humor

A Random Update From My Bed

February 20, 2016

As you can see from the picture, I’ve got a LOT of choices surrounding me from my (horizontal) perch in my beloved bed on a Saturday morning — and for some strange reason — I’ve decided to write a post when I have literally nothing to say. Full disclosure: it is 8:55 am. I’ve just finished my latte, and I’m wishing someone would appear with another one, and…

Stop judging me. I know you are.

I’ve paid my weekend morning dues! My kids are almost grown. Dave is working out while I sit in bed with my really skinny dog. Just let me enjoy this.

Yesterday, I made bread for one of my Auction clients (damn you, Joel Landskroener. I hope someday Joel googles his own name and finds this post. That would almost make up for the fact that HE is the REASON I bake my fool head off every month during winter.)

Cheerfully. I’m a cheerful giver.

Each one must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. ~2 Corinthians 9:7

Well, yesterday I wasn’t, but don’t tell anyone. Only God knows! And, well, I guess you know now, too… Anyway, I was trying to update my bread videos on YouTube and instead of taking a few hours of time, it took me all damn day. I haven’t made a video in… like. I don’t even know….

I just looked on YouTube: 6 years.

That’s all? My gosh. I feel like it’s been ten. Huh. But then, I told someone it took us 25 minutes to get someplace yesterday and Dave called me on it and I argued, bringing it down to 20 minutes, and he timed it on the way home and it was 16, so I guess it’s confirmed: I have no holy clue about time or anything else.

Anyway.

My videos on YouTube are outdated. I’ve made several recipe modifications and when I tell people to use my videos (to save myself the time of spending an entire day teaching them, when I know they will never actually make the bread, love them though I do… I mean really. Go. Watch. The. Video.) I want to make sure that I’m giving them my BEST self. My BEST effort.

Honestly, it’s also because I’m a little sensitive to some of the ridiculously dumb things on those old videos. Like, for example, the phase I went through when I used a loaf pan filled with nuts and bolts and chains in the bottom of the oven and poured water over that to create steam. What the hell was I even thinking?

Or storing the bread under the sink on top of the compost bucket and chicken scraps.
Or letting the ciabatta dough blow the lid off the container because I forgot about it.

Plus, there are all these comments like: “galvanized metal creates toxic fumes that will… blah, blah blah…” “Proofing your bread inside a Gap bag is toxic…” Have you ever spent any time actually reading YouTube comments? These people… they do exist. And they are mean and crazy and have a lot of time on their hands.

But oh my gosh the work involved in making video. And honestly. What happens if I go viral? Am I really ready for YouTube stardom? Think about that. Really think:

…I’d be like on the Today show as one of the most random YouTubers ever born and they’d be interviewing me and then I’d have my own show… And a, of course, a couple books… And I’d totally change. Just like The Pioneer Woman. When we all went from loving her to hating her.

And here’s the thing: poor Ree! She didn’t do anything wrong! People just love her too much, so she’s flippin’ everywhere! She hasn’t changed! She’s still the same dripping-with-kindness person she always was! But now, we love to be all snarky and judgey, hating her!

Or is that only me and my mini-me, Morgan?

It doesn’t matter. I just don’t want that for myself. No siree. Same goes for the PowerBall. No thank you.

[You guys know I’m kidding, right? (no, no, not about Ree. I really cannot take her. She’s way too nice.) Well and not about the PowerBall, either. That’s a whole other topic. But about stardom… oh never mind.]

Back to the videos.

It took me about an hour to figure out how I would even film the bread-making. I literally have no idea how I did it six years ago. This time around, I was using my phone. Then I kept running out of phone space (Mantra: buy more space than you think you will ever need!), having to go to my office, download the video, erase the phone video and run back to the ciabatta that was oozing all over the damn place.

Then the Frontier Communications guy showed up with no warning in the middle of… I don’t even remember what.

Why, you ask? Because I made my very first Better Business Bureau complaint against them due to “contractual failure.” –And they showed up out of the blue to basically test my internet (for like the bazillionth time) and tell me — honestly, for once — that there are over 50 DSL lines connected to my area’s 35 megabyte service line. Do your math, people. If each of those 50 users have the same 3MB download speed that I am supposed to have, and every user was on at once, that requires 150MB. We have 35MB. BUT: I learned that not every user has the same 3MB that I am limited to (and rarely enjoy). No: I found out that many users have 6MG and 12MB service. One guy even has 24MB! That means that if that 24MB joker is online and gaming, there is only 11 MB left for the other 49 users. OMG. No wonder our internet stalls out, like every damn hour of every damn day! And yet, Frontier keeps selling the service out here, despite knowing they are way over-subscribed and can rarely meet their minimum service obligation. It is wrong!

