Have you had your juice today?

I wish I had a personal panic button. It would be perfect for those situations where an abrupt cessation of activity or exit point is required.  Of course, it would need to be sophisticated and have teeny, tiny speakers that put out some ‘boom’.

 Allow me to illustrate:

Situation 1

 I’m trying to reason with a difficult client. She has brought her aunt along with her for ‘support’. They have both been hit with the stupid-stick a time (or ten) too many. There is no way for me to make them understand any time this century. I’m about to snap.

 Click.  (That’s me pressing my panic button).

 A low, beeping alarm sounds through the room.

 Computer-Generated Voice:  Auto shutdown engaged. Back away from the Jenny. I repeat, back away from the Jenny. Initiating destruct sequence: 10…9…8…

 At this point, I give my client my best, wide-eyed, concerned look and say “Oh dear. You’d better go. This has never happened before. It can’t be safe. Run!”

 Ideally, my stupid client and her stupid aunt would scurry on out of there. Yay!

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Isn’t technology great? I just received an email notification that my new cello is in Industry, California – right on schedule. Unless there are unexpected delays with Canada Customs, I think I can reasonably expect to have my new cello in my eager hands by next weekend. Yay!

My new cello is Chinese. I don’t even know which luthier supervised its creation. I only know that the reputable Linda West has repaired a minor blemish and vamped it up for my playing pleasure. I haven’t even heard the cello and only have Linda’s assurance of its solidity and warm, even tone.

It’s not particularly wise to purchase a cello you haven’t seen, handled and heard but it was a bargain I couldn’t pass up. Cross your fingers for me, Readers, as there are mixed reviews on the quality of currently manufactured Chinese cellos.

Perhaps my recent awakening of emotions has repercussions. I think I’m becoming THAT girl. You know, the one you see in the grocery store but pretend you don’t and promptly turn on your heel and dash toward the nearest baking aisle so you can pretend to be involved in selecting chocolate chips – Oh no! Here comes THAT girl with all the sappy feelings! Look busy!

Yup, I might be that girl.

I recently toured the tunnels of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan with THAT guy responsible for all my renewed sappiness. I was both saddened and outraged for all the Chinese immigrants that were exploited in their labours for the underground laundries.

I can’t help but picture then toiling away in substandard conditions while carving cellos in their native China – overworked and underpaid in much the same fashion as the Chinese immigrants.

Though this idea should have deterred my recent purchase, I can’t help but feel that my cello will have added personal value. I imagine that somehow the labour, energy and dreams of determined, Chinese souls have been imprinted on my instrument and it will sing all the sweeter because of it.

I’m a lucky girl…with only a few, minor psychological issues.  

It isn’t easy to admit that in relation to men I am unable to answer the question “What do you want?” With the exception of absolute, must-have personality traits (ie. an awesome, somewhat warped sense of humour) I can’t seem to get past my unwillingness to create and categorize my ‘ideal’ man. I don’t believe, for example, he must be blonde-haired and blue-eyed with only one dimple, a slightly crooked grin, Schwarzenegger’s abs and all the exact same interests as me.

How realistic is that, really? If a man has black hair, lacks dimples entirely and hates painting one another’s toe nails during slumber parties he doesn’t even get a shot? He just gets the ‘once-over’ and immediate dismissal? What if he’s one of those rare gems that treats me like the sexiest woman alive even when my hair is a disaster, I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup and my ass is hanging out of the baggy pyjama pants I should’ve thrown out long ago?

Maybe I’m looking at it wrong and I need to focus on the most pertinent categorizations but I really couldn’t be bothered. I don’t want to specify skills, interests and physical characteristics. Aren’t I supposed to “just know”? I don’t want applications, references and financial statements prerequisites (ha ha!).

So there we have it. Dr. Phil would likely not approve of my not knowing what I want. I do, however, know what I DON’T want.

I don’t want any relationship in any context with any person that makes me feel bad in any way, shape or form. Period. No matter the circumstances, intentions or lack thereof I do not want any part of feeling bad.

And I think that’s fair.

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I’ve been tossing around the idea of adding product reviews to this site for a few months now. I love to shop and pretty much every friend of mine has heard me blather on and on about something that I’ve bought and love (usually makeup or skin care products) at least once.  Likewise, they’ve been warned about what NOT to buy.

I feared that readers may not be interested in ‘Product Juice’. Then it occurred to me: who WOULDN’T want to be saved the disappointment of wasting hard-earned money on an expensive eye cream that quite frankly, sucks chicken butts?

Behold Exhibit A:

Study this image very carefully. Memorize the simple yet elegant font telling you to believe in the wonders within the .5 ounce tube. Now if you see this $33.00 tube again in your shopping endeavours, back away. You do not want to waste your money on this product. There’s no hope in this tube.

Hope in a tube was the first eye cream I ever used. Oprah endorsed philosophy:’s hope in a jar with enthusiasm so I assumed hope in a tube would be a worthy purchase, as well. I didn’t yet have any wrinkles, so to speak, but I was aiming for prevention. Of course, I didn’t want to run out of what was sure to be a fantastic product anytime soon. I decided I needed 9 tubes for my friends and I.

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Happy Holidays, readers! I hope each and every one of you has had your fair share of chocolate, baking and other assorted Christmas excesses. I, myself, have been surviving almost entirely on chocolate, liquor-filled chocolate and ridiculous amounts of coffee this holiday season. I have not just wanted but NEEDED those few luxuries to keep me sane.

Why, you ask? Were the holiday festivities, shopping madness and general chaos causing my near, almost-there, could-still-happen, mental breakdown? Perhaps, but I believe it had more to do with my somewhat unrealistic goal to write and post a Christmas eBook.

