My strong, beautiful, colorful, vivacious, one-of-a-kind friend is dying. Two years ago, we told cancer he had NO idea who he was dealing with, but cancer, an ever discordant beast, decided to become a squatter in her liver and brain. With zombies being all the rage now and with Halloween so near, I’m sure my dear friend would want me to make a zombie/brain joke, but truthfully, I’m too exhausted and heartbroken to do so.
We are now dealing with the unsavory business of dying; the devil is in the details…insurance, the shuffling paperwork for Hospice, funeral plots & discussions of her service. These days, I am thankful for small things – the comfort that morphine provides, and these last, precious, lucid moments before her failing liver clouds her razor-sharp mind.
Her husband was introducing me & Renee to one of his co-workers, Craig, who stopped by this evening. “This is Jenni & Renee, two of her dearest friends.” I told Craig she was one of our “Charlie’s Angels.” I struck the famous pose and said, “She is the one in the middle.” It’s true. Renee, everyone’s favorite girl-next-door, would be Kelly Garrett (Jaclyn Smith). I would be Sabrina Duncan (Kate Jackson), the brainy, adrenaline junkie, ringleader. And our sweet Olene...well, she would be Jill Munroe, with every bit the color, shine, and flavor of Farrah Fawcett. Simply put, like Farrah, Olene has the “X factor.” Also like Farrah, she will be leaving the show way too soon. We will all somehow, regretfully & morosely, find a way to get on with the business of living. My own therapy will be what it always is; I will clear my head with the written word & by pounding the pavement in my running shoes, but like the show, our lives just won’t be as good without our Farrah.
As Olene was talking with Craig & his wife, Olene said to them simply, “Be good to each other.” We make life so complicated, but in the end, it really is that simple. Be good to each other.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Marc Jacobs and His Underhanded Tricks to Get Me Into a Padded Cell
I am a clothes horse. Clothes whore? Clothes horse? You say tomato, I say tomahto. My friend, Debbie, jokes that I’m going to have to add a 3rd story (of just closets) to the house. She is not wrong. Truth is, I ran out of hangers sometime ago, and I’ve been steadily piling hangerless clothing on the bed in the guest bedroom for a good bit. This at least keeps my mother-in-law from spending the night, but I’ve become increasingly paranoid that a band of carnies is living under said pile of clothing, so off I went this morning to purchase hangers from The Dollar General Market. I purchased 82 hangers. It remains to be seen if that will actually be enough.
I feel sorta like Hugh Grant…except I’m the woman who went up a hill (of clothes) and came down a mountain (of clothes). Life lessons have been learned in my journey today. Questions have also swum to the surface, flopping about & gasping for air. The main question being: am I a size 4 or a size 22? My dresses range in sizes from 4-22 (we’ll touch on the size 22 in a moment), dri-fit running shirts range from sizes small-xlarge, and pants range from sizes 7-12 (I have a fluffy hiney). Keep in mind, all of these clothes actually FIT me. So, my plea to fashion designers is this (yes, I’m talking to YOU, Marc Jacobs): standardize a size for we gal-beasts. I don’t care if I’m a size 4 or 22. I will embrace whatever size you deem me to be. I’m just tired and sore from hauling 5 different sizes of the same piece of clothing into the dressing room.
I have a cello shape. It is a subset of the hour glass figure. I have a long neck and waist, my calves are long and thin with super thin ankles, I have a small waist, my shoulders and chesticles are only slightly smaller than my hips, and I have plenty of extra jiggly bits and overages in the chest & hiney area. It doesn’t matter what my weight or size is, no one will ever look at me and describe me as thin (rewind to extra jiggly bits & overages). But, on a positive note, my body was made for 50’s fashion. (Thank you “Mad Men” for bringing this fashion era back en vogue). Momma keeps patterns from the ice age, so she’s been making retro 50’s dresses for me lately. I went over the other day for her to get my measurements. She started chuckling. “This says you’re a size 22.” “What?!? That dress you’re replacing the zipper on is a size 4.”
Momma is a beautiful seamstress. She is also a great student of fashion. She can tell you names of fabrics from bombazine to piqué to seersucker and which fabrics work best with which designs. She can tell you the difference between a bolero and a caraco jacket without even blinking an eye. “Well,” she explained, “as women have gotten bigger over the years, the fashion industry has resized clothing to make women feel better about their bodies. They sell more clothes that way. Marilyn Monroe was a size 14 in the 50’s, but she’d actually be more like a size 6 now…a curvy size 6. Think Scarlett Johansson.”
