Let me start this blog by saying, I love my mother. She is a lovely woman. A terrifying, yet excellent human being whom I have the utmost respect for. At the same time, she is not the kind you want to upset. She can go from kitten to mountain lion in 6.8 seconds. She can turn you to stone with one cold stare. She is also known (in smaller circles) as the Kraken. She once broke a wooden spoon over my behind and then lectured me about breaking her spoon... It was the 90s, and I rightfully earned it by chucking a remote at my little brother end over end... But that's beside the point. She is an excellent parent, and an excellent human being, but everyone has their "open mouth, insert foot" moments and my mother, unfortunately, has a daughter unashamed to commit them to writing...
One fine evening, the family and I were playing cards, as we so often do. The conversation drifted between China patterns, food, and oral hygiene when suddenly, my mother turns to me, in an obvious glow of having had an epiphany, and says "Jessica, of all my children, I wish I'd gotten you braces..." A hush fell over the room. I'm fairly certain a pin actually dropped, and I stared. She stared. We all stared. At some point my mouth popped open in a mixture of shock and horror. I silently picked up the pieces of my self esteem and muttered "Ummmm thanks?" That was all I could manage before all in attendance started in on the boisterous laughter. "I didn't mean it like that" was her apology all night. Of all my parents...
This next occasion was witnessed by not only immediate, but extended family. Bravo mom, bravo. We had T-shirts made for opening night of Mockingjay (because that's what weirdly close knit families do...) and I passed them out to the cousins parents and siblings who all had requested one. When I realized I was the only one not wearing my shirt, I grabbed my shirt off the counter and went to change (because if my friends jumped off a bridge, I'd question their sanity. If my family did it, I'd figure there was food at the bottom.) I sat by my mother, the spot where I've felt safe and warm for most of my 26 years, and quickly learned my lesson when she turned to me and asked "Where did that really BIG shirt go?" Me: "uh what?" Mom: "the really big shirt" Me: "I'm wearing it Mom, and it fits like a dream" Mom: "no, the really large shirt that was on the counter" Me: "it's currently hugging my love handles mom..." Mom, finally realizing her error: "oh". I doubled over from laughing, and decided to use the time to try and find some semblance of self confidence hidden beneath my grandmothers rug.
Half my genes came from you,
Jessica
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Who smelt it
I have made a couple of questionable decisions in my day. I instantly regretted shoving a paper clip into an outlet, I probably should have skipped the day we covered the miracle of birth in health, and I never should have attempted to hatch a chicken from a store bought egg. None of these decisions however, measure up to the horrific decision to go to IHOP at 2 am.
In my defense, I had been craving eggs Benedict like a pregnant woman craves Watermelon and peanut brittle. I would salivate at the thought, dream about it at night, pray about it in the morning, and seriously considered taking it to a chapel in Vegas. In my world, I already had the baggy biceps and the cankles of a pregnant woman, so naturally I felt as though my indulgence could be justified.
IHOP at two am is where people come after Walmart kicks them out for loitering. This is where people from all aspects of life come together and bond over eggs that pour out of a carton. There are the frat boys with hangovers, the girls who think Halloween is a year long event, road hog Bruce and his mistress rolling up on his Harley, and of course, lunatic fake pregnant ladies jonesing for their eggs Benedict fix. I went, I winced, I left.
To all of my fellow eggs Benedict lovers, beware of the IHOP eggs Benedict. It is mediocre at best and will most likely give you gas you wouldn't believe. The kind that makes you want to build a bomb shelter for the safety of your neighbors, the kind that would spark the III World War. That leave you friendless and without hope. The kind you shouldn't blog about... Oops.
Hypothetically, if you were to go to the gym on a Saturday morning after a Friday night IHOP excursion, and you just happen to ride the treadmill with exactly one other soul, you might not think that letting one slip would be such a bad thing. You might even think it would be silent and smell of cotton candy and go unnoticed if not welcomed by the others trying to workout in peace. Let me warn you: you would be wrong. If this hypothetical situation were to hypothetically come about, I would have to predict that letting flatulence slip, would result in a silent (one point for the home team) but deadly toot. In fact, if smell had a color, your aura would be lime green. It would eventually creep to the other soul on the treadmill (trying to tone his muscular thighs in peace), and an unsuspecting man would walk behind your machine directly following the infraction. The only logical next step would be to mimic your neighbors and start looking around the room with an equally disgusted look on your face trying to find out who delt it (oh so smooth). You would then exit the gym after suspicions wore off, with your head hung in shame and having brought adequate dishonor upon your family. You would then write a blog about the embarrassment and publicly shame your parents... Again.
