The House That Estrogen Built

I’ve been meaning to update here for a long, long time. I’ve had several things that I could have written about – mainly getting towed an arguing with a city and police force on the 4th of July – but I just haven’t really felt motivated, and I think a lot of that has to do with my Master’s thesis. I’m on the verge of the last final push (I should have the first rough draft in the next few weeks) and I think I’ve hit the infamous “writing wall” that real writers talk about. I’m so close but I’ve just lost a lot of steam for whatever reason. But I think it’s time I finally update. It’s a bit ridiculous that I link to this website from the Huffington Post if I don’t actually write anything new.

Originally my intent was to not really reveal much about myself on this website, to be a random guy on the Internet with his pants down and a burlap sack over his head while he posts his thoughts online, but that’s mostly failed. Again, because I link to this blog from the Huffington Post, my face is out of the bag. So hello – my name is Scott Janssen and I’m from Kalamazoo, Michigan. Nice to meet you. Not to be rude but now that we’ve met I’d still like to put the burlap sack over my head while I write. And please ignore any choking sounds you may hear while reading this. I’m just depriving myself of oxygen to get ideas, not because of any sort of sexual kick I get from wearing a bag over my head with my pants off and jotting things down for other people to read. That would be disgusting.

Anyway, my girlfriend is from Springfield, Missouri, which is essentially eastern Oklahoma. She can get mad I call it that but hey, get a map. It’s right there. She moved up to Kalamazoo a little over a year ago and hadn’t had an opportunity to go back home until last week when we synchronized our vacations and made the ten hour drive together to spend a week with her family. Though I had been to Springfield before, the trip was extremely brief and I didn’t have time to really look around and get a feel for the place. Now that we had a week to explore, explore we did. And one of the things that stuck out to me the most is the mega churches they have down there. People in eastern Oklahoma love them some Jesus. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t have a problem with that by any means, but Missouri takes it to another level. They actually have churches that issue debit cards, something I’ve never heard of. Where I come from, churches take your money, not issue you some. I personally found their church-banks to be offensive. Just because Jesus was Jewish doesn’t mean he was a banker, and it’s insensitive and racist to assume otherwise.

One of the more important reasons to visit my girlfriend’s hometown was to visit her family, particularly her two young nieces. Both are under two years old and I know she misses them dearly, though my experience with the two is mixed. The older of the two hates me, and I’m not just saying that because I sense something is amiss. She made it plain as day when, after studying me silently for a few moments, she uttered, “What’s up with your face?” Before I could manage to let what she said sink in she concluded, “It’s a problem.” Now I like kids but I’m not one to treat them any differently just because they’re little. That’s ageist. Just as I was about to respond with a “Well you know what I don’t like about your face?” my girlfriend walked by and I had to play it cool with smiles, though the kid and I both knew how we really felt toward one another.

The youngest kid is awesome and clung to me nearly the entire trip. She’s easily one of the sweetest kids I’ve ever come across, hugging strangers and telling them she loves them. The clinginess had its pitfalls, though. When visiting my girlfriend’s family, because the house was full of people, we were relegated to the foldout couch in the living room, leaving us at the mercy of those who woke up early and wanted to get to the kitchen. And, naturally, some of the first people to awake were the two kids. I awoke one morning to a giggling child on top of me, playfully shaking me to wake up. I wouldn’t have minded so much had her tiny hands brought me a cup of coffee too, but oh well. All was well until she pointed toward a specific place on my person and belted out, “What’s that?”

I immediately panicked. How was I going to explain this one? As I’m sure any guy will tell you, when you first wake up in the morning you’re greeted by an “old friend” below. I don’t know why but that’s just how we work. Maybe our pal below the pants is a morning person, who knows? But I was currently in the house that estrogen built – literally. My girlfriend has two sisters and both of them have one child, and both of those children are girls. They might not know the logistics and workings of “morning greetings.”

I was in a deep panic. The youngest child was clearly pointing in the direction of my Morning Glory, there was no mistaking that. What was I going to do or say? Was everyone in the house going to believe that this tiny child jumping on the bed gave me a rise? They couldn’t believe that! I’m Catholic – it’s not little girls that give us the jump start! I was scrambling for a game plan until I heard my girlfriend say, “And what is that, child? Is that a froggy?”

Confused, I glanced down and realized the child was pointing at the pattern on the blanket I was using, a pattern filled with frogs. It was a sigh of relief like none I’ve experienced in a long time, and I desperately needed coffee more than ever after that close call.

There was another interesting experience on the trip involving Ex-lax and the crimes against humanity I committed in the bathroom at my girlfriend’s sister’s party and the awkwardness it brought, but this post is already long and I really need to get back to my laziness. Hope everyone is doing well.

Read on, dear lemmings...

Rest in Peace

To one of the great American Senators and one of the only members of Congress willing to speak against the Iraq war before it began.

Senator Byrd also gave one of the best speeches, in my mind, in recent American history.

Read on, dear lemmings...

