Valentine’s Day gifts that sound lame but aren’t

I once had a roommate whose boyfriend of years and years got her an alarm clock for Valentine’s Day. 

They got into a big fight about it, haha, because not only is an alarm clock the least romantic gift, ever, but she already had a perfectly good alarm clock. 

No one needs two alarm clocks. (No one really even needs one alarm clock…thanks iPhone.)

Anyway. No alarm clocks. 

But that’s not to say that functional gifts for Valentine’s Day are lame. Not to me, anyway. 

Besides, I don’t think guys are normally good at picking out jewelry.

Below is a list of what I think are perfectly good Valentine’s Day gifts, things that she will use even when if you break up and be like, yea…Toby got this for me for Valentine’s Day….man, I miss that guy…

1.) Awesome sneaks. Sneakers are useful all the time and last for years, and she’ll think about you every time she pounds the pavement. 

If you want to spring for red or pink for Valentine’s Day, that’s even cuter. 

2.) Countertop dishwasher. You know what sucks more than not having a washer and dryer to wash clothes? Not having a dishwasher!  

And if you spend a lot of time at your significant other’s house, YOU've more than likely gotten stuck doing the dishes!  

Throw some money at the problem and get them a super cute tabletop dishwasher!!! This one is the cutest I’ve ever seen and attaches right into the sink spout:

3.) SCOOTER DAY!!! Living Social has a Groupon (New Orleans people) for $35 to rent a scooter for 24 hours and it comes with a helmet and basic insurance. I rented one a month or so ago, and it was the most exhilarating fun I’ve had outside of a roller coaster. Pack a lunch and scoot out somewhere far away because it’s like 300 miles to the gallon on those babies!!!! 

vroom vroom

4.) PAJAMAS. The warm kind, you know, the soft pants that are cashmere or whatever material they make North Face jackets out of. Throw in some socks, too, and your love will look forward to coming home every winter day and putting them on.  (I still have socks my mom gave me for Valentine’s Day years ago, they are my most regular article of clothing. THANKS MA)

5.) Board a bitch. Uhhhhh I mean a dog. A female dog. Give your pet-owning significant other a weekend or day-long boarding credit at a doggie daycare (I think they take those, yea?) and then you can just up-n-take off for the weekend or have a dog-free Mardi Gras and be like, “Yo, Fido’s taken care of babe. Happy Valentine’s Day.” 

6.) Luggage. Something in a size that will fit into your car but not allow her to pack up her entire closet. Fashion people like to call this a “weekender bag” even though that name makes me want to throw it out the window.

7.) A whole bunch of mason jars. This Southern glassware is perfect to drink anything out of and you can totally play up an accompanying card by saying you like the lip on it or something. Hahahaha 

8.) A juicer, along with seeds for a lemon or orange tree. Perhaps a strawberry bush.

9.) A star constellation map (at your local camping store) and a promise to point out each other’s "signs" at makout point, or you know, the lake. 

10.) The classic IOU notes.  The cheapest way to say I love you! I owe you a massage. I owe you dishwasher duty. I owe you a ride home when you’re out with your friends and drunk because cabs are really expensive. Ha. 

(That's honestly the only Google image for "IOU" I could find. So...odd.) 

Really, though, writing out your FEELINGS in any capacity is sweet and thoughtful and if a chick gives you a hard time about it, board that bitch.

Ha. 

Happy Valentine’s Day ya’ll! xoxo

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

I know it's Wednesday, but I was too busy doing this yesterday to post:

 HAPPY MARDI GRAS!!!!


Anyway. Back to business.

When I sort of kind of tried meeting people online (ugh), I met a guy who told me he was a moderator for the online dating site.

"A moderator? What does that mean?" I asked.

"I see things people write that are rude and were 'flagged'," he said. "Some of them are pretty ridiculous."

"Hey, you think you can email me that?" I asked.

(He doesn't know about Toolbag Tuesday.)

"Sure," he said.

I never talked to him again after our date (he was kind of a dork....and a moderator) but he came through on his promise to email me the "flagged" messages. Below are actual NOT EDITED messages from dudes on a local dating website.

(Ed note: HAHAHAHAHAHA)

No, really...........get ready......


