jennethink

FOUR FAMILY MEMBERS AND A TRUMPET

Well … it seems The Kid is playing the trumpet. Actually, you may already know that because you might have heard her practicing. This past week we were all in sunny florida with Momme and decided to have a little jam session. Meaning, we all wanted to jam cotton in our ears.

Ba-da-ching!

Actually we all decided to try and play. Luckily, I had my camera nearby and was able to catch most of our little musical soirée. I'll want to use this for an audition video at some point for something, I'm just sure … or for evidence to establish my mental state and get me out of some crime in the future.

Here are the videos. Make sure you turn your sound up … well, or down.

This first one is The Kid playing her, um, scales? I think that's what she said she was going to play. Turns out she only knows 4 notes so it's a rather short scale and apparently the order of those notes isn't set in stone. Now-a-days I guess you can just play any old note whenever you like.

Lovely. She's no Dizzy Gillespie but she is dizzingly cute when she plays, you gotta give her that.

Next I decided to give the horn a shot. As you can see from the video, I picked it up rather quickly. Then I tried to play it and that didn't go so well - <rimshot> - this was my third attempt at a song in the kid's music book. I was playing it so Momme could guess what the song was.

Huh. Watching it again I'm just as surprised as I was then that she didn't get it. I'm not sure what her issue was. That is clearly Go Tell Aunt Rhody, as if you didn't already know that!

Next, The Hub gave it a shot. Don't be too impressed. It turns out he played coronet in Jr. High. So, he was kinda a ringer. Then again, so were my ears! Boo-ya!… try the veal! He's also playing Go Tell Aunt Rhody (well, honestly, we didn't have that much to choose from). However, he'd never heard it so Momme and I had to sing along. He was doing really well until he learned some disturbing news about the old grey goose at the end.

And rounding out our session is Momme. Man, I love me some Momme. Prior to trying out the trumpet she said four or five times she would probably have a heart attack. She was completely confident in her inability. However, she surprised herself. And frankly, all of us. My favorite part is when she realizes just how good she is and calls for her music!

And that, my friends, rounds out the trumpet session. I had a massive headache for about 6 hours after this. As did, I'm sure, the neighbors. Oh and, 4^th grade music teachers should have a free pass into heaven, in my opinion.

BUNKO CLUB

You don't even know. Tonight was my introduction to Bunko – Commando Style. I played Bunko a long time ago and remembered enjoying it. So when my mom told me there was a group of ladies that play every Friday night, I thought we should go and check it out. I've never met these ladies before – well, that's not entirely true. My mom was there and I knew her (she's only played with them once) but other than that, I was with strangers. And I have to be honest, when I thought about a game of Bunko with the little old ladies who live in my mom's quaint Florida community I really sort of expected to be cooed over and given home-baked cookies and patted repeated on the hands and told what a lovely young woman I was.

Instead – and please know, I'm not making this up – I was cursed at, jostled around, ordered to pick up the pace between rounds, repeated yelled at to "ROLL, KEEP ROLLING" and once told to shut up. I'm not kidding. One of the little old ladies told me to shut up. And why? Because I said "Well hello again!" when we changed tables. I can put up with a lot. And I've been raised to respect my elders. And normally I'm very sweet to the Geritol crowd but with that one "shut up" it all changed. I sat down, tucked my chair up under the table, and thought Okay, you wanna play, sistas? Then hey howdy, we'll play … and I spent the next 90 minutes being the most aggressive, most sarcastic and worst version of myself. I hollered at slow rollers. I yelled for the top table to ring the bell. I slapped the table and scowled at the dice when the wrong numbers came up and I added a very distinct "eh, fuggetaboutit!" once or twice with Anne from New Yourk had a good roll.

Needless to say, I was invited back next week. They love me.

And, by the way, don't let the smiles in the picture fool you. I had to practically promise to pay their Medicare Part D to get them to take this picture with me.

TRI’D AND TRUE

In 2 months I'll be participating in my first triathlon. (I'll wait while you check the url. Yes, it's me.) I know! I never thought I'd do one either. Besides the fact that preparing for a triathlon is an awful lot like working out, the big hiccup for me is that there is an entire section of this event devoted to running. I tried like hell to find a triathlon that didn't include running and instead included something like, oh I don't know, shopping or dining but no luck. Bottom line is, if you're going to compete in a triathlon, you're going to have to run. And I think you know how I feel about that.

Running and Jenne just don't mix very well. We're like oil and the Exxon Valdez. We stick together for a short while, but really it's just a disaster waiting to happen. And wildlife will die. I just don't run well. I once decided that if I ever die in a horrible and tragic violent crime, it will be because I refused to run. Killer would be all "Run or die!" and I'd be all "Can I hear those choices again?". Running just doesn't feel right. It feels wrong – I mean like, morally. Like the entire time I'm doing it I feel ashamed of myself. Humiliated and violated at the same time. And it isn't like I haven't tried to run. There have been a number of times when I've decided I'm going to become a runner. And I try. I try and I try. With no luck. "Maybe you're trying too hard" a runner friend of mine once said. "Maybe you should work up to it." And she proceeded to tell me to not try to do so much straight away. Instead, she said just run for a block, and then walk for a block, and then run again … she said to do that and it would make a big difference in the misery factor. So armed with this half-assed notion and a full-assed rear end I headed out the door. I got to the end of my block. I crossed the street and then broke into a run. I ran for a block then I stopped and walked for a block. Then I ran again. Then I walked. Then I ran. Then I walked. Then I ran. Then I threw up. Then I went home. The entire way home I thought my head was going to blow off my shoulders. My face felt hot and emergency-room red and I could literally feel my pulse in my ears … and it felt like machine gun fire.

I should be so lucky.

