Day 27: And I am home...

I have missed you, blog friends. For those of you who trucked through my absence and remained true followers, I thank you and am grateful for your support and patience. The rest of you can eat a big one. Ha! Jk. Kinda.

Now for the honesty. I have been home for months. For some strange reason, I couldn’t justify blogging until I got myself a job and received my first paycheck. Writing here is a kind of reward for me. I do it for myself, to make myself happy. And without a job or income, I just felt I didn't deserve to take time for myself to write and read other blogs.

But now all that has changed. I am a working woman. It took a giant pair of balls to make it through all the rejections I received, but now I feel like I've got the shaft to back it up. I've been hired!

For those of you wondering what I'm doing, my working life can pretty much be summed up by a simple (and of course true) story. I arrived at the train station early one morning. To combat achy foot syndrome (as I now wear heels, in spite of my malformed feet's horrid screams of death pain), I decide to smooth the back of my business skirt and bop down on one of the sheltered benches near the tracks. I read, being careful to keep my ankles crossed as opposed to sitting in my normal manly position of feet splayed, back leaned, and knees resting comfortably away from each other.

I was really into my book, a common occurrence these days as I finally have access to a super-huge library that houses a plethora of beautiful reads. As I went to switch the ankle-cross, I nabbed the back of my nylons on some bumpy, chappy piece of bench-wood. Dammit. I didn't have an extra pair, so I immediately reached down to check the damage, all while racking my brain about what those woman's magazines suggest for nylon quick-fixes.

"OH DON'T YOU WORRY!" Some huge, booming voice announces from the other side of the shelter. "YOU'RE FINE! THOSE BABIES ARE JUUUUUSSSST FINE!" As my head snaps up and my cheeks begin to flush, I take notice of the multiple pairs of Chicago businessman eyes that are now roaming in that hopeful morning-sex way all over my stupid, hosed legs.

The booming culprit? No big deal, it was my conductor.

The same one who needed to punch my ten pass. The same one who stalked the aisle my entire trip into work. The same one who loudly came on to me in a crowded train shelter at 6:20 AM on a Tuesday morning. Fml.

My new job has many moments like this. Fml, what the hell am I doing, duh, shit, whaa-whaa...all the normal Office Space forms of complaints. But here's the great thing. I am making money. I am hired. I am more than willing to put up with lousy conductors and bad office carpeting...because I've been in the position where I didn't have a choice. I had no job and was going broke. As I said before, though, I've found my shaft. And it's one large, girthy mother trucker.

Thank God for that, and thank God for being home. I’ve missed you, America.

Day 26: Moving Disclaimer & A Pup in Need!

Blogging world, oh how I love you so. And I hate to say it, but we must part ways for about a month. My computer will be picked up on Monday and I will be unable to write on any sort of schedule...we're finally moving back to America! Goodbye, schnitzel! Piss off, Autobahn! Eat a big one, Baumholder! We're off. I could not be more excited. Although the excitement is mixed in with a huge toilet filled with anxiety and a to-do list that is 423 pages long.

I will miss you :( I will be in to check your blogs! I can still go to the library! But no writing for me.......if you're really bored, check out my blog's Preface. It's the longest story ever. That oughtta keep y'all busy for a bit!

On an unrelated, but equally important note, there is a poor pup named Shorty who needs some major assistance. The lil' guy was thrown out of a truck with a bullet in his cute little body and a broken hip. He was luckily found by my blog guru, Yankee Girl....unfortunately, he needs some pretty extensive surgery and follow-ups. And I know I don't carry pet health insurance. If you would like to donate, you can do so at

http://helpforshorty.chipin.com/shortys-hip-surgery

and be sure to check out pictures of the pup at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/49162426@N02/?saved=1

He is so adorable! He deserves to be treated with respect. Unlike the trucker. Who should be thrown out of his own truck, shot, and then molested in the butt with a broken hip. No big deal. Animal and child abusers are, in my opinion, the world's worst criminals.

Mucho love from the last German-made post EVER!

Jen

Day 25: Life Through the Eyes of My Mini-Person

So kids are remarkable, apparently. You see, I have quite the temper and normally do not like children. Before getting pregnant, I think I may have hated children. I didn't like the way their moms pretended like their little sperm/egg mutants weren't staring at me like little creeps in restaurants. I didn't appreciate hearing them whine, cry, and sometimes poop themselves over ice cream. I certainly didn't like the way they interrupted my Jr. High "Gangsta" image. They annoyed the crap out of me. Parents annoyed the crap out of me.

While many parents still make me want to grab their heads and use them as bowling balls, kids have grown on me. I've even found a few moms that don't make me want to cut my own face off. Not many. Maybe two. But they're out there! Maybe after I leave this Baumhell, Germany post I'll find more. Prolly not, but one can hope.

You see, children aren't the problem. Children are just that....children. They are some of the most interesting creatures on the planet, and let me tell you why: they have kid goggles on. Instead of the drunk goggles we all have inevitably worn in our adult years, kids wear a type of goggles many of us forgot how to wear. They see things differently.

Bugs. Creepy, crawly, possibly poisonous bugs. I see death, my Ming sees awesomeness. She grabs them, no fear, and carries them around in her hands. Those precious little hands don't care about a bug's bad reputation. They just like the way a bug's legs tickle. Screw poison.