MAN_504: For a smart girl, you effuse an ignorant anti-Jewish liberalism that will be the downfall of all us Jews. No- I'm not a republican, though you still may not get me because of your inability to see outside the box of your parental alienation.

***

GUY1187 Your so proud of your lack of any type of Jewish spiritualism, even though that 's where most of the world's spiritualism originates from.
I really doubt you'll reply, and if you do it will probably be in the extreme negative- this is why most people don't go into discourses online and merely wink at profiles. Who has time to write to each person that is encountered online?
Meditation is not spiritual- it is the selfish act of mind quieting. As an adamant Taurus, by definition you are full of BS, and I'm calling you on it.
Shalom (from a real doctor)

****

IMCOOL1234: I want to lick your ass so bad. U are gorgeous.

****

MISTEROkcupid: you should totally message me back i use a cock pump daily so you know what that means right?

(Ed note: HAHAHAHAHAHA)

LadyPants No. What does that mean?

MISTEROkcupid: I can pump my cock up to a big size when ever I want Hun. So what do you say to that

LadyPants: Is that your first message to every girl on here or is there something in my profile that made you think that would appeal to me?

********************

WestCoastGuy: You are too old to be prancing around in bumble bee outfityt. Your eggs are drying up. Not to mention your opportunities for finding a relationship are quickly closing. You need to decide. you still want to fuck around like you are still 21.


*********************************

LoveMeLoveYou: YOU ARE SUCH A DARLING...I can be your little secret if you ever need a fuck buddy, one time fling, NSA, short/long term, casual sex or whatever you need and I am someone to be very discreet if you need this...I am a 45 year old white male here...I had a vasectomy in the past, but I know you know that it can be medically reversed.

********************************

ED NOTE: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA 

-Jenny

Reasons my mom is cooler than I am

                          Mom and Dad...Mardi Gras...last year.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!!!

I’m not going to tell you how old my mom is today (duh…I’d still like Christmas presents) but I WILL say that our generations are very different.

Different in that I’m super jealous of her generation.

Apparently, in a mythical land called the United States in the 1960s, a brand new Volkswagen Beetle cost $400 and rent in the French Quarter was $50 a month.

!!!!!!!

I can’t even buy groceries for $50.

One of the cool things about having parents who are a generation (or two) older, is that the stories about their lives are positively baffling in today’s overhyped, overconnected, built-out, THREAT LEVEL ORANGE world.

For example, when I studied abroad in Spain in college, I visited Barcelona (“Bar-th-lona”) and my mom suggested I take “about five euros” and visit this little island she had visited when she was backpacking through Europe…in the 60s.

“We slept in caves!” my mom said. Badass.

“Where is this mysterious island?” I asked.

“Oh, No one knows about it!” she said. “It’s this beautiful little island….called IBIEZA. You just pay a fisherman to boat you on over there."

“IBIEZA??? IBIEZA IS LIKE $800 a night, with yachts and celebrities and where supermodels detox,” I said, referencing my US Weekly.

“Really?!!!?” she said genuinely shocked. “No kidding!”

“Really. A plane ticket alone is a few hundred dollars. I don’t think I can just pay any old fisherman to drop me off at a cave anymore.”

“Oh well that’s too bad,” she said.

Dammit.

My mom is cooler than me.

Studying abroad in Spain is when I first learned this, when I was given a host of advice from my mom – well, both my parents, really – that made my travels seem PG.

“Don’t sit in the back of the bus - that’s where farmers sit with their sheeps and goats,” my mom said.

"And it smells bad," my dad offered.

WHERE WERE YA'LL BACKPACKING??? I asked, jealous.

"We were hitchiking," she said.

My mom has lots of other traveling stories that are pretty unbelievable.

She was once in a car that FLIPPED over on a winding road over a cliff and the car fell upside down into a tree (!!!!) Everyone was dangling by their seatbelts wondering what to do when my mom said the Beatles song, “Let it Be” came on the radio.

Someone should really work that into a movie.

My mom is also cooler than me in the pets department.

When she was my age, she had a saltwater fish tank with oozing, inky creatures inside it that a family friend would put a towel over sometimes because it “grossed her out.”

I can’t even make a plant bloom.

She once had a goldfish live nine years!!!! NINE!!! (Until my brother, age 4, decided to feed the fish the entire container of food and it, uh, ate itself to death.)

