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How I Cheated Death Today While Also Getting an Oil Change

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oil thingI consider myself about 80% responsible, 15% childish/purposely negligent and maybe 5% naive about tasks that I actually should be paying attention to.

In my Responsible bucket, I’ve got things like, scheduling kids’ doctor’s appointments, being on time to school/work, leaving my house with my makeup and hair done at nearly all times. Wearing heels also gives me bonus Responsible points, for some reason, although I personally have zero problem with flats.

I am learning that I’m totally naive about things like cleaning my gutters, pillow washing and caulking seams near sinks. I also completely ignore polishing my jewelry.

But there’s a glaring area in my life where I’m famous for being completely negligent and childish. True confession: It’s my car. For some reason, I’m able to fathom safe-driving techniques, gasoline, and well-maintained and current insurance and registration. I even spring for car washes sometimes to ensure I can actually see out of my windows.

But when it comes to maintaining my car? I can’t stand it. I act as though it’s a personal insult to my time and wallet to even consider getting an oil change, rotating my tires or refilling the windshield fluid. When I get a burned out headlight, I’m grumpy for days. THE GALL OF THAT BULB! It’s not like it’s on all the time like those Walmart trucks!

I recently surpassed the 9,000 mile mark since my last oil change and was feeling incredibly guilty about my childish decision to ignore it.

Internal monologue: If I drive faster will the car need less oil? Fast driving = thinner oil = more oily coverage on my engine pieces?

If I crank the AC up, will the some of the coolness inside my car waft through the car’s body and help keep the engine cool too? A cool engine = no smoke = car is fine.

I know. There’s probably no chance that I’ll be featured on Top Gear anytime soon. Unless there’s a special “Car Idiots” segment. Most likely on the US version. (Waves to my Twitter pal, Rutledge Wood, who once replied to one of my tweets forever ago. #KindaTwitterFamous #NotReally.)

So, on my lunch break today, I rolled into a local oil change place that happens to be directly across the street from, surprise, another local oil change place. The place I lumbered into seems to change it’s name every week, but it was close-ish to my work, open for business and didn’t have any of those inflatable arm guys that I find super-annoying. I’m always afraid they’re blousey arms will blow toward my car and I’ll accidentally drive over it. No, thank you.

I’m having trouble describing the terror that grips my heart as I’m guided into the oil change bay by a guy who can walk backwards, signal me with both hands, and watch where ALL FOUR OF MY TIRES are rolling at the same time. There’s a gaping hole under my car! And it’s not empty! If my car careens out of control and I fall in, I’d be killing an actual man! There’s a human in there who has to see cars drive over him on a daily basis. ::shudder:: I can barely handle it.

Also, why do my tires always seem to be woefully screaming in agony as I slowly roll into position?

When the professional car guider signals me to “go a little right” I always seem to overreact. I slam on my brakes and wait for the darkness to come as I’m sure I’m about to spiral into the arms of Jesus. I yank on my steering wheel, determined to be the BEST “go-a-little-righter” EVER and this results in me turning the wheel 100% too far.

“Go a little to your left” is the next agonizing hand signal that ALWAYS follows.

::STOP! hand signals:: Those ones are my favorite. With a sweaty grip, I throw the car into park and fumble with my keys.

Do I turn my car off or leave it on? Is it rude to roll up my window? Hearing that mysterious voice under my car makes me all nervous again.

Phew. Hand-signal guy just came to my car and asked me to turn off the ignition. I already feel safer because 1) I’ve been given clear and specific instructions and 2) He used the word “ignition” which is a professional car word, so this place must be legit. I relax for a moment and my shoulders drop a centimeter down from where they’ve been frozen next to my ears.

Oh great. He’s just asked me to pop the hood. I get all panicky as I know everyone is waiting on me to remember where that little lever is. I mean, I own this car, I should know this. But for that small fraction of time, I completely panic and I’m sure that instead of the hood popping, I’ll find a secret lever, like that one with the emergency brake, that sends my car rolling into that dangerous pit below me. OH! There it is! ::POP::

It’s the best sound of success I’ve heard all day.

What? They’re asking me what type of OIL I want? Um, the brown kind? The stuff that came from the meat-eating dinosaurs — I’m sure their oil is more greasy and slippery. Those are both good qualities to have when it comes to automotive lubricant, I’ve heard.

Oh perfect. Here’s the part where they ask me if I want an oil cleaning flush thing. I picture my car getting a fancy oil-holder-colonoscopy and think that even though it is an extra $10, I like the idea of her being all clean as a whistle. It sounds like a very responsible thing to splurge for. Much better than the Target tee I’d probably blow that $10 on during my next stop in for raspberries and Red Bull.

I agree to the fancy, internal auto-purging and instantly feel like a fancy car-lady. Makin’ it rain down dollahs at the oil change place, ya Grease Monkeys! Oh crap. Is that a racist slur? God, I should absolutely NOT BE HERE. I just can’t handle this responsibility like a normal human.

Oil-change-maître d’ comes back to my half-rolled up/half-rolled down window and says, “It’s been a little while since your last oil change…”This prompts an embarrassing apology/stream of excuse words from my mouth that no one wants to hear.

Forgive me Automotive Professional, for I have sinned. It’s been 9,032 miles since my last oil change. I’ve been busy, broke and focused on vehicle vanities such as car washes and vehicle vacuum treatments. Please don’t tell my dad. You won’t right? He’s gonna be so pissed! He has this tight-lipped, sigh thing he does that’s usually followed by a high-elevation eye roll. Oh! Yeah, like that…

He meanders away and disappears behind my open hood. He instructs me to turn my car on, then off, then on again, then off. I feel myself growing more and more confident about the process until he appears at my awkwardly half-down window again and tells me about some random cracked serpentine-belt-thingy he wanted to be sure to point out so I could go get it replaced.

