they call me The Jackal

Did you know that Thanksgiving is next week? Well, Thanksgiving is next week. I'm not doing anything crazy this Thanksgiving, like running a race or driving 896 hours to DC, because I'm working the day after Thanksgiving. I'm OK with this (no, I'm not fuckshitdamn). I am, however, attempting the unimaginable. I'm cooking something for Thanksgiving dinner.

DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUN!

Alright, FINE, I'm only making the green bean casserole. And for some reason my mom already bought all the ingredients, so I just have to go over and mix them all together. I realize green bean casserole is like, the easiest thing EVER to make, but last time I asked if I could make anything, I was put in charge of bringing the rolls. Bring them I did, and they were delicious, but I wanted a bit more responsibility this year, especially since I will most likely end up eating at least half of the mashed potatoes.

Speaking of food, I forgot it's the time of year where I eat nonstop. Crap. Like, yesterday, we had a carry in for someone's birthday. I brought macaroni salad (bought, not made), and there were deviled eggs and appetizers and fruit and BBQ chicken and OH MY GOD the best broccoli cheese soup I have ever had in my entire life. Today my boss is ordering pizza for lunch and I'm going to try and avoid it since I had pizza for dinner last night, but if it's really good pizza, I'm not sure I'll be able to. There are also leftover bagels and muffins that we stole from the IT department's meeting yesterday. What, it's not like they were going to eat it. They don't even eat. They survive on coffee and cigarettes.

My point is, I picked a bad week to forget to work out. (Forget, heh.) So I should probably do that tonight. And tomorrow. And then it's the weekend, so all bets are off, because my friends will be here and, this is just a guess, but I think they'll want to do all manner of unhealthy things, what with the eating good food and drinking good booze and . . . that's pretty much it. I'll barely have time to sleep, let alone work out. Please. Priorities, people.

liveblogging the election: I am obnoxious

Conversations with my mother: email edition

Me: Are you aware that both of your daughters voted for Obama today?
Mom: Yes, I feel SOOO honored.
Me: You should! Was the line at your precinct long?
Mom: Yeah! Your dad and I waited an hour first thing this AM and the precinct across from my work is CRAZY!
Me: That’s insane. Heidi voted early on Saturday and waited for four hours. I thought that’d mean that today wouldn’t be as busy but I guess not!
Mom: Nope, that’s kind of what I thought too but it is not proving to be true! Have you voted yet?
Me: Yeah, I took my lunch early and went around 11. It was really busy there, but my precinct must be one of the smaller ones because there wasn’t much of a line.
Mom: Well, good, I guess! Even though you voted for Obama.
Me: I couldn’t vote for McCain in case he dies. Palin scares me.
Mom: Really, and Biden doesn’t?
Me: Nope. I want Palin to stay out of my uterus and my business.
Mom: No, kiddo, tell me how you REALLY feel!
Me: I don’t like her. The end. Heidi and I made chili for tonight. It’s a healthy recipe that we’re making in the crock pot. I’ll let you know how it turns out.
Mom: Okay, if it's good, you are REQUIRED to share the recipe!
Me: Well, I know you use ground turkey, and black beans instead of kidney beans, and those green chile things. And some other stuff, too.
Mom: That is so helpful dear!
Me: What, you need more details?
Mom: Ya think!?!?!

More details: here.

I AM SOFA KING NERVOUS

Hi, Internets. Did you vote yet? I hope so. Even if you voted for the wrong person (hee), I think it's important that you vote. At least then you can complain for the next four years if your candidate loses. Hell, you can complain for the next four years if your candidate wins. That's what's beautiful about this country -- you can complain as long and as loudly as you want and no one gives a shit. Hee.

I wish I'd gone to vote early this morning, because then I could be drinking free Starbucks right now. But that would have meant I needed to get up even earlier than I do already, and that thought makes me want to cry. So I'll go at lunch, and if there's a long line and I have to miss work, so be it. It's the least I can do for my country. Actually, the least I could do for my country would be to NOT vote, but again . . . see above, re: complaining.

Heidi and I ended up tossing out the "watching the returns from a bar" plan when I suggested we just make chili and invite people over. Dude, people love chili. Also, beer. And cornbread! Mmm, cornbread. I wish it was time for chili now because that would mean I'd already voted, work was over, and it was time for the results to start coming in.