I have to start by saying that this will be my first Christmas since my favourite kindred-soul, Riser, passed away. He was my first Irish Wolfhound and I absolutely adored him. It may seem silly but my favourite time of year isn’t the same without Riser. I still enjoy all the sparkly lights, decorations, festivities and Christmas cheer. I just enjoy them slightly less without my enormous sidekick.

Of course, it really doesn’t help that I lost my job unexpectedly. That is where my sort-of adventure began.

I’m an optimist, for the most part. Though it’s admittedly difficult to maintain, I’m a firm believer in the positive mindset. Focusing on negativity has never gotten me anything but — you guessed it — more negativity.

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Mistyglen's Rising Star a.k.a. Riser

I understood that living with an Irish Wolfhound would change my life. I did my research. I knew they were a rich man’s dog – expensive to buy, feed and maintain. I knew all about the special considerations necessary for his safe growth (Sleep! No running!), accommodation (Lots of space!), feeding (Moistened, elevated.), exercising (Not on pavement! NO RUNNING!), transportation (No Austin Mini for me!), veterinary care (Both arms, both legs, most of my stomach and my mother’s entire left half!) and comfort (Dog beds aren’t available in size ‘extra jumbo large’ but an overstuffed futon mattress is perfect). I knew my Gentle Giant would steal my heart and crush it entirely when he fell into his early grave.

Yes, siree! The very first time I looked into his mystical, golden eyes I understood that life as I knew it was about to change forever. I had no idea how much – no idea at all.

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There aren’t many lines I’ve heard from a man in ‘mojo-action’ that can make me laugh until my belly hurts. Maybe it’s just me but I found this one hilarious.

A friend of mine walked up to a bar. She was wearing a ring on a chain around her neck. A guy at the bar noticed it.

Bar Guy: Is that the ring that guides you at the end of the night?

My Friend: Yes. And it will guide me home, not to your house.

Bar Guy: So you’re inviting me home with you!

Oh, I love the cocky self-confidence (sometimes)!

Thanks to my super awesome friend, Cassie, I’ve been tagged for the ‘7 Random or Weird Facts About Me’ game. Oh fun! So here they are, readers. Enjoy!

7 Facts About JennyJuice That Shouldn’t be Admitted:

1) If I’ve had too much to drink in a public place (for shame!) the theme song from the Retiman’s ‘Au Couture’ commercials (ooh la la) plays in my head when I walk. And yes, I work the walk for maximum effect.

2) Whenever somebody says ‘bath’ I sing Ernie’s ‘Rubber Ducky’ song from Sesame Street – sometimes out loud. Then, of course, I have to picture that person playing with their rubber ducky in the bathtub.

3) Birds freak me out.

4) I have the world’s ugliest feet.

5) I would totally get naked with Justin Long, the guy from the Mac commercials. Being that I work for a Microsoft partner, that makes me a traitor AND a whore.

6) When I was 11 years old my hands could reach my knee caps (standing straight, arms at my sides).

7) I believe in soul mates, true flames and “things that go bump in the night”.

So anybody out there feeling odd or different, rest assured. There are far worse freaks than you!

(Grumble, grumble, grumble.) Okay. I’m back. Now where were we? Oh yes (sighs). The toys.

Why are some of us so obsessed with stuff – the houses, cars, gadgets, even junk? Here’s a shout out to all the pack-rats out there: You haven’t even opened your neighbour’s Operation game that you bought for 50 cents at his yard sale 12 years ago! Why are you hanging on to that junk? It’s a good thing you don’t move often.

I just don’t understand why we’re driven to consume more and more, to collect more and more belongings – including things we couldn’t possibly need. I understand why we like sleek, shiny cars and flat-screen TV’s, self-indulgent as we are, but how can we possibly need 10 of them? Or an entire rec. room dedicated to a bottle “collection”. Seriously, what’s wrong with us?

All these things we “need” to own don’t even make us happy, though we foolishly believe that they will. They sometimes even make the people around us very unhappy. Of course, I don’t mean because they’re jealous and want to have a new car, too. We care more about our possessions than the living, breathing souls closest to us. (Come on now. Be honest. I know I’m not the only person to ever refuse to let my little sister into my new car with her strawberry milkshake – though I later reconsidered and said milkshake later landed all over the front seat, as predicted. Oh snap!)

Yes, I’ve had my own obsessions with stuff. Fashion can, at times, be my biggest weakness. I once moved from Yellowknife, NWT to Small Town, AB with a U-Haul trailer containing my fancy-schmancy treadmill, electronics and a whole lot of clothes. That’s it. No furniture, housewares or anything remotely useful. Oh, I had many fine, beautiful clothes. Eventually, I stopped dying a slow, foodless death of misery and self-hatred and got far too fat for my super-model clothes anyway!

I, personally, had to lose everything and start from scratch a few times over before I finally learned that material gain is the absolute worst goal or motivator with no hope for any true, personal gratification.

That’s not to say we should never buy ourselves any toys ever again but that we should keep them in their rightful position in our order of priorities – at the very bottom. In the end:
1) It’s the end.
2) We can’t take it with us – wherever we may be going.

I know when I get to the pearly gates I will have many wrongs to account for. One of my responses will be:

“Yes, God, I sold my soul to the devil for a glorious cello. I also helped people and innocent animals often and tried my best, for the most part, to be a good and kind person. Shall I fetch my cello and play you a hymn now?”

Wish me luck!

Yeah, that’s stolen from a t-shirt but it has stuck with me. If any of you have this t-shirt, by the way, I’d be willing to pay top dollar for it. Ha ha!

Hang on. Be right back. Must…check…Ebay.