Irreconcilable Differences

As I was waiting for the cashier to ring up my chicken-flavored cat treats (free with one 14-lb container of Tidy Cat cat litter), I glanced back at the ever-growing line of post work/pre American Idol grocery shoppers. I was just about to turn back to swipe my credit card when something caught my eye. A man was in line about three people behind me, and he looked vaguely familiar. Wait. Is it? No. Could it be? Oh my gosh. It is. It was Orangehat Goatee – live in the flesh.
It had been so long since our split that I barely remembered his face, and seeing him out of context like this really threw me. I craned my neck to see if I could get a look at his grocery cart. Was he buying a lot of food, or just a little? Is he seeing someone else now? Were there any air fresheners or wine coolers in his cart? He was too far away for me to tell, which frankly, was probably a blessing in disguise because had he been any closer, he would have seen the contents of my cart: frozen pizza, generic nighttime cold medicine, sugar free cough drops, People Magazine, and Monistat 7.
But I’ll tell you right now, had he been behind me in line, I would have given him an earful:
No, I don’t want to talk about it. Look, you made it clear that you didn’t want to work things out, so don’t come up to me in the express lane at the Jewel and act like everything’s fine.
That doesn’t matter. It took me way too long to get over you, O., and I’m not going back to square one. Besides, I’m in love with someone else now.
That’s really none of your business, now is it? No, I’m not going to tell you who it is.
No, his name is not Scott S. Dale, smart-ass. Just because Seattle and I fell in love doesn’t mean I fall for every city I visit. God, are you still jealous over that Seattle thing?
Well I can tell you this – he appreciates me for who I am and sees a side of me that no one else does. He brings out my carefree, creative spirit – something you never even knew I had.
Well, no, I haven’t told him how I feel. But that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he talks to me about things. At least my relationship with him isn’t one-sided, like it was with you.
Look, Orangehat. What we had was special. I’m not going to deny that. But I’ve moved on, and I think you should, too. I’ve got to go – my pizza is starting to defrost. Take care of yourself, will you?

Well, I guess it’s for the best that we didn’t talk. I don’t want to open up old wounds, and now that I’m madly in love with someone else, I don’t even think about him anymore. Orangehat. Always wearing that stupid orange hat. Wonder if he still has that hat. That hat sure looked nice on him.

Sweet Home, Chicago!

No matter where I travel, whether for business or pleasure, there’s nothing quite as comforting as stepping off that plane in O’Hare, knowing that I’m but a short drive from my home sweet home. Within minutes of hopping off the plane after my recent trip to Arizona, I found myself zoning out to the soothing sounds of the Beastie Boys on my iPod and watching strangers’ luggage float past me on the baggage carousel. As I lunged forward to grab a black carryon that turned out to belong to someone else, I noticed a sign on the wall that said:

We’re Glad You’re Here!
Digestive Disease Week
May 14-19, 2005
McCormick Place
Mayor Daley Welcomes You to Chicago!

Now, I realize that I don’t work for the Chicago Board of Tourism, but if I did, I’m pretty certain that even on my worst day I could find a more welcoming enticement to weary travelers than touting Digestive Disease Week on the luggage carousel at O’Hare airport. And, I don’t want to seem unfriendly, but are we really glad you’re here, you devoted attendees of Digestive Disease Week? I mean, really – this country has already taken in the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses. Isn’t it about time Canada takes one for the team and opens their borders to the sufferers of explosive diarrhea?
The other thing that struck me as odd is the fact that the city is advertising this event as though it might have some sort of draw for the general visitors to our fine city. It kind of seems to me that most attendees of Digestive Disease Week already knew about the event before arriving in Chicago, and as a city, we could have much more effectively spent those coveted airport marketing dollars. Is this really the scenario Mayor Daley had in mind?

“Honey, do you see our bag yet? Remember – ours has the rainbow strap around it to make it more noticeable.”
“No, dear. It hasn’t come by yet. Phew, my dogs are barking. That was one long flight. Nice stewardesses, though! That Cheryl sure was a sweetheart. You know she gave me two extra bags of pretzels? I didn’t even have to ask for them!”
“Gosh, Jim. I just cannot wait to see the city. My first trip to Chicago, and there’s so much to do – the Sears Tower, Navy Pier, Millennium Park, the Museum of Science and – wait a minute! Oh for the love of – Jim! Look over there!”
“What’s that, June?”
“Over there – that signs says that it’s Digestive Disease Week May 14 through the 19th! Can you believe the luck?”
“Oh, for crying in a kerchief! After it was sold out in Tampa, I never thought we’d get a chance to go to Digestive Disease Week again! Please, please, please let there still be tickets! June – quick! Get the cell phone!”
“I’m way ahead of you! I’m going to see if we can still get the four-day unlimited passes. Won’t the boys be thrilled?”