All hypothetical of course,
Jessica
In my defense, I had been craving eggs Benedict like a pregnant woman craves Watermelon and peanut brittle. I would salivate at the thought, dream about it at night, pray about it in the morning, and seriously considered taking it to a chapel in Vegas. In my world, I already had the baggy biceps and the cankles of a pregnant woman, so naturally I felt as though my indulgence could be justified.
IHOP at two am is where people come after Walmart kicks them out for loitering. This is where people from all aspects of life come together and bond over eggs that pour out of a carton. There are the frat boys with hangovers, the girls who think Halloween is a year long event, road hog Bruce and his mistress rolling up on his Harley, and of course, lunatic fake pregnant ladies jonesing for their eggs Benedict fix. I went, I winced, I left.
To all of my fellow eggs Benedict lovers, beware of the IHOP eggs Benedict. It is mediocre at best and will most likely give you gas you wouldn't believe. The kind that makes you want to build a bomb shelter for the safety of your neighbors, the kind that would spark the III World War. That leave you friendless and without hope. The kind you shouldn't blog about... Oops.
Hypothetically, if you were to go to the gym on a Saturday morning after a Friday night IHOP excursion, and you just happen to ride the treadmill with exactly one other soul, you might not think that letting one slip would be such a bad thing. You might even think it would be silent and smell of cotton candy and go unnoticed if not welcomed by the others trying to workout in peace. Let me warn you: you would be wrong. If this hypothetical situation were to hypothetically come about, I would have to predict that letting flatulence slip, would result in a silent (one point for the home team) but deadly toot. In fact, if smell had a color, your aura would be lime green. It would eventually creep to the other soul on the treadmill (trying to tone his muscular thighs in peace), and an unsuspecting man would walk behind your machine directly following the infraction. The only logical next step would be to mimic your neighbors and start looking around the room with an equally disgusted look on your face trying to find out who delt it (oh so smooth). You would then exit the gym after suspicions wore off, with your head hung in shame and having brought adequate dishonor upon your family. You would then write a blog about the embarrassment and publicly shame your parents... Again.
All hypothetical of course,
Jessica
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
I sympathize with the penguins.
Floating the river seems like a harmless thing, some may even say fun or enjoyable. No one tells you that the next morning your arms will feel like vestigial appendages, or that paddling at the awkward angle required will give you severe chafing. No one tells you about the hazards of nature or that your tube can be harder to stay on than a bull named Flaming Asteroid at the county fair; but don't you fret, I will be sure to give you the unadulterated truth...
Let's start off by entering the river. Frigid is a horrific understatement. It is closer to ice water like that which runs in my veins. The kind of cold that makes you think you will never be warm again. The kind even Eskimos would cringe at. Once you regain mediocre control of your phalanges and can form a coherent thought, you realize the river isn't flowing straight. The river has pushed you too far right. So you plunge your arms elbow deep back into the glacier runoff and paddle hard left... Too far left so you paddle right. Too far right so you... Give up. What you don't know is that there is a fork fast approaching and you are on the side less traveled. You pump your arms hard left (you stare down to where you know them to be because at this point, seeing is believing...) and try your hardest to rejoin your crew, but alas, you can't make it and are forced to ride the Rapids of disappointment.
A few minutes later, you float under the first bridge and see two adorable baby swallows resting in their nests waiting for mother bird to bring them sustenance. It was so touching that I made the mistake of looking for bird nests under the next bridge... It was not a cute baby swallow, but a bird with a bad attitude. He waited until we made eye contact, grinned maliciously, then went into a kamikaze dive aiming for my left eyebrow. I ducked, he sneered, and I screamed bloody murder as his wings skimmed the top of my head. Someday, I will meet that bird again to even the score. A lot of people like their revenge served cold but I like mine served piping hot in a delicious butter sauce.
