Jen Jensen https://write.as/jenjensen/ Writer, dog lover, Christian. Keeping watch and writing about what stays. Mon, 24 Aug 2026 12:50:33 +0000 Dust and Breath https://write.as/jenjensen/dust-and-breath?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[Dust and Breath “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” That’s what Priests and Pastors say when they put ash on your forehead. Actual ash, from last year’s Palms. We are the same material that gathers on bookshelves and under beds. We’re also the same material as cosmic dust, planets, and comets. All of us subject to entropy. It’s the nature of being made of dust. Psalm 39 feels appropriate today: Show me, Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting my life is. You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Everyone is but a breath… Surely everyone goes around like a mere phantom. In vain they rush about, heaping up wealth, without knowing whose it will finally be. But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in you. A handbreadth. Four fingers. That’s the measure. All the rushing, accumulating, careful positioning, proving, and securing. Just the breathy dust of a phantom. (I am taking liberty. It’s too heavy otherwise.) But notice this psalmist doesn’t ask for more time or victory. Doesn’t say, “Vanquish my foes. Save me, God, crush my enemies. Give me until next Tuesday.” They ask for clarity — Show me. Not fix it or guarantee me. Just show me. I want to know. Honestly, Ash Wednesday clears the fog. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” You’re not permanent. You were never meant to be. This is a relief. If I’m just dust, then I don’t have to carry eternity on my back. If I’m just breath, then I can stop pretending I control the wind. Psalm 39 pivots right where you think, “Am I reading the Bible or a Beatnik poem?” “But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in you.” That’s the turn. If everything I can build is temporary, then hope can’t be built there. Nothing can. Wealth, security, reputation — it’s all just very organized dust. All this political nonsense and cruelty? Very noisy mean dust. Hope is something else. Something never dependent on us. God help us if it were. (We are messy dust.) See, Lent is about scale. I am dust. I am breath. My days are a handbreadth. But none of it contains my hope. Or, more succinctly said: Stop trying to scale infinity using IKEA instructions. You are dust. Act accordingly. And hope anyway.]]> Dust and Breath

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” That’s what Priests and Pastors say when they put ash on your forehead. Actual ash, from last year’s Palms.

We are the same material that gathers on bookshelves and under beds. We’re also the same material as cosmic dust, planets, and comets. All of us subject to entropy. It’s the nature of being made of dust.

Psalm 39 feels appropriate today:

Show me, Lord, my life’s end

and the number of my days;

let me know how fleeting my life is.

You have made my days a mere handbreadth;

the span of my years is as nothing before you.

Everyone is but a breath…

Surely everyone goes around like a mere phantom.

In vain they rush about, heaping up wealth,

without knowing whose it will finally be.

But now, Lord, what do I look for?

My hope is in you.

A handbreadth. Four fingers. That’s the measure. All the rushing, accumulating, careful positioning, proving, and securing. Just the breathy dust of a phantom. (I am taking liberty. It’s too heavy otherwise.)

But notice this psalmist doesn’t ask for more time or victory. Doesn’t say, “Vanquish my foes. Save me, God, crush my enemies. Give me until next Tuesday.” They ask for clarity — Show me. Not fix it or guarantee me. Just show me. I want to know.

Honestly, Ash Wednesday clears the fog. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

You’re not permanent. You were never meant to be. This is a relief.

If I’m just dust, then I don’t have to carry eternity on my back. If I’m just breath, then I can stop pretending I control the wind.

Psalm 39 pivots right where you think, “Am I reading the Bible or a Beatnik poem?”

“But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in you.”

That’s the turn. If everything I can build is temporary, then hope can’t be built there. Nothing can. Wealth, security, reputation — it’s all just very organized dust. All this political nonsense and cruelty? Very noisy mean dust.

Hope is something else. Something never dependent on us. God help us if it were. (We are messy dust.)

See, Lent is about scale. I am dust. I am breath. My days are a handbreadth. But none of it contains my hope.

Or, more succinctly said:

Stop trying to scale infinity using IKEA instructions.

You are dust. Act accordingly.

And hope anyway.