We made the chili last night and it looks so good. I wish I could invite you guys over. I mean, if you want to travel all the way to Ohio, then go for it. The more the merrier. You know, just bring extra booze because we only have so much of it and I know how much some of you can drink. Heh. Heidi went to the grocery last night to buy another can of beans, because we were worried we wouldn't have enough, and while she was gone, I decided to dice the onion. First I had to Google "how to dice an onion," NOT that I couldn't have figured it out on my own, but I like to follow directions. That's a lie. I had no idea how to dice an onion, other than to start chopping the shit out of it with a knife. I had to take a couple breaks because it was making me CRY, CRY, CRY, sort of like how I cried four years ago when W was reelected. Once the crying stopped, my friend Katie called me from DC and the conversation went something like this:

Her: Hey.
Me: Hey. What are you doing?
Her: Oh, you know. I'm just standing in front of the White House. Staring.
Me: Yeah.
Her: The Metro was really quiet today.
Me: I'll bet.
Her: This sucks.
Me: Yeah. I'm gonna go back to sleep.
Her: OK.
Me: ...
Her: ...

It was a depressing day, is what I'm saying. Also, I live blogged the election last time. I might do it again this year. If I remember. Heidi, will you remind me? You know how my brain forgets things. It can be the "Jennie and Heidi live-blog the election show." We'll be famous. FAMOUSER. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Onions. They were making me cry. And when Heidi came home, she was all, "holy lord, it smells like an onion exploded in here," and she was right. Even this morning it still smelled like onions, despite the fact that I ran through the apartment spraying Oust everywhere and lighting candles and opening windows. Damn, Gina.

Last night, I also did the 30 Day Shred video again and didn't want to die quite as much as I did the first time. And I'm not as sore today as I was before, so . . . yay. And then I watched like four episodes of Lost because did you know they show it on Sci-fi now? Awesome. It still doesn't make any sense, but that's why I love that show. Also, Matthew Fox is hot, even though Jack is really annoying. My favorite one that was on last night was the one where Hurley is in charge of the food, and he gives it all away in the end and it totally made me cry. Or maybe it was just the onion.

I felt a great disturbance in The Force

I have some bad news. Really bad. You should probably sit down. I got to work today at the same time I always do, checked my work email, and then went to see if it was my turn on Scrabulous. And . . . oh god . . . it was GONE. JUST GONE. NO MORE SCRABULOUS. I guess it's because Hasbro hates me and wants me to cry all day long.

You guys, I am a mess and not just because of the Scrabulous loss. I came back from Put-in-Bay with a wicked sunburn, a huge bruise on my knee and no recollection of obtaining it, and a blister on my hand from burning it on the oven. This is why I shouldn't try to cook. People only get hurt, and by people, I mean ME. Also all the people who get food poisoning. Then yesterday, I tried to tune my guitar and a string broke and whipped me on the wrist. It hurt. You may be asking yourself, "why is Jennie tuning a guitar?" or maybe even, "Jennie has a guitar?" and the answers are, "because an out of tune guitar sounds like shit," and, "yes, I do have a guitar." I bought it my senior year of high school because I thought teaching myself to play would be easier than it was. Also because it was blue. It turns out, teaching yourself how to play the guitar is NOT easy. I think I was hoping I would just pick up the guitar and magically know how to play. Like I'd be the Rainman of singer-songwriting. Alas, I am not. So, recently, I got a book to help teach me and yesterday was the first day I actually TRIED to do anything and then a stupid string broke. AND THEN (no and then!) I realized that I haven't changed the strings since I got the guitar. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it wasn't like I was playing it or anything. So. Moral of the story? I need new strings.

After I broke my guitar, I decided to go running and I almost died. I know I say that every time, but a combination of very little sleep this weekend, spending too much time in the sun, the HOT HOT HEAT and HUMID HUMID, um, HUMIDITY, and the fact that I haven't run in weeks meant I seriously for real almost fell on the sidewalk and died. I know this means I need to start running in the morning before work, but waking up that early makes me die, too. This is really a losing situation any way you look at it.

How about some spaghetti?

Last night, I decided to cook a real, honest-to-blog (I'm sorry) dinner. I used the recipe that Andrea talked about a while ago, because it sounded delicious and she SAID it was delicious, so I thought, "hmm, I wonder if this is delicious?" And so I had to make it, if only to kill my own wonder.

Anyway, the recipe called for prosciutto, and I'll be honest with you, I didn't really know what that was. I mean, I've heard it before, OBVIOUSLY, from stuff like . . . I don't know, Mama DiSalvo's and Top Chef. And so I called Joe, who would, in fact, be partaking in this delicious meal. Oh, right, Joe is new. Everyone say hi to Joe. OK. So. He didn't answer, and so I was all, "blah blah blah, I'm stupid, can you tell me what a prosciutto is?" into his voicemail. And then I thought about calling Heidi, but I remembered she was at spinning and I doubted she'd answer the phone while almost dying on a bike. And SO, I then put out an APB via text message:

Me: What is prosciutto and where in the grocery is it?

