So today at work I was in the back, where I always am, and Norma said.
"Jenna, come up here you have to see this,"
So I went up and Pat had a Baby Kangaroo. It was wearing a diaper and i petted it, but it's ears were not as soft as I had expected.
"Ok, I gotta take you back up to your mama," Pat said, taking the Kangaroo away.
"Why did Pat have a Kangaroo?" I asked, and everyone laughed, but didn't answer my question, so I went back to work.
A little while later I went back out and said, "Seriously why did Pat have a Kangaroo," and everyone just laughed again, but still no answer.
I believe that this is an actual reality that happened today in my life. But after telling the tale to incredulous listeners and looking back it all seems so surreal, that suddenly I'm not sure that it really happened and I am a little worried that I''m losing my mind.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Quriktacular!
Megan tagged me, so here it goes. I'm supposed to write about 6 quirky things about myself (only six?) so here it goes.
1. When I get ready in the morning I pretend like I'm being interviewed on Oprah. I dislike it when i have guests in my house because these interviews are always out loud. i think that everyone does this, they just don't want to admit it.
2. Every time I walk on ice I have to stop talking and tuck my tongue safely behind my teeth because I am afraid that one day I will slip on the ice, fall forward on my jaw, and bite my tongue off, and then no one will ever marry me. It's a real fear.
3. I have aided in the capture and killing of at least two rattlesnakes.
4. I hate cooked fruit, it is disgusting.
5. When I was a kid my favorite outfit was a pair of purple jeans, and a pink fluffy shirt. One time I dreamed that I drank a bottle of Sprite, and died whilst wearing that outfit. Fearing it was a premonition type dream I never wore that outfit again, because if I was never dressed like that, then I could never be poisoned by Sprite. To this day my mom doesn't now why I forever refused to wear those clothes again.
6. I hate when people touch my things without asking. it fills me with completely unreasonable distress. One time when I had lost my debit card my mom went through my entire wallet, and cleaned it out, without my knowledge. I was so upset that I couldn't talk to her for several days. I rarely let people come into my room because it upsets me so much. I think it stems back to my mother cleaning my room for me when I was a kid and afterwards there was always some sort of reproach. "You really shouldn't treat your clothes like that," and "You really shouldn't keep a box of cookies in your sock drawer." She would touch my stuff and then I would receive a reproach, therefore conditioning me to fear every time anyone touched anything of mine. But that all seems rather Freudian, so maybe not.
1. When I get ready in the morning I pretend like I'm being interviewed on Oprah. I dislike it when i have guests in my house because these interviews are always out loud. i think that everyone does this, they just don't want to admit it.
2. Every time I walk on ice I have to stop talking and tuck my tongue safely behind my teeth because I am afraid that one day I will slip on the ice, fall forward on my jaw, and bite my tongue off, and then no one will ever marry me. It's a real fear.
3. I have aided in the capture and killing of at least two rattlesnakes.
4. I hate cooked fruit, it is disgusting.
5. When I was a kid my favorite outfit was a pair of purple jeans, and a pink fluffy shirt. One time I dreamed that I drank a bottle of Sprite, and died whilst wearing that outfit. Fearing it was a premonition type dream I never wore that outfit again, because if I was never dressed like that, then I could never be poisoned by Sprite. To this day my mom doesn't now why I forever refused to wear those clothes again.
6. I hate when people touch my things without asking. it fills me with completely unreasonable distress. One time when I had lost my debit card my mom went through my entire wallet, and cleaned it out, without my knowledge. I was so upset that I couldn't talk to her for several days. I rarely let people come into my room because it upsets me so much. I think it stems back to my mother cleaning my room for me when I was a kid and afterwards there was always some sort of reproach. "You really shouldn't treat your clothes like that," and "You really shouldn't keep a box of cookies in your sock drawer." She would touch my stuff and then I would receive a reproach, therefore conditioning me to fear every time anyone touched anything of mine. But that all seems rather Freudian, so maybe not.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Sweded
So I watched "Be Kind Rewind," yesterday because Michel Gondry is a creative king, and while the movie wasn't great the idea was. In the movie the process of remaking your favorite movie yourself is referred to as "Sweded" and many people have since been sweding their own movies, and I think this is maybe the best think I've ever seen. The voice of Falcor is particularly magnificent. Watch and enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJZ1i0L7QlI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJZ1i0L7QlI
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Jenna's Completely True Confessions.