]]> https://write.as/jenjensen/dust-and-breath Mon, 24 Aug 2026 05:23:55 +0000 No Shortcut https://write.as/jenjensen/no-shortcut?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[No Shortcut Thirteen years ago, I wrote: Most of what goes wrong in your life is going to be your own fault. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You do the best you can with what you have at the time. It’s like your life is a video game—it’s only after you clear a level that you realize there was a shortcut there the whole time. Don’t fret. Just remember it next time. From time to time something really awful will happen that won’t be your fault, but through the intricate absurdity of the universe, know that this will be the thing for which you blame yourself. Try not to. I wrote that in my thirties, as the starting words for a character named Mickey Madison, whom I still love, and who needs to find a place in the world. I wrote it with bold confidence because I’d just survived a dark night of the soul, was in between arcs in my life, and for once, the wilderness didn’t seem too bad. I owned nothing but my car, a Kindle, MacBook, and spent six months recuperating in a small room in my parent’s house with only my two dogs for company. It was when I accepted a job in New Jersey. Later in the story, Mickey Madison said, “It’s a good thing you don’t know what’s going to happen because none of us would live at all.” Mickey was a mess, but she was wise. Me? Well, the jury is still out. At the time, I thought this list was about responsibility, maturity, and emotional hygiene. I thought it was a gentle corrective to self-pity, a reminder to stop catastrophizing, a way to keep moving forward without turning every mistake into a moral failure. If I made the mess, I can fix it was my mantra. What followed—then and since—has been the ongoing realization that I often know things intellectually long before my nervous system catches up. Since my nervous system has more impact on my day to day reality than my brain, this hasn’t always gone real well. It’s as if there’s a highly rational upper floor in my brain calmly saying, This is what’s happening. Pay attention. It’s usually right. But down below—on the other floors—there’s a party, a panic attack, a doctor’s appointment, a work meeting, a Beth Hart song, and an inordinate amount of worry about a potentially infected hangnail. When is there time to pay attention? So it’s strange, years later, to look back and realize how much insight I already had—and how thoroughly I ignored it. Not out of denial or stubbornness, but because knowing something and being able to live it are very different skills. That third point? That one aged like a prophecy. The worst things that happened later—the ones that cracked my life open, reordered my priorities, rearranged my faith, my body, my relationships—those were not things I caused. But they are the things I still interrogate myself over most relentlessly. What did I miss? What should I have seen sooner? Where did I fail to prevent the inevitable? Turns out, my brain would rather indict me than accept the chaos. Self-blame feels like control. If it was my fault, then maybe I can stop it from happening again. Maybe suffering has rules. Maybe there’s a cheat code after all. Spoiler: sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes there is no shortcut. Sometimes the level just hurts. Sometimes the lesson is not insight but endurance. Why would we ever try to assume that suffering is deserved, proportional, or educational? That idea belongs to Job’s friends—and God explicitly tells them they’re wrong. They’d just spent days telling him those boils had to be his fault. Did he use a new detergent? Not wash his bed mat well enough? Job, in this moment, appreciated the back-up when God clapped back on it with thunder. Jesus did not take the shortcut. Could have called down legions of Angels, right? Didn’t. Remained. Died on the cross. Because you see, the thing I’m finally learning is that the shortcut was never the point. RA welcomed me to incarnational spirituality at ground level. Mickey didn’t know it yet, because I didn’t, that the goal wasn’t understanding and philosophizing, but staying. Staying in the body. Staying in grief. Staying in love. So this is me, almost fifteen years later, ground mostly under me. Not because I’ve mastered anything, but because I am still here. Still blaming myself sometimes. Still trying not to. There may be no shortcut. But there is fidelity. “Those who endure to the end will be saved.” — Matthew 24:13]]> No Shortcut

Thirteen years ago, I wrote:

  1. Most of what goes wrong in your life is going to be your own fault. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You do the best you can with what you have at the time.

  2. It’s like your life is a video game—it’s only after you clear a level that you realize there was a shortcut there the whole time. Don’t fret. Just remember it next time.

  3. From time to time something really awful will happen that won’t be your fault, but through the intricate absurdity of the universe, know that this will be the thing for which you blame yourself. Try not to.

I wrote that in my thirties, as the starting words for a character named Mickey Madison, whom I still love, and who needs to find a place in the world. I wrote it with bold confidence because I’d just survived a dark night of the soul, was in between arcs in my life, and for once, the wilderness didn’t seem too bad. I owned nothing but my car, a Kindle, MacBook, and spent six months recuperating in a small room in my parent’s house with only my two dogs for company. It was when I accepted a job in New Jersey.

Later in the story, Mickey Madison said, “It’s a good thing you don’t know what’s going to happen because none of us would live at all.”

Mickey was a mess, but she was wise. Me? Well, the jury is still out.

At the time, I thought this list was about responsibility, maturity, and emotional hygiene. I thought it was a gentle corrective to self-pity, a reminder to stop catastrophizing, a way to keep moving forward without turning every mistake into a moral failure.

If I made the mess, I can fix it was my mantra.

What followed—then and since—has been the ongoing realization that I often know things intellectually long before my nervous system catches up. Since my nervous system has more impact on my day to day reality than my brain, this hasn’t always gone real well.