A few yards down the way, there was yet another bridge. It had 3 paths to choose from. My friends and I were indecisive as to which lane to take... In our defense, every lane seemed to be blocked by logs, sewage, or other debris and none seemed to be a viable option. My indecision sadly led to the beaching of my tube. Every twig seemed to sharpen as I tried to shimmy my delicate plastic tube off of the clumsily built dam. Agile as I am (not very) I managed to un-suction my rear end and rise out if my tube. I walk across a not-so-stationary log, and dove into open waters... again... which the afternoon sun had not yet successfully heated... I then get carried downstream, outside of the safety of my tube, and waited for my feet, butt, back, or shoulder to find purchase with the shallow rocky river bottom. My entire body seemed bruised and rubbed raw when my feet were finally able to grip the jagged coral reef below. I planted my feet as firm as I could, and thanked heaven for the thigh master as I fought the current and waited for my comrades.
The rest of the float was comparatively uneventful. The next day there was some bruising of the bingo wings and chafing of the hamstrings and some severe growth of the leg hairs, but with a few days, some Jergens deep moisturizing lotion, and a razor, I believe I will recover.
I wish I'd had a pontoon,
Jessica
Let's start off by entering the river. Frigid is a horrific understatement. It is closer to ice water like that which runs in my veins. The kind of cold that makes you think you will never be warm again. The kind even Eskimos would cringe at. Once you regain mediocre control of your phalanges and can form a coherent thought, you realize the river isn't flowing straight. The river has pushed you too far right. So you plunge your arms elbow deep back into the glacier runoff and paddle hard left... Too far left so you paddle right. Too far right so you... Give up. What you don't know is that there is a fork fast approaching and you are on the side less traveled. You pump your arms hard left (you stare down to where you know them to be because at this point, seeing is believing...) and try your hardest to rejoin your crew, but alas, you can't make it and are forced to ride the Rapids of disappointment.
A few minutes later, you float under the first bridge and see two adorable baby swallows resting in their nests waiting for mother bird to bring them sustenance. It was so touching that I made the mistake of looking for bird nests under the next bridge... It was not a cute baby swallow, but a bird with a bad attitude. He waited until we made eye contact, grinned maliciously, then went into a kamikaze dive aiming for my left eyebrow. I ducked, he sneered, and I screamed bloody murder as his wings skimmed the top of my head. Someday, I will meet that bird again to even the score. A lot of people like their revenge served cold but I like mine served piping hot in a delicious butter sauce.
A few yards down the way, there was yet another bridge. It had 3 paths to choose from. My friends and I were indecisive as to which lane to take... In our defense, every lane seemed to be blocked by logs, sewage, or other debris and none seemed to be a viable option. My indecision sadly led to the beaching of my tube. Every twig seemed to sharpen as I tried to shimmy my delicate plastic tube off of the clumsily built dam. Agile as I am (not very) I managed to un-suction my rear end and rise out if my tube. I walk across a not-so-stationary log, and dove into open waters... again... which the afternoon sun had not yet successfully heated... I then get carried downstream, outside of the safety of my tube, and waited for my feet, butt, back, or shoulder to find purchase with the shallow rocky river bottom. My entire body seemed bruised and rubbed raw when my feet were finally able to grip the jagged coral reef below. I planted my feet as firm as I could, and thanked heaven for the thigh master as I fought the current and waited for my comrades.
The rest of the float was comparatively uneventful. The next day there was some bruising of the bingo wings and chafing of the hamstrings and some severe growth of the leg hairs, but with a few days, some Jergens deep moisturizing lotion, and a razor, I believe I will recover.
I wish I'd had a pontoon,
Jessica
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
The day I was abducted by aliens...
I only wish I'd been abducted by aliens. Or kidnapped by angry Russians and rescued by Liam Neeson. Or been taken to a far off country and been made their princess. I wish I could tell you that I was in a coma and made a miraculous recovery. I wish I'd done something... Anything noteworthy or of mention in these months of silence. Alas, The only explanation for my absence is this: I have been reading Harry Potter for these last seven months and sadly no, I am not joking.
