Jen on the Edge

The Miss America Pageant was last weekend (a week ago).

I didn’t even know that the pageant was scheduled.  Didn’t it used to be in September?

Anywho, the winner was Miss Virginia.  Can I hear a shoutout for my home state?

For those of you keeping count, that makes this the third winner from Virginia in the pageant’s history.

[Yes Texas and Mississippi, I hear you down there strutting and preening over your dozens of pageant winners.  Shut it.  Most states don't start training 'em up at birth.]

What’s much more important is the fact that Virginia is the home state of eight, count ‘em 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8, EIGHT U.S. presidents.*  Now that’s something to be proud of.

[* For those of you who don't have that information readily available in your brain cells: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe, William Henry Harrison, John Tyler, Zachary Taylor, and Woodrow Wilson.]

Anyway, getting back to the pageant, I’m sure this will just stun you, but I didn’t watch it.  I don’t watch reality TV or any live programming at all, but surely I wanted to watch 50+ women wearing tranny makeup jiggle across the stage?

Um, hell to the N-O.

I used to watch the pageant religiously, but now avoid it if at all possible.  And I really don’t want my girls to watch it until they’re old enough to understand that the show is a bad influence on impressionable young female minds.

I can hear you saying, “But Jen, the show is a scholarship contest and those women are out there doing good things for the less fortunate.”

And I say to you, trust me, the show makes young impressionable girls feel bad about themselves.

Want to know how I know?

I can distinctly remember watching the pageant one year when I was about 14 or 15.  During the swimsuit competition, each contestant’s vital stats were flashed on the TV screen, including weight.  Even though I weighed only 107 or thereabouts, I distinctly remember seeing those numbers and worrying that I weighed more than a couple of those malnourished females.

So yeah, bad influence.

But, here’s the thing, I have to be careful about what I say about pageants, otherwise someone who has known me for a real long time could call me out as a hypocrite.

Mmm hmmm, that’s right people, I have a pageant in my past.  My very distant past.

Now, my original plan when I first started writing this post a week ago was that I was going to dig out some old photos, scan them, and then write a lengthy post about it.  Only, I have since achieved none of these things, due mostly to the fact that I’ve spent an incredible amount of time stockpiling food and supplies for our Long-Ass Winter and then shoveling snow, to be followed by resting up from my exertions, only to have to repeat the entire process over and over again, as it almost never stops snowing here in Virginia.  It’s possible that it might be weeks or months before I can stop inventorying toilet paper and wondering if I have enough to get through the next nor’easter.

I am going to tell you that I was never Miss Roanoke or Miss Virginia, that the pageant that I was in was much lower down the totem pole.  I will also state quite clearly for the record that there was no swimsuit contest.  But I did wear tranny makeup, so there’s that.

On the off chance that I 1) dig  up the old photos and 2) actually scan them, would any of you be interested in me humiliating myself in such a manner?

Happy Monday from the Winter Wonderland!

What?  You thought I’d start off today’s post griping about the big piles of frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named that we got this past weekend?

Or possibly bitching about the fact that we’ve gotten over 52″ inches of the frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named in the past eight weeks?

Or wailing and rending garments over the frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named that we will be getting again tomorrow and which could possibly give us the additional 2.5″ of accumulation we need to break the all-time record for frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named in a single winter here in our location in the South?

[And for those persons who might suggest that Virginia is not southern enough?  I say to you, south of the Mason-Dixon line, yo.  If  that's not good enough, then I counter with the capital of the Confederacy, y'all.]

No, there will be no freaking out of any kind about the frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named, even though I find it highly ironic that we have an overabundance of frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named, while Vancouver is having to truck in the frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named because they don’t have enough for the start of the Olympics this weekend.

And even though my children will probably be in school this summer until the 4th of July in order to make up for all the days they’ve missed because of the frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named, I can at least report honestly that we’re all enjoying our time being house-bound from the frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named.

And hey, at least shoveling frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named is good exercise!  So that’s a positive thing, right?

So I’m over here trying to find my happy place and attempting to stay calm about the fact that it’s still only February 8 and we have another five weeks of winter ahead of us.

And trying not to remember the time in 1989 or 1990 that I stood on the front portico of Monticello and watched frozen-white-stuff-which-not-be-named fall.  On May 1st.

In an attempt to stay calm and all Zen-like, I currently have this photo on the magnet board next to my desk:

These are from the Sundance Catalog and, even though I’ll probably never own them because they are too. freaking. expensive., I still enjoy looking at them and imagining a time in the future when wearing footwear other than waterproof boots is a possibility.

So that’s what I’ve got for you today.  I hope you all have a happy Monday.

Oh people. We are getting MORE snow today. Another nor’easter, in fact.  The reports are saying we could get anywhere from 12-40″ and possibly also some ice.  I am not amused by the prospect of ice.

All this will be followed by even more snow on Tuesday.  And there are rumors of another storm next weekend too.

