Jenny On the Spot: Caffeinated mom, lover of dancing, glitter and glitter.

as are all who enter the bowels of such an establishment. I mean, look… the crazies assemble there:

I must admit, when I have to go there, I enter with all the feelings of dread and despair a toddler must feel… when she must sit on the lap of a strange, large man dressed in red and white fur and ask for gifts. I think I have a new appreciation for the fear of Santa, and especially the Easter Bunny. I digress.

I had to go the Chuck’s yesterday. My daughter had a birthday party to go to. The party was scheduled for 2 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Going to Chuck E. Cheese mid-day on a Saturday is no better than deciding to investigate why there is a large bonfire burning in a secluded forest area at midnight on Halloween. The Devil, I tell you. The. Devil.

It was toward the end of the party I went to tally up my 3 year old’s tickets in the ticket-counter machine. I waited behind a young boy as he fed and fed and fed and fed and fed that machine ticket and after ticket after ticket. It was quite cute, actually. He might have been 6 or 7… workin’ hard all on his own. 

Out of the blue a woman and her young daughter (perhaps 6 or 7) walk up. The little boy was bending over to straighten out a strip of tickets. While he was bending over, the little girl tried to slip her tickets in the machine… in the middle of his ticket count. I could see the drama unfold if that little girl fed her tickets into the machine of a hard-working little boy without a mother in sight to represent for him.

Calmly. Really. Calmly…. I took my hand and placed it between the ticket hole and the end of the little girl’s ticket strip. Whilst doing so I said, “Oh honey… hold on a second… this boy isn’t quite finished.”

The mom gave me such a look. I thought, “Oh. She’s probably embarrassed because her daughter has such atrocious manners. I’ll just tell her it’s OK, it’s so busy in here it’s hard to tell who’s doing what…”

Was I in for a shock. Ya wanna know what she said? Wanna? Wanna?!!!! She. Said:

Oh my gosh! I can’t believe you did that. You were going to hit my daughter!

*blinking*

*blinking*

*rage brewing*

Now, I don’t know about you, but I kinda feel accusing someone of beating a child is a BFD. Big. Deal. Tho I could have turned away and let this Devil woman fluff her own bed in hell… I HAD to say something. 

Are you kidding me? I’m not an idiot. I’m not gonna hit somebody’s kid, who would benefit from that? I just saved your little girl from losing all her precious tickets and YOU…. “LADY”… are a FOOL woman.

I was so hot, especially as she walked away and was all, to her daughter, “Oh my gosh honey… are you OK?”

And I’m thinking, “What friggin’ planet did I land on and when is my ship coming back for me!” 

Maybe she didn’t get her rabies shot yet… Sorry that was mean. But friends… when someone responds like that, there has to be something VERY wrong… like having rabies.

Annnnywho… I nixed the ticket redemption, grabbed my 2 girls and high-tailed it out of that Den of Satan. I saw the lady flailing her arms as she re-told her story to her pack of rabid wolves. And honestly, I wasn’t rushing to get out because I was afraid of her… no.

I was rushing to get out cuzza the way my blood was a-boilin’ — I think I now know what Mike Tyson must’ve felt like when he went to bite Evander Hollyfield’s ear. ‘Ol Mike made a bad decision and the way I was feeling, had I stuck around the demonic presence that fills that Pizza Den of the Devil I may have been a poor decision-maker too. Anynohooos, I had filled up on salad, pizza and cake, so the taste of human flesh just didn’t sound all that “appetizing” anyway… 

Grrr.

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It took me years… YEARS, people to garner enough courage to utilize the Carnival Room of Mirrors that some pople at the gym call a “weight room”. I still call it a Carnival Room of Mirrors. It is quite cruel really. Back when I lived in Cali – So Cal, yo… I belonged to a gym that had a weight room just for women. It was all pink and safe and minimally mirrored.

But the gym I currently attend is not located in So Cal, so there is no indoor 25 meter pool, no indoor track, no neon lights and thumping sound system, and no special weight room for the ladies with pink-seated equipment. IN FACT… there is one particular spot in the weight room at my small-town gym that I feel is rather un-nerving. At best.

Take a peek at this machine. Just looking at this machine makes me squirm.

Continue reading ‘Gym Equipment Placement FAIL’

I am not a huge fan of email forwards. Many times I find I want to send a pox on the next 10 people who tell me I will be ugly for 10 years if I don’t forward to 10 people… It’s infuriating in addition to being an utter waste of my time… *delete*… I’m a risk-taker, that way. I dare “10 years of ugly” to Bring It.

But every so often, there’s a doozie. The kind of forward that makes you fall out of your chair or pee your pants… My style is to snort and my abdominal muscles cramp up like a mother… and I have to bounce around like a fool to make the pain stop before I die. But that’s just me…

It is possible you have read this before. This was new one for me… and I have debated on posting it because

1. As I stated before I am cautious about forwards, and
2. I don’t want my blog to be a place I regurgitate other people’s funny stuff, and
3. It’s a little more crass than tend to publish here…

Continue reading ‘The Electric Fence Story’

I’m feeling a wee-bit like a cranky kermudgeon (andIdon’tcareifIspelledthatwrong). It’s just the little things that are making me feel like I am being continuously ever-so-lightly flicked on the forehead continuously… I have a list. Bitter-miserable souls are good list-makers. At least there is some good in here somewhere.

• The air-brushed fakey perfection of women in the media. As hard as I work to be less fat than I have ever been since hormones took over in the early 80’s… I will never… … … It really sucks being a real woman with a real body (like, never a size 0 – EVER!) in this age of Photoshopped fakeness. We have no appreciation for real beauty because of all the fake- crap we are bombarded with. Makes me want to puke, but not in an eating-disorder sort-of way. See? I am in a bad mood. 
• I hate pimples. *holds back profanity*
• Claims like the following just tick me the heck off. They communicate a false sense of hope for the most hopeless of people — parents of sleepless children:

Fridge Friday seems to be on an extended vacation, so in the spirit of continued alliterative title-ness — I single handedly just came up with “For Cryin’ Out Loud! Friday”. I know, my brain is amazing.  I snapped the following 2 pictures when I went to Seabrook about a month ago – with a few girlfriends. My friend Katie and I went for a walk and found the most puzzling thing:

Yeah. That, my friends, is what I would label “a tire swing”… I had to climb onto rotting, moss covered trees to get close enough for my camera to capture this tire swing in all the eerie darkness… on a TREE OF DEATH FOR TIRE SWING SWINGERS!!! Can anyone say, “Tire swing fail!”? Katie and I just stood aghast. Maybe it wasn’t really a tire swing. Maybe it was actually a torture swing. I dunno. It’s hard to speculate the thought process behind something like that. Here’s another shot:

Do you see those impalers branches? Swing left – death… Swing right – death. Hmmm… oddly political, wouldn’t you say? Aaaanywho. For Cryin’ Out Loud! 

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