I have a third grade reading level. With my head hung down in shame, I am able to admit it. I am not being humble or asking for pity, (prayers, however, I could probably use...) I am not exaggerating or stretching the truth in any way. I am simply, not a great reader. I never have been. In fact, in grade school, when we were asked to pick a book to read in two weeks on which a report was also required, I reached for the pamphlet entitled "changes to your body" only because I knew Curious George would not be acceptable. When told that the pamphlet was an equally unacceptable decision, I'd pick a thin chapter book. The kind with half page illustrations and 15 point font... double spaced. I still do not know what happened in the middle of said books. I knew the beginning, I knew the conflict, And I knew the resolution. Just enough to pass off a substandard book report. Unless of course, you were one of my English teachers, in which case this is strictly a fictional short story exploration...
I am not only a bad reader when in a dark room all alone. I would also create the most excruciating audiobook. When a teacher forces me to read aloud in Sunday school, I start to sweat. My heart starts to race. I need to give myself a twenty-three second pep talk (during which, I'm rightfully assumed to be insane...) and then, I start. All goes well for the first... Word. Then the stuttering happens, and I lose my place at least twice, and I skip the second line and am promptly told to "please read the correct verse" at which, the sweating increases. The heart beats faster and the tears begin to swell (my claim that it is the Holy Spirit touching my soul fools no one). Then, if by some miracle I make it through the correct verse, and the teacher happens to ask me a question... Forget it! I was a little busy concentrating on not needing to breathe inside the paper bag I keep stuffed down my shirt (because it's Sunday and most skirts don't have pockets...)
So, that is where I have been... Reading Harry Potter every night. Alone. In my bedroom. For seven months. Please Excuse me while I finally write a complete yet still substandard book report. Just to prove I can.
I am a little sorry this had nothing to do with aliens...
I have a third grade reading level. With my head hung down in shame, I am able to admit it. I am not being humble or asking for pity, (prayers, however, I could probably use...) I am not exaggerating or stretching the truth in any way. I am simply, not a great reader. I never have been. In fact, in grade school, when we were asked to pick a book to read in two weeks on which a report was also required, I reached for the pamphlet entitled "changes to your body" only because I knew Curious George would not be acceptable. When told that the pamphlet was an equally unacceptable decision, I'd pick a thin chapter book. The kind with half page illustrations and 15 point font... double spaced. I still do not know what happened in the middle of said books. I knew the beginning, I knew the conflict, And I knew the resolution. Just enough to pass off a substandard book report. Unless of course, you were one of my English teachers, in which case this is strictly a fictional short story exploration...
I am not only a bad reader when in a dark room all alone. I would also create the most excruciating audiobook. When a teacher forces me to read aloud in Sunday school, I start to sweat. My heart starts to race. I need to give myself a twenty-three second pep talk (during which, I'm rightfully assumed to be insane...) and then, I start. All goes well for the first... Word. Then the stuttering happens, and I lose my place at least twice, and I skip the second line and am promptly told to "please read the correct verse" at which, the sweating increases. The heart beats faster and the tears begin to swell (my claim that it is the Holy Spirit touching my soul fools no one). Then, if by some miracle I make it through the correct verse, and the teacher happens to ask me a question... Forget it! I was a little busy concentrating on not needing to breathe inside the paper bag I keep stuffed down my shirt (because it's Sunday and most skirts don't have pockets...)
So, that is where I have been... Reading Harry Potter every night. Alone. In my bedroom. For seven months. Please Excuse me while I finally write a complete yet still substandard book report. Just to prove I can.
I am a little sorry this had nothing to do with aliens...
Phone home...
Jessica
Jessica
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
My application for assisted living
Gas. Not the kind I get from trying to process dairy, but the kind that makes my car purr down the highway at 70 miles an hour has become synonymous with my particular lifestyle. I've gotten gas one or twice a week for the last 10 years of my life. You'd think I'd be a master at it by now... But alas, like still needing to wear a bib, having to look at my feet when I walk, and my inability to make my bed every morning, I have come to the conclusion that God made me special.