*pant, pant* I digress. Many apologies. But seriously, if you live in the area, email or call the local office and ask for Ron Winebarger (or email Ron.Winebarger@FTR.com) and complain! They are flirting with the idea of fiber out here and the squeaky wheel gets the grease. Ron already hates me, so I don’t even care if you use my name. Thank you in advance.

Holy cow. OK. That was a bit of a diversion, eh? So anyway, the Frontier guys shows up after I’ve already spent hours trying to film these three videos and —what?— now I’m supposed to stand there in my kitchen talking to a camera while I bake bread while he’s in the office? Like anyone would ever do that.

I have some pride, you know…

Actually I have a lot of pride. It’s my achilles heel and main Christian stumbling block. Again– fodder for another post.

So, this guy really screwed up my filming and I’m pretty sure the vids are now unusable.

But still I soldier on!

In the middle of shaping the Rosemary Cheese Boule, a client — who shall remain nameless — calls and the conversation was… so truly frustrating, I cannot even.

Like, am I that bad at explaining something? Am I crazy? Are you stupid? Should I just stop talking now?? Seriously. That bread in the oven has to come out and I have to film it and…

oh just forget the whole damn thing.

I’m sitting there in the office. The timer on the oven is going off. This woman is, like, saying I-don’t-even-know-what cuz I wasn’t listening to her anymore. Lola was doing her daily start-at-3:00-crying-fest-because-it’s-time-for-a-walk…

And did I even mention the part about the rain? The sheets and sheets of rain and wind that turned my daily walk route into a mud-zone/danger-thin-ice zone? Don’t even get me started. I was forced on to the out-and-back-wind-gusted-hated dirt-road-route with Lola, aka Cujo, the mean dog that makes walking in a public space very anxiety-inducing.

No, I don’t put her on a leash.

Yes, that would reduce anxiety.

Anyway, I developed an epic migraine, and by the time Dave came home I was just a real picnic. WELCOME HOME, DAVE! #poordave.

…I have these pork chops in the fridge that I should cook. He wanted to go out. That makes me feel like a bad wife/mom. #guiltridden

So we went out. [cuz I’m not stupid. ]

And now I’m sitting in bed realizing what a shallow and lame person I am. My armpits and feet are sweaty, which is always my signal to get up; I’ve lain in bed long enough.

Time to Seize the Day! Be a better person! Be productive! Be happy! Put on deodorant! Make another latte cuz clearly one is not going to magically appear!

And pray that the driveway isn’t as muddy as it was yesterday.

My Heightened Sense of Smell

July 3, 2015

Welcome to my writing office in Hayward, WI. Very tranquil.

We have arrived in Hayward for the 4th of July. It’s so nice to be up north, away from it all, in the North Woods, where they have… blazing fast internet and cable TV.

Ahhh.

I’m kidding.

Only partly.

Anyway.

Today, while ruminating on life, two things stood out as being worthy of dissection on these hallowed pages.

Life with a Heightened Sense of Smell, and
The Terrible State of Online Reviews.

I had to pick just one of these topics to write about, though, because I know what usually happens, and… I don’t have time to write a novella.

Life with a Heightened Sense of Smell

You could argue that, due to a few things about me, I am biologically superior to most other humans. While I still have my pinkie toes, I do not have any wisdom teeth. You can thank my dentist, the original Dr. Veker (not to be confused with his son, the current Dr. Veker), who, when I was about 16 years old, planted that oft-repeated phrase into my repertoire. Upon discovery that I do not harbor any lurking and evil wisdom teeth, he explained that, due to evolution, we no longer need wisdom teeth to grind our food, and since I did not have any, I was “biologically superior.”

I have taken that and run with it pretty much my whole life.

Recently, I have decided I have another tick-in-the-box compared to the normal human: my Heightened Sense of Smell. I capitalize it because it is a Real Thing. Something to be Taken Seriously. Plus, I prefer that name over the one I found online: hyperemia, which actually sounds like more of a curse.

But as I sit here and think about my Heightened Sense of Smell, I wonder if maybe it is a curse. Surely it will save my life — and those of whom I love — someday and I will thank my lucky stars — as should my loved ones — for such an evolutionary blessing. But for now, I find it often makes enemies out of friends when I say things like “What do I smell?” when I walk into their house. I certainly know my college roommates did not appreciate my Heightened Sense of Smell, but that’s just because I was the only one who could smell the cat poop in the plants and they did not like to be made aware of the fact that their adorable cat was pooping in the plants. The fact that, one day, my dog then ate the cat poop and subsequently barfed it up all over my very hungover roommate as she lay prone in bed, perhaps did not help matters.