Water. Anytime, anywhere, water is like liquid God to my child.

Bubbles. Just like water, bubbles entertain for hours. My cheeks hurt. My head starts to feel a little light. But I will still blow. Those. Bubbles.

Flowers. Each time we go outside, I see the big picture. The weather. The temperature. The type of people wandering around. Ming sees the tiny things. A weed's flower, for example, keeps her enamored for 20 minutes. We go outside so she can get fresh air. I go outside to be a good mom. Ming goes outside to pick weed flowers. And she loves them. It's all she needs in this world. Fuck a sunray. Give her weed flowers or give her death. She's selective, too....don't ask me how she discriminates against her weed flowers. I simply don't know.

Sticks, stones, or mini-bird bones. A rock is like gold. A tiny, useless stick is a wand from Fantasia. A disgusting pile of dead bird guts is a cool glob of bird bodies. "Look, Mommy, I have bones too! Only you can't see mine.....maybe after I'm dead you can. That'd be cool! I love bones."

Other people. My child loves people. She discriminates.....in a very neutral, that's-how-it-is way. For instance, she tells me, "Daddy has a tall butt, I have a tiny butt, and you have a fat butt, Mommy." She has a thing for people with darker or olive-colored skin. She thinks dark skin is more beautiful than pale, white skin. She doesn't like loud people. She covers her ears when people talk loudly. She will love anything in pink. She once told a man in a pink dress shirt she loved his shirt and wants to marry a prince in a pink shirt in the library by her house. I don't know why she thinks these things, she just does. This is who she is, naturally. I kind of love it. She's not inhibited. God bless her.

Problems. She'll ball if her socks don't sit directly over her toes. She throws a tantrum if her jacket zipper gets stuck. A loose string on her blanket is cause for some serious tears. But when there is a flood that runs the length of the house and Mommy's freaking out about the damage it will cause, Ming just says, "well, let's clean it up. No problems, Mommy."

Compassion. At my worst, worst worst, my child has seen me cry. And there is nothing more precious in my life than the feeling of her little hands on my face telling me it is all going to be okay. Nothing is more comforting. Nothing is more amazing.

I swear she is an angel. I swear she was placed on this earth to, among other things, rekindle my view of the world. Screw politics and financial failures....there's a leaf on the ground!

Day 24: My Magic Driving Lightboard

So here's the deal. Since I started driving at the ripe old age of sixteen, I have forever wished for a magic notebook that could hang out of my car window and convey specialized messages to other drivers. In my younger years, the messages dealt mainly with hott guys and tryin to score some ass. Later, they became symbols of my insane addiction to road rage. Lately, they are blunt observations of my own actions or the actions of another.

For all you inventors out there.....can you develop a safe, visible side-mirror arm on which I can place a scrolling, light-up screen? The screen would hook up to a Stephen Hawking-like mouthpiece that would translate my verbal messages into technological funktasticness. For obvious purposes, I would, of course, make sure the mouthpiece didn't activate until pushed the little red "You Tell 'Em" button on my steering wheel.

We could even preset some of the responses so we could mass produce this little gizmo and appeal to major vehicle markets. Off the top of my head, these are a few of the things I have always wanted to say to a driver, but never been able to with unmistaken-able words...

~GET. OFF. MY. ASS.

~Yhea keep it up. I've got somethin' for that kinda behavior.

~Just because you're virtually un-fuckable doesn't mean I'm your mortal enemy.

~Your car is leaking toxic, black fumes at an alarming rate. Might wanna get that checked out.

~See ya, sucka!!!

~I am poor. Please don't hit my car.

~That stuff falling from the sky? It's called "precipitation"... Put your dern lights on.

~Your BK meal is not more important than the stability of Rt. 14 traffic. Pull into the parking lot or move your ass.

~Yes, honey. We know you feel more secure driving a huge, ridiculous vehicle. Perhaps you should've paid to learn how to drive it before dragging it off the lot.

~Stop looking at me, schwan.

~A husband's toy can be a wife's joy....but not if you're retarded and can't drive stick worth a damn.

~Your makeup issue shouldn't threaten my kid's life.........ever!

~I can smellllllll your cigarette.

~Check left, check right, check left again, THEN proceed.

~Perhaps a cab would've been wiser.

~Practice driving on snow before moving somewhere with snowy, snowy winters.

~If I had a nickel for every time someone pissed me off and then got into an "accident"......

~Your child isn't wearing a seatbelt. I know this because they are hanging out your window and spitting gum at my car.

~I know car-kwan-do.

~Yes, your BMW is better than my Toyota Echo. But my husband has a bigger dick. I win!

~I can't see your head! That's a bad sign!

~Nope. You're still not cool.

~If I put my four year old in the driver's seat after injecting her with two tons of caffeine and fixing her right leg with a giant, metal rod, I guarantee the two of you would come close in a who-sucks-more-at-driving contest.

Now I know there's more out there....so let me hear it, readers. If you had the chance to communicate something through a magic writing-board, what would you say?