All these years, as I’ve looked in the mirror at my overages & jiggly bits, I’ve always thought, well, at least I’m built a little like Marilyn Monroe. Turns out I’m not. In my 50’s halter dress pattern, I’m a size 22 to her size 14…I’m Marilyn’s rounder, possibly smarter, definitely goofier cousin Maude. Maude Monroe. No autographs, please.
I feel sorta like Hugh Grant…except I’m the woman who went up a hill (of clothes) and came down a mountain (of clothes). Life lessons have been learned in my journey today. Questions have also swum to the surface, flopping about & gasping for air. The main question being: am I a size 4 or a size 22? My dresses range in sizes from 4-22 (we’ll touch on the size 22 in a moment), dri-fit running shirts range from sizes small-xlarge, and pants range from sizes 7-12 (I have a fluffy hiney). Keep in mind, all of these clothes actually FIT me. So, my plea to fashion designers is this (yes, I’m talking to YOU, Marc Jacobs): standardize a size for we gal-beasts. I don’t care if I’m a size 4 or 22. I will embrace whatever size you deem me to be. I’m just tired and sore from hauling 5 different sizes of the same piece of clothing into the dressing room.
I have a cello shape. It is a subset of the hour glass figure. I have a long neck and waist, my calves are long and thin with super thin ankles, I have a small waist, my shoulders and chesticles are only slightly smaller than my hips, and I have plenty of extra jiggly bits and overages in the chest & hiney area. It doesn’t matter what my weight or size is, no one will ever look at me and describe me as thin (rewind to extra jiggly bits & overages). But, on a positive note, my body was made for 50’s fashion. (Thank you “Mad Men” for bringing this fashion era back en vogue). Momma keeps patterns from the ice age, so she’s been making retro 50’s dresses for me lately. I went over the other day for her to get my measurements. She started chuckling. “This says you’re a size 22.” “What?!? That dress you’re replacing the zipper on is a size 4.”
Momma is a beautiful seamstress. She is also a great student of fashion. She can tell you names of fabrics from bombazine to piqué to seersucker and which fabrics work best with which designs. She can tell you the difference between a bolero and a caraco jacket without even blinking an eye. “Well,” she explained, “as women have gotten bigger over the years, the fashion industry has resized clothing to make women feel better about their bodies. They sell more clothes that way. Marilyn Monroe was a size 14 in the 50’s, but she’d actually be more like a size 6 now…a curvy size 6. Think Scarlett Johansson.”
All these years, as I’ve looked in the mirror at my overages & jiggly bits, I’ve always thought, well, at least I’m built a little like Marilyn Monroe. Turns out I’m not. In my 50’s halter dress pattern, I’m a size 22 to her size 14…I’m Marilyn’s rounder, possibly smarter, definitely goofier cousin Maude. Maude Monroe. No autographs, please.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Taxis, Philly, and Lost Appendages
I once worked for this little spitfire of a woman. A former MTSU cheerleader, she was a great business woman, but she was also insane, popping her kid’s Ritalin (amongst other things), while obsessively trying to keep her petite frame a size 2. She taught me two important things: 1. I’d rather be kind than successful, and 2. how to catch a cab anywhere, anytime. In the middle of New York, late for a meeting, she said, “This is what you do. Leg slightly out, hand at 4:00 instead of up, two fingers out, with an aloof, confident look like you could care less about getting a taxi.” And I was an apt pupil. I can catch a cab better than anybody. If it were an Olympic sport, I could be featured on a box of Wheaties. Momma, my friend, Tom, & I were in San Fran years ago. We had gone to this great Italian restaurant for dinner in a seedy part of town. We finished eating just in time for the sky to open into a downpour. Tom, always the gentleman, told us to stay in the dry while he hailed a cab. 15-minutes later, I told Momma, “Enough. I’m getting us a cab.” Tom protested, but Momma said, “Just let her be, Tom. Watch and learn.” I had a taxi within seconds.
I’ve been running for the last several years, and I just had my first “destination” run in Charleston, SC. I plan on running in Vegas, Savannah, and Philly over the next few years. I’ll get to visit with my old friends, Dave & Sandy, while in Vegas. I’d like to see my friend, Angie, meet her hubby & cutie-pa-tootie, Jakey, while I’m in Philly. Taxis always make me think of a fun trip to Philly with my friend, Brandi. Young, wide-eyed, and gregarious, Brandi had never been out of the Southeast. We hopped off the plane, and I caught a cab. The cab driver immediately took a fancy to Brandi, he gave us his card, and he offered us free cab rides during our stay. Sure, I can CATCH a cab anywhere, but let me tell you, friends, free cab rides are a horse of a different color. Brandi was a prodigy.
