tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73497422024-03-07T21:51:46.831-05:00jenny's journalBased on a True Storyjennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.comBlogger1083125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-51267318092340578922010-03-19T08:59:00.006-05:002010-03-19T09:51:50.695-05:00Caring for your Pets<span style="font-family: georgia;">Apparently, I've forgotten how to schedule posts on blogger. Ergh.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">And apparently, my son is having second thoughts about forgetting to take care of his guinea pig for weeks on end. I found this in my printer last night:</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;">I Know What I Want for My Birthday</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;">A few days ago I got home from school and I heard Charlie Brown making his usual “get me carrots” sound. Right away I knew why I had been feeling empty inside. I missed having a pet. I know that your first response is a quick “No, remember last time you had to have a pet?” but hear me out. I think that I have changed for the better and am more responsible then I was a year ago.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />When I came home one day and you had given Gretzky to Carly I felt like I had failed (I know that I did), but I want to revise that. Constantly hearing him cry for food and seeing his long, untrimmed nails made me realize that I ruined his life. When he was in Carly’s possession and he got sick, and stayed sick, I knew it was MY fault, not anyone else’s MINE. I said that he was going to die, just out of grief, and I apologize, if it still means anything. If you give me another chance I promise you that all those terrible things will change.<br /><br />I believe that I am more responsible now. I can take on a challenge and win. I can raise a happy animal of my own. I understand where you are coming from if you reject me but, I will be disappointed.<br /><br />I would like to make an outdoor hutch/run combo and get a rabbit/ guinea pig. I think this could be an opportunity for me because it would teach me to take care of an animal and responsibility. I think maybe I could put it in the front garden and plant around it. I would get sod and lay it down to make the hutch grassy.</span><br /><br />He is going to be 13. Most kids would probably want a laptop or a computer game, right?<br /><br />I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach and want to run right out and get him a fuzzy little creature. Except...we already have TWO fuzzy creatures. The guinea pig (formerly Gretsky, renamed Charlie Brown when my daughter "took over" a term I use loosely as she rarely cares for him) and the dog. Does he care for either of them voluntarily? No. When asked he will do it most times without complaint. Most times.<br /><br />But the guilt... is he feeling that guilty about the sick guinea? My word, then why was I the ONLY ONE to bring the poor thing veggies a few times a day, make sure his food and water were full and his bedding was changed?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Something I will never tell my boy: I thought he was going to die too kiddo and I might have even suggested that your father hit him square on the head with a shovel because the poor thing sounded and looked so miserable, a wheezy rattle with every breath - I was sure he wouldn't make the winter. But he did.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Miracle? Maybe, but give me the 1980 Olympic Hockey team miracle any day over this one....</span><br /><br />I am heartsick when I read his letter - he's so logical and for him, emotional. It's probably the truest thing he's written that I've ever read. I do feel bad that he feels <span style="font-style: italic;">so badly</span> but I have to steel myself and remember that he has every opportunity to hold and care for Mr. Charlie Brown and he doesn't even look in there most days. Is Charlie Brown's life ruined? Maybe it is. He seems pretty chipper though, squeaking when the fridge opens and running around his cage.<br /><br />The logical side of me is screaming Noooooo. And then I reread the letter and think 'How long does a bunny live for? Will he be leaving for college with a rabbit in the backseat?' and then I'm back to No. Never. And then I think 'Well, another guinea pig cage wouldn't fit anywhere would it? Can two males live together in one cage?' And then I'm thinking No. Uh-uh. And then I think....<br /><br />You see where this is going.<br /><br />So anyway, I'm just sharing here so that I can remain strong(ish). And really, when he came home from school that day to hear the guinea pig squeaking...did he bring him some veggies or did he grab himself a gatorade and a snack and drop himself in the chair to watch Pawn Stars onDemand?<br /></div>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-2710034804083453762010-03-16T22:50:00.000-05:002010-03-17T22:45:06.370-05:00A RefresherSo, hey now.<br /><br />It's been awhile. And my promise to dust off my keyboard was forgotten...you know you don't visit your blog too often if when you type the first three letters and a <a href="http://jenontheedge.com/">different site</a> pops down in the menu.<br /><br />Summer, fall and nearly winter have come and gone. More of the same here...<br /><br />The boy will be THIRTEEN in one month. Thirteen. Since we've last spoken he's gotten a cell phone and a girlfriend. He's still playing hockey and can text faster with his cheapo phone than I can type on a full size keyboard.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLQc_IQNjc5oDNThN79PPC9mWNFlWbTmav6xgneLboQ-dSj3omHG8upBeIn26UTZr8uakTfB8SQUHNKdiCFnIt0Kl66DgA7hKK8Y_7OpICS4f285lhZNWQd2tEQq8sDh_nGOZk/s1600-h/049.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLQc_IQNjc5oDNThN79PPC9mWNFlWbTmav6xgneLboQ-dSj3omHG8upBeIn26UTZr8uakTfB8SQUHNKdiCFnIt0Kl66DgA7hKK8Y_7OpICS4f285lhZNWQd2tEQq8sDh_nGOZk/s320/049.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441289170064619266" border="0" /></a>He flashes this look every two to three minutes to let us know just how disappointing we are.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div>My girl? Nine years old. She wants to do EVERYTHING. Last week after talking about signing her up for softball we're snuggled in watching some crazy downhill skiing thing...wipeout after wipeout. She turns to me and says "Mom, about softball..." I, thinking she's nervous to try something new says "Scared?" and she says "Nah, I think I'd rather ski".<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNj6k7eM_JFHhuc_g0bLgs6AmrkaDhQHNXh2Iw2Timu2Sz1lrfnqU5_UjWSdMDElM9WQz5frwre2xMQ1jDKunjjfv4GtQ_2mphcSr97SKFLQT5_XC9zsn6cQdpX9B507oiLGm/s1600-h/518.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 301px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNj6k7eM_JFHhuc_g0bLgs6AmrkaDhQHNXh2Iw2Timu2Sz1lrfnqU5_UjWSdMDElM9WQz5frwre2xMQ1jDKunjjfv4GtQ_2mphcSr97SKFLQT5_XC9zsn6cQdpX9B507oiLGm/s320/518.