The story of your life in 250 words or less

This post is part of the series "Blog Every Day in May".
Day 1: The story of your life in 250 words or less 

I was born in 1981. Twenty-something years later I got ©1981 tattooed on my right butt cheek. In between those two events were 

country roads, church choirs, comfort food, lots of family and a few good friends;

library cards, art classes, web designs, quiet dreams and words written more than spoken;

failed attempts, broken toes, crocodile tears, a cancer scare and bouncing back; 

home plans, impulse buys, first days, full-on obsessions and strawberry-flavored everything;

things made right, shoes to fill, big sistership, becoming okay and sins washed away ; 

chipmunk laughter, awkward glances, useless trivia, sun-freckled skin and mismatched eyes.

It’s been a few years since that tattoo. I like to think I’m a little bit smarter. I can’t decide whether it’s better to be rough or smooth around the edges and figure I’ll always be both. I still believe that everything will happen. Everything will be.

Yo Sista is Sooooo Single that...

If we replaced "yo mamma" jokes with "yo sista's so single" jokes, someone could say to my sister, "yo sista is so single that she got dumped by the same guy twice and she wasn't even dating him the second time around" and it would be totally true.

Apparently I wasn't enthusiastic enough on a recent I guess this is us being friends phone call and I got dumped as a friend in a manner very similar to that in which I was dumped as a girlfriend almost exactly one year prior(!). [P.S. On my most enthusiastic day I'm Rosanne Barr at best. Plus I hate talking on the tele - a fact that he knows. Not quite sure what he was expecting.]

Around this same time, a friend who had been going out to dinners with a man, cooking in for him, leaving a toothbrush at his request, receiving sweet texts daily and spending solo time with his kid, was flabbergasted when she heard him say that they were not "dating". If that's not dating, I need someone to explain the concept to me.

Another friend went on a first date with a guy who was ready to marry her that night. (This ain't Dharma and Greg, y'all.) While countless other friends date the same guy for years and years and years but he's never quite ready to make a commitment. (This ain't Sex and the City either.)

Several of my gal pals have "friendships" with men who don't want to date them but turn into 14-year-old girls when they don't receive a response to a text within a timely manner. Timely, by the way, seems to range from two and one-half minutes all the way up to a whopping thirty minutes, even during work hours. 

So. To the next person who asks why I'm not dating (and people often do), I might say "because I don't know how" or "because men have me stumped, yo" or "because the only men who flirt with me are married (another thing I don't get)". Not dating isn't a choice I've made. No one's asking (spending most of my waking hours around men I already know with no chance of meeting new ones probably doesn't help) and I'm far too afraid of rejection to do the asking myself.

Any tips on understanding the psyche of men? Is there an app for that?

It's not like we traded the computer for a dog. Oh wait.

When I was a young lass, we traded our family computer for a dalmatian. Don't worry - it was mom's idea. (Now I'm painting faux dalmatian wallpaper in my media room. That's what we call full circle, y'all.) 

The puppy was much cuter than the computer - a rolly polly little thing that my dad named Chief and my little brother became BFFs with. Chief grew up to be 90-ish pounds and a very talented sneezer. It was a good trade.

I'm thinking of bringing the barter system back into my life. You have fresh eggs? Well I somehow ended up with two copies of Rumble Fish. Let's trade! You grew extra cilantro? I bought The Joy Luck Club twice. Swapsies!

Seriously though, I have an amazingly talented group of friends. Cooks, designers, carpenters, photographers, sewing mavens, mechanics, gardeners... I could list and list and list. I don't know how to do some of the things they are great at, and vice versa. Obviously we help each other out from time to time, but I have in mind something with more intention. Effort. Organization. Probably a database situation.

As a bonus, we might accidentally get a bit of quality time with other humans during all the bartering. I mean, hearing news straight from the mouths of my friends before I read it on Facebook - can you imagine?!?

Do you barter? Tell me about it.

Shout, shout, let it all out

Sometimes I want to scream and scream and scream and scream. Feel free to tell me this is normal.

I am the April Fools' Day Scrooge

I like jokes. I like comedic entertainment. I am sarcastic to a fault. Seriousness makes me itch. But. I hate April Fools' Day. Always have.

