Monday, March 30, 2009

Vernal Equinox

So, I did find a dress. My dad and I ran errands on Sunday, and we stopped at Ross: Dress For Less, and also that place next door called Starlet with the weird silver mannequins in the window. We went into Starlet first. I cringed when I saw that each and every hanger was bubble-gum pink rather than white like any NORMAL store, and got squeamish when I actually started looking at what was on those hangers. Lots of very bright colors. No lack of hot pink here. The nervous casheir approached me immediately. “Can I help you?” she quavered.
“Yeah, uh, I’m looking for, kind of a sundress?” I replied.
She nodded, “Um, yeah, okay, um...” She sifted through the racks and held out a few horrors in day-glo yellow, orange and lime green. This store had literally corralled all the ugliest garments that have ever existed into one pink-hanger-ridden place. I pawed through the racks, trying desperately to find just ONE thing to bring into the dressing room. She kind of hovered a few feet behind me as I searched. Finally, I pulled one off the rack. It was knee-length. It was green. I tried it on. I took it off. I put it back. I left the store.
I went to Ross next. I couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed. Some people were probably getting fancy dresses shipped from boutiques in Paris, or at least purchasing them from high-end department stores like Nordstrom’s or Bloomingdale’s. Some people can at least do as good as Kohl’s or JC Penney. Not I, said the Jeni. My dress comes from a discount store! I found three. One was magenta and black. Too fancy, said I. One was yellow. Too yellow, said I. One had pretty roses on it and a pink ribbon around the waist. Perfect, said I. I paid fifteen dollars, skipped past the shoe stores because I already have a cute pair that matches, and laughed in my head at all the girls in Macy’s paying seventy dollars for their dresses.
Here are a few pictures. I love this dress.

Tiffany: if you’re reading this, yeah. This is it, and I know you hate it. Hush, child.
Other stuff: the panoramic photo! Is on Wednesday! So of course my hair is going to not cooperate that day! Of course it’ll be greasy at the roots and frizzy at the ends! Of course a fresh crop of big fat zits will tower from my forehead! Of course I’ll decide to wear that dumpy San Jose Sharks jacket! Pessimistic? You better believe it.
School pictures truly suck. I always look freakishly weird, like my eyes are half-closed or my smile is crooked or something. I have never taken a school photo that I approve of. This is the picture that people will remember me by. They will sift through the yearbook and see THAT picture and go, WOW, I didn’t realize she was that ugly, WOW, I hate her now, WOW, she’s a nerd. WOW.
Spring break is very near. My family and I are going to Arizona, y'all! That's where my cousins are from, I think. Possibly Texas. I dunno. Well, we're going to the Grand Canyon, you know, that big canyon? The grand one? We're going to hike down into that sucker and see what's there to see. Then we're going to get our kicks on Route 66, yee-haw! I'm going to stick my head out the skylight on the car and sing that Route 66 song. I will also buy a Route 66 T-shirt. Possibly a keychain, too. For some reason, I love the Route 66 sign. It's so, you know, cunning. I have it on my Twitter page, which reminds me, FOLLOW ME, TWEET TWEET! I don't really get Twitter. But I have one, so, alas, and all that.
This has been my post for today. I hope you all have enjoyed it, and I will now tap-dance off the stage so you can go do something more valuable with your time.

