Birthday and such

I'm officially 26 years old.

Although the excitement of birthdays seems to evaporate as a person ages, they've always been kind of a big deal to me. I like the idea of celebrating the anniversary of one's birth — of a day being declared "special" because of it. If nothing else, birthdays serve as congratulations for avoiding death for yet another 365 days. That in itself is a great feat.

This year felt different, though I haven't quite figured out why. Maybe because I was distracted by starting a new job. Maybe because the boys are here. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because turning 26 hurled me over the threshold and I've started the steady decline to 30. Whatever the reason, it just didn't feel like my birthday.

That isn't to say I had a bad one. I had a really nice birthday. My first day on the job was enjoyable, and it sure was nice pulling in the drive just 15 minutes after leaving work. Steve and the boys took me to dinner, and when we got home, K1 and N blew up balloons and helped Steve make my birthday cake (strawberry with vanilla icing, a Barbie decoration and a bunch of those pink sugar flowers. I love pink!). Now, this was the first in a long time that anyone actually put candles on my birthday cake, and I was more than a bit taken aback when Steve carried this flaming confection out of the kitchen. I squelched that fire in one gust, thank you very much. Had to. The heat from the flames was melting the icing. Thanks to those of you who called, sent cards or text messages. They all made me grin.

These last few days have been weird; my life feels foreign in many ways. Today was my second in the new job, and in a word, it was boring. My boss was out all day, and so I spent most of my time with the man whose accounts I'm taking over. He's been with the company for 41 years. I couldn't believe it when I heard it, either. Forty-one years, not only with one company, but with this company in particular. It's amazing. He must be some sort of saint to have held on that long. He's a really nice old guy, very good at what he does. Trouble is, he can't teach worth crap. He's telling me things that really have no relevance to what I'll be doing, and he goes so darn fast I end up just zoning out. (Yeah, I know; I really should pay more attention. It's hard.) He's also a terrible driver. I went with him on a sales call today, and I seriously feared for my life on at least two occasions. I have to go with him again tomorrow, and I'm asking everyone to send up prayers and good thoughts, because we'll be traveling in the highest traffic area in the city and one of the most trafficked areas in the entire state.

K1 and N seem to be having a pretty good time with us. Having them here has certainly been an adjustment. It used to be so quiet and calm ... and clean. My house is now none of those things. For the most part, everything's been good. We hit a few snags here and there, but we're all working on it. I still maintain that K1 is just about the most perfect kid I've ever met. N is also a good kid; he just needs some polishing from some good role models. We're working really hard on that. He's gotten worlds better in just a few days, which is really encouraging to see. You can tell he's trying really hard, too, which at the same time makes me happy and breaks my heart.

It appears that it's now time for bed. Love, peace and chicken grease.

1,900 Miles

Thank God we're home.

I don't think I've ever spent that much time in my car for one trip. We left Thursday evening for a not-so-short jaunt to western Wisconsin (practically Minnesota) to pick up his son, K1. (K2 couldn't come; he's only 3). We spent the night in Champaign, Ill., before meeting up with K1 and his mom at about 3 p.m. Friday, then turned right around and headed back, staying overnight in Madison, Wis. We got up early Saturday morning and drove, and drove, and drove, and drove some more, cutting across the northern parts of Indiana, Illinois and Ohio before hanging a right and heading south again. We ended up in Canton, Ohio, that night, which was kind of cool because we got to take K1 to the Pro Football Hall of Fame this morning before starting out for Columbus, to pick N. up from the airport. (I really can't get into the details about N., but everything's cool. He'll be here for two months.)