PS: Funniest part of the concept? Place yourself in the reader's shoes. Imagine driving along, minding your own business, when BAM you see this lit-up sign telling you to suck it, or telling you your car has a flat tire, or you need driving lessons......I think I would laugh my ass off. Prior to getting kinda pissed, of course.

Happy Wednesday :)

Day 23: Ahhh....Laughing with Love

One of the things I must love the most about being on a military post is the intense amount of diversity I face on a daily basis. People from the south, north, east, and west come together to form this tiny, complicated community. And I'm here to tell ya, dumb people make my day on an hourly basis.

1. I am a huge online shopper. I don't actually buy what I want....I just put it all in my shopping bag or "favorites" bin and close out my browser right before I enter my cc#. On a recent excursion to my favorite online yard sale site, I saw a listing for a puppy. The seller described the puppy as cute, friendly, and good with other animals or kids. I read on, obviously smitten with the cliche description of The World's Best Dog, and found my dog would come complete with "bowels and food." Excellent. I would hate to feed the thing and have food just floating around inside an empty body cavity.

2. On the same site, a seller posted an warning to all prospective buyers by stating she wanted to deal with nice people only. She didn't want to talk to anyone who wasn't serious about buying and she asked that any prospective buyers wait until payday to contact her so she wouldn't have to hold their items until they had money. She continued to threaten the Internet by claiming she encountered too many rude, obnoxious people through the yard sale site. After reading her warning, I totally wanted to buy from her! I mean, she must be such a joy to deal with! And plus, all her items were still there! Apparently I was the only one interested in dealing with her stellar sales skills.



3. Another mood-lifter was a certain comment a fellow Baumholder resident left on a mutual friend's Facebook page. This person was offering advice to our friend, who was dealing with some rather annoying neighbors who owned a cranky, loud dog. I believe the advice was to, "file a complete" with the military police. After all, this person had to do it once for their "nabors that went away for the weekend and there dogs barks and keeped everyone up for the hole weekend." I could only imagine how hard that was. Nabors must be like midget neighbors who say naw instead of neigh. Perhaps these midgets dig holes over the weekend, thereby keeping their big-people neighbors up for days on end. I would file a complete, too.

4. Or how about the military families who tack confederate flags onto their trucks and inside their apartment windows (as drapes)? They must be fantastic additions to the united military force that is the U.S. Army. I imagine their non-confederate battle buddies have no problem staring at that motivating, pleasant symbol everyday. I'm sure it brings up a ton of bubbly, joyous feelings of brotherhood, fairness, and equality. Ya know. All those fuzzy little components that create dependency on another man for survival.

5. The best is when I see strung-out moms at the store. I'm a mom, so I get it....but for some strange reason, I didn't read that section in What to Expect: The Toddler Years that described appropriate discipline. Apparently, when you're attempting to call a ceasefire between two fist-fighting little boys, it's best to grab their attention with one or two huge smacks to the face. If that doesn't work, just tell them that Daddy is going to beat the hell outta them in a few hours. No big deal. Now don't hit anymore, you little fuckers.


I think differences like this are intriguing. They demand attention, which is good on days where I want to forget about my problems. Things could always be harder, more confusing, or more frightening. Life's little battles, man. Life's little battles.

HEY HEY! AN UPDATE! Toddler Awesome is giving away free blog makeovers! If you check out her site you can enter to win one of two awesome (HAHAHA I'm so creative) prizes.

She has the sweetest blog designs. Even if you don't want to enter the contest, check out her design portfolio! Super cute!! And that's coming from me.....the Queen of F-Bomb......so you know it must be good!

Day 22: Video Game, Video Game, on My Screen......Who is the Baddest Blogger You've Seen?

I have a new obsession. It is called The Witcher.

Yes, I am the girl who married the boy who spent hours playing computer games....and nonchalantly passed his venomous trends to his wife. I am hooked on role-playing and strategy games like Heroes of Might and Magic, Civilization, Fable, Titan Quest, and yes.....Spore. I love them. They make me giggle my way through homework and provide me with a easy, quick reward for assignment completion. Most of my papers are completed on time because I want to play my game of the day. No joke.

My most recent game is The Witcher. I guess some Polish people (uh, can I get a holla) created this kickass, choose-your-own-adventure game where you stalk evil monsters and act like a total badass for hours at a time. No big deal.....you get this special little card with a seductive picture on it for every chick you bang. So far I have a sorceress, peasant girl, and town witch. They all had huge digi-boobs with those funny little computer-graphic points on them. Only a few more hoes to go, until I have a full house! My husband is a few steps ahead of me in the game and said he just paid some castle hooker 500 coins for sex. I can't wait to see her card!

The thing is, this game acted like a little prude when we first brought it home. Here's the story...

We were at the mall in Ramstein. We were checking out the electronics section and dreaming about what we would buy if we were millionaires. I sat in a $8k leather chair and had a few moments of surround-sound bliss. Ahhhhh.

We were about to leave the department when my husband effortlessly maneuvered our cart around a sharp shelving unit and into a remote, hidden corner of the store. There, among the cieling ducts and staff-only doors, we found it. The computer game section. After scouring the shelves for about 30 minutes, the Hubbs and I decided on The Witcher. It was $20. It was compatible with Vista. It was critically-acclaimed. It was the one for us. I think it may have glowed just a little when I picked it up and placed it ever-so-gently in our cart.

