My Life Is Like A Fruitcake

Until just now I didn’t realize that I harbored such a hatred towards fruit. Nor did I know that my life could be compared to one of the most loathed gifts/foods of the merriest holiday in the year. Thanks Josh.

The AIM conversation:
(With most of the stupid, miscellaneous crap and poor spelling weeded out…)

Janelle:
I want cereal.

Josh:
Aw, no cereal in the house?

Janelle:
Not usually. I'm simple and prefer Cornflakes or Cheerios.
They want Cheerios with every dried fruit imaginable.
Icky.
I detest fruit chunks in yogurt or cereal.

Josh:
Ha! Even raisins?

Janelle:
I haaaate raisins.
Love the bran, though.

Josh:
XD

Janelle:
Reading that over again makes me sound incredibly odd.

Josh:
That you love the bran?
You old bag.

Janelle:
D:
I am senile.
Stupid fruit.
I yell at fruit, not children with Frisbees.

Josh:
No, you yell at us too.

Janelle:
You are the fruits in the cake that is my life.

Well That's Encouraging...

I am religious with my music. Most everyday I go outside and walk for awhile with my tunes, I would go absolutely insane without the practice, seriously. I’ll brave snow storms and duct tape an antenna to my head if I have to. Even when I’m driving I’m either listening to the radio or plugged in with one of those righteous cassette adaptors.

Those who know me and have been equally unfortunate enough to drive with me, will at some point ask me why I sing along rather softly. I’m no Madonna, but I’m most certainly not Sanjaya either. Most of the time my excuse for cranking my music so loud, like the ignorant teenager I am, is so that people can’t hear me when I sing. In conjunction with that, if I give you the gift of not having to tolerate my singing, its considered courteous to return the favor. But hey, its not like I'm one of those wieners who are totally in the zone with their air drums at every red light.

For those fantasy rock stars I know, you’re not wieners. Just special.

However, there is no mercy for those who talk during good songs. If you try to start a deep conversation during Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird guitar solo, you will receive one Judo chop (or more, as necessary) to the throat.

A few days ago I was sitting in my room with Bagheera, playing music on my laptop. Assuming Lisa was still asleep and that my walls were thicker, I started to sing to ABBA’s Dancing Queen. Yes. Don’t judge.

Without warning, she burst into my room wide eyed, staring at me cautiously for a moment.

“Were you singing?”

“Uh… yes,” I pointed to my laptop “Dancing Queen.”

“Oh, okay. I thought you were chanting some Indian voodoo hex on my dog!” she laughed.

…

I don’t care how nice you claim my voice is, Steve, I’m not singing out loud again.

And I should hex that damn dog…

The Dog Known As "Furry Bastard."

After a series of events in my friend Lisa’s life, she trekked back up to our home state of Maine to live with my mom and me (When I’m not down in Florida with my boyfriend, Steve). Well, when she came up she was accompanied by a rabbit named Butterscotch and a bear (allegedly a dog) named Bagheera.

For the most part Bagheera is an aggressively friendly Lab/Chow mix. And probably a few other things as well, like gorilla. After he got over his very temporary shyness, he developed a habit of head butting my bedroom door wide open so he can look out the large windows, which have a wide view of the street.

For the most part, I don’t actually mind this habit of his. But when I’m trying to sleep at eight in the morning and the sun is just in the right spot, Bagheera takes it upon himself to not only make a loud entrance but to move my curtain so he can see outside, while I get blasted awake with beams of sunshine. And if my mother is leaving for work, he whimpers and cries for about ten minutes as he proceeds to run from the door and back into my room.

Alright. That’s not enough for me to want to barbeque him… yet.

I also happen to be a clean freak. While I do have a lot visually going on in my room, its neatly arranged clutter. Well, Bagheera has a bad case of dry skin and naturally, he tends to scratch himself a lot. Two days after vacuuming, the carpet in my room is showered with dander and riddled with clumps of black fur. This wouldn’t nearly bother me as much if he didn’t specifically barge into my room to sit in the middle of my floor and scratch for half an hour. I especially hate when he starts to lick or chew himself, the dog sounds like he’s snorkeling.

At this point, I’m thinking barbeque sauce would be a great addition.

Being a puppy, he has a bunch of curious habits. Now, when Bagheera happens to spot something outside of my window, he goes ballistic. Such as other dogs being walked or a cat tumbling down a snow bank after a McDonalds wrapper. However, there are those few occasions when a field mouse will get within a certain radius of the house, perhaps fart, and Bagheera feels very obligated to make sure we know too. At say, four in the morning.

Among his other habits include absolutely rank farts, running over my smaller dog on occasion, taking dumps the size of logs, vendettas with sweaters, obsessions with the rabbit, eating snow, licking random household objects, attempts to face plant food within his range, eating tree skirts (Ha, Merry Christmas), laying in doorways or hallways (the furry bastard is hard to see at night, we usually trip over him), and a personal goal to try knock everyone over like bowling pins.