We had a wonderful trip. Brandi and I ran up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Rocky-style, like the couple of dorks we are. We saw the Liberty Bell. We toured Betsy Ross’ catty-wampus house. We ate Philly cheese steaks. We laughed about the cars parking in the middle of the road. And we ate water ice. Our love stricken cab driver took us to get water ice at a roadside stand. The man who handed me my cup had his wedding ring around his neck on a chain. It was a lovely sentiment. I looked down to see 3 missing fingers on his left hand, one of which being his ring finger. I wonder what happened to those fingers? I know all the great dismemberment stories in my own small town. One of our elementary school principals was missing an arm from a car accident when he was a teenager (he would often play Captain Hook in our local production of “Peter Pan.”) Aunts, uncles, neighbors, & friends would randomly lose spare “parts” ranging from woodworking & hunting accidents to the more exotic and bizarre; an ostrich almost took an arm off a fella in the Short Mountain area (those are some mean birds). But, all these years later, I still wonder what happened to that fella’s three fingers. I should have asked.
Brandi’s love-sick cabbie actually offered to drive us from PA to TN at the end of our stay. Enough was enough. I told Brandi we were getting on that plane. Momma didn’t raise no country fool. I can hail a cab, but there’s no way this southern girl is gonna end up chopped-up in the trunk of one.
I’ve been running for the last several years, and I just had my first “destination” run in Charleston, SC. I plan on running in Vegas, Savannah, and Philly over the next few years. I’ll get to visit with my old friends, Dave & Sandy, while in Vegas. I’d like to see my friend, Angie, meet her hubby & cutie-pa-tootie, Jakey, while I’m in Philly. Taxis always make me think of a fun trip to Philly with my friend, Brandi. Young, wide-eyed, and gregarious, Brandi had never been out of the Southeast. We hopped off the plane, and I caught a cab. The cab driver immediately took a fancy to Brandi, he gave us his card, and he offered us free cab rides during our stay. Sure, I can CATCH a cab anywhere, but let me tell you, friends, free cab rides are a horse of a different color. Brandi was a prodigy.
We had a wonderful trip. Brandi and I ran up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Rocky-style, like the couple of dorks we are. We saw the Liberty Bell. We toured Betsy Ross’ catty-wampus house. We ate Philly cheese steaks. We laughed about the cars parking in the middle of the road. And we ate water ice. Our love stricken cab driver took us to get water ice at a roadside stand. The man who handed me my cup had his wedding ring around his neck on a chain. It was a lovely sentiment. I looked down to see 3 missing fingers on his left hand, one of which being his ring finger. I wonder what happened to those fingers? I know all the great dismemberment stories in my own small town. One of our elementary school principals was missing an arm from a car accident when he was a teenager (he would often play Captain Hook in our local production of “Peter Pan.”) Aunts, uncles, neighbors, & friends would randomly lose spare “parts” ranging from woodworking & hunting accidents to the more exotic and bizarre; an ostrich almost took an arm off a fella in the Short Mountain area (those are some mean birds). But, all these years later, I still wonder what happened to that fella’s three fingers. I should have asked.
Brandi’s love-sick cabbie actually offered to drive us from PA to TN at the end of our stay. Enough was enough. I told Brandi we were getting on that plane. Momma didn’t raise no country fool. I can hail a cab, but there’s no way this southern girl is gonna end up chopped-up in the trunk of one.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The Jenni Belle Red Head Manifold & Whatnot
I have been married for a very long time, but I have a single friend (we’ll call her Madonna), and her stories frighten me. Here’s an excerpt from one of my favorite scenes from Sleepless in Seattle – Sam: “What is tiramisu?” Jay: “You’ll find out.” Sam: “Well, what is it?” Jay: “You’ll see!” Sam: “Some woman is gonna want me to do it to her, and I’m not gonna know what it is!” My conversations with Madonna are along these lines, except way tartier.