It’s starting to feel like the Laura Ingalls Wilder book The Long Winter, only I’d call it The Long-Ass Winter.  Luckily, I don’t have to twist hay for heating fuel or grind wheat for my daily piece of bread.  Here, the only suffering we’ll be doing is if we run out of marshmallows to go with our organic Fair Trade cocoa or Pete doesn’t have enough jalapenos to go with his nachos.

I’m currently looking at the weather radar online and can see the big-ass storm approaching from the southwest.  It’s like having one of those nightmares where the monster chases you and it’s getting closer and closer and you can’t escape, you can only stand there with a look of terror on your face and a fresh pile of warm stinky brown stuff in your underwear.

So of course, every person in my town stocked up on supplies yesterday. The other day, I compared my personal pre-snow preparations to Sherman’s march through the South.  I’m here to tell you that yesterday’s scene at the grocery store was beyond that.  It was more like Gengis Khan’s campaign through Mongolia.  Total destruction, with nothing left behind, except some wilted Brussels sprouts and a single bag of barbecue pork rinds.

[Pork rinds are scrunchions to the Canucks and pork scratchings to the Brits.]

[American to Canadian and British translations are courtesy of Wikipedia.]

I myself sneaked in some supply runs before work, during my lunch break, and then again after work. I stocked up on anything and everything that we could possibly run out of, which is why there are now a couple hundred rolls of toilet paper in Jenworld. The ability to wipe thoroughly while snowbound is vital, yo.

And then I went to the bank, because for some reason I felt that it was necessary to have lots of cash on hand.  As if the entire world is going to come to a crashing halt and we’ll be reduced to a cash/barter economy.  Luckily, I have plenty of toilet paper, which I could probably swap for some vodka or firewood or thick socks.

After school, the girls and I raided the book store, where they each burned through all of their gift cards from Christmas.  These bibliophiles of mine will not be running out of reading material anytime soon.  We weren’t the only people who had that idea, and Barnes & Noble was as crowded as the day of a new Harry Potter release.

Changing subjects completely…

So today is February 5th.

Twenty-two years ago today, a cute college boy took a college girl out on their first date. They ate Chinese food and then he took her back to her dorm, where he politely told her good night, said that he’d call, and then left.  Absolutely no hanky panky of any kind.  It was a very clean, PG-rated date.

Neither one had any way of knowing that 22 years later they’d have two kids, two cars, two houses (which is one too many), and would be battening down the hatches for a big-ass storm.  Luckily, they still enjoy each other’s company and he is still her favorite person to be snowbound with.

Normally, on February 5th, Pete and I order Chinese food delivery for dinner.  Only, there won’t be any of that tonight, what with the snow and the snow and the more snow.  Unless we can find a Chinese restaurant that will deliver via snowmobile, we’ll be making pizza for dinner.

But really, does it matter what we eat, as long as we’re all warm and safe?

Happy Friday everyone!

Hotfessional wrote last week about skiing, which reminded me that this is not a topic we’ve covered here at Jen on the Edge.  Today, however, we’re plunging in (so to speak).

When Pete and I were young and thin and childless, we took up skiing.  Actually, he started and then brought me into it.  You’d probably never suspect it about him, but Pete is one of those lucky bastards people who is a natural at skiing.  He never skied as a kid or even in college, but the first time he went as an adult, he strapped on his skis and gently schussed down the mountain.

I, on the other hand, was not a natural at skiing.

Pete had already been a few times by the time I decided to join in on the torture fun, but we still agreed that, for the sake of our marriage, I would take my lessons not from my husband, but instead from the ski instructors on the bunny slope.  Meanwhile, Pete went off and attacked large dangerous ski slopes.

[Seriously, after only a few times on skis, Pete was already hitting the black diamonds or pink hearts or orange stars or green clovers or whatever it is that the advanced-skiers-only slopes are called.]

For some reason, it never occurred to me that skiing wouldn’t be a breeze, so I jauntily strapped on my skis and…

… promptly fell over.

Luckily, I had already been instructed on how to get up, so I flipped over onto my stomach and pushed myself upright.

And then fell over again.

And again.

And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.

And so forth.

I fell, no exaggeration, dozens and dozens of times in the next two hours.  In fact, it took me most of that time to traverse only half the distance of the bunny slope, which was approximately 100 yards or so.

Pete came to check on me after an hour and found his wife in a state quite unlike he’d ever seen before.  I was beyond upset and was closing in on total meltdown.  I was cursing furiously.  Even Pete, who was in a fraternity in college, thought his ears might shrivel from the onslaught of obscene that was spewing from my mouth, along with the tears from my eyes and the frozen-ish snot from my nose.

He decided to help me along.  Here’s how it went:

I’d get up, cussing, grit my teeth, push forward, and fall after going 1-3 feet,  whereupon I’d lie in the snow for a moment or two in order to wait patiently to die gather the strength to continue this fool’s errand.  Then I’d get up and start the whole process again.