Saturday, March 28, 2009


My, my, miss American pie, I haven't blogged for a while, you must be about to cryyyy...
I did not blog on Friday because I was sick. I did not blog earlier on today because I was tearing around Valley Fair with Tiffany looking for a promotion dress.
Do you know how much I hate being sick? I hate it a lot. Sickness may be worse than awkwardness. That means the worst emotions in order would be: grief, sickness, awkwardness. I don;t think awkwardness is really an emotion. Neither is sickness, really. What's the right word? Condition? That works for sickness, but not awkwardness. Augh. See what happens when I blog? Had I been talking out loud, I wouldn't have gone into all that, but since I'm writing everything down, I reread and revise and then start tripping over my words, wrestling with my brain to think of the right ones. If that were an emotion, it would certainly make it onto the worst emotions list. Let's talk about sickness, then. I really hate being sick. I think I probably already mentioned that, but I don't want to reread my post lest I start to word-wrangle again. Actually, being sick does not completely suck, if it's a weekend. But I hate missing school. I hate having to make up the homework, the classwork, later having to find out there was something else I'd missed and having to explain I'd been out sick that day, et cetera. Once, in sixth grade, I threw up twice in first period, once in second, and three times in fourth. I didn't tell anybody until lunchtime, and was immidiately shoved into the nurse's office. I was sent home. Bitter defeat. I did not go to any of the cross-country meets this year because they required that I leave school early. I do not like to miss school. So anyway, yeah. When I threw up Friday morning, I thought that would it be it, I could still go to school. But then I threw up again, later, and my mom said that I had to stay home or else I'd get eveybody else sick and the school would sue her for sending a diseased creature to school.
Um. Not exactly. But I did end up staying at home, rolling around in bed and placing my kitty on my stomach so his magical kitty healing powers could stop to churning in my stomach.. I pretended my stomach was an ocean of stomach acid, and all the little pieces of food in there were fish that were about to dissolve and die. That was gross, so I read my mommy's housekeeping magazines. Then I fell asleep for a few hours. I read this weird science-foction book, fell asleep again, and woke up at about one-forty. Blink, blink. Yawn. Stretch. Hmmm. Just like that, I was all better. I considered going to school, but decided to just be lazy and stay home. I'd only get about forty minutes in the end, anyway.
Today, then. What happened today? I had an early softball game. We had to arrive at the field at eight o'clock in the morning. I forgot to eat breakfast. I fouled off two bunts and missed a ground ball. We were smashed, crushed, pulverised like a rotten tomato under a large block of coffee cake. (Yeah, I'm pretty good at analogies, if I do say so myself.)(Metaphors?)(Word-wrangling again, sorry.) Then Tiffany and I met at the Valley Fair mall. We spent over two hours wandering around Macy's and throwing on various concoctions of chiffon, lace, silk, and cotton. I found several that I liked. I found one that I loved. I thought the sixty-dollar article was marked half off, but it wasn't. I didn't even have sixty bucks in my wallet. I had forty. So when the lady waited for me to pay up, I was like, "Um, that one isn't on sale?" She shook her head. "Right. Well, uh, then, um, yeah... never mind..." She clucked her tongue. I shrank away.
We went to Other Places, but Nowhere had The Dress for me. Too bad, so sad.
Just wondering. Do guys have to wear tuxedos at the promotion ceremony? I think I will honestly bust a gut laughing if I view my male peers sporting penguin suits.

Thursday, March 26, 2009


My friend Alyssa has a blog now. Click the clown to see it! *<):o) Her latest post is about happiness. I'm getting an inkling that she's goes for the artistic and insightful-type blog. Her layout is really cool. I don't know how she got that awesome layout. I love that layout. That is a really cool layout. I'm still talking because I enjoy typing the word "layout."
Anywayzers, I'm here to talk about awkwardness. Maybe you've noticed from previous posts that I really have this major annoyance with awkward moments. Check out What's Up? to learn about my conversational disabilities that lead to countless awkward silences. Tripping discusses the embarrassment of those awkward half-trips. Awkwardness, for me, is the worst emotion. It's worse than anger or guilt or even grief. Okay, maybe it's a little better than grief. But it's still pretty bad, you know?
The reason I'm bringing awkwardness up (again) is because I had an indubitably awkward experience today. 
See, I was doing my homework yesterday. The printer was broken. I consider bashing it with my head cuz I really need to get this homework done, pal, but I decide to be logical, rational, respectable, and reasonable. I send the PDF to my mommy who works at an elementary school. She replies to the e-mail confirming that she printed it out. She'll gve it to me when she gets home. Done. But then I have a softball game. When I get home, I eat a bowl of soup, take a shower, and go to bed. We both screw up: she forgets to give it to me, I forget to ask for it. I arrive at school without the assignment, which I keep forgetting about and forgetting about until I get to class and start leafing through my binders and folders. Oh, crap. 
So I burst out the door as soon as the bell rings, call my mom, tell her to deliver the homework prontosauraus rex, bustle back into the classroom, gobble out the whole story to Mrs. Goldman, and then find myself in a very awkward situation. She invites me to sit down to have a very serious, personal, uncomfortable talk about why I have a B+ instead of an A in her class. Then she wanders over to her desk to do her grading, I sit there and do my homework. It's all super-silent and weird. She's there, I'm here, we're sitting, it's awkward. Just when I start to wonder what the heck is taking my dearest mother so long, she calls. There's this whole complicated process of multiple phone calls, and then finally Mrs. Goldman hints that maybe I should just turn it in tommorrow for half-credit, since that was all I could get anyway.
Sigh. I agreed. I walked home. I did the rest of my homework. I excercised a great deal of self-control by not pulverising the printer. It did have to endure a few sharp glares and a reproachful "thanks a lot" from yours truly. 
I wonder if it's considered sane to communicate with inanimate objects. I just realized that I do it a lot, mostly when I'm alone walking the dog or something. If I trip over something, I'll be like, "Oh! Sorry," and then keep going. Or I thank trees for giving me shade. Stuff like that. Bad habit? Maybe. Or maybe I have special telepathicommunicatiatory powers that enable me to interact with objective forces. 
Could be.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009


