Jenny Wooldridge

Somewhat True and Biased Stories

When I was six.

When I was six, my grandfather moved in and out of the hospital. We watched Archie Bunker when he was home and he told me and my sister stories about Peter Brodie and Mary Anne. One time he let me try his hospital food, and it was gross. I always felt his love, which was much. He died early one morning. My sister and I slept in my parents bed and cried that night. I swore to my mom I would never love anyone again, at least not as deeply as I loved him.

When I was nine, I went on a trip to Cape Breton. We stayed in a creepy old cottage that had the door locked to the basement. We went to old shops and I stole a pen. My sister said I would go to prison and never see my parents again, I slept with them for the rest of the trip. The police didn’t come after me.

When I was 11 I met A, who was my first crush, and I thought I would marry him. He wore cargo pants every day to school, which at the time was cool. He passed notes with his best friend under my desk. Once I read a note and it talked about a girl in my classes boobs. That’s when I realized I didn’t have any.

When I was 13, my mom finally let me wear a two-piece bathing suit. It was green and showed what little cleavage I had. I went with my best friend and three boys in our junior high. I lost my top infront of them, and they all stared as my friend stumbled to cover me up again. One boy said “gross” and the other told everyone in my high school about my boobs. I didn’t wear a bathing suit again for eight years.

When I was 16, my uncle was sick. He had trouble walking down his stairs. My dad stayed up late at night to make new stairs for him. I said goodbye to him three days before he died. He was thin and I didn’t recognize him. I cried infront of his wife and my mother. The receiving line was weird, as I shook hands with people he had talked about my entire life. After the funeral, I got a Peanut Butter Parfait and I haven’t had one since.

When I was 17, a boy made me feel uncomfortable. I asked him to stop and he didn’t. It was the beginning of my battle with anxiety.

When I was 18, I graduated high school. I was valedictorian and I quoted Conan O’Brien three times in my speech. I was never nostalgic to go back.

Then I went to college, I met my friend Jocelyn. She tried to get me to stop sitting next to her but I didn’t pay attention. She laughed at all my jokes and never made me feel bad about not drinking alcohol and loving Jesus.

When I was 19, I transferred courses. I met my friend Lindsay. She was quiet. Then I met my friend Nicole. She wasn’t quiet. I told them I had anxiety, so did Nicole. I wasn’t alone and I felt better. We ate at Swiss Chalet a lot.

When I was 19, I told my parents I wanted a breast reduction. My doctor gasped when I told him “I don’t remember what my stomach looks like” and he said “those are  a problem”.  My grandmother told me I would have to repent because it was a sin to change my body. Under the influence of morphine, I tweeted Tom Hanks 20 times. He never tweeted back.

When I was 20, I fell inlove with someone who was very different than me. He had different friends and different ideas. I told him about my anxiety, and he loved me anyway. I forgot my name when I was being introduced to his brother, and my hands shook when I was nervous – he held them anyway.

Now I’m 21 and my hands still always shake a little and I stutter when my anxiety is bad. My dog crawls into bed with me every morning and it makes me happy. I have a best friend who bakes me cinnamon rolls when I’m sad. I wore a bikini for the first time this summer. I’ll have something new to write about when I’m twenty-two.

Love and Light

Jesus and Religion and Love and the Ocean and Moving On.

Explaining Jesus is never a problem for me, because it’s easy – Jesus is love. I love Love.

Explaining religion, specifically Christianity, isn’t as easy. To me religion has always been rules, dress codes, and people being praised for closed eyes and raised hands. Writing this blog post has been increasingly difficult as I battle to let go of the sour taste in my mouth Private Christian School has left and increasingly discover who Jesus is in contrast with what I was told religion was.

I was told Jesus didn’t like shoulders – so keep them covered. Leggings would make a man’s mind wander, so they didn’t count as pants. I was taught fear and respect were the same thing. I was taught the church looked like perfection, smiles and lunch afterwards. Literal awards for people who best displayed the character of Paul, John and Jesus. Pleasing your husband meant you couldn’t be a leader – principals and presidents should be men. I was taught a woman could be “damaged goods”.  In all of my time in school, nobody ever taught me who Jesus was. I only ever learned what Christianity was.

