Pure Adrenaline

The suspense is killing you, isn't it. You've got those tingly rushes in your fingers, like you've almost fallen out of a tree. Or you're going skydiving for the first time. Or someone has just threatened to make you speak about the relevancy of oatmeal to the human existence in front of 500 people.

If the suspense isn't killing you, it should be. This is my 50th blog. The BIG 5-0.

And I got nothin'. Sorry. Zippo. Nada. Zed (for our Canadian listeners).

But I love y'all. Hopefully that counts for something.

The blog in progress is about Dr. Seuss. Stay tuned.

J

Fun Monday #3 - Virtual Road Trip

Today for Fun Monday our "Hostess with the Mostess" is Alison at RDH Mom. Her assignment is:

"Welcome to the Vacation edition of Fun Monday. We are all virtual travelers this week and I am sure our trip will take us around the world!!! I hope everyone has their passport up to date and is ready to go!!!"

This assignment totally sucks for me because all my digital photos are on the "other" computer. The one that is still sitting in a box in my storage unit.

Actually, that doesn't matter. My favorite vaccies happen every April. For a week in April I get to leave real life behind and go with my good friend Linda to wherever the American Whippet Club is hosting the National Specialty show. I don't usually take my camera, although I did to Eugene this year. But every year is special in its own way, and leaves its own memories.

2000 - Greensburg, PA

My first trip to a National. 700 whippets packed into one hotel. I meet people and dogs in real life that I've only previously read about. Can you say "overwhelmed"? I met Patience (blog Patience-please) that trip.

2001 - Dallas, TX

We looked after Sanibel for Karen at this National. Sani came to be bred to Whispa. Later I would get a wonderful puppy from that litter, my first dog to earn his American Championship.

2002 - Denver, CO

My first experience at a National with a dog. See puppy mentioned above. I was too nervous, so I made Linda show him. He was second in his huge puppy class. I framed that ribbon.

2003 - Crystal Lake, IL

Another fun trip with Travis. He was second in his class again. That ribbon is with the other one.

2004 -Greensburgh, NC

A welcome respite from my divorce. Too far to take the dog, but we had fun shoe shopping!

2005 - Phoenix, AZ

The rest of my life was falling apart, but I couldn't miss a National! The first time I ever saw a cactus in real life.

2006 - Boston, MA

My first experience with fresh lobster!

2007 - I missed this one :-( Sometimes real life intervenes....

2008 - Eugene, OR

Where I picked up Tara the new puppy from a breeder I met in 2000 in Pennsylvania at that first show. My first time showing not only my own dog, but Becca for Janet too! I've come a long way......

2009 - Tara and I will see you in Atlanta!

Now go RDH Mom and take the tour with the rest of Fun Monday....

How Much is a Picture Worth?

Rob, Tara and Stan...

Week in New England

Ten things some of us did not know about the State of Connecticut:

10. The entire state is NOT, in fact, paved.

9. The Nutmeg State. Cinnamon wasn't available?

8. We traveled every day on Roast Meat Hill Road. Really.

7. I-95 North/South actually runs generally west/east in most of the state. This can be confusing for the navigationally challenged.

6. I am not navigationally challenged. But I wasn't driving. Some people should listen to their backseat drivers.

5. If you let the damn know-it-all driver go far enough the wrong way, you will see a sign that says "Massachusetts - 54 miles".

4. Nothing says "I told you so" better than a sign that says "Massachusetts - 54 miles".

3. Clam Chowder is still nasty stuff, even in New England.

2. It is impossible to have too much lobster.

1. A really beautiful place, but I'm very happy to be home.

For Three Ring Circus Sideshow...

Us paper tigers need to stick together.....Amelia knew all about that.

http://threeringcircussideshow.blogspot.com/2008/05/for-jenn-in-city.html

Fun Monday Again

I return to Fun Monday after a couple of weeks of being sicker than a, well, dog and then being unable to find the host..

This weeks hostess is Mariposa. She wants to know about our "collections". This is what she asked us to do:


"Collections... We all have them...and if you don't, you do....you just may not realize it. For some reason or another we all collect something and we collect it for reasons that will definitely make for good reading. So on Monday, I want to see your collection. If you don't have or don't want or CAN'T (wink) show us a picture, then tell us what the collection is in 10 words or less. Then tell us why you started collecting it."


