TOOLBAG TUESDAY

My mom says you should never meet guys at bars.

She says they only want one thing (uh, my...brain??), they’re usually drunks and after they buy you a few drinks, they make you feel like you owe them something.

And my mom says that once they GET YOU DRUNK, you’re more likely to agree to do something that you wouldn’t normally do...like go to Waffle House.

I disagreed with her. “I’ve met plenty of guys at bars!” I said. “Reese Witherspoon met her husband at a bar!”

But my mom doesn’t buy it.

Throughout my dating life, every time I’d tell her I met someone at a bar, she’d exhale loudly and suggest I join a professional group that hosts “mixers” instead.

What was she shielding me from??

What does she know that I don’t know?

I found out last week. She was shielding me from guys like Adam, who met my friend Amy at a bar one night.

He was good-looking, charming and up for a conversation. Amy lived near the bar where they met and had walked in for a nightcap.

Amy and Adam ended up talking for over an hour. He bought her a few beers, was interesting and she actually liked him.

When it was time to go home, they exchanged numbers before Amy began her one-block-walk.

Adam insisted he could give her a ride but she said no, she lived less than a block away and she was fine.

She vaguely remembers him protesting, but she was drunk and tired and made it home, alone, with little fuss.

She woke up the next day, smiling about the cute guy who got her number last night.

She looked at her phone and saw that he had ALREADY CALLED...late last night. A smile spread across her face as she dialed voicemail to hear what he had to say.

A proper date perhaps?

Was it to say that he LOVED meeting her and enjoyed their conversation?

Her smile quickly faded once she heard his opening line:

“I can’t BELIEVE that I spent $50 on you and you wouldn’t even let me bring you home,” Adam said, in a calm, yet manic tone.

(She played me the voicemail. She played all of us the voicemail.)

I laughed out loud when I heard it. Was he really saying aloud that if he spends $50 on drinks for a girl, she’s expected to go home with him? He couldn't have insinuated it? Like, "We spent an HOUR together and you suddenly ditched me!"

No.

He used dollars and cents.

“YOUR LEVEL OF DISRESPECT IS STUNNING,” he said, as we laughed even harder.

“UNBELIEVBLE,” he said. “YOU’RE UNBELIEVEABLE.”

Bahahahaha

I found it ironic that he talked about HER being disrespectful when he was suggesting that she could be bought for $50 worth of beer.

The message went on and on. Adam was pissed. And crazy.

He used choice words like “stunning” and “intolerable” and ended the message with a classic “FUCK YOU, BITCH.”

Even though we all got a huge kick out of the voicemail that was put on repeat, Amy was shocked and embarrassed. And I felt bad for her, too, because he seemed totally normal.

How annoying!

She had even woken up with a smile on her face about his potential!!!

This week I’m gonna see if she wants to go to a professional mixer with me.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

The iPHONE really makes it hard to be a cheater. THANKS STEVE JOBS!!

I know, because I just got an iPHONE – my first smartphone EVER – and man, that thing saves everything!!

Text threads from weeks and weeks and weeks ago!

The last website you visited pops up when you go use the Internet again! (Uh, I was looking that up for a friend.)

Anyone looking at your phone screen can read your unread text messages!

(Seriously, that was a bad design move.)

For the record: I’m not a cheater, but if I were, the iPHONE would not be my confidant.

So, if this new technology makes it hard for normal people to cheat, imagine how screwed (no pun intended) DUMB cheaters are!!

Take Andrew, a dumb cheater my friend Jessica dated, who probably wishes he still had a flip phone.

He was Jessica’s manager and looked great on paper. And he was really hot.

They lived in a small town outside of Raleigh, North Carolina, called Shotwell.

No one had ever heard of it.

She quit her job to start her own business soon after they started dating, and they actually had a great time together.

Andrew seemed like a perfect guy – a nice Christian man (foreshadowing...) – and he really wanted to settle down and have a family, blah blah blah.

But Jessica became suspicious when she saw his ex-girlfriend all over his Facebook page, writing things that ended with, “hunny.”

When she asked Andrew about it, he said nothing was going on, he “can’t control what other people do,” and told her to get over it.