She also adopted a full-grown Great Dane when we were toddlers. We named him Smile and we would flop on him when he laid on the ground. My mom remembers that he was careful to not step on us when he got up.

My mom was a teacher for a really, really, really long time and managed to inspire her civics class to properly protest something (the principal was not amused.)

My mom moved to New Orleans from New York in the 1960s after visiting ONCE. She drove down in a semi-busted car with a gas card that no one accepted in the South. 

She promptly moved to the French Quarter above a little grocery store and started playing the stand-up bass in a band, dancing the night away in the quarter. (She can still play the spoons….on your head.)

She can also juggle really well, and that’s a good hidden talent.

My mom’s friend, who visited her in New Orleans in the 1960s, said she woke up one night late to my mom entertaining people in her living room by juggling fruit. 

Apparently, she had been bragging about these skills and needed to prove it.

“There was fruit splattered everywhere!” my mom’s friend laughed. Everyone was laughing.

But aside from all that, my mom made change happen. 

Literally. The world would be different if she hadn’t existed. (Woooooah, is that the meaning of life????)

My mom singlehandedly started a neighborhood watch in our neighborhood that made it safe to walk down during the day. 

Through that, she managed to get our pot-holed street paved and improved home values and quality of life.

She also changed the dorm curfews when she went to Syracuse University. Hahahahaha

I don’t know why or how this happened, but I heard from very well-placed sources that my mom was the one who alerted the administration that they were adults and therefore didn’t need to be told what time to come home.

!!!!!YEA!!!!! 

(Sure, this change would have happened anyway, but it happened that particular year because of my mom.)

She taught her three children not to just sit there and let life hand you lemons, but to be proactive and take a stand on things you believe in.

Case in point: She moved out of the French Quarter and bought a house nearby when her landlord said she wasn’t allowed to hang a sign in favor of a particular candidate for city council. 

The landlord didn’t want that candidate to win and said since it was his property, she couldn’t hang the sign.

She retaliated by buying her own place and moving out.  

(The American dream?)

I have plenty more examples of how my mom is cooler than me: 

(she's taken yoga classes every week for 30+ years! She can speak Spanish fluently without even practicing! SHE WEIGHS LESS THAN ME)

But instead, I will leave you with this awesome dedication in a book about how she helped education in New Orleans:

AHHHH!!! MA, YOU’RE THE COOLEST!!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to practice my juggling.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

My friend Mallory just moved into a new apartment and everything was perfect except for the guy upstairs who PLAYED THE DRUMS EVERY NIGHT ABOVE HER BEDROOM.

Shudder.

Some of you may remember the stupid, horrible, no good, Clydesdale, club-footed upstairs neighbor I lived below for a year... who I wrote about here …and here…. 

...And those feelings are still very raw, so when I heard that Mallory's obnoxious upstairs neighbor was playing DRUMS every night, after midnight, I actually got physically angry for her.

But I didn’t know the whole story yet.

Mallory, who isn’t one for confrontation or bothering people, didn’t know what to do. 

She was the new tenant in the building and didn’t want to be a pain in the ass right away. But after a few days, she realized the CLANG CLANG CLANGING was making her bedroom uninhabitable.

So she did was any nice neighbor would do: She wrote a note and put it on his door.

It went something like, “Hey, I live below you and noticed that you play the drums very late at night. Is there a way you could not play drums late at night especially on a week night? I have class and work. Thanks, Mallory - Apartment B”

(P.S. That was a lot nicer than my note to my neighbor.)

But three days passed and Mallory still heard the drumming loud and clear. It didn’t stop at all. 

WHAT AN A-HOLE!!! And she even tried to be nice! But it seemed to get worse. She had to spend the night on the couch for TWO DAYS because of the noise and tried to figure out what to do next.

Another note! She thought. I’ll write him another note! 

This one was a bit more stern: “Hey, I have been sleeping on my couch for the past few nights because of your drumming. Can you please not do that? Mallory – Apartment B.”

Two weeks passed and there was still drumming. She was still sleeping on the couch.

Some nights the drumming stopped and Mallory had hope in humanity. But the next day it would start again. She was livid and delirious.

Finally, she called the landlord, gulping. She hated confrontation.

