I See You Dancing in Your Car

Excuse me, sir? Yes, you in the Nissan that you purchased for its safety rating. I see you dancing. You seem so shocked. Sir, you are not in a club. You are in your car, in the daylight, by yourself, and I can see you. So can all the other cars driving alongside you. What? You are so embarrassed you are now hiding behind your sunshade?

It’s ok, man. I got you. I feel your flow. I, too, dance in my car. In my kitchen. In the grocery store. But that’s another story. I dance in my car because frankly, I don’t give a shit if you see me.

Sir, you and I may be very different, but I assure you our car dances started the same. A simple steering wheel drumming, perhaps a few head bobs. Some fidgeting with the dashboard, a couple channel changes. OH SHIT! THAT’S MY JAM! And by the first chorus, full-on dance face, body-contorting, seat-belt restrained dancing. It doesn’t even matter if you are a good dancer on da club floor or not; in the car, we all dance the same… and it ain’t pretty.

It’s OK!!! Here’s why…

IT IS SATISFYING! And not just to those of us that upper-body bop in our sedans, but pretty much to anyone that witnesses the seizure style car-thumping.

– It puts the average onlooker in a good mood. They either think you are hilarious to watch or they just feel your vibe and wish to adopt it.

– It helps a judgmental gawker fulfill their judging quota for the day. They think you are an asshole.

– It turns a peeper that is attracted to you on. They think you are hot shit.

– It perks up a sad surveyor. They are just glad they aren’t you.

So you see, those of us that dance in the car are really performing a community service. Our air drumming, hair-swinging, iPhone selfie-taking moves are doing the world a favor. To be fair, I don’t know if this reasoning will hold up in court, if say, your dance moves cause you to careen into another vehicle. Or even put a hole in your own garage.

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Princess Num-Num

I wanted a little snack just now. My belly said, “Make it good.” My belly can be so demanding. I went downstairs and threw a few ingredients in my Vitamix and in 45 seconds, I had homemade hummus that made grocery store brands want to throw themselves down the disposal. (This was amazing, considering the ingredients consisted of a crayon, celery and two mints from my purse.)

(Insert screeching tire sound…) Back it up. A few months back, a crappy, dumpy feeling me turned to a friend/personal trainer to help me better understand exercise, food, health – all things that confuse me. Other things that confuse me include Cody Simpson, plastic blow-up decorations and Rubik’s cubes.

My friend made me read a book. I liked the book. It promoted Vitamix blenders. I was all, “What’s that?” Amazon told me I needed one. I take Amazon very seriously. I happened upon a Vitamix demo while perusing Whole Foods. It confirmed; I needed one. Begging, pleading, saving, researching, bribing all ensued around me getting a Vitamix.

Recently, I got a Vitamix. Her name is Princess Num-Num and she is so beautiful.  I use her to make food. Then, I clean her and hug her and tell her I’ll see her again soon.

Princess Num-Num's first ride

Princess Num-Num’s first ride

She is not just a blender, so those of you that say that (Dad and husband, Jon) are seriously mistaken. She makes frozen desserts, hot soups (with only friction), smoothies, sauces, dressings, and so much more. She is a blender, food processor and happiness-infusion machine. Whatever ingredients I throw in her, I can almost hear her say, “Bitch, I got this,” which is exactly the kind of thing a regular Target blender will not say.

Long story, short… Princess Num-Num gives me yum-yum for my tum-tum. I’m 33 years old.

 

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I’m Back – Pretend You Care

Some of you may remember that years ago, I had this very popular blog entitled, “JennaFYI”. It had a huge following of about 10 people, mostly blood-related. So what happened to this really awesome blog? Well, I got knocked up. By my husband. Planned. Nine months later, I birthed a child and time for writing was as mythical as a two-headed unicorn. Duocorn as it may be.

So now, as said child approaches her third birthday (hold on while I cry for awhile), I’m back in action. And by that I mean that every few weeks or months or minutes, I may have time to post.

So join me if you will. Come aboard this wild ride called my blog. What will it be about? F&%$ if I know. But we’re in it together, my 2-3 friends reading this. Without further ado, I give you some boring posts, until I get back in the groove. I’ve made a lunch appointment with Stella who promises to share her secrets with me. (Old 90′s reference? Yes. And not at all ashamed.)

Fasten your seat belts; you’re in for a slow, possibly dull ride and when you fall asleep, I don’t want you to fall out.

70 is the New 30?

I’m pretty sure that I’m turning 70, not 30, this year. If it pleases the court, I give to you as evidence:

1. I really, really crave boxed chocolates. And I don’t mean Godiva… I’m talking Russell Stovers. I like to buy my own private box so that I can bite into each and if I don’t like one, I can put it back half eaten into its crinkly littler wrapper.

2. I don’t dance on bars anymore. I go to book club once a month as a social activity. And believe me, it’s a social experiment in its own little sector of nightlife. I have a glass of wine and some hummus on pita and discuss books.

