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?
I'm not afraid to admit that I hate staying alone in any type of house overnight. I don't know what it is, but I've probably watched one too many horror movies. I mean, the scenarios are fairly realistic: an innocent girl sitting in the living room typing on a computer when suddenly...wait, what? Actually, there is a curtain-less glass door directly behind the couch I'm sitting on which means Michael Meyers IS out there in the woods, staring at me. Too bad I'm not babysitting, dipshit.
What's interesting is that the nights spent alone at my house in Baltimore weren't nearly as scary; the drunks stumbling home from the bar and pissing on my stoop was oddly comforting. The presence of animals always help too; there was a small mouse that came and went as it pleased; on the days I didn't see it, I just figured it was upstairs in the attic singing with the other mice while sewing me a dress for the ball.
Back in Frostburg, I lived with 3 other people. The layout was fairly simple: 2 bedrooms and a bath at each end. As long as 1 other person was home, I felt secure. One night, while everyone had gone home for the weekend, I was left to my own devices. It was a rare occasion that I decided not to go out. It was around 3:30 am (prime time for a rape/murder) when I woke up to the loud, heart-stopping crash. Let's forget the notion that I was in the middle of a deep, dreamless, sober sleep - the best kind, really. I was faced with the horrifying reality that someone had broken into my apartment. I was paralyzed with fear and didn't make any moves for a few minutes. I looked around my bedroom for possible weapon choices - 'Hawaiian' scented Febreze? Awesome, I'll just blow him away with a spritz of orchid & pineapple.
I hear a muffled noise coming back from the other end of the apartment. I run back to my bed and start texting a couple of friends who I know are still awake at this ungodly hour - because texting/calling anyone who isn't emergency personnel with surely save my life. I should've just called Dateline - because it was OBVIOUS I would be featured on the next episode. One of my friends, in their drunken, uninhibited confidence was like 'go cechk tha hsit out'. Isn't that what always happens in the movies? Follow the sketchy noise and and you're toast...ok, let's give this a shot.
I slowly open my door and try to look with one eyeball and naturally, I can't see doo doo because it's pitch black Vin Diesel style. With the door ajar, I can hear water in the bathtub running at full force. At this point, I'm seriously pinching myself to wake up because there is no way that what is happening right now is real life. Whoever was in my apartment was in the bathroom - running water to later drown me in it. As I'm carefully top toeing down the hallway, I'm reaching for every light in my path. I get to the bathroom - no movement, but the water is still rushing and it's deafening. I've never been to Niagara Falls but that is what I imagined it to sound like.
I turn the bathroom light switch on - the room brightens and the terror that lasted for 20 minutes is quickly absolved. It turns out there was no bathing rapist after all. In the tub were the casualties of 5 shampoo bottles that had fallen from the shower caddy. Miraculously, during the plummet, the bottles turned the faucet on. I know, I know...all that excitement for nothing. I'll admit that a small part of me was disappointed, along with Lester Holt & Keith Morrison.
This past weekend while out to dinner with a big group, I got to thinking about money. You know, it's the one thing you get a couple times a month and then suddenly it disappears like a cruel magic trick, except this time it's not an illusion. Hey David Copperfield, thanks for the false hope!
I think it's pretty safe to say that everyone knows at least one person in their social realm who is labeled as a certified cheap ass. Before we start pointing fingers, let's not confuse cheap with frugal; since the economy went down like the Titanic, most people want to save a buck here and there - myself included. Here is what typically happens when you dine out with a cheap person: they wash down an 8oz Filet with 4 Long Islands and guess what? They somehow forgot that their fancy piece of meat and top shelf brain eraser would require tax and tip?? Hmm.
When my friends and I go out, we take turns buying rounds because friends don't let friends drink on their dime for nothin', right? OR maybe, it's just easier that way; I don't know about anybody else, but I don't have patience for 2nd grade division when I'm trying to pay and the line behind me is 3 assholes deep. In all seriousness though, I like to be generous (yet mindful) with my money; in these types of situations, a little goes a long way. It's important to remember that being cheap isn't necessarily about money, it's about actions. Aside from currency, generosity comes in many, many forms.
A few months ago, I ran into an old friend from college. I hadn't seen him in 5 years, and presumed him to be to be dead...which is the only logical conclusion we come to when people remove themselves from the Facebook scene (c'mon, you know it's true) What I remember about him most, aside from the fact that he coined the term 'Frostburg Bitties', which describes a woman whose 'boobs got fat' from drinking beer - was that he stole bottles of liquor from behind the bar. So, the point I'm getting at is he was a cheap SOB - and sleazy.
