How did she know?

I hate Costco. I hate it more on the weekends. I hate it more on weekend afternoons…

BUT, to get my beautiful new wine glasses, I went to Costco on Sunday at about 1:45pm. After some redneck (literally, a man in an old beat-up chevy, with a cigarette hanging out of his scruffy face, and his girlfriend sitting in the passenger seat with curlers in her hair and a cigarette in her mouth as well) cut me off in the parking lot, and I waited in line at the customer service desk for 30 minutes to get my new membership card…

I’m standing in line for 20 minutes at the register to buy my 2 items, thinking about how this damn place looks more like the fair that Costco, and I realize there’s something wrong with my new membership card — it now says:

Costco Business Member

Jennifer Fat

Awesome. Now skinny bitches at the Costco membership desk are noticing my weight gain. I wonder why she didn’t just add the “s” after “Jennifer”… Back to the gym it is. :) I’m also considering joining Sam’s Club.


Originally posted on


While I was in Seattle this week, I went to Southcenter Mall and window-shopped. To keep myself from actually buying clothes, I went to Baskin Robbins for an ice cream cone (can’t try on clothes if you’re eating ice cream!!).

I paid the cute 16-year-old blonde girl behind the counter $4 for my $3.49 ice cream. She handed me back like, 300 nickels and a few pennies.

Me: “Aw, I dont need this… (looking around)… don’t you guys have one of those little ‘help the children’ donation boxes?”

Baskin Robbins Girl: (innocently) “Oh no, sorry, we don’t have one of those. I could just give it to a kid though if you want.”

HAHA! I almost dropped my ice cream cone! What was she going to do, walk around and accost the first child she saw?? What a cutie. Totally made me smile for the rest of the night.

PS. I kept the change and found a “real” donation box a few stores down the hall. :)

Dear Pervert(s),

I understand (kind of) that you live a lonely, deserted life with no women who care about you. This may be why you think it’s perfectly acceptable to creep random women out in public places. I’d like you to know, it’s not. It’s not acceptable to talk to women (namely, me) in airports (or restaurants, or grocery stores, or banks, or medical offices, or anywhere) about their knee-high black leather boots, which you apparently think are “sexy.”

It’s not acceptable to say things like “I bet you wear those to places other than work,” or “I’d like to see those boots in action,” or even, at this point, a simple “I like your boots.” Your mindset shows on your face. Also, the only “action” you’d get to see would be my boots’ stiletto heels stabbing you in the eyeball.

My black boots do not make me kinky, outgoing, or sexually attracted to you in any way. EVER. So trying to start up an innocent conversation about the weather in order to later work in a comment about the boots is also unacceptable — and pathetic. You’re not that sly, man.

My black boots are not a sex prop. My wedding ring is not a fake. Please assume neither. Also, it is not ever okay to ask me when I was married, and then longingly (while practically drooling) comment that you “wish you’d met me before I got married.” I can assure you, it wouldn’t have mattered. I have standards, you know.

Attempting to talk to me about my boots from THREE rows back in the airplane I’m in is also not a good idea, and completely weird. No, the club patches on your motorcycle jacket don’t help. Neither does your long scraggly hair.

Being so adamant to tell me you like my boots that you’ll motion for me to take my ipod earbuds out of my ear is just ridiculous. How did you really think I’d respond to that? “Oh, thanks mister creepypants, I didn’t like that song anyway… oh you like my boots? Awesome, let me strip for you…”

NO. Just NO.

And while we’re at it, pausing at my lunch table at Chili’s in Fairbanks while I’m dining with a man (my boss) to tell me that my boots are incredibly sexy is a TERRIBLE IDEA that may next time get you tabasco sauce in your creepy wandering eyes. That’s right, I saw you wait for your wife to walk ahead of you before you chester-molestered your way over to my table while heading in the direction of the restroom. That’s just gross, man. Just gross.

And one last thing. DON’T. EVER. EEEEEVVVVVEEERR. TOUCH. MY. BOOTS. The next time you think it might be a good idea to come over and STROKE MY BOOT while I’m reading WILL NOT END WELL FOR YOU. I was just too stunned this time to throw my book at you and scratch your eyes right the hell out of your disgusting creepy face. You could have just ASKED me what it was made out of. I still would have ignored you and muttered “ew” a little loudly under my breath, but still, you could’ve just asked. Did you WANT to give me nightmares?

In conclusion… please cease being creepy. And stop thinking about my boots.


Happily Married Young Beautiful Boots Girl Who Would Never In A Million Years Sleep With You


Just something to make you all crazy like me:

Ever seen the movie Arachnophobia? There’s a scene in it where someone dies because she got bit in the ass by a spider hiding UNDER HER TOILET SEAT.

Now I have to lift up the seat to check before I use the toilet. Everysingletime, in everysinglerestroom. Even in the middle of the night.

And now you will too.

Enjoy! :)

Nitrus, Schmitrus

Originally posted on, in 2009:

At my 3 hour dentist appointment today, the assistant offered me nitrous oxide – which I’ve never had. Which is weird, because I have pretty intense dentist anxiety. Anyway when the assistant described it to me as “it’ll just make you feel like you’re on the ceiling,” I was like BRING IT ON! :)

So my dentist told me I was “focusing too much on the needle” when he was numbing my mouth (which ended up feeling like the entire left side of my face), so they had to turn up the gas twice. TWICE. Am I that tolerant of drugs? BTW, what the hell are you supposed to focus on? He joked that I should be thinking about Smurfs and Strawberry Shortcake, BUT I’M NOT SIX.

