There’s Your Karma.
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Category Archives: Oops
Blonde Moment.
From Hair on the Brain:
“There’s a growing body of research showing that people with red hair need larger doses of anesthesia and often are resistant to local pain blockers like Novocaine. As a result, redheads tend to be particularly nervous about dental procedures and are twice as likely to avoid going to the dentist as people with other hair colors, according to new research published in The Journal of the American Dental Association. . . .Researchers believe redheads are more sensitive to pain because of a mutation in a gene that affects hair color.
. . . A 2004 study showed that redheads require, on average, about 20 percent more general anesthesia than people with dark hair or blond coloring. And in 2005, researchers found that redheads are more resistant to the effects of local anesthesia, such as the numbing drugs used by dentists.”
“THIS TOTALLY EXPLAINS EVERYTHING,” I thought to myself. “Lately I need nitrous just to walk INTO the dentist’s office.”
And then…”Jenny, you are a f*cking idiot. You’re not a natural red head.”
Stoopid.
Arigato fer NUTHIN’, LADY.
Let me let you in on a little secret regarding sushi in Indianapolis. One of my favorite places to pick up a couple of basic rolls is this little Japanese grocery store/cafe called One World Market in Castleton. It’s nestled in a strip mall next to a now-defunct Linens ‘n Things, but let me tell you, it’s a GEM. In a city full of highly Americanized sushi rolls (the “Hoosier Roll” is a pork tenderloin wrapped in seaweed and then deep fried, right?), it’s nice to patron a local store run by Japanese people where Japanese people actually shop and eat. (My readers from “The Big City” are no doubt scoffing at this, but I must point out that the majority of sushi consumption in Indy = white suburbanites stuffing their face with California rolls in overpriced pan-asian restaurants.)
Yesterday on my way home from work, I stopped by and ordered three rolls for dinner. I also pondered just picking up like a pound of sashimi-grade salmon and going to town on it. (That’s right, I’m single, fellas!) I sat in the little cafe while my rolls were being prepared, and…. in walked the most gorgeous Asian man I’ve ever seen in my life. [Is that racist? Is it racist to make a point that he was Asian? When that is one of his defining physical qualities, and that he was very, insanely attractive?] When he walked in, the door chimes morphed into singing angels and he was moving in slow motion and every head instinctively turned to look at him. He was older, charming, and appeared to be very wealthy and important. When he smiled, the lady taking orders at the front counter was reduced to a giggling, stuttering puddle. (From my translation, obviously. Cough.)
I will call him the Asian Silver Fox.
After placing his order he sat close to me. The Asian Silver Fox smelled of heaven and rainbows and I had nothing to say. What could I say, really - in a store full of crazy, weird, wonderful Japanese things I could not read or understand? “How about these MOCHI BALLS?!”
My order was called and I approached the counter. I had ordered three rolls - which, yes, is a lot of sushi but I didn’t eat much yesterday and two rolls wasn’t enough and three was probably too much, but you know what, it’s no one’s business, am I right, I mean, can’t a girl just stuff her face with spicy salmon rolls after a hard day? Bagging my order, the woman asked, “How many sets of chopstick you need?”
The self-conscious part of my brain is weird, because I could’ve sworn that for a split-second, a very quiet voice in my head said, That’s a lot of food, just say you need two sets of chopsticks. But instead, the brazen-out-of-embarrassment part, the part that shouldn’t ever speak, ever, especially not in front of the Asian Silver Fox, said, “JUST ONE!” [Loud, annoying laugh.] “HEH! I NEED JUST ONE.” As if to say, Understand, lady? I’m a growing girl! She took a beat and smiled awkwardly before responding to my nervous laughter with MORE nervous laughter, and said, “Oh… OHHHH! GOOD FOR YOU!” as if to say, Wow, you are a fatty fatty fat fat.
I’m pretty sure the Asian Silver Fox chuckled and then the two of them made out after I left.
Pretty sure.
Jimmying the Lock
Last night, I thought I would treat myself to a Jimmy John’s Beach Club, no tomato. I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed by purse, and then watched in horrific slow motion as I locked my keys in my car WITH THE CAR RUNNING.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m the type of flighty girl that does that a lot. I’ll have you KNOW, READER, that I haven’t locked my keys in my car since that one time at the beach in Grand Haven like seven years ago. I had just gotten my new system installed, thus negating the warning beeps when you open the door with the lights on or the keys still in the ignition. I was dependent on the dinging, but I have ADAPTED since then. Okay yeah no. I still left my lights on and drained my battery more times than I can count. But that old Kenwood deck sure does make pretty colors.
Anyway. By some grace of God, I had left my window rolled down ever-so-slightly that one could reach in and flip the lock. And by “one” I mean, “someone with an arm skinnier than mine.” I knew if I had a hanger or a..stick..or something, I’d be fine.
I walked into the Jimmy John’s and embarrassingly start my story, prefacing the whole thing with, “I’m going to order a Beach Club, but first….” The manager pointed to a cop seated next to the counter. “You’ve got the perfect guy right here.” The cop didn’t look up.
“Ex…excuse me,” I say softly. “Do you have, like, a slim jim or something?”
“I don’t have a lockout kit,” were his first words.
Whoa, dude. I realized I’m totally interrupting your enjoyment of the Turkey Tom you got there, but I’m kind of a lady. In distress.
I tried to explain to the cop that I just needed some sort of tool to reach the lock. I kept making size gestures with my hands. “I just need something this long.”
“I don’t have anything like that.”