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441287517905918178" border="0" /></a><br />And that's about it on the kid front.<br /><br />The dog is, like, 85 pounds of lazy puppy. He's good, better than we could ever expect from a lab puppy. The husband? Working hard at coaching hockey - recently re-employed (the annual winter layoff appears to be over) and I? Am busy trying to juggle the kids sports, the almost-a-teen romance, the hockey coaches wife thing, school...I almost forgot SCHOOL, perfecting my homemade frosting, reading and watching The Wire or True Blood or Weeds or Surivor.<br /><br />Pretty much the same stuff that's been going on for the past four years or so.<br /><br />Hmm.<br /><br />And while part of me is disappointed that not a whole lot has change another part of me likes it just fine.<br /><br />I'm thinking this isn't going to make for too many interesting posts but I'm thinking of giving it another shot here...jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-26143849579729504022009-08-06T07:23:00.002-05:002009-08-06T07:37:37.315-05:00*dusts off the keyboard*<br /><br />Which might actually be true if I wasn't fritting my time away on that dastardly Facebook. Which, while I love it has some serious downfalls.<br /><br />If I read one more Hooray it's Friday! or Boo Mondays! I may weep. Save that shit for Twitter.<br /><br /><ul><li>The dog weighs almost sixty pounds. I don't know, but that seems big. I'm sure the growing will slow down a bit now. Maybe?</li><li>Was just told that my hours at work will be a joke once a big development project finishes up. From a local engineer: "this town is going to EXPLODE when that tower is done".</li><li>Shit. Love my small town.<br /></li><li>Sixty pound dogs make excellent foot warmers.<br /></li><li>Loving black cherry kool-aid.<br /></li><li>And frozen margaritas</li><li>Two weeks until vacation!</li></ul>And with that, I'm disappearing again. Not for long though...jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-14168279889326518072009-07-03T23:12:00.004-05:002009-07-04T09:59:30.225-05:00Well, now. My retinas are officially burned right out of my eyes.<br /><br />There is this giant glowy thing in the sky today and I just stared in wonder...<br /><br />FINALLY.<br /><br />Bedtimes have officially flown out the window this week - I ordered from Amazon for the first time since Christmas (which, just so you know, is a record hold out for me) and we're all staying up too late, tucked into bed with book lights and fans and a warm snuggly puppy.<br /><br />Well, only my boy has the puppy because the OFFICIAL word is that the dog is <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> allowed on the beds (so sayeth my husband) but the boy's room is upstairs and the dog quietly goes in there and my son is all too happy to have him jump up on the bed. Next thing I know, I can't find the dog and I'm going up the stairs to make sure he's with the boy and not gorging himself on his 40lb. bag of dog food in the cellar - and then I have to make a show of pretending to mind that the dog is curled up with my son. When really, I could honestly care less. And they both know it.<br /><br />My husband took the kids and two of their friends on a six mile bike ride today on the <a href="http://www.nae.usace.army.mil/recreati/ccc/ccchome.htm">Canal</a>. He and my daughter just got new bikes - so it was their maiden voyage. The girlie is eight but we're hoping to keep the bike for a few years and we thought she'd be outgrowing the foot brake option before too long. So we opted for handbrakes and gears. Now, I remember my first ten speed - it was the official coming of age bike. You were no longer a 'little kid'. I also distinctly remember riding it for the first time, backpedaling furiously while trying to stop - totally forgetting the handbrakes - and riding directly into a very prickly fir tree. Also, I used each and every gear but probably didn't really understand how to use them for like, two years.<br /><br />So I tell the girl my story and envision her trying in vain to use her footbrakes, and the bandaids, the crying....Well, my daughter? Had it all figured out within the first hundred feet. Brakes, gears - the whole nine yards. I was suitably impressed.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTn1Kyg1uC5dzPVf50A1NgELS4K5CDbGXih34lEYdAGQbQ4ZIsBgFd3lurTbAqryBGvZfuhqT-Pe_UfcPWd6QDaplY4MooNYNjcOIyLQixpRkw-4GxAXvakBbxBid8gjmg8IA/s1600-h/176.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTn1Kyg1uC5dzPVf50A1NgELS4K5CDbGXih34lEYdAGQbQ4ZIsBgFd3lurTbAqryBGvZfuhqT-Pe_UfcPWd6QDaplY4MooNYNjcOIyLQixpRkw-4GxAXvakBbxBid8gjmg8IA/s320/176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354619636352899506" border="0" /></a>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-55556351571664641822009-06-25T10:51:00.002-05:002009-06-25T11:28:01.238-05:00Today officially starts Summer Vacation for the kids...now if someone would just tell Mother Nature that as of June 21st she's supposed to turn the knob on the weather machine to 'sunshine'...<br /><br /> I'm on vacation as of two p.m. today. Naturally, we've got a few things planned and seeing as it's <span style="font-style: italic;">supposed</span> to be Summer at this point...everything involves the outdoors. <br /><br />*Loud Sigh*<br /><br />There are slugs on the deck. And the pile of sand that has to be wheelbarrowed down to the beach? Waterlogged and really, really HEAVY. I now have a special pair of always wet sneakers to take the dog out because the lawn is long (can't be mowed until it's at least a little bit dry) and yes, always wet sneakers are every bit as gross as they sound but I figure better to have one pair of wet sneakers than 5 pairs.<br /><br />*Looks out window*<br /><br />I suppose light grey skies are better than dark grey, right? Right?<br /><br />And the gloves and scarf I have stashed in the car for hockey...at least I don't need them outside the rink. So that's something...<br /><br />I haven't had to wash the car for a month.<br /><br />Ummm...<br /><br />Ladies, I'm grasping here, to find the positive... can you tell? Hard to find the silver lining in a bunch of clouds that are all the same damned color.jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-73332147542931370932009-06-22T19:40:00.005-05:002009-06-22T21:34:16.333-05:00Oink freaking oinkSo, have you all been hearing much about the Swine/H1N1 virus thing? No? Yeah, well why is that? Think it's gone?<br /><br />It so isn't.<br /><br />Dudes, there are over 100 sick kids in my girl's school. They've let us know about 11 confirmed cases. But there were 400 kids absent today. FOUR HUNDRED. Out of about 580ish. Most of these were for precautionary reasons - or simply because it was grey and raining and who doesn't just want to roll over and play a little hooky on a day like this? Or on <span style="font-style: italic;">days like these </span>since it's been raining for about 822 days now. But I digress.