It’s as if there’s a highly rational upper floor in my brain calmly saying, This is what’s happening. Pay attention. It’s usually right. But down below—on the other floors—there’s a party, a panic attack, a doctor’s appointment, a work meeting, a Beth Hart song, and an inordinate amount of worry about a potentially infected hangnail. When is there time to pay attention?

So it’s strange, years later, to look back and realize how much insight I already had—and how thoroughly I ignored it. Not out of denial or stubbornness, but because knowing something and being able to live it are very different skills.

That third point? That one aged like a prophecy.

The worst things that happened later—the ones that cracked my life open, reordered my priorities, rearranged my faith, my body, my relationships—those were not things I caused. But they are the things I still interrogate myself over most relentlessly. What did I miss? What should I have seen sooner? Where did I fail to prevent the inevitable?

Turns out, my brain would rather indict me than accept the chaos. Self-blame feels like control. If it was my fault, then maybe I can stop it from happening again. Maybe suffering has rules. Maybe there’s a cheat code after all.

Spoiler: sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes there is no shortcut. Sometimes the level just hurts. Sometimes the lesson is not insight but endurance.

Why would we ever try to assume that suffering is deserved, proportional, or educational? That idea belongs to Job’s friends—and God explicitly tells them they’re wrong. They’d just spent days telling him those boils had to be his fault. Did he use a new detergent? Not wash his bed mat well enough? Job, in this moment, appreciated the back-up when God clapped back on it with thunder. Jesus did not take the shortcut. Could have called down legions of Angels, right? Didn’t. Remained. Died on the cross.

Because you see, the thing I’m finally learning is that the shortcut was never the point. RA welcomed me to incarnational spirituality at ground level. Mickey didn’t know it yet, because I didn’t, that the goal wasn’t understanding and philosophizing, but staying. Staying in the body. Staying in grief. Staying in love.

So this is me, almost fifteen years later, ground mostly under me. Not because I’ve mastered anything, but because I am still here. Still blaming myself sometimes. Still trying not to.

There may be no shortcut. But there is fidelity.

“Those who endure to the end will be saved.” — Matthew 24:13

]]> https://write.as/jenjensen/no-shortcut Mon, 24 Aug 2026 05:22:20 +0000 In Memory of Junie B. Jensen https://write.as/jenjensen/in-memory-of-junie-b?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[In Memory of Junie B. Jensen Originally written in June 2017, I can’t stand to not have this posted somewhere in her memory. Junie B. Jensen July 21, 2007 (Gotcha day 3/4 years old)- June 29, 2017 AKA: My littlest. Bo-bittlest. The littlest, bo-bittlest of the bo-bittlest clan. Widdle Waddle. Bug. Buggest. Beagle butt I got you almost 10 years ago from people who couldn’t see past your anxiety to understand your value. But I did. I saw the soul in your eyes. I knew you belonged with me. You ran out of their house and saw me and peed on their porch mat. I laughed and you jumped into my arms. You never looked back. I took you home and woke up the next day to find you’d destroyed every pair of shoes in my closet and a couch cushion. It’s no surprise that as I mellowed these past five or six years so did you. Before that we both left a trail of destruction in our wake. We taught each other commitment, patience, and unconditional acceptance. Together we learned to be still. To be. We made our way through the darkness together and then we rested and just enjoyed each other’s company. If you enjoy my work, please subscribe! How I enjoyed it! When you were younger we’d walk for hours and I’d laugh at your insolent refusal to be decent on a leash. You hated being constrained, stuck, or held back. (We are twin souls.) I laughed chasing you when you'd talk me into taking off your leash. You always had to test the limits. You were just so naughty and defiant. You knew what you wanted to do and didn't care what I thought you should do. (We are soulmates.) You accepted every dog you met. You never resented all the dogs in and out of our house. You welcomed them, excited, and then taught them all how to Dog. A wise woman told me earlier this week you were holding emotional space for me. You felt like you could move on now – I’m okay. You’re not going to be part of my next chapter here. You’ve got some other work to do somewhere else. Your little body struggled so much these past few years. Finally, the pain was too much and at 14 years old, you told me today it was time for your story here to end. What a story it was! I still remember the day I came home from work to find you sitting in the middle of the kitchen counter. You’d pulled the kitchen chair to the counter and climbed up. You opened every door in the kitchen. Had you not still been up there I might have thought a poltergeist had visited. You scattered plastic containers. Cereal boxes and spices lay on the ground. You looked so perplexed sitting there. I was so angry but then I saw the look in your eyes. Your anxiety was so uncontrollable you couldn’t understand what you’d done. I realized you were not so different from me and I picked you up and held you on my lap. You shook and whimpered. I cried too. We were both so self-destructive. Somehow, our own way, we managed to pull it together. You were all DOG. I remember the time I tried to stop you from eating that gecko you caught and swallowed alive when I tried to take it from your mouth. Then you climbed on my lap with your sad, Bette Davis eyes as it wiggled in your tummy. I told you I wouldn’t feel sorry for you but you still insisted on stretching out across my lap, on your back, and I rubbed your tummy for you. Thank you for all the mice, snakes, birds, and geckos you brought me as gifts. I love you too, even though you were not a vegan. I’m sorry for the times I yelled at you for eating my books. I’d let you eat all my books if I you didn’t need to go now. It’s so silly the things we get worked up about. Anger is so silly. Junie, I don’t know what this planet is because it can be awful. Being born and growing old and hurting along the way is stupid. There must be a better way to exist and I know that is where you’ve gone. I'm upset you must go without me because I know that scares you. I know you feel better when we are together. I do too. I guess it’s time for us let go of our separation anxiety and surrender to this transition. I’ll always carry you in my heart. I know I’ll be in yours. I will miss sharing my watermelon with you. Your snores. Your beagle bay – which shakes the windows and rattles the pictures. I will miss the tiny cries you offer when you see me after you’ve not seen me in a while. I’ll miss my driving co-pilot, best friend, and teacher. I will miss your beautiful presence. Your energy filled up my life for 10 years and I am so lucky I got you. Today you were in so much pain. You knew what was happening in the end and you peacefully settled. You kissed me and then rest your head in my hand. Then, just as we thought you were going, you lunged to me and kissed me and I felt your last breath on my face. Everyone gasped because they knew what you’d done. You told me it was okay, thanked me, and made sure the very last thing you did while you could was love me. It was like you said, “Oh, wait… not yet! Hold on! One more time…” Your heart wouldn’t stop beating until I whispered it was okay to let go. I'm sure you've already found Scully & Penelope. Keep them safe until we are all together again. Play. Run. Kiss. Snuggle. Until I’m ready to join you, Junie B. Jensen, I will never go a day without thinking of you. Jen Your Human "And she'll tease you, she'll unease you All the better just to please you She's precocious, and she knows just What it takes to make a pro blush She got Greta Garbo's standoff sighs, she's got Bette Davis eyes" ~ Bette Davis Eyes]]> In Memory of Junie B. Jensen