I hate tripping over things. Worse than all-out tripping, though, are those annoying little “half-trips.”
You know what I’m talking about, right? A crack in the sidewalk goes unnoticed to the eye, but then suddenly your toe hits something and you jerk forward. So you have to stomp your other foot down to catch yourself so you don’t go sprawling. After that near-death experience, you feel stupid. You kind of glance around from under your eyelashes to see if anybody noticed that you almost stumbled over and smashed your face into a puddle of blood and bones. It’s actually less embarrassing to go flying than to do one of those awkward lurches and right yourself in time, only to face the muffled chuckles of witnesses.
You know what’s weird? I called my mommy just now, but accidentally pressed “send txt msg” in the little menu instead of “call.” I was unaware of this little mishap, though, when I raised the phone to my ear. After sitting there for a moment, I started to wonder why it wasn't ringing. Then, finally, I looked at the screen, and there was a blank “create txt msg” box peering out at me and scoffing because I’m such an idiot.
That was random and unnecessary. I wanted to tell you guys about a very exciting essay contest that I plan to enter. First prize takes home seven hundred and fifty buck-a-freakin’-roos. That is seventy hundred and fifty, 750, with a $ in front. That, my friends, is a lot of money. If I kick up my writing skills, it could be MINE. MINE MINE MINE. *greed-drool drips out mouth*
If I win, I will put the money towards, of course, Europe this summer. Seven hundred and fifty dollars takes a huge meaty chunk out of the price. But I have a very slim chance of winning. It’s not just school-wide: it’s a-whole-bunch-of-schools-wide. Plus, the topic is a little weird: What Is Your American Dream?
My dreams happen to be Korean, so there you go. $750 lost.
I’m just kidding, guys, jeez! You don’t have to take everything so seriously! Wow! Golly! Wow!
Anyway, the contest is funded by an association of realtors. On the poster, after the question, “What Is Your American Dream?” it hints, “Is your dream owning a house?” Nudge. Nudge. (Psst, wanna buy one from us?) Nudge. I actually want to live in an apartment. I’m going to fill it with cats so there’s so much body heat that I don’t even need a heater, and so much shed fur flying around that I don’t even need to buy such frivolous items as bedspreads and blankets. But I’m guessing my genius logic won’t impress a gang of realtors or essay-judgers, so. I guess my Korean-American dream is to own a house.

(Just realized. Strangers who just started to read this blog probably think that I am Korean now. I am not. That was an example of one of my many lame jokes. You’ll be seeing a lot of those here. Truth is, I am white. I am white as snow, printer paper, marshmallows, flour, clouds, powdered sugar, milk, rice, and mozzarella cheese.)

(I’m hungry.)

Tuesday, March 24, 2009


Sorry guys, sorry sorry sorry.
I am really not doing a good job of updating my blog. I wish I had time to treat my readers with daily posts, but frankly, I don't.
Remember that really good book I was reading? Yeah, well. I finished it. Then I read the sequel. Now I'm about to read the "threequel." (Cute, huh? I should get that copyrighted.) Anyway, I should probably have started to read classic literature by now. Charles Dickens, Jane Austin, and so on. But honestly, these Traveling Pants books are so much more fun.
Maybe it's time to do a little advertising. I have been keeping up-to-date with this awesome cooking blog: Workout then Cook. I've been thinking about posting the stuff that I cook up on my blog here. If you're not interested... TOO BAD. I made cranberry lemon muffins the other day for dessert. I forget the recipe, but here's a picture:Basically, I took a standard recipe for muffins, then added lemon juice and a handful of Craisins. They tasted like lemony muffins with Craisins. Who would've thought.
Also, I have some happy news. For the first time in my life since sixth grade, I earned an A in math class! In the beginning of the year of seventh grade, I had an A+, but that was only for a few months before my math skills declined at a steep and dangerous rate. I've been hovering at B and B+ ever since, but finally, finally, here is a ripe, golden A.
You know what, folks, this is why I don't blog anymore. After typing that last tidbit of news, I sat here for at least twenty-six decades trying to think of something else to say. I got nothing, guys, nuttin'. I need to take myself on an adventure just so that I can have something to talk about here.
Since I am unable to entertain you, here is a funny clip that certainly will.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Books and Movies