Sleaze-E lived down the hall from me in college, so he was included in many pre-game sessions and post bar pizza pig-outs. The thing is, he was conveniently around when someone was buying a round of shots; when it was his turn to do the same, he'd mysteriously disappear for hours, like the sauce had turned him into a phantom. When it's time to go grab some grub, he's back like Poltergeist II, but wouldn't ya know his $$$ is still lost somewhere in the ghostly abyss.
Moving forward to present day, I run into him outside one of the many lame ass bars in Annapolis. We do the whole 'OMG, haven't seen you in forever' song and dance and on we go inside. The funny thing about time is that you think it changes most people for the better, but don't worry, we're getting to that. We're standing at the bar and he asks me what I'm drinking, and I said 'I'm good with beer'. I don't believe my eyes when I see him order TWO beers (he must have won the lottery) but what was even more hilariously shocking was when he proceeded to take a sip out of both bottles. Ladies and gentlemen, that's correct - he was DOUBLE FISTING. Double fisting booze is acceptable when you're either 21, a douche, or holding a drink for a friend in the bathroom. In rare cases, like at an extremely crowded sporting event or concert...I'd give DF the green light, because time wasted waiting is a waste of time, or something like that.
Look Ma, two hands!
While he's standing there, holding his beers like trophies, I was expecting him to belch like Barney Gumble. Instead he turned to me, asking if I ran marathons 'cause you have a nice body'. After I threw up in my mouth, I knew it was time to round up the crew and leave the freak show that is Sleaze-E. For several weeks, he messaged me asking if I wanted to come over and play wiffle ball, but my gut was telling me his version didn't involve a plastic bat and hollow ball. Thankfully, he soon fell into oblivion again just like he did after graduation.
A couple of days before Christmas, I was sitting on a bench outside of the movie theater waiting for a friend when I suddenly feel eyes on me. I look up and I'm 90% sure it's him. You know that feeling when you're near positive it's the person you think it is and the other 10% is you hoping it's not? Yup - that happened. He walks up slowly and is all like 'OH, I'm sorry, I thought you were someone I knew'. My internal response to that statement was 'what the fuck?' In the last couple of months, I grew another head and replaced my face...so yeah, definitely not me. I decided to make this absurd situation even more awkward by saying 'um, you do know me'. With that said, his brief battle with amnesia ended and he made some idiotic remark about my hair looking different.
My mind was racing with various methods of escape when suddenly I was rescued - surprisingly by his date, who had just walked out of the bathroom. It was a quick little introduction and as I wondered if he had the decency to pay for her ticket, she gave him the 'who the hell is that' look, and I was all 'Big Gulps huh? Welp, see ya later!' I wanted to tell her to run for her life, but who knows, maybe she likes wiffle ball.
In the surge of social media (and the end of my Frostburg days), Thursdays have gone from 'thirsty' to 'throwback'. With that said, I'm going to dedicate my Thursday posts to my historic and mostly insignificant tales that will most likely involve Thirsty Thursdays.
Once upon a time, in what seemed like a galaxy far, far away was Frostburg, where I was settling into my new life as a college student. I was free; 2.5 hours away from home with few responsibilities aside from homework, laundry, and feeding myself Ramen Noodles.
So, I'll be kind and rewind and take it back to the mid-two thous - '06 to be exact. It was moving day and I was carrying a box of mixed CD's up to my 4th floor apartment. WE UP IN DA PENTHOUSE YO! I couldn't wait to charm the new roomies with my timeless, eclectic music collection...I mean, c'mon, we were in college and I felt if we were going to be reenacting 'Animal House', then it was only appropriate that the Ying-Yang Twins and Journey came along for the ride.
With my box in tow, I meet 'Mike' in the hallway. Mike seemed friendly enough in his Wrangler jeans and baseball cap. So, good 'ole Mike asks me to go get ice cream the next day. Being the smart ass that I am known to be, I really wanted to say 'uh, sure let me go grab my poodle skirt and I'll meet you at the malt shop with Rizzo and the rest of the gang'. Instead, I smiled and said 'sure', because even though I wasn't attracted to this guy, he was NICE and with that, he's deserving of a chance.
Oh, Michael Zucco!
