Thursday, December 18, 2014

Some clouds...

The train rocked gently back and forth as it lulled past a farm somewhere between Wilmington and Philadelphia.  With the latest edition of 'People' magazine on my lap and a bottle of water at my side, I looked out the compact window - just thinking.  That's what I tend to do when I travel this way; most passengers become engrossed in laptops or their phones but I usually take the opportunity to simply decompress.  Now and then, someone will wobble down the aisle juggling a tray complete with chips, yogurt, and a Bud Light from the snack car - which I always find mildly amusing, as they try not to lose their balance.

'Daddy, why are husbands always older than their wives?' A young, curious voice probed from the pair of seats behind me.  'That's a good question, honey- I'm not exactly sure, but it seems true, huh?'  This conversation, which covered various topics - wore on for a couple more hours, and it became clear that my ears were bearing witness to nothing more than an unbreakable bond between a father and daughter.  For the duration, I was thinking of my dad and of all the adventures we'd embarked on and naturally, all of the questions that came along like 'what's a runaway truck ramp?'  Like the soft-spoken man who sat behind me on Amtrak #163, my dad was patient and humble and frankly, let me do whatever sparked my creative interest.

Sixteen days after that trip to New York, my dad suddenly passed away.  In the moment that I found out, I was paralyzed. I walked out the front door and expected everything to pause, because a world without my dad in it was unimaginable.  It was a blustery afternoon; the wind took my hair and obscured most of my face.  Leaves rustled and danced across the street; I witnessed a neighbor tow her Bulldog behind her.  I knew then that though this awful thing had happened, everything around me continued without fail - a relatively uneventful, typical lazy Sunday for most.

In the hours following his death, my mind raced; I laid in bed that first night and stared at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity, part of me yearning for some divine message.  My thoughts immediately rewound to 2 weeks prior when I was arriving back home from the Big Apple.  My dad - gracious as usual, offered to pick me up from the rail station.  As I hopped out of the train and onto the platform, I joined the herd of other travelers hustling toward idled taxis and shuttle buses.  I expected him to be in the parking lot, but glanced up - surprised to see him standing off to the side of the 'traffic'.  He had one hand extended for my luggage and the other prepped for a hug.  'Hi honey, did you have fun?'  I'll never forget that moment, to see his smiling face in that chaotic sea of strangers was overwhelmingly comforting.

Words cannot express the enduring love and adoration I have for my dad - who is now my guardian angel.  At his memorial service, someone brilliantly stated that he was someone who made your goals his goals; a statement so brief yet completely summed up every aspect of his caring and giving spirit.  He was larger than life and perhaps that is why God called him home.  Coping with his loss is like an ocean; some days are rough, while others are more peaceful and calm - but I am confident he will give me the strength to swim through it.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

It had to happen

A rite of passage is defined as an event that marks a person's transition from one status to another.  So, with that being said, if someone gets a hold of your bank card - you transition from Daddy Warbucks to Little Orphan Annie in an least that's what it feels like.

Like puberty, this is one of those things that has to happen at some point in your life whether you're ready or not.  I got 'the call' from a bank representative the other day, who informed me that my 'credit card has been compromised.'  By the way, that's just a nice way of saying 'I'm sorry, but you're fucked for 7-10 days while we change your account information and issue you a new card.'  Apparently, some bloke with crooked teeth is running around England treating himself to Fish 'N Chips on my precious dime.

That's just not my bag, baby...

In the grand scheme of all things unfortunate, this is really a minor convenience, if anything...however, it happened a few days before I was leaving for Florida.  I always feel more secure when I have some plastic with me, in the event of emergencies - and by emergencies I mean buying a round of bombs at the bar for my friends.

The option of Travelers Cheques was brought to my attention, but I'm not Clark Griswold and this isn't 1983.

'This isn't a vacation anymore, it's a quest...a quest for fun!'

Monday, August 4, 2014

Heavy liftin'

My brother has told me several times over the last few months that due to my lack of posting, my blog has basically become a dried up turd.  I won't lie and say I disagree with him...summer drought, perhaps?  In all honesty, I'm currently going through all those familiar emotions associated with moving: stress, stress, and stress.

I've been busy packing up my life and movin' boxes to the left, to the left like Beyonce 'cept I aint kickin' no cheatin' man to the curb.