HEH. YEAH, I BET YOU DON’T.
Luckily, the manager came out to assess the situation, and decided it could be remedied by using his skinny girl employee’s arm. But she was too busy making my Beach Club, so we jimmied the lock with a broomstick.
And everyone was a winner. Except for that cop. Because he was an unhelpful d-bag.
In-N-Out. N-In. N-Out.
It was uttered on the lips of many when I mentioned my future ventures to the west coast: the DOUBLE-DOUBLE. In order for my trip to California to be successful, I was to slide one of these fatty treats down the ol’ gullet.
And you’re thinking to yourself, Jesus, Jenn. What a disgusting phrase juxtaposed with a disgusting photograph. Well, dear readers reader, IT’S ABOUT TO GET MAD DISGUSTING UP IN THIS PIECE.
My logic surrounding last Friday night was this:
Drinks in LA are expensive. I am poor. I should drink some vodka/redbulls before I go out, so as to save money by arriving at the bar tipsy and requiring only one or two drinks for optimal buzziness.
This seems smart and economical, right? Yeah, no.
Glug-glug.glug. Dinner time! Let’s go to In-N-Out Burger! This is the point I should have stopped at. Pictures still in focus. Chatty. Happy.
Delicious, by the way.
So that happened. I got to the bar after consuming half a fifth of vodka, which, hi, maybe you should stop there? Yeah, no.
Awesome Things That Happened:
1) Because I am an awesome wingman, I befriended a girl our friend Sean thought was hot.
2) He got her number.
Non-Awesome Things That Happened:
1) She had a tattooed collarbone that read “Love is a battlefield.”
2) I puked in his bed.
3) And his bathroom.
4) And some random restaurant bathroom.
5) And in a plastic bag, en route to Mission Viejo.
Yeah. Not really sure what happened there. I’m just happy to have survived.
VIVA LA DOUBLE-DOUBLE!
A Pie Chart Summary
Okay okay - about this:
ONE!
Lockerbie Pub. My favorite bar in the entire world. Largely because I frequently gather there with my favorite people. Moreover, it is the quinessential, no-frills, no-bros kind of establishment. The jukebox is kickin’, the drinks are strong, and the conversation is stellar. Love love love.
TWO!
Jeff at Lockerbie Pub. Speaking of love, I notice I go through periods where I’m kind of in love with everyone I meet? (Question mark? I’m being conversational?) It’s almost as though I have an addictive personality, but instead of drugs, I get addicted to people, becoming annoyingly fascinated and enamored with certain individuals.
ANYWAY. Jeff is this bartender, nay, THE BEST BARTENDER, mainly because he flatters me by calling me by name and remembering that I drink jack-and-cokes. And sometimes he’ll touch my shoulder after asking me if I need anything, and I’ll look at the other girls all wide-eyed and grinning, and we will giggle like a middle school lunchtable. Every woman that I’ve taken to the Pub has this reaction, and I think it stems from TWO FACTS. A) You want to go where everybody knows your name. (Cheers Theorem) B) Tattooed and burly, Jeff looks like he can kill someone with his hands, but you also kind of want him to use his hands on you.
I mean, he’s married, so, it’s all in good fun. AHEM. (MrsJeffpleasedon’tcomeandkillus.) Also? When you meet him, ask him about the time a certain MUSICIAN came in and ordered a “Roy Rogers” and he told him to eff off.
What else..oh -
THREE:
Work/Attempting to Look Like I Know What I’m Doing. Now that Flake ‘N Bake is over and I’ve been put on other accounts, I’ve been given quite a bit of responsibility. Which is good. But with more responsibility comes more client contact, which means I can’t wear my orange-plaid boots, and I’m always going to be the girl that wants to wear orange-plaid boots. I’m not sure how else to be.
FOUR:
“Cooking.” I’m also the girl who consistently drops things when attempting to cook. I refuse to measure, not because I’m good at eyeballing it, but because I rarely have clean measuring cups.
FIVE:
Radiohead. DID YOU SEEEE THIS? (should take you to the video but they keep taking it down left and right but it is AMAH-ZING.) “15 Step” is one of my favorite Radiohead tracks they’ve ever done. And the fact that they were backed by the USC marching band NAILED IT, because, as you know, I am a band geek.
This was made evident by the words that escaped my lips upon hearing “15 Step” for the first time, which were: “GODDAMN, I LOVE a song in 5/4 time.”
NERD!
But seriously. Brillz.
Rub-a-Dub Tub of DEATH
When it came to skincare, I typically just slathered on some Bath & Body Works shit and called it a day — a day in which I smelled of various fruit combinations, or champagne cucumber-melon rhubarb pie. But there came a point where my skin offered an ultimatum, in the form of: USE NATURAL INGREDIENTS OR I WILL MAKE YOU SPLOTCHY AND ITCHY. So I don’t let soap touch my skin. Instead, I use this wonderful shower oil that lathers into a rich foam. End result - skin that makes a newborn babe pout with envy.
Got that image, boys? Cuz I’m about to ruin it with the one of me NEARLY PLUMMETING TO MY DEATH as I slipped on the oily bathtub floor just now. (Okay, I’m not sure how I could “plummet” from my current height of five-feet-seven-inches, but just know it was not one of my most graceful moments.) Anyway, it was okay, because my SHIN broke my fall as I pitched forward toward the ledge of the tub. This created two welts (like a second and third kneecap, really) and an AWESOME bruise covering the entire front of my leg below the knee.
I would post a picture, but fear the sight of my blinding white gams would ward you off this blog forever.