But it was clear from looking at his Facebook page that he enjoyed attention from other women.

This fact became shockingly and embarrassingly clear when she got a text message from Andrew one Saturday afternoon.

It was a message that we can only assume was meant as a Google internet search on his iPHONE rather than a message intended for her:

“Escorts in Shotwell, NC”

!!!!!

ESCORTS???

Dude.

What an idiot.

Even strippers would have been better!! Then he could have lied about planning a bachelor party or something.

But an escort?? Like, he wants to take out and spend money on another woman??

And In Shotwell, too! What, he's too lazy to drive to Raleigh?

Jessica responded with, “are you fucking kidding me?” and then, “its over Andrew forget you ever met me.”

He never replied. (Suddenly his iPHONE didn’t work??)

What would he have said, though? What CAN you say?

“OOPS?” “I meant to write Scooter?’”

Sadly, if he hadn't had a smartphone, she would have never have known about his need for pay sex.

The only thing a girl can trust is her iPHONE.

-Jenny

Horse and pony (no show)

If you see me walking funny over the next couple of days, it's because my mom and I are taking horseback riding lessons and Sunday was our first day.

I didn’t even know they had horse stables in uptown New Orleans. But there it was, tucked away in the park near the zoo.

You could smell the hay before you even walked into the stable — quite a nostalgic scent if you’ve ever been riding.

I admired each horse on the way to the paddock, their almond eyes peering down at me from behind the bars.

There must have been 100 horses in there!

I was told they’ve got more horses than usual right now because they just got a shipment of horses to march in this year’s Mardi Gras parades.

Ahhh! I was so jealous.

“Do they have to ‘try out’ for that?” I asked the stable manager.

“Sort of,” he said.

(Next week I’m going to ask him to elaborate.)

The riding lesson was quite awesome, despite not being the relaxing trail ride I had envisioned.

This was not a trail ride. This was a workout.

Within the first two minutes, we were trotting. Leg muscles engaged. And not my quads...the underappreciated muscles on the INSIDE of my knees.

If you’ve never taken horseback riding lessons, the first thing you must master is posting.

It’s where you lift your body up and down in the same rhythm as the horse when trotting so you don’t bang your pelvis on the saddle.

In order to do this, you have to stand up in your stirrups with your legs steady and squeeze your legs as hard as you can for balance.

(Using the reigns to hold on for dear life is fruitless and makes the horse mad...trust me)

It’s not just standing up and down, it’s a rhythmic motion and you rise and fall with the horse’s trot. It can be a beautiful thing, once you find your center of gravity.

(Spoiler alert: I have a very hard time finding my center of gravity. I'm so...unproportioned.)

But I didn't choke. I already knew how to post, thanks to a horseback riding class in college.

Only, Sunday's one-on-one lesson was way more intense than college.

Maybe it’s because in college, they made me ride the pony. That's right. The PONY.

I protested.

"I don't want to ride the pony!!" I complained.

“But you’re the perfect size for Honey!” the instructor said.

I frowned.

Honey was the only pony in the stable, and the only female.

As such, she was doubly smaller than all the other horses. (It felt just like regular life. UGH.)

Taller than Honey's back. Might as well have been sitting on my twin sister's shoulders.

Since Honey was short, and uh, NOT A REAL HORSE, I didn’t feel as scared about posting or the possibility of falling off during the up and down movements mid-trot.

Also, Honey was super old (“half dead,” the instructor described) and couldn’t trot for long periods of time.

She would also often stop mid-trot in order to bite other hoses’ butts.

To combat this behavior, I was given a whip and told to whip Honey anytime she bit another horse’s butt.

Not wanting to whip her, I just never steered her around other horses. (We hung out by the fence a lot.)

I didn’t learn any other horseback riding skills in that college class thanks to Honey.

That included learning how to properly take off the bridle, saddle and reigns before brushing her and cleaning the dirt out of her hooves. (which must be done EVERY TIME someone rides any horse).

Knowing the correct order to put on and take off the saddle was half of our grade, but I was exempt from taking it off because MIDDLE SCHOOLERS came in for lessons right after our class.

They were also the perfect size for Honey.