Originally written in June 2017, I can’t stand to not have this posted somewhere in her memory.

Junie B. Jensen

July 21, 2007 (Gotcha day ¾ years old)– June 29, 2017

AKA: My littlest. Bo-bittlest. The littlest, bo-bittlest of the bo-bittlest clan. Widdle Waddle. Bug. Buggest. Beagle butt

I got you almost 10 years ago from people who couldn’t see past your anxiety to understand your value. But I did. I saw the soul in your eyes. I knew you belonged with me. You ran out of their house and saw me and peed on their porch mat. I laughed and you jumped into my arms. You never looked back. I took you home and woke up the next day to find you’d destroyed every pair of shoes in my closet and a couch cushion.

It’s no surprise that as I mellowed these past five or six years so did you. Before that we both left a trail of destruction in our wake. We taught each other commitment, patience, and unconditional acceptance. Together we learned to be still. To be. We made our way through the darkness together and then we rested and just enjoyed each other’s company.

If you enjoy my work, please subscribe!

How I enjoyed it! When you were younger we’d walk for hours and I’d laugh at your insolent refusal to be decent on a leash. You hated being constrained, stuck, or held back. (We are twin souls.) I laughed chasing you when you'd talk me into taking off your leash. You always had to test the limits. You were just so naughty and defiant. You knew what you wanted to do and didn't care what I thought you should do. (We are soulmates.)

You accepted every dog you met. You never resented all the dogs in and out of our house. You welcomed them, excited, and then taught them all how to Dog.

A wise woman told me earlier this week you were holding emotional space for me. You felt like you could move on now – I’m okay. You’re not going to be part of my next chapter here. You’ve got some other work to do somewhere else.

Your little body struggled so much these past few years. Finally, the pain was too much and at 14 years old, you told me today it was time for your story here to end. What a story it was!

I still remember the day I came home from work to find you sitting in the middle of the kitchen counter. You’d pulled the kitchen chair to the counter and climbed up. You opened every door in the kitchen. Had you not still been up there I might have thought a poltergeist had visited. You scattered plastic containers. Cereal boxes and spices lay on the ground. You looked so perplexed sitting there. I was so angry but then I saw the look in your eyes. Your anxiety was so uncontrollable you couldn’t understand what you’d done. I realized you were not so different from me and I picked you up and held you on my lap. You shook and whimpered. I cried too. We were both so self-destructive. Somehow, our own way, we managed to pull it together.