It's universally said that moving is one of the most difficult tasks that we face throughout a lifetime. This experience cultivates many feelings, ranging from anxiety to physical pain.  The process is also an exciting one - it's an opportunity to start a new chapterI've been lucky enough to call two of Maryland's most iconic cities my home; while it's bittersweet to say goodbye to what's familiar, I'll carry the good times and laughs with me as I move forward.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Two types of pains

So, it's been a hot minute since I last posted; I had to blow on my computer like a classic Nintendo cartridge because I wasn't sure if it still worked.

Today I'm feeling good - coming off of a 3 day migraine marathon.  It's probably my own stubbornness, but I continued to pop Advil 'VH1 Behind The Music' style without any relief until I broke down and bought Excedrin Migraine.  I'm sure anyone who's had this type of headache can agree that they're disabling; I drove home from work the other night with one hand on the wheel and the other with a firm grip on my head, hoping the pressure would stabilize the pain.  I'm sure it looked odd, but definitely more dignified than having my finger up my nose.

Recently, I was inspired by a friend who received unrelenting texts from a guy she met at the bar.  I do think the term 'creepy' is tossed around too casually; no man wants to be labeled as a stalker but sometimes, a CCT (Creeper Champion Trophy) is deserved.  I think some of these guys misunderstood the phrase 'don't take no for an answer!'  In the dating world, 'no' actually means 'no chance in Hell'.  Guys - when a woman says she just wants to be friends, don't misinterpret that as 'I want to have sex with you!'

What's even worse is when someone tries to impress you with their 'assets' - this is a common Annapolis strategy.  I don't mind friendly conversation at the bar, but frankly, I don't care that you live on a 'boat 'and want to take me for a ride on it - you act like you live on a floating Taj Mahal.  All I really got from that statement was that you're homeless, so I think I'll take a rain check on the Roofie Coolata cruise.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Up on the roof...

Eight years ago, Justin Timberlake released a song about karma and I've got a story that really proves that 'ole JT was right on the $$$ about what goes around really comes back all the way around.

Just the other night, as I was digging into some savory Chinese takeout, I began to reminisce.  When I was in college, there was this guy that made me feel nauseous at the near sight of him.  He wasn't unattractive by any means; in fact, many women considered him the 'campus hottie'.  In my eyes, he was just a regulation D-Bag with a piss-poor attitude. I don't care how great you look; it's like that saying goes 'you can polish a turd, but it's still a piece of shit'.  My friend had a class with him and he constantly demanded to copy her notes, only after sleeping through class after class.  Upon her rejection, he said 'you obviously don't know the way things are done around here'.

It was a typical Friday evening at the bar and I see him roll up with a bag of Chinese takeout, but before he comes in, he places the bag on the roof - I guess he figured this was an inconspicuous place to store his drunk food.  I guess he didn't consider the possibility that anyone would be curious about a random brown paper bag chillin' on a low roof.  When I say low, I mean that Wee Man from 'Jackass' could reach it if he jumped.

When I decided it was time to call it a night, I ventured outside into the parking lot and eyed the bag.  I walked over and grabbed it without even thinking twice.  I couldn't wait to get home and explore the contents, which included spicy General Tso's chicken, rice, Wonton soup, and an added treasure: 1 eggroll.  I'm about halfway through my meal when I realize my phone has gone MIA.  I should've known that I wouldn't escape this risky operation unscathed.  I had no idea where it was, but began to retrace my steps.

I trekked down the hill, across the football field and back onto campus.  Along the way, I come across a few duck sauce packets and laughed to myself, thinking this is what I get for trying to teach that asshole a lesson.  I stood in the dorm parking lot across from the bar, deciding I should accept my loss when I looked down and noticed my phone sitting on the curb.

Word on the street is that he incessantly searched for the culprit over the next few weeks; I don't think he found out it was me, but maybe one day, he'll come across this blog.  I guess he didn't know the way things were done around here.



Thursday, March 20, 2014

I'm here to tell ya...

When I started this common hobby of blogging, I knew the possibility of a 'dry spell' was possible.  It can be a let down when you go to check your favorite blog, only to find the latest post was two weeks ago - say whaaa?  However, it isn't writer's block.  I'll admit that once I kick off my work shoes, the last thing I want to look at is a blinding computer screen.  Additionally, life unexpectedly gets in the way but I promise I'll do my best to keep you all laughing and hopefully coming back for more nonsense.

