I love...mittens.

Recently I bought a pair of mittens. These mittens:

As cute and soft as they appear in this picture, our relationship almost ended as quickly as it began. Let me explain...

The thing that originally pulled my attention their way was the "sale" tag hanging off of them at H&M. But the thing that made me pick them up and buy them was their cute, little, mitteny appearance.

The past few winters I've gone with regular gloves or fingerless gloves, so upon seeing them I thought to myself: "Hmm, it's been awhile since I've had mittens." Then I bought those little mittens and excitedly put them on as soon as I got in the car to drive home. I felt great! Just me and my new mittens.

As I started driving I went to change the radio station. But I couldn't. My fingers were all too close together to hit the right button on the radio. They were trapped. I was having a case of finger-claustrophobia! But I couldn't take the gloves off at that moment. I was driving. I was getting on the highway. I was merging! 10 & 2. 10 & 2!

Luckily it only took a few seconds for me to chill out. A song I liked came on the radio. My fingers were fine. They weren't suffocating, they were just bonding. They were warm and cozy.

I was wearing mittens. And I liked it.

I suggest you go out and buy yourself your own pair of mittens, then the next time we cross paths we can have a mitten high five! But for safety reasons you should probably wait until you get home to put them on and break them in. Maybe wear them while watching this scene from an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

"jfkfmkolkdjsmkl." -typed by my mitten-hands (translation: "The End.")

I love...my automobiles.

You know the ol' question: Which came first - ChaCha or Tootsie? Well the answer is simple: ChaCha did.

My first car was a silver Saturn named ChaCha. She was a lovely car, and yes - she was a "she". I bought her from the owner when she was only 1 year old, and on my first drive I had the windows down and was blasting the CD single "I Wanna Be Bad" by Willa Ford. Little did I know that ChaCha and I would be spending the next 11 years together.

ChaCha wasn't just any ordinary silver Saturn. She had a secret power...and that power was her magical third door! Yep, on the driver's side there was a half door that helped people to easily get in the back bucket seats. It was super fancy.

ChaCha and I got along very well for many years. She actually held herself together quite well until she was about 8 years old. That's when I think she couldn't hide it anymore. Aside from oil changes, tire rotations, and the occassional "fix whatever is making her service engine light come on", I hadn't done much else to her. That's why I think the garage I'd become a regular at was so stunned when they asked me the last time I'd had her tires changed and I answered 'Never'. Or the last time I got a new battery, 'Never.' They then took me outside to show me all the reasons I was in dire need of changing both of those,  plus a couple other things that were broken (this day would become known as the day I spent half a month's paycheck at the garage).

After that ChaCha was never quuuuiiiite right. Her engine light came on more regularly. Then it would go off for a couple days, then on for an hour, then off, then back on. I just started to ignore it. Then it would take a while for her to start when I turned the key. Then she stopped using her gas light to let me know when she was running low (because, much to my dad's dismay, I had started letting my gas get pretty low before filling up) - this resulted in a couple different "Can someone come get me and take me to a gas station" phone calls. She also stopped using her beeping alert to let me know if I opened the car door while the keys were still in the ignition - this resulted in the time I got locked out of my car.

But still I loved ChaCha. Even when the trunk started leaking - I took that as a challenge to see how little I could keep in there. Then when a hubcap fell off - I took that as the chance to test how I could park my car so that the missnig hubcap was never facing an office building or anywhere else I wouldn't want people to see that I had a missing hubcap. And when her CD player stopped working - I took that as a chance to break out some of my old casette tapes. Mainly, Michael Jackson's "Bad". Who's bad? ChaCha is bad.

It was a little under two months ago that I was driving into work and as I got on the I-90 bridge to pass over downtown ChaCha made a huge cracking noise and started puttering along. I willed her to make it to an exit, which she did. Then when I realized her powersteering had gone out, I willed her to let me turn her around the circular exit ramp. Then we pulled into a gas station. I called my dad. And I cried.

After a tow and a visit to my friendly gas station, they let me know her belt and a pulley had broken, and then ChaCha was fixed (kind of). Though it was scary, I knew that she wasn't trying to kill me that morning. No, I believe she was trying to tell me that she was tired. It was her way of saying "Jenny, please stop making the wheels on this car go round and round." And this time, I listened. A couple weeks later I stopped out at a car dealership and that same day I left ChaCha behind and drove off in my new little lady...Tootsie.

Tootsie is a silver Toyota Corolla. I thought of her name immediately: Tootsie coROLLa. Tootsie Roll! I have a stash of tootsie rolls in the car right now, which my mom supplied me with once I named her. So far we're getting along splendidly. Sure, there were some adjustments needed. I had to get used to the brakes immediately working when I barely tapped them. I'm sure my left arm will weaken as I won't have to manually roll my window up and down. And it's now officially time to get rid of my casette tapes as Tootsie can't play them. But all in all I think it was a good choice. I look forward to many years with her.

As for ChaCha, I imagine her out there in car heaven, rolling along with all the other cars, her service engine light blinking on and off, while she honks her horn and blares "I Wanna Be Bad" - just like when she was a carbaby.