I hope my nodding looks convincing as I start to wonder just how good Super Glue would do in a warmish environment. Not the regular stuff, but the EXTRA-STRENGTH stuff. I accidentally glued my fingers together the other day and started thinking about what Paralympic sport I could have a chance in. This was my new cross to bear. I would forever be known as the “Girl Whose Two Fingers On Her Right Hand Were Tragically Bound Together. Forever.” My new nickname could be “Sticky Z”. #BeautyFromAshes

Super-Gluing things is another responsibility that I usually try and pawn off on the closest adult male. You–penis? Here–Broken thing that needs magic, sticky stuff put on it in these super-exact places. Good luck avoiding the potential calamity of becoming a glued up cripple.

FAST-DRYING? What the hell was I thinking? Sure, I can give birth to two humans with no drugs and concoct ways to feed them with my VERY BODY but handle a tiny, child-sized bottle of clear, sticky liquid? It’s just too much. I’m so sorry, humans of the female sex. I just can’t. I. Just. Can’t. Even. Super Glue.

As I pull out of the oil change corral, I experience all the joys of driving over the giant Pit of Doom, as I did 10 minutes earlier, except this time, I’m also worried about the hand-signal guy accidentally walking backwards into traffic.

He waves good bye and I immediately breathe a sigh of relief and thank God I survived to live another day.

See ya in 9,032 miles, guys!

::tires screeching::



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My blog posts always gravitate toward the ridiculously long side of things, so in case you don’t have time to get all the way to end, I wanted to highlight some facts for you right up front so there’s no panic:

I’m all good.

I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.

If reading about cancer makes you uncomfortable at the moment, you may want to skip this post.

Part 1: Holy crap – There’s a lump!

You know how some people hate certain words like ‘moist’ or ‘panty hose’? Well, BREAST is one of those words for me. Unless we’re talking about a succulent piece of chicken or feeding babies, it just sounds so clinical and too high-and-mighty for my humble toppers.

Perhaps you could blame it on my private school upbringing or the fact that I still struggle to refer to myself even as a grown woman. (‘Girl’ or ‘lady’ is my normal go-to term–still unsure why that is) but if we’re going to refer to those two bumpy things that necessitate the need for a bra every day, then my default term of choice is boob.

I really didn’t think much about my two lady friends until I discovered a random lump in ol’ righty at the beginning of March. At first I figured it had always been there and maybe I just never noticed it. I mean, not knowing there’s a hard, pea-sized thing in your body parts happens to lots of people, right?

Plus, in school, we were told that our bodies were temples of God and we should take great pains to keep them pure and spotless for Him. I basically took this to mean that if you were touching yours all the time and getting all squeezey-squeezey with your bad self, you’d be all dirty and non-pure and in the same class as the heathens and murderers and who wants to be there? Better leave those breast exams and the like to the professionals. We don’t want to trip up and piss off the Lord of the Universe or anything.**

When I first found the lump, my thought process went something like this:

  • What the H E L L is that?
  • What do I do now?
  • Wake up and check for the lump in the middle of the night, first thing Saturday morning, in the shower, while walking down the hall and there’s no one around to see. Pretty much whenever I could. Yep. Lump is still there.
  • Am I making too big of a deal out of this? I’m sure it’s just always been there and for some reason I never noticed it until now. I consider asking my ex-husband if he ever noticed anything but quickly vetoed that idea.

“Hi there, so um…Not sure if you remember my boobs or anything, but just in case you do, do you happen to remember if there was this weird, hard, lumpy thing in the right one? No, not YOUR right, MY right. Just wondering if there’s a chance I could be dying or something. Cool. Thanks for your help!” Nope. I decided sudden death would be better than trying to make that conversation seem like a normal thing and moved on to the next step.

  • I’m working on not being such a dramatic person slash a better listener. This is just a great opportunity to stay in the moment and not freak out. Step one, Jenny, don’t run around and tell too many people and create panic.  
  • Forget that idea and tell my favorite gal pal about the lump the very next day. Blame her birthday party cocktails for the slip up and plan on sticking to my original plan of being a responsible and non-dramatic, grown up lady-person. Lips are sealed. Again.
  • Three weeks go by and I have my moments of panic, breast checking and then forgetting about the lump. But the lump is always there and so is the worry in the back of my head.
  • Cave and tell my mom.

Telling my mom was not part of the original plan.

The original plan was to wait until there was something to worry about before I shared the details. Not to say my mom is a worrier – far from it. She’s extremely level-headed has often played the non-dramatic role in many of my life’s freak-outs.

But my parents just survived nine months of job-hunting with me and it was an extremely stressful time. The roller coaster of that season was finally done with and I was looking forward to our conversations being full of positivity and “Outlander” series updates, not “Jenny, are you gonna be OK?” discussions.

When I told my mom, I was also afraid it would somehow make things real. She wanted me to call my doctor and get checked out. I had no idea what doctor even checks those things out! Is there a breastologist out there? A boob-opthomist? Whenever I Googled, ‘What do I do when I find a lump in my breast?’ It just said “Contact your doctor.” Thanks a lot internet. But, WHICH doctor?

My town has zero general practice doctors accepting new patients which is extremely frustrating, so I decided to call the doctor who delivered my babies. I mean, he kind of specializes in lady parts… it makes sense he could branch out and handle the above the belt stuff too, right?

YAHTZEE! He was the right one to call.

When I told the receptionist that I’d found a lump and I’d like to get it checked out, she asked me how long it’d been since I’d discovered it.

“Three weeks”, I told her.

“Three weeks? Why did you wait so long to call?”, she responded.

Ok. Now I’m starting to worry again. Thanks a lot, phone-lady.

She pulled up the schedule and asked me to come in the next day.

During my three weeks of ignoring-the-lump slash poking-at-my-own boob-to-see-if-it-was-still-there phase, somewhere along the lines I decided to give it a name. Naming random inanimate objects has always been an odd habit of mine, but it’s one that makes me smile so I doubt it will be a habit that ends soon. For the lump, I went with the name Pal.