I am reading a really good book. Yeah. That’s my excuse, if any particularly greedy readers think I’m not blogging enough. Cuz when I have free time, I’m reading it instead of blogging. Good one, huh? Huh? Yeah?
The thing about this book is, I’m ashamed of liking it. But it’s kind of like one of those millions of shallow chick flicks that everybody watches sometime or other. You’re embarrassed of liking them, but you watch them and love them and then rewind and watch them all over again. I know you’re thrilled every time Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen comes onto Disney Channel at night... again. We all love Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff. We just don’t want to admit it, even to ourselves. Of course, my favorite movies are all either kiddie movies, (Hairspray) chick flicks, (The Devil Wears Prada, 27 Dresses, Legally Blonde) or Pixar. Plus all those wonderful combination kiddie/chick flick movies that Disney keeps putting out. Or, put out a few years ago, before all the stars got sent to rehab. Cheetah Girls. Cheetah Girls 2. The Lizzie McGuire Movie. Get A Clue. Feel-good movies with little substance but many dedicated but anonymous watchers. Think about it, if you turned on the television and found a channel that happened to be right at the climax of some action-y type movie, you’d get too confused and drown in all the perplexing folds of the plotline. If you landed straight in the middle of, say, Get A Clue, (BEST. MOVIE. EVER.) you could easily pick up on what was going on, floating along with Lindsay and company on their little adventure. Movies should be simple and fun, something you can either glide or dance through. Other movies always make me scared, bored, confused, or grossed out.
Anyway. About the book. It’s exactly the literature equivalent of those fluffy girly movies that I so adore. Gals, remember the sonic boom that erupted from the publishing of The Sisterhood Of The Traveling Pants series? Well, I scoffed at those books. I have a different opinion about books than I do movies. Books are supposed to be complex and interesting, and these promised to be anything but. My sister got the first two for her birthday in sixth grade. Or maybe seventh. Possible fifth. I never read them after all these one, two, or three years, but I was desperate. I had read every single thing in the house, from my books to the dictionary (Yawn. I got bored after “aardvark.”) to my old journals to the receipts at the bottom of my purse. I caved, and read the book. It was a good book. Absolutely majestic. (Sigh. Read the post below if you don’t get it.) I devoured the entire thing in three days. Then I moved on to the second one, which I have been plowing through for two days, so I guesstimate I’ll be finished soon. The weird thing is, I loved the movies, both of them, but it never did connect in my brain, “hey, maybe I should read the books.” But like, yeah, I did, so.
Boy, I’m really gabbering on today, huh? And about the least original topic ever. Books and movies, movies and books. Sorry if this post was boring. At least that other sandwich will have company.

(Yeah, you have to read the post below this again to get that. I don’t even know if the whole sandwich thing makes sense. It does in my brain, but my mind doesn’t exactly, you know, represent the average human being’s.)

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

50th Post!

It’s hard to have a blog if you live a life where nothing really happens. I could express my deep and complicated ponderings, but my thoughts are hardly that interesting. My few readers would drop this blog like a toasty ham-and-cheese sandwich on a cold linoleum floor if I started writing about what goes on inside my head, rather than the events in my life that occur in the physical world. For example, I was thinking about Canada today. Why is there Canada and the United States, two separate countries? They speak English, don’t they? Why don’t we just sort of mush together into one country, and White-Out the border on all the maps, just so the world is a little less complicated? I’m sure there’s some historical event or war or something that would explain this little itch of a wonder, but still. And there must be something that separates the countries other than language, but still.
Has the sandwich hit the floor yet?
So, like I’ve mentioned, horrible experiences enhance my writing abilities. I had a horrible experience today. (Actually, it’ll be tomorrow when I post this, so make that: I had a horrible experience yesterday.) Nothing funny or interesting, though. I got sick. I entered sixth period with a headache, and it kept getting worse and worse. It was like my head was trapped in a giant pair of tweezers, but, you know, big strong scary tweezers. And then there’s this giant, like a big strong scary one, and he’s squeezing the tweezers with his big strong scary hands. My head almost cracked in half. Then these big waves of heat started pulsing through my body, and I wondered if I was getting the plague. The clock was broken, I was sure. It was mistaking minutes for hours. What should have been forty minutes stretched out into forty centuries. In the last two minutes of class, I got that gross sour taste in my mouth that’s always there before I’m about to throw up. Ew. So I spend the last few minutes of my school day gulping in air like a drowning goldfish, trying to swallow down the ickiness. I must have looked pretty stupid, because goldfish can’t drown. I never did puke, thankfully, but after I walked home the headache got worse, and I went straight upstairs to my bed. I went to sleep right away with my kitty curled up next to me until ten til five. When I woke up, my headache was magically reduced to a very dull throb. I drank tea and did my homework, then ate green beans and potato casserole, took a shower, and went right to bed. Later the “heat-wave” thing came back. Then it went away, and now I have a headache again. I don’t know if I’ll post this tomorrow morning. I don’t know if I’ll go to school. I did take some Advil, or Tylenol, or aspirin, or something. I’m actually not quite sure what they (being the little pills) were, but hopefully they were some kind of painkiller. Ugh. Being sick is so not majestic. I don’t even know why I picked that word. It’s a nice word.
You know what’s not a nice word. Barf. It actually sounds like an actually actual barfing person. Whenever somebody says “barf,” this image comes to mind of a person leaning over a toilet with greenish gunk spewing out of their mouth. I can hear that nasty wet sound of
Okay, never mind.
I hope this headache goes away. I hope you’re all doing just majesticly.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Saint Patrick's Day