Jesus is love. He’s equal parts justice and patience. He is compassionate and giving. He is every character equally. But the name of Jesus can be interchanged with the word “love”. Jesus is love.

I don’t like to align with denomination or Christian religion, because it was through religion I discovered depression and what it felt like to be at my lowest point. It was when I was quickly asked “what was I wearing?” instead of being told “this was wrong and I will protect you”. It was by religion I was laughed at. It was by religion I slept all the time and it was by religion I got lost. It was religion that sat with me in an office and told me coldly I should move on.

It was by love I found out how to get out of that depression. It was by love I learned how to love myself again. It was by love I show my shoulders and it is by love that I laughed again.

As someone who was broken by religion, but saved through Love I want to extend all of my positive vibes to people who were the same as me. People who were laughed at, people who were forgotten about and people hurt by religion – Love will find you. Whether that’s in kisses, or the ocean or something else. Love finds you.

Don’t give up yet. Do what you need to do but don’t give up. And just love everyone until eventually love loves you back.

*To clarify, not everything that came out of the school was negative. I met my best friend there, I found my passion for English and writing, and I experienced Jesus’ love through many different students and teachers. I had the best foundation from kindergarten to grade six and although I do struggle with it and disassociate myself from it, there is always beauty in the broken – which extends mostly to people, but also to schools.

Looking for Love? Nanny can fix that.

My grandmother is 80, active on twitter and Facebook, and has been known to try and set me up with strangers online.

Worried that her (yet young) granddaughter wouldn’t find love, Nanny Elly took the problem into her own hands. So, if you were a male on Facebook circa 2013 who looked like you might not murder me (the only requirement), please disregard any notes you got from a lady desperately trying to find her granddaughter a little friend.

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This boy was a lobster fisherman, so she thought he was a great catch (you know, money). After many failed attempts on her part, we asked that she stop messaging boys on Facebook solely based off of their profile picture and the fact they are from Montague.

My grandmother taught me a number of important life lessons like “just because you’re poor doesn’t mean you have to look it” and “if your legs look that good, wear short shorts”. The most important lesson is probably “there’s always coupons for KFC if you look hard enough”. 

Nevertheless, as Valentine’s Day approaches I made a list of qualities your someone should have, when you find that person. Because you shouldn’t just date the first guy (or girl) your grandmother messages randomly, unless you want to – then you maybe still shouldn’t, but you can.

Date someone who laughs at your jokes. Maybe you’re not as funny as you think you are, but if they don’t laugh at your jokes on the first date they won’t laugh on the second. And when you tell their family, at your first family barbecue, that you are only dating him for his money – he will laugh. Nobody else will, which is painfully awkward for you.

For the love of God, Jenny, STOP TELLING THAT JOKE.

Date someone when you love yourself. Loving yourself is one of the most important things you can do for yourself. Someday someone will come along that doesn’t mind you don’t have a thigh gap or that your forehead is too big for bangs – it’s important that those things don’t bother you either. Learning to love yourself may be the hardest thing you have ever done, but I promise it is worth it.

Date someone who is different than you. If they spend their Friday nights blogging while streaming FRIENDS just like you, you would never have gone to that concert you still don’t understand. (Good for you, getting out of the house and doing things.)

Date whoever you want. If they make you better and you love them, that’s all the requirements you need. If they make you laugh and don’t get mad at you when you make them leave the movie an hour in, you should date them. You’re smart, trust yourself.

If it all fails, come visit my grandmother who will tell you straight up if she thinks it will work out for you. And if you’re ready to mingle, she would probably look up singles in your area for you.

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And remember – if this person doesn’t work out, there’s always another bus coming down the line.

Follow my Nanny Elly on Twitter: @nanny_elly

Yes, all tweets are 100% her.

Confessions of Two Dairy Bar Scoopers.