It was an interesting trip. We got the oil changed in good old Fiona right before we left town Thursday evening. Trouble was, the idiot assholes at the quick lube or whatever forgot to replace the oil cap, so Fiona started smoking just east of Columbus. Boy, was Steve pissed! They had left it on the battery and, miraculously, it didn't fall off while we were driving. Other than having to clean up some oil that had spewed all over the engine, there was no damage. We avoided mishaps Friday and Saturday, but we kind of had a double whammy Sunday morning. Steve needed some medicine for his chronic heartburn and opened a bottle of Pepsi that had been in the hot car for several hours. It exploded everywhere. After we pulled off at at gas station to clean up, we didn't get 30 miles down the road before we slammed into a coyote. We did everything we could to avoid it, but the darn thing slunk right under my right front wheel, then went spinning into the guardrail. Oh, but not before he emptied his bowels on my bumper. K1 thought it was hilarious that we literally scared the shit out of a coyote.

Anyway, we finally rolled back into town at about 8 p.m., and the effects of a long, but decent, trip are finally taking their toll. I'm worn out. Steve is worn out. The boys, however, are friggin' WOUND UP. N is your typical pubescent boy, so everything relating to boobs, curse words and other crude things is hilarious to him. K1 is pretty awesome. He's finally gotten the hang of my name being Jen, not Jasmine or Jessica, and he's really smart and funny. We're going to have to work on the flatulence ... but we're blaming that on Burger King (for now, at least.)

Needless to say, it's a lot noisier at our house. Steve and I are both kind of shell-shocked right now. This is a whole new world for me, and I know Steve must be feeling the same way. I'm pretty confident that things will settle down in the next day or two, and we'll have a really great summer. It will certainly be a trip!

The Rose

Let the countdown begin.

I have just four measley hours of work to complete in my current job. I know that once my heel-clad foot hits the sidewalk outside of that dusty, humid building, my soul will experience liberation like it's never known. And, oh, I'm hungry for that feeling.

My last few days were rather trying. I had to have a difficult conversation with an employee, and it got a bit heated. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not much of a bitch, so having to confront someone was a bit outside my comfort zone. I don't think that, at this stage in my life, I'm prepared to be a boss. I'm too green. I need more time to properly learn how to suck the souls out of the poor minions entrusted to my supervision.

So, yeah. The day of the last paper I was responsible for kind of sucked. Well, not all of it sucked. Steve sent me a dozen roses with a sweet little card, and it immediately brightened my day. He's bought me flowers before, but this was the first time a boy had ever sent me flowers. When I got home, he had dinner waiting, and we spent the evening watching Jordin and Blake duke it out on American Idol. A crappy day actually evolved into a great evening.

That darn Steve of mine is making a habit of doing or saying sweet things, and I think he should stop before I start getting used to it.

(WARNING: If reading corny, lovey-dovey stuff makes you throw up a little in your mouth, stop reading now.)

I know it sounds corny, but he really does just make me feel so light and happy. (Don't get me wrong, we irritate the snot out of each other, but that's normal). The other day, we were on our way home from the store when this Josh Turner song came up on Steve's iPod. It was called "In My Dreams," and here's a little snippet:

Some men dream of crossing oceans, some men dream one day to fly
Spend their whole lives floating on the water and the sky
Some men dream of building fortunes, some men dream of fame
Nothing else is as important than making money and a name
But in my dreams, I see
A little sky blue house beside a small stream
A front porch, a screen door,
The sound of barefeet running and cartoons.
In my dream, your dreams come true

So he turns to me and says "I wish I had written this song. I'd have written it for you."

And even now, it makes me tear up. It is the single best thing anyone, anywhere, has ever said to me. Excuse me while I find a tissue.

Slow Hand

It's been a few days, so let me recap on the various recent events that somehow comprise this neurotic life of mine.

