Author: approximately

Hip-Hip HAPPITY BLOGGO-VERSARY DAY!

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TODAY marks ONE YEAR of APPROXIMATELYES!

There is definitely a celebration in progress right now. I am actually stuffing my face with packing peanuts and licorice. It’s out of control. 
Here are a few snaps from earlier this morning:
Shit yeah! I am the QUEEN! Approximatelyes getting down with the cake, staying fly!
The party goods, minus the keg (on it’s way!!!!), Jell-O shots (in the fridge!!), and Grandma’s fruit soup (a HIT!!! *yOu Go GrAnDmA!!*)
And of course, what *PaRtY~ is complete without…
Polished. Pristine. And totally ready for tonight’s PLaY*!
APPROXIMATELYES is 1 !!!!!
pARtY oN!!!

31 Things My Mom Taught Me

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1. I am your mom, and your dad is your dad.
2. Going to church doesn’t make you a better person, but singing in church does.
3. There is a reason why God put side mirrors on vehicles: to rip them off when pulling in or out of the garage.
4. You can never put too much pepper on your food, but you can put too much food on your pepper.
5. If you wear flip flops in the winter, you are an idiot.
6. You need no reason to give a cookie platter — and a recipient will never turn one down.
7. Thongs are not real underwear, just glamorized string.
8. Label, label, label. 
9. Expiration dates are only suggestions of when food should be consumed, and not mandatory.
10. There is really no need to use any noise above a whisper.
11. Dog is Mom’s best friend, and long walks and table scraps are in the contract. 
12. Always keep track of the time, but never be punctual.
13. A person can never receive too many cards in the mail…
14. …and they can never have too many stamps on them.
15. Put Velveeta cheese in anything, and it will taste good.
16. It is okay to answer the door without a bra on, as long as you make sure that your company knows it.
17. When returning from a shopping trip, never let Dad see the bags.
18. Giving buzz cuts to the males of the family is cheaper than any barber around, so long as they’re okay with a few nicks.
19. Caffeine after 7 p.m is absolutely unacceptable,
20. soda is Satan’s venom,
21. ice tea keeps your coat shiny.
22. Always brush your furry teeth at night, and again in the morning. Your breath is potentially fatal.
23. If I can’t sew it, you don’t need it (but I can sew anything).
24. Jeans make your mid-section look ginormous. Avoid them at all costs.
25. Keep current on everybody’s love lives — ev-ery-bod-y.
26. Encourage your children to date people that you like more than they do.
27. Grocery shopping is best done at midnight.
28. You can never have too many magazine subscriptions
29. Or seasonal decorations
30. Or gallons of milk
31. You are only the age that you feel
xo
jc 

OH NO you DI’INT (OH YES — yes, you DID)

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IT’S A GOOD THING I’VE STARTED WORKING AGAIN, and not solely for the sake of my pocketbook. It turns out that sleeping all day is a really crappy job that doesn’t provide a lick of conversation material.


FRIEND: Hey Jenny, what’d you do today?

ME: SLEPT. I slept. All day. I’ve been sleeping all day.

FRIEND: Oh really? That sucks. I worked, then went to lunch with my mom. Then I bought a lottery ticket and sure as shit, it was a winner! So we went to Denny’s to celebrate and who’s sitting there but Angelina Jolie. With some guy, he looked like Brad Pitts or whatever. They had about twelve kids with them, must have been babysitting or something. So she sees me and’s like, “Hey, you look snappy, watch my kids.” And I was all, “OK.” So I start on Monday I guess. I guess it pays well, but heck, I’m a millionaire. So how much’d you sleep?

ME: ALL DAY. I said all day.

FRIEND: Oh. That sucks. You prolly missed Grey’s.

My job is not cool. I don’t work as a video game consultant, lumberjack, window dresser, or any of those other things that well-connected professionals do for a living. All of those jobs present adequate amounts of danger and human interest, two things that most people love more their family pet. Not mine. What am I doing instead of chopping down trees (for good reason, of course) or saving whales? I’m working at the same Godforsaken restaurant I worked at when I was 16. And 17. And 18. And 20.

The place hasn’t changed a bit. They still have little notes hanging up that I wrote two years ago, the busboys are still lazy hornballs, the food still tastes like glorified cardboard. The only difference is it costs more, and instead of being the high-schooler, I am now the has-been. The old, crabby, and overqualified college student. You know — the bitch.