Sometimes, when I'm at work I go into the back room, and eat string cheese and listen to "All You Need is Love" from the Across The Universe soundtrack over and over again. One time I was in there for an hour.
This has been a completely true confession.
This has been a completely true confession.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Why I want to be an Author
1. I can stay up until 1:00 or 2:00 am, and wake up at 10:00 or 11:00 every day.
2. I can stay home and watch Oprah, and Days of Our Lives.
3. I can live wherever I want. Move to the English countryside for a year? Why not! Spend the Winter in a Buddhist monastary? Go for it! I can write anywhere.
4. I get carte blanche for any eccentric behavior, because I am an artist.
5. My opinions will matter more because I am published.
6. My artistic reputation will give me an added air of mystery and will make me seem more attractive.
7. I can take advantage of the perks of vague celebrity.
Why do I think that any of this is a feasible possibility?
Because if Stephanie Meyer can do it, then honey, anyone can.
2. I can stay home and watch Oprah, and Days of Our Lives.
3. I can live wherever I want. Move to the English countryside for a year? Why not! Spend the Winter in a Buddhist monastary? Go for it! I can write anywhere.
4. I get carte blanche for any eccentric behavior, because I am an artist.
5. My opinions will matter more because I am published.
6. My artistic reputation will give me an added air of mystery and will make me seem more attractive.
7. I can take advantage of the perks of vague celebrity.
Why do I think that any of this is a feasible possibility?
Because if Stephanie Meyer can do it, then honey, anyone can.
Observations of the Young Single Male Populous
For reasons that I can't completely understand it is difficult for me to find boys who are interested in me. I am a reasonably attractive person and I think that I move through society somewhat successfully. My point being that while I may not be Heidi Klum there are uglier, more socially awkward people that are dating all the freaking time.
So what is the deal? I hear men say all the time that they just want an easy going low maintenance girl, and yet, what do we find? Time and time again they go chasing after the perfectly manicured peroxide blonde models. Do they not understand that these girls require almost constant maintenance? Do they not understand what low maintenance really means?
Mr. Knightly tells us that "Men of sense, do not want silly wives." So why do they want to exclusively date the silly girls? My scientific observations show me that the dumb silly girls get ridiculous amounts of attention from the opposite sex. I'm no Marie Curie but I am an intelligent and cultured young woman. I used to think that the boys my age were immature and insecure and therefore wanted uncomplicated women in their life, so that they could feel superior and good about themselves, and one day they would grow up and become men of sense and they wouldn't want silly wives. But today Newsweek told me that the men of my generation aren't growing up. They remain in a perpetual "guyland" where they go out with their friends and drink and score chicks throughout their 30's. The women of my generation are going out into the work place and making more money than their male counterparts. The women are out there kicking butt, and the men are doing nothing to deserve us. It seems generally unfair.
Speaking of unfairness, I know that blanket statements about the opposite sex are unfair, and I know that it isn't true about every man in the world, but I must speak as I find, and my own experience has brought me to this point. I don't want to come off as a man-hater, I really like men, which is why I am so distressed that they don't seem to like me. I am afraid that it is a fact that every time I get up the guts to talk to a boy there is little or no interest expressed, and I move on trying to maintain some sort of dignity. Perhaps I have to let go of dignity completely before I can get a date. I think further sallies into the social world are necessary, but I will keep you abreast of any scientific developments.
So what is the deal? I hear men say all the time that they just want an easy going low maintenance girl, and yet, what do we find? Time and time again they go chasing after the perfectly manicured peroxide blonde models. Do they not understand that these girls require almost constant maintenance? Do they not understand what low maintenance really means?
Mr. Knightly tells us that "Men of sense, do not want silly wives." So why do they want to exclusively date the silly girls? My scientific observations show me that the dumb silly girls get ridiculous amounts of attention from the opposite sex. I'm no Marie Curie but I am an intelligent and cultured young woman. I used to think that the boys my age were immature and insecure and therefore wanted uncomplicated women in their life, so that they could feel superior and good about themselves, and one day they would grow up and become men of sense and they wouldn't want silly wives. But today Newsweek told me that the men of my generation aren't growing up. They remain in a perpetual "guyland" where they go out with their friends and drink and score chicks throughout their 30's. The women of my generation are going out into the work place and making more money than their male counterparts. The women are out there kicking butt, and the men are doing nothing to deserve us. It seems generally unfair.
