Category: Making fun of Liam (or myself)

Open Mouth, Insert Whole Leg

by Jen Barry, posted in Making fun of Liam (or myself)

If there is one truth in this entire universe, it is that I will always say the dumbest possible thing at any given moment.  In most cases, this dumb thing I say will be the only thing I offer to the entire conversation, leaving everyone present with the impression that I probably shouldn’t be walking around on my own.  I have no idea why this happens.  I mean, I don’t consider myself a genius by anyone’s standards, but aptitude tests show that I should at least have the capacity to meet new people and have a conversation (that makes sense) with them.

Now, I could tell you the whole story, but the truth is that I really just need to tell you what I said to get the point across.  I said… Wait for it… “This isn’t my first rodeo.”  First of all, who actually says that?  Are there really people in this world who feel that’s a valuable contribution to any conversation?  Secondly, this inane utterance had nothing to do with the question that was asked.  At all.

There was a moment of silence after I said this – the only thing I said during the whole conversation – before everyone started talking again as if I hadn’t spoken.  In truth, that was maybe the best possible outcome, as it gave me a chance to silently perform an incantation that would make me invisible.  Well, who knows?  With my track record, I probably said that out loud, too.

Does anyone else have this problem?  Tell me I’m not the only person in the world who manages to blush and stutter on a daily basis!

My Christmas Wish

I’m Still Standing

by Jen Barry, posted in Making fun of Liam (or myself)

I mentioned in a previous post that I once took a nosedive in front of a busy Starbucks in midtown Manhattan, but I neglected to tell you that I actually have a history of falling in just about every major city that I’ve visited.  Since we really like to travel, and we make a goal of seeing at least three new cities every year, you can imagine I’m often kissing pavement.  For entertainment purposes, I’ll recap a few of my finer moments for you.

Chicago, which is one of my favorite cities to visit at Christmas time, once saw me bellyflop right in the middle of the Magnificent Mile.  Yes, folks, I was crossing the street right in front of Crate and Barrel when I stepped in a little pothole and pitched forward.  Liam, who is always on a mission when he’s visiting a new city, didn’t realize that I’d fallen until he reached the other side of the crosswalk.  With exasperation, he turned to where I was picking myself up out of the middle of the street, and waved impatiently.  This was all while I was dodging the taxis who wanted me OUT OF THE WAY the moment the light turned green.

While in Savannah, we were taking some steps down an alleyway to the waterfront, and I was very carefully watching where I was going.  There wasn’t a soul in sight, but I still didn’t want the pain of tumbling down a flight of steps.  Then, out of nowhere, a large group of twenty-somethings appeared, flying up the steps at a very fast pace.  I moved to get out of the way, and that’s when it happened.  A speck of dust or a gust of air must have gotten underfoot, and I slipped and fell.  My backside hit four stone steps before I came to a stop, red-faced and mortified at the feet of one of the guys in the group.

Again, in New York City, Liam and I were heading home after a day at work, and we were navigating the busy subway station.  I started down the steps to catch our train, and it happened again.  Water, an oil slick…who knows?  Anyway, my foot hit it and I was off, bouncing down half a flight of stairs on my knees before I reached the bottom.  Let me tell you, the people in New York City get a bad rap for being rude, because at least five people darted over to help me stand and gather my things, which I’d thrown all over the station during my tumble.

There have been a few other mishaps, like the one in Honolulu, where I accidentally dumped my soda on a surfer (I cannot make this stuff up) and then slipped in the puddle on the floor as I hurried to get him some napkins.  Or the time my chair slipped out from under me in a restaurant in Louisville and dumped me unceremoniously into the floor.  There was also the incident where I fell while trying to get out of a shopping cart on Barracks Street in Cork (you probably shouldn’t ask about that one).

I say all of this to say that I am finally victorious!  Our Christmas trip this year was to Seattle, and I managed the entire trip – two days Seattle and one in Portland – without taking a tumble.  This is an amazing feat for me, and probably some kind of record.  I should also stop bragging about my sudden discovery of grace, because I’m sure I’ll more than make up for it the next time I visit a new city.  To be honest, I’m glad I still have all my teeth, but I’m even more thankful for the incidents.  What?  That’s crazy!  But it’s true.  I love nothing more than to laugh at myself, and these trips have given me plenty of giggles.  What these spectacular tumbles have also done is ensure that I never, ever, ever forget any of the traveling I’ve done, and that’s a gift.

Recipe for Disaster

by Jen Barry, posted in Making fun of Liam (or myself), Uncategorized

There’s something about this time of year that awakens the gourmet chef in me.  Of course, I must use this term “gourmet chef” to describe how I feel, and not how I actually bake or cook.  I want to smell cinnamon and other glorious spices throughout the house, sink my teeth into warm cookies, and prepare hearty soups to ward off the chill of forty-degree weather (What? I live in Nashville.  It just doesn’t get that cold here in November.)  Unfortunately, I have a rather storied past involving kitchens and baking and all that fun stuff, so I end up lighting a candle for the cinnamon smells, picking up pre-prepared dough for the warm cookies, and Liam hates soup anyway, so that’s a complete non-issue in our house.