Friday was pure insanity. Madness, I say, madness! It was my very last Friday at my current job, which is cause for celebration of the doing-shots-from-your-cleavage variety. Still, I couldn't fully enjoy it, because Satan got a crooked halo up his butt and decided to unleash the fury of hell on our poor little crap-nasty office. For the past month and a half, we've been publishing an entire newspaper on one computer. One. For four people. We made it work for the first few weeks, but we're now in the busiest time of the year and it's just not working out. In addition to the paper, we (as in, I) have to create a special supplement, and our receptionist has to type eight pages of legal advertisements. That's eight full-length newspaper pages, folks, in an itty bitty typeface. On top of that, I'm leaving next week (hear the angels singing?), and I've got to get my guys trained. Oh, and the tech guys from headquarters have decided next week will be an opportune time to bring down the new (hand-me-down) equipment and get it all set up. Keep in mind that this is the same equipment they promised would be delivered right after I started there. A year ago.

Oh, but there's a light at the end of this tunnel ... for me, anyway. I don't know what those other fools are going to do. Mwuhahahaha.

The home life will soon experience a gear shift, and it ain't for slowing down. After a luxurious week-long break from class, I start two new ones on Monday. This will be the first time I've taken two grad classes at once, and I'm kind of nervous about it. Of course, the new job means I'll work strictly from 8 until 5 and won't have to cover night meetings or stay late. That will free up a significant amount of study/homework time.

The boys will be here next weekend, and Steve and I still have a lot to do to get ready. I need to clean their bathroom and make a few furniture adjustments, plus figure out what young boys eat. I don't think their mother would take kindly to me starving them to death, so I need to get thyself to the grocery store and likely purchase copius amounts of Cheetos, Pepsi and Easy Mac. Hey, no one ever said anything about feeding them healthy things.

And, finally, the house hunt begins ... well, kind of. After deciding to look for a house, then deciding to wait until January, then changing our minds again, Steve and I looked at a house today. We have mixed feelings. It's in a great location, right outside of city limits and RIGHT NEXT TO OUR GOLF COURSE (Steve's very favorite feature). It was more than big enough, and is priced within our range. Still, it would need a lot of work. I'm not thrilled with how the outside looks, and even less thrilled with the inside. Don't get me wrong, it's not trashy or falling down or anything like that. It's just not what I was hoping. I *think* Steve feels the same way. But I can't be sure, what with the golf course being within walking distance. It's the first one we actually looked at, and I think we're going to keep searching.

Anyhoo. We had a great time together today. Steve decided I needed a new set of golf clubs, because the ones I had were men's, and though I'm tall and have man hands, it's supposed to make a difference. So we drove to our nearest sporting goods store (an hour away!) where I picked out the most beautiful set of neon pink golf clubs and bag you've ever seen. They're garishly pink, and I love them feverishly. I've heard a lot of women golfers say they don't like how equipment manufacturers market stuff to women by making it all girly. I'm not one of those women. I don't care if my bag is visible from space. It's pink and it's mine so shut up.

Aside from the purchasing of golf equipment, the drive over and back was really pleasant. Steve plugged his iPod into the Jeep and we spent the entire trip taking turns choosing songs and singing, in a very silly manner, at the top of our lungs. Steve's a rock 'n roll/metal kind of guy, but he has a soft spot for some old country, which is what I really like. For me, there's nothing better than cranking up the Conway Twitty for a little "Slow Hand" on a sunny day. God bless that man of mine. He puts up with way more than most men ever would.

Sing it with me ... darlin' don't say a word/i've already heard/what your body's sayin' to mine/you're tired of fast moves/you got a slow groove/on your mind ....

Ginormous

Rifling through some old pictures this afternoon, I ran across a shot of me standing next to the tomato plants I grew on our patio last summer. My dad and grandma have faithfully planted huge gardens every year since I’ve been alive, so I know a little about what tomato and other vegetable plants look like. It was nothing for the two of them to have three or four garden plots scattered over the hill between our house and Granny’s, and they were huge, too. These plots of earth sprouted forth cabbage, onions, squash, cucumbers, beans, rhubarb, peppers, corn, tomatoes and potatoes. And I should know— I’m the one whose little white hands turned black with dirt from having to pick up all the rocks!