Although, really, who am I to talk? I just spent four days at a marketing conference in Scottsdale, Arizona. In the grand scheme of things, with my poor eating habits and delicate constitution, attending Digestive Disease Week at McCormick Place probably would have been a better use of my time. Huh. Wonder if I can still get tickets to next year’s conference? I hear they’re holding it in Des Moines!

Jenny’s Money-Saving Travel Tips

Since I used to work in the travel industry, and my new job brings me to exotic destinations such as Seattle, Scottsdale, and Skokie, I felt it would be a good idea for me to share some of the travel tips I’ve learned over the years. And particularly in this time of high gas prices and still sluggish economy, advice for the budget-conscious traveler is more important than ever.
So with that in mind, I bring you the first and potentially only installment of Jenny’s Money-Saving Travel Tips. A penny saved, as they say!
How to Save $10 on America West Airlines
By Jenny Amadeo
As some of you may know, one of the great many perks of traveling on America West flights that are three hours in duration or longer is that you get to watch semi-popular movies on the little TV screens that flip down from the ceiling. I recently learned that in order to accommodate these TV screens, America West had to remove the oxygen masks, but really, I think we all knew they were there just for show anyway.
Imagine my excitement when I thumbed through my well-worn copy of the America West Airlines magazine – which is cleverly titled, America West Airlines Magazine – and realized that my southbound in-flight movie would be the critically acclaimed film, Coach Carter, starring Samuel L. Jackson as the controversial high school basketball coach who benched his undefeated team due to their collective poor academic record in 1999.
As eager as I was to enjoy this cinematic experience, I couldn’t help but remember the wise words of my Grandmother, a woman who never paid for a newspaper a day in her life, as long as she could read one over the shoulder of someone on the bus. If they got angry at her, she would just smile her innocent smile and say, “If the good lord didn’t want me to read your newspaper, he wouldn’t have given me such keen eyesight.”
As we would collect bottles and cans out of the neighbors’ garbage together, she would say, “Jenny, my little wren, don’t you ever pay for something you can get for free. You hear me? Now wipe the maggots off that pickle jar. Good girl.”
Her words kept running through my head the entire time the flight attendants were walking down the aisle collecting $5 for the headsets. Just as I was about to pull out my wallet, I stopped, looked up at the TV screen, and realized that if the good lord hadn’t wanted me to watch this movie for free, he wouldn’t have given me Lenscrafters and an iPod.
I waited until the flight attendant passed me by, and then I tried to shove my iPod headphones in the headphone jack. Apparently, America West armrest engineers were more clever than I had anticipated, as my headphones did not fit. Now, flight attendants long gone, I had no choice but to watch this film without sound.
Being a fairly sharp student of human nature, I figured that I could probably understand what was going on during the film. I quickly realized that not only could I get the general gist of the movie, I had absolutely no need to ever hear anyone speak again. I knew exactly what was going on the entire time, and I am here right now to share this fine film with you all.