Anyway.

The good news for these people is that they can do something about it. Like: get a new roommate or, avoid having me come inside of their houses.

My family does not have the luxury of disinviting me over. I think, if you asked her — and actually listened to her long-winded response — my mom might, amidst several unrelated tangents, admit to very much disliking this one-and-only-objectionable trait in me. Several years ago, after watching me turn my head this way and that, slightly angling my nose into the air and, well, let’s be honest, looking an awful lot like Lola when catching the scent of a dead animal to roll in, which was then followed by me dropping from my chair onto all fours — Shit. Again, like a dog… I never really thought about this that deeply — crawling around on my hands and knees, sniffing the ground — I swear to God this is true — finally and triumphantly announcing, “I found the smell! This rug reeks!”

I did some version of this dance over and over and over, year after year, finally graduating to simply sitting in my favorite chair, making terrible faces and stating the obvious: “Oh my GAWD. I don’t know HOW you can stand the smell in here. That rug just stinks. Don’t you smell it? It makes me sick. Can’t you smell it?”

[ Don’t let anyone tell you that writing isn’t therapeutic. I think I have learned some valuable insight into Life with Jennie today. — And I will attempt to make amends some time this weekend. I promise. ]

Suffice it to say, the rug no longer graces the living room in the cabin.

–Thank GOD.

And yes, I do feel a little bad about that.

But only a little.

Because seriously. Most likely, it was releasing terrible toxins into the air and by it’s removal, I have added precious years onto my aging parents lives.

You are welcome, mom.

Now lets talk about this weird broccoli smell I just noticed hovering around the entryway…

Mother’s Day Haul

May 12, 2015

I was stunned speechless by the card taped to my computer this morning:

And not because it’s a scary picture. Yes, I know that it is, but that’s not my point. It’s because it was a card from Charlie that I must have guilted him into creating last night by reminding him that he did nothing for me on Mother’s Day — I didn’t even get the back rub that he didn’t promise to give me but suggested that he *might*.

But here’s where it get’s interesting:

THIS IS FRICKEN’ GENUIS!

Front: Facebook profile since 2009 (actually it was since 2007). The face of JENMENKE.COM

Inside: Self-described Mac Geek Farm Girl, or should we say, Pioneer Woman No. 2, Jennifer Menke runs the ever popular tech/family/travel blog jenmenke.com Sporadically posting updates on events in her life, an example being the rare “Road Warrior” series chronicling their camping adventures, starting with the first post on August 13th 2012 and ending abruptly with the claim of losing the “Road Warrior Journal.” Likely story Jennifer Menke. But even with these drawbacks, Jen Menke seems to be an incredible character, dealing with her family: from the daughter refusing to come home, to her son writing day-late mother’s day cards. With this in mind, we can present Jen Menke with the award of…

This is writing that grabs me by my heartstrings! SARCASM! THIRD PERSON BRILLIANCE! (yes, plenty of spelling errors too, but give him a break, man. There are actually way less than normal.)

It made me want to write a blog post.

So here I am, five hours later, after deciding that I also had to update my theme to a responsive one, updating and changing all my widgets and ads, learned all the new rules about google search, feedburner and RSS feeds (should I go on?), all conducted with full knowledge that I have a marketing meeting in less than four hours and I’ve not written the copy I told the committee I would bring to the meeting.

So, no, nothing has changed in my life since I last regularly posted.

I have been tickling around the idea of a blog post for over a week now, when, while taking prom pictures, this girl:

Shouted out to me: “I love your blog!”

I laughed self deprecatingly. But really. Is it fair of me to let my fans down like I have? Honestly. Those marketing people can just WAIT.

Anyway, it’s anyone’s guess as to whether I really will write more after today. I just really could not believe that card Charlie gave me. It’s like he’s been lying to me all these years. How could he be both funny AND able to write a good card and I did not know this?

Anyway. Morgan gave me a great card too. What I’m most proud of in hers is that she has perfected that enviable style of penmanship that is both readable and not readable at the same time.

See what I mean? It’s like the fake handwriting I did when I was 5, only I can read it perfectly. She’s perfectly brilliant. (Even if she is a “dirty hippy” “flaming liberal”) –Her words, not mine.

So, now I really must go. I just got this lovely text string in a fit of dirty-hippy-flaming-liberal-hysteria:

Proofing papers takes precedence over blog writing and marketing meetings. I just wish someone would proof my blog posts for redundancy and fluff.