I am that girl. Yes, the one working at her high school job, that people secretly believe will someday be the manager of their high school job. This would be cool if I worked at Vogue or the White House, maybe even Burger King, but a shitty hotel restaurant is hardly reputable. When I go places and see people that I know still working after 5 or 6 years, I stop to ponder for a moment. What has kept them here for this long? I run down the list of things that would perpetually bound me to a place: free Wi-Fi, a chocolate fountain, optional uniforms, or an endless supply of well-inked pens. Assuming that the establishment doesn’t offer all — or any of these things (most don’t), I infer that they are either running a drug ring from the back office or sleeping with their manager, or in the case of some restaurant workers, have become dependent on particular foods, e.g. “Mongolian” (fancy word for disgusting) stir fry, in order for their bodies to function properly. Then I see the gravestone: Here lies Daniel J. McBuffet, King of the Royal Fork and Father of the Smorgasbord. Eternal rest, greasy soul… 

(I then trail off to think of an old boyfriend or a well-aged cheese I once had at a roadside shack in Wisconsin.)

Does it give me satisfaction to know that I can change a roll of credit card paper or ring up an order with my eyes closed? Yes. Do I take pride in knowing the the choices of potatoes and their substitutions? Of course. Am I cool? No. I wear a name tag and look pretty. I staple receipts and organize drawers. I make small talk with the men that work on the railroad. I eat a lot of food.

As far as I’m concerned, going back to this job makes me nothing but a hypocrite. A really cool, pathetic hypocrite (see this friendly note) and this update from the last time I worked in August.) Thankfully it is for just a few weeks, enough time to make a little scratch while I’m home and before I move the heck on to other restaurants I’d rather not work at. Yes, I realize I really need to get out of this food business, but the money you make is like crack! Nobody turns down some good crack. Nobody. (Unless, of course, you find better crack.)

If nothing else, I am getting some good conversation material out of this job. Jesus knows I love me some 16-year old bois talkin’ ’bout their souped-up ’99 Civics wit da bumpin’ speaks’ and ‘woofers, boiiiiii. Can’t resist me dem homies workin’ to pay a brotha back his 6 G’s, using complete sentences such as “Shut ‘yo ass!” WORD.

More lata, y’all. Work’s got me SPENT.

***^%#$%#@~~PEACE.~~@#$^%#***

XO
jc


05/365
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

Do I Know You?

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04/365
Originally uploaded by approximately_yes

Sunday: Before Monday, after Saturday, the only day of the week that God gives the us the “OK” to take a break. The day that my dad bellows church hymns through the house, and my mom makes scrambled eggs and buttery toast as we listen to Car Talk and the Thistle & Shamrock.

Sunday’s the day that my dog lay, like a furry, obese doormat, on any floor or fireplace ledge that doesn’t look hairy enough. It’s the day that I clean my closet and shuffle through my old belongings in an ongoing process of elimination. It’s the day that, no matter what month, there always seem to be 19 football games on 82 channels and everyone knows what’s going on but me.

I really dislike football. In all honesty and with all due respect, if it ceased to exist I wouldn’t be heartbroken in the least. I know that while maybe it’s not my “thing,” “I” do not account for the millions of people who actually understand the game. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there that don’t know — or care — how a camera or computer work, and that’s just fine by them. That’s how I feel about football, too. I just. Don’t. Care.

Then there’s my sister, now she’s something different. With all that she knows about sports, I am seriously questioning her gender. Maybe I am running with birds of different feathers, but I can’t say I know too many women that would rather root themselves in the couch in front of the TV on game day than, like, do ladylike things. Like. Like. Be a lady.  

But my sister — she’s serious. Not four seconds after the final note was sung at Mass this afternoon, she was turning to my brother asking if he saw such-and-such a game and if the (City, Animal) and the (City, Animal) were playing today. I’m sure it was the only thing going through her mind the entire service. “How many sacks did Macho McViking have this past season?” “With the (City, Animal)’s and the (City, Animal)’s records, I wonder if Johnny McPacker can pull off the win?” or “Better brush up on my trades / stats / records / players in jail!”

I love to hound her about this all the time. She’s got sarcastic wit, and often fires back with something twice as sassy. Today it was, “What, Jenny? You want me to start doing things that you do?”

She paused for a moment. I stared at her. “No.”

“You want me to start painting?”

“I don’t paint,” I corrected her.

“Fine,” she said, “you want me to start wearing berets?”

It fascinates me that my parents created two things so entirely contradicting. Here’s Heidi, watching football and eating pistachios off of her belly. Here’s Jenny, wearing berets. Oh, no! I don’t have a team, I don’t know the statistics, and I wear a cloth bean on my head. Apparently I am the enfant terrible.

Things I would rather do than watch football:
• Clean my shower. And sink. And toilet.
• Gnaw on a cauliflower ear. Not an ear of cauliflower — I said a cauliflower ear.
• (I can’t believe I just said that.)
• Watch garbage decompose
• Clip my toe nails
• Shovel the roof of my house…in my swimsuit.
• Break my collarbone playing Red Rover
• Immerse myself in a steaming pool of banana juice.

Alright. You get the point.

Happy Sunday trails — !
jc