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