Read no further if you are one of the stragglers who has yet to see this masterpiece! I now bring you my interpretation of Coach Carter!
Hey! There’s Samuel L. Jackson. I loved him in Pulp Fiction. “And I will strike down upon thee…” Ha.
Wait. Who’s that guy? Did he just buy drugs, or is he a drug dealer?
Oh. There’s a kid the other kids don’t seem to like. I wonder why. Is he Coach Carter’s son? They were in the same car together. How come they won’t let him play basketball? Maybe because he wore a tie to school. Maybe he transferred from a Catholic school.
Wait a minute – is that guy with the baby the same guy who’s on the basketball team? How come everyone is mad at that one guy with the afro? Maybe he really is doing drugs. Now Samuel L. Jackson pulled him out of the game. He’s pissed.
Huh. I guess that little guy who wore the tie before must have proven himself because now the team seems to like him. He’s really fast.
That woman’s mad at Coach Carter and yelling at him in the grocery store. I’ll bet her son is one of the players, and maybe Coach Carter kicked him off the team. Probably for doing drugs, maybe. Boy, she won’t stop talking to him – she must be really peeved.
But now the Coach is shaking hands with that player he kicked off. I guess he must have let him back on the team. I bet he just made a promise to stay away from those gang kids, or to get better grades.
Ooh – they’re all dancing in a club. Bumping and grinding. I should switch my iPod to some Prince. Gotta not talk dirty babe, if you wanna impress me. The sexual tension is really high.
Don’t let her go!
Make up!
Now we’re back at another basketball game. Oh – it’s the championship game. Says so right there. Backwards slam dunk! In your face, opposing team!
Oh I feel sick with suspense. The game is 79 to 78, with Coach Carter’s team behind. Only 9 seconds left on the clock…
And he makes it! Those Oilers can’t lose! I’ve never seen Coach Carter so happy!
Uh oh. This looks like trouble. That girl from the other school just gave her phone number to the star player on the Oilers. Now there’s a bunch of rich white girls throwing a wild party. I’ll bet their parents aren’t home. And I think a fight might break out because there’s drinking and dancing and lots of teen sex.
How the heck did Coach Carter know where they were? And are those the parents? Strange that they both got there at exactly the same time. Uh oh – Coach Carter’s possible son is in a hot tub making out with two different girls. Now he’s yelling at all the players on the bus. I’ve never seen Coach Carter so disappointed.
How come the students are all taking a test? Is that the SAT? They’re smiling at Coach Carter. Is he a teacher and a Coach? I wonder what class he teaches.
Now they’ve made it to the final championship game. It’s back and forth all night. The Oilers are making a comeback. Wow, these kids are good. I’ll bet colleges are already scouting them.
Oh the tension again. The teams are tied, the Oilers get the ball. Go! Go! Run, dammit! Oh my god! He made it! He made the basket! The Oilers are ahead by two! They’re going to win the championship!
I’ve never seen Coach Carter so – WAIT! Now the other team got the ball with just 4 seconds left! They’re all running, but it’s in slow motion. The guy shoots the ball. Oilers jump up to block it, but they miss. It’s nothing but net! Are you f*ing kidding me? The Oilers lose?! I paid none of my hard earned money to see the Oilers lose the championship? What’s the message here? Work hard, stay off drugs, take that test, and you’ll still lose?!
But wait? Why does Coach Carter look so happy in the locker room? It’s almost like he’s really proud of his team. In fact, I’ve never seen Coach Carter so proud. What’s he saying to them? Probably something like, “You did what no one thought you could do. This is the proudest moment of my life. Each and every one of you is a winner today. You all won the second you stepped onto the court. I love you all.”
So there you have it. I successfully saved $5 yet still thoroughly enjoyed my in-flight movie. I must admit, however, that I liked that movie a lot better when it was called Hoosiers and Lean on Me.
What’s that? I promised to save you $10, but that was only $5? Well, stay tuned for my next installment, where I recap my northbound in-flight tearjerker, Racing Stripes, where an abandoned zebra, with the help of his barnyard friends and a teenage girl, sets out to achieve his dream of racing with thoroughbreds.

Overheard in the Terminal

Woman: heavy set Russian woman, early to mid 50’s; O’Hare employee
Man: tall, late 30’s; O’Hare employee

Woman: “She make dat face (scrunches face tightly)… you feel like slapping her! How she make you feel?”
Man (visibly uncomfortable): “Well… uh. Did you ever talk to her about this?”
Woman: “Talk?! How I am talking to her when she making dat face?”
Man (looking at watch and around terminal): “Well… uh. I’ll see what I can do. But you’ve got to talk to her.”
Woman (throws hands up in air): “Yeah, sure.”

Dry Heat, My Ass

Monday’s Temperature in Arizona: 100 degrees
Monday’s Temperature in Arizona Felt Like: 100 degrees

Ain’t That a Peach?

There are several important rites of passage that go along with being in a jug band, one of which is being given a nickname. One of the stipulations of this ancient nickname giving ceremony is that the recipient must not actually like the nickname given to him/her. Natasha and I got a little worried about what our jug names would become, particularly when we heard that two of the current members had been named Sergeant FatAss and T.J. Rat-Nose.

We quickly devised a scheme to give each other nicknames and pretend that we hated them, to avoid being stuck with a name like Grey-Roots Amadeo or Old Jenny Four Eyes. Last weekend, while Nat and I were scouring the antique shops for washboards and jugs, I kept complaining about how bruised up my leg was getting from all the spooning. She just laughed, told me to take some vitamins, and said, “Aww. Little baby Jenny. She’s just delicate like a piece of fruit.”