So, yes, I’m fairly acquainted with the various life stages of vegetables. Imagine my surprise, then, when the tiny tomato plants I placed in two large flower pots grew with the fervor of Jack’s beanstalk. My tomato plants were H-U-G-E. Huge. As in, taller than me. I have never seen tomato vines grow that high. Steve used to swear you could sit on the couch, look through the sliding glass door and actuallly watch them grow. (I think the MiracleGro I faithfully fed them may have had something to do with this.)

Unfortunately, the vines grew so high that they were unable to support themselves, and soon it became that we would arrive home in the evening to find the plants broken and falling over. And because of this, they couldn’t produce any decent fruit. A few little persistent tomatoes appeared, but they never got bigger than large grapes and they quickly rotted. Despite the enormity of the plants, they weren’t healthy, and they didn’t prosper.

The same could be said about the girl in the picture. She’s big, and if something doesn’t change soon, her chances of prospering will be slim.

You know the saying about not realizing how fat you are until you see a picture of yourself? It was totally written about me. I couldn’t believe what I saw, and that photo was taken almost a year ago, so I’m sure it’s gotten worse since then. I know it’s gotten worse. Steve and I talk about how we’ve both put on weight in the past two years. (Although I think he looks great). Right before I met him, I lost almost 30 pounds. Well, almost all of that has come back in the time since. My friend Leah once told me that people naturally gain weight when they’re happy. I must be the happiest freakin’ thing in the world, the rate I’m going!

It’s not that I hate myself. I don’t. I like me a whole lot, and I’m more than content with my life. But I want to be healthy. And I want to look good. Those folks who tell you that they want to lose weight “just” to be healthy ... well, they’re only telling half of the truth. They want to look good, too. Society trains us to want to look good. I’m not going to get into the debate because no matter what your opinion is, you never win. I will say this: I don’t see what’s so horrifyingly wrong with wanting to look good. I want to look good, and I want to make sure my body will be able to carry me through a good, long life.

So there.

The question now is, what am I going to do about it?

Ramblings

I'm such white trash.

Seriously. You should see me right now. I'm sitting here in a tank top that very closely resembles a wife-beater (ugh. hate that word), arms red as lobsters. We went golfing yesterday, and being the dolt that I am, I forgot to apply sunscreen on the parts of my body exposed to those hateful UV rays. I look like someone who just spent an entire Sunday afternoon at a racetrack, guzzling Budweiser and shouting obscenities at Jeff Gordon. Add a couple pounds of unfortunately placed body hair, and I'd be a NASCAR poster child.

I really like golf, which is kind of a surprise. Growing up, I never really got into sports. I liked books much better, and thus spent all my days indoors with my nose between pages. I started wanting to learn a few years ago, but never had the time or the resources to get started. Plus, I didn't know anyone who golfed. Then I met Steve. He's been golfing pretty much his entire life, and for some crazy reason volunteered to teach me about a year ago. I'm not that bad, but certainly not that good, either. My approach to it is to just step up, swing and hope to make contact. People literally spend thousands of dollars and years of their time trying to perfect their golf swings. I'm not sure I'm that focused. I try, though, and I'm getting better, if I do say so myself.

That's pretty much how we spent the entire weekend. We hit the driving range Friday, then two small courses Saturday. Steve hurt his elbow yesterday morning horsing around with me, which affected his game, so we went to the driving range again this afternoon so he could throw his clubs and cuss -- I mean, "work out the kinks." It's nice to have something to do outdoors. I hate sitting around all day.