Being an extremely introverted, shy and socially anxious child/teen, April Fools' Day terrified me. I pretty much lived in fear of being the butt of a joke every day of the year - the thought of a day set aside for even the sweetest of people to trick me was enough to conjure up a quick stomach virus.

As an adult, I don't find AFD terrifying. Just annoying.

For example, a friend announced that she had broken up with her boyfriend this morning. I (and probably everyone else she knows) was happy for her. The guy is a jerk. He does jerky things. And homeboy ain't even hott (let's be honest ladies - the amount of crap we're willing to take off a guy is directly proportional to how much he looks like a 21-year-old Josh Brolin). Then I remembered that today is April 1. The breakup is probably a joke. A joke that will last all stupid day before she admits that it was a joke because she doesn't realize just how much everyone notices the jerkiness of and dislikes her boyfriend. Congrats on helping us like him even less - he really didn't need any help.

Then there's the age-old "I'm pregnant!". I saw that from so many bloggers today. Maybe this one is innocent and fun for your close friends and family, but when you post it for your hordes of blog and instagram and twitter followers to read, it's bound to cause a little hurt in someone who desperately wants to say those words but can't. Compassion. It's in the dictionary. (Check out the Young House Love April Fools' joke - that's how to do a blogger AFD post right, y'all.)

Over the years, I have gotten into the habit of not believing anything anyone says on April 1. I read blog posts and think "bull". I read tweets & FB statuses and voice a hardy "yeah right". Wanna text or call me with news? Better wait till tomorrow. Like my outfit? Keep it to yourself.

If I could choose one day a year to sleep for 24 hours, it would be AFD. Bah humbug.

If you happen to love AFD, unfriend me on Facebook at least throw the rest of us a bone and admit to your trickery in a timely manner. Don't leave us hanging all day.


Wanna read about something that's no joke? Head over to TurningMediterranean.com for my delicious and healthy recipes. #ShamelessPlug

Pretty much just got Final Destinationed.

I. Almost. Died. 

I had just returned home from work and was about to change into sweatpants (cause it's Friday night!). I heard my text notification in another room and started to run to check my phone as it was probably Gregg Rainwater circa 1989 texting to ask me to the movies. (Obviously if that were the case, I would need to change into hot pants* instead of sweatpants. I'm not the kind of girl who wastes pant changes.)

On my way, I neared my hair dryer. It fell from whence it lay and brushed my dresser in such a manner to power it on. Time stopped for a moment. I saw myself being burned to death by the dryer. It would be ever so slow and painful. My hair would frizz.

The dryer hit the floor and bounced onto my leg. Being average smart and sorta average quick, I was able to thwart Death's plan. I bravely stooped and turned the dryer off. Of course this means he is coming after one of you now. My bad.

*I'm typing of pants that are hot, not hotpants. I'm not a savage. No offense, Gregg.

P.S. Turns out the text was about Veronica Mars. Nearly as important as vintage Gregg Rainwater.

Touché Tuesday Advice Column

Need some Whitfield Awesome advice (about anything)? Fill out this form.   

Dear Jen,
I am dating a guy who has a daughter (about 10 years old). I don't have kids and I haven't spent much time around kids since I was one myself. Do you have any suggestions for what I could do to bond with her?
Sincerely, Clueless

Dear Clueless,
Insufficient data. I need to know things like: How big are your closets? Is she tall enough to reach the bottom of your washing machine? Can she cook? Do you have litter-boxes?

Seriously though, just ask her what she likes to do. Then do it. (Assuming her responses are more akin to puzzles or bike riding than meth or watching the Disney Channel.)
♥ Jen

Dear Jen,
First, you are soooo beautiful. Second, if I were to spend fifty-something hours watching one TV series, based on the Pony Express, that ran from 1989-1992, which one should I watch? 
Yours, Jen Schmen*

Dear Schmen, 
You should watch The Young Riders on Hulu. It's about boys (and a girl) who are young (but legal) and ride. The title is crazy on target. It's full of horses and gun fights and saloons and cowboys and cheesiness and mail. 100% of eight-year-old me's and thirty-one-year-old me's agree: Buck is totally the hottest rider. And I still want to be Lou.
♥ Jen

*It is possible that I made this question up to profess my love for The Young Riders which I recently re-discovered. My fam watched it when it originally aired on television. I still dig it.