Pal was the name my son gave his tiny dinosaur toy he got from a quarter machine when he was five. Pal sounded like a not-too-scary name that helped with the Do-Not-Panic plan I’d initiated. Saying “lump” was scary. Saying “Pal” seemed quirky and fun.

Little did I know, the name Pal would have an even more appropriate connection after that first doctor’s visit.

Part 2: Yep, there’s a lump.

On the day of my doctor’s appointment, I was super-nervous but ready to get some answers. The doctor performed the typical breast examine where he moves his fingers all around in a circular motion while we both avoid eye contact.

After less than two minutes, it was over and he agreed that something was there. I got dressed and he whisked me away to the front desk so he could have them call and schedule an imaging appointment.

On the paperwork they sent over, he referred to the lump as a “palpable mass” which made me sigh because the name Pal now had an even more appropriate tie in. The appointment was set for an ultrasound and mammogram for the soonest time available – three weeks.

Can I just say that three weeks can feel like forever when you’re waiting for something like that? During this three-week span, I let the beans spill one-by-one to more friends, family members and even my boss, because it was feeling more real and I had to juggle stuff at work to accommodate the appointment. The waiting sucked. Pal stayed in the same place and even started feeling tender towards the end of the waiting period. Not cool, Pal.

On the day of the appointment, it took about two hours for the whole process. Luckily, I had to work later that night for an event so I was free and I knew I’d have something else to focus on no matter what the imaging found. Events to the rescue!

I was the youngest one in the waiting room and a few people stared. I was given a tote bag with the word BREAST screen printed on it. I laughed. (That will be a fun one to use at Trader Joe’s.) You get a fun cape to wear after they take you back and I couldn’t help but think of my 10-year-old who has a passion for all things “CAPES!”. I took a picture and planned to show him if the results weren’t scary.

Not wearing deodorant for these tests is understandable and I know many of my blog readers have gone through the whole mammogram process before so I’ll spare you the details,  but man, when you’re nervous about what the tests will show, have worked before your appointment setting up an event AND have your armpit in the technician’s face, it’s a recipe for more anxiety and the perfect trigger for more sweat. #SuperClassy

The mammogram was followed up with an ultrasound. Images were shown to a radiologist in a different room. Then more ultrasound images were grabbed. At the end of the appointment, the grouchy technician from South Africa told me that they weren’t worried about the lump but they found some other cysts in a separate location they want to keep their eye on. I was told to come back in six months to recheck stuff.

Crises averted. (See? I told you things were all good.)

Cyst is another word that’s super gross. And I’m still unsure what it means to really have those chilling in your side-boob, but there you go. They didn’t seem to think I was dying or that they needed to do a scary biopsy on the 7mm lump that I originally went in for, so I grabbed the free tote bag, gave them back their cape and bounced. (Tenderly – Ha! Boob-joke.)


Here I am #werking the cape.

This is me trying to stay light and focused on fun things like making the mammogram technician take a photo of me after she smashed the living daylights out of my front parts. At this point, I had no idea what the results would be and I was irritated with the way my too-long bangs were getting in my eyes. I tried to ‘choose joy’ despite my inner monologue screaming “HOLYSHIT-HOLYSHIT!-HOLYSHIT!” because the people around me who loved me weren’t screaming at all.

They were chill and calm and collected. I’d love to be just like them. They are priceless and help me not go crazy.

I’m a very lucky and thankful gal. Or woman. Yeah. I’m a thankful woman, damn it. Here’s to a smooth sailing next six months!

**For the record, I now understand that God really doesn’t care about the whole touching-your-own-body-to-make-sure-everything-works-OK thing. Like, at all. Please feel free to conduct your breast exams and anything else you’d like to do with your entire body with the truth that no lightning bolts will come from heaven to zap off your filthy hands. Yay for the amazing human body and yay for the weird slash wonderful design of all our pieces and parts. Go forth and enjoy them.

Thoughts From the New Girl

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Thoughts From the New Girl


Normally, I like being the new girl in the room.

“Who’s that girrrl?…..Who’s that girl?….It’s JEN!” I freaking love that show. #NickAndJess4Ever

Being the new girl means that there’s a certain gift of freshness to your new relationships. You can be who you really want to be without any of the baggage or weirdness from your past.

When you’re the new girl, no one stares at you and remembers that awkward time in Jr. High when you decided shaving your sideburns was a good idea.* Or when you were 13 and had to wear a weird immobilizer arm brace that strapped your arm down across your tummy and how you still attempted to make overalls work at the same time.

Shoulder immobilizer

I had to wear one of these sexy, little numbers when I fractured my growth plate in 9th grade. Due to my own incredible ability to get in my head and freak myself out, I was in the middle of a back handspring, soaring backwards through the air, when I had the random thought “What if I actually can’t do back handsprings as well as I think I can? Sure I’ve been doing them the whole class up to this moment, but what if…?” This thought triggered a signal in my brain to stop putting my arms up and over my head and instead, I careened through the air, rotated over to my left side and landed with a thud, right on the upper side of my left arm. Apparently, when you do that, you can fracture things that are important. Hence the doofy arm brace. I also managed to miss my big shot at being the flyer in a basket toss during the next day’s football half time performance. #MissedOpportunities #JustTryToPairThisWithOveralls #IDid

These days, I’m the new girl with my new job.

Let me just start off by saying, yes –having a new job, especially at one of the places I’ve always wanted to work, is pretty awesome. There are days I miss my leggings/couch/Netflix opportunities, but I will say that being able to afford leggings/couch/Netflix is something that brings great peace of mind. I’m sleeping much better at night and doing a lot less mid-day crying. It’s a great thing.

I started just over a month ago and I feel like I strode down the loud, linoleum floors with a confident step and a friendly smile that said “Here I am! Let’s not only do great work together, let’s also be work-buddies! What’s everyone doing for lunch?”