The Inner Diva considered her fabulous shoes at first. But those don't define her. They don't speak to the reality of what it means to be Jenn and the City. They are a piece of it, true, but they don't really say anything about who she is beyond a shoe whore. Anyone can be a shoe whore.

So the Inner Diva was forsaken for the Recovering Blonde. The RB doesn't collect anything intentionally. But the RB struggles with her tresses. They don't have their own color (colour for our Canadian listeners) without Aveda assistance. The top half is straight, and the bottom has ringlets. The RB does battle on a daily basis with le coiffure (hairdo for our American listeners). Some days the hair decides to go curly, some days it prefers to be straight. It's always lost in the "frizz zone". Deep Sigh. Never do I feel that the look du jour captures the heart and soul of JATC. At least we know now that she isn't blonde.


So Jenn and the City collects whatever it takes to have a good hair day. Regardless of which follicular Sybil appears....




In addition to the tools of the trade, we have the product variety.....



Jenn and the City could actually open her own hair salon with all this crap. But much as I hate facing my indecision and inability to deal with something as simple as my hair, I have to love the freedom to just BE whomever emerges from the bathroom on any given morning.

And that can be really scary!

Visit Mariposa for the rest of the Fun Monday Collections!

Someday a Duck

In the lobby of the Really Big Bank Building where I work, Really Big Bank sponsors the decor including fresh flowers, artwork, and Solemn Security Guy who can tell you which block of elevators you need or the door code to the locked public restroom. Presumably, Solemn Security Guy also keeps a watchful, solemn eye on the branch operation of Really Big Bank and the two Exorbitantly High Fee ATMs that make their home in the lobby.



Lately, Really Big Bank's lobby decor includes advertising posters. I'm a huge fan of advertising posters. I particularly appreciate anything Art Nouveau, circa France in the late 1800's or so. Like Steinlen. However, Really Big Bank's ad budget doesn't seem to run to original artwork. Rather than "Tournee du Chat Noir" or "Clinique Cheron", Really Big Bank chose photos of happy families in circumstances that indicate their need for a loan from Really Big Bank. For example, the family with a graduating son holding up a sign that says "Ivy League". If the ATM is any indication, they will also pay an Exorbitantly High Fee for said loan, thereby stimulating the economy and enriching the coffers of Really Big Bank.



Walking through the lobby with my Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte yesterday, I did a double-take on one of the posters. It depicted a smiling man with BBQ tongs standing by a printed sign that says "Someday a Duck"



I pondered this as I made my way past Solemn Security Guy to the elevator. I have dreams too. My big dream that I'm "this" close to is to take a year off regularly scheduled life and write my book. But I have no desire to rely on any help from Really Big Bank, or any other bank. Nope, I'm gonna do this one on my own. I may cook my savings goose financially in this endeavor, but do it I will. I'm puzzled though, why BBQ Man needs banking assistance to cook his duck.



On my way home tonight I took another look. I get it now. BBQ Man isn't an aspiring author, and he's probably got burgers on the grill. What BBQ Man needs is a place to put the BBQ. Someday a DECK.



I like my ambitions better. Someday a Duck.



J

Hooray for Hollywood

Voter turnout for the 2008 Presidential election will likely exceed all expectations, and probably be at an all time high. But not because of intriguing candidates, a controversial war, or an anemic economy.

No sirree. As an overall society, we're just not that sophisticated. We'd so like to think better of ourselves, but we secretly would rather hear about Britney's latest fender-bender than the U.S. auto industry losses for the last quarter.

But, I think the average American voter finally gets it. For that, we thank the Hollywood writers. Shall we write them a little note?

Dear Hollywood Writers:

Thank you for your recent strike. Your adamant insistance on receiving royalties for new media and DVD residuals cultivated a rich environment for the advent of reality t.v. No writers needed for reality t.v., are there? Good old middle class America spent the last five years plus mindlessly feeding on a screen feast that requires no menu or script.

So now we get it. This election, we grasp that we have the ability to kick anyone we don't like "off the Island".

Sincerely,

U.S. Voters

But this could be SO much more interesting couldn't it? And so much simpler.