I was a dairy bar scooper for four years, my sister scooped for seven. A combined 11 years of scooping ice creams makes us experts as well as a force to be reckoned with when you want to argue what the difference is between Udderly Divine and Hoof Prints. (Hint: one has peanut better, the other does not.)

I shoveled goat poop from the parking lot, scrubbed the floors with a literal toothbrush, and watched as your kid wiped their snot across my recently Pledged glass.

I continually swatted the flies away from the chocolate fudge and picked out the bubble gum pieces from your kids ice cream because they absolutely wanted blue ice cream but couldn’t eat the chunks. I watched as your son cried because you wouldn’t buy him the .30 waffle cone, and I watched as you screamed at your daughter for spilling her ice cream on the floor. I cleaned it up, gave her a new cone, and told her spills were no big deal. I even added some sprinkles.

I watched your first date go horribly wrong as he got diarrhea in the bathroom and you had to call your best friend to pick you up. I made sure the right kinds of G2 were stocked on Friday nights for your mix. I wore a hairnet every day, even when the entire baseball team came in.

On the hottest days of summer, I came in an hour early to fix the soft serve machine so you could have a flurry on your way back from the beach. When you told your kids to get out of the house, I let them hang around and I dug into my tip jar to pay for the bag of chips they didn’t have enough quarters for. I even let them park their dirt bikes in the loading lane, and gave them ice chips before they drove home.

I asked how your soccer practices went, I kept track of your wins and losses and I still hold resentment toward that kid who tripped you during the playoff game. When I found out you had a health scare, I googled your name every day of the off season just to make sure you were okay and that I could still look forward to seeing you on opening day the next year.

Every summer you would come up from the southern States and buy 3 lbs of fudge –it was always assorted flavours, it always took a minimum of 45 minutes and you always left a $5 tip. Your name was Mongo and I would love to know what you’re up to now.

I have so many fond memories of regular customers and the lessons they taught me. I learned that sprinkles are called “millions” in England, that older people love Grapenut because it was one of the cool flavours when they were kids, and that there are truly kind people out there who will change their order because you’re struggling to scoop that rock-hard peanut butter fudge crunch into their cone.

Sometimes I see you around town and I still remember what flavours were your favourite and that you preferred it in a dish with the cone placed on top. I smile and wave and am reminded that for a few summers I got to be a part of your life, even if just in a miniscule way.

Years later, I see you tugging your dad’s jacket and saying, “I think that’s the ice cream lady.”

It’s funny how these wonderful memories are so easily overshadowed by the bad ones. There were nights that I went home crying because you yelled at me. There were times I was too embarrassed to function because you questioned my capabilities. There were times that I wondered how anyone could possibly be as mean as you had just been to me.

Stop trying to smuggle the plants home in your dress and putting your own hair in the ice cream for a free cone.

Please remember that the girl behind the counter is seventeen and is (basically) running a small business. She is probably underappreciated – her boss has no interest in knowing that she worked from open to close because someone didn’t show up for their shift or that she’s gotten so good at scooping ice cream that customers request her by name.

When you feel like throwing your ice cream on the ground because you think it was too expensive or you ask to complain to the boss because the employee forgot to stamp your loyalty card, please remember that she is working a minimum wage job and she is on hour 7 of non-stop smiling.

She’s seventeen. She’s wearing a hair net and an unflattering t-shirt and she’s working for the 10 cent tip you left.

This is her summer, every summer. Next time you think about yelling at that customer service kid – think about minimum wage and hot summers and goat poop. Maybe drop a nickel in the tip jar.


Also, stop feeding the goats ice cream.

Follow Alyssa on twitter: @alyssawool

Tinder. A Saga Of Bad Dates.


After telling him I didn’t want to have sex with him, he still asked me out for a second date. Out of loneliness (or complete stupidity) – I agreed.

The second date was at a local pub. He was waiting – eating bar nuts, half way through a beer and wearing a Liberal party t-shirt. Before saying hello or even settling in, he said this (and I swear, it’s true):

“Jenny, I know you don’t want to sleep with me. I like you, so I found a girl who wants to just hook up. This way you don’t have to worry about taking care of me.”