When I first realized that I could be a complete and utter disaster in the kitchen was when I was about…thirteen.  You know, that age when parents believe we can handle light cooking here and there?  In the very same debacle, I melted a container in the microwave while making rice and melted a plastic saltshaker into a puddle on the stove.  While dealing with the aftermath of one, the other happened.  I’d like to say that I felt the right amount of panic and dismay, but really, my sister and I just collapsed in giggles and couldn’t move for several minutes.

Fast forward to some time in college.  (This doesn’t mean there weren’t more disasters in between, though.  Oh, yes.  There were disasters.)  It was nearly Christmas, and I had that burning desire to enjoy warm cookies – as previously mentioned – so I bought all the ingredients that weren’t already in my kitchen and got to work.  Homemade cookies are no picnic, but it’s always been worth it to me (of course, those homemade cookies weren’t made by me…they were made by my mother.)  Pan after pan of cookies came out of the oven, piping hot and a little flat looking.  As a self-confessed disaster in the kitchen, I figured if flat was the worst that had happened, I’d done pretty well.

This idiot didn’t bother taste testing before plating and presenting to a room full of friends.  Imagine the looks of surprise and disgust, if you will.  These lovely people snatched up cookies, crammed them into their mouths, and then froze.  Immediately, my mind whirled.  What did I do?  Did I do that stupid salt instead of sugar thing?  What a cliché! Panicked, I tried a bite.  Oh, no.  They were sweet enough.  They were also…gritty.  I’d made an accidental substitution, but it was corn meal for flour.  My chocolate chip corncake cookies are still a bit of a legend among those who were present that day.  And most of them arch an eyebrow in concern when I offer them baked goods of any kind.

Don’t get me wrong; I have a few tried and true items that I can pull off every time.  I’m pretty sure my first try was probably a disaster, but I can handle quite a few meals on a regular basis.  I find it hard to mess up steak and baked potatoes, which is Liam’s favorite dish.  If I do get the pre-made cookie dough, there are always delicious cookies in the house.  I even get a little creative here and there to produce white chicken chili or white chicken lasagna (okay, so not terribly creative.)

In spite of my tendency to destroy most kitchen projects, I still crave the projects.  I try to make the most of my desire to bake or cook, finding easy ways around the hardest parts of the recipe.  I often throw things together and hope for the best, and if it doesn’t work out, I make a PB & J for my poor husband.  I haven’t burned a kitchen down yet, so I’m gonna keep trying to invoke my inner gourmet chef, at least during this time of year.

I really want a cookie now.

Adventures in an Urban Back Yard, the Sequel

by Jen Barry, posted in Making fun of Liam (or myself), Uncategorized

As always, permission to post this blog was NOT granted by my husband, but he finally relented.  He just asks you to remember that he’s IRISH, for heaven’s sake, and things just aren’t done the same way here!  Never mind, of course, that he’s lived here for over ten years already.  That’s beside the point, naturally.

In many cases, the sequel isn’t as good as the first story, but I submit this to you with confidence that you will, in fact, find this even funnier than the weed trimmer tale.  The story begins long ago–Saturday morning of this past weekend, to be exact.  Liam wanted to beat the heat of the day, so he hopped out of bed with the vigor of a man living in northern Canada and headed out to mow the yard before the day could become unbearable.  The lovely lad let me sleep while he worked, and woke me at 9:30 with a request for help.

I grabbed for my glasses so I could help him untangle whatever he’d tangled and ran out the door with bare feet, like any self-respecting Tennessean.  He led me around the side of the house, and pointed.  There, in the clear light of day, was a busted pipe gushing water into the yard at an alarming rate.  My dear friends, the man had mowed our lawn for three full months before “only now” seeing the standing pipe, just before he ran over it with the lawn mower.

I was at a loss.  Of course, my first thought was just to stanch the flow with my foot, but you know that didn’t work too well.  I don’t maintain that I’m smarter than my husband in any capacity, and that right there is the proof.  I looked at him helplessly before running to grab my phone.  It had never occurred to us to ask where we might turn off the water flowing to the house.  Of course, it hadn’t really occurred to me that someone might run over the pipe with a lawn mower either, so there you have it.

Ten minutes later, we managed to get into the water meter on the street and cut the flow of water, but not soon enough to prevent the creek that had formed in our front yard.  I stared at the crisp, clear water and saw only dollar signs.

“Well,” I said, “at least we got it stopped fairly quickly.”

To which the man–my lovely Irishman–blushed (and wow is he cute when he blushes!) and said, “I didn’t wake you right away.  I didn’t want to stop mowing while I still had momentum, so I finished the front yard and half of the back before coming to get you.”

Can’t wait to see this water bill, folks.  Just can’t wait.