It was a sweltering Thursday evening on my way home from work when my car beeped at me signaling it's hunger for fuel. Just my luck, I was coming to the gas station located around the corner from my dwelling. I pull in and all the stalls look to be occupied. But wait! If I can squeeze myself between the curb and this car here, I can pull into a stall from the other side. I crept by her, making sure not to scratch her cherry red SUV, when I realized three things: 1. I was suddenly very hungry, 2. She was looking at me funny, and 3. There seemed to be orange pylons and yellow caution tape purposefully located right in front of her bumper... I didn't put this together right away. I saw enough space to maneuver my car through the tight space, so that is exactly what I did.
That's when I saw the construction equipment, several more pylons, and multiple Hispanic men waving their arms at me. I soon realized that I was driving on asphalt not quite ready to be driven on. What does one do in this situation? Bail out and run for home base? Apologize profusely and offer to pay their wages for a year? Tell them you are dying of a horrific disease and pray they feel sorry for you? The answer would be D, none of the above. My emotions took control of my brain and I froze at the wheel. After 3 minutes an elderly Hispanic man waddled over to me and informed me to not move or I'll mess everything up. I suggested that they build my car into the parking lot as a beautiful artistic sculpture while I turned 10 shades of red and continued trying to apparate somewhere... anywhere else. Needless to say, he did not laugh, chuckle, or even smirk at my remark. He simply grimaced, mumbled a couple of choice words under his breath and guided me to safe harbor. I quickly left the gas station with my foot lodged firmly between my teeth. Still on an empty tank.
Mujer blanca loca acercarse,
Jessica
It was a sweltering Thursday evening on my way home from work when my car beeped at me signaling it's hunger for fuel. Just my luck, I was coming to the gas station located around the corner from my dwelling. I pull in and all the stalls look to be occupied. But wait! If I can squeeze myself between the curb and this car here, I can pull into a stall from the other side. I crept by her, making sure not to scratch her cherry red SUV, when I realized three things: 1. I was suddenly very hungry, 2. She was looking at me funny, and 3. There seemed to be orange pylons and yellow caution tape purposefully located right in front of her bumper... I didn't put this together right away. I saw enough space to maneuver my car through the tight space, so that is exactly what I did.
That's when I saw the construction equipment, several more pylons, and multiple Hispanic men waving their arms at me. I soon realized that I was driving on asphalt not quite ready to be driven on. What does one do in this situation? Bail out and run for home base? Apologize profusely and offer to pay their wages for a year? Tell them you are dying of a horrific disease and pray they feel sorry for you? The answer would be D, none of the above. My emotions took control of my brain and I froze at the wheel. After 3 minutes an elderly Hispanic man waddled over to me and informed me to not move or I'll mess everything up. I suggested that they build my car into the parking lot as a beautiful artistic sculpture while I turned 10 shades of red and continued trying to apparate somewhere... anywhere else. Needless to say, he did not laugh, chuckle, or even smirk at my remark. He simply grimaced, mumbled a couple of choice words under his breath and guided me to safe harbor. I quickly left the gas station with my foot lodged firmly between my teeth. Still on an empty tank.
Mujer blanca loca acercarse,
Jessica
Thursday, July 10, 2014
I am an 80 year old man.
As a woman, I have been trained [by society, family, and hair dressers] to rid myself of unwanted facial hair. I have plucked and waxed my eyebrows religiously in fear of the possible unibrow, waxed my lip despite the searing pain, and embarrassingly enough, plucked stray chin or cheek hairs that may have had the courage to take purchase on my face. It is a daily ritual that I have come to accept as a fact of life... or a fact of my life at least.
Every morning there are a few more that I had either missed the day before, or that decided to stage a revolution and grow exponentially within a mere couple of hours. It is an everyday battle for a woman at my level of hairy. The possible titles for my memoir include: 'Bearded Lady Converts Thousands', 'Woman Studied at MIT for Unbelievable Facial Hair Gene', and 'New Model for Rogaine is Female'. Maybe I could become a therapist for other women going through this. I know they exist. We could create a support group, rally behind a cure, take donations for a laser hair removal fund, make t-shirts that exclaim "with beardy" for our significant others, or maybe invest in a lifetime supply of nair. I firmly believe that there could be safety and acceptance in numbers.