Speaking of unfairness, I know that blanket statements about the opposite sex are unfair, and I know that it isn't true about every man in the world, but I must speak as I find, and my own experience has brought me to this point. I don't want to come off as a man-hater, I really like men, which is why I am so distressed that they don't seem to like me. I am afraid that it is a fact that every time I get up the guts to talk to a boy there is little or no interest expressed, and I move on trying to maintain some sort of dignity. Perhaps I have to let go of dignity completely before I can get a date. I think further sallies into the social world are necessary, but I will keep you abreast of any scientific developments.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Bob Dylan Live and in Concert!
It hadn't rained for months. For the better part of the summer not a drop had fallen, but of course, on the night when I was going to see Bob Dylan live and in concert, outdoors there was forecasts for severe thunderstorms.
"We'll just be prepared," my amazingly reasonable mom reasoned. "We'll bring jackets and umbrellas and we'll be all right,"
"We'll be struck by lightening!" My unbelievable unreasonable Father surmised, "We will die,"
"Shut up both of you!" said me, the daughter who wished that her parents could just relax and be cool.
We drove down to Park City some two hours early, hoping that we could get a good spot. Dad thought that we were leaving too early and nobody would be there, because nobody would want to go to a concert in the rain, but upon arriving we saw that he was obviously wrong.
The line extended through half of the parking lot. And the smattering of people! There were hippies, punks, goths, yuppies, granola's, all manner of people that you could imagine, at every conceivable age all brought together by love of Bob Dylan and his general excellence.
The line extended through half of the parking lot. And the smattering of people! There were hippies, punks, goths, yuppies, granola's, all manner of people that you could imagine, at every conceivable age all brought together by love of Bob Dylan and his general excellence.
I wished I could have found someone to go with other than my parents. They are yuppies.
We took our place in line and waited, settling down for the hour and half wait before the gates opened. In front of us there was a group of middle aged teachers who had come up from Nevada to see Dylan. They had brought a cooler of booze, and were playing bartender in the parking lot, mixing up margaritas, and martini's in red plastic cups. Behind us was a man who had attended Woodstock. "I feel like a teenager again," he said, "Waiting for a concert in the rain," At that point it was only a light drizzle and the general feeling was optimistic that maybe the storm would pass.
Some people were oblivious to the fact that rain was coming at all, judging form the clothes they chose to wear. Sandals, flip flops, shorts, white pants, mini skirts, bare feet, entire groups of people without a jacket between them. and because I worry for other people when they don't take the time to worry about themselves, I took a few moment to worry for the unprepared.
I was also worried about Bob. The stage was covered but it was supposed to be rather chilly, and he's an old man now. I was worried that he would get cold and not be able to play or sing well for us.
It began to really rain while everyone was looking for seats. The sheets of rain were taken by most as a personal challenge and was answered by a series of scattered "Woo's!" Hail was greeted in much the same way, and the simultaneous thunder and lightening that crackled above our heads just elicited a more unified "Woo!" it was like Mother Nature was opening for Bob Dylan.
The weather was truly torrential as we waited for the show. My parents and I huddled under a tarp and ate pasta salad, and sipped Diet Coke, and I began to be afraid.
I had heard a lot of different things about Bob Dylan in concert: He's boring, he's lost his voice (was it all that good to begin with?) you can't recognize his songs, you can't hear the words.
What if it was terrible? What if I waited in the pouring rain to be dissapointed, was it worth it?
I decided that regardless, I wanted a souvenirs, and sometime during the time that I spent buying t-shirts and posters the rain slowed, and then at 7:28 the rain stopped, and a shock of blue sky began to make it's way over the dusky green mountain tops.
At 7:30 Bob came out. I couldn't hear anything the announcer said because of feedback , but then all of the sudden there he was, walking out of the backstage darkness dressed like a Civil War general, wearing a tidy tan hat decorated with a delicate feather in the band.
I jumped up and down, I cheered, I felt my heart thrill, and I basked in the glow of my fellow Dylan fans. Without saying a word he launched into Rainy Day Woman #12 and 35, and everyone sang along with the chorus.