“Hey, I've been having a problem with the upstairs neighbor, he keeps playing the drums every night,” Mallory said. “It’s been going on now for almost three weeks. And I left him two notes.”

The landlord agreed that playing the drums was a legitimate complaint and said she’d call him and get it all straightened out.

YEA!!! Mallory smiled when she hung up. HERE I COME, BED!! 

When the drums were still going strong that night, Mallory prayed that it would be the last time she’d hear them.

The next day, her landlord called.

“He doesn’t play the drums,” the landlord said. “He doesn’t own drums.”

???

!!!

WHAT??

“What???” Mallory asked.

“Yea, he said he didn’t know what your notes were talking about…so I had my maintenance guy look around and it turns out it’s a broken heater. We’re getting someone to fix it ASAP.”

!!!!!!

????

A BROKEN HEATER???

A BROKEN HEATER THAT COULD HAVE BEEN FIXED THREE WEEKS AGO, HAD SHE KNOWN IT WASN’T A DRUM SET???

Why didn’t this guy write her a note back saying, "Hey, I don’t play the drums???? How hard would that have been??

She repeated in her head what the landlord had said: “He didn’t know what your notes were talking about…”

THEN WHY DIDN’T HE RESPOND?!!?? 
WITH A SIMPLE SENTENCE???!

I mean, her note said she was being forced to sleep on the couch because of the noise. Did he not think that was something she'd like to change???

His silence (uh no pun intended) was almost worse than him actually playing the drums. The very IDEA that this could have been handled three weeks ago with a simple note was infuriating.

Why do guys not respond to the mail? It wasn’t like this was a wedding invitation. This was HER LIFE.

haha

Mallory imagined her note, NO WAIT, BOTH NOTES, sitting on his counter, being ignored while she tossed and turned on the couch with a pillow over her head night after night.

 I bet if this guy had a girlfriend, SHE would have responded to the notes, Mallory thought.

Thankfully, within days, the heater was fixed and the “drumming” stopped.

And now she has a new nickname for the dude in apartment A(hole)

-Jenny

The Soup-er Bowl

I already went to the Superbowl last Thursday. It was delicious. 

This souperbowl, in typical New Orleans fashion, was a gumbo cookoff at a bar called Tracey’s uptown. Ten gumbos were put on a table and anyone at the bar could taste them and vote on first, second and third place.

Free gumbo! Ten free gumbos!

Man, I love gumbo.

(haha Chinese takeout rice. Just noticed that.)

The chefs’ identities were kept a secret; instead the post-it notes next to each pot simply listed the main ingredients, like rabbit or alligator. (Yea New Orleans!)

My favorite (Number 10) was the okra gumbo. I personally think all gumbo should have okra in it, but that’s the great thing about gumbo – so many variations.

There was chicken and sausage gumbo, seafood gumbo, tasso ham and crab gumbo, rabbit gumbo and SIX more lined up next to pots of rice.

mmmmmmm

“This is real gumbo, brah,” my friend Meredith said after tasting an alligator, rabbit and sausage one.

We imagined it was made in a small, rural town, hours away from New Orleans. The roux (roux!) was so dark and maroon, it looked like BBQ sauce.

It was hard coming up with the top three, well, no, coming up with third place.

I had a clear first and second place and everything else tied for my third favorite. I eventually voted for an alligator one, because that’s an impressive ingredient.

It was a nice little Thursday.

I hope you, too, find yourself surrounded by delicious food this Superbowl Sunday.

I will be going to a chili cookoff later, so I will technically have two souperbowls under my belt (literally! ha) before kickoff even happens.

Hahahahaha

HAPPY SUPERBOWL Y’ALL!!!

Bring a spoon.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

More than twice…uh…thrice, I’ve arrived at my apartment late at night, sleepy, hungry, having to pee and realized I didn’t have my key.

“Ughhhhh!” I'd wail, flopping onto the wicker chair on the porch.

Sometimes I’d (attempt to) climb through the front window. Other times I’d text my roommate about where she was. Sometimes I’d go back into my friends’ car and go to their house.

Once, I was so frustrated that I rattled the handle thinking it would somehow know me from a burglar and automatically open its doors, lovingly. 

“GOD...EFFING...D…!!!!” I yelled.

More frustrating than that, though, is being locked INSIDE an apartment whose doors are also not opening lovingly for you.