30 minutes into my appointment, I realized that it’s probably not appropriate to laugh at the scenarios in your head while your dentist has sharp things in your mouth. Apparently the drugs work pretty well, because I was much less focused on my mouth… here is a small sampling of my internal dialogue:

“I don’t quite feel like I’m on the ceiling yet. But I imagine my face kind of looks like that first dead girl in the closet from The Ring.”

“Weird, when I close my eyes, I get that spinny drunk feeling like when I’ve just gone over that line that separates ‘drunk’ from ‘wasted’ except without the nausea.”

“It’s SO WEIRD that I can’t feel anything that he’s doing! Anesthesia is like magic. Except I can still feel the cold water that the assistant is spraying on my teeth. I wonder why they don’t use warmer water?”


“Oh, totally my own hand.”

“HAHAHAHAHAHHA I just thought someone else’s hand was in my lap.Wouldn’t THAT have been awkward if I mentioned it! Hahahaha. Ouch, stop laughing out loud.”

“I wish I knew morse code so I could communicate with my dentist via eyebrow-morse-code. Although, I bet he doesn’t know morse code. But how does he expect me to answer all of these open-ended questions? Maybe I’m already supposed to know eyebrow morse code and I look like an idiot because I’m not using it!”

“Well, obviously he doesn’t know eyebrow morse code, because I’ve been wiggling out ‘SOS’ for like 20 minutes and he’s totally not responding. SOS is all I know. Hey, I wonder what SOS even means? I wish I could use my iphone right now to look it up.”

“OMG, I wonder if he thinks I’m eyebrow-flirting with him?! Like on Friends, when Phoebe foot-flirts with her massage client because that’s the only part of her he can see??? God I hope my dentist doesn’t think I’m eyebrow-flirting with him. I should probably let him know that I was just trying to communicate SOS to see if he understood morse code. But then that might make me look retarded, so I guess I’ll just try to quit wiggling.”


As you can see, nitrus oxide is my new best friend. Although, funny story, I was apparently so high when I left that I was completely out of it… because my dental assistant just called me (4 hours later) to “see if everything was alright because when you left you seemed like you were irritated” –ouch. I was like, “um, sorry? I hadn’t eaten anything and I was there for 3 hours and I had to pee and I was numb and high.” And also I was irritated that my dentist doesn’t communicate via morse code.

PS. Note to all dentists: practice asking ONLY YES OR NO QUESTIONS. Or learn morse code.

PPS. “SOS” means “Save Our Seamen.” No wonder my dentist didn’t respond. Click here for the real wikipedia entry. :)

Real Men Don’t Make Side Dishes

I’m not sure if anyone else has this, um, issue, with their husbands/boyfriends/men in their lives – but anyone who has known me for a good length of time is aware of Adam’s special talent for making dinner.

And by “making dinner” I mean slapping a piece of meat on a plate and serving it to me. Just a piece of meat on a plate. Usually delicious meat… but just meat. You get the point. Here are a few examples of actual “meals” I have been served recently (yes, it may be weird that I happen to have these photos on hand, but I can’t help that I often like to take pictures of my weird meat-meals and text them to friends and laugh) (you would so do it too) (also, I’m so mad that I can’t find the picture of a burger patty – no bun – on a plate that I took last year so you’ll have to just imagine it if you weren’t one of the people I texted it to):

So, given this information, you’ll understand my amusement at the following situation:

Adam and I decided to have a date night last weekend while Ellie spent some quality time with Grandma and Grandpa. Before seeing “Red Riding Hood” at the theater (quick review: girls will love it, boys will so not) we chose to eat dinner at Outback Steakhouse. We each ordered the signature steak, and instead of choosing a regular side dish we both asked for a dinner salad instead – which we were told would come out before the steak.

Adam: Huh. Well this is going to be really weird.

Me: What is?

Adam: You know, since our salads are coming out first, it’ll be so weird to just be served steak on a plate with nothing else.

Me: WOW, THAT IS WEIRD. (extreme sarcasm font here)

Adam: Whatever. It’s weird because we’re at a restaurant.

Me: Yes, that’s the weird part.

Yeah, this is so much weirder. Maybe it's that crazy white restaurant plate?

New & Improved, by Johnson & Johnson…

This morning when Adam was in the shower, I was laying in bed and he had our bathroom door open so he could talk to me while he was getting ready for work…

Adam: Man, this new body wash I bought smells awesome.

Me: How do you like the new stuff I bought for me? It’s the purple baby wash one.

Adam: The baby wash one?

Me: No, the baby wash one! (what? sometimes I like to mess with him). I read something somewhere that said to get the dog ready for new smells that I should start using baby wash and lotion, and this one smells awesome. It’s lavender.

Adam: WHAT. THE. HELL??!!?

Me: What?

Adam: Are you talking about this WEIRD stuff with the picture of a baby coming out of a vagina on it?

Me: Um, no. What the hell are you talking about?

Adam: This purple baby wash has a picture of a baby coming out of a vag on it.

Me: It most definitely does not. Anyway do you like how it smells?

Adam: Uh… I’m really not sure I want to smell it.

When Adam got out of the shower, he brought the baby wash over to me so I could prove him wrong see what he was talking about:


Okay… I hate to admit it, but my dirty-minded husband is totally right. I know this is meant to be a baby sleeping with a blanket, but J&J definitely needs a new image for this baby wash. WTF??

NOW I CAN’T USE IT WITHOUT THINKING ABOUT THIS LOGO!!! “Johnson & Johnson’s New & Improved Bedtime Vag Bath” !!