So, last weekend after the restaurant gig, we moseyed on over to a frequented bar that I don't frequent often 'cause it's loud and the crowd is something less than desirable.  I have a good idea of what I'm getting into when I walk across the parking lot and Zack Galifianakis' clone busts out of the door, pulling his fat girlfriend behind him while slurring at me "you're gonna get lucky tonight - there's a lot of dick in there!''  Thanks, Zack.

 A couple of shots later, I've forgotten the sense of loss I felt when I paid $7.00 to gain access to this sausage fiesta.  What kind of cover charge is that anyway - is Nickelback in there?  The drinks have been flowin' and I'm feeling a case of 'Barcolepsy' coming on - it's been a long day and all I want to do is get some decent shuteye.

Soon enough, the group begins to coordinate the location of a late night meal.  Survey says: Double T Diner.  Food? What?  OK, I'm awake (sort of).  I haven't been to this place in 10 years, so I wasn't opposed to an intoxicated trip down memory lane.  Late night diners are always a show; sub-par food and top notch entertainment.  Of course, it's 2 am and you're drunk so anything you eat IS a five star meal - nothing less. 

The waitress sashays over and flops down an Atlas in front of everyone, at least that's what I thought it was until I realized it was a MENU.  If I wanted to read an encyclopedia, I would've gone to the library.  My brain is not wired for sound decisions at this hour; I really just wanted to tell Olga or whatever her name was to pick something and surprise me, but instead, I pulled a copycat move and said 'I'll have what she's having' while motioning to the friend sitting next to me.

And what's with the disclaimer sized print?  I'll be sure to bring one of these next time.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014


With all of the snow behind us, (hopefully) I got to thinking about another major threat to all of mankind (especially women): TOOLS.  I'm not talking about the kind you buy at Sears, either.

Ladies, we've all had the 'pleasure' of knowing at least one; actually, consider yourself lucky if you don't have to count any higher.  Chances are, you've probably dated Mr. Craftsman - it's typically a brief, forgettable relationship because let's face it, your bathroom sink had more personality.  We tend to hang out with these types of men boys when we are bored and need a distraction; they don't need one because they are already too fixated on themselves – usually in front of the mirror with a phone.

Soon enough, the unfortunate experience with this individual ends once the Red Flag Express runs you over with no warning (toot, toot!)  Despite the time you feel was wasted, you're 200% relieved that you don't have to float upstream in a douche canoe anymore.  Great success!

So, without further ado, I'm going to get down to the NITTY gritty here.  Just when you think you've made the great escape from this loser, he pops up in your phone out of nowhere like a zit during puberty. You hear the 'bling' of your text tone, look down and see a message from Tim the Toolman chillin' on deck.  You hesitantly slide your finger across the screen to not reveal a generic message, but an unsolicited PICTURE of his body part(s).

Just this past weekend, I was hanging out with a friend of mine when she showed me a text she had just received (as seen below) with the following caption: 'what do you think of that?'

What do I think?  Personally, I'd rather lick the bottom of a trash can.  Is this supposed be enticing?  In this case, the only thing that was turned on was the light bulb in our heads reminding us even more of what an arrogant asshole you are.  Stop thinking that women want to see your NON-REQUESTED muscles; if I feel like looking at some, I'll turn on 'The Notebook'. 

Sup, Ryan?

Monday, February 17, 2014

Hey, you!

If Friday was Valentine's Day, then Saturday must have been 'take your side chick to dinner' day; the freaks were out in full force, in addition to my patience.

This isn't just another weekend serving; this is a borderline suicide mission.  I felt as if I need some extra preparation before hitting the floor - maybe a few deep breaths, some jumping jacks/high knees...a stun gun, perhaps?

I always tend to scope out the guests before I walk over to greet the table; based off of one look, I can get a good feel for what I'm about to deal with.  Call it a sixth sense, if you will, but usually I wish I could see dead people instead.  I had just shown up for my 4:30 shift, and I'm pretty sure Third Eye Blind was coming out of the restaurant's speakers, softly asking me 'how's it gonna be?'  Trust me, I already know.  I mosey on over to the table with my forced, enthusiastic smile and place the drink coasters down, although all I really feel like doing is throwing them to each person like a Frisbee.