Although I do enjoy being home from time to time. Steve and I are such bad children. We didn't go see either of our mothers on Mother's Day. Perhaps it was selfish, but we just wanted to stay here. We haven't been home in, like, four weekends in a row, and the traveling is starting to wear on us. It was great to sleep in and take the weekend at a leisurely pace. I probably should have spent some time on homework, or getting caught up on work-related things. I'm having a hard time bringing myself to that point. This is my last week in this class, which is awesome. And I only have two more weeks before starting the new job. I'm really looking forward to that. This is the first time in my life I'll have the opportunity to earn a decent living (i.e. take home enough money to *not* qualify for WIC assistance!), and that really, really thrills me. I feel like there are all sorts of grown-up things I need to catch up on now that I won't be living in poverty. Just for fun, here's the list:

1. Buy new clothes. Somehow, I don't think Old Navy flip-flops will be appropriate.
2. Pay off bills. I've been working on this for oh, about six years now.
3. Become one of those women who actually get their hair cut every six weeks. And get some style! Use product! Whoo-hoo!
4. Cosmetic upgrades. No, not plastic surgery. I like my features, and I have awesome boobs, thank you very much. I'd like to have some microdermabrasion to remove some acne scars, and maybe some botox or something to fill in a few dents. That's right, botox. Shut up. I would totally do it, and I'm not the least bit ashamed to say it.
5. Nicely decorate our place. We've decided to put off buying a house until the beginning of next year. In the meantime, I plan to pour over decorating books and magazines to get ideas. I like earthy colors and clean, spacious rooms. I hate, hate, hate clutter. In fact, I'm feeling sharp urges to tear through our place and purge a bunch of crap. And I do mean crap. I just don't know where to start. Most of this stuff is Steve's, anyway. I'm pretty sure you could take all of my earthly possessions and fit them into my car. Which comes in handy if I ever have to live on the street.

That's all I can think of for now, but that's still a pretty ambitious list. I can't wait to get started with the job. These last two weeks are going to d-r-a-g. And it's sooo hard to perform a job you're not all that excited about to begin with, when you know you'll be leaving. I just don't care about it. I haven't cared about it in a while, which is precisely why it was time to find a new job. Well, that and the fact that I was paid peanuts, worked in craphole office and had to use ancient equipment. Who expects their employees to publish a paper with only one computer for four people? Ridiculous!

Alas, for the next two weeks, it's my job to care. But you can bet your sweet booty I'll be counting down every motherloving second.

Yay me!

I got the job!

Details to follow.

Okay. I'm back. Whew! So, the job. I interviewed for it last Wednesday, and the interview went really, really well. I was rather surprised, because I went into it very confident, which is totally not me. I'm much better with the written word than the spoken one, so I usually fumble and bumble over my words until I end up looking like a complete dork. This time was different, and I left the interview feeling pretty good about it. I interviewed on a Wednesday, and they told me I should hear something by Friday. Well, Friday came and went. As did Monday, Tuesday and yet another Wednesday. I tried not to let myself get disappointed, and I kept telling myself that if it didn't work out, hey, I still had a good (i.e. low-paying, dehumanizing and depressing) job and that another opportunity would present itself down the road.

But then, I got "the call." It was funny; I met Steve for lunch in St. Marys, which is halfway between my office and his. I had to dig in my purse (aka the big red duffle bag) for my cell phone, which was emitting the sexy, rumbling crooning of Conway Twitty's "Hello, Darlin'"). There I was, puttering down the two-lane highway at a whopping 45 miles an hour, gigantic purse on my lap, trying to contain my excitement. You know that scene in "Love Actually" where Laura Linney does the happy dance after bringing the guy back to her apartment for some sweet lovin'? I totally did that in my car today.

Giving my two weeks' notice went surprisingly well. I expected anger and snarkiness, but he was cool with it. He's a jerk, but I think he really understands.

I start the new gig on my birthday. It's going to be the last in a hectic series of Memorial Day weekend events, but I'm looking forward to them all. Some I just want to get over with, and some I'm truly eager to get to. More about that later.

I'm a happy girl.

I hate Christians.