Later that morning I had breakfast with the know-it-all friend who suggested this method of getting into running. I explained in great detail my little adventure. She listened. She laughed. She almost got water thrown in her face and then she turned serious and said. "Look, I totally understand. But believe me, if you just keep doing that … if you do it over and over … if you do that same thing like every other day for 3 or 4 weeks, in the end, you won't throw up and you won't feel like your head is going to explode. I promise." And all I could think of was that sounded like an awful lot of work to just not throw up. Let's face it, I could stay on my couch and not feel like my head was going to blow off my shoulders … in fact, it's one of the things I sort of like about my couch … there is rarely any head explosions happening there. And so that's what I did. I stayed in and on my couch and sure enough, right away I felt like I wasn't going to throw up.

But deep down the urge was still there – is still there. Deep down I want to run … or rather, I want to want to run. Deep DEEP down I want to be able to effortlessly glide across the ground, to run next to The Hub and have meaningful conversations, to join one of those running groups and keep pace with other people while we enjoy each other's company and the sound of our feet slapping the pavement.

Then again, deep down I also want to be a kangaroo … and frankly, that ain't happenin' either.

Still, I have signed up for and have been training for my first triathlon. Run included.

For those of you who don't know, a triathlon is an event consisting of 3 legs – swim, bike and run – in that order. (As a reminder, I only have 2 legs – the right and the left.) There are different distances of triathlons, the most well-known is the Ironman – which consists of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike and a 26.2 mile run. I won't be doing that. And I won't be doing the Olympic distance either. I will however be doing the half-olympic distance. Which is a 750 meter open water swim (that's a little less than ½ mile for the metrically challenged), a 20 km bike (that's 12.4 miles) and a 5 km run (that's agony). I'm not a swimmer – I like to swim. I enjoy being in the water. I know how to move in the water to decrease my chances of drowning but I wouldn't call myself a swimmer. I'm not a cyclist either – the giant bruise on my left hip and cuts up and down my right leg sort of prove that. And clearly, I'm not a runner – even though I've somehow worked my way up to actually being able to run (and I use that term very, very loosely) for 45 minutes without stopping (or puking). Regardless, in 2 months I'll be doing all those things. In that order.

Swimming

Biking

Running

Kind of exciting, isn't it?

ME AND YOU AND A DOG NAME BLUE AND PRETTY MUCH EVERY ONE ELSE TOO

Last Thursday I went for a run. I had to. It was such a beautiful day here - 80 degrees and sunny with a breeze. I mean, that's great weather at ANY time but right smack at the end of winter and just a mere 4 days after a big SNOWSTORM and man, that made for a good day.

There is a trail near our house - The Trolley Trail - and I love running on it. It cuts through a nice green grassy swath of land and winds pleasantly past cottage homes and quiet streets. Even though I love the trail, as I left the house I was somewhat reluctant to use it because I assumed there would be quite a few more people on it than usual. But since the trail is so perfect and it was the perfect day, I headed down there anyway and began my run.

And immediately began laughing. EVERYONE was on that trail. Every. One. Anyone who has ever gone for a run, thought about going for a run or knows how to spell the word run was out. And not just runners ... there were walkers power walking and couples casually strolling and moms pushing double strollers and dads carrying kids on their shoulders and kids walking dogs. There were people on mountain bikes and families on cruisers and little kids peddling big wheels. With every person I passed and every one that passed me I got more and more tickled. I could hardly wait to see who was coming up next and half expected to see a guy in a bowler hat sitting way up high on one of those bikes from the 1900s with the giant front wheel and tiny back wheel or a couple of kids pushing a hoop with a stick. It was just the most delightful day. And there I was running and giggling in the midst of it.

When I went through chemo life was difficult - not impossible, but difficult. I would go into treatments feeling pretty good and in a matter of a few hours feel as though I couldn't move without help - and often, I couldn't. When I would leave chemo, I would lean on The Hub and shuffle along slowly, sometimes groaning. There is a bench just outside the automatic sliding glass doors at the Cancer Center and The Hub would lower me gently down to the bench while he'd race off to get the car and bring it around so I wouldn't have to make the trek to the parking garage ... the same trek I bounded through on the way in just a few hours before. Sometimes we would leave chemo and go get a bite to eat ... we could pretty much guarantee that it would be the last meal I would eat for days so we'd make it high calorie goodness like corn chowder and gooey ham and cheese sandwiches and bowls of ice cream with fudge sauce and a brownie on the side. As the months went on and the cumulative effects of chemo caught up with me, those lunches became obsolete but in the beginning they were a bright spot in what was a downright bleak time. By the time we'd get home the steroids that I got with each treatment would kick in and I would want to start a puzzle. Early in treatment we discovered I couldn't concentrate well enough to work a crossword and although an avid reader in non-chemo life, I couldn't seem to make my eyes follow a trail of words on a page, so jigsaw puzzles became popular around here. We went to Target at some point and pretty much bought every puzzle they had ... boat scenes, flowers on a hillside, mountain peaks, the statue of liberty and even a puzzle of Da Vinci's Last Supper (which was fun to put together because my mom kept calling the disciples' robes their "costumes" ... as in "Is this part of Jesus' costume or is this someone else's costume?" Which made me laugh every time. The Hub finally and gently said, "Um, I don't think those are costumes as much as just what they wore." Poor Momme, she was so tired back then). As the steroids wound me up, we'd dump a new puzzle and begin working. Sam and Julie would come by in the evening and join in. The Hub would at regular intervals get up and get me a glass of water. I'd ignore it for a while until he'd threaten to tell my mom and/or my doctor I wasn't hydrating then I'd choke it down. Water tasted just like the chemo they pumped into me and it was all I could do to drink the required 6 - 8 glasses a day. As the night wore on, people would leave or go to bed. I'd sit hunched over for hours hunting for the next piece and the next. Slowly creating something beautiful. Sometimes I'd stay up until 1 or 2 in the morning working a puzzle until either it was done or I was. Eventually, I'd drag myself to bed, curl up and sleep.