How kind. A true scholar and a sir, he was. Without saying another word, I picked up my jacket and left.

I would like to say that was the last time I talked to him. However, following a breast reduction I messaged him (very much under the influence of morphine) and said, “hahahaha, new boobs.” Then a selfie of my face, which was enough reason for him to never text back.

* Dating when you’re in your 20’s (or ever, probably) is rough. Meeting someone, going out with them, trying to figure out who should settle the bill – kissing, not kissing. Trying to get out of the date, one minute in. Good guys (and girls) are out there. He exists, but you have to get through 300 swipe-left’s first. And probably a lot of boys looking to see your boobs. These are all stories from boys I met on Tinder.

One guy talked the whole date about how everyone should have access to guns. He then showed me a video of him shooting a deer, beheading it and the barbecue after. I then continued to fake vomit.

The date ended with me saying, “I don’t think anyone should have access to guns.” Things went quiet – I got the tab and I don’t know what ever happened to him.

The third date was with a guy who had scheduled a Tinder date before me and another one after me. He was a serial Tinder dater. He knew how to handle it though. He opened by offering me a drink – I declined. I always pay for myself on the first date (and preferably always). He asked me about school and work and if I had ever traveled. He listened to me, he talked but never gave any personal opinion. He later texted to tell me, “the best way to get laid on a date is to listen, never give an opinion and always say she’s right.”

He also said that one minute in he knew I wasn’t going to sleep with him, so he texted another girl to meet him later that night.

I deleted my Tinder for a while and reactivated it in late February. Knowing I wouldn’t get a relationship, let alone a date, out of it – I uploaded my picture in hopes of writing a blog post about how Tinder worked.

I wanted to know how many boys were looking for a hook up, a simple picture of my boobs (which I never did) and how many were looking for an actual date.

You’ll be happy to know only 40 boys asked for pictures of my boobs, 24 asked to hook-up, and 7 asked for a date.

I never intended to respond to any of them – the plan was to keep it for a week and delete after getting the numbers.

I did respond to one guy. We met at Starbucks – I showed up early, bought my own drink, and waited while “casually” checking my makeup in my laptop screen.

He introduced himself and brought back a tea. We talked about the weather and mutual friends (which we had both obviously looked up on Facebook). He talked about his moms chicken lasagna and his cat. We talked for a few hours – neither of us made up excuses to leave. (He also never brought up guns or politics, bonus points for him.)

And we never stopped going on dates.

I couldn’t post my Tinder stories, mostly because I became the .05% that found love on Tinder.

The moral of the story is – go on lots of dates if you want to. Most of them are probably going to be people you never want to (or should) go on a second date with. Or Maybe you’ll find one who is kind and lets you change all the radio pre-sets on his car on the third date.

Good luck out there.


I once matched with a boy on Tinder who looked familiar. After talking for a few minutes, he mentioned he was at a family function. He sent me a Snapchat of the party.

His family function was with my family.

I accidentally matched with my second cousin. We never talked again.

To my future daughter. Or son. Or dog(s).

To my future daughter. Or son. Or dog.

You’re beautiful (to me anyway) and probably naïve (like me). I hope you have inherited my eyes and my quick wit, and hopefully you haven’t inherited my constant need for affirmation and Burger King.

I made you a list of lessons, live by them. Hopefully I’ll be around to tell them to you in person, if not – I’ll be right back, I’m probably just watching reruns of Parks and Recreation.

1. There is no shame in eating a donut. Or two donuts. Don’t tell anyone about the third. Make fun of the fourth. When you make fun of your own shortcomings, you own them.

2.  Never let anyone walk on you – emotionally or physically. (Basically, you don’t know where their feet have been and sometimes people look like they weigh less than they actually do).

3. When someone asks you how much you weigh – smile, look them in the eye and say, “not enough”. Pull out a pack of Oreos and don’t offer them any.