I laughed and said, “Yeah, I’m just like a little peach.”

And then it hit me: Peaches! My nickname would be Peaches!

Nat cocked her head to the side and said, “Jenny. There is no way that this class is going to believe that you hate the nickname Peaches. Please.”

“No, but what if we explain why I’m called Peaches. You know, because I bruise so easily. That’s kind of gross, right? And I can pretend like I’m really mad when you suggest it. Let’s role play – pretend we’re in class and you suggest the nickname.”

“Oh brother. All right. Hey, I came up with a nickname for Jenny! Let’s call her Peaches!

“Natasha! I said, no! Do NOT call me Peaches!”

“Ha ha! We’re gonna call you Peaches because you’re all black and blue from playing the spoons!”

“Noooo! I hate that name! Pick something else!”

Natasha stopped me at that point, and said, “Okay, if I’m going to make them believe that you hate the name Peaches, then you have to convince them that I don’t want to be called T-Bone.”

“Oooh – T-Bone’s a badass nickname! Peaches and T-Bone, together at last! We’ll be running the show in no time.

As much as I wanted the nickname Peaches, I did agree that we had a tough road ahead of us in trying to convince the group to let me keep it. I figured that the only way I could win them over would be to write a song about the name. How could they deny me then? So Nat and I sat down over lunch and penned what I believe will become one of the greatest bluesy jug band songs of our era.

Bruised Peach Baby Blues
© 2005 Natasha and Jenny
I calls my baby Peaches, but she don’t hang on a tree.
Oh I calls my baby Peaches, but she don’t hang on no tree.
She’s like sweet Georgia peaches, ‘cause she bruise so easily.

My baby plays da spoons, and she gets all black and blue.
Yeah, my baby plays da spoons, and gets all black and blue.
Took my baby to the doctor, but ain’t nothing he can do.

She’s got bruises on her thighs, and bruises on her knee.
Oh she’s got bruises on her thighs, lord and bruises on her knee.
But I still loves my Peaches, ‘cause she means that much to me.

She don’t wanna play no washtub, nose flute or kazoo.
No, Peaches won’t play no washtub, nose flute or kazoo.
She just keeps on playin’ spoons till she turns all black and blue.

I calls my baby Peaches, but she don’t hang on a tree.
Oh, I calls my baby Peaches, but she don’t hang on no tree.
Well I calls my baby Peaches, ‘cause she needs some Vitamin C.

While I’m gone, if anyone cares to contribute an additional verse or an alternate nickname, please feel free to unleash your inner jugbandster. Please note, however, that all proceeds from the Bruised Peach Baby Blues will go to the Run Jen Run Scotch and Soda Fund.

Work/Life Balance

I had a huge blowout with my friend Vivian this week. I was telling her that I’m worried about not having enough time to balance my job, gambling habits, writing, and jug band all at the same time. I love games of chance, and Seamus just taught me how to beat the house at blackjack, so I can’t give that up. And my paycheck is the only thing that allows me to gamble, so that left writing and jug band on the chopping block. I needed to discuss my dilemma with someone close to me. Someone who would understand the internal struggle I was going through. Clearly that person was not Vivian.

“So, I think that music might be my true calling. You’re a musician, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Jenny. You cannot choose jug band over writing – are you nuts?! Stop playing the damn spoons!”

“Stop playing the damn spoons? You did not seriously just say that to me. Okay, what part of I’m in a jug band now do you not understand?!”

“Um, pretty much starting with the part where you said jug band.”

“Look, Viv. Let me explain it to you again – I’m in a jug band now. This is who I am. And if you can’t seem to accept that, then maybe I need to hang out with someone who can.”

“Fine, Jenny. So play the spoons and write. How hard can it really be to clack some spoons on your leg? A monkey could do that.”

“A monkey could do that? A monkey?! A monkey can do three finger rolls, a double thigh slap, and a side knee tap, all while keeping time with the banjo player? Find me one monkey with bruises all over its thighs from practicing for hours every night and risking eviction due to excessive spoon noise. Well? Go ahead! You can’t, can you?!”

“You have bruises on your thighs? Gross. Why don’t you play the washboard?”