To be fair, everyone did say hi and introduce themselves. I wrote their names down in my new floral notebook and reviewed them throughout that first week. I pictured us taking group walks together when the weather got nicer, maybe grabbing a chai and laughing about the crazy process of paperwork that still involves triplicate forms or how so many people here have such an aversion to using online chat. (No chat? WHAT?!)

But things were pretty busy for the people around me and my 15 minutes of fame as the new girl seemed to dim pretty quickly. I started amping up in my introductions and throwing all the zeal I could muster into meeting new people.

Twice a day, a gentleman comes in to deliver and take away mail. I have memorized his name and have greeted him with such intensity, I think the poor man fears coming into the office. Today I introduced myself to the woman with quiet shoes who walks the hall with her towel and spray bottle. She’s on high alert to catch any speck of dust or smudge on glass. She looked at me like I was crazy when I reached out to shake her hand and said “We haven’t been introduced yet, but I’m Jenny. What’s your name?”

My new job is with one of the largest employers in the city and this place is freaking huge. Coming from a place where I knew everyone’s name to where I’m at now is quite a change. (OK, well, maybe not all of the software developers’ names, but they usually avoided eye contact anyway. The ones I did know were pretty darn cool though.) Even when my last job grew and nearly doubled in size, we still maintained the “Hey, you’re part of our cool-kid software family now. Welcome!” Things at my new job are a little different.

I’ve made so many wonderful friends from my past jobs, not just my recent software gig. Even from back in my casino days, I’ve met people that have invested in me, my family, and have walked with me through some pretty tough stuff.

I guess this is why I was so excited to be the new girl again and have the opportunity to start collecting even more buddies from my new job. But the reality is, I just don’t know if that’s going to be the case.

Perhaps I’m putting way too much pressure on things here. Cue the deep introspection part of my blog.

Since my divorce, (see, I told you it was coming) I’ve learned that friendships can come and go. And I saw a lot of them go.

I really don’t blame them. Divorces are messy, awful things and I get that it’s way too complicated and frustrating for a couple to remain friends with two people who aren’t necessarily a couple anymore. Add in the whole church-thing, where you become akin to a leper once you make the decision that you don’t want to be married anymore, and it makes things even tougher.

This is basically the response I’ve received from my old church crew: Unclean! Unclean! That girl messed up big time and we can’t even fathom what that means because in the church’s mind, bad things like that CAN’T happen so when they actually do happen, we have no practical way of processing and/or handling them like normal humans! Let’s stay away from her so we don’t expose ourselves to her bad choices and only ask her things about her children if we happen to run into her in the store. She, as a human, has no more value or worth now, only that she happened to make two lovely children back when she was normal/married. Oh, the children! Their lives are surely doomed forever more because of the sins of their mother!

I’m sorry.

I got a little lost in that description, didn’t I? It really isn’t that bad. Most of the old church crew just avoids talking to me all together, honestly😉

Oh, and for anyone taking notes, my children are still just as amazing, funny and clever as they were before the split. They’ve adjusted well to our crazy new lives and they’re excited about all the new people who get to be around them and love on them. And boy, there are lots of them! We talk about how cool it is that there are so many new people in their lives, so many new humans to learn from and spend time with.

My kids are happy, healthy and have chosen to make the best of a situation they had zero control in. I only wish some of the adults I know could do the same thing.

But back to the part of my blog before I started venting.

Remember when you liked someone in school and you went out of your way to impress them and get them to like you? For the record, I have since learned that usually, a person can’t really ‘get someone to like them’. It kinda just is or it isn’t. Humans just don’t have that level of control over each other. (10 points Gryffindor for adult lessons learned.) But back in my school days, I could have earned an additional high school diploma for my mad skillz in boy-crazery.

Newsflash: Nope. They usually weren’t interested.

Other newsflash: That usually didn’t dissuade me from liking them, and in fact, them not liking me the same way I liked them, actually triggered my massive competitive gene and made me even more obnoxious.

Cue high school flashback: “What? You only like me as a friend? I’ll show you “FRIEND”!

Watch me go above and beyond when you’re sick from school. I’ll not only pass the card I handmade around to the class, I’ll also go shopping and spend my very last dollar on Star Wars themed trinkets and treats cause I heard through the grapevine that you may have a thing for that movie. What’s that? You think it’s weird that I spent my lunch break driving over to your house to deliver these things to you? Nope. Totally not weird at all. And how else would I have discovered that when you were sick, you blew your nose on a t-shirt because it was gentler on your gorgeous nasal cavities than standard tissue? You adorable, creative, genius, you…


I could have given this overly attached girlfriend meme a run for her money.

God bless the Jr. High and High School boys who survived my crushes. Seriously. I’m surprised I haven’t been billed by their therapists.

Whelp, here I am now.

Hopefully, I’m way less obsessive about proving my affections for the people I care about. That could get awkward when you’re a thirty-something lady and you’re trying to fit into the world of being a cool-as-eff grownup.

But those new potential work-buddies better watch their backs.

I’m friendly. I’m kinda clever, and I have the memory of an elephant and the skills of a PTA mom when it comes to birthdays and such. I’m fully equipped with delicious recipes for potlucks to share, an overflowing candy dish on my desk and ample opportunities to hear all about the crazy / not-crazy weekend you just had.

Hi. My name is Jenny, and I’d like to be your new work-pal.

*Let’s be honest. I knew shaving my sideburns was a stupid idea, but when you’re 12 and your super-cool, 14 year-old-friend and all of her friends are telling you it’s the cool thing to do, you can only do so much. I remember backing away from the pink, disposable Lady Bic razor, but in the end, I totally caved and let it happen. It was awful. We quickly realized that the girls this “shaved hair” trend ‘worked’ on, were girls who had these heavenly, thick manes of glory. Not the spindly, baby-fine mesh I was rockin.