4. Don’t just give yourself to anyone. This includes your time, money, love, affection, body, and chicken nuggets. All of these things are precious and should be treated as such.

5. Be where you are. But if you are somewhere you don’t want to be, call me and I’ll pick you up. Or pretend to text someone really important.

6. Don’t let a boy (or girl) dictate your happiness. You dictate your happiness. Follow your joy – whether that’s religion, or love, or the ocean. Follow it.

7. We all pee our pants past the age of fifteen. I think. It happens to everyone. I think.

8. If you are anything like me, you talk faster than your brain can think. Know the right time to be talking about hot topics like marriage equality, and feminism and the store Hot Topic.

9. Know your strengths – build on them. Know your weaknesses – work on them. Know your way back home – to me. Know your future is bright – so bright you can’t even quite see where it’s headed yet.

10. Smile when you’re happy. Frown when you’re sad. Scream when you’re mad. Feel what you are feeling, you don’t have to pretend you are okay.

11. Fall in-love with yourself first. Someday someone else will come along that falls for you – I want you to understand why. In order to let them properly love you, you need to love yourself. Love yourself like Kanye loves Kanye.

12. It’s okay to be skinny, it’s okay to be chunky. It’s okay to be quiet and it’s okay to be loud. It’s not okay to be an asshole.

13. Lastly, and most importantly, know that your mother didn’t know anything at the age of 20 (and neither do you). These are just guidelines, as thought up by someone who doesn’t really have her shit together. Someday, when I meet you, I probably will still be wrong about a lot of things. A few things I know I’m not wrong about: I love you. I love me. Fall is the best season. Nick Jonas is the hottest Jonas Brother. Everyone cries to Coldplay.

(I’m actually not sure that Nick is the hottest. So, I guess I don’t know a lot of things for sure.)

Love always,

Your mother.

An Open Letter To The Tourists of PEI

Dear Tourist visiting from away,

I love you. I really do. I love that you like to wave to me while riding the Harbour Hippo and I like that we get uncomfortably close because you walk too slow on Queen street. I understand PEI is a tourist destination (and I love that), but also please understand that everything you are doing and asking right now has been done and asked by one million other tourists, and it was probably more exciting when they were a B-List celebrity.

Here is a list of 10 things you will do/say while on PEI, we expect it.

10. Sit With John A MacDonald. Let’s be fair, a majority of us have also taken a photo with Sir John A. amongst our youth (or drunken nights), but tourists take it to the next level. How many ladies have I seen sit on John A’s lap? An uncomfortable amount.

9. Ask where Anne is buried. I don’t know how many dreams I have crushed, trying to use hand gestures to explain to Japanese tourists that Anne isn’t here and at no point actually existed. I have, on a few occasions, sent tourists to Lucy Maud’s grave. I’m not proud of it, but it happened.

8. No I don’t know anything about potatoes and lobsters just because I’m an Islander. But to be fair, I actually do know a lot about potatoes. Don’t stereotype me though.

7. Wonder why there are so many automobiles. I have had a guest ask me why there are so many cars here, since everything is within walk distance. The same guest asked me how long it would take to walk to Tignish, which I promptly answered with “why are you going to Tignish?”

6. No disrespect to Tignish. 

5. Wonder where they can get Lobster. Literally anywhere, practically everyone serves lobster. You can get lobster out of the Superstore parking lot. You can get lobster at McDonalds (my grandmother would like you all to know their McLobster is good AND cheaper than Subway lobster sandwiches)

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4. Wear their bathing suits everywhere because “Life’s a beach on PEI”. Yes, but at the WalMart we generally wear clothes. **I should put a disclaimer, because I have seen a naked man at WalMart once and it was just as impressive as it sounds.**

3. Can you take our picture? How many times have you been walking downtown, when an overly ambitious couple from Texas ask you politely if you can take their photo? I actually love this. One time, though, the photo-shoot took 10 minutes while I watched them try to catch a seagull. That’s a fact.