While we're chatting over our DQ Blizzards - by chatting I mean he's talking my ear off and I'm spaced out thinking how I wish my dessert was a beer instead - Mike casually asks me when my birthday is. I don't miss a beat and spit out 'January 31st'. I resume my mental vacation, which is cut drastically short when I hear him say he can't wait to see what's in store for us and something in his eye was telling me he wasn't talking about the indigestion all this dairy would soon cause. There were plenty of hills around and I wanted to be running for them. Fast forward to 2 weeks later; let me stress it's a Tuesday night in mid-September, Ice Cream Mike strolls down the hallway and knocks on my door. He pulls a *drum-roll please* bottle of Hypnotiq from behind his back and says 'Happy Early Birthday!' (um, what?) I say, 'thanks!' take the bottle, shut the door, and leave the party patrol outside.
Looking back, I know how rude that was of me - Mike was just trying to be nice, and I didn't even invite him in for some blue drank. Where was Fiddy Cent? It was clear we were gonna party even though it's not ma birfday. What can I say? I was a selfish 20 year old that was just given a rare gift - free booze - forget that I didn't like him or had shitty taste in alcohol - it didn't cost nothin', except maybe a broken heart. Ah, yes...immaturity at it's finest. I wanted to run outside into the hallway and invite all my neighbors over for SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS! - with Lil Jon and EVERYBOOOOODY except Mike, who's ear was probably pressed against my door.
Goose got me loose!
A few nights later, Mike was back at my door, bottle-less but drunk. My roommate, Lindsay opened the door and was greeted with his wet, blotchy, snotty face. Mike was inconsolable; in between his sobs he demanded to see me. Little did he know, I was a few floors down ripping shots of Jager with some new friends who didn't buy me early birthday gifts. Down on his knees in the frame of his doorway, Mike stood up, tears still flowing out of his swollen eyes. Without any hesitation, Lindsay lightly pushed Mike out of the threshold and he stumbled backwards into the wall. After she shut the door, she continued to watch him through the creep peep; Mike was still leaning against the wall until he slowly slid down, leaving a trail of black dye from his shirt.
Poor Mike. I'm not sure what became of him after that night - it's like he disappeared into thin air, if not into the wall. They say there's someone for everyone and I'm hoping Mike eventually found his very own Dairy Queen.
Hello to all my lovely followers (stalkers) out there - although it's a fair assumption I won't have any for a good while AND this isn't Twitter...so I guess I'm SOL @ this point.
Anyways, I've always gone back and forth like a ping pong ball on the idea of me blogging; my biggest concern was that I have nothing of substance to really put out there for your viewing pleasure. I'm not an expert cook, fitness guru, master photographer or any of that other important nonsense. If you need a tutorial for the perfect 'smoky eye' - sorry, you'll have to take your cyber travels elsewhere. I DO know that I enjoy writing, so I guess that counts for something, right?
So, in typical Maryland fashion, as we were blanketed with (maybe) 6 inches of snow, the ENTIRE state goes into shock and everything shuts down like a Chick-Fil-A on Sunday. Now, I'm all for a hall pass from work, but LAWDY are 'snow days' B-O-R-I-N-G, especially now that I'm into my late 20's. Snow day boozing can only take you so far, and it sure as hell isn't out the front door unless you live downtown where all the fun happens...TO THE BAR, BATMAN! As I sat on my couch (my ass probably forming a permanent groove) reading, I started to think about Jack Torrance from 'The Shining' and thought that it's no wonder he went off the deep end and started chasing everything in sight with an axe.
Bottoms up Jack!
In the aftermath of my 24 hour bout with cabin fever, I can happily say that the roommates and myself survived - however, as a result of the snow plow, a sturdy fort of the white stuff had my car surrounded this morning. NO. WAY. OUT. (and by no way out I mean I was too lazy to walk back upstairs to grab the shovel that is conveniently in storage) I stood there for about 20 seconds, debating if I should go grab the shovel or just call it a loss and go back to bed (hey, what's another day off work?) I decided to TRY despite the harrowing circumstances; after several embarrassing attempts to dig myself out, I became a damsel in distress. As the wind bitch slapped me in the face and the snot ran from my nose, I wished that the snow shovel fairy would swoop down to give me a strong man...well wouldn't ya know it, I turn around and POOF! The man in the community who has introduced himself as 'Angel' (an angel, indeed) showed up like a knight with shining shovel - he also toted a buddy. Ideal!
OH, Somebody??? Anybody!
A few scoops here and there and the ordeal was over. Afterwards, Angel and friend stood by their conquest (my car) like they had just gotten laid and lit up their Marlboros. When the cancer stick pow wow ended, Angel floated back upstairs to heaven that is the apartment a few doors down from mine.
On a final note and all jokes aside, it's really a comfort to know there are some people out there willing to give a helping hand (or shovel) just. because.