I love...past homes.

They say: "Home is where the heart is". Sometimes I think it's nice to remember where your heart has been.

Yesterday I went to a friend's house for a late brunch. It was a lovely afternoon of wine, lasagna and cannoli, while myself and four girlfriends caught up on everything from backaches to boys to babies. My friend lives on the east side of town and while driving home I couldn't help but slow down as I passed my old apartment on Mayfield Road. I looked to see if anyone was out on the balcony or if the balcony was decorated or if there was an "I miss you, Jenny" sign hanging from the railing. It looked pretty quiet there though.

It got me to thinking about past living spaces - past homes - and how I can't help but be reminiscent when I'm near them.

Take this apartment on Mayfield, where I spent about four years of my life and met some of my best friends. It was there that I realized it was possible to miss central air as I spent several summers melting into my sofa. I cried in that apartment, I laughed in that apartment, I continued my non-cooking streak in that apartment. The back fire escape stairs are where I spent several weeks being terrorized by a mysterious raccoon who would climb up and down them while leaving trails of garbage behind him, until the day I actually saw him teetering on the tiny rung of a ladder to the roof and I nearly fell down the stairs as I tried to escape the situation. Sure, I've moved out of and moved on from that apartment, but my heart will always remember how it felt to live there.

Whenever I'm back at Bowling Green State University I of course feel a little reminiscent when I pass my old dorms and apartments. The memories of late nights, parties, new friends, walking back and forth to classes, and getting in trouble for being too loud while playing "would you rather" seem like both forever ago and just yesterday.

Then there is the first home that I lived in while growing up (well, officially it was my second home, but we moved in there before I was one year old, so I'll call it the first home I remember). It was in a development in Strongsville, Ohio, tucked back on a cul-de-sac. It was where I spent nearly 18 years of my life growing up with my two older sisters and my parents. I learned to walk in that house, I learned to ride my bike in front of that house. I decorated Christmas cookies and Easter eggs in that kitchen. I played Barbies and had countless sleepovers while staying up too late watching scary movies in that basement. We have family pictures standing in front of the fireplace in that living room and home movies on the back deck of everything from graduation days, to proms, to when my sisters and I just wanted to test out the new video camera after school. When we moved out of that house the summer after my first year in college I went into my bedroom closet and drew a small heart with a little note as high as I could in one of the corners, with the hope that the new owners would never find it and there'd forever be a mark of me in that house. Since we moved, I still have reasons to drive through Strongsville and when I do I try to allow some extra time to drive by that old house. It's now been painted blue (used to be tan) and the wooden tree fences that used to line the edge of the driveway have been ripped up (which our friends hated when they first got their licenses and had to carefully back out of the driveway) and I know that most of the neighbors I grew up with have since left as well. But even with those changes it still feels the same when I'm in front of it. It still feels like the place that my parents, sisters and I grew into our family and it's still the place where I started on the path to become who I am today. I imagine my little drawing still intact in the closet as if saying "Jenny's heart was here".

As I type this I am sitting on the balcony of my current apartment - my current home. Years from now I'm sure I'll pass by here and remember the stories of what happened in my life while I lived here. And now I'll remember this moment of sitting on my balcony remembering all my past homes - all the places my heart has been.

I love...thunderstorms & donuts.

There was a thunderstorm early this morning, which made it one of those mornings that you just want to stay in bed, cuddled up under the covers, listening to the thunder and rain. That is probably why I slept through my alarm clock and woke up 20 minutes before I was supposed to be at work. The thunderstorm must have inspired me though, because I was fast as lightning in getting ready.

Coffee - brewing.
Hair - up.
Contacts - in.
Teeth - brushed.
Clothes - on.
Make-up - applied.

Breakfast - well, there was no time for breakfast. Upon a quick inventory of my cupboard and food items that could be easily transported, I decided to throw a rice cake in my bag. Then I grabbed my coffee, double checked that I was fully clothed, and ran out the door. On my quick drive into work I kept looking at my bag and that rice cake taunted me at every glance: "You're still going to be hungry after you eat me!"

I finally made it to my office and walked down the hall saying good morning to my co-workers. Then one of them stopped me and said the sweetest words I'd heard so far today: "Jason brought donuts." Boom. Breakfast was served.

Sure, donuts were one of the key factors in my freshman fif-idon'twanttotalkaboutit-teen after I found a little donut station in my dorm's cafeteria and started eating them on a regular basis. But since then I've learned a valuable donut lesson: Donuts in moderation...sweet, sweet moderation.

So I had one...and a half. Okay, one and two halves.

Now I'd like to thank the thunderstorm for making me so late that I couldn't eat breakfast at home and instead could have surprise donuts at work.

I'd also like to apologize to the rice cake, which will now be spending the rest of the day in my bag.

I love...mysteries.