Gotta go, signed:

Why is Everyone Getting So Fat?

March 5, 2014

You all think it’s fast food and all the processed crap we eat, don’t you?

Well it’s not.

It’s stretch denim.

Look closely: this is not stretch denim. If it was, she could button those jeans, and gain another 10 no problem.

Stretch denim is the reason everyone in the world is getting fat. If there is an island in Indonesia that hasn’t gotten fat yet, it’s because they still don’t have stretch denim over there.

Stick with me here.

Back in the olden days — the Shrink to Fit Levi 501 Button Fly days for me — denim was denim. You bought a pair of jeans and you wore them until they wore out. Either that, or you got fat and grew out of them. There was Pre-Washed, Acid Washed, Unwashed, Stone Washed and others. But there was no Stretch. If your jeans were tight — and you cared — you backed off on the Salt and Vinegar potato chips.

Wait. They didn’t have those then either.

OK. So, you backed off on the Chicken in a Biskit crackers. Or the Bacon Double Cheeseburgers at Burger King — because they were the only drive thru open after the bars closed.

You backed off until your jeans fit again. Simple as that.

In fact, that has been my mantra for maintaining my weight since my 20’s. I considered it the best advice I ever gave to Morgan as she headed off for college this fall:

Rule #1: Wear your jeans (and not those stupid yoga pants) at least 2x a week for the whole day. Do that and you won’t gain weight.

Actually the conversation took a decidedly different turn than that. I thought that’s what I said, but what she heard was this:

If you gain weight I’m not buying you any more food. You’ll have to buy all your food yourself.

What I actually said was this:

If you gain weight, I’m not buying you new jeans. You’ll have to buy new jeans yourself.

There’s a difference, people. It might still be abusive, but there is a difference.

So imagine my surprise this February when it was me who gained all the weight. What the Hell? I’m wearing my jeans twice a week, just like always! Why does the scale say I’ve gained so much weight?! I pulled out the antique Levi 501’s and holy Hell, they were agonizingly tight.

No wonder Morgan doesn’t listen to anything I say.

The culprit, my friends, is stretch denim. J Brand, Lucky, American Eagle, Red Engine. You name it. I challenge you to find non-stretch denim anywhere anymore.

And here’s an illustration: I can wear a size 10 American Eagle skinny jean and it looks, eh… just fine. And I can wear a fricken size 2 American Eagle skinny jean and it looks, eh… a little tight but just fine. OK, OK, it doesn’t look fine. Skinny jeans in and of themselves are hideous. Nothing like accentuating your big fat thighs coming down to ankles the size of pins. But you know what I mean.

Because they s-t-r-e-t-c-h to accommodate your girth, be it your belly, your thighs, you butt. Whatever. Even your ankles, if you happen to be well endowed below the knee — which I am not, but think it might actually help to make skinny jeans look less freakishly light-bulb shaped…

Anyway.

This isn’t rocket science. Get rid of the stretch denim and you’ve solved the obesity problem.

Check that box and send me to the next world issue. Give me another 8 months to write a blog post, but I’ll be back with an answer.

Pinky swear.

Murder at the Menke’s. A Cat-astrophe!

March 16, 2012

I needn’t belabor nature’s harsh pecking order. You know it, I know it. We can choose to close our eyes to the gore, to the unflinching honesty of it all. We can TURN THE CHANNEL. QUICK. TURN THE CHANNEL, dammit!

Why men love to linger, while surfing channels to utter distraction, on the bucolic scene of baby quail bobbing along behind their mother, is beyond me. YOU KNOW THEY ARE GOING TO DIE! TURN THE CHANNEL!

And yet.

They don’t.

So, we are forced to either watch or get up and leave.

Recently, I’ve noticed that Dave isn’t even accidentally watching nature shows – he is actively seeking them out on YouTube. He even laughs sometimes and says, “Here, you gotta watch this.” And I’m like, “No, I don’t. I don’t need to.”

“It’s funny. Watch it.”

And I proceed to watch a Rhino peacefully grazing alongside a couple of wild boars, suddenly scoop one of the boars up with his tusk, goring him. He flies high, high into the air and lands on flat his back from a height of about 15 feet. And the movie cuts out.

“What happened? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. It’s that funny? Rhinos are tough.”

And I’m left to wonder: is he dead? Is he suffering? Why did the Rhino do that? Why did the movie cut out? That poor wild boar…

It affects the rest of my day. Or the rest of my night. I have thought of that wild boar often since then…

Until I had something new to consume that space in my brain. If there was ever a misguided thought that cats are adorable, cuddly pets to be simply loved and protected, think again. They are the domesticated animal equivalent of the homicidal sociopath. The killer no one ever suspects. “He was always our nicest neighbor. Always helpful and kind.” …while he quietly racked up heads in his basement.