Why bother with all this election hoopla and media hype? Debates? BO-RING. Who needs 'em?

Lets put the candidates and their spouses (since we don't have running mates yet) in our favorite reality shows. Whomever wins their show, wins the election. Cheap, easy, good ratings, and Americans grasp the voting process without any complicated explanations about "super-delegates" and "electoral college".

John McCain - No brainer. Let's see him outplay, outlast and outwit the likes of Parvati, Richard, and Boston Rob on "Survivor". He's got the right resume. Should be a piece of cake if he can find the immunity idol.

Cindy McCain - "America's Next Top Model"? Unfortunately, there's not a reality show for "America's Favorite Beer" distributor.

Bill and Hillary Clinton - Can you imagine this pair on "The Amazing Race"? Unstopable. And in case of a tie, we can put the Billster on "The Bachelorette".

Barack Obama - Cookin' up his famous chili on "Hell's Kitchen". Or maybe having the audacity of hope on "The Real World". I suspect he'd do well there.

Michelle Obama - I'd put her on "Last Comic Standing" Girlfriend's got a wicked sense of humor.

"Fear Factor" anyone? And to really define the occasion, they can all sing "America the Beautiful" on American Idol. Let's face it, the whole country will tune in to hear Randy say "yo Barack dawg, it was a little pitchy, just alright for me". Paula can tell John how proud she is of him, and how much his fans love and admire him. And Simon...critiquing...Hillary...just....can't....go....there.....sorry.

Whatever you do, vote.

Crossing the Line

I speak fluent Canadian. Even in this blog you will notice the occasional "colour" vs "color". I can drive in KPH just as easily as MPH, and I'm better than most of my Canadian friends at knowing that 20 degrees is shorts weather. While I am still floored at the bizarre Northern pronunciations of "decal" and "asphault" (which are just wrong, by the way), I completely comprehend what is meant by "zed" and "elastic".

The familiarity with things North traces to my former proximity to the international border, and the 1998 discovery that the closest whippets to me lived 20 minutes and one Customs & Immigration agent away. Since that revelation, I have trekked across the border approximately a kazillion times for dog shows, race meets, lure courses, vet appointments, eye surgery, flights to Cancun, and to purchase items only available in civilized countries - good tea, tripe, and alcoholic cider.

Crossing the border gave me anxiety attacks at first. Even with a clear conscience, interacting with authority can be intimidating. Plus, having gone to University in that same small town, my previous experiences with border authorities consisted of "let me in to your country where the drinking age is 19 so I can imbibe massive amounts of legal cocktails". Eventually, I learned how to get myself and the dogs across the border without being detained for questioning.

1. You need rabies certificates for your dogs. It doesn't matter if they actually are up to date, accurate, or if said cert even belongs to the dog in your car, you need to have one. I used Kayla's cert (female German Short-haired Pointer) to get Carson (male Whippet) across at one time. In my kazillion crossings, I've been asked for my rabies certs exactly twice.

2. Do not say anything about "racing". References to "dog racing" make Immigration officials think you might be running a sighthound Kentucky Derby, wherein you will accept wagers on the race outcomes illegally. One of the two times I needed to produce a rabies cert was when I made mention of "racing". Say "field trial". "Field trial" doesn't apparently fit any canine-owner profiling.

3. If you cross at a remote location enough times, the personnel in the little hut get to know you. At one point I pulled up to the window and the very bored guard looked at my license plate, raised his eyebrows and asked "another dog show"? I nodded, and he waved me through.

4. Occasionally you will get an agent who just loves dogs. One very proper English fellow on the north-bound morning shift nearly crawled into the car with me when he saw Carson. His educated accent morphed into a delightful Cockney drawl - "Iss a whippet! Alllooo whippet"!

5. If you're traveling to a dog event sans the dog, have another reason for traveling. I once made the mistake of trying to explain that I was attending a "field trial" without my dog, just to help out. Apparently, the Newbie Border Dude thought that anyone who would stand out in the rain and mud freezing their a$$ off for fun should have a sanity check. Unfortunately for Newbie Border Dude, the agent that questioned me inside was Labrador Retriever Guy. Lab Guy just rolled his eyes, told me not to be late, and advised Newbie Dude to not pick on the dog people. Gotta love Canadian National Security.