“Jenny. Calm down. I’m just saying that I think you’re being irrational. You can figure out a way to balance all these things in your life. I mean, if jug band has to be put on hold for a while, I’m sure it will-“

“I can’t talk to you right now. I’m too emotional. Why don’t you go find that spoon-playing monkey to talk to? Oh wait – I know. Because it doesn’t exist!”

“Lord help me. Bye, Jenny.”


After I cooled down for a while, I realized that Vivian might have had a point. I’ve always been good at multi-tasking, so maybe I could juggle all these different priorities at once. All I need is a well thought out action plan. Fortunately, I’ll have some time to put that plan together, because next week, I’m attending a work conference in the glamorous destination of Scottsdale, AZ! And given my track record over the past decade, I’m all but guaranteed to have at least a three-hour flight delay in one direction, allowing me plenty of time to map this out.

But I guess there is still one thing that worries me – do you think I’ll be able to get my spoons through airport security?

A Proverbial Mess

In preparation for our rise to jug band fame, Natasha and I both bought shiny new harmonicas last week. As I sat on my couch watching The Bachelor Monday night, I tried to play a few tunes on the old harp, but quickly discovered that whenever I would play, “You Are My Sunshine,” my cats would go berserk and attack each other. I then tried playing the intro to The Beatles, “Love Me Do,” and the same thing happened. I would have tried to play, “On Top of Old Smoky” next, but I just bought the harmonica song book and haven’t learned that one yet.

Thinking this might have just been a strange coincidence, I waited about an hour before playing the harmonica again. But as soon as I played the first few bars, the attacking began again. Now, I have always heard that music soothes the savage beast, so I was perplexed by this reaction from my cats. Is it possible that my newly acquired harmonica skills don’t qualify as music? Are my cats not savage enough? Or is it the more likely answer: that I have been lied to all my life by proverbs?

That had to be it. Well, I’ll be darned. Music really doesn’t soothe the savage beast.

But if that’s the case, then what about all the other proverbs that have guided my every life decision? What if those two birds in the bush really are worth more than this stupid one crapping all over my hands right now? And what if a rolling stone actually does gather moss?

Are you telling me that I could’ve been sitting in my recliner all these years, covered with no more moss than those go-getters over there?

Since my entire world has been turned upside down by this discovery, I now realize that I have a lot of ground to make up. With that in mind, I put together the following list:

To Do:

  • Borrow some money from Vivian, and then lend it to Seamus.

  • Knock over a glass of milk. Cry.
  • Count chickens as soon as the eggs are laid.
  • Collect all those eggs in that big basket.
  • Accept gift from Olympia Dukakis.
  • Make hay at 9:30pm.
  • Wait for iron to cool down, and then strike it.
  • Close eyes. Leap.
  • Wake up that dog.
  • Teach him to roll over.
  • Make bed. Sleep on couch.
  • Get mad at face. Cut off nose.