Did you know that some of life's greatest mysteries have been solved over weekends of wine, art, and food? Don't research this statement, just trust me that it's true*. I spent this past weekend with my friends Rachel and Jackie, who I've known since college, and we enjoyed wine, art, and food while contemplating our own weekend mysteries. We didn't necessarily solve each mystery so much as I "Jenny-solved" them, which means I made up my own answers to the following:


The Mystery of the Missing Wrap
Saturday we went to lunch at Flannery's on East 4th and I announced I would be ordering the BBQ chicken wrap. However as Jackie looked over the menu she broke the bad news that there were no wraps. I double checked and then asked the server. She confirmed they did not sell wraps and she didn't think they ever had. Just as my friends were about to file me away under "crazy" I knew that I had one more chance to solve this missing wrap mystery, so I texted my friend Lindsay, who is a Flannery's pro. She responded immediately and confirmed that they had indeed sold wraps, four different kinds in fact. But still there were no wraps to be had that day, so my mind completely frazzled I reverted back to my high school self and got the chicken fingers...with BBQ sauce. It was discovered during our lunch that our server was somewhat new to Flannery's - ah ha! That's why she wasn't aware of their lack of wraps.
Mystery Jenny-solved.

The Mystery of the Collar

After lunch we moved on to the Art Museum to see the Rembrandt exhibit. The pieces were amazing. While looking them over we pondered the purpose of the large white collars worn in some of them. Rachel suggested the collar represented a high status. I suggested it was to keep food from falling on the person's clothes. Then I decided that we were both correct and perhaps the higher your status the more important it was to keep food off your clothes...hence, the large collars.
Mystery Jenny-solved.

The Mystery of the Red Feather
As we ventured around to other parts of the museum, we ended up behind an older gentleman on the escalator. He was wearing a baseball cap that had a large red feather stuck out of the back. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. Why was it there? Did he know it was there? We crossed paths with him several times. He walked around slowly and would stand and look at some of the artwork for awhile. My mind started wandering about that random baseball cap feather! This is why you should stay tuned for my future short story "The Old Man & the Red Feather".
Mystery (soon to be) Jenny-solved.

The Mystery of the Mattress vs the Banana
After the museum we stopped in Little Italy for a glass of wine at La Dolce Vita and cannoli at Corbo's Bakery. Then we drove back to Rachel's house. Along the way Rachel pointed out a store where she'd bought her mattress. We started talking about how long a mattress is good for and whether that timing changes if you put the mattress in storage or sleep on it for the entire length of time. I said it probably only counted when you actually used the mattress and it wasn't like there was an expiration date on it. I used the opposite example of a banana, saying that a banana would go bad in a certain amount of time whether you used it or not. But by saying the phrase "use the banana" the whole topic of our conversation changed from whether you're able to use a banana vs. eat a banana, and it went down hill from there. So no mattress mystery was ever solved.

Mystery (almost) Jenny-solved.

The Mystery of the Woman Sprinting through the Aquarium
Sunday we had breakfast, got ourselves together and went to the Cleveland Aquarium. There were lots of cute fishies to see, the sharks were teethy (ah!), and I realized I might be slightly claustrophobic as I kept to a quick sprint when going through the enclosed tunnel tank thing.
Mystery (unfortunately) Jenny-solved.





Hope you were able to solve some weekend mysteries of your own! If you need any help let me know, perhaps I can Jenny-solve them for you.

*statement may not be true.

I love...polite road rage.

My drive home from work today was...frustrating. I started on my usual route, but some roads were closed and every turn I took turned out to be the wrong turn. And with every wrong turn there was traffic, traffic and more traffic.

Several years ago this would have been no problem. I used to be the person letting everyone merge, letting everyone turn and patiently waiting as the person in front of me scooted down the road at 5MPH.

But that all changed and somewhere along the line I developed a small case of road rage.


To be clear, I don't have the chasing people down the highway, running them off the road type of road rage. Mine is more of a "polite" road rage.




For example, I often catch myself yelling things like:

• "Share the road, please!" (when someone isn't letting me merge on the highway)
• "I'm not going to send you an invitation!" (when the person in the lane next to me with their blinker on isn't moving over as quickly as I would like)
• "Oh please, after you!" (sarcastically - when someone cuts me off)

Then there was the time I was driving my sister Lisa to Columbus to see our family. There we were on I-71 South, nice weather, no traffic, and the guy in the car behind me could not have been any closer to my car's bumper unless he was sitting on it. I watched him in my rear view, then looked away and chatted with Lisa. I looked again, he was still there. I was in the middle lane, the lanes on either side of me were wide open, what was he doing? Still, I remained calm. Lisa and I chatted about something that she then began to look up on Facebook. I looked again...he was still there! That's when I couldn't take anymore and I yelled: "What do you want, sir?!" Though the tone of my voice made Lisa look as though she wanted to jump out the car window, it was what I actually yelled that made us laugh till we cried. That went on for about five minutes, and somewhere in that time the guy behind me realized there was more than one lane on the highway and he passed me.

As for today's traffic situation, I managed to make it home while only dropping a few "P "& "S" words ("please" & "sir").

So the next time you're driving with me in traffic get ready to tip your hat or curtsy your butt off, because being frustrated doesn't mean you can't still be polite.