One day, to my horror, the instructor actually marched all the middle schoolers over to me and said, “This is Jenny. SHE rides Honey, and she’s in college.” You know, to make them feel better or something.

A fat kid, who was taller than me, pointed and laughed at me like Nelson from The Simpsons. I blinked twice and bit my tongue.

I didn't want to say that he actually didn't seem to be the perfect size for Honey at all. He looked like he'd be more comfortable on a quarter-horse. Or a Clydesdale.

I totally thought about that fat kid Sunday as I signed my life away for the lesson with my mom.

I anxiously walked over to the paddock to see whether or not I was assigned a horse. Or donkey.

I scanned the area for the instructor and saw him leading a fine, tall beast in my direction.

IT WAS A HORSE!!!!

I smiled big.

I'm an adult now!!!

His name was Clipper and he was great. NOT half dead. I was actually scared that I would fall off a few times due to his speed. He's a galloper at heart. I liked that.

My mom and I trotted around in the pen, made our horses go left and right, properly passed other horses and did our best to perfect our posting.

After a half hour, a gallon of sweat and spaghetti noodle legs, we were finally told to dismount.

The instructor told us we did an awesome job (Uh, duh) and we're going back next week!

By then I hope my thighs and knee muscles are fully functioning again.

I don't remember it being this hard on my muscles during my Honey days.

I guess horseback riding is a whole lot easier when you're in middle school.

-Jenny

Journalists unite...against Newt

I’m very protective of journalists, since I am one.

I have a huge problem with people that hate the media and yell at reporters for asking simple questions.

We're like a big family.

...So don’t talk shit about my aunt.

As a general rule, I make a point to not talk about politics over dinner on this blog.

But I gotta move up a TOOLBAG TUESDAY to TODAY and tear into Republican Presidential Candidate Newt Gingrich for his temper tantrum during last night’s debate in South Carolina.

When asked a completely relevant question about an interview his second ex-wife did on TV, UH, THE DAY BEFORE, where she said he cheated on her and then asked if they could have an open marriage (whaaat), Newt WENT OFF on the reporter in front of everyone like the pompous asshole that he is.

HOW DARE YOU ASK ME A QUESTION ABOUT MY PERSONAL LIFE THAT PEOPLE HAVE ALREADY BEEN TWITTER-ING THE SHIT OUT OF!!!!

I get it. It’s embarrassing. No one wants their dirty laundry or their cheating or their general repulsiveness out in the open.

But, to borrow a line from The Big Lebowski: DID CNN URINATE ON YOUR RUG???

I have to give it to CNN reporter/moderator John King for not rolling his eyes and lashing back at NEWT (God, he’s so reptilian) for screaming at him like a 2-year-old.

“I am appalled that you would begin a presidential debate on a topic like that,” he shouted. Then he waxed on about how “much of the news media” is “destructive” and “vicious.”

That made me laugh. Because that’s exactly how politicians answer journalists when they don’t want to answer an embarrassing question.

I know from experience.

Whether it’s a presidential candidate who somehow gets multiple women despite his looks and personality, or a small town administrator being questioned about his town-issued credit card purchases.

“HOW IS THIS QUESTION RELEVANT??? HOW DARE YOU!!!!”

It’s a simple deflection tactic and I don’t stand for it. And I’m appalled that NEWT’s hissy fit got a standing ovation from the crowd. (And in Charleston, SC, too!!! Tisk Tisk, y’all)

I thought we were trying to combat bullying in this country. But now we’re clapping for someone who yells at a reporter for asking a question that would be a deal-breaker for so-called “value-based” voters?

QUICK! EVERYONE SHRED YOUR QUESTIONS FOR NEWT WHEN IT COMES TO HIS PERSONAL LIFE!!! HE’S EXEMPT LIKE HIS 2011 TAXES!!!!

GOD THAT REALLY GRINDS MY GEARS.

Of course, when OTHER PEOPLE’S personal lives are under a microscope, NEWT has no problem talking about it.

Like last year, when he was asked about former Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain’s alleged sexual harassment/adultery.

NEWT totally fielded the question and smirked as he said, “everyone should be given a chance to try and recover.”

(Unless it’s him. He doesn’t need to recover. He just needs to yell at people.)