He once even nipped our friend Bryan on the penis, with Zack off in the corner snickering at his friend writhing in pain. I caught him look upward and mouth “Thank you.”

Despite the long list of questionable mannerisms, he is a decently good dog. Especially when I close my door all the way and hear him thump his head against it to no avail.

Those Special Moments.

When I first linked this blog to my friend Josh, he asked me if by daily I was going to update regularly and look for instances in which to be humorous. I told him that by no means do I have any sort of routine and that those moments really seem to find me, I don’t need to provoke them.

Conversation via AIM:

Zack:
Waaaaah! Lisa and Marty are trying to get me to make a Facebook!
You gots to do something about this!
Come on, Janelle: I CHOOSE YOU!

(An Hour Later…)

Janelle:
Am I an ultra rare holofoil? ._.

Zack:
No! You fail for not preventing me from getting a damn Facebook! No cookie for you... bad Janelle! >.<

Janelle:
Janellezard sad. D:
Uhh. Add me? =)

I think I made my point...

Some Mannequins Are People Too...

My friend Lisa who works at Old Navy recently told me about the new mannequins the store had received. They were in fact a handful of complete, head to toe, ethnically diverse and age varying, over priced coat hangers. You may have already seen their socially cliché commercials or have been blessed in eluding them thus far.

Either way, I got a laugh from the fact that the local store had gotten their shipment early and had already assembled them and then decided to tactfully place them in their managers office before closing up. Well, it blew over a little bit, but did startle other employees. Cough, Lisa.

And how do mannequins who have eyes that watch you as walk by encourage people to shop at your store? And the women mannequins seem to have that dumb valley girl expression of “Oh, shiny!” plastered on their faces too. Creepy.

As we later floated around the mall area, we crossed an Abercrombie & Fitch store (or American Eagle, they’re all the same to me, honestly.) with its expensive doorway and huge photo of half naked man wearing one of their articles of clothing. Well, I noticed the mannequins right outside and saw they were only buff torsos on a poll and without a head.

I commented to Lisa and my mother about the irony. “Hey, that’s just what the store promotes. Doesn’t matter if you have a face, just buy our clothes and you‘re cool!” Expensive clothes, I might add. My mom seemed to have a good chuckle.

So oddly enough, I have a newfound respect for manikins with heads. Even if I do still attempt to put them compromising positions when I think no one is looking.

***I've been informed the store was actually a Hollister Co. Same Difference.

The Adventures of Segway Man.

Around Christmas time during a sit down at the mall food court and the drive home later, my friends and I got on the topic of how… interesting one of the mall security guards was, particularly for often being seen riding a Segway.

For those of you who missed the one or two news reports early into the new millennium, a Segway is a “two wheeled, self-balancing electric vehicle.” (quoted from Wikipedia.) Most of their use derives from working people in the police department, military or businesses with obnoxiously large warehouses. So if you see a perfectly healthy civilian who took the time to save up for one of these machines buzzing around, please, do clothes line them.

I got a particular charge from this social crucifixion because the unfortunate security guard at our mercy was the then fiancé (now husband) of my boyfriends ex-monster. So I relished at that, but felt a little bad for him at the same time. However, my amusement ultimately out weighed my sympathy by far.

The conversation between Josh, Zack, Bryan, Lisa and myself on the subject went loosely as following:

“Why does he wear a helmet? Seriously, Segways have a top speed of 5 ½ miles per hour…”

“Walking would seem more beneficial--at least for him anyways...” And the mall is decently small, in comparison to say most any of them. Its Maine for crying out loud.

“No, no, Segways have two speeds: a top speed of awesome and everything else is just slower awesome.”

“So what happens when awesome collides with a rail?”

“You laugh.”

“And would totally need a helmet.”

“Well, not necessarily for that. It may be for when he has to go into stores and forgets to duck.”

“Ha, you think the Segway would keep going without him?”

“I’d try and ride one up the escalator!”

“They are absolutely ridiculous and people who ride them look exactly that way. But if someone offered to let me ride one, with people pointing and laughing, I’d so do it.”

“You’d probably try to run those people over.”

“What about people who work at Disney? The staff that rides Segways don’t have to wear helmets.”

“That’s because the mall doesn’t profit from idiots who injure themselves, Disney probably does somehow--its friggin’ Disney.”

Zack, who commented earlier on Segways having a speed of awesome and that he would ride one regardless of its ridiculous nature said he wanted to go sit on Santa’s lap in the mall and ask him for a Segway. Upon seeing the security guard drive by he schemed to run over and drop kick him off the machine and cry out “My Christmas wishes have been realized!” and drive off with the security guard wheezing angrily behind him, despite Zack feeling reasonably justified to relieve him of it.

The conversation soon progressed into run away Segways, one wheeled Segways and pogo stilts.