So, with my winning discus routine comes my greeting: 'how's everyone doing this evening?'  I don't get a 'hi', 'goodbye', or 'kiss my ass' but just 'what does the kettle chip appetizer taste like?'  Mmm, Ketel One.  I could go for a martini right about now.  To give you a visual, the man who asked me about the chips is standing up, leaning against the table like he's Billy Ocean.  I'm like 'honestly, Billy...I haven't tri-'

I'm in the midst of telling this low life that I haven't tried the shitty dish he's so kindly inquired about when he puts his Hulk sized hand up in an exasperated, 'stop, in the name of love' pose, and says 'SO, you mean to tell me that you work here and haven't TRIED everything?' 

Clearly, he has learned a lot from his 3rd grade deductive reasoning lesson.  What do you think this is?  Do you honestly expect me to have dabbled with every food item on the menu?  Like I'm that former fat ass Adam Richman, who toured the country eating 4lb pancakes and baby sized burritos.

Since I couldn't provide a personal kettle chip experience, Billy's 'date' proceeded to roll her eyes - so far back, I wondered if I'm going to need to call a priest for her exorcism. 

C'mon Billy, take the demon, get out of my restaurant...and into your car.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Quack aint whack

Unless you've been living under a rock, you're aware that the Olympics in Sochi are well underway.  The net is buzzed with chatter today regarding our victory over Russia in men's hockey.  There is said to be a rivalry between USA and the Russkies, and I'm pretty sure it originates from the following:

Sorry, Apollo...not even those flashy shorts could've saved you - the guy's a machine.  I think it's safe to say that everyone is having a Springsteen moment today, 'cause we were boooorn in the USA!  I could be completely wrong, but I feel America's love for hockey has increased exponentially over the last 20 years or so - thanks to Gordon Bombay and his amateur drunk driving.

I mean, look at this guy with his 'I'm cool, bitch!' expression.  One hand on the wheel of his asshole sports car with a bottle to the face; this is Gordon Bombay, Attorney at Law.  Caught under the influence, Gordon rises above the haters by leading a group of dumpster diving kids to a pee-wee hockey championship title.

Don't deny it, you wanted to be one of the Ducks (except Goldberg)...myself included.  I think a lot of kids could identify with the characters; the idea of you and your rag tag friends coming together to be CHAMPIONS suddenly became a semi-realistic goal.  Also, let's not forget the fact that 'The Mighty Ducks' is the only movie with Joshua Jackson that's worth seeing (we'll give him D2 too).

One of the ongoing conflicts throughout this movie focuses on Gordon's internal struggle with his past; he is haunted by the memory of missing a penalty shot in a pee-wee hockey game - 20 years prior!  In the real world, this is normally something that takes maybe a week to forget, but it's Disney so you have to roll with it.  What I couldn't get over was how after all those years, his former hockey coach seems to have been cryogenically frozen.

Did anyone else notice that? How is this guy still alive??  What's fun about watching these movies as an adult is that you finally get those jokes that went 'whoosh!' over your head.  Think back to the scene when the gang is in chemistry class and the teacher, while holding up a 3D model of an atom asks 'and what about the blue balls?'

The entire class giggles...


Monday, February 10, 2014

On the rocks with no ice...

In the craziness of da restaurant bidness that is a Friday night, I committed the most unthinkable, heinous act.  I broke a glass - in the icebox.  OH MA GAH.  As Forrest Gump once famously said, 'it happens'.  Yes, indeedy.  Plates break, glasses shatter - it's a common fallacy, people...but breaking a glass in the ICE?? Apparently, it's a food service crime that seems punishable by death.

Yarghhh, if we were all pirates, I would surely be walkin' the plank, mateys.  I had been hustlin' and bustlin' for a large party's waters when it happened; there is no time to waste when you're trying to expedite 12 beverages and you know at any daunting moment another one of your tables will be sat.  So naturally, my brain short-circuits for a second and the corner of the icebox and my glass in hand collide, resulting in a horrific explosion.  I stare at the aftermath, wishing I had telekinetic powers to piece the glass back together.  I even thought, 'hey, it's just a little bit of glass, what can it hurt - don't people eat this stuff on 'My Strange Addiction?'  Kidding!  Anyways, this sitch-e-ayshun is a 4-alarm emergency and it needs to be fixed on the double!

The sound of breaking glass has the following effect: it paralyzes people.  When it happens in a restaurant, employees turn into fucking Dick Tracy and keep asking 'WHO DUNNIT?!'  In this scenario, some questions are better left unanswered.  Whenever this happens, the ice needs to be drizzled with Grenadine and then drained, which makes the scene look unnecessarily grisly.  Like, is there glass in there or a severed finger?  Everyone walks by the contaminated ice, mourning the loss of it with mumbled, idiotic statements like 'party foul!'  Um, excuse me?  First of all, this aint no party and you haven't seen a 'foul' until you've seen someone vomit on an ice luge.