Today is Saint Patrick’s Day. I didn’t even remember this morning, choosing an outfit of blue and white instead of swathing myself in green clothing, jewelry, hairpieces, nail polish, etc. I went downstairs, and there was a box of Lucky Charms on the table. I couldn’t quite figure that one out. Sugar cereals are a big no-no at our house.
I started to warily examine it from all angles, wondering if it were secretly filled with oat bran or granola. But no, a peek inside the box assured me, it really was sugar-coated oat cereal and funky-shaped, weirdly-colored marshmallows.
“It’s for Saint Patrick’s Day, you know, leprechauns and all,” my mom explained.
Oh yeah. St. Patrick’s Day.
I considered going back upstairs to change into something green, but I was simply too lazy to do anything but pour myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. That’s pretty much, probably, the only way I’m going to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Along with slapping anybody who pinches me. I guess it’d be a bigger deal if I were Irish. I am not. St. Patrick’s Day is one of those “extra” holidays for me. It’s there, but the only time I really think about it is on the actual day. There’s no big two-month buildup, like there is for Christmas. It’s not like I could hardly go to sleep last night, I was so excited.
Like I said, it’d be different if I were Irish.

Sunday, March 15, 2009


I went down to that creek by the school today. Luckily, there were no crackheads down there and I could be in peace.
The creek is a cool little place in the summer. I used to go all the time, tossing a book or journal or whatever over the chain-link fence and then clambering over myself. Sweltering summer sun evaporated away all the water, and I could climb right down into the dry riverbank. The weeds would grow so high that if I crouched I’d be hidden from everything else in the world. Sometimes I would just sit there, surrounded by dust and dry, crinkly plantlife and read or write in a journal. (Those were the days before I had a blog.) Sometimes I’d go on little scavenger hunts, seeking tennis or lacrosse balls, wing nuts, marbles, and other treasures. But once I’d gathered up a good amount of rubbish, I’d pretty much just stand around wondering what to do with it. Garbage was turned into treasure for a moment, then discarded and turned back to mere trash again. After a while I’d start to feel sweaty and dirty and disgusting. With that, I would scramble back up, climb over the fence, walk home and head straight into the shower.
Sometimes my cousins would come with me. We would bounce tennis balls off those weird, slanted concrete things and blather on about our plans for the next day. Once we walked down through the center all the way to the end, next to the high school, where a bridge offered shade but also the reek of cigarette smoke and fermenting beer. We about-faced as soon as we caught a whiff of the stench and ran all the way back. Once my sister, cousins, and I all took a trip to the creek, bringing my and my sister’s dog with us. We played fetch with him in the riverbank for a while. Then we had to heave him up the steep sides of the concrete slant. For some reason, that ornery mutt was unwilling to climb up. It took a lot of muscle, grunting, and pulling to get him to the top. Luckily, there was a little gap where he could fit through the fence, so the impossible task of catapulting him over the fence remained in the world of impossibilities.
I know I sound all, “yep, those were the good ol’ days,” but seriously, those days were good. And... old...? Anyway, it’s never quite as fun when the creek is flowing. Actually, it’s not as fun at all. There are no shoulder-high weeds. You can’t walk down the middle, so no treaure hunting. The concrete things, whatever they are, are all wet, so no tennis-ball-bouncing. The bank is muddy and squelchy and gross. There’s nothing, really, to do. I walked back and forth a few times, disappointed. Then I went home to get a basketball, and shot hoops instead.
It’s a little pathetic how I’m amused by such juvenile activities. I should have outgrown the delight of picking up a mysterious object and then going “hey-whats-this?” Sitting in a dry dusty riverbed reading should be inferior to sitting on my dry comfy bedroom-bed reading. Oh well. I’m pretty sure there’s some sort of saying about simple pleasures and simple minds that would be appropriate to quote right now, but I can’t think of any clever ones.