6. Do not attempt, under any circumstances to bring beef or chicken from Canada into the U.S. Canadian Cows are all Mad, you know. And we mustn't infect the poultry population with bird flu. Resist the urge to point out that there is no Customs and Immigrations check for a bird that happens to fly across the border. This applies to dogfood too. I would guess (I wouldn't know, of course) that more elaborate clandestine operations have been developed for smuggling dogfood than for good old BC wacky tobacky.

7. "How much is your child worth to you"? is NOT the appropriate response to "What is the value of your dog". Trust me on this one.

My favorite border crossing story though, isn't even my own. After Carson's ACL surgery, I rehabbed him for 12 weeks. Twice a week, I drove across the border to see the closest vet with a therapy pool. The last week of therapy I was out of town and couldn't take him, so my ex-husband got stuck with whippet taxi duty. On his first trip across he starts to explain himself to the agent on duty. "Well, I'm bringing the dog up for swim therapy for his knee...." The agent frowned and replied "Yes, we recognize the dog. Who the heck are you?"

Happy Trails!

Monday Muttering

When I was a kid, I thought green olives grew with that red stuff in the middle. Didn't get the pimento memo until I was about 12 or so.

Daughter Dearest

I already demonstrated yesterday that I'm a bad, non card-sending daughter. So, I'll add to my evil reputation by telling a Mother's Day story. A funny Mother's Day story. Well, I think it's funny. My Mother will probably come after me with the retro black plastic salad fork. (The salad fork being the corporal punishment weapon of choice in 1974. And my Mother still wonders 34 years later why I don't like veggies. Go figure.)

Allow me to set the stage for my Mom story, and explain the mitigating circumstances. Fast forward from 1974 to 2001. September of 2001. A difficult time for everyone, and a particularly heartbreaking and tragic time for our family. On September 11, my Mother and I were in Michigan for my Uncle's funeral. On September 12, we were supposed to fly home. Except on September 12, 2001 no one flew anywhere unless they happened to be a bird.


So, September 12 found us driving from Michigan back to Washington in our trusty Hertz Mazda 323 rental car. In all fairness, we were both functioning under just a titch of stress.


Still unsure of the state of things, we elected to stay off freeways until we could pick up I-90 in North Dakota. The drive went smoothly until we hit mid-Minnesota. Remember that we're on a rural country road, and we're pushing to get home. So it was early. Not another car in sight. Except the east-bound Minnesota State Trooper that Mummy blew by doing her best Danica Patrick at 80mph.


Sure enough, the nice officer hangs a U-turn and turns on the blue lights. Mom pulls Speed Racer Mazda to the side of the road.

Now, I'm thinking there's no problem here. Two women alone, driving in an unfamiliar car on an unfamiliar highway under unthinkable circumstances just trying to get home three states away (including Montana, which really ought to count as two). Piece of cake. There is NO WAY in h-e-double toothpicks he's giving us a ticket after he hears our story. Once he determines we're not suspicious characters (hmmm), we're good to go.


So, the first words out of my mother's mouth should be a humble apology and an explanation as to our circumstances. But NOOOOOO. What does she tell Officer Friendly? She says, and I quote to the best of my recollection:


"There's no one else around, and I thought the road was mine"


I didn't hear the Trooper's response. I was too busy banging my head on the dash. On the list of things you simply DO NOT say to the cop who pulls you over for speeding are:


1. "Honest Ossifer, I ain't been smokin' any beer"
2. "Where'd you get the snazzy shades?"
and 3. "But I thought I owned the road"


While Trooper Man went back to his car to run the smart a$$ scofflaw's license, I attempt a crash course in Dealing With Law Enforcement 101. (Not that I'm an expert on the subject, but hey, I've seen "Cops" so of the two of us, I clearly had the edge).


Or not. Minnesota's Finest returned to the car waving a piece of pink paper and delivering a lecture on rural speed limits. At the end of which he simply said. "Things are bad enough. I'm giving you a warning. You can take this home and mount it on the wall with your salmon, or whatever you folks out there stuff and hang on the walls". (Once again, quoting to the best of my recollection).


I don't remember my Mother's reaction to this statement, because I was once again banging my head on the dash. If the salad fork had been handy, I'd have smacked them both.