<br /><br />Was my girl there? You bet. They had the school professionally cleaned over the weekend, she has NO symptoms and so she went.<br /><br />Apparently there were tears - students and teachers alike, there are huge budget issues, layoffs are imminent and the feeling of having the school year cut short - even by two measly days - has left everyone feeling out of sorts and all unfinishedlike. My girl is heartbroken that she didn't get a chance to say good-bye to a special needs aide that is assigned to one of her best friends. Heartbroken. <br /><br />I was planning on making cookies for end of the year presents...but I can't imagine wanting homemade treats during Germfest 2009. So tomorrow, while my babe accompanies me to work she is going to make some pictures and we'll scan them and email them off. Kind of blase but I know it'll make her feel better.<br /><br />Only two more days of rain in the forecast...so I'm holding off on finishing the ark. At this point the only reason the pigs would be invited is to ensure a lifetime supply of bacon and ham, the virus ridden bastards.jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-41918111751908166372009-06-12T08:18:00.000-05:002009-06-12T08:18:00.942-05:00Enjoyable1. Sims 3. Waste of time? Quite possibly. Are there better ways to kill an hour while my husband watches Ax Men? I think not.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp3iN1UUR__CyCPxkbYdbCjBHxlXsgtZEzaTX3Szd3sP9TXI0pgDHXAcFb0sb5uph5NzK-oqnQewVbFuMfj3J5k5OUEziRcn5DbuwL-QqRBbFSkXWPSDktNZ1zsFOdb6d27tiT/s1600-h/Screenshot-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp3iN1UUR__CyCPxkbYdbCjBHxlXsgtZEzaTX3Szd3sP9TXI0pgDHXAcFb0sb5uph5NzK-oqnQewVbFuMfj3J5k5OUEziRcn5DbuwL-QqRBbFSkXWPSDktNZ1zsFOdb6d27tiT/s320/Screenshot-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346307388980027010" border="0" /></a><br />2. The new (to him) boat is in heavy rotation these days. This was the first time he rowed by himself to the other side of the pond. They were hunting for minnows, which they found. They also grabbed a glop of frog eggs, which turned out to be toad eggs. We now have two minnows and 35 tadpoles in our aquarium. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5CnTPPFCW5pD_LBVzp3J9XNRf2YUbKRcFcCbXsLStH-sy_MOZDq0FOpEFUxmMxoZQxg99DQ71reSvpy01yLXnC1FAzTcuNSwq6lBFjGiaNgnqHkRLW1EdR8zK5t6kCkBlmclM/s1600-h/287.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5CnTPPFCW5pD_LBVzp3J9XNRf2YUbKRcFcCbXsLStH-sy_MOZDq0FOpEFUxmMxoZQxg99DQ71reSvpy01yLXnC1FAzTcuNSwq6lBFjGiaNgnqHkRLW1EdR8zK5t6kCkBlmclM/s320/287.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346308087249817282" border="0" /></a> 3. Love this gum. And no, <a href="http://candyaddict.com/blog/2007/06/19/myth-busted-stride-gum-wrappers-should-not-be-eaten/">I don't eat the wrapper</a>.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlAPU3WDHRr6NDKd_pvgX2YQHFXrD43-eam9SkIaQITB3yhRdSPvNTtkpy2OufPADTbzl2R2EsmGfJy5tkT4uGAdYKlv2Jbvc3QS7CLo0pfuCA01gPuIUk_qCkvrcYmthEI7r/s1600-h/stride-gum3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlAPU3WDHRr6NDKd_pvgX2YQHFXrD43-eam9SkIaQITB3yhRdSPvNTtkpy2OufPADTbzl2R2EsmGfJy5tkT4uGAdYKlv2Jbvc3QS7CLo0pfuCA01gPuIUk_qCkvrcYmthEI7r/s200/stride-gum3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346309163169028162" border="0" /></a>4. I was so sure that I wouldn't really like this series. A western? In space? Yes and yes. What <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0923736/">this guy</a> did for vampires? He does even better for space cowboy types. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchcZVugk7g8P4i8xFPaIBOpargWTh_E7xuLL29TStgu2s0qdbh37GNUa7KnzSz1XdiHYNHNhwAdAw5sUnX7ZsgQXFs8JWuh6ITR3lmX7ZMm96WkOOc5V0JAMf811Qk5Oj5L5f/s1600-h/firefly_mmo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchcZVugk7g8P4i8xFPaIBOpargWTh_E7xuLL29TStgu2s0qdbh37GNUa7KnzSz1XdiHYNHNhwAdAw5sUnX7ZsgQXFs8JWuh6ITR3lmX7ZMm96WkOOc5V0JAMf811Qk5Oj5L5f/s200/firefly_mmo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346315140827678178" border="0" /></a>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-24418521022401601482009-06-11T07:09:00.009-05:002009-06-11T07:39:17.626-05:00May 21stSee now in real life...my birthday is long gone. But on the blog? It was only three short posts ago. I sometimes like how that works.<br /><br />My requests were simple. It was to be the four of us, clam strips and ocean. The weather was beautiful and I hit the trifecta - I got all three.<br /><br />We headed <a href="http://www.flosclamshack.net/">here</a> for dinner. Based on years of driving by on my way to and from the beach and the hugely long lines I've seen - I thought we'd give it a try. It's not much of a website, but I suppose I'd rather have them perfecting the fried clam than learning html and java.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Our view:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78ZKlZU67AY_9xrc_DvSxXsNvridD8VJDfY0PL6J7ZQsOF9Hp1BPzqUFa2AdzE1ckPu1cybSQTUtcTMG4Pe923nMuLJm7LjLg_sMLnBlYijy5h60geEefgepk6hdtHhLDHTU5/s1600-h/118.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78ZKlZU67AY_9xrc_DvSxXsNvridD8VJDfY0PL6J7ZQsOF9Hp1BPzqUFa2AdzE1ckPu1cybSQTUtcTMG4Pe923nMuLJm7LjLg_sMLnBlYijy5h60geEefgepk6hdtHhLDHTU5/s320/118.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346042174524583026" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj744J4gfRcfGFLn9LGwPhrICfCYMjqFJkEC3R4w62wlhRyd8D3f5_AWotQK6g26xLEm5WYogzzOKm0IPP19tP_aHN8C2zX6LsrMvrPtzaG_Ke7Z8Gcbxgs-WNFNT4GVqUYbP0N/s1600-h/110.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj744J4gfRcfGFLn9LGwPhrICfCYMjqFJkEC3R4w62wlhRyd8D3f5_AWotQK6g26xLEm5WYogzzOKm0IPP19tP_aHN8C2zX6LsrMvrPtzaG_Ke7Z8Gcbxgs-WNFNT4GVqUYbP0N/s320/110.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346043381009143202" border="0" /></a>No vibrating, flashing beeper thingy here. Just a number. On a rock.<br /><br />The girlie and I? Thought it was delish - the clam cakes (fritters, really) were to die for. The menfolk, however? Not as impressed with their choices. My husband kept looking longingly at the plates of all you can eat crab legs that kept passing by our table. Ah, well - live and learn.<br /><br />Now, it was downright hot at home but in Newport? Um, TWENTY degrees cooler. Actually not cooler....COLDER. Still though, I thought we'd hit up the sea glass beach before heading home. It was high tide and we pretty much struck out but there were jetties to climb and periwinkles to rescue.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIXD6ZlF5pFBWh7rd6adt0H6Tbn4uHn4tif8sfklqYh_hd4cWAxQuu5hjW5WueWHVYLzjrtvHmFzHTFw6Gap65frj_ofsVD8WhDjqqRN8lYUGc9XfU0EiLhM5LjQXDXvsWYi0/s1600-h/202.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIXD6ZlF5pFBWh7rd6adt0H6Tbn4uHn4tif8sfklqYh_hd4cWAxQuu5hjW5WueWHVYLzjrtvHmFzHTFw6Gap65frj_ofsVD8WhDjqqRN8lYUGc9XfU0EiLhM5LjQXDXvsWYi0/s320/202.