Friday, March 13, 2009


As you may have noticed, "Jeni's Blog. Whee" has taken on a more original and inspiring name. Welcome to "Footsteps." The idea is, basically, each day I write about is another step into my extraordinarily amazing life. There is also another meaning, but unfortunately revealing it would also reveal a bit of information about myself that would allow any stranger to track me down and murder me.
I survived Friday the 13th all over again. That is what you call invincible, people. And since I already posted today, that is pretty much it.

Yeah, but still

Have you noticed that my blog entries are the best when I am talking about an actual experience, particularly one that was awful?
When I went to the Jelly Belly factory, a lovely experience, my post was boring and vacuous. When I drenched myself in icy rainwater, my post was colorful and witty. (Two random words that sound nice together, I’m not even really sure if that correctly describes the entry.) Maybe I’m one of those sees-the-glass-half-empty people. Or maybe the sensation of discomfort and misery sparks my creative spirit. (Again, two random words. “Creative spirit,” that has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?) Unfortunately nothing horrible has happened to me lately. Under normal circumstances that would be good news, but still.
Let’s talk about that, then. “But still.” After two people have had a good long argument, one of them usually comes up with something that puts a stop to the whole banter, a statement that proves their point to such an extent that no comeback from the other person could ever top it. Remember how the only answer to “What’s up?” is “Nothing much”? The only answer to an argument-ending statement is a pathetic “Yeah, but still.” Honestly, we humans are much too prideful to give up once on argument has been lost. We are too proud to simply say, “Okay, you win.” So we puff up our chests as much as we can after such an epic loss and instead say, “Yeah, but still.” That statement has no meaning. ‘But still?’ Those are two completely different words, and even when put together, they don’t really relate to each other, or make sense in a hey-that’s-a-sentence kind of way. “Yeah, but still,” are the three words we utter when we admit to ourselves that we have lost the argument, but still want to have the last say.
One person: “Avocados are a fruit.”
Other person: “No, they’re not. They’re a vegetable.”
One person: “Why do you say that? They have a pit. Vegetables don’t have pits.”
Other person: “Yeah, but avocados are green. Fruits aren’t green. And fruits don’t taste so plant-ish-y.”
One person: “Limes are green. Come on, we’ll look it up online. Look, see? says avocados are fruits.”
Other person: -pause- Yeah, but still.
Know what I’m saying?
Anyways, other stuff. I’ve stopped putting songs at the ends of my posts because it was pretty pointless, but here’s my new favorite song that I would like to share with the general public. It’s called Almost Lover, by a Fine Frenzy.
Thoughts: Is my blog even any good anymore? Certain people have said it was funny, but I think I’m losing my touch. I’ve been thinking about getting a YouTube account. Scratch that, I got a YouTube account. Instead of writing stuff down here, I would point a camera at myself and say it, to hopefully boost the humor level. I actually made a video too, but when I tried to upload it it didn’t work. So that’s that, huh? Maybe I’ll figure out how to upload videos here or something.
Time for a completely irrelevant topic. I have lived my whole life so far without practicing any religion. I never really thought much of it. My dad used to be Christian, went to church any everything as a kid, but somewhere along the timeline of his life he dropped it. I don’t even know if my mom was ever religious. I never have been. I never felt like there was anything missing from my life. This is rare, but every once in a while somebody will ask me what religion I am. So when I answer, “I don’t have one,” they reply, “Oh,” quickly and then change the subject. It’s as if not having a religion is something to be ashamed of, and they assume that I don’t want to talk about it. Am I a sinner or something, for not thanking some sort of god for giving me life and all? Do I sound stupid to the religiously wise by asking that last question? I am so naive in that unfamiliar territory, if that’s even the right word. I guess I’m not too hot on literature, either.
It would be cool to be Christian. I would wear a cute little cross around my neck. Going to church always sounds so wholesome and soul-cleansing and everything. If I were Christian, I would probably take a yoga class. I’d read to young children in the library on Saturday mornings, to lure them away from the vortex that is Saturday morning cartoons. It would be weird, though, to be the only Christian in a family of non-religious people.
I guess this is a touchy subject. Or is it? I don’t even know. I’ll shut up and talk about something else now.
How about racism. We were supposed to be researching racism, prejudice, segregation, et cetera, in language arts class today. No, not history class. Language arts class. It all tied in with Anne Frank, which we have been studying. Germans, Jews, Holocaust, concentration camps, and so on. The young lad who sits next to be happens to be particularly immature, and instead of researching pulled up a page of racist jokes. He was thrilled, and announced his favorites to the entire class while cackling. Our dear teacher remained blissfully unaware. He was particularly fond of Jew jokes. “How do you start a Jewish marathon? Roll a penny down a hill! How was copper wire invented? Many years ago, two Jews found the same penny.” I don’t even get those. Jews and pennies do not equal LOL for me, but I’m glad. Had I understood the jokes, I might have laughed, and then I would have felt bad.
One last thing: I Obama-ized myself. Sheeyah. Check it out.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Jelly Belly Factory