Excitement coursed through our veins for the entire 45 minute installation period. We waited. We anxiously traded manuals and read everything we could about our new game. We registered with the gamesite. We installed the latest patches. We launched the game.

Nothing happened. "The Witcher has stopped working. Windows is checking for a solution."

I think my husband shed a few tears. I looked on with horror for the next four hours as we attempted to uninstall old games, files, and unused computer gig-suckers so we could hopefully clear the computer's overloaded brain and reinstall our precious game. After 7 hours of waiting for our hard drive to defragment, we said fuck it and tried again to launch our game. Nothing. Not a damn thing.

It was like re-experiencing TuPac's death in all my middle-school, thuggish glory. Pain, pain, pain.

So I did what any sensible woman would do. I solved the fucking problem. I told my hubbs to play Tiger Woods (which was on sale a few weeks ago....HAHA) and I sat down to fix the game. I scoured online forums. I sent messages to tech support entities. I typed and clicked and restarted until my computer and I were one and the same mechanical being.

And then, when I thought all hope was lost, I found it. A tiny little message-board reply in the abyss that is online gaming support.....the blurp of advice changed the course of our weekend. I had to manually adjust the startup properties of the game's screen resolution. I did. And she started up.

I cannot describe the look on the hubbs when we heard the Atari logo sound shoot from our speakers. The intro cut scene took my breath away. The prologue forced me to reach for a box of triumph Kleenex. I did it. I fixed the damn game. And now it has taken over my free time with pure, uninterrupted fantasy. I am a monster slayer who, in real life, brings dead games to life with Frankenstein-like dedication.

IT'S ALLLLIIIIIIVE!!!!!!!

Day 21: Suggestions

Dear major sports team owner:

Chicks dig hot, muscular, sweaty guys. We go ga-ga for a man in a uniform. We love watching men in their element. I personally have a thing for mascots.

So if this is the case, which it most certainly is, why do men outnumber women in relatively every sports theater in America? I'll tell you why. Hott men can only motivate us so far. There are a few of us who actually follow sports with a devotion not unlike that of Sadam to nukes. I am not one of them. But I could be. You see, I get into games. I get into men. I get into games with men. So, owners, what would you do for a 50% increase in ticket sales and television ratings?

Would you create a team of Cosmopolitan guys to follow around the warm-beer vendors?

Would you serve turkey dogs?

Would you name a team The Screamin' Orgasms?

Would you allow a shirts-off game day at least one night a month?

Would you offer quality, low-priced childcare?

Would you make football pants even tighter?

Would you ban anyone that wears a size 3 or under?

Would you allow a special "sign my boobs, no matter how deflated they are" line during autographs?

Would you create a "date the hottest player" contest?

Would you pass out free eggs/water balloons to all female attendants during the pommie's halftime routine?

Would you invest in huge, pink, sparkly fingers that say "I love the way you move! My # is......"?

Would you dress all security guys in cowboy hats and g-strings?

Would you drag nominated x-girlfriends into slavery and force them to pick up puke/pee/garbage?

Would you be willing to tweak things? Or would you rather I take that prospective profit and give it to Martha Stewart?

C'mon ladies. Some of you are sports fans. Some of you are in the middle, like me. Some of you hate them. Let me know....what would get you to a stadium faster than a cat with its arse on fire?

Men, how would you get more women to go nuts for sports events? Even better.....would you want them to?

Day 20: Who are you, really?

I'm going out on a limb here in an effort to obtain answers to some very important questions. Hang in there while I play SuperJen Sleuth. What makes you, you? As an individual, who am I? What defines a personality, a habit, or an image?

Okay. So let's point out the obvious clues first.

1. Attire. Employers, strangers, and loved ones all judge you on your appearance. It may not be right, but it's human nature. And it isn't ever going to change. Some find clothes to be a form of expression, while others, like me, wish they had a professional stylist living in their closet so they didn't look like an outdated idiot 60% of the time. By the way, for any of you doubting my stylish inaccuracies, please know: I still own two pairs of JNCO's. Not kidding.

2. Attitude. Obviously the horrific driver you threatened at the BK drive through is going to think you are a huge mega-hooker. Those surrounding me at my most recent military ball may think I am a classy, put-together woman. My friends know I am insane, delusional on my best days, and completely insecure when it comes to criticism. It all depends on how I act. It all depends on my attitude.

3. Material Belongings. I drive a Toyota Echo While she's no Audi, she's certainly representative of my needs in life. Simplistic, small, and equipped with four doors so I can take care of my MingMing. It may not represent my personality, but it represents the things I need or want in life.

4. Religion. This one's tough, see, cuz I love people who don't love my God. I talk about my God and pray for them and perhaps in that way, do my own form of witnessing. But I do not try and spark the fear of hell into them by denouncing everything they have grown up believing and telling them they are completely wrong and will suffer for all eternity. I don't know. Such behavior just doesn't seem very Christian. I think it makes God cry. This defines me as a person, no?

5. Clique. I hate being guilty by association. I choose my friends very carefully and only choose those who can handle/love me for who I am. I wouldn't like Osama Bin's BF because I don't like Osama. This makes me judgmental. Oh yes. I most certainly am.