By the next morning, every bit of that late night steroid-induced energy was gone. I'd wake up feeling hung over - only without the great memories of a fun night out. The side-effects would have kicked in and every bone in my body would ache. My skin felt thin and paper-fragile. My elbows felt like steel points threatening to rip open my hide and my muscles burned a low, steady pain. Suddenly any strong smell was too much. I'd get sick when my mother brewed coffee or cooked meals. Loud noises sent me to bed. Music actually hurt me. It was painful to listen to anything. My eyes would blur if I looked at the TV too long and even the stream of the shower would be too harsh. I would be so weary and tired but unable to sleep. Nothing helped ... not really. We'd try every remedy, every tip and trick but those days following chemo were endlessly painful. Other symptoms came and went. Sometimes I was sick - padding to the bathroom, or leaning out the car door to vomit. Sometimes my mouth erupted into painful sores. Sometimes I'd have bouts of fatigue so severe I couldn't finish a sentence. My breathing became labored halfway through chemo and the burn with every breath would make it difficult to get the little bits of air I needed. Occasionally pain would rocket through the bones of my arms or legs and I would buckle and cry out. My mouth tasted coppery and awful and my skin smelled burnt and dead. Every so often, my mind would go blank and I had trouble thinking simple thoughts. The bleomycin compromised my lungs and I suddenly was unable to yawn without pain severe enough to bring tears to my eyes and I would grab my chest and sob and gasp for air at the completion of each sneeze.

Like I said, life was difficult.

However, it wasn't continuous. Those awful symptoms that plagued me each treatment would only last for a few days - longer as treatment went on - but for the first ½ dozen or so treatments, those post-treatment symptoms would only last a week or so. And since my treatments were 2 weeks apart and since I didn't have to start taking nupogen shots to boost my white blood cell count (side effect: horrible bone pain) until a couple days prior to treatment, that meant I had at least 3 and maybe as many as 5 really good days before I had to submit to the poisoning again.

At least 3 really good days.

The oddest part of it was as quickly as the symptoms would come after treatment, they would seem to go a week or so later. Sometimes I would go to bed feeling the heat and pain and heaviness of those awful side effects and wake up feeling light and calm ... as if the symptoms stole away in the dark of night. They all got together hitched a ride out of town. Stow-aways. They snuck in then slipped away. I'd wake up and wow ... I'd feel like myself again. At least for the time being.

One of these renewal days, a few treatments in, I felt good enough to make lunch plans. I can remember driving downtown to pick The Hub up for lunch. I can remember having a normal conversation at lunch. I can remember seeing a few people on the way back and actually enjoying talking with them. After I dropped The Hub off at the office I started home. The day was nice and I rolled down the windows on the car so I could feel the warm air. As I drove the song "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield came on the radio and I freakin' blasted it. The song sounded great. The sun looked great. My lunch tasted great. And I felt ... GREAT. I felt SO GOOD. Nothing hurt. I could think. My body wasn't rebelling against me. I might go for a walk later. I wanted to talk to people. My bones didn't hurt. I'd eaten spaghetti and meatballs for lunch. I didn't need a nap. And I LOVED THAT SONG. And it was at that moment, as I was flying down the highway feeling the wind whip over my bald head that I began weeping. Big, fat, wet tears slid down my cheeks and I did nothing to stop them. I wasn't crying because I was broken or because I hurt ... I was crying because it was all so good. Life was so very good. And I felt ...good.

That was the most dramatic example of renewal, but it happened every time. Every treatment I would have a moment - after the side effects subsided and I started to feel normal again where I would just marvel at how good it felt to feel good. More than once I would turn to The Hub or my mom or a friend and say "I can't believe you people feel like this all the time!" It was a wonder, a miracle that anyone - let alone most of us - could feel this good and this was NORMAL.

And then ... just a few days later ... the normal was gone. And I was back in the quagmire.

26 months ago, I had my last treatment and felt those horrible side effects for the last time. That means 7 - 10 days after that treatment I felt good again. But for the life of me, I can't remember that feeling of feeling good. The amazement I felt that day in the car and all the other times is only a memory for me. Just like I can't remember the bone pain, only that I had bone pain; I can't remember the feeling good. I only know this feeling that I now feel every day once made me cry with happiness.

I went for a run last week when the weather was perfect. When I went, there were so many others out with me - enjoying it, loving it, drinking it in. And it was no wonder. Weather like that is not to be taken for granted. That was Thursday.

Saturday it was just as beautiful. The sun was shining, the breeze was light and lovely, the temperature was perfect. Trees were budding and my tulips had poked through the ground. It felt like spring was here to stay. It seemed the snow and ice was a memory. At 3:30 in the afternoon, on this perfect spring day, I drove by the Trolley Trail.

It was empty.

And maybe that emptiness should have made me sad. Made me angry that people weren't taking advantage of the beautiful day. Made me upset that people were just taking the nice day for granted when just a few days before it was so special they just had to be out in it. Maybe it should have bothered me. But it didn't. Because part of life is taking it for granted. There is beauty in that. Beauty in the hope and confidence that I can let a gorgeous day slide by without notice because there will be others just as gorgeous that follow.

And as much as I wish I could remember the feeling of feeling good enough to cry ... I'm grateful that I don't. Grateful that I take it for granted.

There is more than beauty in that. There is mercy.

PICTURES FROM MY BLACKBERRY

Recently I noticed my blackberry randomly dumps emails from my inbox. Upon doing a search on The Google I realized it was because I had too many pictures stored in my phone. Okay. Fine. I downloaded them into a folder on my computer, erased them from my phone and promptly began filling up the memory with more pics. Just yesterday my blackberry reminded my memory was full again by getting rid of all of my emails so I began the process of emptying the pictures once more. When I did, I looked for the first time at the folder I had created earlier this year with previous photos in it. And although the photos themselves are nothing to brag about – grainy and sometimes out of focus – everyone of them has a good story behind it. And I realized, these pictures are usually the pics I take on impulse. When something strikes me as funny or significant. They are my "between the picture" pictures … the ones where life really happens.