3. I don’t stay up late. I go to bed at 11, even on weekends and I feel guilty if I sleep in late. The early bird gets the worm, and apparently, a less crowded dining experience.

4. I say things like, “Oh, dear…” and “Well then…”

5. I marvel at the fact that I will be able to tell my kids: I lived before the Internet. I paid a separate long-distance phone bill. I saved my allowance to have my film processed.

6. I’m already able to look back at my high school and college years and think of them as my “glory days”.

7. I wear solids. Neutral solids. Mostly black. All the time. It’s all I buy. To date, I have not purchased a moo-moo, but I am starting to see the appeal of such comfort. Although, I think they sell those in mostly florals and I don’t do florals. Maybe a poncho is what I need.

8. Oh, dear… I’m thinking about moo-moo’s and ponchos again.

9. I put on my pajamas immediately after dinner. That’s like 6 pm most nights. And I’m happy about it. My husband does the same, so I don’t have to feel guilty about being a schlup. But, let’s be honest… I wouldn’t feel guilty anyway.

10. At times, I’m just plain crotchety. No reason, no excuse – just crotchety.

So jury, I ask you: Am I turning 30 or 70?

Dane Cook… Su-Fi… Oh, yes…

On November 8, Dane Cook performed his Isolated Incident tour at the RBC Center in Raleigh, North Carolina. The smell of candied nuts permeated the air as underdressed college girls filed into the arena arm in arm, giggling to each other and giving the “superfinger”, Dane Cook’s signature gesture, to everyone. Soon, Dane would take the stage, entertaining his crowd of devotees with his wit and charm, comically accentuated by his uncanny sound effects and exaggerated movements. His performance never falls short of dynamic.

Smaller cities like Raleigh are not guaranteed stops for headlining tours, and when they are included in the lineup, the locals normally thank the talent by way of a packed venue. On this occasion, clusters of people were connected only by empty chairs, making it hard not to notice the impact of the economic recession. With a half full venue, the seat designation on your ticket meant little. There were plenty of other empty seats much closer to the stage, and many availed themselves to “seat jumping”.

The lights dimmed in the typical “shows about to start; sit your ass down” fashion and an odd, if not unfitting, choice of intro songs, Danzig’s heavy metal anthem, “Mother”, started playing. The opener, comedian Robert Kelly, came out to lackluster applause, but after a few short minutes, his self-deprecating humor won over the eager-to-laugh crowd. The majority of his act was new material, but it rapidly progressed to a repertoire of a highly sexual nature. Not prudish in the least, I didn’t expect to feel so utterly violated and uncomfortable, but Kelly went past the nuances and innuendo that color most comedians sexual skits, and went full on groping crotch shot to the camera. After succeeding in making me feel like I needed a shower and a couch session with a highly-qualified therapist, Robert Kelly dismounted the stage.

What happened next was a type of security maneuver that must have come straight from the Secret Service’s playbook. A fully choreographed routine ensued where security men came out two by two in a sort of drum core parade march. They took their places along each side of the entrance aisle, standing arms outstretched, hands locked, in an “arms around the world” pose. The idea was to create a barricade to prevent anyone from reaching out and touching and/ or groping Dane Cook. (Or maybe he was just worried about contracting H1N1?) With security in place, out came Dane like a prized fighter punching the air, waving, and running in his adorably pigeon-toed way to the stage.

After watching any of his previous comedic performances, his HBO special Vicious Circle or his Comedy Central Presents for example, you come to expect a certain level of energy from Dane Cook. And he lives up to it each time. He reached the stage and began prowling it as he does, very animal-on-the-hunt-esque, targeting each section of the arena one joke at a time. His humor is very relatable, perhaps what gives him such a devoted following. His jokes poke fun at the kinds of things everyone thinks or does and turns the common into highly exaggerated examples of utter ridiculousness.

In his deep voice meddled with falsetto he begins, “So here’s my theory slash hypothesis on…” and continues for a good hour with the ease of a seasoned comic.

“Hysterical!”
“Good one!”
“That is so funny!”
“Ha… Wait, I heard that before…”
“…and that.”

It seemed for every bit of fresh material, there were at least one or two skits that he pulled verbatim from his other shows. Audiences rely on new jokes when they come to see a live performance or else they could stay at home and watch Comedy Central. Dane… we expect more! Maybe it was more obvious that the material was recycled because the group of girls next to me kept repeating his jokes in loud, chortling echoes.

Ok, so the sparse crowd cast a depressing damper, the opener made me squirm in an altogether unpleasant manner, and Dane tried to pull one over on us with his old bits… Not the recipe for a can’t miss event, but for $40, I got a lesson in sociology, a few hearty laughs, and an evening out with friends.

Guy Fieri talks about The Guy Fieri Road Show (interview and photos)

Guy Fieri talks about The Guy Fieri Road Show (interview and photos)

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The Guy Fieri Road Show embraces pop culture with a fusion of the culinary world and rock and roll

The Guy Fieri Road Show embraces pop culture with a fusion of the culinary world and rock and roll

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