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346045503658176946" border="0" /></a> "You want me to go again? Because I can go again. Did you cut my head off? Are my feet in the picture? Because I can jump again, y'know. If you need me too. Do you need me to? Just get one more jump. Just in case."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0bqdVsLxhVVAF9RjsgMZcdnQx2MlPFfn42dAU4XwjVEJAuCrBy9sJPgv2A0N6WJfVUjC2DyfQT0I4J7DNylHgY8U4j6fFpQz1PXhX1kqVuMPYPBEEGRkdDEGHHS_4LSAXAM5/s1600-h/142.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0bqdVsLxhVVAF9RjsgMZcdnQx2MlPFfn42dAU4XwjVEJAuCrBy9sJPgv2A0N6WJfVUjC2DyfQT0I4J7DNylHgY8U4j6fFpQz1PXhX1kqVuMPYPBEEGRkdDEGHHS_4LSAXAM5/s320/142.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346045228435105986" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5o1K8Sw8OKke_5QvqyhjYJ3FKSIZPUBgVYfiYT4pWTP5hOvDhAPKO4BZ7dDtvxtijeoXjUFpBCOdsNoChp9Bd6NudLV4HQ-q5DfE1cHc0XXrplxLqcyYqU3Wi249bqqIZl_h/s1600-h/170.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5o1K8Sw8OKke_5QvqyhjYJ3FKSIZPUBgVYfiYT4pWTP5hOvDhAPKO4BZ7dDtvxtijeoXjUFpBCOdsNoChp9Bd6NudLV4HQ-q5DfE1cHc0XXrplxLqcyYqU3Wi249bqqIZl_h/s320/170.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346047022858852658" border="0" /></a>Not a problem, kiddo. I'll take a thousand more of these if you want me to.<br /><br />In summary? Fantastic way to spend my evening.<br /><br />And as a bonus? We got to come home my other birthday present:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjHjnA7kVSaMffvUVLCjyszNXj9lurWBo1FasLe3khUK_eCZ3NBfwv974AfMRUIgUnNDq6Yb7zzspIIt8xbULq-biU6g35pOV2yi-wWMD7zQoMIZ80I-py5_c8P3S0EEq4AgN/s1600-h/284.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjHjnA7kVSaMffvUVLCjyszNXj9lurWBo1FasLe3khUK_eCZ3NBfwv974AfMRUIgUnNDq6Yb7zzspIIt8xbULq-biU6g35pOV2yi-wWMD7zQoMIZ80I-py5_c8P3S0EEq4AgN/s320/284.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346047718328069298" border="0" /></a><br /></div>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-27593398063280030212009-06-09T20:50:00.006-05:002009-06-09T21:34:14.264-05:00This soccer position has a name<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6O3xUERbeQTZ4X4krodsfVeyw1e3KA4dAWeozxnsn-MW1IbKo1lYo5V3pHcxLfuGr_Gf7lQFHQ7ojI8o2O-LPoZuOW20CMvfzSL4nfX40fbMDPxHEMzdvF9qMtFLL3s8MQeT/s1600-h/_Y9H1872.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6O3xUERbeQTZ4X4krodsfVeyw1e3KA4dAWeozxnsn-MW1IbKo1lYo5V3pHcxLfuGr_Gf7lQFHQ7ojI8o2O-LPoZuOW20CMvfzSL4nfX40fbMDPxHEMzdvF9qMtFLL3s8MQeT/s320/_Y9H1872.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345513664280244818" border="0" /></a>It's called Butt to the Gut.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />It's one of her specialties. Which is better than her positioning when she started dome soccer with names the other team's parents would yell out like "Hey, wasn't that a hip check?" and "ELBOW!" Mama didn't take photos of those.<br /><br />Really, this kid oughta be on the ice but soccer's only a few hundred bucks while hockey is much, MUCH more. Plus she's not much of a skater and frankly, the money for two to play? Yikes.<br /><br />She's also learned that if she puts her forearm out and braces it and runs through people without shoving her arm forward? That's perfectly fine. In fact, it's called a forearm shiver. And her coaches LOVE it.<br /></div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SWt1tGTHdkc&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SWt1tGTHdkc&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Now, obviously she's not knocking everyone flat on their collective asses but she gets the ball up the boards like nobody's business.<br /><br />This next move though? I don't have a name for this one...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYMo0n_EmGEqDXIi41HZ20L76hnzYnZgytikIQg5Hczq0VLnRyNj3SFtJ816Cj4Ok7GyZx5pMjEdZPH45cDFo_mA8S1pSZ1LJ0zenO-rPNKl_yu-_1bQX5jck59BzffSCRZJr/s1600-h/NY9H0004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYMo0n_EmGEqDXIi41HZ20L76hnzYnZgytikIQg5Hczq0VLnRyNj3SFtJ816Cj4Ok7GyZx5pMjEdZPH45cDFo_mA8S1pSZ1LJ0zenO-rPNKl_yu-_1bQX5jck59BzffSCRZJr/s320/NY9H0004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345519654328624930" border="0" /></a>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-49167643383048410662009-06-08T07:00:00.004-05:002009-06-08T07:25:25.856-05:00Fore!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsZh6SwYUhIh4pDn6NH6CQyBZNYY86J6nx6otZWf0viYnmbssRSgwYwSYcVCeM42grdpQVdMSjsAaqiX8UNTk6iYaxrqhypmxBfm-IvSlA8Hz0smaLMEUFnUNI5MmllujM_Uh/s1600-h/065.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsZh6SwYUhIh4pDn6NH6CQyBZNYY86J6nx6otZWf0viYnmbssRSgwYwSYcVCeM42grdpQVdMSjsAaqiX8UNTk6iYaxrqhypmxBfm-IvSlA8Hz0smaLMEUFnUNI5MmllujM_Uh/s200/065.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344929870575943122" border="0" /></a><br />I know it's no secret that I totally love where I live. I mean, the <span style="font-style: italic;">exact</span> location of where I live - on the pond. It also happens to be in a fairly small town - two stoplights, very sketchy cell phone coverage and no grocery store. The usual things, I suppose. It's not a bad little town but all the new houses going in are <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">McMansionish</span> and change is in the wind...<br /><br />Anyway.<br /><br />There's this driving range, seemingly out in the middle of nowhere (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">suppposedly</span> it's totally close to a main road - but I've never driven that way so I can't be sure). No golf course nearby, surrounded by woods and a few houses...really, it's kind of nice as driving ranges go. I guess - because one thing I don't do is golf. Unless, of course, it involves dinosaurs or fake pirate ships and the only club in use is a worn out putter - then I'm in.<br /><br />But the boy? Wants to golf. He got an inexpensive set of clubs for Christmas so I taken him to the range a few times. This past time we grabbed one of his friends on the way and we ended up getting there fifteen minutes after it closed. But, and I'm guessing this doesn't happen in all that many places, we walked up to the little ball shed and there were ten buckets of balls and a cash slot in the door. And a can of bug spray.<br /><br />Now, the cash slot? Big enough to stick your hand in and remove all the other latecomers payments. If there were any other late comers, which there weren't. We paid for three buckets of balls - they wanted more, so I let them collect another bucket themselves (stealing from the honor system - nice, eh?) so they could shoot for another ten minutes until it was too dark to play. They practiced their Happy Gilmore shot, burned some worms (fast moving ball that never really leaves the ground) and made general fools of themselves...definitely not following any golf <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">etiquette</span> that<span style="font-style: italic;"> I've</span> ever seen. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxM1gknD4zi8P9lXvo972QrylNZ1BhsstBHDSUHCPFkNBITn8eZ-p90uQbergPfoiCY7mmh3csIFDH3-PFkiF0TA5JvIFY82NFJO4sCrVSG41vB_xvQuuEeT_z3wJBnGIM55x/s1600-h/064.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxM1gknD4zi8P9lXvo972QrylNZ1BhsstBHDSUHCPFkNBITn8eZ-p90uQbergPfoiCY7mmh3csIFDH3-PFkiF0TA5JvIFY82NFJO4sCrVSG41vB_xvQuuEeT_z3wJBnGIM55x/s320/064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344929986908971586" border="0" /></a><br />This, apparently, is the look on your face after a ball you hit goes whizzing by your mom's head.jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-74746454154566081802009-05-21T00:41:00.003-05:002009-05-21T00:50:23.634-05:00Almost two a.m.Okay, so I should totally be in bed but I've got better things to do.<br /><br />1. One episode left to watch of Entourage, season three.<br /><br />2. Contemplate dinner plans for tonight. It's my birthday and the weather is supposed to be positively summer like...I'm thinking seafood + picnic table + ocean.<br /><br />3. Totally got sidetracked by <a href="http://jenontheedge.com/">Jen</a>. First I'm strolling down memory lane - remembering our old Kool-Aid pitcher, then I'm wondering about letting my kids drink the stuff, then I'm thinking that Kool-Aid is the least of my problems, then I'm cursing at the thought that my mom threw the pitcher out, then I remember these cups I used to have...what kind of drink was that again? Then I'm googling 1980's drink mixes. Lo and behold...Funny Face cups.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4UwASvbzk7WZIaFJoe5UuPbH-GWCKTnXU-Hp2xq6DWkmMUITgFoEazr7VV_6UvZN5EEyYqeWmtVkb761kKXOZFpqxL4feGS4YNhJM35iANBisYihbqvAKiG4OgLbnMMtxIvLz/s1600-h/267647847_o.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4UwASvbzk7WZIaFJoe5UuPbH-GWCKTnXU-Hp2xq6DWkmMUITgFoEazr7VV_6UvZN5EEyYqeWmtVkb761kKXOZFpqxL4feGS4YNhJM35iANBisYihbqvAKiG4OgLbnMMtxIvLz/s200/267647847_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338150172384883426" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">See? Sleep is so overrated.<br /></div>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-58165300867526132762009-05-12T11:52:00.002-05:002009-05-12T12:13:10.289-05:00Well then.<br /><br />The dog has a rock obsession. Well, maybe not an obsession but he eats an alarming amount of them...and now he's learned to swallow the smaller ones quickly - like as soon as he sees my hand go towards his mouth. <br /><br />Dudes. Combine this with a week of dog poop induced worrying and let's just say I'm about done boiling hamburger and rice for his meals.<br /><br />And y'all know I love Boston Sports and apparently there's this baseball team in town you may have heard of. <br /><br />But right now it's a baseball team of which I know nothing about because my house is topsy turvy with Bruins love. That would have been fine by me had they not lost three games in a row, giving me a hockey induced stomach ache (maybe the dog's issues aren't rock related after all) and keeping me glued to Twitter and whatever other Bruins stuff I can find. Which, apparently, isn't even HALF of what's out there. <br /><br />I'm a blip on the Bruins obsession radar, honestly. I checked the ticket prices for the playoffs and had to laugh. One ticket for a decent seat? On the verge of being out of my price range. For a family of four? Bankruptcy. <br /><br />NESN HD, homemade popcorn and the couch with the kiddos begging to stay up for the third period. Not so bad. <br /><br />Except for the fact that I'll be at work and watching it later, by myself, in my computer chairand on my 15" computer monitor in NON HD.<br /><br />Ergh.jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-82786636875627293952009-04-17T10:27:00.003-05:002009-04-28T11:51:07.230-05:00Truman Fix<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb22NaW46EjQg6-fI1-Hsg5eCkIOr0okN5gahyphenhyphenTG31b76h7xLsWXMN-FLdSCY6PTxKhsUs7S-sZa0DwfpvRT3GHoEXjtOVSduTj8ICO25o-sdLigPWiRmGNTvPTziuuB997XwY/s1600-h/030.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb22NaW46EjQg6-fI1-Hsg5eCkIOr0okN5gahyphenhyphenTG31b76h7xLsWXMN-FLdSCY6PTxKhsUs7S-sZa0DwfpvRT3GHoEXjtOVSduTj8ICO25o-sdLigPWiRmGNTvPTziuuB997XwY/s320/030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325683360211982690" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXk-9L_VN9N0TnzokOpSgSYLcrfM8ndB9AGxWwQLbwGnpd5N66AlqD9vSD8ui9-XkEkAgKj0wXGdk_gpi9jS_ErIrOBUsnX-hZ2uuPXaGjhIaurGGO8nf1sS3-57bim7F90daZ/s1600-h/044.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXk-9L_VN9N0TnzokOpSgSYLcrfM8ndB9AGxWwQLbwGnpd5N66AlqD9vSD8ui9-XkEkAgKj0wXGdk_gpi9jS_ErIrOBUsnX-hZ2uuPXaGjhIaurGGO8nf1sS3-57bim7F90daZ/s320/044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325682897572615506" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIazsLp3jVzTz87jgwbRTUFUx0K5guXQjqM8-hPQo0qkJeim8fl_NBjGrUb81z9iHt74Ooztoepj8jfRCbPwgxSHf0koSdhsJrZyp-awinzVWUXxgVhZhWTpi0gDeCZlh00w1/s1600-h/039.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIazsLp3jVzTz87jgwbRTUFUx0K5guXQjqM8-hPQo0qkJeim8fl_NBjGrUb81z9iHt74Ooztoepj8jfRCbPwgxSHf0koSdhsJrZyp-awinzVWUXxgVhZhWTpi0gDeCZlh00w1/s320/039.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325683362411201602" border="0" /></a><br />My daughter's been training him with the usual commands. Sit, come, ROLL YOUR EYES AT MOM.<br /></div>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-35898731815604249172009-04-10T09:38:00.003-05:002009-04-10T09:50:31.776-05:00Good Friday? You bet.Daughter: Good Friday? Why's it called Good Friday?<br /><br />Me: Because you don't have any school.<br /><br />*climbs inside handbasket to await journey to the underworld*<br /><br /><br />I'm hostessing an Easter Brunch this year. Which, while it's not my first choice or even my 61st choice of things I want to be doing...my mother in law scheduled her Easter dinner at a time that leaves me no choice. Well, no choice if I want to see <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> family.<br /><br />Other reasons for it being a Good Friday?<br /><br />Sunshine, kids making Easter chocolates with my mother in law, husband golfing, dog running around a fenced in yard, going grocery shopping alone, sunshine. dinner with friends, husband got his CDL license, thumb is healing nicely, the Bruins beat the Habs last night and oh...did I mention SUNSHINE?jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-82701188859682720992009-04-09T07:51:00.000-05:002009-04-09T07:51:00.811-05:00<div style="text-align: justify;">Remember last year...<a href="http://jennyjsjournal.blogspot.com/2008/03/in-stitches.html">my son had an accident, splitting his knee wide open</a>? The whole incident the result of a flailing dive after a football thrown by my husband.