson of 2011, drunken sparing leads to swollen and hurty pinky fingers.

Don’t worry, it was that crooked before. Broke it a long time ago. Playground fight with a boy. I must say, typing so far is way more painful in 2011 than it was in 2010.

Um Weird

I’ve been suffering with this weird pain for the last few days.  It feels like I pulled a muscle.  Which would be completely normal for someone as accident prone as I am, but it’s a strange muscle and I can’t figure out how I possibly could have pulled it.

It’s the muscle on the right side of my jaw.  It’s even kind of swollen.  I’m afraid to ask the internet how this is possible.  I know how the internet thinks and we are pretending this is a family friendly site.  And yet, I go to Google anyway.


Apparently, you can pull a muscle in your face.  Guess I was grinding my teeth.  I’ve had issues with TMJ for years too.  Ah what would we do without Dr. Google?  But hey, it gives me a chance to add a random injuries category.  I’m sure it will have plenty of content.  In fact, there are already some posts that belong there.

See what I did there?  I don’t really have anything meaningful to write about today and so I directed you to old stuff.  It’s because I love you all so very much.

If You Need Me, I’ll Be In The Gym

Can I have a retry on today?


‘Cause um, it has not been the kind of day that makes a girl feel good about herself.  Just saying.

I stepped on the scale this morning and it read…substantially different than the last time I bothered to look.

Blew it off as a fluke.  Either today’s reading was bad or the former was wrong.  Either way, my jeans fit the same so it’s not a big deal.  Right?

Um.  I had to buy new jeans on my lunch break today.  The new pair is cute but unplanned.  I sat down in the car to head out to lunch and it was suddenly…breezy.

Yes, all of you that come here looking for ‘Jennifer’s Ass’ will be pleased to know that it tried to escape today.  (Seriously people, I’m going to adopt a donkey just so I can give you regular updates about my ass.)

So I had a spontaneous shopping trip on my lunch break today.  I know, all the cool kids are wearing their jeans that way on purpose, but I can’t just let my ass escape like that.  I have readers to think about.  So the jeans were replaced with a pair in the same size, different brand, stretch denim. Unfortunately this means I must retire my made in the US pair in favor of a pair made in China.

At least I can remind myself that I’m smarter than this woman.  And this one.  Even though I do like cheese.  Hence the escaping ass problem.

So if you’ll excuse me, there’s a treadmill mocking me from upstairs.

I Know You Aren’t Working Anyway

I pop bubble wrap at 2.08 bubbles per second!

I popped 196 bubbles in 1 minute and 34.3 seconds
Can you beat my score?

Thanks Phlegmmy!

That was my score without Manic mode.

Smoke Alarm Needs Batteries

And my hair still smells like nasty burnt chicken carcasses.

Boss says I’m in a mood.

Not surprising.  3ish (maybe 4ish, maybe 2ish) hours of sleep will do that to a person.

Of course there’s a story.  There’s always a story when you start out like that.

Hubby is entering the chili cook-off at church next week and decided to start on his chili last night.  He and the kiddo filled up a stock pot with chicken and turkey bones to reduce to a stock.  They sliced all the tomatoes and other stuff and started them stewing in another pot.  Kiddo took a mallet to the meat to be added later. I was lazy and stayed out of the way.  Everything smelled amazing.

A friend stopped by for drinks and dinner.  So we enjoyed our steaks and beverages until far too late for a Sunday night when we’ve got to be at work in the morning.  We wished the friend well with promises of a text or phone call letting us know she arrived safely at her house.  Then we locked up the house and headed for bed.

The stock was still reducing (BIG stock pot, started late in the evening) so we turned the heat all the way down before falling into bed.  It had taken a while to reduce just a little.  Figured it would take that long again to get it where we wanted it.  Didn’t know another thing until a quarter til four this morning when I woke up smelling smoke.

Oh yeah.

So I shook hubby to something resembling consciousness, threw on my bath robe and headed out into the hall.  It should have struck me as odd that I couldn’t see the living room.  It’s not a big house.  And for home defense purposes, I never let it get completely dark.  I was most certainly aware of the fact that I could no longer breathe.  No, I did not remember the elementary lesson of crawling under the smoke.  Instead I flailed my arms wildly hoping to shew the smoke away as if it would behave like a fly.  3AM logic here.  Bear with me.

By the time I got to the kitchen, arms now fanning more than flailing, I discovered that the stove was the source of the smelly cloud.  So I turned it off.  Ding!  Ding!  Right answer.

Oh hai bladder!  So glad you decided to wake up for my smokey morning stumble.  Just what the DIY firefighter needs, a potty break.  Dash to the bathroom.  Also smokey.  Ah…

Suddenly I realize that the hazy adventures of Jen have been solo.  Hmm.  Wasn’t there a shaken hubby at the start of this?  Oh right!  So I headed to the bedroom nearly knocking over my dazed but now robed sweetheart.  You know, because even though the problem has been solved, my 3AM mind thinks he should follow in the same flailing, coughing stumble.  Poor guy has been fighting the crud of indeterminate end and hasn’t really had a sense of smell in days so it took a visual confirmation for him.  He too stumbled to the kitchen to investigate and found the burner now in the off position. And so he does what anyone with no sense of smell in a smokey house would do, sticks his head over the offending pot and opens the lid.  His head was immediately enveloped in nasty, burnt poultry carcass smoke. He could smell that.

Hack!  Cough!  Spit!

I opened the front door and the window on the screen door and plopped down on the floor where I could breathe.  Just like they teach in elementary school, get under the smoke.  Hubby blinked his eyes clear and got a drink of water.  Then he looked down at his wife sitting on the floor with her faced pressed against the screen and said, “I’m going back to bed.  You coming?”

“Mm Hmm.”

I locked the door and followed him back to bed.  As we fell into bed, I had a flash of brilliance and asked the real pressing question, “Is it salvageable?”

Yeah, that haze of burnt bird carcass didn’t clue me in to the fact that the stock had been reduced to carbon and stink and would not, in fact, be edible.

I opened a window and turned on the fan and proceeded to cough, snort, and sputter my way through the rest of the night.  Turns out, I can’t breathe smoke.  Also of note, it takes the exact amount of time for the air to become breathable (and thus sleepable*) as there was left until the alarm went off.

Needless to say, after much snoozing, there was no time to wash my hair before leaving for work.  Didn’t seem like a big deal until I realized that my hair smells like burnt poultry.  Lovely.

Yep.  Batteries.  Dead smoke detectors don’t go BEEP!  BEEP!  BEEP! when you fill the house with smoke.

*shut-up.  It’s a word dammit.  At least, it is today.

Household Advice

When the little whirly thing from your son’s toy gets flung into the far corner of the dining room, turn off the ceiling fan before climbing up on the kitchen table to look on top of the aquarium.

Bonus, those 5 bladed fans can get a couple of whacks in before you get out of the way.

Not that I would know anything about that…

Surely your host here in this kingdom of electrons is smarter than to stand on a glass table with her head in ceiling fan range…  Right?

You just know there isn’t really a lump on the right side of my head sending throbbing waves of pain across my vision.  No, nothing like that…

Couldn’t be.

If I die of a brain bleed, we’re going to blame it on something far more sinister than a ceiling fan.  K?

Oh I’m Glad I’m Not An Oscar Mayer Weiner…

Oh so very many dirty sounding things I could write about this.

But then again, I could break the Google using words like weiner and penetration.  I just hope the driver used some kind of protection.