The Leggings Post

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PLEASE NOTE: I have started and stopped this blog post way too many times. This happens a lot when I want to write about something pretty polarizing.

I usually start with wanting to be 100% REAL and unfiltered with you. Then I get all freaked out and worried about hurting your feelings and I go back and try to wrap up my thoughts in a nice, inoffensive package so the four of you reading this will still be my friend. Or at least still read my blog. #Priorities

The following is kind of a weird combo of the two.

You may get offended and irritated with me. This is OK. This won’t be the first time one of my posts have pissed some people off.

Please know that even if we disagree on the topic, that doesn’t mean we can’t still be homies. I am amazed that you took time out of your busy day to read my wordy ramblings at all, so for that, I thank you and I think you’re pretty special.


If you know me in the real, non-internet, world, you may know that I love fashion. I’m also extremely opinionated about fashion and have made some rather broad sweeping statements to some of my poor friends and loved ones about “the rules” and when and where they MUST be followed.

Remember this Facebook post?

Me being a snarky ass hat.

I think I went on to compare TOMS shoes to something that would be worn by the homeless or models in the movie “Zoolander” who were showing off the Derelicte campaign.

Yep. I can be pretty snarky about fashion.

I admit to using the term “Chico Dad” more than a hundred times when describing some poor older gentleman that happened to walk by me wearing his Costco polo shirt/cargo shorts/hiking sandal combo out in public. (It’s like they pass out a uniform in this town to guys or something!)

In all fairness, I’m certainly not what you’d call “a fashionista” myself.

I have a weakness for cameos that can’t be explained and I refuse to give up my obsession with stripes or polka dots. Almost everything I own is one of three colors (black, white or blue) and I’ve been known to stick a huge bow in my hair for a look that says “Thirty-something mom who is also part anime character”.

But I’ve noticed a trend lately that I’m having a real hard time with.

I’ve been seeing a lot of people sharing videos, infographics or just their own written thoughts about leggings and how not to wear them.

If you haven’t seen these posts, they usually center around the theme that if the leggings are too thin or don’t cover the wearer’s ass or choach, this makes them a skank who shouldn’t be allowed out in public to tempt mankind into lustful damnation.

Please know, I come to you now as an imperfect, mouthy fashion-wannabe. I’ve totally offended people and gone for the easy fashion joke about some unknowing person who really had no clue that I was making fun of their clothes.

I know it may be hard to take any advice from me on this subject, but I have to ask, can we just knock it off with the leggings-as-pants bashing already?

I see two main camps of bashers:

The casual “I’m sharing this leggings post because it’s relevant and lots of other people are talking about it, so I want to feel cool too” person.

You’re very sweet and want others to like you. I’m here to tell you that turning your sweet self into one of the Mean Girls is not the way to do it. Feel free to jump on the bandwagon of any other social media trend such as your thoughts about bacon, posting your pumpkin patch photos or being excited that it’s finally FALL!

I mean, shoot — it’s almost November which means the whole “30 Days of Thankfulness” thing is going to start soon and you’ll have lots of opportunity to jump on that bandwagon and post all sorts of trendy things while at the same time, being positive! Awesome!

Sometimes you want to post about the leggings topic because you think that people just look awful when they wear them in public. You think, don’t they care about their appearance? Should you really be able to see someone’s cellulite through their clothing? 

Again, knock it off. It’s not your job to point out the flaws of the humans around you. Go back to being nice and share more videos of adorable animals.

The other group of bashers are the ones I have the bigger problem with.

These are the people who feel that leggings-as-pants crosses over the big MODESTY line, and therefore, it’s their spiritual duty to warn the women of the world of their evil and tempestuous leggings-as-pants ways.

“Don’t you know we can see the shape of your B-U-T-T in those pants?!”

“Don’t you know that if my husband has to look at your fanny in those leggings, you may tempt him to start looking at pornography or go out and become a sex addict?”

Have I told you the story about when I earned the nickname “The Morality Monitor”?

Bear with me. I’ll get back to that last bombshell I just dropped on you in a sec.

One day, I was in an airport flying from San Francisco to Orlando. There was an attractive woman who bent over to check her bag across from my group. As she did so, her thong underwear crept up over the top of her waistband to reveal a black, lacy Y.

My eyes flew wide and I jumped up and stood between this woman and my FULLY-GROWN ADULT, MALE BOSS. I made it my job to protect him from the wanton ways of the slut-bag across from us. What if he had actually SEEN her lacy underpinnings? Would his Godly faith be shaken to the core?

My boss, and his gorgeous, clever, and brilliant wife who was with us, saw what I had done and questioned me about it. They were kind to 21-year-old me and came up with the Morality Monitor nickname. They weren’t as ruffled as I was with the underwear lady and let me off easy.

Back then, I saw what I had done as Godly and heroic. I had helped stopped a possible sin or temptation! 5 Jesus points for me! Yay!

Now I wonder…what the hell was I thinking? Mainly when it comes down to what was going on in my heart.

I’ll admit to totally judging that poor woman. Didn’t she do the “squat test” at home in the mirror like any self-respecting pants wearing person? Where did she get off actually trying to bend down to her luggage? In a busy airport of all places?!

I actually CARED about the people around me and I was very careful to never wear anything that could be too flirty or send the wrong message or show off parts of my body meant to be covered by my bathing suit.

I was more Godly and modest then she was.

I was, therefore, BETTER than she was at being a human.


I do not miss the judgmental-bitch part of my old self. At all.

But back to my earlier statement about those leggings. I have something to say to those people who bash women who wear leggings-as-pants as if it was part of the 10 Commandments:

Please stop.

I know many of you love Jesus and are totally on board with the whole dressing appropriately thing. You probably own a tankini with ruching in the tummy panel and that is totally OK. You can make whatever fashion choices you want when it comes to you and your children.

But I’ve gotta tell you, some of these things you’re saying about people who wear leggings as pants are just downright judgmental, nasty and you are making some pretty big assumptions about the women who wear them and their moral compass.