Did I say frustrating? I mean nightmare. 

This happened to my friend Michelle last week, all thanks to the DUMB GUY she was dating.

Mark, the dumb guy, had just moved into an apartment in a hipster part of town (“got to move in a week early! Yea!”) but it was a shithole. He and Michelle dated for several months and they would often stay over at her comfortable non-shithole.

For some reason, Mark wanted Michelle to sleep at his new place the very night he got the key, with no furniture and no toothpaste. Ugh.

She frowned. She wanted her place. And his was freezing. But as it got late, she said OK, fine, I’ll stay and they were actually having a nice time until Marc got a call from his friend asking to meet him at a bar.

The guy’s girlfriend had just dumped him and he was a mess. Michelle saw an opportunity.

“Why don’t I go home and you can come to my house afterwards because I live closer to the bar you need to go to,’” she offered.

And even though this was her SECOND verbal hesitation about staying over, Marc ignored it.

He said he really wanted to get comfortable staying at his new place; actually, he wanted BOTH of them to get comfortable at his new place so he told her to stay, that he’d be back in an hour.

Since they were newly dating, she wanted to be chill and all, so she told him goodnight and he left and locked the door.

The next thing she remembers is waking up with a start, as so happens when sleeping in a new place…alone….and she looked at the clock. Marc had been gone for FOUR hours.

Michelle called. No answer. Called again. Texted. Texted. Did he forget about her?? Was he in jail???

His phone didn’t go straight to voicemail and she saw that the texts she sent him were being marked as “delivered,” which was even more infuriating.  

So she decided to get dressed and drive home. She had work the next day and it was 3:30 in the morning.

That’s when she realized that the door was locked, and the only key was in his pocket. Michelle looked around the apartment for the first time from an escapee's point-of-view.

Security bars on all the windows. No key for the back door. She was trapped!!! Inside!!! It was a total nightmare.

And…HELLO! FIRE HAZARD!

I, personally, would not do very well in that situation considering how I felt about those Chilean miners a few years ago. I’d crack. I'd be so livid.

(P.S. WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO THEM?? WHAT HAPPENED TO THEIR MOVIE DEAL???)

Anyway. Back to Michelle.

She called and texted Marc again with the news that uh, she couldn’t leave his apartment, PLEASE CALL PLEASE COME BACK, but still nothing in reply. She then became very aware that it wasn’t a good neighborhood.

Crying and panicky, she stayed awake on alert plotting an emergency escape. 

How early was too early to call Pop-a-Lock?? Wait, does Pop-a-Lock free girlfriends from their boyfriend’s apartments??

She thought of calling the cops if he wasn’t home by the time she had to get up and go to work. Worst day of work ever when you spend the entire night awake on alert.

At 5:30 in the morning, Marc stumbled in, wasted. No apology.

No, he said he didn’t see her 34 phone calls or 15 text messages. He didn’t care about her state of mind. 

Instead of, "I'm so sorry I scared you so bad, how about some pancakes???" he just said, "Let's just go to sleep" and dismissed her suffering.

Then, he said, OMG: “I really want to get comfortable staying here.”

Comfortable!  Hahahahahahaa! 

That was the absolute last thing Michelle felt in his prison house.

On the bright side, after promptly leaving when she saw the open door, walking into her own place with her own key was the most satisfying feeling ever.

And then, after Marc refused to acknowledge ANY wrongdoing on his part: "I don't know why you wake up so often at night! You should have just gone back to sleep!" (UGH), dumping him was equally as satisfying.

-Jenny

‘Naughty parading

I’ve seen Mardi Gras parades from almost every angle. As a child, I watched from a wooden seat/bench attached to the top of a ladder with my dad standing behind it; in elementary school from balconies and porches at my parents’ friends’ parties. 

I’ve had front row view, a back row view. I’ve joined makeshift walking parades in the French Quarter. Last year, I even rode on a float on Mardi Gras day, the first time I’ve thrown beads, not waved for them.

This year I got a whole new perspective, which I thought was impossible after 29 years of parading. And it’s not even Mardi Gras day yet!

This year, I joined a dance krewe. The star-steppin Cosmonaughties!!! 

We’re cosmic…and naughty.