You were all DOG. I remember the time I tried to stop you from eating that gecko you caught and swallowed alive when I tried to take it from your mouth. Then you climbed on my lap with your sad, Bette Davis eyes as it wiggled in your tummy. I told you I wouldn’t feel sorry for you but you still insisted on stretching out across my lap, on your back, and I rubbed your tummy for you.

Thank you for all the mice, snakes, birds, and geckos you brought me as gifts. I love you too, even though you were not a vegan.

I’m sorry for the times I yelled at you for eating my books. I’d let you eat all my books if I you didn’t need to go now. It’s so silly the things we get worked up about. Anger is so silly.

Junie, I don’t know what this planet is because it can be awful. Being born and growing old and hurting along the way is stupid. There must be a better way to exist and I know that is where you’ve gone. I'm upset you must go without me because I know that scares you. I know you feel better when we are together. I do too.

I guess it’s time for us let go of our separation anxiety and surrender to this transition. I’ll always carry you in my heart. I know I’ll be in yours.

I will miss sharing my watermelon with you. Your snores. Your beagle bay – which shakes the windows and rattles the pictures. I will miss the tiny cries you offer when you see me after you’ve not seen me in a while. I’ll miss my driving co-pilot, best friend, and teacher.

I will miss your beautiful presence. Your energy filled up my life for 10 years and I am so lucky I got you.

Today you were in so much pain. You knew what was happening in the end and you peacefully settled. You kissed me and then rest your head in my hand. Then, just as we thought you were going, you lunged to me and kissed me and I felt your last breath on my face. Everyone gasped because they knew what you’d done. You told me it was okay, thanked me, and made sure the very last thing you did while you could was love me. It was like you said, “Oh, wait… not yet! Hold on! One more time…” Your heart wouldn’t stop beating until I whispered it was okay to let go.

I'm sure you've already found Scully & Penelope. Keep them safe until we are all together again. Play. Run. Kiss. Snuggle.

Until I’m ready to join you, Junie B. Jensen, I will never go a day without thinking of you.

Jen

Your Human

“And she'll tease you, she'll unease you

All the better just to please you

She's precocious, and she knows just

What it takes to make a pro blush

She got Greta Garbo's standoff sighs, she's got Bette Davis eyes” ~ Bette Davis Eyes