Every morning there are a few more that I had either missed the day before, or that decided to stage a revolution and grow exponentially within a mere couple of hours. It is an everyday battle for a woman at my level of hairy. The possible titles for my memoir include: 'Bearded Lady Converts Thousands', 'Woman Studied at MIT for Unbelievable Facial Hair Gene', and 'New Model for Rogaine is Female'. Maybe I could become a therapist for other women going through this. I know they exist. We could create a support group, rally behind a cure, take donations for a laser hair removal fund, make t-shirts that exclaim "with beardy" for our significant others, or maybe invest in a lifetime supply of nair. I firmly believe that there could be safety and acceptance in numbers.
Anyway, back to my own personal nightmare... It was a blissful Thursday morning while putting on my makeup in my daylight mirror (my biggest critic that uses a 10x magnifier and the light of truth to warn me of any embarrassing stray hairs loitering upon my oily face) and that's when I spotted it: A hair. Blonde and exceedingly long in length. "It couldn’t possibly be attached… no, it’s from my hair… the actual hair that is supposed to reside on my head… it has to be..." I told myself in denial. I gathered air into my lungs as I caught the stray hair with my finger tips and exhaled slowly as I pulled it outward searching for the root…
Yes, it was indeed attached. Attached to my earlobe... a first for me. It seemed that overnight (not overnight, I had to have been cultivating that sucker for sometime) I had turned into an 80 year old man with hairy ears. This is what I had been training for. I was Rocky and I had come to the foot of the stairs. I squared my shoulders and told myself all is not lost… even though I firmly believed otherwise… I got out my trusty tweezers and pulled. Hard. (For future knowledge, that area is extremely sensitive and it HURTS.) Next, I did the only rational thing I could and checked my other ear. Regretfully, I found and plucked it’s mate.
I am proud to say that I am [momentarily] ear hair free. Tomorrow I will be checking my toes, knuckles, and nose because that also comes with turning 80... right?
When I was your age,
Jessica
P.S. Dear men: if you don't believe women work this hard to remain free of facial hair, I’m deeply sorry to have spoiled your ignorance.
P.S. Dear men: if you don't believe women work this hard to remain free of facial hair, I’m deeply sorry to have spoiled your ignorance.
Hashtag No Filter.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
When your car decides she hates you.
When your car decides he/she hates you, he/she might not warn you when the battery is dying or decide to run out of windshield wiper fluid when you have a swarm of bugs plastering your windshield or maybe even lock your keys inside it's iron trap doors without a spare key in sight. Mine? Mine isn't into subtle. She simply decides to massacre my tire.
It's a fine if not groggy Thursday morning (a late night of volleyball and giggles the night before) and my 40 hours in 4 days makes this Thursday my Friday. If I had the energy to jump and click my heels together, trust me I would have. I drive 14.5 minutes of my 15 minute drive without incident. It's a smooth ride and Jolene and I are blasting the Gavin DeGraw. Then, it happens. There is no yellow caution tape or bright orange cone marking the spot of our demise. Just a subsequent thump thump as I drive the last 30 yards...
I decide the loud thumping is my imagination. I park in my usual spot and think I'll do a once over of Jolene before I go inside. I didn't need the once over. As soon as I stepped out into the world, I heard the sound of an air mattress deflating... If only there had been an air mattress in sight. Yes, the sound was coming from my tire. In my calm, cool, collected manner to which I am accustomed, I start pacing, hyperventilating, and calling my parents 7 times in a row (it is 6:30 A.M. their time and I'm an awful child) until my mother (probably in a deep slumbering haze) texts me "need something?"... Uh actually, yes... 3 aspirin and a time machine please. She then tells me to call Triple A and have them come put on my spare. Such a voice of reason in this fiery horrific disaster. So, I park Jolene as far away from civilization as possible and wait. Finally, the call comes and I make the long trek across the parking lot (where I left Jolene to think about what she had done) where a young, very handsome man changes my tire as we exchange pleasantries. This man almost made the whole thing worth it for sure. So now Jolene has a pitiful, ugly, too small tire and it's all her own fault.
In conclusion, cars are people too. Treat them with respect and maybe they won't fatally wound your tire.
My tire is probably in heaven,
Jessica
In conclusion, cars are people too. Treat them with respect and maybe they won't fatally wound your tire.
Jessica
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