2. What’s Ca-Lie-Duh? Actually understandable, we’ve all been there.

1. You don’t really SOUND like a Islander. This one gets me. I once asked a guest what she expected me to sounds like. “I expected it to be more uneducated,” she said. This makes sense, because in PEI we don’t have schools – we just work for Ma and Pa on the farm.

** No disrespect to anyone who works on their parents farm.


Not Anne – just an Islander

You can follow Jenny on Twitter (she thinks she’s hilarious, talking about herself in the third person): @jwool94

It’s a great day at Jewell’s Country Market, this is Jenny.

Well, it has come time to post my final exerpt of Dairy Bar tales. After four years I have decided to hand in my dairy bar scoops, my 23 Jewells T-Shirts, and my 7 pairs of ice-cream tattered sneakers.

End of my first day at JCM.

I am studying to be a journalist and unfortunately, my knowledge of ice-cream, produce, goats, and flowers won’t get me too far in that career. So I have traded in my love of ice-cream scooping for some pen and paper (and hopefully a microphone).

I will miss JCM though. Here’s a taste of what I will miss out on (and not miss out on).

I won’t need to know how many times a goat will circle before finally deciding that sexually harassing it’s play-mate is acceptable.

I won’t need to know what flavours are gluten-free and what one’s will give lactose intolerant people the least amount of trips to the bathroom.

I will no longer have to carry around a pen and pad of paper for Mrs. MacDougal (who always forgets her shopping list and will always request one at the cash).

Still my favourite. MelCat.

I won’t have to clean that ice-cream machine every Saturday morning. Which means I won’t accidentally forget I left the lever down and end up mopping a bucket load of hot water off of the floor.

Which also will mean I won’t get to spend every Saturday at 9 a.m. with Avery and Darcy and their grandfather, Mr. Wilson. I won’t get to hear all about their week, swimming lessons, and get to scoop them three orange sherbert ice-creams.

Pranks. daily.

I won’t have to listen to customers complain about my inability to scoop a proper cone. Which means I won’t have to apologize for actually scooping the cone right when in reality, I scooped it the same way I have scooped the last 700 that day.

Which, therefor, will also means I won’t get to scoop those first 700 ice-creams to those 700 customers – which means that’s 700 less people I get to meet and grow to know over the summer.

I won’t get to await Stirldiddle every day.

Bails and JWool

I won’t get to witness awkward first dates between people who are going to be together forever. And also those people that are definitely not getting a second date. I once watched as a boy demanded a girl pay for his ice-cream because she didn’t eat all of her dinner.

I will never have to explain again that no lobster’s were harmed in the making of “lobster potato chips”.

Hopefully my knowledge of begonias will never have to be used again.

I will miss Ted and Melissa – who have been dating for seven years and still both get chocolate ice-cream. No matter how hard it is to scoop. They also leave a five dollar tip for their “favourite dairy bar girl”.

I will miss Jesse and Jamie – both of whom still call me J. Although after four years, and three ice-creams a week, they know my real name is Jenny.


I will miss the couple I have watched go from just married and adorable. Then to 8 months pregnant and craving Orange Pineapple/Bubble-gum mixes (but still adorable). To parents of twins who always buy an extra baby vanilla because one of their kids will drop their cone in the car – still adorable.

I will no longer have to pick up the phone and explain to people that we don’t sell jewellery.

And thank God, I will never again have to explain to children why it is unsanitary to lick the goat fence.

I will never have to bag corn again or have to ask one of the farm boys to help me lug 50 pound bags across the market.

I won’t get to hear all about the dirt bike boys or watch them count out their nickels to afford a pop.

I doubt very much that Cindy will stop trying to set me up with every single guy she meets and telling them, “That blonde one is single!”

Best part of graduation is coming to JCM and seeing your name on the sign!

In all honesty, I really will miss the place. I will miss most of the people there – especially the girls i have got to learn about over the past few years and have had the pleasure to call “friend” and most important “sister”.

The Wooldridge girls have served you well, and for the longest time – so did you.

Goodnight Jewells.


Note the ice-cream machine in the background please. Goodnight, JCM.

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