You are better than that and have a much bigger destiny on this planet than to become Captain of the Pants Patrol.

Do I personally think that leggings can be worn as pants without a shirt covering the ass? I honestly don’t care.

I’ve totally done it with my workout clothes since the idea of wearing leggings with a long shirt while I attempt to run 5,280 feet without stopping sounds even more annoying than the part where I have to move my legs quickly. Maybe I’ve even popped into Target in my “Here’s my ass-sorry!” running outfit before I got to the park because I didn’t want to go afterwards when I was all sweaty and red-faced.

And yes, I know that leggings and running pants differ (sorta) but still, I really think we need to just let go of the topic as a whole and focus on our own hearts and the choices we make. 

I know there are a ton of things we giggle about in the fashion world.

Mom jeans.

Sandals with socks.

Guys in skinny jeans.

Have you noticed that those things don’t get us thinking that the people who wear them are making an immoral choice. They’re just people who really don’t care about being on trend. Or blood circulation. I’ll admit to laughing about those things.

But my hope is that we would be known for our love of others and our words of encouragement–not for our opinions on fashion faux pas.

What’s All This Talk About Being Unemployed?

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Are you reading this and wondering to, “Hmm. I wonder what’s so great about not having a full time job anymore?” Maybe you feel like there’s a big career change heading your way or maybe you just plan on standing up in your building and shouting “I CAN’T TAKE THIS SHIT ANYMORE!” and you’re wondering what you’re gonna do with the new lifestyle that awaits you.

Have no fear, my friends! Since I have been unemployed for a whopping 42 days, I consider myself an expert when it comes to all matters of “DEAR GOD HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN TO ME?” and “HOLY SHIT, HOW WILL I FEED MY CHILDREN?”

Take a deep breath and read on for some helpful tips on how you, too, can cope with the tornado that’s about to obliterate your life.

Enjoy the Stillness

This will be a great time for you to relax and unwind!

No more annoying work emails, texts or Google chats to juggle. Just pure, deafening silence and the overwhelming feeling that nobody needs you or your pesky skills anymore. Great news! You’ve just become completely irrelevant!

Sure, you may get a text or two that first week from your old coworkers who are looking for one of your old files, but don’t worry. Their silly questions will soon cease, and you will be left with nothing but a dark abyss of suffocating quietude.

Bask in the Free Time

With all your new free time, you can do crazy things like Google “Is quietude a real word?” or “How much do people actually pay for a classy escort who refuses to make eye contact and only agrees to touch shoulder to shoulder while fully clothed?”

Sometimes I’d spend my time lying in bed, but not filling my day with sleep. Psh! No way! That’s when all the nightmares come back! Instead I’d chose to stare into my open closet and think about all the chaos existing right in front of me.

There was a scarf that was about to fall off the top shelf. I could get up, fold it back together and place it where it needed to go, but why? Would the scarf actually appreciate all my hard work in the end or would it just unfold itself eventually and slide down to the floor like a spineless mother fucker?

With the entirety of your day completely at your disposal, you can do new things you’ve never tried before like drinking whisky at 10am, smelling your area rug to see what tears smell like or taking a walk to check the mail but only with one eye open to see if being partially blind would be worse than what your life has become now.

Chase Your Dreams

Sleeping can become a whole new activity after losing your job. What was once a time for peaceful rest and relaxation, occasionally peppered with a whimsical work dream or two, can become a productive session of hashing out all your inner fears, worries and frustrations.

Didn’t get to tell your boss what an awful poop face he was before you left? Don’t worry! You’ll relive the moment when you learned you were no longer a good fit for the company a hundred times over when you’re brain tries to shut down and get some rest!

Sleeping pills can be helpful, but remember that your inner demons only become stronger when fed mild narcotics and now your boss will be looking at you with three beady eyes, wearing that truly awful sweater you’ve always hated and rolling his eyes at you while you corner him in the dream-Pita-Pit to tell him what an asshole he was to you.

Instead of tossing and turning in bed and remembering all the good times you and sleep used to have, try getting up in the night and starting a vigorous activity. Tripping over your personal belongings box that HR lovingly collected from your desk is a great way to heighten your awareness of your new reality.

Let those stubbed toes and bruised shins remind you that you no longer have to deal with your favorite pen cup being locked up in a far away office. It’s right there in your room, along with your old notebooks, your oatmeal bowl, your stupid badge reel and that bold colored Sharpie you used to use to sign everyone’s birthday cards with. It was so festive! It made your birthday wishes POP right off that damn card every time.

Take a Risk

You know that dream job you’ve always wanted? No, not the one you used to have that gave you such purpose and confidence in your life. I’m talking about the new dream job that pays you in real United States money that you can use to buy paper plates with.

No more will you be focusing on an unattainable fantasy job. Soon every job posting you read will become an unattainable fantasy that will only get your hopes up while encouraging extreme narcissistic behavior as you stare at your resume and all your past career accomplishments day in and day out.

These postings will also trigger inner conversations with yourself where you may ask, “Am I too old to become a welder?” or “Where the hell is my nearest welding school? If I become a welder, can I customize my own mask? Wait a minute, if I become a welder, will I also have to be an exotic dancer to make ends meet? When will Target start carrying wide-necked gray sweatshirts again?”

Sometimes you’ll find a job you’re actually qualified for and begin to think that maybe all this happened to you for a reason and that reason is so jolly, old you can actually do a job where you’re appreciated, valued and can grow your skills.

You’ll cram yourself into old career wear that hasn’t been out of the under-the-bed box since 2009 and think to yourself, at least if I’m unemployed and have less money for food I may get to lose a few pounds.

Maybe you’ll wow the interviewer with your tales of wild event marketing success or masterful task organization. Maybe then some other candidate will come in and wow them even more and you’ll get that super-fun phone call where you get told that they’ve decided to go with someone else.