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0Kb60jFkyBnANVykN8W91DGNj5VEMPXAkQoa8Va_k9Udsg4XHD6G0MNisH1rJ7MDgQa1XXAmKPguT-FPgRiuX1fP-p9Y0dJdnbR8IWA8jqKWvujj5PkjZK4LAhzZPF5f90b8/s1600-h/Picture+-+1+151.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0Kb60jFkyBnANVykN8W91DGNj5VEMPXAkQoa8Va_k9Udsg4XHD6G0MNisH1rJ7MDgQa1XXAmKPguT-FPgRiuX1fP-p9Y0dJdnbR8IWA8jqKWvujj5PkjZK4LAhzZPF5f90b8/s200/Picture+-+1+151.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321408753959223586" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The injury left him unable to play in his hockey playoff game, unable to attend tryouts for next season, going to class with a footstool and limping for weeks? (<span style="font-style: italic;">Ed. note</span>: His legs = toothpicks, with knees)<br /><br />Fast forward to this past Sunday.<br /><br />A friendly game of basketball between my husband and son. The boy goes to make a move with the basketball and my husband, doing some defensive <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">mojo</span> - slams into my son's hand, jamming his thumb knuckle to the point where blood spurted out from his nail bed. Immediate swelling. No tears, but lots of pain. Lots.<br /><br />Twelve hours later it's bruised and swollen. He can move it, a little. A nurse friend of ours says, "It's not broken but WOW that looks <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">baaaad</span>". Thanks, nurse friend.<br /><br />And guess what...once again, it happens the day before hockey tryouts.<br /><br />The silver lining? My boy and I are giving my husband so much grief, nothing like a good guilt trip to keep your spirits up...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our fictional versions of the story include:</span><br /><br /></div><ol style="text-align: justify;"><li>My husband slamming the ball out of my son's hand with a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">whallop</span> and yelling "DENIED" as my son falls down holding his hand and crying.</li></ol><div style="text-align: justify;"> 2. My son reaching for the ball and my husband, knocks him down and steps on his fingers while yelling "Too Slow!"<br /><br /> 3. The fact that it's all just a psychological thing my husband's doing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">unconsciously</span> because my son is better at hockey than he was and now my husband is green with envy.<br /><br />Now, obviously none of these things happened but, hey, we're easily amused.<br /></div>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-46042899357157581982009-04-08T08:00:00.000-05:002009-04-08T08:00:01.495-05:00Contrary to popular belief there is no Easter Bunny. At least not at my house.<br /><br />Just a grouchy mom going outside at the crack of dawn to hide eggs around the perimeter of the yard where the dog couldn't go because the underground fence would shock him.<br /><br />Why outside? Because the dog would follow me around trying to eat the eggs moments after I hid them? Same reason why they were mostly hidden around the very edges of the yard. Color me bitter. Not that the whole dog thing made me bitter it's just that old Easter non-spirit I have.<br /><br />There may be a glimmer of hope on the horizon though:<br /><br />Scene: Tuesday morning in the bathroom.<br /><br />My girl was brushing her hair and I was brushing my teeth and she says "I really want Mentos and deodorant in my Easter Basket." <br /><br />My response, besides an internal raised eyebrow at her request? "Really? Well, why are you telling me, maybe you should be telling the Easter bunny..."<br /><br />Her: "I just did."<br /><br /><br />So, what do you think? Am I off the secretive hook? Can I just get up at, say, six a.m. and hide the eggs and baskets with their knowledge or must I still trip around in the dark with a flashlight hoping that egg eating raccoons aren't living under my shed.jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-91694164739066901552009-04-07T09:53:00.002-05:002009-04-07T09:59:25.368-05:00Grateful For1. Empty water bottles recycled to be the most favorite dog toy.<br /><br />2. Sunny spring days. They will not be taken for granted.<br /><br />3. Tim Thomas, goalie extraordinaire<br /><br />4. Opening Day at Fenway.<br /><br />5. The Easter Bunny charade? Done.jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-68685769533249582892009-04-06T08:24:00.001-05:002009-04-06T08:24:00.441-05:00If I hear one more person call him Marley....<div style="text-align: justify;">Truman, the eleven week old dog? Twenty two and a half pounds. I can't remember what Baxter weighed but this is seeming large to me. Something else I don't remember...the whole blank slate thing.<br /><br />He had to be taught to walk up stairs. One at a time, me putting one paw on a stair and then moving the rest of them in order while he stood half frozen in terror. On the same idea? He's not going down them. Not no how. Not with treats, not with the same step by step teaching. I'm sure he'll get over it but for now, I'm scooping him up and carrying him downstairs every morning and praying he can hold it for just a few minutes longer.<br /><br />He didn't drink for most of the first day he was home. We showed him his water dish but it wasn't until my husband splashed it around did he figure out what it was.<br /><br />His collar? The bane of his existence.<br /><br />There were some loud squawky birds outside today and his ears perked up and he RAN for the door. Somehow I foresee eighty pounds of quivering terror...hopefully he outgrows this.<br /><br /><br />Last time, with Baxter? We went for the super happy puppy. The one that licked us and wanted to play. Six YEARS later, he was an enjoyable dog to have around. Years one through five? He was hell-on-wheels. Or paws, as the case may be. This time we walked into the dog run and when four of the puppies ran over to jump and play with us my eyes went straight to the dog hanging back, half asleep in the corner.<br /><br />I'm half convinced he has narcolepsy. And I'm thanking my lucky stars every day.<br /><br />So far my responses to the ultra annoying Marley thing have been:<br /><ul><li> "Who's Marley?" which, when combined with a confused expression has people thinking I live in another dimension. </li><li>"Um, no this isn't Marley...wasn't that a movie or something?"</li><li>"Nope, not Marley...I'm pretty sure he died, didn't he?"</li></ul>I only used the last one on a wack job lady at the tennis courts but seeing as she screamed it across the courts as we walked by and then let her dog follow us halfway home? She totally had it coming.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-88958482722822940752009-04-05T07:32:00.003-05:002009-04-05T07:44:09.387-05:00Today<ul style="text-align: justify;"><li>I am cautiously optimistic that maybe, god willing...I will not need the umbrella at all today. </li></ul><ul style="text-align: justify;"><li>I was writing down a list of meals we might have this week and my girl looked over my shoulder and says: Chicken POT pie?!?!? All this time I thought it was Chicken POP pie.