I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.

13 May

But seriously, I don’t think you are.

Eight. Eight bottles of jelly. All opened, all partially eaten, all expired before September of 2007. Except one. Six containers of Miracle Whip. All opened, all partially eaten, except this time, only one expired jar. This was equally as baffling.

How does this happen? How does one have six jars of mayonnaise in their kitchen refrigerator and not notice, therefore continuing to purchase new jars and eating out of them? And the JELLY? Don’t even get me started on the far-gone jelly.

Upon my return home to my parents’ house in Council Bluffs, I was having some issues adjusting to the over-stuffed refrigerator(s) in both the kitchen and the garage. Finding space to put even just my few containers of yogurt and Diet Dr. Pepper Cherry cans was like playing an expert-level game of Tetris, but in real life. My mother, being the famous chef that she is, has a habit of loading up the house with ingredients (usually bought economically in bulk from places like Sams Club and Costco) in bottles and jars that she only needs two tablespoons of for a particular recipe, which then need to find a nook or cranny in our already over-flowing and over-stacked pantries, cupboards, and fridges. These random ingredients often never get touched again, and end up living in the deep dark corners of the fridge, aging away like a fine wine. Only smellier. There was literally no room for anything, anywhere, in our kitchen.

So, this weekend while my parents went to San Francisco for a work conference, I decided to do them a favor and clean out the fridges a little bit. It was then that I had the idea to go for the Guinness World Record of largest, nastiest sandwich ever known to man, which I will become famous for by May 2011 I predict. Keep an eye out.

Saturday morning was spent at the opening day of the Farmer’s Market in the Old Market with Trent. We walked up and down the brick roads, admiring and sampling baked goods, homemade jellies and jams, flame broiled bratwursts, handcrafted silver and turquoise jewelry, wild picked flowers, and pastries, petting everyone’s dogs, enjoying the nice (but rather chilly) weather. We picked ourselves up a freshly baked loaf of whole grain bread, a vine of fresh farm grown tomatoes, some cilantro, and a slab of thick, hearty bacon to make BLTs with for lunch later in the day. Before heading back home, we stopped at 13th Street Coffee to meet up with Laurel, Glenna, Katie and some other usuals to share a rhubarb pie and shoot the shit with for an hour or so.

Later that day we headed out to Omaha for Rachel Masker’s graduation party, an occasion complete with an open bar and a Mexican food buffet. Needless to say, it was an outstanding time. I stuffed my torso with more sour cream and tortilla chips than even Anthony Bourdain would care to consume. I died. This coming weekend will be spent in Hoisington, Kansas in celebration of my soon-to-be sister-in-law’s (so many hyphens, I don’t know what to do) high school graduation. So, that’s my agenda in case you were wondering what my calendar currently looks like (stalker).

I want to get my teeth whitened, but I am afraid that the whitening procedure will send unbearable shooting pains into my already highly-sensitive teeth. Last time I applied Crest Whitening Strips, a mere three minutes went by before seriously intense lightning bolts of pain shot through my gums like I been shot in the mouth with a taser gun. I’m just not sure if it’s worth it. Then again, beauty never came without pain. Take Heidi Montag’s parade of plastic surgeries, for example. (Ha). While we’re on the topic, I would like to kill Heidi Montag. Anyone who may be interested in assisting me may apply within.

I hate people that decide to put nicknames into their real names on Facebook. You know, like Jordan “J-Money” Kowalski, or Christina “Love” Jergens, or Allison “RockOn” Melby. Stop it. These are not your real middle names. No one likes you more because you may or may not have come up with a clever (but usually not clever) phrase to insert into your actual birth-given name. In fact, people like you less. I know this because I am a person, and I like you less for doing it. Are we clear?

In other news, I leave for Key West to attend our good friends Tim and Mel’s wedding in two weeks. Needless to say, I’m thrilled to be in the mid- to upper-80 degree weather. The weather hasn’t been ideal in my neck of the woods so far this season. Dismal rain, blustery winds and cloud-covered skies have been making the month of May feel more like November. I could be happier. My body doesn’t cope well with temperatures below 75 degrees. Doesn’t Earth know this? I need to be warm, and baking in the sun. Speaking of weather, go ahead and pray to God, Buddha, Allah, or whatever it is that you pray to that on June 12th, Council Bluffs, Iowa has the most beautiful weather it has ever seen. Ever. Otherwise, I will kill all of my neighbors and then myself. Thanks.

WELL, time for dinner. Adios, folks.

Me: “How was your American Sign Language final?”
Cole: “I had to sign the entire song In the Ghetto by Elvis today in sign language.”
Me: “Hahaha. Were you embarrassed?”
Cole: “Not as embarrassed as the guy who had to sign Justin Biebergay.”


One Response to “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.”

  1. Katie Hanner May 17, 2010 at 11:43 am #

    Sensitivity toothpaste. Use it for at least a week before you use whitestrips and voila, no pain. Tidbits learned from dating dental students and the sort come in surprisingly handy.

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