Have you ever noticed how certain people attract certain things? I attract strange comments from people about red hair (more on this in a bit). Some people attract car accidents. Some people attract cats. Well, my friend, Madonna, attracts penises. Yes, you read that correctly. I’m calling it “The Madonna Theory of Penis Gravitation.” She’s constantly telling me penis stories…”Well, he ended up emailing me a picture of his penis at work.” “He was trying to get me to go home with him, but he was afraid I’d be frightened by the size of his penis, so he took me into the bathroom to show it to me.” (I’m glad she told me about this one. I always make sure none of her boyfriends try to follow me into the bathroom when she brings them to my house). All I know is that I’m glad I didn’t get stuck with “The Jenni Belle Theory of Penis Gravitation.” And I’m glad I’m married.
The universe stuck me, instead, with “The Jenni Belle Red Head Manifold.” I’m approaching my 40th birthday, and my life has been a series of comments about the color of my hair. It is human nature to comment on unusual features, but as a public service, I’ll give you (actual) examples of the creepy vs. non-creepy. This could keep you out of jail. You are welcome.
Maitre d: “Your hair is gorgeous. Your table is ready.” Very non-creepy. Nice.
Cashier: “This green sweater is going to look amazing on you with your red hair.” Definitely non-creepy. Friendly.
Elderly Man (with his Wife): “I love the color of your hair. See this lady right here? Her hair used to be the exact same color. I knew the moment I saw her I was gonna marry her.” Awwww. Non-creepy. Very sweet.
Old Classmate: “I saw you coming from a mile away. I knew it was you. I’d recognize that hair anywhere.” Non-creepy. An identifier; it’s nice to be remembered.
Mechanic: “I believe you have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen (wink). Okay, your estimate for the new brake pads is $427.” Creepy, although, I can’t decide which actually turned my stomach – the comment or the estimate. I went somewhere else.
Lawyer: “Where’d you get that pretty hair? (He actually touched my hair).” Creepy. I object, Your Honor! Usually, lawyers aren’t required to touch your hair. This is an act best left to beauticians and hair braiders on the beach.
Optometrist: “You have beautiful hair. I have a vacation home in Bristol, and I’ve got this old, saloon-style parlor. I wanted a picture of a naked woman for the room to give it a very period feel, and one of my patients said he’d paint it for me. He asked what hair color I wanted on the girl, and I told him red. Well, my wife got mad, and she wouldn’t let me have the painting, but now she has red hair.” Creepy. On a positive note – at least he didn’t show me his penis.
Have you ever noticed how certain people attract certain things? I attract strange comments from people about red hair (more on this in a bit). Some people attract car accidents. Some people attract cats. Well, my friend, Madonna, attracts penises. Yes, you read that correctly. I’m calling it “The Madonna Theory of Penis Gravitation.” She’s constantly telling me penis stories…”Well, he ended up emailing me a picture of his penis at work.” “He was trying to get me to go home with him, but he was afraid I’d be frightened by the size of his penis, so he took me into the bathroom to show it to me.” (I’m glad she told me about this one. I always make sure none of her boyfriends try to follow me into the bathroom when she brings them to my house). All I know is that I’m glad I didn’t get stuck with “The Jenni Belle Theory of Penis Gravitation.” And I’m glad I’m married.
The universe stuck me, instead, with “The Jenni Belle Red Head Manifold.” I’m approaching my 40th birthday, and my life has been a series of comments about the color of my hair. It is human nature to comment on unusual features, but as a public service, I’ll give you (actual) examples of the creepy vs. non-creepy. This could keep you out of jail. You are welcome.
Maitre d: “Your hair is gorgeous. Your table is ready.” Very non-creepy. Nice.
Cashier: “This green sweater is going to look amazing on you with your red hair.” Definitely non-creepy. Friendly.
Elderly Man (with his Wife): “I love the color of your hair. See this lady right here? Her hair used to be the exact same color. I knew the moment I saw her I was gonna marry her.” Awwww. Non-creepy. Very sweet.
Old Classmate: “I saw you coming from a mile away. I knew it was you. I’d recognize that hair anywhere.” Non-creepy. An identifier; it’s nice to be remembered.
Mechanic: “I believe you have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen (wink). Okay, your estimate for the new brake pads is $427.” Creepy, although, I can’t decide which actually turned my stomach – the comment or the estimate. I went somewhere else.
Lawyer: “Where’d you get that pretty hair? (He actually touched my hair).” Creepy. I object, Your Honor! Usually, lawyers aren’t required to touch your hair. This is an act best left to beauticians and hair braiders on the beach.