Reading the morning paper today, I came across this little ditty:

SPRINGBORO, Ohio (AP) — A southwest Ohio woman who loves Starbucks coffee has decided to drop the Starbucks habit because she was offended by a religious-related statement the company printed on the side of a cup.
Michelle Incanno, of Springboro, said she got an unexpected jolt when she saw the statement on a cup of coffee she bought last week.
Printed on the cup was “Why in moments of crisis do we ask God for strength and help? As cognitive beings, why would we ask something that may well be a figment of our imaginations for guidance? Why not search inside ourselves for the power to overcome? After all, we are strong enough to cause most of the catastrophes we need to endure.”
The statement is attributed to Bill Schell, a Starbucks customer from London, Ontario, and was included on the cup as part of an effort by the company to collect different viewpoints and spur discussion.
“As someone who loves God, I was so offended by that. I don’t think there needs to be religious dialogue on it. I just want coffee,” said Incanno, who is Catholic.

Well, you know what, Michelle Incanno? I’m offended by you. Who died and named you captain of the morality brigade? Oh, that’s right ... Jesus.

Why is this news? Are we so sensitive in America that we can’t even drink a cup of coffee without calling a press conference to point fingers at people or companies who have hurt our feelings?

This Christian thing has been really bugging me lately. I have no problem with people believing in God. In fact, I believe in God, or a higher power, or whatever you want to call it. What I do have a problem with is people who cannot open their minds for a millisecond to even consider that someone else may have not only a different point of view, but a valid point of view.

I got really aggravated at Steve’s parents’ house Sunday afternoon because of this particular lady from their church who has appointed herself as their personal Southern-Baptist-Christian-Do-Gooder. Steve’s mom just went through six bypasses and this fruitcake didn’t want to let her eat before the preacher (Steve’s dad) “blessed the food.” As if not thanking the Lord for the fatty fishsticks and baked potato (which are NOT on the healthy heart OR diabetes diets) would result in certain and immediate damnation.

(I have my own theories as to why this lady is hanging around their house so much, and believe me, her motives are nowhere near helpful and Christian. But that’s another story.)

This crap borders on insanity. A guy Steve works with (who happens to be a Morman layspeaker) told him a few weeks ago that the rock music that Steve listens to (on regular-format, FM radio, i.e. censored) “hurt his spirit.” WTF?

Steve told me a story about a conversation his dad had with his ex-wife. His dad made some comment about her needing a good, Christian man to help her raise the boys. She told him that she didn’t want a Christian raising her kids. Now, we all know I have issues with the whole ex-wife thing, but I totally respect her for saying that. I think we may be more alike than we know.

I wholeheartedly buy into spirituality, and I’m a big believer in “what goes around comes around.” As in, whatever thoughts, feelings and actions you send out to the universe are returned to you. Karma. Karma Chameleon. You get the picture. I suppose what I can’t figure out is how an entire body of people who are supposed to exude love, kindness and forgiveness instead use their faith as a platform for hypocrisy and judgement.

I believe, but I don't want to be associated with all that Bible-thumping nonsense. From this point on, I no longer classify myself as a Christian. I am hereby “Other.”

Bustin' it up

On my way to work this morning, I was two cars behind a truck hauling a wagon load of square hay bales. From my viewpoint, they appeared to be pretty tightly and carefully secured, and though the truck's bed was also filled with hay, the bales weren't stacked very high. The driver must have hit a bump particularly hard, because before I knew it, I was smack dab in the middle of a hay tornado. These three bales came flying off of the wagon, landing in the road. I was able to swerve ever-so-slightly and miss them, but this ginormous Chevy Suburban in the other lane was unfortunate enough to be traveling down Route 2 at the precise time these bales broke orbit. The Chevy's grill hit one of those bales perfectly, busting it into smithereens. Ker-pow!

It was glorious.

No one was hurt. I mean, it was hay. Old people used to stuff their mattresses with that stuff. I'm not sure why, but witnessing that small event was fantastic for me. Perhaps because it was an accurate reflection of my mood. Some bustin' up of things would do me good right about now. Oh, there's nothing in particular going on, just one of those non-"that-time-of-the-month" hormonal upheavals I'm prone to from time to time.