Which takes me to number 6. Number 6 isn't so simple. You see, most people (including myself on most days) truly and subconsciously believe a person is only as beautiful as the crowd perceives her to be. I say screw that. I worry myself sick wondering what people think of me and how they perceive my actions. I normally end up feeling bad about myself. And that is gayer than a bag of dicks.

I say damn number 6. I say the only person who can best determine who I am is me....me......me. My actions are mine and mine, as are the consequences. I can try and live my life to everyone else's standards and constantly fail, or I can surround myself with people who understand what I think or feel and love me anyways.

Because I'm here to tell ya. My mind isn't all popsicles and fairy dust. It can be a relatively dark place that needs the occasional brain-draining activity. It can also be a place of joy, compassion, and lovely images of self-acceptance. I have mood swings. I am a fighter. I am a bitch. I am all of these things, but see, the only part that matters is that I love myself, no matter the mood.

How do you define yourself? How do you battle the insecure little man inside you that screams for public acceptance? Can we all just punch pop culture in the face, or is it something we need to evolve personally?

Day 19: If Life is a Highway, do I Really Wanna Ride it All Night Long?

Only if I get sweet awards like this one from Baby Mama's Drama :) It's called the Sunshine Award and is officially my first blog award. I think a little bit of urine excreted itself...I'm so excited!

In return, I am going to pass the award to some of my favorite bloggers and hope they feel the same yellow warmth that I did :)

1. My Own Voice Over: This is my favorite star-crossed lover. He is a fantastic writer and has an amazing story to tell....especially when he gets going about his insane relationship problems.

2. Adventures of a Yankee Girl: She is my blogging guru and has helped me find my feet in this invisible online world. Her blog is a refreshing take on all things sexy, exciting, and real.

3. Antsy Pants: No matter what type of mood I am in, this chick can make me bust out. She is hilarious and has a very unique way of bringing a smile to her reader's faces. Plus, she has a Booze Day. WOOT WOOT.

4. Anything Fits a Naked Man: Funny, serious, and thought-provoking. This chicky has it all. She always asks questions at the end of her posts...which I LOVE......and provides some great reads for her...um.....well.....readers. HA!

5. Bountiful Blessings: This amazing, crafty southern woman makes the cutest and most unique gifts. Aside from being a stellar crafter, she brightens her readers day by keepin' it real. Fo sho.

6. Intense Guy: He is the most hilarious commenter ever. I read his comments and laugh out loud so fiercely my cat jumps out windows. Seriously. The decibel level of this guy's humor is more powerful than Megadeth.

7. Iced Karma Coffee: This ladybird could capture the hearts and minds of a man-group full of beer and seated in front of the Super Bowl. She has a powerful way of pointing out the ridiculous and crazy elements of life...especially that of pop culture!

8. She Don't Make False Claims: Again, one of my favorite funny chicks. She asks her readers to explain everything from what their worst breakup was to what makes an American and American. She's funny, real, and honest. A must-read!

9. Our 6 Ring Circus: This boy-crazy mom has 4 sons and a hilarious man. She comes up with the best car-ride games and is especially fantastic at bringing some light to parenting and marriage. She currently has a fantastic picture of Mo’Nique on her most recent post. Do it.

The rules for accepting the Sunshine Award are as follows:
1. Put the logo in your post or within your blog.
2. Pass the award onto fellow bloggers.
3. Link the nominees within your post.
4. Let nominees know they have received this award by leaving a comment on their blogs.
5. Share the love and link to the person who gave you the award!

On to more dreadful, un-sunshiney things......


I got this boot. It's huge, full of velcro, and makes me limp like Christoper Lloyd would if he had to walk back from 1810. I understand the dynamics behind orthopedic healing and treatment. I get the whole "bone synthesis" thing. After removing two to three joints from each toe, I of course need to wear the necessary ball-and-chain of recovery. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

After the terrible Thundersnow of two nights ago, we experienced a dry spell with extraordinarily low temperatures. Translation: all the snow turned to huge hunks of mountainous ice.

Now let's do a little arithmetic:
~Cooped up Jen + Big black boot + Depleting food sources = Need for grocery trip
~Freak Thundersnow + insane peaks of ice + 5'9"/160lb gimpoid = Free hillbilly show, complete with falls, grappling for nearby asses, and failed matchbox car derby attempts

I'm not even going talk about how I feel like the old lady in Driving Miss Daisy...you know, the one who can't drive and eventually goes nuts before becoming hopelessly attached to Morgan Freeman.

Slippery booty aside, I am stuck watching television waaaay after the rest of America. That means I know who The Bachelor chooses before the show even airs my time. I know who won the freaking Oscars. I don't need to watch. It's like my online life is one huge spoiler. Hell, I can tell you exactly what the participants of Top Chef's 1st season wore each episode because I am forced to watch reruns of the same season every day. It's like having the same sex over and over and over.......minus the climax, because you know what's coming each time. Lame.

Day 18: My Absence Has Abscessed!