Mothers DO know best!

I do remember that I drove from there until we got safely to Fargo.

Happy Mother's Day!

American Greetings

Well, I ain't never been the Hallmark type. When I actually sent Christmas cards a couple of years ago, my family knew I must be ill. For someone who writes, you'd think I could get Happy Birthday wishes in the mail without Xanax. But somehow I always fall victim to greetingis carditis - I can't even walk down the stationery aisle without being overwhelmed by the pressure of it all. That anxiety immediately preceeds a huge dose of guilt that would make Lady MacBeth seem just smug..."well, yes dear, we did have Banquo killed, but at least we sent that lovely engraved invitation to dinner." Among my favorite holidays, Thanksgiving and Easter. Lots of food, no cards required. Valentine's Day, Birthdays, and Mother's/Father's Day require long sleeves to hide the outbreak of hives.


Naturally, since I'm card-challenged, I am blessed with a sister-in-law who probably manages to send a get-well note for every stubbed toe, and well-wishes on half-birthdays. On time. I envy her the organization, motivation and general good manners she possesses to carry off this miracle, while raising my brother, two young boyz and presiding over their PTA. I'm truly sincere in my admiration - I walk past no less than two card shops a day, and the cash machine in the building lobby vends stamps. Clearly Pam isn't allergic to Shoebox.

My real objection has to do with the general inadequacy of cards themselves. A pre-fab greeting card offends my creative side. What did you do for Mother's Day? Oh, I sent a card. Grreeaattt. I suppose "it's the thought that counts" does come into play here, but I always want to be more original. Usually my family gets a phone call to celebrate "card" occasions. Woohhooo! The imagination police have a warrant for me.

Maybe I'm just plain lazy.


It's not that I don't have good intentions. Almost every year I make the effort to calendar all the important birthdays, anniversaries and occasions of my family and friends. Those calendars presently have a gig with Oprah's past diets and Liz Taylor's ex-husbands. We try.


So, that's my excuse. I don't have one. Out, damn spot!

(And yes, I have a Mother's Day card for my mother, and we're going to lunch tomorrow.)

Friday Factoid

When I was a kid, I thought recreational vehicles must all have swimming pools on their roofs. Why else would there be a ladder going up there?

Luminescing

spar-kle [spahr-kuhl]

–verb (used without object) to be brilliant, lively, or vivacious.
–noun (used without capitalization) my match.com screen moniker


I chose "sparkle" because "Bubbly" sounded like Barbie's sister, "Chipper" harkened to a inspired modus operandi for body disposal (a la "Fargo"), and the little munchkins in funny hats on my breakfast cereal snagged "Snap, Crackle and Pop" . Of course, I gave up the match account after meeting Saint Rob.

Saint Rob earned canonization this week with the acquisition of Tara. One of the reasons that Saint Rob responded to my match.com cyber-wink was his interpretation of my profile statement - "my dogs are allowed on the furniture". He took this to be a reflection of my laid-back personality. Remember when we met, Saint Rob wasn't fluent in whippet. He couldn't be expected to recognize the Nike Manifesto.

Nike supervised the navigationally-challenged trek around Little Mountain that highlighted our first date. Later, Saint Rob willingly sacrificed sole possession of his recliner to the Nike. They now fall asleep together in front of "Meerkat Manor" or "House", depending on who's controlling the remote. Saint Rob even forgave the unpardonable - a little "accident" involving the Saint's soccer bag. And now tonight, a "Fowl Foul". In Saint Rob's mind, the plate of seasoned chicken was destined for the BBQ. Nike thinks we over-rate cooking our food. Chicken breast tastes perfectly good "tartar". The Saint's only comment to the dog - "you didn't even share it with your sister, did you"? His only comment to me - "that's not going to make him sick, is it"? Pretty good for a guy whose dinner just became Alpo.

By any reckoning Tara is a sweetheart of a puppy, but she's still a baby whippet. In "The World According to Jennifer" any prospective dog owner should be required to spend a week with one of these six-month old tornadoes before being permitted to acquire a canine companion. So far Saint Rob hasn't batted his halo at any puppy pranks. The ragged new finish on the bill of his favorite ball cap didn't raise an eyebrow. The tornado touching down on, er, sensitive body parts while he's trying to sleep produced a lot of groaning, but the alpha dog remains gracious with the rest of the pack.

