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

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.

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.

Hashtag No Filter.

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

The day I conquered a mountain.

Let me start this blog post by saying that peer pressure is real. It has tricked me into things like running a 5K, watching a movie about the zombie apocolypse (World War Z. Don't try it at home kids) and going out to get smoothies in the middle of winter (it's pretty easy to slip on a patch of ice and spill said smoothie... just saying).  My roommate Aubrey possesses the gift of peer persuasion. She talked me into running the 5K last year, into that horrible movie, and her most recent infraction: into hiking a mountain. 

I awoke in the wee morning hours on a Saturday to change and mentally prepare for a task that [I believe] only mountain goats and squirrels should be akin to: climbing the side of a mountain. Not walking over a foothill or trudging through a forest, I mean literally scaling a mountain of rock and rubble simply to enjoy the view from the top. Why hiking is listed under "recreational activities" in anyone's mind, is beyond me. So, we drove 45 minutes to what I now refer to as "Mount Kilimanjaro" and left the warmth and comfort of the car and started walking. Aubrey said there would be a trail. I did not know however, that her definition of a trail was different from my own. There were boulders (not exaggerating) strewn across the entire path. Sadly, that didn't stop us. Once she had me on the highway to hell and there was no going back, she kindly informed me that "it only gets worse". Excellent. Grand. Can't wait. 

I am huffing and puffing and sweating and aching by the time we get to the overlook. She points (farther than I would have hoped) and says that is where we are headed. Excellent. Grand. Can't wait. We continue scaling the mountain of rock until we see a band of boys (not the NSYNC playing from our arm band but a group 12 year old boys) jumping and running down the hill showing off their vitality and youth shouting encouragements at us like "it only gets worse" and "an hour more to go". Well, those boys can kiss my untoned elderly bottom because I made it to the top. I might have had a collapsed lung and been a little worse for wear, but I did it and I am welling with pride. I climbed a mountain. With my meager amount of muscle mass and my allergies flaring up and misogynistic bird watchers jumping out from behind bushes to scare me (he was merely sitting by a bush photographing flowers and it gave me such a fright that I peed a little) I made it. Call me Lewis and I'll call you Clark, by golly I made it to the top!

I made it back down too in case you are wondering. I am certainly not writing this blog as an SOS from the top of a mountain (that post would have been much more to the point) and it was a fairly easy trek down (in half the time too thank you very much) but, the the best part of this whole ordeal: my calves have finally stopped burning... after 6 days of rest, I can finally say that I have recovered. Will I be doing it again? Probably. Will I pack an extra tank of oxygen and take an allergy pill? Absolutely.

Ain't about how fast I get there. It's the climb,

Jessica

P.S. Please, no judging about the Miley reference, it merely seemed appropriate.

Someday a public bathroom will kill me.

I’m sorry to those who expect this to be a blog about the harmful un-sanitized nature of public restrooms. It is not such a blog. Although it is sometimes known to be true for certain rest area stops and outhouses, I worry more about physically hurting myself with the stall doors than with the bacteria on the toilet seats and floors but I digress. 

One day when I was… okay, it was last week… I went to the gym that I frequent. After sweating it out on the elliptical, I decided I needed a bathroom break. I wiped my forehead on my neighbor’s shirt tail and made my way over to the locker room marked ladies (at least I got that one right). 

I chose the handicap bathroom because all of the other stalls were in use and because it makes me feel less claustrophobic. I opened the door… this is a piece of cake for a normal, coordinated human being; but for me, it is disaster. Still having a bad case of jelly legs from the thirty minutes of elliptical training, I fell against the door as I entered the stall. Bad news… Like most stalls, there is a metal hanger for your purse or coat, but instead of being at the top of the stall door which is easily cleared by my height it is at elbow level in this particular stall… I ran into this sturdy metal hanger with such force that I rocked the stall frames for all four areas and disrupted their occupants. I yelped in pain as I seriously restrained myself from curling into a ball on the floor. I nursed my elbow through the rest of my workout, and still had a dull pulsing ache when I went to bed that night. 

The next day, instead of a war wound or goose egg or even a simple bruise, my skin was only the palest shade of yellow. I can't even be proficiently clumsy!

who needs 'booty traps' when clumsy is on your side,

Jessica

Are we related?

Family reunions are a spectacle for those not faint of heart (it's a bit ironic that senior citizens are the most frequent attendees). Aside from the elderly asking you to repeat your lineage from Eve you also have the poking and prodding, the hugging, and the touching from near complete strangers. There is also that matter of personal space at family reunions. As long as you have a ‘hello my name is’ sticker, people don’t mind getting up close and personal with you. They don’t mind the exchanging of airborne bacteria or the idea of kissing you square on the lips because somewhere along the way, you shared a chromosome or two. So start packing, and no I’m not talking about weaponry or pepper spray... come prepared with pockets full of breath mints and chewing gum, because you are about to get more action than a cheerleader at the senior prom. 