Okay! My failure to blog has officially turned into an oozing, green ball of explosion. The infection spread for almost a week, but fortunately, I found the cure before things got really out of hand. Not to say that my time in the Blogger's Rehab Center wasn't full of interesting people...it was. But nothing compares to the jack I get off Battle Book crank. I just gotta have it.

I woke up in the middle of the night hearing thunder. Strange, as we had just been hit by a late-winter snowstorm. I told myself my Percocets were cracking me up. The noise had to be a snowplow. Who ever heard of a snowy thunderstorm?

But then the lightening hit. Literally. I officially experienced my first snowy thunderstorm. My brain wasn't slayed by some narcotic-toting Buffy.....I was totally cognizant of what was going on. Thank God. Whew. But really....lightening and thunder during a blizzard? I had a friend on Facebook tell me the world was going to end and nobody realizes it. Huh. Pretty enlightening. I suppose I better stock up on cranberry juice and absinthe. I've had some. I bought it off an old peddler down on Market Street. Seriously. I'm telling you, this is not a story or a tall-tale. It is my life. The stuff was pretty f-ing fantastic. The old peddler was even cooler. I wanted to buy him.


So can someone please tell me what qualifies someone as an alcoholic? Are there a certain number of beers, glasses of wine, or hard drinks that one must consume in a set time period to be considered a full-blown drunkass? I wonder what type of person the Egyptians would define as a drunkass. The liquor back then had to have been some pretty hard shit....I mean, they were Egyptians. It wasn't like they were that freaky greek guy from Fantasia. They were an intense civilization that sucked brains out of people's noses and kept cursed scarabs in their criminal's coffins (or were they sarcophagi?).

I betcha they were all drunks. Kinda makes me feel like Riverdancin'.

Day 17: You really are my ecstasy!

What happens when the power goes out and the weather is horrific? I'll tell you what you do. You put your kid down for a silent nap, bone your husband, and work on work-related skills.

Allow me to explain.

We have 71mph winds here in Germany. They knocked down a power line. As the highest apartment on post, I had no doubt we were going to blow into oblivion.

Instead, the power zapped off at the exact moment we were putting the Ming down for a nap. She normally sleeps with a fan on (white noise is my one true vice). Instead, she fell asleep to the hushed chatter between me and the hubbs. He was sharing his glorious resume-building book with me and helping me hone my skills. Of course, all I wanted to do was jump him.

I love that flirty, high-school feeling I get when things don't go according to schedule.

Instead, he was very focused on determining my marketable skills and organizing my potential as a working woman. While I was dreaming of silent, Laura Ingalls sex, he was contemplating the value of my organizational skills. I must say, sex or no sex, the power outage was awesome. It provided some form of foreplay, at least.

I sometimes wish I could return to a time when there was no electricity. I must have tried to turn on my lights at least five times after the power died....I even tried to charge my cell phone in case of emergency. Really? Really, Jen? Charge that cell phone. With your mind.

I am more dependant on electricity than Gandhi was on fasting.

To those who have good weather, try turning off all the appliances in your home. Shut it down and see what happens. You may perfect your job skills. You may have a ton of sex. You may just sit and look out the window. I would have been a really lazy pioneer.....but heck, at least I can contort myself into some great kamasutra positions. That has to count for something.

Day 16: Rude Boy

I am following Yankee Girl like a little lost puppy. She is my blog Guru. Today she talked about her in-laws. And it was freaking hilarious. I loved it. But here's my little secret....


I really do have the best in-laws ever. No joke. No sarcasm. They are the shit.


~Reason 1: They are moving out of their paid-off home so we can reside there in May.
~Reason 2: They send us a goodie package every two weeks or so.
~Reason 3: They have experienced the "Jen is Freaking the Fuck Out" and have not disowned me/slapped me.
~Reason 4: They bought my baby formula when I was broke as a joke.
~Reason 5: They let me drive their huge cars when I came to visit and me live with them for 30+ days.
~Reason 6: They love Hubbs, MingMing, and I more than life itself.
~Reason 7: They planted me a rosebush. Just for me. I got to pick the rose color. F-ing awesome.
~Reason 8: Every time I visit they have my favorite cottage cheese and guacamole.
~Reason 9: They have repaired my car, home, clothes, diaper bag, computer...it just goes on and on.
~Reason 10: They handle any of the problems that come in the mail (AKA bills/Army shit in my name).
~Reason 11 (the best reason): I passed out on their basement bathroom floor, peed on their white bathroom rug, and puked all over their toilet. Dad found me in the early morning. He helped me to bed and I was given an Excedrin in the morning. He has never mentioned it since. I may not have been wearing underwear. And I must have smelled terribly. AMAZING.


Needless to say, I truly am blessed. They have been there for me during deployments, 1st-child anxiety attacks, and drunken nights of stupidity and crazy bowel movements.


I love my in-laws.

Day 15: The 80/20 Rule... Truth or Shiitake?

The 80/20 rule. It apparently applies to marriage. Every marriage. In any marriage, supposedly only 80% of a person's needs can be met by their spouse. The other 20% of an individual's needs are derived from alternate sources.


Is this for real? Or is it complete crap?

My hubbs is phenomenal. He's a stallion in bed, a crazy fantastic cook, and is my favorite person to spend time with.