]]> https://write.as/jenjensen/in-memory-of-junie-b Mon, 24 Aug 2026 05:20:53 +0000 Kale Farts & Ikea https://write.as/jenjensen/kale-farts-and-ikea?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[Kale Farts & Ikea *I originally wrote this as a guest author post for a “Share your most embarrassing moment” series. I won. Date: 2/2014 Location: New Jersey You asked for my most embarrassing story, and you’re getting it. This is a cautionary tale about good intentions gone wrong with kale, a blender, and a trip to Ikea in Elizabeth, New Jersey. I was living in New Jersey with my twenty-one-year-old nephew. He decided to get fit and took my credit card to buy a Ninja blender for the apartment. He started making smoothies every morning before he bounded off to the gym. He then drank this smoothie every day for a week or two. I encouraged it. I was busy with work, not really paying attention to what he was doing. We’d also just begun to recover from an apartment flood. A fire sprinkler pipe had burst during an arctic blast and all our furniture floated away. I needed to wait for the insurance check so I could replace our furniture and toss out our air mattresses. It came on a Wednesday night, and I told Mick we’d need to make a trip to Ikea Friday night. Hearing that he’d soon have a bed again made him generous. “Let me start making you a smoothie. You know, to help you. It’s been stressful.” So, I agreed. I mean, what could it hurt? I asked what was in the smoothie. He told me apple, banana, carrots, kale, spinach, ice, and water. Looking back, I should have asked portions of each. I was all in. I heard him blending my smoothie that morning before he left for class. He proudly told me it was waiting for me in the fridge. It was amazing, and after, I was so full. But by late morning, air started leaking out of my butt against my will. I walked around all day, a tiny cloud of putrid air-puss floating behind me. People looked at me from the corners of their eyes. I could see their disdain and judgement. I heard someone whisper, “Is that her?” It hurt so much to hold it in, but I was afraid of what would happen if I let it go. At lunch, I got in my car and felt the sweet relief of release. I had to roll down all the windows. I texted Mick. Jen: What did you put in my smoothie? Tell me exactly. I can’t stop farting! Mick: Two Apples, banana, cup of carrots, three cups of Kale, two cups of spinach, some weird algae superfood I saw on a Netflix documentary, ½ cup of blueberries and strawberries, maybe a peach, protein powder, coconut milk, and ice. Jen: You are trying to kill me! Do you know how tender my intestines are? I have Celiacs! That’s three days of servings in one smoothie! Mick: Dude, it’s the kale. It’s good for you. I held it together as much as I could at work, but driving home, my car filled with gases so noxious they wouldn’t be welcome on Venus. I texted Mick: Oh my f-ing Gawd!! My guts are on fire! What did you do to me? I got home and sounded like a marching band as I walked the dogs. Each step expelled more of the gas festering inside of me. The smell was pure evil mixed with a dark descent into the abyss. My guts felt like I was listening to alt-right talk radio. When Mick got back home, around eleven, he said, “Oh my god, dude. I had to hold this fart for the whole class. I thought I was going to die! I’m not kidding. It’s still coming.” It was too. As he stood talking to me, air leaked out of his butt. It sounded like air seeping from a balloon when you pull it tight after blowing it up. (Do you know what I’m talking about? I used to do it all the time as a kid. I’d inflate the balloon, and then grab both sides of the air entry way, and let it hiss. Sometimes, I’d let it go so it flew around the room.) I laughed hysterically, my eyes watering from the laughter and the smell. “I got to my truck and let it out and it was so sick. It wouldn’t stop. It went on and on.” He made the sound for me. I heard it coming out of his mouth and his butt the same time. “Oh my god, go away,” I said, throwing a pillow at him. “Slow down on the smoothies. It’s too much.” He disagreed. “Dude, it’s the kale.” He said this as the noxious gas leaked slowly from his butt, steady in its release. I don’t think he even realized it was still happening. It was totally involuntary. The next day at work, I had a bit more control, but not much. I hadn’t eaten at all because I was so afraid of adding to the chaos inside my body. I told Mick to meet me at the office with his truck so we could go to Ikea. It had snowed heavily the night before and everything was buried under at least ten inches of snow. I was cold, tired, miserable, homesick, and the smoothie was rotting inside me. He showed up, oddly on time, still farting. I could hear it as I stood by the truck window while we discussed our plans. He followed me to Ikea. I hate shopping. I really hate shopping at Ikea. But I dig the furniture, so did what I must. We walked through the sliding glass doors, and I began farting again. It was a combination of stress, anxiety, and the prospect of navigating miles of Ikea. Their floorplan traps you. You can only move forward. Turning around is impossible. The yellow arrows on the floor demand you only walk deeper into the cavern of prefabricated modernity. It comes with the promise of well styled, cheap home decor, but that comes with a price. Maybe you leave a piece of your soul at the mid-point to help fund such a monstrosity. By the time we finished, I felt like I’d just completed Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s journey. I was changed and had met many helpers along the way. A married couple with three kids were our companions on our long trek. I really wonder what happened to them. I’d overcome anxiety, over-stimulation, and overwhelming options and selected furniture. We checked out, pushing two large and loaded carts. I told Mick to run and get my car and then his truck. I’d wait with the stuff. I really wanted to just stand outside and enjoy the fresh air. In a few dark moments, deep in the heart of Ikea, I was worried I’d never see the light of day again. Mick brought my car around first and I loaded it while he went to grab his truck. I saw him zoom around the corner and throw it into reverse, backing right up the loading dock where I waited. He is such a show-off. He jumped out, opened the tailgate, and the back of his truck was full of snow. When I saw it, I farted so loud someone three cars away said, “Oh my god, what was that?” Mick said, “Anything in your pants?” “It’s all your fault. And I told you to scoop the snow out of the back of your truck this morning!” “You did not,” he said. “Well, I thought it. Anyway, you knew we were coming here? It didn’t occur to you to push it out?” I farted again. It felt like a baby dinosaur was hatching inside me. Or an alien. Something was breaking free, stretching out its arms and legs after long confinement. I feared what was happening inside me at this point. “Dude, it’s the kale,” Mick said, pointing at me. “It’s all the fiber you put in that smoothie. Who the hell does that?” He shrugged. “You drank it dude.” “Just clean out the snow,” I said. I had to walk away from the smell where I was standing. I was dying inside. I leaned against the glass window by the door and watched him push the snow out with the brush I’d bought him to use to clean off the truck windows. He piled it right behind the truck, in two piles on either side of the tailgate and a small one in the middle. I pointed. “So now we have to lift everything up and over the snow,” I said. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.” He lifted a long piece of furniture up and couldn't get it to clear the pile of snow. He tried a different angle and still couldn’t get it in the truck. “Want help?” I walked forward. “Will you fart while doing it?” I ignored him and lifted the other side. We slid it into the back of the truck but as I stepped forward to help him push it all the way in, my foot slipped off the loading dock and I slid from where I stood down the incline of snow in the middle of the tailgate. I looked like a tobogganer. Had I been in the Olympics, I would have won at least a Bronze medal. I careened under the tailgate and slid until I was under the truck. I farted the whole time. I think it might have propelled me forward some. When I finally came to a stop, I heard Mick laughing. I closed my eyes and just held still for a few minutes. When I opened them, Mick was hanging over the side of the truck. His face was upside down and he laughed so hard there were tears. “You okay?” He didn’t really care if I was okay. “Did you poop your pants because it sounded like it.” I twisted and stuck my legs out from under the truck, near him. “Please pull me out.” I heard him jump over the side of the truck. He grabbed me by an ankle and drug me out like that. A crowd of bystanders had gathered on both sides of the truck. Someone went to get the Ikea store manager, who rushed toward me, holding a walkie-talkie. I heard him say, “I’m on scene.” I waved everyone away. Mostly, I didn’t want anyone that close if I had to fart again. I reassured the manager I was fine. They helped Mick load the rest of the furniture. I got in my car and drove away. I never went back. It took a week to recover from the smoothie.]]> Kale Farts & Ikea