Finger Food

Last week I was able to break away from the hustle bustle of my busy high-powered marketing job long enough to run out for a quick lunch at the sandwich shop down the street. I had about ten projects due by the end of the week, so I knew I would only have a few minutes to eat. I ordered my usual sandwich – buffalo chicken with bleu cheese spread – and sat down at a table to gobble it up.
With each bite, I kept glancing down at my watch to make sure I was back in time for my 12:30pm high-powered marketing meeting. All of the sudden, I bit down into something unexpected. To my keenly sensitive palate, it felt like neither bread nor buffalo chicken nor bleu cheese spread. I slowly pulled the sandwich away from my mouth, and had to choke back a blood-curdling scream when I realized that I had just bitten into a bleu cheese covered human index finger.
Fighting the urge to retch, I carefully wiped the bleu cheese off the finger, and soon discovered that the digit was my own, still firmly attached to my hand. I could clearly see the irregular teeth marks just below my first knuckle, leaving a vaguely pink line that throbbed with pain. Realizing that this atrocity committed against my being was far more important than any high-powered marketing meeting, I sought solace in the only place I could think of: my friend Seamus’ law firm, which is fortunately only a few blocks away from my office.
Seamus was able to get me an appointment with one of their top attorneys who handles restaurant chain lawsuits, and although his specialty is rat droppings, the attorney was willing to see me immediately.
Handing me a tissue, he leaned in and said, “Ms. Amadeo, I’m so sorry for your trauma. You must still be in shock. You did the right thing by coming here. But tell me, were you able to retrieve the finger from the sandwich?”
“Well, yes. I have it right here,” I explained, pointing my left index finger at my right one. “You can just make out some of the bite marks here.”
He looked a bit puzzled, and asked, “Wait? Do I understand this correctly? You bit into your own finger?”
I held my face in my hands and just nodded, sobbing softly. It was all still too fresh.
My attorney cleared his throat and said, “This is highly unorthodox, I’m afraid. When I agreed to see you, I assumed that you had bitten into a severed finger. The severed finger market is really what our firm is looking to get into. I… I just don’t know that-“
I wiped away the tears with my slightly red finger, and said, “Is my horror and disgust any less real than if the finger had belonged to a stranger? Am I not still a victim here? If I bite me, do I not bleed?”
“Yes, yes. I’m certain that this was a traumatic experience for you, but I just don’t see that you have a case. In fact, I’m not sure who the case would be against, if I were to file one.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I said, “Why, the sandwich shop, of course! That sandwich had at least twice the normal amount of delicious bleu cheese spread on it, causing it to drip all over my hands, thereby making my own finger look exactly like a tasty piece of buffalo chicken. If that isn’t gross negligence, then I don’t know what is, sir!”
He leaned back and scratched his cheek a bit, then probed, “Interesting. Twice the normal amount, you say? Was there anything else that caused you to mistake your finger for chicken? Perhaps an extra tomato or some lettuce?”
As emotionally painful as it was for me, I tried hard to think back to the time of the incident, approximately twenty minutes earlier. “No, lettuce doesn’t come with that sandwich. And I don’t remember if there were any tomatoes – some of the details are foggy. Everything happened so fast – I mean, I kept looking at my watch because I had to get back to the office. I don’t know, there might have been a tomato, but I can’t be-“
He stopped me and said, “Wait a minute. Go back. Did you say you were rushing because of a meeting?”
“Why, yes. I only had a few minutes to eat because of a high-powered marketing meeting that was at 12:30pm.”
“So would you say that the stress of this upcoming meeting, inconsiderately scheduled during the lunch hour, coupled with the excessive bleu cheese dressing, both caused you to bite into the finger?”
“Well… yes. Yes, I guess that’s true.”
“And this company of yours – how big is it?”
“I work for Valhalla, Inc. It’s an international company – we have over 18,000 employees worldwide.”
My attorney quickly picked up his phone and dialed his assistant. “Gene, get Richard on the phone immediately. Code Deep Pockets. Repeat, Code Deep Pockets.”
Tomorrow I have to go in to have plaster casts made of my teeth and finger so that the forensic experts can reconstruct the crime scene. My new team of attorneys has advised me to stay out of that sandwich shop until after the trial date is set. Until then, I’m just sitting tight, trying to shake the memory of the day I discovered a human index finger in my sandwich.

The Nose Knows

Monday, May 2 (after first jug band class):

“Marketing, this is Jenny.”

“Why did you say I played the nose whistle?”

“Oh hey, Nat. What are you talking about?”

“You wrote that I played the nose whistle. I never played the nose whistle, and you know it!”

“Ha! So what? It sounded funny. One of us had to be playing the nose whistle, and I was too busy with the spoons.”

“Nose whistle is for dorks. I don’t want people thinking I play the nose whistle. I want you to print a retraction.”

“Natasha. It’s a blog. We don’t print retractions. Little thing called creative license – ever hear of it? Besides, you never seem to complain when I give you all the funny lines. You can’t have your blog and eat it, too.”

”Well, I don’t care. Make me the straight man from now on, but leave the nose whistle out of it.”

“Actually, I just found out that it’s officially called the nose flute. Does that make it any more appealing to you?”

“No. That sounds even dorkier. Now people will think I’m just sticking a flute up my nose and blowing in it.”

“Ooh – when I was a kid, my brother used to steal my recorder and play it with his nose. I think that’s why I gave up on music long ago.”

“Look, Jenny. I’m not trying to tell you what to write, but I just don’t like being associated with any instrument I have to play with my nose.”

“How about nose trumpet?”


”Nose saxophone?”


“Nose harp?”

“I said no.”

“Wait… you said nose?”

“Shut up!”

“Nose dulcimer?”

“Dammit, Jenny! I’m not kidding!”

“Okay fine. So you don’t have any nasal talent. I get it. Consider it stricken.”

Wednesday, May 4 (after second jug band class):

“Jenny – did you see how many nose flute solos there are in our song book? I had no idea.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s a pretty key instrument for the old jug band. Who knew?”

“Huh. You know, I think they sell them in the music shop for only $1 each…”