At least things went well at work. Tuesdays are always hella hectic, as we put the paper to press every Tuesday. We're usually about three hours behind, but today we finished an hour early, and we were fortunate enough to avoid any delays with the printing process. It's kind of weird to be home on a Tuesday evening.

Alas, I'm not going to be home for long. Steve got a really awesome promotion at work and his boss is taking us out for a celebratory dinner. It's nice and all, and Steve definitely deserves it. (I'm so proud of him!) I'm glad he's getting the recognition for his work. He's really good at what he does. Anyway, the trouble is that I'll be at dinner with Steve, his boss, and two other old farts. What in the world am I supposed to talk about? They're going to talk turbines, business, golf and hunting all night. How am I supposed to contribute? Here's how I perceive the night panning out:

Old fart #1: Well, yes, I had a fantastic time last fall in Montana hunting buffalo. I have a head mounted on my wall.
Old fart #2: I've always wanted a big dead animal head on my wall. I'm thinking of taking a trip to Canada to shoot an abominal snowman. You know they say those things actually exist.
Steve: (nodding head) When I lived in North Dakota ... (Many of his stories start out like this)
Me: There's this old lady named Edith in Sistersville who looks like a burn victim who came into the office today with a pornographic greeting card ...
Old farts 1 and 2 and Steve: (blank stares)
Old fart 3: Snort!

So, depending on how badly I embarrass Steve tonight, I may need a place to crash. Call me if ya got a couch to spare.

Throw me under the jail

It seems I'm a thief.

Steve decided dinner tonight would be courtesy of Arby's. This was despite my protesting, seeing as how I launched an Arby's boycott yesterday afternoon. You see, I waited in their frickin' drive-thru for 20 minutes for a chicken salad wrap only to be told upon pulling up to the window that their chicken was frozen. I know it's a roast beef joint and all, but if you're gonna put something on the menu, you should at least remember to take it out of the freezer. In a fit of near-rage brought on by a stressful and emotional week, I told the window lady to effin' forget it and I screeched away. I hope she choked on my exhaust.

Anyhow. After Arby's we stopped by Wal-Mart for some scrapbooking glue and I decided to get a multivitamin since I'm trying to be all healthy and such. All was well until we were in the parking lot and I lifted my purse only to discover that the vitamins were underneath it and I hadn't paid for them. That's right, ladies and germs. I'm a vitamin thief. I wish now I had chosen the brand name instead of the generic, or a couple bottles of Flintsones, 'cause damn they taste good! I thought about going back into the store to pay for them, but I thought, "You know what? Wal-Mart already has enough of my money!" Plus, it was raining. I was wearing flip flops. Rain + flip flops = wet, dirty feet. My feet were already wet and dirty enough. And Wal-Mart is rich enough. Yup, I'm sticking it to the man .... one vitamin at a time. Arrgh!

No news on the job front, but I'm still really optimistic.

Steve's mom got home from the hospital last night after having bypass surgery on the 30th. She had six bypasses! Six! I've never heard about or known anyone who had that many done at once. The doctors originally thought she'd have to spend seven to nine days in the hospital, but apparently she's doing well enough to have been released, which is good.

Well, I'm out of words for one night. Ciao!

A case of the crazies

It's pretty bad when you start mixing up the crazy people.

From where my desk is located at the newspaper office, I have a pretty clear view of the street via the large windows in the front of our building. For such a small town, Sistersville still has quite a volume of people in the downtown area throughout the weekdays, and after a while you start to recognize them and sometimes even learn their names.