Eventually, the ice rose from the dead and my exile came to an end.  So lesson learned, don't break the glass...but breaking the ice - that's a different story.


Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Waitress Wendy

It goes without saying that it's pretty damn hard trying to get up for work on a Monday - the suck level rises up several more notches when you remember you work not one, but two jobs that day. F-U-C-K! So, I lay in bed for about 15 minutes after the alarm sounds off for roll call, say 'FML' a few times...then it's up and at 'em!

About a year ago, I had a brief moment of insanity and decided that in addition to my full time job, I'd start serving tables a couple days a week - but I'll delve into all that at a later time.

After spending 8 hours in an office, I'm ready to go home, throw on some sweatpants and park my ass on the couch with a glass of wine.  Unfortunately, yesterday's post-work routine involved me putting on a chef coat and some sweet non-slip clogs.  It's time to go feed the fancy, friendly folks of 'Napolis.

I rolled up to the restaurant feeling all warm and fuzzy thanks to my friend Pinot Grigio; you're probably asking yourself 'she drinks before work?' and the answer is YES (1 glass), because I'm going to need a little buzz if I'm going to be dealing with assholes for an additional 5 hours.  The other servers are standing around the kitchen twiddling their thumbs because the place is dead - the entire country is still recovering from their Super Bowl induced heartburn.  I'm standing at the kitchen computer clocking in when a fellow server/once a week manager who happened to be 'managing' last night approaches me and asks 'Jen, are you working tomorrow?'  A question of this sort automatically leads me to believe that he will be asking me to work again tomorrow so I naturally reply 'no, I'll be tied up with my other job'. He responded 'well good, because those pants are unacceptable'.


I completely understand that every restaurant has uniform standards, but this petty, nitpicking bullshit pisses me off.  I looked down to make sure there wasn't a hole in my crotch, looked up at him and asked 'because...?' He rambled off something that didn't form a complete sentence but I'm pretty sure he said the word 'pleats' 5 or 6 times. OK, noted - must get man pants with pleats.

                                                           It's the pleats; it's actually an optical illusion

My pants aren't any tighter than any of the other pirate hookers here, so what is the big deal?  How long were you staring at my ass to make that profound conclusion?  He was clearly more embarrassed than I was; it was evident, when he started to profusely apologize like he had just kicked over my lemonade stand. I don't think some men know how hard it is for a woman to find a decent, fitting pair of trousers.  I had ventured out to the mall a few hungover Saturdays ago before work, because I desperately needed to upgrade from the Steve Urkel flood watch style.  However, I'm not going back to the 'Family Matters' route - I need to test the waters again.

Did I do thaaat?  Yes, I did - and I will again.

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Dude, where's your car?

If you're like me and pay attention to detail, you may be wondering what my URL name 'jennjoose' means.  I was originally trying to pay homage to my boy Snoop and use 'jennjuice' but since everyone and their mom's cat is blogging, any name that's relatively creative is already in use - this left me no choice but to spell juice like the fucktard that came up with the bright idea as seen below.

Believe it or not, Joose and I go way back.  The night I drank a can of this stuff can only be described as inexplicable - because I don't remember it.  Joose is described as a premium malt beverage with a 9.9% alcohol content; by the way, anything that costs $2.99 should never be labeled as premium.  Ever.  The can is adorned with skulls and roses which really makes you wonder if you just purchased 23 ounces of Ed Hardy's urine.  Didn't we grow up learning not to ingest products that have skulls on them?  That usually indicates it's poison and that no human should come even close to consuming it.   There was something alluring about it though, gleaming in the cold case like one of Indiana Jones' stolen artifacts.  When I grabbed it, I was surprised when a rolling boulder didn't crash through the wall and flatten me.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I popped the tab.  If it tasted as obnoxious as the can looked then it would definitely be like nothing I've ever had.  I was right.  I think I've finally figured out what antifreeze may taste like when combined with caffeine, guanine, and household cleaning products.  Making a conscious decision to drink this crap is like taking that hobgoblin you met at the bar home; you knew it was a horrible idea but did it anyway because you were feelin' crunktastic and knew it'd be a good story.  Because no good story ever started with a salad, right?

                                                            Before Joose

                                                              After Joose

Are there any questions?