NEWT didn’t say, “I’M APPAULED YOU’D EVEN ASK ME THAT!!!” “HOW DARE YOU, VICIOUS MEDIA!!!”

No. He realized that there was something NEWSWORTHY going on that deserved a comment.

But, when it comes to his own bastard-ness, NEWT feels like he needs special consideration.

And people’s standing ovation is just encouraging his bad behavior. YES! Everyone clap for Newt!

Give him a standing ovation for berating a reporter for simply asking what everyone wanted to effing know.

What a crock of shit.

That’s a reporter’s job, NEWT. To ask questions.

All the other cheating politicians had to face the music!

If you don’t like to squirm, you shouldla kept it in your pants.

Oh, and your rug smells bad.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

I joined a flag football team once, and it was the worst experience of my life.

It wasn’t because of my athletic ability. I wasn’t because I’ve never been to a school with a football team.

It was because the quarterback was a huge asshole.

I hate to put guys who were in fraternities into a “frat boy” stereotype, but Jerry, the quarterback, was your typical asshole frat boy that you see in the movies.

Only, he wasn’t good-looking.

Jerry made it clear that he didn’t like girls playing (and only threw the ball to us when he was mandated to throw to a girl), made crude jokes about his wife that made me cringe and, if we were losing, he’d get red in the face and start yelling at everyone, which pumps no one up.

I’ve been on a number of adult social leagues, and Jerry was the worst coach ever.

And by worst coach ever, I mean that the game WHERE I SCORED MY FIRST TOUCHDOWN, EVER, I drove home crying because of him.

Let me explain. The entire season was a big ball of frustration.

Jerry routinely paired me up with very tall girls, and I would fruitlessly chase them around the field doing absolutely nothing defensively.

“You’re the fastest girl we have,” Jerry snorted when I asked him about his coaching decision.

“Yea but she’s six feet tall,” I said. “I’m five feet tall. It doesn’t matter if I am in front of her with my arms up jumping up and down, she can easily catch the ball completely over my head. What’s the point?”

He didn’t see the problem, and ignored me.

Then, Jerry exclusively threw the ball to specific players, even if they had four people surrounding them.

All of us girls stood there, a LOT, with no one around us, saying, “HELLO!? HELLO!?” and Jerry ignored us.

Yet, the worst of the worst was when I scored my first and only touchdown.

ME!!! I SCORED A TOUCHDOWN!!

I don’t even know how it happened. I was thrown the ball during a “girl’s turn” and managed to zig-zag my way down to the end zone. ALL! THE! WAY!

I had never done anything like that before, athletically. I was overcome with adrenaline. I felt like the kid from Little Giants.

“AHHHHHH!!!!!” I screamed loudly, spiking the ball like the professionals do.

I then did this classic touchdown dance:

oh yea.

I was so excited that PEOPLE FROM THE OTHER TEAM GAVE ME HUGS AND HIGH FIVES -- THAT’S HOW HAPPY I WAS.

Yet, when I went back to my team, only ONE GUY told me congratulations, and it wasn’t Jerry. He wasn't happy because even with my touchdown, we were still losing.

I was pissed.

“Hey!” I said to him. “Aren’t you going to tell me congratulations? I just scored a fucking touchdown.”

“That's what you should have done,” Jerry said. “You don’t reward a dog for sitting.”

My jaw dropped. He wasn't joking.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO BE THE DOG HERE???” I said, furious, embarrassed. God, who talks to people like that???

All my happiness drained. I might as well have gotten the ball fumbled. I walked away to drink my Gatorade alone, forcing back tears.

“I JUST SCORED A TOUCHDOWN!!!” I wailed internally. “AND LOOK HOW I’M BEING TREATED! IN FRONT OF EVERYONE!!”

But then I got really, really angry.

Because, wait a minute....you absolutely reward a dog for sitting. You give it treats.

And OTHER PEOPLE are happy when their players get touchdowns. There’s a whole joke about guys spanking other guys on the asses when they do that! Right??? Right!!!?

Jerk.

Thankfully, we didn’t get into the playoffs, and I was able to quit the team after the next game.

I learned two things from being in that league. One, I will never be on another flag football team ever again.