We finally went. My dearest father took Friday off, and we drove all the way up to Fairfield to visit the Jelly Belly factory.

Yeah. That's me in front of the sign.

...and in front of the big fat inflatable guy, doing a stupid pose because my dad couldn't get his camera to work and I was sick of just standing there grinning like an idiot.

That's what it looks like in the lobby, if you happen to look up. I really want a few of those big beans. They would look so cool in my room, next to the big candy wrapper I painted in seventh grade.These bean portraits were everywhere. They are so cool. People trace over a photograph, then paint it. Then they soak Jelly Bellies in glue and stick them on the appropriate places. It must take forever!
They didn't let you take any photos inside the actual factory part, so too bad for you all. I loved watching the packaging unit. Zillions of little boxes traveled through various "stations" on conveyor belts. They were so cute that I actually laughed out loud while looking at them in their cunning little rows.
The gift shop was huge, but the one product that I seeked out was nowhere to be found. Jelly Belly is currently producing a candy that consists of a dried cherry, a layer of chocolate, and a sweet candy coating. If you ever spot it, let me know, thanks a bunch, you guys are awesome, la la la... We bought some jelly bellies for my sister, but nothing for ourselves because they give you a FREE bag of jelly bellies at the end of your tour! They are very big on free samples here. They even have a "sample bar," where it is perfectly acceptable for you to demand that they let you stuff all the beans you want into your maw without paying a cent. I tried a cantaloupe bean. It tasted exactly like a cantaloupe. I also tried a cinnamon toast bean. It tasted exactly like cinnamon toast. This lady from the "Chocolate Shoppe" approached my dad and I to offer us chocolate pecan clusters. Of course we accepted. With the free bag we recieved and all the samples, we didn't even need to buy anything in the end, except for a bag for my sugarhead sister.
Another interesting thing was the cafe. They sell pizza and hamburgers in the shape of jelly beans. Everybody who thinks that this is gross, say "aye." The pizza looks seriously deformed. Eurgh. We went to a nearby Mexican restaurant instead. I ate a taco that was not bean-shaped, then drank some flaming hot salsa so my dad would give me a dollar. Afterwards, we went to the dollar store, and I bought kiwi preserves. My dad bought fabric softener, conditioner, breath mints, and plastic clothes hangers.
Now I have to go to softball, so. Sorry this entry was so short!