You also just can’t escape genetics at family reunions. You couldn’t be ‘twice removed’ enough to the few who seem a little off-kilter, and you are too closely related to those you may find attractive. Yes, we’ve all experienced it: Spotted that distant relative that in any other circumstance, you may consider approaching and maybe even dating. After that information is processed, you commence hiding in the broom closet reciting ‘there’s no place like home’ and clicking your orthopedic shoes together with gusto.

Don’t get me wrong, family is great. I am a huge supporter of family. I have an insane bundle of love for mine. Not only aunts and uncles and grandparents, but my great aunts and great cousins too. I don’t always know how I’m related to who, but in the grand scheme of things, who cares... right? I mean, after your immediate family, everything gets convoluted anyway. You have your cousins, and then your first cousins, and then your second cousins... that's not right, is it? 

So, I endure to the end. The enthusiastic waving of arm dangle, the breath smelling of fixodent, and memorizing seven generations so that you can recite it on demand. In hind sight, this might actually prevent accidental incest. Who knows...

Don't I know you from somewhere, 

Jessica

There must be trampolines in heaven.

I desperately wanted a trampoline as a child. It was right up there with the newest Backstreet Boys cd, a Polly Pocket palace, and a pony. My parents denied me that joy... actually those joys... I never did see that pony. When I asked [nay, when I pleaded] my parents would simply reply with "we have a trampoline" I tried to explain to them that my mothers exercise trampoline that was two feet wide in diameter, was not the same as a trampoline for 2+ people. I played every angle: The childhood memories, the health benefits, and the popularity I could have to no avail. Instead, I was a chubby child with exactly one friend. A trampoline could have changed that...

As an adult, I take advantage of trampolines. Whenever I can, I seize the opportunity to complete the only trick I have up my sleeve: The Butt Bounce (again, thanks mom...) with a wide magnificent grin on my face, children younger than 5 will find me wickedly talented while others just point and laugh... Such is life. You can only imagine my pleasure when I find that a place exists called jump time. It is exactly how it sounds: wall to wall trampolines. They have a foam pit that sucks you in and doesn't allow you to escape no matter how hard you may pump that breast stroke. There are trampolines directly under basketball hoops which allow you to live out your dream as a member of the toon squad, and of course, they have a bouncy runway leading toward an upright trampoline which I can only assume is a runaway ramp for angry teens. So many possibilities packed into a single warehouse. 

I can only describe the full hour we paid for as joyous. Pure joy with blackened sock bottoms, sweaty bangs, and various body fat rippling with each bounce. I couldn't help but smile as I was surrounded by giggling toddlers and teenage gymnasts that made my butt bounce seem like the amateur trick it really was. To show those flipping gymnasts (pun intended) what's up, I tried to do a trick meant for intermediate to expert level jumpers. I made my way to the end of the bouncy runway, fully intending to jump feet first into the upright trampoline and land back on my feet. I bounced my feet off of the too tight trampoline, lost my footing whilst tying to land (I probably slipped on a puddle caused by my own sweat) and face planted. I got up, dusted off, and shamefully made my way to a near empty room and practiced perfecting the knee bounce.

Piecing together my dignity was low on my list of priorities. There were rowdy boys to pelt with dodge balls and bouncy houses complete with slide (intended for small toddlers) to enjoy. In the end, I put jump time down as a success, not a failure. Face planting amidst my friends and foes was a small price to pay for that many trampolines.

Bounce me to the moon,

Jessica

P.s. To my parents credit they did buy us a pool. That one friend was glad she stuck with me through the trampoline-less existence.

They call me home wrecker.

This Memorial Day weekend was made complete by a ride on a four wheeler with my grandpa. As we went tearing down the road at 44 miles an hour, I felt on top of the world... Invincible if you will. I had a cool looking helmet, wind whipping through my hair, and I even threw in a little wing flapping from angels in the outfield. By the ninth second arm flap, it hit me: to passers by, I probably look like my grandfathers' gold digging mistress. 

You know the kind I'm talking about: the chubby biker chick with tattoos, a leather jacket, and purple hair gripping onto the sides of an older man with a white braided beard atop a hog with ridiculously high handle bars and a noise that rips through the sound barrier causing ear drums to bleed. A pretty sight? I think not, but alas, that's the sight I imagined. We were the kind of pair that people wonder about. The pair that people will create fictional (and elaborate) lives for. The ones people can't help but stare at. The kind they point and laugh at on the freeway. An odd couple if you will. I gripped tighter as I processed this information. Would I get support letters from fellow mistresses? Would I learn the secret handshake? Would I have dreams of being chased naked down the street by a crowd of angry women? What Kind of clothes do mistresses wear? If they wear over-sized sweats and bleach stained t-shirts I'm halfway there...