Arizona 3 Day – 2008.

Opening ceremonies was held down in this little valley. And that little valley got right freezing cold that morning. However, as ceremonies started, the sun came up and began to warm the crowd, the ground and shine beautifully –RIGHT INTO MY EYES. I did the majority of the opening ceremonies in the most aggressive squint of my life. This picture I took immediately after I ended my opening speech as participants are making their way out onto the route. The STAFF member in the photo is my stage manager, LaLa, who isn't nearly as holy as she appears in this snapshot.

Medical Chart for Jenne Fromm – 2008.

Years ago I worked for a physician who had been in practice for decades and treated entire families and generations. Because he'd been in practice so long, he had stacks and stacks of medical charts. Some of those charts were thick as family bibles, coming apart at the binding and sporting years and years of yellowing, drying and peeling scotch tape. I was always fascinated by the size of some of the charts that held those individuals' medical records. There was something beautiful about those tattered and torn charts and all the vulnerabilities they held. Sometimes a chart got so large, we had to write "1 of 2" on it and start a new chart, "2 of 2". And still other times we had to go back and scratch out the 2s, change them to 3s and start a third chart. It made sense that those charts were so large, after all, Dr. Anderson had been treating some of those patients for 30 years or more. This is my chart at the oncologist's office. This chart was started a mere 2 ½ years ago. Tattered. Torn. Beat up. Stuffed full of information – some good, some not so good. Still functioning but a little worse for the wear. There is something beautiful about that.

Steve after walking 60 miles in the San Diego 3 Day without training.

Walking 60 miles is no easy feat (arr) even IF you've done all the training. The Hub walked with me this past year without doing the training. The Hub is no schmuck. He is fit as a fiddle but even a fiddle should train to be on their feets walking and walking and walking for hours and hours and hours. If for no other reason than to prepare your toes for the beating they are going to take. By the end of the third day, every single toe of his (and eight of mine for good measure) was individually wrapped. The toe wrapping was part prevention, part blister care and part art. Wrapping your toes is sort of like eating at a buffet or plucking your eyebrows, you never know when to stop – and the results can be just as upsetting. Each little corner of the tape can rub. So you tape the corner. And then the corner of that piece of tape can rub. So, you know, you have to tape that. And if you're not careful, you wind up with tape up to your tits. Careful though, that tape under your arm can rub. Anyway, back to this pic. I love it because I'm so proud of him for walking that event with me and so thankful he supports me in such practical ways.

Sign in a Wendy's window – or should I say "Sign".

I have a love for misused quote marks. In fact, I like to collect pictures like these of quote marks used incorrectly. Just as a review, quote marks are to either a) quote someone or b) indicate that the word or phrase isn't being used literally. So in this case, unless "Caution" is something we can attribute to Shakespeare or Abe Lincoln we have to assume this Wendy's doesn't really want you to be cautious. Just kinda sorta. You know, use "caution" … not real caution, just some sort of behavior that is <rolling eyes and nudging> caution-like <wink wink>. My favorite example of misused quote marks was at my local grocery one week when the "Cheese" was on sale. That's what the sign said, SALE TODAY – "CHEESE". Hmmm … I don't think I'll have some of your "cheese". Thanks!

The Pink Nose of The Yellow Dog. I end up with a lot of these pictures. This one is on the ottoman.

On my lap while I'm watching TV

Blocking my way into the kitchen.

On my lap under the table while I'm eating dinner

On the bed while I'm (trying to be) asleep. There is just something so wonderfully pitiful about that pink nose. It's irresistible. I can't help but take pictures of it.

Turkey and avocado sandwich from room service at The Ritz Carlton in Dallas Texas.

Seriously … this sandwich. It was almost worth the thirty dollars I spent on it. I'm a big fan of room service. There are many, many things to love about someone showing up at your door with a meal. One of my very favorite things about room service is the miniature everythings … the little salt and pepper shakers, the tiny little ketchup bottle, the itty bitty diet coke – A D O R A B L E! All of the teeny tinies on my tray this day only made my sandwich look EVEN BIGGER! I sat there for a good 3 minutes pretending all the accessories were normal sized and I was a giant. Then I snapped a photo so I would never forget the joy of a fat pile of turkey. The fun and games all ended when I couldn't get my mouth around those layers of bacon, avo and poultry. I know … that's a big sandwich.

Jenne and Steve at Jalapenos.

This picture cracks me up. If you didn't know what was going on, you'd think it is almost sad. In a way, it has an artsy feel I'm looking up and laughing and Steve is looking down and pensive. It's almost like he's been caught in a moment of deep reflection or maybe prayer. Actually, it's none of those things, in reality, he's just busy dipping a chip into some cheese dip. He loves that dip. So much so that he couldn't stop long enough for me to snap a pic. Oh cheese dip, you are a harsh mistress.

The Cheese Dip. (And, by the way, the reason I gained 7 pounds in the month of December)

At Blue Koi – my favorite restaurant.

This picture confuses me. I'm not sure why I took it or why I kept it. There's nothing special about it that I can see … well other than the child growing out of my head. And I can't recall anything in particular happening on this day. That's not a new scarf and I didn't get a haircut (both perfectly valid "between the pictures" reason to snap a photo) so I don't know. But I thought I'd include it because it is, after all, a really great restaurant. When toddlers aren't tumoring out yer noggin.

Jenne on New Year's Eve posing only so Steve could snap a picture of the loud-mouthed broad behind us.