*I originally wrote this as a guest author post for a “Share your most embarrassing moment” series. I won.

Date: 2/2014

Location: New Jersey

You asked for my most embarrassing story, and you’re getting it. This is a cautionary tale about good intentions gone wrong with kale, a blender, and a trip to Ikea in Elizabeth, New Jersey.

I was living in New Jersey with my twenty-one-year-old nephew. He decided to get fit and took my credit card to buy a Ninja blender for the apartment. He started making smoothies every morning before he bounded off to the gym.

He then drank this smoothie every day for a week or two. I encouraged it. I was busy with work, not really paying attention to what he was doing. We’d also just begun to recover from an apartment flood. A fire sprinkler pipe had burst during an arctic blast and all our furniture floated away. I needed to wait for the insurance check so I could replace our furniture and toss out our air mattresses. It came on a Wednesday night, and I told Mick we’d need to make a trip to Ikea Friday night.

Hearing that he’d soon have a bed again made him generous. “Let me start making you a smoothie. You know, to help you. It’s been stressful.” So, I agreed. I mean, what could it hurt? I asked what was in the smoothie. He told me apple, banana, carrots, kale, spinach, ice, and water.

Looking back, I should have asked portions of each.

I was all in. I heard him blending my smoothie that morning before he left for class. He proudly told me it was waiting for me in the fridge.

It was amazing, and after, I was so full. But by late morning, air started leaking out of my butt against my will. I walked around all day, a tiny cloud of putrid air-puss floating behind me. People looked at me from the corners of their eyes. I could see their disdain and judgement. I heard someone whisper, “Is that her?”

It hurt so much to hold it in, but I was afraid of what would happen if I let it go. At lunch, I got in my car and felt the sweet relief of release. I had to roll down all the windows.

I texted Mick.

Jen: What did you put in my smoothie? Tell me exactly. I can’t stop farting!

Mick: Two Apples, banana, cup of carrots, three cups of Kale, two cups of spinach, some weird algae superfood I saw on a Netflix documentary, ½ cup of blueberries and strawberries, maybe a peach, protein powder, coconut milk, and ice.

Jen: You are trying to kill me! Do you know how tender my intestines are? I have Celiacs! That’s three days of servings in one smoothie!

Mick: Dude, it’s the kale. It’s good for you.

I held it together as much as I could at work, but driving home, my car filled with gases so noxious they wouldn’t be welcome on Venus.

I texted Mick: Oh my f-ing Gawd!! My guts are on fire! What did you do to me?

I got home and sounded like a marching band as I walked the dogs. Each step expelled more of the gas festering inside of me. The smell was pure evil mixed with a dark descent into the abyss. My guts felt like I was listening to alt-right talk radio.

When Mick got back home, around eleven, he said, “Oh my god, dude. I had to hold this fart for the whole class. I thought I was going to die! I’m not kidding. It’s still coming.” It was too. As he stood talking to me, air leaked out of his butt. It sounded like air seeping from a balloon when you pull it tight after blowing it up. (Do you know what I’m talking about? I used to do it all the time as a kid. I’d inflate the balloon, and then grab both sides of the air entry way, and let it hiss. Sometimes, I’d let it go so it flew around the room.)

I laughed hysterically, my eyes watering from the laughter and the smell. “I got to my truck and let it out and it was so sick. It wouldn’t stop. It went on and on.” He made the sound for me.

I heard it coming out of his mouth and his butt the same time.