Optometrist: “You have beautiful hair. I have a vacation home in Bristol, and I’ve got this old, saloon-style parlor. I wanted a picture of a naked woman for the room to give it a very period feel, and one of my patients said he’d paint it for me. He asked what hair color I wanted on the girl, and I told him red. Well, my wife got mad, and she wouldn’t let me have the painting, but now she has red hair.” Creepy. On a positive note – at least he didn’t show me his penis.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Betcha Mine is Bigger Than Yours
I’m not much of a TV watcher, but I used to love that show, “Trading Spaces.” That was the show with two designers, a perky host, and two neighbors that exchange houses for two days and re-decorate. Hildy was my favorite designer. She was always doing crazy stuff like gluing feathers to the wall and nailing paint cans to the ceiling. I like to imagine what a show would be like for my place. Imagine, if you will, mine & The Gambler’s banter while holding paint brushes & nail guns. Okay, forget the nail guns…I sense danger. Our banter is sharp enough without the need to include dangerous power tools.
I’m not sure what the inside of my neighbor, Crazy Johnny’s, trailer looks like, but I do know that he has 1,392 cats. Hildy would no doubt make a textured feature wall out of cat fur. I’m also certain that we’d hide Crazy Johnny’s TV. Awww, those designers, they are my people. My mother tried to raise a proper Southern girl. She failed on so many different levels, but she succeeded in at least one area. I find TV’s tacky. Whatever happened to nice areas for conversation? Men always want these huge TV’s…’mine is bigger than yours’ type thing. And let me tell you, I don’t want anyone whipping out ANYTHING comparing sizes here at Lollygag Farm, TV’s or otherwise. Oh, that’s two things Momma did right. She’d be so proud.
When The Gambler & I built our house a few years back, I held firm & said I would NOT have a TV in the living room. Our friends & family would call each other & whisper, “Jenni & Tony built this big house. It must have sucked their savings dry…they can’t even afford a TV in the living room.” Billy, my sports fanatic brother-in-law, thought me to be insane. Padded cell insane. WHY would you host Thanksgiving (during football season) without a TV downstairs? So, we would bring down a 5” TV so he could watch the UT Vandy game. The 5” TV eventually found a permanent home downstairs. Since my eyesight is failing me, I recently agreed to a larger TV…wall mounted only. There is a 55” 3D TV currently sleeping in my living room floor, waiting to be hung on the wall. It came with 10 children (in the form of 3D glasses). What have I done?!? A lovely conversation area will be no more. Instead of, “Can I get you a glass of wine?” the conversation will shift to, “Hey, I think mine is bigger than yours. Nope, we’ll have to compare” (they will have on their 3D glasses while comparing, so things could get really ugly really fast). What would Hildy say? I suppose she would try to comfort me by saying, “It will be okay Jenni Belle. Go get the hot glue gun. I’ve got this bag of feathers…”
I’m not sure what the inside of my neighbor, Crazy Johnny’s, trailer looks like, but I do know that he has 1,392 cats. Hildy would no doubt make a textured feature wall out of cat fur. I’m also certain that we’d hide Crazy Johnny’s TV. Awww, those designers, they are my people. My mother tried to raise a proper Southern girl. She failed on so many different levels, but she succeeded in at least one area. I find TV’s tacky. Whatever happened to nice areas for conversation? Men always want these huge TV’s…’mine is bigger than yours’ type thing. And let me tell you, I don’t want anyone whipping out ANYTHING comparing sizes here at Lollygag Farm, TV’s or otherwise. Oh, that’s two things Momma did right. She’d be so proud.
When The Gambler & I built our house a few years back, I held firm & said I would NOT have a TV in the living room. Our friends & family would call each other & whisper, “Jenni & Tony built this big house. It must have sucked their savings dry…they can’t even afford a TV in the living room.” Billy, my sports fanatic brother-in-law, thought me to be insane. Padded cell insane. WHY would you host Thanksgiving (during football season) without a TV downstairs? So, we would bring down a 5” TV so he could watch the UT Vandy game. The 5” TV eventually found a permanent home downstairs. Since my eyesight is failing me, I recently agreed to a larger TV…wall mounted only. There is a 55” 3D TV currently sleeping in my living room floor, waiting to be hung on the wall. It came with 10 children (in the form of 3D glasses). What have I done?!? A lovely conversation area will be no more. Instead of, “Can I get you a glass of wine?” the conversation will shift to, “Hey, I think mine is bigger than yours. Nope, we’ll have to compare” (they will have on their 3D glasses while comparing, so things could get really ugly really fast). What would Hildy say? I suppose she would try to comfort me by saying, “It will be okay Jenni Belle. Go get the hot glue gun. I’ve got this bag of feathers…”
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