Oh man, see? This is why I take pictures because if I hadn't had this snapshot I would have forgotten all about that bossy, bitchy completely ball-busting woman having dinner with (what I thought must have been her child but found out was) her p-whipped husband. She was loud enough and annoying enough that The Hub and I stopped having our conversation and started having hers. I started repeating everything she said. I would have repeated his side of the conversation too – but he didn't have one. In fact, in the entire time we were there, I didn't hear him say ONE SINGLE SOLITARY THING. Meanwhile she picked at him and criticized him and sarcastically challenged him and told him what to order and reminded him what he liked and didn't like and made comments about his table manners and on and on and on and on. I felt bad for that poor sap for days. I hope for his sake she's dynamite in the sack. Or something.

Man babysitting his chicken – and no, that's not a euphemism for anything.

This was taken at Jalapenos – our favorite Mexican restaurant … a little TOO favorite in fact. We've become quite the regulars and have had to modify a little saying of ours, "just because you Mexi-CAN, doesn't mean you Mexi-SHOULD." Anyway, one night as we were propping up the bar this guy came in. He plopped down on a stool and plopped a bag next to himself on the other stool. It was sort of odd the way he gave a seat to his bag. And eventually – after he'd consumed a few beers and I'd consumed a few margaritas, I looked closer to see what was in the bag. It was a chicken. No … not a chicken sandwich. A chicken. A chicken he'd purchased at the grocery across the street. Odd enough to bring your chicken out for a drink but what really got me was every time he got up to go to the bathroom, …. HE TOOK THE CHICKEN WITH HIM. And he got up a lot. I kept thinking he was leaving but then he'd come back! Finally I sent The Hub after him because I just had to know two things 1) was he actually going to the bathroom and 2) did the chicken join him in the stall. The answers are 1) yes and 2) oh hell yes. And that, my friends, is completely fanTAStic. Which, if I remember correctly, I actually shouted out loud when The Hub confirmed my suspicions.

And that brings me to the end of the blackberry pictures.

For now.

OSCAR AND JENNE SITTING IN A TREE

I am a lucky, lucky woman. For yet another year, I have seen pretty much every movie that has come out in the past few months. Well, not every movie. I haven't seen any movies where people get cloven in two with axes or where dogs' heads rotate upside-downly in a most upsetting manner or where unborn twins send messages in mirrors … or really anything at all in that whole "WHAT THE HOLY HELL?" category. I was going to go see Saw 4 but having missed Saw 2 and 3 I just was worried I wouldn't be able to follow the plot line.

Anywhoo … With the Oscars just around the corner, I thought I'd give my run-down of the movies. Not that anyone would care about my opinion of the movies. But here it is anyway. By the way, while I'm at it, I've never gotten that whole thing … I mean, just because I like something doesn't mean you will. Example: Seven Pounds. And just because you like a movie, doesn't mean I will. Example: The English Patient. Lord Gosh Almighty I hated that movie. Hated it. Hated. And man oh man I felt like I was the only person in America and possibly the world who felt that way. Which is pretty unusual since I'm normally a pretty easy sell on movies. Not as easy as The Hub who would have to actually be physically injured by a movie for him not to like it but overall I usually can find something fairly enjoyable about the movie. Oh but, and let's just get this out right here and right now … I did NOT like Gran Torino. I know I just may get myself strung up by the Clint crowd (actually, I'm not worried, I can outrun most of the Clint Eastwood fans out there – especially the ones on their scooters) but I have to say it. The only thing worse than The English Patient was Gran Torino. Pa-tooy! The acting was wooden, the dialogue was forced, and Clint Eastwood's portrayal … ulg! Even his voice was awful. It was all scratchy and throaty and weird. It was like he ate a handful of dirty hot rocks and then the rocks turned into little tiny aliens that coagulated into one big alien and the big alien digested Clint from the inside out leaving only the Alien Clint behind – and also the alien is a SUCKY actor.

But I digress. My point was …here are my thoughts about the movies up for the main Oscar categories. First category, best picture.

Best Picture

'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button' - saw it, liked it. Think I mostly liked it because I've never heard the story told before. Meaning the story of a man aging backwards. Of course, I've never seen the story of a lot of things told before.. that doesn't mean it would make a good movie. The Curious Case of Rotten Cheese, for example, wouldn't really interest me … no matter how it aged.

'Frost/Nixon' - saw it, loved it. Made me see loafers in a whole new light. Also of note: I haven't used the word "loafer" since I paired it with "penny" back in the 1990s.

'Milk' - saw it, wow'd by it, totally drew me in and made me miss ringer t-shirts and funky 70's mustaches.

'The Reader' – saw it, moved by it. I read the book a long time ago and forgot what it was about. P.S. Ms. Winslet has nice boobies.

'Slumdog Millionaire' – saw it, loved it. want to marry it. Jenne's pick for best picture. Because it is the best picture (and, let's face it, the best title, too). Also, even though it had nothing at all to do with the movie plot, the dance sequence at the end of the film is all that and a bag of baba ganoush.

Let's move on to Best Director. Okay, I'm going to fess up to something here, I just don't understand this category. I mean, I think I can understand the criteria in other categories (best picture should be … well, the picture that was the best. And best actor is the actor who acted the best) but in this one … how would I KNOW a director was doing some mighty fine directing? I mean other than it ends up being a good movie which means it should be in the best picture category, right? And also, shouldn't this be a category the actors vote on? Oh wait … do they? Who awards these awards anyway … oh hold up … It's the academy right? The Academy Awards. Lord, I'm so Oscar-retarded. Okay so I guess I could say this best director should be won by the person who got the best out of the actors. But how am I supposed to know that? Unless I knew for sure these actors were total crap and then was blown away by them in this role I just don't think I can attribute the good acting to the directing. Don't get me wrong … I think many a bad situation can be remedied with some good direction… and this applies equally well to movie scripts, leadership and to sex. So I'm all for good direction … I just don't know how to evaluate it in this situation. Still, that won't keep me from choosing a winner here.

Best Director

Danny Boyle for 'Slumdog Millionaire' (sidebar … every time I see the name Danny I think about the time my mother told me if I'd been born a boy she would have named me Danny. Wow. Talk about a life changer. "Hey, who's that who just got his ass kicked at lunch?" "Oh that's Danny." "Again?" See?)

