A quote from one of my boyfriend's e-mails (Yes, I used the "b" word for Sparkle Pants): "Hope you had fun with the kiddies today, not that it could top fake snow, wet dogs, unusual purple-colored briar bushes from the experimental forest and blanket burritoes."

I love that he remembers all the little details of all the stupid things we say and do, and I love that he appreciates their weird wonderfulness as much as I do. I love that he smells good, and I love that he seems to know what I'm thinking without even asking.

I hate that I turn into mega girlie girl at least once every time we're together... but at least I'm happy.
:)

location: under the cat mood: loved

There's been a running joke about how I've moved past the point in my life where all I want is a one night stand... now I've bought two nightstands. That suggestive wordplay has opened the door to seemingly endless references. Tonight, Sparkle Pants and I were assembling my new bed. It all started when I was turning a screw in a tight spot that his hands were too big to reach.
"You're better at screwing than I am."
"Well, I've had more practice. I've been screwing all over my bedroom since last weekend."
Then, as I was using a rubber mallet to knock wooden dowels into the slot, there were jokes about how I can do all the banging because Sparkle Pants just likes to watch. Before he made his exit (not prematurely), he mentioned that I did a lot more screwing than he did this evening.
"Of course. I just needed you to hold wood until I got the job done."
The wooden side rails were too heavy for me to support by myself while using the electric screwdriver.


Once the silliness subsided, Sparkle Pants and I hung out for a while. Right before he left to go back to work, he ran to his car and brought back a Valentine's gift. It was wrapped neatly, and was a complete surprise! He even wrote a sweet note inside the card. It was officially the first Valentine I've received from someone other than my mother, and I was a complete sucker. I instantly turned into uber-girlie-girl and couldn't stop grinning. I'm pretty sure I embarrassed him, but I think he liked it.

(I forgot to mention my "sexy" move. I accidentally superglued kleenex to my hand in the bed assembly process.)

location: home mood: optimistic music: South Park on tv

I went out of town Fri-Sat for a continuing education conference (aka 2-day snooze fest), so the bedroom furniture I ordered arrived on Friday... of course. Luckily I have a friend who was willing to move the boxes inside since UPS thought it was appropriate to not get a signature and just leave 7 boxes of expensive furniture sitting in the driveway. I assembled 2 nightstands and a dresser so far. They look fantastic - drastically improved over my old crappy "furniture." (I hesitate to even call it furniture.)
It's not like I built the furniture myself, I just followed directions for how to put it together. The hardest thing I had to do was line up the drawer glides with the holes and screw them on. No matter how easy it is, a pile of wood and metal coming together to make a recognizable piece of furniture is very satisfying when you're the one doing the assembling. Using power tools (that's what I call my electric screwdriver) makes it even better.
All I have left to assemble is the bed, and I need an assistant because it's too big for me to hold some of the pieces up myself. I have to start working on my pitch that convinces a strong friend or two that assembling my bed will be super fun. The mattress gets delivered Saturday, so time is short. Plus, the headboard box is currently blocking the tv and I can't move it. "Hey - want to come over and watch a movie? Great. Oh shit. There's a giant box in front of the tv. Wait! Do you know what's more fun than watching a movie?? Assembling a bed! We're in luck!" Can't wait to see how that one works.

location: sitting in front of the big box mood: accomplished music: alison krauss

A few days ago, one of my patients (an elderly man) proceeded to call me "Toots." I made the mistake of telling the guy I'm dating this, and now he calls me Toots as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. I tried to come up with the male equivalent and had a difficult time. Every derogative nickname I could come up with was meant for women, and that seems entirely unfair. I figured I could use "Doll Face" or "Sweet Cheeks," but it's not the same as having a demeaning term that is gender-specific. "Pookie" and "Schnookums" are rather gender-neutral, but there's a serious need for male pet names. I propose "Sparkle Pants," because I believe most men will enjoy being called Sparkle Pants just as much as most women would enjoy being called Toots.

location: home mood: silly music: South Park on tv

Hi. My name is Jennifer. I'm an ice cream addict. I realize this, but I'm not ready to change. If I went through rehab, I assume there would be a high likelihood of relapse for me. I can't stop. I love the way it looks, the way it feels as it melts on my tongue, the way it tastes. Vanilla, chocolate, peanut butter... I've even started to eat flavors I used to dislike just because I want to eat ice cream. Frozen yogurt isn't good enough. Yesterday I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things before cooking dinner, and I accidentally bought 3 pints of Ben & Jerry's because they were on sale. I see that my problem is real, but I just can't quit. Help.

location: work mood: guilty music: none

Contrary to popular opinion, we do NOT all look alike.
In the past, I've been told that I look like Kellie Martin, Katie Holmes, Jennifer Aniston, Rachel Leigh Cook, Nicole Kidman (when she had brown hair), and countless other brown-haired women. I also look "exactly" like the cousin/sister-in-law/neighbor/second-cousin-once-removed of about 14,000 people.
Today, a co-worker pointed out an article in a gossip magazine comparing two women. They wrote similar books and I believe there's a lawsuit about plagairism going on between them. The story below their picture mentioned similarities in the books and the women, and said that they look almost exactly alike. I looked back at the pictures. They look nothing alike. They have different eyes, different mouths, different noses, different face shapes, different body types... but they both had brown hair in similar haircuts.
Look a little closer, people.

location: work music: hearing aid feedback

I just went on the fastest blind date of my life. We met for dinner, and I was back home in under an hour. The guy's handsome and nice. He's also quiet, and I suck at small talk. I couldn't tell if he was shy and nervous, or if he saw me in person and decided he wanted to get out of there as fast as he could. Maybe I'm crazier/scarier/intimidating-er than I think I am.
Guess I'll find out if I ever hear from him again.