It’s gonna be fine. Just think. You weren’t finished with season 3 of “New Girl” yet anyway! Now you can REALLY apply yourself to crossing that task off your list.

Appreciate What You Have

If you’ve been working at least six months for a place that didn’t pay you in car wash coupons, you’ve most likely accrued a little unemployment money to draw on. What better way to get acquainted with all the in’s and outs of your state government than to attempt to wrestle away a mere 52.9% of your former salary from their cold, dead hands?

Even after you certify that you are not a seasonal farm worker or disabled veteran, there will still be plenty of opportunity for you to question where your meager funds are actually being delivered and what horrible cardigan will Ms. Tiffany, the employment placement specialist, will be wearing today?

You will have lots of chances to visit your local EDD office and ask yourself if you look just as crazy and disheveled as ol’ Wall-Eyed Tim who was once a maintenance man, or Man-ish Grannie Who Doesn’t Have Access to a Computer so she needs help getting online to print out a form.

This is what desperation looks like and you will soon realize that these have now become your people. No longer will you recap your kids’ baseball tournament for your standing desk neighbor or talk about how short that weekend felt with your friendly co worker. Now you will get to talk about which 1-800 EDD phone number works best at 8 am versus 8:15 and if you’re lucky, Tiffany will give you a free manilla folder for your paperwork because she’s worried you’re gonna lose something and that makes her nervous.

The manilla folder will be the thin, cheap kind that isn’t brightly colored or even freaking TABBED like the ones in that one drawer at your old office. But don’t let your mind go there. Just thank Tiffany, insert your paperwork, and stride away with your head held high.

Savor Your Relationships

This season in life will be like exposing an angry nerve ending to all the people around you. You may need a little practice with keeping your cool.

If a neighbor casually approaches you while you’re holding a 6-pack of pineapple cider and a wheel of Brie, just admit the fact that you are now unemployed. For the love of God, do not cry in street. It’s only 10:30 and you have a lot of “New Girl” to get crackin’ on. Your neighbor will understand and totally not think you’re a crazy person. I promise.

Your friends and old coworkers may text you to check up on you. Be careful not to overwhelm them with all your free-time deep-thinking . Many of your friends are still working full time jobs and they won’t understand you when you ask things like “Why does this hurt so bad?” and “When will the darkness just take me away?”

If you get the chance to run into your old coworkers, be cool and collected. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT grab their lapels, shake them wildly and demand to know who’s been sitting at your desk. Your old desk does not belong to them. They can’t stop the dumb-dumb loser-heads from sitting in your chair and getting their greasy mitts all over the pile of “Employee Good Job Shout Outs” you left behind.

Simply smile and exercise your new skill of stealthily changing the subject whenever anyone asks what you’ve been up to. Trust me. They don’t really want to know how you cried when you watched Nick and Jess break up and Nick called her on the phone to ask her about Dirty Dancing and please God, can you just climb into the TV and live with all the roommates on “New Girl” because you know that you’d only be out of a job for like, 5 episodes, then you’d get a call on your wacky-cased cell phone about this great opportunity and everything would be ok.

Remember That — Everything’s Going To Be OK.

If not now, later, and if not later, then eventually when you’re dead or too old and senile to care.

Even if you’ve lost your job, your confidence and a large portion of your self-worth and dignity, remember that time will still move on. You may spend a large portion of it feeling sorry for yourself or questioning why the bad guys got to win, but you can’t change the past. All you can do is hunger for a future where your life has meaning again. Like they say, “Keep moving forward!”

Honestly though, there are people rooting for you and pulling for you. Even if it’s just because they’re sick of always having to pay for lunch or tired of having to give you a pep talk again about how not awful at life you are…they really do care.

Be good to them and remember to thank them for always cheering you up, giving you good hugs and buying you manicures and margaritas.

High fives from the debilitating quicksand pit of unemployment and self-doubt! Let’s make this season the best it can be!

Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee

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Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee

I’m one of those girls who loves the movie GREASE. This fact kind of irritates me, because it’s one of those “No duh. So does every other girl your age.” facts. And if you’ve read this blog at all, you’ll know I kinda gravitate towards the unique side of things whenever I can.

But it’s true. In high school my best friend, Becky, and I would rock out to the soundtrack in my Hyundai Sonata and pick our favorite Pink Lady to impersonate.

Our fave was Marty Maraschino…”Like the cherry…” She was the prettiest Pink Lady. She was the best dresser. And she was the classy one who had no lame high school boyfriend to drive her crazy. No way. She set her sights on the fancy-pants TV host and she totally rocked that amazing jade dress at the dance-off. She was awesome, intimidating and in no way represented anything close to who I was!

A good friend once gave me the GREASE VHS tape that also came with the movie script. I was so freaking stoked. True, I already knew most of the words by heart, but still…now I could read along and know exactly what Kenickie said when he got all mumbly.

On a sadder note, go here if you want to see what Kenickie looks like now. ::shudder::

You know when Sandy decides to totally ditch her prudish Australian look and turn up the sass to win Danny’s heart? She puffed up her hair, grabbed a tube of red lipstick, and worked the SHIT out of some tight, black leather pants. It’s totally my favorite scene.

Sandy, Grease, Finale

Get your sass on, Sandy!

I taught myself the little dance she does down the stairs when I was 16 and I can still pull those moves off to this day.

Perhaps my love GREASE is what led me to this “Sassy-Sandra” phase of life. True, I haven’t started smoking, but I did find myself buying tight pleather leggings today from 11 Main because who the heck knows when I’m going to need to bring in the da’ noise, bring in da’ funk?

Oh look! Just in time for Mother’s Day too! I can totally wrap these up and write my kids’ name on the “From” tag” and be totally set.

Oh look! Just in time for Mother’s Day too! I can totally wrap these up and write my kids’ name on the “From” tag” and be totally set.

A feisty girl like me must always be prepared.