Stephen Daldry for 'The Reader'

David Fincher for 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button'

Ron Howard for 'Frost/Nixon'

Gus Van Sant for 'Milk' (now Gus … THAT'S a name I could have rocked as a boy. "Hey, why are you laughing so hard?" "Oh that Gus just cracked the best joke ever!" "Hey, who should we award the coolest dude award to?" "You need to ask? Gus! Of course!" "Hey, who was that who befriended that geek, Danny, and turned him into a normal boy?" "GUS!" See?)

Um …. I pick …. Uhhhh … Frost/Nixon. Because I still think that Richy Cunningham is a cutie-pie

Best Actor

Richard Jenkins, 'The Visitor' - oh this was a great movie. I really loved it. It was heartwarming and unexpected. And Richard Jenkins did a wonderful job. I'm really glad he got this nomination.

Frank Langella, 'Frost/Nixon' - I think it says a lot about Langella that I left the movie thinking, "That Nixon … what a neat guy."

Sean Penn, 'Milk' - I was maybe 15 minutes into the movie when I stopped evaluating whether or not Sean Penn was doing a good job. From that point on, I was sold.

Brad Pitt, 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button' - you know … he's cute at pretty much any age. I'd say I like Brad Pitt forwards or backwards but that sounds so dirty (which is why I said it!!! Ba-da-bing!)

Mickey Rourke, 'The Wrestler' – yes. yes yes yes. This movie is phenomenal. And Mickey Rourke is my pick for best actor. I would like to see him win. But I kinda sorta hope he comes down with a mild case of lock jaw right before the ceremony just so he doesn't thank his dog like he did at the Golden Globes. Cause that was straight-up weird.

Best Actress

Anne Hathaway, 'Rachel Getting Married' - oof this movie made me U N C O M F O R T A B L E . In the good way .. not in the underwear up my b-crack way … I thought Hathaway did a phenomenal job in this movie. I liked her and I hated her. She frustrated the hell out of me and was, I felt, totally believable.

Angelina Jolie, 'Changeling' - whoops. Guess what? I didn't see this one. This movie happened to fall during my 3 Day tour and I had exactly no time to see movies. I will say this though, I think Angelina is a two-face. Not disloyal but she's one of those people who looks so great one second that I want to dye my hair black, disown my father and adopt 12 babies from other countries too and then the next second I think she's so unattractive I want to run screaming from the screen while gouging my eyes out.

Melissa Leo, 'Frozen River' -- Hey. Was this even PLAYING anywhere near me? Sorry folks, another miss for me.

Meryl Streep, 'Doubt' - oooh … did you see this movie? Man oh man and I don't even like Meryl Streep (I know, I know) but she was incredible in this movie. Is it a forgone conclusion here that she'll land this one? I don't know. She was awfully good. And awfully good at being awful. Not just awful but awfully awful. Awful. Awful … damn. Said it too much. The word has lost all meaning for me.

Kate Winslet, 'The Reader' - Nah. I mean, she did a good job but I don't know. Maybe I've seen too many Nazi movies lately. I'm sort of bored with it.

I don't know who to pick. For me it comes down between Anne and Meryl. Meryl probably deserves it but if there was a Most Improved category, I think Anne would take it. How's that for a left-handed compliment? I'm sure Ms Hathaway would award me the Shove-It-Up-Your-Rear award.

Best Supporting Actor

Josh Brolin, 'Milk'

Robert Downey Jr., 'Tropic Thunder'

Philip Seymour Hoffman, 'Doubt'

Heath Ledger, 'The Dark Knight'

Michael Shannon, 'Revolutionary Road'

I'm getting tired talking about movies (you: and talking and talking) I can't imagine how you feel reading this nonsense. But hang tough, we're almost done. This will go to Heath – and he was incredible. In fact, they were all incredible. And I love it that a comedy showed up in here somewhere. By the way, that movie "Revolutionary Road" … Egads. Another not-so-feel-good movie. There seemed to be a lot of depressing movies this year. This one was the icing on the depressing cake. I really felt like the snack bar should have been selling Prozac instead of milk duds for this flick.

Best Supporting Actress

Amy Adams, 'Doubt'

Penelope Cruz, 'Vicky Cristina Barcelona'

Viola Davis, 'Doubt'

Taraji P. Henson, 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button'

Marisa Tomei, 'The Wrestler'

I'm going to go out on a limb and give this to Viola Davis in 'Doubt'. Mostly because she had the snot factor. Anyone who cries on screen and has not only tears but also a disgustingly runny nose usually walks away with it. The Oscar I mean, not the nose. Well, they walk away with that too – unless they're Michael Jackson  <rim shot> Thank you folks, try the veal.

Best Animated Feature Film

'Bolt'

'Kung Fu Panda'

'Wall-E'

Duh. Wall-E. I saw all of these movies and I liked them all. I avoided Kung-Fu Panda for a long time but it turns out to be pretty good. I think it was the eternal optimist part of Po (the panda) that made it so great and heartwarming. Come to think of it, that's kind of the theme for all of this year's animated films. But of the three, I really loved Wall-E. It was brilliantly done and I really enjoyed the story line and didn't even mind the in-your-face environmental message.

I know there are other categories … costuming, score, etc. but I just don't have it in me to think about those. I have one more group of movies to see – The Shorts – and will take care of that this weekend at the artsy fartsy theater near me. I can't wait. I love shorts. I think they are rarely given the acknowledgement they deserve. Which is funny for me to say that when I just dedicated a whole post to full length movies and nothing to shorts.  Huh.  Irony.

And this concludes my first and most likely only movie review post. Reviewing these movies was much more intense than I thought. This reminds me, remind me sometime to tell you about my run in with Roger Ebert.