"Everybody must get stoned!"
and some people did. There was a magnificent aroma that was a mix of Marijuana, booze, nag champa incense (thank you for the heads up Kim!), pine trees, and fresh air. It's how I imagine the 60's smelled.
We weren't as close as I would have like, but I looked through my Dad's binoculars and I could see perfectly that iconic profile and I died a little inside because it was so amazing. Bob and the band rocked harder than anything on any of the albums and the set list was especially wonderful.
Rainy Day Woman #12 & 35
When I Paint My Masterpiece
Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again
Not Dark Yet
Don't Thin Twice, It's All Right
Million Miles
Desolation Row
The Levee's Gonna Break
Honest With Me
Simple Twist of Fate
Highway 61 Revisited
Queen Jane Approximately
Thunder on the Mountain
Like a Rolling Stone
I squealed and cheered. Everyone was dancing and singing along. It sounds corny, but you could really feel the love all around. There were so many great moments. When Bob Dylan wandered over and quietly selected a harmonica, the frequent wry smiles towards the audience, and when he came out to play "Like a Rolling Stone" for the encore, and everyone sang along, and it was awesome because I saw Bob Dylan perform "Like A Rolling Stone" live.
It was a great great concert. I know I sound like a gushing school-girl, but that's how I feel. It was the coolest thing that has ever happened to me, and I wish that I could run away from my current life and follow Bob Dylan and his band around for the next few months. There aren't enough positive adjectives. Love! Love! Love!
It began to really rain while everyone was looking for seats. The sheets of rain were taken by most as a personal challenge and was answered by a series of scattered "Woo's!" Hail was greeted in much the same way, and the simultaneous thunder and lightening that crackled above our heads just elicited a more unified "Woo!" it was like Mother Nature was opening for Bob Dylan.
The weather was truly torrential as we waited for the show. My parents and I huddled under a tarp and ate pasta salad, and sipped Diet Coke, and I began to be afraid.
I had heard a lot of different things about Bob Dylan in concert: He's boring, he's lost his voice (was it all that good to begin with?) you can't recognize his songs, you can't hear the words.
What if it was terrible? What if I waited in the pouring rain to be dissapointed, was it worth it?
I decided that regardless, I wanted a souvenirs, and sometime during the time that I spent buying t-shirts and posters the rain slowed, and then at 7:28 the rain stopped, and a shock of blue sky began to make it's way over the dusky green mountain tops.
At 7:30 Bob came out. I couldn't hear anything the announcer said because of feedback , but then all of the sudden there he was, walking out of the backstage darkness dressed like a Civil War general, wearing a tidy tan hat decorated with a delicate feather in the band.
I jumped up and down, I cheered, I felt my heart thrill, and I basked in the glow of my fellow Dylan fans. Without saying a word he launched into Rainy Day Woman #12 and 35, and everyone sang along with the chorus.
"Everybody must get stoned!"
and some people did. There was a magnificent aroma that was a mix of Marijuana, booze, nag champa incense (thank you for the heads up Kim!), pine trees, and fresh air. It's how I imagine the 60's smelled.
We weren't as close as I would have like, but I looked through my Dad's binoculars and I could see perfectly that iconic profile and I died a little inside because it was so amazing. Bob and the band rocked harder than anything on any of the albums and the set list was especially wonderful.
Rainy Day Woman #12 & 35
When I Paint My Masterpiece
Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again
Not Dark Yet
Don't Thin Twice, It's All Right
Million Miles
Desolation Row
The Levee's Gonna Break
Honest With Me
Simple Twist of Fate
Highway 61 Revisited
Queen Jane Approximately
Thunder on the Mountain
Like a Rolling Stone
I squealed and cheered. Everyone was dancing and singing along. It sounds corny, but you could really feel the love all around. There were so many great moments. When Bob Dylan wandered over and quietly selected a harmonica, the frequent wry smiles towards the audience, and when he came out to play "Like a Rolling Stone" for the encore, and everyone sang along, and it was awesome because I saw Bob Dylan perform "Like A Rolling Stone" live.
It was a great great concert. I know I sound like a gushing school-girl, but that's how I feel. It was the coolest thing that has ever happened to me, and I wish that I could run away from my current life and follow Bob Dylan and his band around for the next few months. There aren't enough positive adjectives. Love! Love! Love!
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