Next up, grabbing that dream guy and flying away in my car over a carnival…

5 Things I’ve Learned on My Way Back to Z

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It feels like spring outside and it’s still January! I feel a little bad for the earth, because from what I hear, this early heat and lack of rain is actually really, crummy news, but today, it’s hard not to want to be outside just reveling in it!

January has been bringing about lots of changes in the ol’ Jenny-sphere.

I eat green stuff so rarely, I normally take pictures of it to prove it to people. Here's me eating my first salad (mixed greens) in 2015.

Look at me! I’m eating healthy things! I eat green stuff so rarely, I normally take pictures of it to prove it to people. Here’s me eating my first salad (mixed greens) in 2015. Way to go, January!

I’ve actually had this blog post started for a while but every time I’d get it going, it would make me think too much and I’d question what I was trying to say. This is actually one of my favorite things about this blog. It really makes me comb through my thoughts and sort through the real issues and struggles I’m having. Hooray for self reflection!

Then all of you (hey, mom!) get to read through the melee and get a sneak peak into my crazy head. Lucky you😉

This month, in addition to moving to a cozy new house in the neighborhood I’ve always wanted to live in, I’ve gone through the fun process of changing my last name back to my maiden name. I was asked by my ex if I’d ever considered dropping his name, and that sort of triggered this huge process of paperwork and inner-wrestling.

Here are a few things I’ve learned through the process:

1 – My HR/IT/payroll team is not super-stoked about the whole name change thing. It messes with my paycheck, my email, my benefits, etc. It makes a whole lot of work for them.

If you’re considering changing your name at your workplace, don’t expect this group to cheer and high five you. Prepare to drop off your paperwork and run.

2 – Go by the social security office FIRST, before the DMV. I did these steps backwards and luckily, I had a very nice lady at the DMV point out that if I didn’t change my name with social security first, it’d stall my whole license thing. No bueno.

Shout out to a class act DMV lady. She also told me as I was leaving, “Hey! Nice picture!” I’m hoping she was sincere. I nearly ran a stop sign on the way to my DMV appointment because I was busy practicing my smile in the rear view mirror. My vanity in 2015 is remaining 100% on point with the previous years so far. No changes to report there.

3 – Changing your name is one thing, but being asked by your ex to change your name is a whole different pile of worm faces. I think my pride was the main thing that felt stepped on. To me, it was something I wanted to initiate on my own, since it was my very own name.

But I had to remind myself that to him, it was his very own name first, so he probably felt like he had just as much a right to ask for it back as I thought I had to keep it until I was through with it.

Everyone likes to be the person in control and calling the shots. And in this case, I wasn’t. It made me grumpy and snippy and took many hours of sleep away from my life. But wrestling with my own lack of control in life is nothing new, and once I realized I was being a prideful little twerp, it was easier to just own it and then let it go.

In the end, who really cared? I certainly wasn’t keeping the name because I still wanted to be married to poor guy. Oh no. I’d made that super clear in 2013.

A good friend replied, “Oh! I thought you’d have changed that a long time ago.” Then I felt  a bit like a doofus. Why the crap sticks was I still using his old name anyway?

In my head, I was keeping it to match my kids, because that’s what another divorced friend had done. At the time I made the choice to keep it, it seemed logical and I really didn’t give it much thought.

I mean, do kids really care if their mom’s last name matches them? I’ve never been one for huge family monograms or vinyl appliques of “FAMILY NAME HERE – Established 2000” decor, so it’s not like they really see my name all over the place.

And when they call from me school pretending to be sick so they can come home and watch Cartoon Network and eat Goldfish crackers in their pajamas, they don’t ask to speak to ::Insert mom’s full name here::. No. They just feebly say “ Mommy….I don’t feel good. Can you come get me?”

(Yes, I’m talking to you, Future Violet who’s gone ahead and found my old blog and is reading them to see what kind of a dork I was. I knew you were faking the WHOLE TIME! But I was letting you fake it because sometimes I know we all just need a freaking day to just veg. But don’t think you can do that all the time. Sometimes you need to just suck it up and power through your day. I love you. You are even prettier and more clever than I knew you would be. Mommy loves you.)

4 – Our freaking name is EVERYWHERE…oh my word. It’s going to take me forever to get my name changed throughout the world. It really is incredible when I think of all the online shopping sites, utility companies, social media networks, email addresses, banks, that have my old information.

5 – I had to practice how to sign my old name. A lot. It was like my hand forgot how to write the letter Z. It’s also a trip to hear my work pals call me “Jenny Z.” again. I haven’t been called that since I was 17! It’s so strange.

I’m certainly not the same Jenny Z. I was back then. It’s like I’m Jenny Z. 2.0! Or maybe, Extreme Z! Now with 30-something lumpiness, stretch marks from baby times and a snazzy divorce under my belt!

Well, it’s not all bad. I have run a 5K. (THE WHOLE THING!) And I’ve eaten an entire veggie sandwich. With vegetables, NOT a veggie fake meat patty, people! These are things the old Z would never have done. And I’m much better at drinking wine now. Ooh! And ballet class! I’ve also started doing ballet. Suck it, old, lythe, captain of the cheerleading squad version of Jenny Z! You couldn’t pirouette to save your life. LOOK AT ME NOW, WORLD!

I guess my last takeaway is that I am extremely lucky to have the support and love from the people I’ve surrounded myself with. They root for me no matter how weird I’m acting and they are always looking out and encouraging me to make healthy, safe and positive choices for me and my kiddos. I appreciate you all a ton and I know my life wouldn’t be this great without you. Thanks for being amazeballs.

PS: Please note that I really have no absolute opinion on whether or not ladies should change their name after a divorce. So don’t think this post is a reflection of the ONE WAY I think it should always be handled.

It’s never bothered me when ladies kept their married name or when they’ve gone back to their maiden name. If I could have convinced the world that being called “Jenny of Mermaidia” was as cool as I thought it was, I’d totally have run with it.