One last thing, if you can see only one movie between now and the Oscars … make sure it ISN'T Gran Torino.

PUSS FACE GOES TO THE MONSTER TRUCK SHOW!

There are many, many things to say. Most of them start with "Hell Ya" or sound like a MasterCard commercial:

Monster Truck show tickets ….. $26.00

2 large beers ….. also $26.00

Realizing your dental hygienist was right about the importance of flossing ….. priceless

Once a long, long time ago, I went to a professional wrestling match. It was back when The Ultimate Warrior was world champion (oh, I just love it that I remember that!). I went because it sounded like a fun time. And because I like people watching. Little did I know more than 20 years later I would go to a Monster Truck Show some 500 miles away and by kracky, watch the SAME PEOPLE. I'm continually amazed when I go to some event - any event- and come face-to-face with a whole living, working, functioning community I know absolutely nothing about – and has t-shirts. One of the qualities I've always loved about myself is I can pretty much immerse myself in any world at pretty much any time. This came in handy when I was dating since I could be comfortable in a pool hall and/or a five star restaurant and have a grand time either way. And even though I've never in my life been to a monster truck show and up until today couldn't tell a Quad War from a ….well, from anything, it took me all of 10 seconds of being inside before I was dragging The Hub up the escalator to our seats in the upper deck yelling "Hurry up! We're going to miss the Cannon Lady!"

The Cannon Lady.

Anyway, it was 120 minutes of monster truckity goodness … I'm not exactly sure what the point of the whole event was but I think it has something to do with blowing my eardrums out.  

So, here are a couple of videos for your viewing (if not listening) pleasure.

This first video is of two trucks going up and over some other trucks ... this seemed to be the main activity of the afternoon.  There was a whole lot of this "up and over" stuff.  One at a time - up and over.  Preliminary round side-by-side - up and over.  Then later, something called "freestyle" where the trucks come out and go ... you guessed it - up and over.  You can see by the video that even though The Hub and I had no idea what was going on, it didn't keep us from choosing sides and cheering like all the other peeps there who (by my best guess) had lost they damn minds.

 

And speaking of people losing they damn mind,  this second video is of some guy who gets in a box with dynamite and then blows up.  No.  I'm serious.  He gets in a box.  With dynamite.  Then blows up.  This is no "Cannon Lady" ... flying through the air and such.  Nope.  When the explosion happens here this guy goes, oh, I'd say aaaaabout a foot and a half.  And lands on his tummy.  Just sort of flops there onto the ground.  I'm not saying it isn't exciting but I am saying a carp could probably do an equally fine job.  Still, you can tell by my cackling in the background I was quite delighted by the whole thing.

 

aaaand, I'm out.

BECAUSE I SAID SO

My sister and I are different. I've posted about those differences before. It's amazing we came from the same parents and grew up under roughly the same conditions. It's like planting 2 seeds in a pot, covering them with the same dirt, setting them in the same window sill, watering them the same amount, fertilizing them with the same poo and one grows into a tomato plant and the other grows into a giraffe.

I'm the giraffe, by the way.

I'm glad we're different. I need us to be different. There have been many, many times when I've relied on what my sister has because I just don't have it. She's strong where I am weak. She's together where I am scattered. She's like the lady at the grocery with the list divided up into sections that correspond to the aisles and I'm the lady who tries to fit 2 cases of diet coke into the plastic hand basket on top of the hamburger buns and oh could you hand me those doggie treats … just put them here under my arm with the ice cream.

I know my sister isn't perfect. And there have been many times in my life when she's driven me right crazy. From the time we were teenagers and she told me I wasn't throwing away my sanitary napkins the "right" way (Really? They're in the trash can, aren't they?) to the times while growing up when I didn't sort the socks the "right" way to the time we worked together and I didn't sharpen my pencil (you guessed it) the "right" way. Still, I wouldn't change it – or her. She is who she is and I think she's pretty great.

There's only one area, one thing, one aspect of my sister's personality I really wish I could change. One thing about myself I wish I could somehow push into herself. One characteristic of mine I wish I could clone, chop up into bite-sized pieces and feed to her. I wish she liked herself more.

And here is where I'm going to reveal a deep truth about myself. Are you ready? despite my short comings (and I have a lot of them), despite the fact that I've made some pretty questionable decisions in my life, despite my physical 4s, 5s, and even 3s on a scale of 1 to 100, I can't help but think I'm the bomb-diggity.

I know … I know! I know how that sounds. I know I sound all cocky and whatnot. I know I sound like I'm tooting my horn and I know it isn't attractive at all – but that's part of it – even though I know all of that, I STILL think I'm pretty cool. I STILL like me. I STILL would choose to be my friend and I'd pick me first on Red Rover. The truth is, I'm quite enamored with myself.

And maybe that's where my sister and I differ. I've never had to be convinced that I deserve a lot out of life. I've never had to be talked into wanting the best for me. I've never once thought my life was ruin-able. I've always known, somewhere deep down that I'll pull through … even if I make a bad decision, even if it all goes to hell … I'll pull out of it. somehow. Someway. And more likely than not, I'll look damn fine doing it. The bottom line is, even though I know I've got a long way to go in my personal development, even though I know I frustrate people (including myself), even though I know I probably shouldn't think so highly of myself, even though even though even though … I'm pretty easy on myself.

Once I was having a discussion with my sister and she was trying to figure out if she should do something or not (this is a big deal with her … the "shoulds"). I said, Well, do you want to? and she looked at me like a tomato plant looking at a giraffe. And mumbled something like 'well that hardly matters in the decision, does it?" and I was floored. Because to me, that's maybe the MOST important question. When I'm making decisions about well, anything, I first ask myself "will this move me closer to becoming the woman I am meant to be?" then in nearly the same breath I ask, "and do I want to do it?" and basically if it do want to do it and there isn't some big issue of conflict between doing it and becoming the woman I'm meant to be then …. I do it. If I don't want to do it …. I don't do it.