“Oh my god, go away,” I said, throwing a pillow at him. “Slow down on the smoothies. It’s too much.”

He disagreed. “Dude, it’s the kale.” He said this as the noxious gas leaked slowly from his butt, steady in its release. I don’t think he even realized it was still happening. It was totally involuntary.

The next day at work, I had a bit more control, but not much. I hadn’t eaten at all because I was so afraid of adding to the chaos inside my body. I told Mick to meet me at the office with his truck so we could go to Ikea. It had snowed heavily the night before and everything was buried under at least ten inches of snow. I was cold, tired, miserable, homesick, and the smoothie was rotting inside me.

He showed up, oddly on time, still farting. I could hear it as I stood by the truck window while we discussed our plans. He followed me to Ikea. I hate shopping. I really hate shopping at Ikea. But I dig the furniture, so did what I must.

We walked through the sliding glass doors, and I began farting again. It was a combination of stress, anxiety, and the prospect of navigating miles of Ikea. Their floorplan traps you. You can only move forward. Turning around is impossible. The yellow arrows on the floor demand you only walk deeper into the cavern of prefabricated modernity. It comes with the promise of well styled, cheap home decor, but that comes with a price. Maybe you leave a piece of your soul at the mid-point to help fund such a monstrosity.

By the time we finished, I felt like I’d just completed Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s journey. I was changed and had met many helpers along the way. A married couple with three kids were our companions on our long trek. I really wonder what happened to them. I’d overcome anxiety, over-stimulation, and overwhelming options and selected furniture.

We checked out, pushing two large and loaded carts.

I told Mick to run and get my car and then his truck. I’d wait with the stuff. I really wanted to just stand outside and enjoy the fresh air. In a few dark moments, deep in the heart of Ikea, I was worried I’d never see the light of day again.

Mick brought my car around first and I loaded it while he went to grab his truck. I saw him zoom around the corner and throw it into reverse, backing right up the loading dock where I waited. He is such a show-off. He jumped out, opened the tailgate, and the back of his truck was full of snow.

When I saw it, I farted so loud someone three cars away said, “Oh my god, what was that?”

Mick said, “Anything in your pants?”

“It’s all your fault. And I told you to scoop the snow out of the back of your truck this morning!”

“You did not,” he said.

“Well, I thought it. Anyway, you knew we were coming here? It didn’t occur to you to push it out?” I farted again. It felt like a baby dinosaur was hatching inside me. Or an alien. Something was breaking free, stretching out its arms and legs after long confinement. I feared what was happening inside me at this point.

“Dude, it’s the kale,” Mick said, pointing at me.

“It’s all the fiber you put in that smoothie. Who the hell does that?”

He shrugged. “You drank it dude.”

“Just clean out the snow,” I said. I had to walk away from the smell where I was standing. I was dying inside.

I leaned against the glass window by the door and watched him push the snow out with the brush I’d bought him to use to clean off the truck windows. He piled it right behind the truck, in two piles on either side of the tailgate and a small one in the middle. I pointed.

“So now we have to lift everything up and over the snow,” I said.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.” He lifted a long piece of furniture up and couldn't get it to clear the pile of snow. He tried a different angle and still couldn’t get it in the truck.

“Want help?” I walked forward.

“Will you fart while doing it?”

I ignored him and lifted the other side. We slid it into the back of the truck but as I stepped forward to help him push it all the way in, my foot slipped off the loading dock and I slid from where I stood down the incline of snow in the middle of the tailgate. I looked like a tobogganer. Had I been in the Olympics, I would have won at least a Bronze medal. I careened under the tailgate and slid until I was under the truck.

I farted the whole time. I think it might have propelled me forward some.

When I finally came to a stop, I heard Mick laughing. I closed my eyes and just held still for a few minutes. When I opened them, Mick was hanging over the side of the truck. His face was upside down and he laughed so hard there were tears.

“You okay?” He didn’t really care if I was okay. “Did you poop your pants because it sounded like it.”

I twisted and stuck my legs out from under the truck, near him. “Please pull me out.” I heard him jump over the side of the truck. He grabbed me by an ankle and drug me out like that. A crowd of bystanders had gathered on both sides of the truck. Someone went to get the Ikea store manager, who rushed toward me, holding a walkie-talkie. I heard him say, “I’m on scene.”

I waved everyone away. Mostly, I didn’t want anyone that close if I had to fart again. I reassured the manager I was fine. They helped Mick load the rest of the furniture. I got in my car and drove away.

I never went back.

It took a week to recover from the smoothie.

]]> https://write.as/jenjensen/kale-farts-and-ikea Mon, 24 Aug 2026 05:18:11 +0000