I had my dancing debut last Saturday night when we danced in between Mardi Gras floats for 7.1 miles down St. Charles Avenue, passing thousands and thousands of people, properly strutting our stuff. 

I don’t like being cliché (and especially not about Mardi Gras) but all I can say is that it was honestly the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

…Like, I can’t stop talking about it. Still, three days later. 

My poor friend Meredith had to put up with me all day Sunday randomly blurting out, “Oh! and then we saw THIS….!!!” All. Day. 

(It’s OK, I bought her beer.)

Aside from looking AWESOME dressed up in a blue, black and silver outfit and dancing (which I love more than most things in life), my favorite part was seeing Mardi Gras from that perspective.

People are cheering for you, but they don’t want beads. They just want you to do something cool or even just smile, like a celebrity. (MARY KATE??!!??)

Hundreds of thousands of eyes are on you during the parade, everywhere you look. 

And when you told all your friends that you would be in the back row, you got acquaintances of all walks of life suddenly calling your name, cheering. 

I saw work colleagues, high school friends, college friends, old co-workers, MY BOSS and my parents to name a few, sprinkled throughout the night. 

There were people on the sidelines who danced along to the music, people whose faces I couldn’t see behind cameras, people who went crazy screaming when we did even the most basic moves.

Because when 36 decked-out ladies are all doing something in sync, that’s something to marvel at. 

Seriousuly, we could have all walked down the street with our hands in the air like Cornholio (uh, late 90s joke) and that would have gotten claps and cheers.

But we did this instead.

I had the great fortune of standing behind a dancer who was dressed as the best astronaut ever, with silver metallic tights, silver metallic jacket, a blue metallic bandeau top (P.S., guys, this. is. a. bandeau. top. Ha). 

On top of that she wore a space helmet all lit up with LED lights and caught the attention of MANY a professional photographer. 

I stood right behind her and watched as she was followed for a good distance by a guy holding the most expensive video camera I’d ever seen, ducking down and making circular shots, talking on his headset to someone. (TMZ IS THAT YOU???)

He must have followed her for a straight two minutes. She just looked ahead and smiled like a professional…astronaut. 

“You’re going to be in, like, 14 documentaries!” I told her.

My other favorite part was that the four months of weekly practices (four months!) paid off. I like working towards a goal. And I had four friends who were on the team, so…bonus. 

I know it sounds like a lot, but four months is actually the right amount of time it takes people who are otherwise busy with their lives to learn six dances without being overwhelmed.

Each week, we would gather at a yoga studio or a house with a big living room and work on moves and counts and listen to really good music. It wasn’t work at all.

Also not work were the dance parties we had along the route. A PROPER DANCE PARTY IN THE STREET!!! Something probably banned in the Mid-West!!

See, during parades, there are times where you’re stopped and instead of doing a memorized routine, we all just let loose and went crazy high-energy dancing with each other, and with whoever wanted to join in. 

I distinctly remember the cutest little boy dancing with us in the street, he couldn’t have been more than six years old, literally raising the roof and smiling so big I gave him one of my blinking blue bracelets. 

And then wished I could adopt him.

Lastly, my other other, other favorite part was that we all got to pick our own blue, black and silver outfits.

To the moon and back!!!

Some other dance krewes in New Orleans wear the same outfits, which is fine and all, but being able to pick out your ensemble lets you show off your personality. And I think people put a lot more effort into their personalized outfits than they would if they had to wear, say, the same Discount Dance ordered thing.

(For example, if the only way I could stand out in a group dressed like po-boy sandwiches was to not wear a lettuce hat, I’d have less fun.)

For my outfit, I fashioned a Forever 29 21 skirt into a tube top, got leopard fishnets, a turquoise skirt and had my sewing genius friend make a tutu top I saw in a magazine and fell in love with. 

(I also had my brother buy me some sweet silver sneakers for Christmas and I liked thinking about him when I’d look down.)

So, yea, it was nice little Saturday. WHAT DID YOU DO??

I have a video below that my roommate took, that I believe captures the sprit of the street dance party, at least a little. (When my mom figures out how to upload a video I'll post that too.)

kisses, ya'll

I’m still waiting to find a clip of the astronaut dancer somewhere…in a documentary. 

If you see something like that, let me know. It could easily become my other, other, other, other, other favorite thing.

-Jenny