by Jenn on February 22, 2012
For whatever reason, the manfriend and I were talking about the taste of paint balls and I felt compelled to one-up him with my perfume story. He probably thinks I’m ridiculous for believing this to be a blog-worthy topic, but I’m pretty sure “Bottle Up the Crazy” is really just an invitation to let the crazy hang loose.
I love body sprays and perfumes, but not to the extent that you can still smell me after I’ve left the room. I nurse a bottle of perfume for years because that stuff is expensive. Side note: Dove body spray is wonderfully inexpensive; now my body can smell like my underarms, only better.
I don’t know where I picked up this habit, but instead of spraying perfume on me I spray and leap into it like a fucking ballerina. (Yes mom, the f-word was necessary for dramatic effect.) If we ever share an apartment or hotel room and you see me run across the doorway, it’s probably because I’m pirouetting my way through a perfume cloud.
While I like to think that I’ve perfected my jeté, I apparently haven’t mastered facial control. Despite wearing glasses I still close my eyes to prevent stinging; however, I leave my mouth wide open as if I’m saying “jeté!” which results in the unfortunate sound of me spitting followed by “ack!”
Every. Time.
As if inhaling perfume every week wasn’t bad enough, I’m so respiratory challenged that when I blow out a candle, I immediately take a breath and inhale all of that candley-flavored smoke. My mouth tastes like burnt sea spray some times. Paint balls my ass.
by Jenn on February 14, 2012
Before the manfriend and I started dating again, we attended a friend’s wedding in Portland, Maine. This picture was taken last June when we stopped for dinner at a little lobster shack on the water. We didn’t know it then, but this napkin was a sign.
But regardless of whether it’s a romantic love or a love shared among friends and family, love is a non-negotiable. I’ve got a lot of love in my life and I’m grateful for my friends, family, and manfriend that constantly remind me of that.
There’s nothing you can know that isn’t known.
Nothing you can see that isn’t shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.
by Jenn on February 8, 2012
We didn’t break, we didn’t burn
We had to learn how to bend
without the world caving in
No one ever really has anything good to say about long distance relationships. I don’t blame them. But when you’re in one, you never want to hear horror stories or everything that’s awful about them. We’re in it. We know what the challenges are. We’re aware of the odds. Those nasty, nagging feelings you’re about to share with me? Chances are we’ve already felt them. This isn’t my first rodeo.
I’m by no means comparing the stress of a long distance relationship to the challenges of a disease, but if someone sick was venting to you, you wouldn’t reply with, “Well, you’re probably going to die.” (Unless you’re just a complete ass, in which case, you’re rude. Why are we friends?)
I hate long distance, and I hate that I hate it. The more I tell myself how much I hate it, the harder it becomes to feel good about it. It’s all about balance. Balancing the good with the bad, the distance with visits and extra conversations… I’m excellent when it comes to sharing the bad, so today I wanted to share something great.
The night before one of us travels to see the other is like Christmas Eve for me. There’s so much excitement and it’s difficult to sleep, but I don’t care because tomorrow night I will sleep so soundly next to the person I love. Most people only get to experience Christmas once a year, and I get the chance almost every month. (So suck it, nay-sayers!)
Maybe I’m in good spirits because today is my Christmas – I’m jumping on a plane to Seattle in a few hours. I know I’ll be whistling a sadder tune before my return flight on Sunday. Be real and be honest with me, but for now, and pretty much always, can you just keep your negativity to yourself? I have a bad habit of letting it out too. It’s like a determined puppy, and although you try to keep it confined to the kitchen, it still finds a way to knock over the gate and trash everything in its path.
by Jenn on February 3, 2012
I’ve decided to participate in February Photo a Day because one of my goals is to take more pictures. I think I’ve gotten better over the last year, but I still feel like I miss a lot of creative opportunities out of a ridiculous fear. Anyway, today’s prompt was “hands.” At first I was going to take a picture of my hand over my Pathology for Massage Therapists book, but I decided to share this instead:
I get a lot of questions about these tattoos. The other tattoos that I’ve shared with readers have had very personal stories attached to them, and while this one is a little different, I think the story behind it is beautiful and so I want to share it.
Unfortunately I’ve forgotten the author’s name. I first discovered this story back in 2001 on LiveJournal. I had a friend who wrote the most incredible short stories and poems and this was by far my favorite:
bullet (w)hole
Boy: I think that love is like a game of hide-and-seek.
You spend your time looking for someone and hiding from the people you don’t like until the right person comes along.
Girl: I think you’re wrong.
Boy: So what do you think love is like?
Girl: Love is like Russian roulette.
It’s the gun at your temple.
One bullet and the rest are blanks.
You pull the trigger, hear the gun shot, feel the recoil.
Boy: And?
Girl: It’s a blank – but you’re still waiting for the one who’s going to blow your mind.
Boy: So am I your bullet?
Girl: No, just another blank.
I got the tattoos after a really twisted (understatement of the decade) relationship. I guess in a way they were a reminder to not give up hope. I’m not sure if I believe in just one soulmate, but I really like the idea that there are people out there whose souls align more with mine than with others.
P.S. I wish I was better at taking pictures of my hands – my tattoos aren’t really aligned like that.
by Jenn on February 1, 2012
{via}
When I was younger, I had a book called “All About Me.” In it I could answer all sorts of questions, including how many teeth I had and how many steps I had to take to the nearest mailbox. (Really?) Years later, I still think about the “when I grow up” page because I changed my mind so often. I went from wanting to be a ballerina to a veterinarian to a Power Ranger and finally lawyer. Despite my fondness for animals and ability to quote early Power Rangers episodes, I am none of those.
I know your twenties are a time for you to reflect who you are at the moment and who you want to be. It’s a transitional and transformative period that often leads people to do crazy things like quit their jobs, move to another country, or dye their hair pink.
And I know that I’m only 27, but I don’t feel any closer to knowing who I am than when I was 21. (I paused for a long time after writing the previous sentence because I do know more about myself than I did six years ago, but not enough to honestly say that I have an accurate idea of who I am and what I want.)
Sometimes I feel like a fifth-year college student that hasn’t decided on a major yet. Everyone around me seems to have something: they’re taking risks, landing their dream jobs, getting married, and settling into their lives. I feel like I’m floating through life, bumping into everything and never quite sticking.
Even something so small like blogging is giving me grief. Four years ago it was okay to call yourself a personal blogger, but now everyone seems to have found a niche. And that’s great because I love watching my bloggy pals transform and I’m constantly learning from them. But some days I sit in front of my computer feeling an incredible urge to share something and never type a single word. I have no clue what to say.
I feel like I’m waiting for something… inspiration, love, direction… I don’t quite know what it is, and while I welcome uncertainty from time to time, I’d kind of like to be on a path of some sort.
Hello, Universe? I’m listening.