On Wednesday, I was a person. On Thursday, I was a person who played basketball.
My decision to join the “All-Star” girls basketball league, a free after-school basketball team, was last-minute. The practice was to start at five-thirty, Thursday. Tiffany IMed me to ask if I wanted to join at about four-thirty, Thursday. After much hmming and hawing, I decided I would join. I have softball on Mondays, Wednesdays, and weekends. Basketball was to take place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Perfect.
One thing that Tiffany failed to mention while giving me the details was the name of the coach, who just happened to be Mr. Genise. He barked out orders and demanded us to “run through the defense pattern.” Esha, another first-timer, and I were pulled aside and instructed to watch. Three girls were running in random directions on each side of the court, the ball switching hands as girls scurried past each other. Their stampeding feet traced an impossibly complicated pattern on the slippery court, each sneaker squeaking as they criss-crossed and looped past each other to a silent but steady rhythm. I looked on, bewildered. I did not know how to dribble a ball. I did not know how to pass a ball. Mr. Genise made no attempt to teach Esha and I, preferring to let us wander through a confused haze when he stuck one of us on each side of the court and expected us to be all caught up. “Jenny, take the right wing!” he ordered. I looked down at the court. I didn’t see any wings. One girl made a subtle gesture towards one of the curvy lines. I gratefully jogged over and stood in the appropriate place. When the whistle blew and the girls started up their strange dance of zig-zags and cross-backs, I continued to stand. Where in the world was I supposed to go? Genise was pissed. He stormed over and shoved me towards a white square, referred to as “the block.” I ran over to “the block.” Then I glanced back at him to see that he was making [what were in my opinion excessively big] “come-here!!!” motions with his arms. When I reluctantly scuttled back, he gave me a quick but memorable lecture about “timing.” Then a ball was thrust into my hands by one of the other players. “Take top!” bellowed Genise. That sentence does not make sense. “Take top” doesn’t mean anything. I don’t think that “take top” is even considered a sentence. Later, though, I learned that it meant to stroll on over to the half-court line. Then I was to fake a pass to my left and pass to my right. I still didn’t even know how to pass, but since I wasn’t yelled at, I think I might have done it correctly. After several centuries of screwups and confusion, the defense pattern started to carve its way into my brain. Pass, cut left, cut right, run to wing. Run to block, run to wing, run to block, run to top. But still, there was “timing” and angles and measurements, plenty of things for me to mess up. As soon as I started to understand what the heck I was supposed to do, though, we were called in and herded into the gym. Time to shoot baskets.
Thankfully, Genise actually took the time to teach us newbies how to shoot before directing us towards the courts. Right angles on your arms, right foot in front of left, bend knees, snap wrist, roll it off the index. As long as I was able to recall all this minutiae, I could swoosh balls through baskets. Genise smiled. The whistle blew. Practice was over. Afterwards, Tiffany asked me if I was going to stay on the team, or quit. I wasn’t sure. My sport is softball, and it has been for the past five years. I need the dry, dusty must of softball fields settling into my throat and choking me until I suffocate with pleasure. The sweat and adrenaline of basketball overpowering my senses and pumping through my veins is just not my thing. Plus, Genise is the kind of dude who can pull off sweatpants and a straw hat, with muscles in his pinky fingers and an endless supply of energy. Any sport he is introduced to, he can pick up with ease. A round, knobby basketball was placed into my hands on Thursday, but without me knowing what to do with it. Genise made no effort to educate me in the grand old world of “b-ball.” He does not have the ability to teach a sport. He is able to take people who already know how to play a sport and boss them around.
Practice ended at seven. The world was quiet and dark. As I walked home, alone in a sea of blackness, I made my decision and decided to stick with the team. It was about time Genise took a person who royally sucked and turned them into an average player. He should know how to teach people, not just order them around. I would be the pawn in my own experiment to turn domineering Genise into what he is supposed to be: a P.E. teacher.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Jetting off to Europe

I am going to scream. I am going to cry. I am going to jump so high that I will break through the stratosphere and get pulled into orbit.
This week, this glorious week, is the last week of street hockey. That is absolutely the best news to reach my ears since the invention of electric pencil sharpeners. And even better, it's been raining constantly since Sunday, so we've been inside the locker rooms engaging in "relay races" on "mini-scooters." It's not exactly the greatest way to spend my day (yeah that rhymed, hey hey hey) but it is two thousand and fifty-four times better than dashing about in aimless loops and twists, whacking pucks around with plastic sticks.
Even happier news is... I'M GOING TO EUROPE THIS SUMMER!!! We just got done with all the payments and such, and I am due to depart the Wednesday after school lets out! It's a school trip that is being led by Mrs. Kalman, my most very beloved former teacher. Plus, two of my friends are coming with me as we Eurostar our way from France to London to Rome to Athens to Lucerne. I must admit, however, that my excitement isn't quite as great as the three exclamation points after the first sentence in this paragraph might suggest. The truth is, it's expensive. I have been saving up all year in an attempt to make a dent in the cost. For a while earlier in the year, I figured I probably wouldn't be able to go in the end. The concept of jetting off so far away from home was already impossible, and the hefty price only amplified the fact that a trip to Europe was merely a distant dream. But then something happened, and I am not quite sure what. I am naive in the ways of the stock market, but somehow my dad completed some tricky maneuver that confused the stocks into giving him a bunch of money. With this surplus, we could either stow it away for later or pay for, I don't know, a big trip for the young'un of the family. The price is all locked in. I am absolutely going. I am going to climb up into the Colosseum and scream my name from the top of the Eiffel Tower. I am going to stand directly under the dome of the Cathedral of Florence and St. Peter's Basilica. My very own eyeballs will gaze at the Mona Lisa, not a picture of her or a reproduction of her.
Never in my life have I set foot outside of the United States, except for once to Mexico. However, that hardly counts since it's all attached and everything. Let's say I've never set foot outside of this continent, and I am itching to get out of this chokingly American, stuffily confined space.
It's twenty days long. I am already planning out the monster blog entry that I will write when I return. Au revoir, addio, and αντίο!