Some of them, however, earn special distinction because they somehow worm their way into your lives. We have a regular group of townies who stop in — sometimes several times a week — either because they need something done (like a bush pulled out of their yards) or because they just want to shoot the breeze. We call them our "Cast of Characters" because, essentially, that's exactly what they are. The best fiction/humor writer in the world couldn't design characters as colorful as these. There's Bob, who's missing a finger on his left hand and shouts every word he says because he can't hear; Edith, whose main mission in life is to have her picture printed in the paper and who insists that "FBI" actually stands for "Female Body Inspector"; and Kermit, a lovable (i.e. feminine) old guy who swears Jim Henson got his inspiration for Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy from him and his friend Martha.

I suppose every town has their own Cast of Characters. Or maybe I just notice it more because I work with the public. I remember several from when I lived in Elkins. There was Pirate Guy, Rascal Guy, Ed the Man/Woman, Not-So-Homeless Lady, Renee J., Dave R., and a host of others who kept things ... interesting. Once, the newspaper where I previously worked had to call the cops because some old lady decided to camp out in the business office. I think she even fell asleep.

The trouble I'm having is that I'm getting confused on which crazy people belong in which town. Steve and I go back to Elkins on a frequent basis, and when I'm there I usually spot someone walking down the street who reminds me of one of the crazies in Sistersville. I'll say, "Oh, there's Edith," even though Edith's only method of transportation is walking and I seriously doubt she would ever hoof it all the way over there. The other day, I was at work and thought I saw Pirate Guy walking down Wells Street. Why the heck would Pirate Guy be in Sistersville? Well, we are right next to the Ohio River... perhaps he's thinking of a career on a coal barge. Hmm..

I've got to get this straightened out before I join the ranks. I wonder what kind of crazy person I would be? I thought maybe I'd become the infamous cat lady, but I hate pet hair, so that's out of the question. I'll probably be the humped-over old woman who wears rolled-down white tube socks with black velcro sneakers who walks around town mumbling to herself, or the lady at the end of the street who throws beer bottles at the neighborhood kids who tell their friends she's 150 years old and just too mean to die. Yeah, it will probably be one of those.

Of course, I might not have to worry about keeping my crazies straight. I'm supposed to hear something about the new job today ... I was hoping I would have heard something by now, but I realize I'm just being impatient. It's only 11 a.m., for Pete's sake. I'm trying not to think about it too much, but the worst sound in the world is that of a phone not ringing. Of course, they could just call my home number and leave a message ... I should probably call the voice mail. But if I get started with that, it will become a day-long obsession and I'll end up with finger cramps from all that phone dialing. Sigh. I suppose I'll just have to wait it out and hope for the best. And, if it doesn't work out, I'll comfort myself by buying a couple packs of tube socks and some new black sneakers.

My name's Jen, and I'll be your guide through this blog ...

Welcome to Buttahbean (butterbean for those of you who didn't get it), otherwise known as my blog. I've been toying with the idea of hosting a blog for a while now but never seemed to get around to it. Ironically, this is the busiest time of my life, so I'm not really sure why I think I'll have time now. On the other hand, I should have plenty of stories to tell from my adventures.

First, a little about me. I'm currently the editor of a small weekly newspaper, although I interviewed today for a new job in advertising (Cross your fingers!). I'm also a graduate student earning a master's degree in integrated marketing/communications, which I'm doing online. So far, it's been really interesting and, surprisingly, a lot of fun (though I still can't get excited about homework).

In my free time, I like to take photos, scrapbook and read. I'm currently reading a fascinating biography on Benjamin Franklin, who is my personal hero. Seriously, I think he's the coolest person who ever lived. I also spend an enormous amount of time with my boyfriend, Steve, whom I live with. It seems every weekend we're here, there or in between. He just bought a Jeep (we've named him J. Otis), so there have been some winding drives in the country as of late, which have been really nice. Steve taught me how to golf last summer, so we're trying to get back into that now that the weather's nice. We went to the driving range last weekend, and I've discovered that I really, really s-t-i-n-k. I'd say 70 percent of my swings didn't even make contact with the ball. We're hoping to take lessons in the next week or two, so I'm hoping I make lots of improvements.

That's me in a nutshell ... Thanks for reading!