Cats are like that. You lull yourself into thinking, “not my cat” only to walk into a scene like this:

A murder scene.

For, no other description fits.

This wasn’t a cat eating a bird.

This was a death scene. This blood spattered high on the wall, the victim clearly pleading for his life.

I ask you: What in the Sam Hill was going on here?

Terror. Carnage. A miniature CSI scene.

What poor little — or not so little — animal met it’s end on Dave’s beautiful new garage floor?!

I think this one know’s and he isn’t talking.

Surprise!

February 29, 2012

What do you give the guy that has everything? No, that’s not quite right…

What do you give the guy who doesn’t want anything?

…No, that’s not quite right either. He always wants a jacket. He has a jacket fetish. We actually have an entire closet in our laundry room to house his collection.

But even a huge walk-in closet isn’t enough for him.

No.

For, this fall, he constructed a new area for a different ‘class’ of jackets. Oh, you know, hunting jackets and waders and stuff. Cuz, you know, they don’t belong in the main closet. Plus, Charlie’s airsoft stuff is in the closet (and the cat box) and, it’s just such a hassle to get in there…

So I guess I was exaggerating, as I am prone to do at times, when I say that Dave is a guy who wants nothing. Because, you know, I could buy him another fricken’ jacket.

But I refuse to do that.

Here’s why.

One time, several years ago, I decided to purchase a nice, lightweight soft-shell jacket for him for Christmas. I researched and researched. I agonized over color, and in the end chose a red Cloudveil. He loved it. He still loves it. I am serious when I say he really loves jackets.

Fast forward a few years to a yucky day that was windy and drizzly. Dave was complaining bitterly that he really lacked an appropriate jacket for the elements. To say I was agog would be too mild. I sputtered out, “What about the Cloudveil?” You know, the 3 oz, waterproof, windproof, nicely tailored, cool colored, superbly comfortable, ridiculously expensive Cloudveil?!

To which he responded with equal aghast — and I swear his face lost color — “That jacket is for skiing!”

You see, Dave has a dedicated jacket for every conceivable activity. And he never uses, say, a waterproof soft-shell jacket that he has earmarked for skiing about 10 times a year for, say, a rainy and windy drizzly saturday to watch soccer– which, I might add, he does far more than skiing. No, that requires a nicely tailored, lightweight, waterproof ‘out-around-the-town‘ type jacket. Which, sadly, he does not currently own.

Well, I refuse to feed his addiction.

Instead, I wrack my brain and ferret away any feasible gift idea that comes to mind. No matter the hassle or cost. For I, my friends, am a thoughtful gift giver. I do not shop from lists. No! I go above and beyond.

[And dammit, you better love it. –right Bennett?]

So, for Dave’s birthday this year, I gave him a new garage floor.

It wasn’t easy.

But I did it.

That’s just the kinda gal I am.

It was two days of sanding and sealing and keeping my dog away from their dog.

And when Dave came home from out of town and couldn’t open his garage door because I had disabled the opener (I thought of everything). He came in to check out what was wrong and saw his new, beautiful floor.

Surprise!

I thought he was going to start crying. He loved it. [Because I forgot to mention that he also has a garage floor fetish.] And to him, it was a thing of utter beauty.

He still doesn’t have that ‘out and around town’ jacket. But I might cave. I’m running out of ideas.

And money.

Do Me a Favor: Take Down your Christmas Decorations

January 29, 2012

Seriously people.

If I had more time, I’d go around at night snapping pictures of houses light up at night with multi-colored Christmas lights and decked-out Christmas trees in living room windows, googling their addresses and calling them out online.

I just don’t get it.

I know, I know: “I love Christmas. I hate when it’s over.” Blah, blah, blah. Some wait for the Epiphany. Fine. But that’s come and gone too. So do me a favor and take down your Christmas stuff. It’s time.

I know not everyone is like me, taking them down the day after Christmas. I’m not a bah humbugger; I do have a reason. We leave for Hayward after Christmas most years and coming back to the Christmas decorations is just a bad thing. I like the new year to come in cool, clean and clutter-free. The tree and all the accoutrements makes for a wonderfully cozy December mood. But the day the presents get opened, it’s over.

Out with the old.

In with the new.

Except…

I seem to have one small problem…

I just can’t seem…

to have the heart…

to take these another 4 steps…

to the trash!

But I’m getting closer.