At some point after two hours, I managed to go the vast distance of five feet without falling.  Then I went ten feet.  Then longer and longer.  The further I went, the less I cussed.  Eventually, I stopped crying too.  And, eventually, I made it to the end of the bunny slope, where I had to get on a chair lift for the first time ever (HATE those) and go back to the top.  Once at the top, Pete guided me down the slope and I fell fewer than a dozen times.  The next time down, I fell only a couple of times.  After that, I continued to improve.  I even managed one run when I didn’t fall at all.

We were skiing at night, so the resort closed soon after that, but it was probably just as well, as I was utterly exhausted.  I had had what was mostly a craptastic time and my body hurt like hell, but I was actually willing to try skiing again.

And I did.

I eventually got pretty good, although I never enjoyed throwing myself over the edge of mountains the way that Pete did.  Usually I just hit the easy slopes and went for more gentle trips down the mountain.

All of our skiing was on the East Coast.  Finally, in 1997, we went to New Mexico in November and skied at Taos on Thanksgiving Day.

Oh people, no one had told me that there is a BIG DIFFERENCE between East Coast skiing and Western skiing.   The West has all those big mountains and all that natural snow.  Snow that will actually fall from the sky while you’re skiing.

At  Taos, while on our first ride up on the ski lift, one of my rented skis dropped right off my boot.  Plop. So when we got to the top, I couldn’t do anything.  One of the ski patrol people called down the mountain and someone grabbed my ski for me and Pete offered to ski down and get it for me.

[I thought he was being nice, but in reality, he was sneaking in a run while on his mission of mercy.]

In the meantime, I stood near the top of the ski lift because, really, what could I do with only one ski?  It was snowing hard and I was wearing my flimsy little East Coast ski jacket.  The snow went right down my collar and melted on my neck.  I was miserable and then more miserable and then more miserable. This went on for a solid 45 minutes.

In the midst of my misery, I watched a man with NO LEGS get off the chair lift and then schuss down the mountain on his bitchin’ mono-ski-contraption.  When I saw that, I realized that being cold had nothing on having no legs and that I should really quit my whining.  Plus, I needed to conserve my energy in order to fight off hypothermia.

Then Pete showed up with my ski and we hit the trails.  The snow kept  falling and falling and falling and falling and falling.  Apparently, that’s what happens in those fancy western ski resorts.  After a few hours, we had to call it quits.  We were utterly frozen and could barely see.  When we got back to our car, there was NINE INCHES of fresh powder on it.

As we drove to our hotel, we chattered happily about how much fun western skiing was and how we were surely going to do it again.  I had improved a lot, so we decided that it was time for me to go up a size in skis.  Pete bought me a used set for Christmas.

And then I got pregnant a couple weeks later and I haven’t been skiing since then and now am now no longer interested in it.  The end.

What about you people?  Any of you skiers?

Well would you look at that…  We got MORE snow last night, so no school today. Oh, and we’re supposed to get ANOTHER nor’easter this weekend.  We pretty much go decades here without getting nor’easters and this will be the second one in less than two months.

*sigh*

Anyway, on to our regularly scheduled post…

~ ~ ~

People, a grocery store in Wales has banned customers from shopping in their pajamas.  I am not making this up.

The store has put up a sign that says:

“Tesco Dress Code Policy,” which reads: “To avoid causing offence or embarrassment to others, we ask that our customers are appropriately dressed when visiting our store (footwear must be worn at all times and no nightwear is permitted).”

Wow.  You know things must have been bad if the store had to set some rules.

One would think it would be abundantly obvious that pajamas belong at home and only at home.

[What time you put said PJ's on, however, is strictly up to you.  I've been known to start with the bedtime-wear pretty early in the day.]

Then again, based on some of the things I’ve seen when out and about, maybe it’s not such a bad idea.

So even though I have a very relaxed dress code for when you’re here at Jen on the Edge — and everyone’s wearing yoga pants and hoodies today, right? — I think it’s not a bad idea to have some basic guidelines for what one wears outside of one’s home.  Accordingly, here is my Public Decency Dress Code:

[I will be using examples from People of Walmart.  I am not in any way mocking the persons whose photos are on PoW, but am simply using some of their sartorial choices as illustrations of my points.]

• No visible thongs or bras.  Keep your Victorias a secret, ‘kay?
• Tramp stamps must be covered.  Sorry, but that’s just too close to ass crack, so keep it ALL under wraps.
• Ladies, how about if we all keep certain body parts covered?  Such as, your ass.
• No wife beaters for men, as no one wants to see your hairy pits and back, plus it’s probably not hygienic, especially near the food samples and salad bar.  Ditto for cropped tops and too-short shirts.
• I’m a big fan of the 1st Amendment, but I think that people should also factor in decency and not wear shirts that are offensive and/or are going to cause someone’s kids to ask some uncomfortable questions.  I’m just sayin’…

Please note that I’m not dictating style or taste, but just setting some guidelines for public decency.

What do you think?  Is this list sufficient or should it include a few more things?