And two, I will always OVERLY reward dogs for sitting.

-Jenny

Vitamins and me

A few years ago, a friend of mine started taking St. John’s Wort to improve her mood.

It was actually working until she stumbled upon an article on the internet that said ST. JOHN’S WORT AFFECTS BIRTH CONTROL.

She freaked out.

THEY DON’T SAY THAT ON THE BOTTLE!!!! She screamed. BASTARDS!! (Uh, no pun intended).

She stopped taking them immediately and proceeded to walk around a nervous wreck until the...uh...end of the month.

And although she was (and still is) without child, THAT certainly didn't improve her mood.

St. John’s Wort fail.

...and that’s why I don’t take vitamins.

Ha. Just kidding mom. It was my FRIEND.

But no, I don’t take vitamins either. I never did.

Even the Flinstones vitamins that everyone loved as a kid I would hide under my plate at breakfast and my mom would yell at me when she cleared the table and saw them.

“You’re going to get osteoperosis,” she would say, and conjure up images of hunched over old ladies. “Is that what you want to look like?”

If the colorful cartoon vitamins didn’t entice me, the vomit-yellow drab looking multi-vitamins I was given in high school certainly didn’t win me over.

Those I also hid under my breakfast plate, only my mom would leave them there and they’d accompany my DINNER plate that evening, all sticky with humidity.

“It’s huge! It’s a HORSE PILL!” I wailed. “I can't swallow it!”

“Take it with bread,” my mom said.

I never did. Perhaps it was because vitamins were (no pun intended) shoved down my throat, I took a stand. I would never, ever take vitamins.

The times in high school that I did take vitamins at my mother’s insistence, I did so very dramatically and made a big display about how the vitamin was choking me on the way down my gullet.

In college, my mom sent me to the dorm with a pill bottle of “women’s” vitamins and they stayed on my shelf the whole year with the cotton still it in and everything.

But, now that I'm all grown up, I've decided that maybe vitamins could be helpful. And not just to improve my mood. Ha.

My first attempt at taking vitamins was a daily multi-vitamin that caught my eye by promising to help with my “metabolism” which I interpreted as “make you skinnier.”

I bought them and made a point to take them every day. I soon figured out their “skinny” secret: they made me want to throw up.

No, I don’t think that’s what Centrum meant by “metabolism,” but every morning that I took them (WHILE EATING A BREAKFAST BAR, YES, MOM, I TOOK THEM WITH FOOD), exactly seven minutes later, in the car on my way to work, I was overcome with nausea and my tongue got all swollen and thick and it was hard to swallow.

Have you ever felt this way? Spit refusing to go down??? Is this what throwing up is like?

(I wouldn’t know...you may remember, I’ve only thrown up three times in my life.)

God, it was the worst. Like clockwork, I’d get nauseous on the interstate. Once, I almost pulled to the side of the road to puke. THIS WAS NO ACCIDENT! THIS WAS THE VITAMINS' FAULT!

After four days of hell, I stopped taking them and haven’t felt that type of nausea since.

(I made sure to tell my mom that.)

Now, a year later, I’m trying something different.

I’m trying specific vitamins rather than a STUPID multi.

Because I’m not getting any younger people!!! And...I don’t want to be a hunched over old lady.

I have more confidence in the non-multis because I do remember taking garlic pills for a few weeks in college...I can’t remember why....wait, just Googled it....the “metabolism” promise again...bastards.

And they didn't make me nauseous!!! It was a miracle!!

But, alas, you CAN'T hide that body odor.

GARLICKY B-O.

P-U.

I’d rather have osteoporosis.

Yesterday, I brought my new diet book ("The six-pack abs diet" what what!!!) to the grocery store and read their vitamin recommendations. I was persuaded into buying Folic Acid and Beta Carotene vitamins.

Folic Acid because it helps block cancer (supposedly) and prevents Alzheimer’s (supposedly), and Beta Carotene because it gives you shiny hair and nails and teeth like a rabbit (definitely).

I took them both yesterday for the first time after dinner and I wasn’t nauseous at all.

ANOTHER MIRACLE!!

The best part? They don’t affect birth control.

(Whew.)

Ha.

-Jenny