Heather Anne: I think it's like a giant sausage.

Me: I am in the wrong aisle then.

Heather Anne: Let me know if it's a huge sausage.

It is not a huge sausage. Not that I knew that at the grocery. I wandered around the meat (heh), looking at all the giant sausages (heh), but none of the sausages looked right (heh). And by looked right, of course I mean none of them said, "HEY JENNIE THIS IS PROSCIUTTO AND YOU SHOULD USE IT TO MAKE PASTA ALLA VODKA TONIGHT." And so I left the grocery without prosciutto, because I was afraid to ask anyone what it was. I almost stopped this little old lady to ask her, but she kept GETTING IN MY WAY WITH HER STUPID CART so instead I just glared at her a lot, which was not so much helpful, but it made me feel better.

As I was pulling out of the parking lot, Joe called me back.

Joe: Are you still at the grocery?
Me: No, I just left.
Joe: Damn.
Me: Do you know what prosciutto is?
Joe: . . . no. Hold on, I'll Google it.
Me: OK.
Joe: Here it is. Ha! It's HAM.
Me: Ham?
Joe: Ham. Dry cured ham that has not been cooked.
Me: Why don't they just call it ham? I know what ham is!
Joe: I don't know.
Me: Anyway, that sounds gross. Are you OK with not putting ham in the pasta?
Joe: Yeah, I don't really like ham that much either.
Me: Excellent.

That is essentially, exactly the way it happened*.

*except for the part about the buck teeth . . . oh my god, Jennie, shut up.

It's like a cow's opinion. It just doesn't matter. It's moo.

We haven't talked about TV in a while, have we? Does that scare you? I mean, I used to have a lot of thoughts and opinions about TV but now? Not so much. To be honest with you, Internets, I haven't really been watching that much TV. The strike, it hath cured me of my addiction! All hail the strike!

I'm kidding. But I haven't been watching as much TV as I used to. And I'm not as invested in the shows I do watch. Used to be, when a show like, say, LOST was on? I had to have complete silence and no one was allowed to talk to me during the entire hour and during the commercials, I'd sit on the sofa clutching my heart because OH MY GOD WHAT IF SAWYER DIES? Also, I didn't want to miss any of the parts where Jack and Kate are making kissy faces. Unless Jack was acting like a big, stupid doody-head, which is a lot of the time, like when he tries to take his own appendix out (wtf, Jack?), and also why does Hurley have to be so sad all the time? Dude. I love Hurley. Um. Yeah. Anyway, now I'll get up and actually do stuff during commercials. Although, I still feel a little ragey when someone talks to me while the show is on. I can't help it. I'm not very smart, so I need to really pay attention to everything or else I'll have absolutely no idea what's going on.

But then came Top Chef and now I find myself emotionally invested in a reality show but I DON'T CARE, because I freaking LOVE this show. I love watching people cook, so Top Chef is sort of like food porn. I got way, way angry last week when Dale got kicked off (um, spoiler alert) but last night's episode was sweet, sweet revenge, because the douchiest douche to have ever douched finally, FINALLY, packed his stupid douchey knives and went home. Douche. We hates him, precious*. All that needs to happen now is for Greasy Lisa to lose and then I don't care who wins. But I hope it's Stephanie. And not just because she looks JUST LIKE this girl I went to college with, who we called "Pledge," because . . . I don't remember, but whatever, MY POINT IS, Spike is gone and it was awesome. Truth.

*new low, Jennie

don't drink the Kool-Aid

The first time my great-aunt Marion came to a big family function (Thanksgiving or Christmas or something, I don't know, because I wasn't even close to being born yet ANYWAY), she went into the kitchen and very kindly asked my Grandma Sensenbaugh (say that ten times fast) what she could do to help. My great-grandmother looked at her and said, with an incomparable mix of sarcasm and grace, I imagine, "you can stir the Kool-Aid."

Over the years, (great) Grandma gradually began to trust Aunt Marion with more complicated cooking tasks, but not before "stirring the Kool-Aid," became a family joke. To this day, the person with the least amount of cooking talent is told, "you can stir the Kool-Aid," should they FOOLISHLY attempt to help with the cooking. Although, we don't drink as much Kool-Aid as we do WINE, so maybe we should change it to, "you can pour the wine."

Tomorrow, my parents and aunts and uncles are throwing a 70th birthday party for my Grandma Carolyn. Her twin sister (Marilyn, hee) will be there ALL THE WAY FROM CALIFORNIA because, strangely enough, it's her 70th birthday, too. I think you'll agree that the most important thing is that I'll be there. After all, someone needs to stir the Kool-Aid.