I'm Prettier Than You

I had great intentions of writing a post today but it turned out that I simply couldn't get all I wanted to do today done. I swear this will get better when I wrap up my thesis, which will hopefully be very soon.

So, instead, I'll post something from somebody a heck of a lot funnier than me.

Read on, dear lemmings...

My Hairy Greek Weekend

This past weekend was supposed to be the weekend of Greek. My hometown is pretty diverse and has a sizeable Greek population, something I was unaware of until law school, when a girl from Chicago told me so. Being that my hometown isn’t the biggest place in the world, I asked how she knew it had lots of Greeks.

“Because I’m Greek and we talk,” she told me.

She also claimed she had Greek “connections” but, to be honest, I’ve never heard of a Greek mafia. I grew up in a college town and the closest things we had to a Greek mafia was scantily clad sorority girls harassing all the local bars, though I sincerely doubt they were hitting up places for protection (meaning they don’t use condoms, though I should note there’s a condom vending machine in my alma mater’s library bathroom).

But this weekend was supposed to be full of Greek culture. The summer is officially kicked off every year with our festival site downtown hosting a number of events, with the opening one this summer being Greek Fest. I took my girlfriend, Amanda, to the festivities and we roamed around the place, noting the Greek music, the belly dancers, the Greek restaurants and, of course, the Greekest thing of all: trucks of Budweiser. Neither one of us had ever had Greek food, so we decided to share a combination plate of all their specialties. What we quickly discovered was their specialties didn’t involve food. I’m glad for having tried it, but I can’t say I’d ever have an urge for Greek food again. Unless it was Loukoumades.



Loukoumades are Greek doughnuts, or “Golden Retriever balls,” as I called them while I dipped them into my mouth from above my head. Amanda seemed to wince whenever I called them that while simultaneously taking a glorious bite, but truthfully I think she was just jealous she opted for the cheesecake instead. Golden Retriever balls are “drizzled with an aromatic honey syrup and then soaked with a dusting of cinnamon,” and are quite popular in Greece, so the Greek restaurant owner told me. If you ever get the chance, ask your local baker if he or she makes them, or check to see if you have a Greek restaurant in your hometown. They’re seriously fantastic.

After we ate our food we wondered over to the palm reader booth. I’ve never had my palm read, my Tarot cards read, or visited a psychic. I don’t believe in the stuff, though I’m cautious enough to not investigate, if that makes sense. I strongly believe I’m the maker of my own fate, yet there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to know how things play out either, even if I don’t believe what I’m being told. Amanda, on the other hand, seemed to have no qualms about knowing when her time is up.

“It would take away some of the mystery of life but it would also give me a solid timeline as to when I need to get done what I want to do.”

Unfortunately, the palm reader was on a one hour lunch break, so “no hand jobs for us,” I proudly stated.

The rain clouds began to gather in the west and we found it was time ship out and complete our second phase of becoming engaged in Greek culture: going to see “Get Him to The Greek” staring Jonah Hill and Russell Brand. We were joined by my old pal Timmy, a Hispanic kid that originally hails from Los Angeles, yet, for whatever reason, is racist against Hispanics, and his girlfriend. The movie was going rather well until Amanda received a text message from my mom that a tornado watch was out for the surrounding area. Now, when I was a little kid my family was stuck on the highway during a tornado, an ordeal that frightened me terribly. Though I’ve since gotten over my fear of tornados, it only goes so far. I’m the kind of person who functions on percentages and contingences, and if I’m in a location that is vulnerable to a tornado, I become rather uneasy. The movie continued, though I was slightly distracted by a college girl leaving the theater at one point while staring at her cell phone.

“What could it mean? It’s possible she got a random phone call or text, but the odds are favorable toward a tornado warning,” I thought. I shook the thoughts out of my head until I heard Timmy’s cell phone vibrate next to me, and then I knew for sure. The look on Tim’s face when he read the message said it all: tornado warning.

Tim and I excused ourselves and went into the hallway where a teenaged movie theater employee confirmed there was a warning, and he looked rather shaken himself. I was more surprised the movie wasn’t interrupted and an official announcement made but, as the rattled teenager said, “I didn’t want to say anything yet because I don’t know where in the city the tornado is. Once I found that out, then I was going to tell people.” Great.

At this point I grabbed Amanda and was planning on bolting to the homes of a few friends that lived nearby and had basements, though it became rather apparent from the looks of the storm that venturing outside would be more dangerous than staying in the theater. So that’s exactly what we did = everyone stood in the lobby and tried to tune out squawking air raid sirens and the pelting rain on the roof by making nervous chit-chat. Fortunately the tornado passed without any injuries, though the city was flooded and there was plenty of wind damage. Unfortunately, the storm system moved to the east side of the state where a tornado developed in the wee hours of the morning, killing seven people.

So, the weekend of Greek culture was definitely a learning experience. Bad food, great dog testicles, no hand job and a tornado that interrupts movies without a refund.

(Does the title make sense now? Because my weekend was a hairy one, but Greeks are hairy, too. Awesome.)

Read on, dear lemmings...