</li></ul><ul><li>Wondering if a nine pound chicken will defrost in seven hours.</li></ul><ul><li>Debating between staying home and doing whatever needs doing or going to see a play at my son's school.</li></ul>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-6494189912458507072009-04-02T14:57:00.002-05:002009-04-02T15:37:30.027-05:00Echo....echo, echo, echo. Anyone? Anyone?Yikes, TWO MONTHS without a post?<br /><br />Let's see how things stand around here....<br /><br />1. Husband, still out of work. He's going back in a matter of weeks, though. A local channel did one of their 'investigative reports' on his company and the whole owner in prison thing. What it added up to was them trying to drum up a story and the people they interviewed saying they have no problem working with this company, they've totally restructured and blah, blah, blah. In your face channel five.<br /><br />2. The boy? Is well. There's one more hockey game, a tournament final and we are DONE. For a month, anyway. School is going spectularly this year. He's trying to negotiate for a cell phone...Fail. It took him until about a month ago to start checking people in hockey, nothing like seeing your seventy pound kid rub a 150 lb giant into the boards. Love it!<br /><br />3. The girlie? One minute she's the death of me and the next she's quite literally the kindest person I know. She's also trying to negotiate for a cell phone and this FAIL needs to be in caps. She's playing dome soccer and now Spring Travel is about to start. She's the little enforcer on the team and when she was told to choose her number for her uniform? She picked 17, after her favorite Boston Bruin - Milan Lucic.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mggOCzMkJHw&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mggOCzMkJHw&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object><br /><br />Going on record here as saying that the announcer, Jack Edwards is THE best. "They have beaten them. And tonight they have beaten them up." Love that guy.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">4. Truman. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2eJrTW4i5aYX769WJwLHGX0ECh1I4BOLyxMTumrr7lqX6664udjNZ865PelW3KHjAgIuJurP8kp90J2eiuzBiMRsYNa1PCWeqK0xMzRJ1Pe993cnRnAY-XW7_yv-YjgCIuW-/s1600-h/007.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2eJrTW4i5aYX769WJwLHGX0ECh1I4BOLyxMTumrr7lqX6664udjNZ865PelW3KHjAgIuJurP8kp90J2eiuzBiMRsYNa1PCWeqK0xMzRJ1Pe993cnRnAY-XW7_yv-YjgCIuW-/s320/007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320195631974520978" border="0" /></a>Welcome home.<br /></div>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-45066262168225506292009-02-09T11:22:00.011-05:002009-02-09T12:31:35.526-05:00Grocery Shopping<div align="justify"><span>Dear Market Basket,<br /><br />Just last week I was cursing DHL as a horrible, terrible company to do business with. But, stunningly, you have far surpassed them. Quite possibly far surpassed EVERY SINGLE COMPANY I HAVE EVER DONE BUSINESS WITH, actually.<br /><br />I have friends who swear by you and your low prices and so, with a spirit of adventure and a touch of cabin fever I took my daughter food shopping with me. It was probably not the wisest time to go...four thirty on a Saturday afternoon...but I thought, how bad could it possibly be?<br /><br />I was forgetting two things. One, I hate crowds. Two, I hate crowds of stupid people.<br /><br />The collective IQ of the shoppers in your store on Saturday? Couldn't be much above, oh I don't know, 36? 42? And there was no freaking shortage of people. Literally, we walked in and my daughter and I just pulled off to the side (1. to grab some bread - which BTW had a hole in the bag and was stale good thing I had to put it back; 2. to gasp at the amount of people vying for space in your dairy section; 3. try to navigate around the bins that are so conventiently placed in front of the doors). Did I see the customer service window at this time? No, I did not. I was, instead, focused on the serpentine route to the cheese.<br /><br />So, with a spirit of resolve, we set out. My girl? She couldn't walk next to me and chat...there was no room for that. She had to walk in front of me (not behind me and out of sight...far too many people, many of them unwashed.) so there wasn't any chatting just "honey, stop...I've got to get yogurt". Plus, apparently this was PRIME FREAKING TIME for your employees to be restocking the shelves. They clogged the aisles with carts chock full of boxes. You couldn't see around them and couldn't reach around them to get what you needed. Waffles? Fail.<br /><br />Also, deli? Fail. I will not wait for twenty people to order before I can buy some cheese and a half pound of lunch meat. Do you have the cutesy little pre-order thing like Stop n Shop? Where I can order on the computer in the store and then stop by on my way out? Oh, rest assured...you do not.<br /><br />Some of the middle aisles? Not too bad. I could actually see the low prices that my friends rave about and accordingly, I filled my cart. Again, though, we reach the other end of the store and it's FULL. We could barely navigate the cart in and out of the fruits and vegetables. But we persevered! And I only had to wait 2 and a half minutes for someone to get out of my way so that I could buy hamburger. Which, I would've loved to have gone home without - but the prices, so low, like a siren song....and so I waited.<br /><br />Did I mention the free cookies? Well, in the little bakery section they put up a tin of cookies...for your munching pleasure. I spy them, let the girlie know and we try to make it over there. Now, I'll tell you...this was a HELLACIOUS trip for an eight year old. Tons of people, most of them mannerless...I thought, hurray - you've been vindicated with free cookies.<br /><br />But that wasn't to be. A fiftyish lady, decides that she can move her cart faster and she literally cuts us off at the cookie counter taking the Last Freaking Cookie. Last one. She hears my daughter cry foul and she looks at us and takes a bite. Eye contact and everything. I may have made a snide remark in her direction...something along the lines of "oh, NICE" but I was thinking "You freaking lunatic, you make me stop my cart short because you zoom in front of me and then you look at my daughter as you hear her say "There's no more??" and you take a BITE? BITCH!"<br /><br />The only good decision I made while at Market Basket? Not heading straight to the checkout line but instead locating the customer service window (tucked helpfully in a corner behind bins of food) to see if I needed a check cashing card before writing a check.<br /><br />And pray tell, I DID need a check cashing card. And guess when I'll get it? 4-6 weeks. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I was told that I could indeed write a check...for $75.00 worth of groceries. Which, I had probably triple that amount in my cart.<br /><br />My first reaction was to laugh, kindly because he must be kidding. Seriously, $75.00? At other stores you can just write a check -no cards necessary. Seriously? $75.00?<br /><br />Then your helpful employee asks if I do 'telephone banking' to which I reply "WHAT? On the phone?" But what I'm thinking is more like "Is it 1995 back behind that customer service desk? Telephone banking?"<br /><br />He proceeds to half ass explain to me about calling my bank to get a larger check approved. Which I completly misunderstand because five minutes later he's asking me, again about telephone banking and telling me that he tried to access my account but he needed the PIN number and would I just give that to him? To which I laughed at him and told him to just approve the $75.00 check. My girl, gamely goes and gets me a spare cart and I proceed to unload everything but $66.00 worth of groceries into it. Including the stale bread.<br /><br />Your helpful employee tells me that my card will arrive in 4-6 weeks (speedy! Some stores give them out that day! Is it 1990 back there?) and that next time I come I should just stop by the service desk first.<br /><br />My response? "Kind of presumptious to think there WILL be a next time"<br /><br />I spent far too much time in that store. Comparing prices and finding groceries that I needed. Well, actually, that I still NEED as I couldn't really buy them. My husband told me that I should've just left everything and walked out. Which, I guess I could've but 1. Our dinner was in that cart; 2. The next day's dinner was in that cart (scheduled to be in the crockpot by 8 a.m.; 3. Those freaking prices...they are low. Asparagus? $1.69!<br /><br /><br />And so, with that...I still hate you, Market Basket. Are you busy next Sunday at 7 a.m.?</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-50355576506924408532009-02-05T12:51:00.003-05:002009-02-05T13:41:08.382-05:00Dudes, I am on a tear<span style="font-weight: bold;">Pissing me off today....in no particular order:</span><br /><br />1. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">DHL</span>. Dear <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">DHL</span>, you suck. And FedEx is cheaper. Love, Jenny P.S. Srsly. SUCK.<br /><br />2. This show, Lie to Me* *the truth is written all over our faces.<br /><br />Okay this is one show that I will NEVER see. Why? Because of the stupid <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">asterisk</span>. Lie to Me? A fine title. Add the asterisk and little subtitle and I'm not watching. <br /><br />3. Our superintendent. Hey, four inches of ice coating every driveway in town? Too bad, get to the bus stop. The mere THREAT of a snow storm? He closed school at four p.m. The day before.<br /><br />4. Radio commercials with sirens in them. There's a few of them that I hear when I'm driving causing me to check my mirrors for oncoming fire trucks or police cars. Which, of course, are never there.<br /><br />5. Animal shelters that charge $425.00 for a mixed breed/mutt puppy. And require a two hundred dollar obedience school commitment on top of that. WTF, I'll just go to a breeder then.<br /><br />6. These freaky people at the library book sale I'm going to tonight. They wait in line all wrapped up in giant sheets or some shit with bags and scanners and then they RUN to the books and just pile them up and cover them with their sheets. There are quite a few of them and once they're done piling up books (think hundreds and hundreds of books) they get these scanner gizmos out and scan each and every book...for what? We don't know. BUT I HATE IT. It adds an element of stress to the night that just pisses me off.<br /><br />7. Oh, wonderful...at the bottom of the screen it says..."Could not contact Blogger.com. Saving and publishing may fail. Retrying...."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Making me happy?</span><br />#7 is no longer an issue.jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-40616506574694168792009-01-13T11:33:00.002-05:002009-01-13T11:36:11.453-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbRdVbXngQ_r4fvdyLBgSofNsS7jTZxKbdb2DMZTsEgqC3gQpW671QoZp9zqGqr7l6Uy7O0nXh4_M8HXjF1cSoa70ofyv6llAsLDH8Xtxp3v8FK8LxT6x39FjPQHcBOSctSez/s1600-h/delurking2009_copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbRdVbXngQ_r4fvdyLBgSofNsS7jTZxKbdb2DMZTsEgqC3gQpW671QoZp9zqGqr7l6Uy7O0nXh4_M8HXjF1cSoa70ofyv6llAsLDH8Xtxp3v8FK8LxT6x39FjPQHcBOSctSez/s200/delurking2009_copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290817427431805650" border="0" /></a>I'm late to the party with this one...I didn't realize today was actually THE day. Ah, well - such is life. <br /><br />I'm fairly sure I don't have many if ANY lurkers. But maybe there's one of you out there that I haven't heard from yet. And if you're out there, you lurker you, leave a comment. Show me some love on this cold January day.jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-44704683158927817232009-01-12T23:27:00.001-05:002009-01-12T23:29:37.960-05:00winning scrabble on facebook<br />and then<br />watching True Beauty on the computer between turns -<br /><br />A total brain usage balance, no?jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349742.post-86760334387352671112009-01-11T10:20:00.001-05:002009-01-11T10:20:00.205-05:00<div>Not wanting to be left out of any <a href="http://jennyjsjournal.blogspot.com/2009/01/i-love-hockey-but-sometimes-i-wished-he.html">possible concussion action we had going on last weekend</a> my daughter clonked her head while sledding.</div><div> </div><br /><div>Never mind the fact that, when asked both she and the neighbor girl said that they would be right next to the neighbor girl's house and would under <strong>NO</strong> circumstances be sledding down the slope to the pond. </div><div> </div><br /><div>Lies, all lies.</div><div> </div><br /><div>What my daughter clonked her head on turned out to be a different neighbor's dock. As in, on the shore of the pond. At an entirely different house.</div><div> </div><br /><div>There was bleeding and tears and ice packs but within a few minutes they had invited her back over to watch a movie. I sent her, in her pajamas, with popcorn and drinks. And a giant lump on her head.<br /><br />We were fortunate that it was the side of her head, that she didn't hit harder, that she didn't go far enough out onto the Pond as to fall in. There were a few conversations this week about honesty and keeping yourself out of dangerous situations. Not at all sure how much of it sunk in, apparently she's got a pretty thick skull.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div> </div><br /><div> </div>jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15074098641163643790noreply@blogger.com3