That being said, his conversation abilities are limited by man-waves. Man waves....you know....those little manly brain waves that warp everything a woman says into some sort of sexual connotation or penis joke. Don't get me wrong, I can talk to my hubbs about anything, but if I want to have an actual in-depth conversation about something even remotely relating to emotions, I have to find alternate resources.


Perhaps my need for the occasional emotional conversation is my 20%? Apparently, though, in my world, that 20% is actually .20%. I've been living in a foreign country with the hubbs as my only go-to human being for 3 years. My "need" for emotional conversation can apparently be squashed, which is not to say I don't miss my ladies (because I do with all my heart), but I can certainly survive with minimal girl talk.


Let's be honest, though. There are some things a girl just needs to get from her girlfriends. And I'm here to tell you, it's tough as hell to live without them.


What is it about relationships and expectations? Do we instantly set ourselves up for failure when we expect 100% of our relationship needs to be met by our significant other? I imagine every girl has something she needs to do for herself.....but I am talking specifically about relationship needs. Comfort. Sex. Emotional connectivity. The occasional back-door penetration session. Is it too much to ask?

I am happy with 80%. Hell, at 80%, my man is King of Satisfaction.









What about you? Where do you go for that 20%?

Day 14: My Mystery Lady Lumps

Medical assistance in Germany. Gotta love it.

So I have a lump on my leg. It didn't bother me until the Hubbs said it felt bigger (isn't that my line?). So I call the nurse hotline. That's right. No 900-numbers here, but we do have a sweetass 24/7 hotline manned by nurses. Could do the trick for some people, I suppose.

The nurse tells me I should be seen within 8 hours. My post's clinic is closed and will be until Monday. Go to the ER, she says. It's an hour away. On icy roads. In the dark.

I dropped the Ming off at my dear friend's house (do you have to leave??) and we drove there as fast as my little Echo could take us. It was 1830.

I hobbled in the door, got tripped by an insane kid with some assumed form of flu or leprosy, and was told to take a seat. A mom passed me while dragging her kid by the ear. She had three of kids. All their ears were huge and red. Perfectly designed by God to display actions I thought were possible only in old movies.

We kept waiting. It was 1930 when my husband gently nudged me. I looked up into those beautiful eyes and saw an unnatural look of shock rippling behind his gaze. I followed his sight path to a group of five, count them, five children, aged 2, 7, 11, 14, and 17, respectively. They were all wearing wigs and stilettos. They carried glittering bags, had intense pimp jackets, and one was wearing sunglasses at night. Corey Hart would have sang for them. As a matter of fact, I did. The 7 year old was wearing a wig and ballet flats, fashionable, nonetheless. The 2 year old was spared because he was male, I imagine.


The triage nurse finally called me up and I crutched right up there to greet his cratered face. He looked at my leg and asked me if I'd been dancing on the tables again. Nope, I thought, just poles. Really?

He said my lump was probably a fat pocket. Diagnosis ONE.

We waited from 2000 to 2345. We were moved to a room and I was told to strip and piss in a cup, which I found to be exceptionally difficult with only one leg. Weird.

The doctor came at 0020. He said my lump felt like a superficial blood clot. Diagnosis TWO.

A ultrasound was ordered, and since the tech was on call and asleep at his or her house, the doc came in at 0028 and told us may be a few hours. I was in the process of adjusting myself on the bed when he came in. He definitely saw my vagina.

At 0030 a random man opened the door real quick-like and asked me where the abscess was. Diagnosis THREE.

I asked him if he was the ultrasound tech. He told me he was a nurse and proceeded to glove up and come at me, when he all of a sudden noticed my hubbs sittin there are creepy-like. He left the room seconds later. My hubbs theorizes the "nurse" was trying to see my vagina, too. Really?

The ultrasound girl showed up at 0120. She had been asleep. She was not so much interested in unltrasounding my lil' lady lump. She sent the info to her radiologist.

The doc returned and told me it was a epidermoid cyst. Diagnosis FOUR.

It needs to be removed, he said, as soon as possible. More procedures, scars, and markings on my incredible battered right appendage. Scars are sexy. I apparently like to collect them.

On a completely different note, when I went to that blasted FRG meeting my new FRG leader took one look at my bum foot and asked me if I was "clumsy much????".......I looked her dead in the eye and said I needed reconstructive surgery because I was born retarded. Everyone left me alone after that.

Anyone have a potato launcher I can use?

Day 13: Tattoo your name across my heart

Ready for this? My Ming came over to me today, turned around, shook her booty, and totally let one rip....while laughing hysterically. She thought it was the funniest thing. It smelled horrific. I told her not to shake her booty at me. "Never!!" she replied. She started sniffing the air and said, "yes! yes! YES! YUMMY!"

Really? Did I mention she hates wearing pants? It kinda eliminates the "fabric filter" option. Who taught her this stuff?

In other news, my therapist has cancelled on me twice. Isn't there some sort of law against that? I mean, I'm in therapy, not some belly-dancing fitness class. Although I suppose the two could be equally therapeutic. I had a dream I visited the mental health office and found out my therapist was getting arrested for forcing her husband to be the bitch of the house. She ran a feminist slave trade with him and any other man she could get her hands on. She specialized in domestically-trained men that bowed down to anything without a penis. Yep! That was my dream. And she cancelled on me! Imagine that.