Finally, I decided that I didn't care. Not one bit. Bring on the scorned lovers with a vendetta. Bring on the pitchforks and pyres. Let people think he's my sugar daddy and not my grandpa. Let them believe I am a "coal digger" (...modern family quote...) I don't care. As long as I don't have an awkward identity crisis, we will all be just fine... Let us all pray for my sanity!

Moral of the story: make a sign that says "with grandpa" before agreeing to straddle each other on a four wheeler. That, or be okay with the consequential stereotyping. 

Mistress of the year,

Jessica

Bread, Food's MVP

Everyone has something they love. Now, I'm not talking the platonic way that a woman might love a piece of jewelry. I'm talking about the kind of love you would march across deserts for, the kind that makes you read the same story everyday to your wife with Alzheimer's. The kind that country songs are written about. The kind that will set forests aflame. For me, that love is bread. 

Bread has always been there for me. It has never mocked me or called me fat... even though it's probably the cause of a few lingering pounds... It doesn't ask me to keep secrets or peer pressure me into running a 5k. Bread simply gives, and gives, and gives some more. I love it more than a person should ever love just one portion of the food pyramid. Bread is a faithful companion, a confidant, a comfort in times of need. Bread is my unhealthy addiction, and I am coming to accept that.

My love affair with bread should have been obvious to my parents when I started eating bread dough raw, or maybe when I was in elementary school and I'd throw away the meat in my sandwiches and just eat the bread (in fact, they might have never known about that... sorry mom) or maybe when I showed such persistence as a toddler for playing in my grandmothers kitchen drawer... yes, a kitchen drawer... full of flour [see figure 1.1]. It wasn't until I started putting potato chunks on crackers (it was potato soup, alright!) that they really started to worry about my starch intake.

One day (that I am now referring to as judgement day) I was able to consume an entire half of a French loaf, a donut, a bagel, a baguette, and a smattering of cakes and cookies... oh, I wish I were exaggerating. It was that night, as I was stepping onto the scale (cue the theme song from Jaws) that I realized I had a problem.

To put my life in perspective, and learn to love appropriate things like friends and family and work, I decided something had to be done. I began scouring the inter-webs and the yellow pages trying to find self help groups for serial bread bingers such as myself. When that didn't work, my roommate and I decided to commence a bread fast. For the entire month of May we pledged to avoid all types of breads, it's various relatives, and even gateway foods that could lead to harder bread substances. I'm telling you folks, it had to be done.

For the most part, days one through ten were only mildly atrocious. I was only slightly more irritable and avoided only certain commercials for things such as subway and Panera B****. Here, on day 19, certain measures have had to be taken. Beauty and the beast is off limits completely (I liken the line, "Marie... the baguettes... hurry up" to pouring forth salt into an open wound) and I've had to try and convince myself that scrambled eggs taste better than a bagel and cream cheese (nothing could be further from the truth) but alas, I have only twelve days left. Someone had better get the straight jacket and padded room ready... It just might come to that...

Let them eat cake,

Jessica

Figure 1.1: 

(I am on the right... yes, in the fashion forward panda shirt)

Let's hope I made myself presentable...

Hello world! (I'm getting ahead of myself… Hi Mom! Hi Dad!)

I decided it was time to create a blog. Not because my life is a whirlwind of one exciting event after another… it is in fact the opposite… but I can only hope to make my ordinary events sound glamorous and humorous. At the very least, maybe I’ll get a giggle or two out of my immediate family… the few that choose to read this that is…

In full disclosure, this blog will not help you with applying your makeup, doing your hair, or getting a boyfriend. I am not qualified to give out any such tutorials, or life advice in general for that matter. In fact, if you know of a self help blog that will teach me to not dress like a peasant, apply the perfect amount of makeup, and trick a male into dating me... please feel free to share... in the meantime, let us continue. I'd like to think that my sarcasm, wit, charm, and grace along with my tendency to over share will provide to be a lethal combination to the blogging community. What's that? You think I sound wonderful? Why thank you.

Before we embark, please keep in mind that I was an art major. While normal students were learning the facts of life, how many feet are in a mile, how to square roots, and rising above a third grade reading level, I was learning the proper uses of Helvetica… Yes, the font… having said that, my posts are destined to be faught with bad grammar, run-on sentences, spelling mistakes, and the incorrect use of a vocabulary word here and there. My goal is to bring honor to the high school diploma framed on my bedside table next to my “participant” ribbon from t-ball. A bonus would include not publicly embarrassing my parents.

So, I'm waving the checkered flag. Get ready for anecdotes dripping with sarcasm and the occasional…okay, not so occasional… movie quote. I'm game if you are.

Big Gulps, huh? All right! Well, see you later,

Jessica