location: home... already mood: confused music: bob marley

Let me preface this by saying that I am a HUGE fan of Sarah McLachlan's voice and music. I think she has one of the most pure, beautiful voices and writes poetic lyrics that you can't help but fall in love with. That being said, I also believe her music is cursed.
The belief started in college on a road trip to Virginia Beach. Three times along the way, we heard Sarah's music on the radio, and each time it was followed by an emergency broadcast about an approaching tornado. We eventually had to pull over and sit inside a fast food restaurant for about 45 minutes until it was safe to drive again. We began to joke that if we heard Sarah on the radio, we knew trouble was ahead. On the way home from that trip, we stopped for a bathroom break. The gas station was playing music overhead, and it happened to be a Sarah McLachlan song. Before getting into the car, one of my friends tripped and twisted her ankle and skinned her knee. She pulled her bloodied self into the car and we made a pact to stop listening to Sarah until we got home.
What started as a joke has become a real superstition for me. I no longer believe it's just a coincidence. Over the years, Sarah's music has preceded several car accidents, the loss of a friend's dog, the loss of a wallet and cell phone, the jamming of a cd player, and, most recently, some horrible customer service.
Saturday evening, I drove over an hour to the closest Macy's store to shop for a new mattress set. They advertised great prices and a no interest/no finance charges deal if you use their credit card. I spent about an hour in the store laying on all the mattresses and choosing my favorite. I finally found one I liked and I completed the credit application. While I waited for an available associate, I started sending messages to friends about the exciting pending purchase. Then it happened. A Sarah McLachlan song came on and I had a terrible feeling that something was going to go wrong. A few minutes later, the associate approached me to help with the sale. I told him where I lived and asked if they offer delivery in that area. They do not. I made a few calls, and found a good friend who would drive a truck over an hour to the store to pick up the mattress set. I let the associate know this information and told him I was ready to proceed. He informed me that Macy's does not ship to his store, they only ship directly to the customers' homes. Unless I happen to know someone I can ask to stay home for a 5-hr time window who lives in the delivery area, my only other option is to drive four hours to Atlanta to pick it up. Completely unacceptable. My guests will have to sleep on the couch for a while longer.
I'd say that Macy's has a horrible policy that makes no sense, but in all actuality it was probably all due to the Sarah McLachlan song that played before I made the sale.
Be safe. Listen carefully.

location: home mood: distressed music: anything but Sarah McLachlan

Dreams fascinate me. The images and stories my subconscious mind creates are almost always unique, creative, and... inexplicable.

Last week I had a dream that I was working my usual Saturday volunteer job at a re-sale home goods store. I went to the break room to sign in, and saw a baby elephant. Come to find out, it wasn't a baby - it was a full-grown miniature elephant... with a box on its back. The elephant was about 4' tall, and its body had a box with a lid (a "trunk," if you will) where his stomach would normally be. The box was cream colored with pink roses on it and it reminded me of a little girl's jewelry box except that it was huge and seemed to somehow be part of this mini elephant's anatomy. I went out into the store, and the rosy elephant followed me. Unfortunately, its size and the box made it a bit clumsy, and it kept knocking over merchandise. The Saturday manager informed me that one of the hearing aid companies I work with had a rep come in and drop off the elephant as part of a new promotion. I became highly upset when I realized they didn't also leave food or instructions on elephant care. How irresponsible! I asked the manager what we were supposed to do with the poor thing, and he said, "I guess just hope it gets old and dies of natural causes." I became extremely sad for the innocent little elephant. I sat down to think about how we were going to care for it and if it would be possible for someone to take it home. The mini elephant put its head in my lap, begging to be petted. I petted its head until it fell asleep in my lap. The elephant's skin felt sweaty. Eventually, it woke up and I got back to work, but I was still worried about the sweaty elephant. It kept following me around, begging to be petted. I wanted to show the elephant that I cared for it, but I really didn't want to keep touching its sweaty skin. Then I noticed it had two sets of horns on its head - a short, pointy set near the center, and a longer, curved set toward the outside. I started wondering if it was a real elephant at all. Then I woke up.

What on earth does a neglected, sweaty, horned elephant with an integrated rosy box symbolize? Maybe nothing. Maybe my subconscious mind just likes to keep me entertained while I'm sleeping.

location: home mood: thoughtful music: john butler trio

I was going to post about issues I'm having with my sister. She's making some really stupid decisions (in my opinion), and I'd like to knock some sense into her. I'd also like to blindfold her, throw her in the trunk of the car, and force her into therapy. She's depressed, but she's in denial. She needs to talk to someone, and she may even need meds, but she won't take that step. All of that drama is for another time...
When I sat down to post about that, I thought about how offended some people get when I use the word "retarded." They take it to mean that I am belittling and making fun of people who were born with a disadvantage.
HOWEVER
I have never seen a child with Downs Syndrome and said, "Here comes that retarded kid," or crossed paths with an adult with severely decreased mental abilities while thinking, "Look at that retard."
I HAVE seen a friend of my sister's who is known to make unfunny jokes and flail his arms in a so-called-humorous manner walking past and said, "Here comes that retarded kid." I've also seen a drunken frat-boy type pathetically attempting to hit on a girl in a bar and thought, "Look at that retard."
In other words, when I say "retarded" it is not meant in the 1940's sense that is equivalent to "crippled," it is meant in the 1980's sense that is equivalent to "dipwad." I wish more people could understand that.

location: work mood: aggravated music: f'ing christmas music