I have an FRG meeting to go to tonight. Those bitches suck. Wish me luck! Maybe I'll have a stiff drink when I get home and play some Heroes V. I'll be an orc this time. They get blood bonuses. Schwing!

P.S..... has anyone cracked my "Title" code?

Day 12: No Clouds in My Stones!

I finally found my sweet spot. And it felt oh-so-good. Yhea. You know what I'm talkin about.

That perfect, sweet, ecstasy - inducing shower temperature. It's nearly impossible to find. A little twitch of the wrist here, a little flick of the knob there....the temperature alludes even the most experienced shower takers. Too much excitement or anticipation worsens your chances. A quivering hand is far from stable. You'll end up shivering or scalding. No, no...the right pressure and a calm mind are imperative.

And I have mastered it. It's taken me three years, but I have finally mastered the temperature knob on my horrific German shower. I sat there today, with my limp foot just hangin out, and enjoyed the perfect pleasure of my ideal water temperature. It was very, very rewarding. I felt like I had conquered Mt. St. Helen's....minus the ash and chaos. It was more exciting than my soon-to-be BA in Healthcare Administration.

Perfect temps, unite!

On a separate note, my hubbs is officially crushed. Chef Ramsey is no longer on the television....at all. He was replaced with the Young and the Restless. Talk about adding insult to injury. I thought he might cry. My big man loves his big chef.

The MingMing brought home pink goo from school. It's perfect for sloppin' up the cat and watching her stick to walls. Not exxxaaaactly sure what the teach was thinkin', but it's alright. She takes my kid for four hours three days a week. Bring on the goo!

Day 11: It comes naturally...

My husband is so upset.....Chef Ramsey isn't on TV tonight. There goes National Security. My poor MingMing has been sick for weeks and I am still unable to walk. I would post pics of my foot, but I don't want any readers to barf on their computer, therefore rendering themselves useless to comment.

The time off has given me some considerable time to work on my edjamacation, though. I will graduate with my BA in Healthcare Admin April 12th! WOOT. ALLLLmost as exciting as coming home. We actually just recieved word we'll be blessed to visit Hubbsie's family vacation spot on a regular basis :)

There's fishing, horseback riding, camping Jen-style (running water, toilets, anti-bug habitats), hiking, and...yes.....bingo. It reminds me of Baby's family retreat in Dirty Dancing. Perhaps I'll get to dance with some P.S. look-alike? :)

And for those of you who don't really know me, I love horses. Absolutely LOVE riding, grooming, tacking up, and feeding horses. Want some. Want a ton. It's one of my before-death goals to adopt a horse.




Did I mention the place is additionally cool because it shares a name with a smoke shop in McHenry, Illinois?

On a different and completely random note, you can get your hands on a kick-ass set of Canadian mitts by entering Cafe Cartolina's giveaway! Who doesn't want Olympic mitts?

If you don't like mitts or muffs, check out her designs. They're so original and uplifting. It's a good place to visit when you're feeling especially down about your life. Or when you want to spark a candy craving.

And for those of you who truly want to drool, check out this baker: Not So Humble Pie creates some of the most fantastic baked goods I have ever seen. The best part? She includes recipies! Uh, YHEA.

Do it! DO IT.

Day 10: Been in the saddle, since the sun came up

I am participating in a fenominal new networking project! The Welcome Experiement by Flufflefritz allows bloggers to show off their front doors and meet other bloggers from around the world.

My doors are super boring. Perhaps I should send them a pic of my back door? *wink wink*

Day 9: How do you do? My name is Sue! Now you're gonna die!

Hello cyber-space world. How was your Valentine's Day? Mine was great. My husband made me my very first cosmo the night before....so I was slightly ill on my Valentine's Day, but we wrapped up the night with some Heroes of Might and Magic (I was the Undead)

and Facebook's word game

It wasn't roses and manic sex and pretty lingere, but it was time with my hubbsies. And that, my dear friends, is irreplaceable. Hope you all made some love, had a little fun, and totally got down last night.

Day Eight: Leave Me! Right Here! Cuz I don't wanna go!

I have come to a disturbing conclusion. I am no Carrie Bradshaw. I cannot run across the streets of the nearest city in $500 designer shoes. I am doomed to forever roam the earth in flats or something close to flats. Maybe even those damn granny shoes.

Let's explore that, shall we? Why do our Grannies wear the most ridiculous shoes ever produced? Do they simply not care? Is it all about preservation? My Great Grandma wore orthopedic shoes. The poor thing used to dance. She was a stunna. Orthopedic shoes may have been her reaction to the older years of her life. She was a fantastic lady. I probably acquired about 79% of my skill from her. Phenomenal. If given a choice, I guarantee she would chose Manolo over Dr. Scholls. I'll never forget the pictures of her and my Great-Granddaddy dancing all over the floor. She was just like me. Obsessed with music.


Get me in a club, and I'll tear some shit up. Not kidding. I don't like being danced with.....just leave me be and let me do my thing. The German clubs stay up 'till 6. I can't hack it. I miss my small-town clubs. It's time to dance. I just wanna dance.