We're almost a year from that first date now. In a week or so, on the actual one-year anniversary, I'll be effervescing in Connecticut for a week on a work project. Saint Rob will be home watching Nike and Tara relax on his furniture.

The champagne will have to wait, but I am truly blessed.

On Holly Golightly, Wheaties, and Rain – Random Tuesday Thoughts

Proof that I still have contact with the blonde side – I forgot my coat again. Since the elevator monitor kindly advised that today’s high tech color Doppler radar identified a “chance of showers”, I’m probably okay. In Seattle, “chance of showers” is to the weather as “punt” is to football. But if it should happen to rain, I’ll just find a big old puddle to stomp in.

I only have six meetings today. That makes it a light day, and I may actually get some work done. Two of the meetings are “scrums” – brief status update meetings. Where we all get together and tell each other how much we’re not getting accomplished because we spend all our time in meetings. “Scrum” is a rugby term. The concept of applying sports theory to projects works well enough, but there are days when I want to be able to apply other rugby techniques, like “tackle” or “maul”. I’m sure any propensity toward violence comes from the red-headed part of my brain.

My favorite movie truly is “Breakfast at Tiffanys”. In another picture of my life, I’m living in a city apartment, renamed Tara “Whippet” and left a perfectly good Manolo Blahnik in the crisper drawer of the fridge with the rusty lettuce. Except in my world it would probably have to be “Breakfast at Starbucks”.

Something totally wrong with writing about Audrey Hepburn and listening to Linkin Park on the Ipod. Deliciously incongruent. I like that.

I’m going to work now. My current task involves determining how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop. Breakfast of Champions. Definitely NOT at Tiffany’s.

Happy Tuesday!

Sunday Snippet

When I was a kid I wanted to be blind so I could have a seeing eye dog.

(Formerly) Blond Ambition

Today's post functions as a sort of cyber string around my finger. Consider my April calendar. April 1-4 in Baltimore. Return from Baltimore needing a lung transplant and sporting a triple digit temperature. Recover to 80% and fly to Bend. Return from Bend in time to pack for Eugene. Spend a week in Eugene, return with puppy. All the while attempting to hold together my part of a huge implementation project at work.

Ergo, the back of my mind (the brunette part) has been accumulating a personal to-do list roughly the length of the Nile. So this weekend's agenda includes:

Torture Dogs. Nike's toenails rival my to-do list in length. Time to have fun with the dremel. I suppose while I'm at it I should do Tara's, (horrible, mean, nasty owner). Then I'll reward myself by making an appointment to get my own nails done, since they’re as long as Nike’s and it make s it haard to ty pe.

Conquer Fridge Country. There's some penne in residence that dates from the Mussolini era.

Climb Mount Laundry. Because it’s there. And if it gets any taller, glaciers will start to form on my dirty socks.

Pick Bathroom Floor’s Number. Somehow the lino always loses the cleaning lottery. The sink, tub, and loo always seem to be more relevant and yield a higher return on investment. Of course, they all want cleaning too, thereby extracting revenge upon me for the canine abuse.

Find Ringo. Somewhere in the murky sludge, the last surviving goldfish would probably be happy to see daylight. The difficulty with cleaning the over-size brandy snifter that serves as home sweet home for Ringo is that the net doesn’t fit through the opening, so I have to pick him up and take him out with my HAND. That should give some insight as to what happened to John, Paul, and George. Hmmm. First dog torture and now fish torture. Sadistic b1tch, aren’t I?

Kill Flowers. Our flower beds currently consist of the occasional derelict azalea pleading to shoot a syringe of Round-Up and be done with it all. Weeds don’t even grow in this wasteland. I have delusional vision in my mind (the formerly blonde part) of planting hundreds of colourful annuals and perennials so that the gardens are transformed into a Martha Stewart-type paradise. Of course, I glimpse this mental mirage every spring. Hasn’t worked out for me yet, but I’m allowed to be an optimist. And, if I actually do plant flowers this weekend, it’s virtually guaranteed to snow on Monday.

I think that’s enough for two days. What will actually happen is that I will sleep in!

J