I guess I just believe there aren't really that may have to's in life. Oooh .. I bet I can make a grid out of this … let's see

	Want to	Don't Want to
Moves me closer	Do it – no hesitation. Next question is what are the obstacles and how will I overcome them? Example: Running with Bulls in Pamplona. Many obstacles to overcome (most of them drunk) but never entered my mind I wouldn't do it just how I would do it	Will do it – eventually. Next question becomes how will I manage my emotional reactions and what can I do to turn this into a "want to". Usually involves keeping my eyes focused on the end result. Example: Chemo. No way no how did I want to do this. However, I didn't want the consequences of NOT doing it and it definitely moved me toward the woman I was meant to be (i.e. alive). So I did it. And each day I would try to do something that reminded me this was temporary. This is the hardest quadrant, by the way, and many people I know spend a lot of time here. I guess I think a lot can be done with the quadrant by adjusting your attitude.
Doesn't move me closer/neutral	You know, I might still do it. As long as it doesn't move me FARTHER FROM becoming the woman I'm meant to be, I'll probably still figure out a way to do what I want to do. Example: um. Lots of stuff.	Duh. Just not going to happen. The only thing to do now is to communicate with others in a loving and straightforward way. This box usually fills up with stuff other people want me to do. This is where the loving straightforward part come in. Example: Organizing a block party for the neighborhood. "There's just no way at this point in my life I could give this the kind of attention it deserves and needs. And on top of that, if I agree to do this, I'm going to become frustrated and angry since it really isn't a strength of mine … do you think we can find someone else who would be excited about it?"

What does this have to do with liking myself and wishing my sister liked herself more? I guess I think the reason I'm able to do what I want to do and not do what I don't want to do is because I'm willing to suffer the consequences – even if it means someone isn't going to like me. Do I want people to like me? Yes. I do. I really really do. And it hurts my feelings when people don't like me. I've often said I would be a terrible sales rep because when someone said No I would say "that's fine, you don't have to buy it but do you still like ME?" But the bottom line is, I guess, that my own vote carries a lot of weight. The Hub's vote does too. And a handful of other people. And those are all people I don't have to perform for. I just have to be.

So, when my sister asked me how it is that I can just do what I want to do and not do what I don't want to do and I guess I should have said she was partly to blame. I do what I want to do because I know, deep down she loves me no matter what. I do it because when push comes to shove, I'd be friends with me. And I don't do what I don't want to do because in the secret recesses of my heart I know a love from others that is unconditional. And I don't say that lightly and I certainly don't take it for granted. In fact, I'm in awe of it.

And I wish she felt it too.

DEGREES OF SEPARATION

Everyone who lives in Missouri has heard that old joke "if you don't like the weather – stick around". That has never been more true than in the past few weeks. Here in the heartland we've had 40+ drops in the temp in just a matter of hours multiple times. One evening The Hub and I went for a run in shorts, long-sleeved t-shirts and mittens – but WITHOUT hats, coats, long-johns and scarves the way we had been running. It was a glorious run – the temp was bouncing around 60 degrees even after the sun was down and it felt like spring was right around the next corner. Actually what was around the next corner was a blast of cold air. It hit me like a kick in the teeth and I said out loud (okay, panted out loud) … well, here comes winter again… and by the time we got home, the temp had dropped about 15 degrees. The next morning there was snow on the ground and my eyelids nearly froze together when I went outside.

 

It's frustrating. Frustrating when you don't know how to dress or plan or prepare. I feel badly for the weather forecasters around here because I think they are just blindsided half of the time.

 

I've known people in my life who are like the weather in Missouri. Hot one moment, cold the next and going back and forth without warning. Unpredictable. Irregular. Volatile. It's frustrating. And, if I were being honest, I'd have to confess I have problems with this myself. I experience times when I'm up, happy and silly and then, just like that, I'm down. I rarely get angry but I do get upset, distressed, sad. And, sometimes, irritable. Truthfully, I don't ever want to lose those extremes because I think it add characters to my character. I don't want to be steady Eddie, mellow yellow or just "take it as it comes jenne" but I think I do need to learn how to be a tiny bit more predictable. I think it should be easier for people who love me to forecast my moods. I don't think people I care about should go for a run with me, take a corner and get kicked in the teeth by my attitude.

 

Then again, maybe that's just their problem. Geez. Lay off me already.

THIS DAY IN HISTORY

January 6

In 1412 Joan of Ark was born. I wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Of Ark knew what a little rebel rouser they had on their hands.

In 1540 England's King Henry VIII married, Anne of Cleves … his fourth wife. Whom he divorced a mere 6 months later. Really Anne? You couldn't see that coming?

In 1838 Sam Morse demonstrated his telegraph machine. Which you gotta wonder if the guy on the other end of the line was like "what the h? This is just a bunch of dots and dashes. I'm going to lunch."

In 1994 Nancy Kerrigan got walloped on the knee …. Whyyyy whyyyyy whyyyyyyyyyy!?!

 

All of these things happened in history. But perhaps the most important the most significant January 6 event happened a handful (okay, maybe two or three handfuls) of years ago when Lynda Britt Golliher was born.

 

What? You've never heard of Lynda Britt Golliher? Well get with the program, people. Let me tell you what I know about Lynda Britt Golliher. Lynda Britt Golliher is dedicated and passionate – I know this because she participated in the Atlanta Breast Cancer 3 Day in 2007. Lynda Britt Golliher is loyal – I know this because she reads this blog oh, like, all the time. Lynda Britt Golliher has a grand sense of humor and impeccable taste – see explanation under "Lynda Britt Golliher is loyal" and Lynda Britt Golliher has a sister who loves her enough to send me a pleading email to wish her a happy birthday.

 

(and boy are you both lucky I'm in a post-a-day pact with myself!)

 

So Happy Birthday Lynda Britt Golliher! Make it a good one.