Monday, November 21, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
I curse the day that Stephenie Meyer had a sex dream and I didn’t.
One night in 2003, Stephenie dreamt about a sparkly vampire and a human girl who was in love with him. The next day, she decided to write a shittier version of Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse novels.
Why can’t I dream up such utter nonsense?
Two nights ago, I woke up from a dream that I thought would be a best seller. It involved me and Jacy getting captured by Bonnie and Clyde at the Holt County fair. Jacy, Bonnie, Clyde, and I traveled the countryside, raiding sorority houses, killing everyone, and stealing their flat screen TVs. I was in the middle of chasing after a Tri-Delt with my sword when I woke up.
That’s the most creative dream I’ve had in years. I shake my fist at you, Stephenie Meyer.
I resent Stephenie Meyer. She is the worst writer on the face of the earth, yet for some reason, teenagers, grown-ups, and even grandparents, have sunk their teeth (yes, the pun was intended) into the Twilight saga.
It took me a while to convince my snobbish self to read Stephenie’s books. I’m a huge J.K. Rowling fan and I felt like I was cheating on her and Harry Potter every time I even thought about picking up Twilight. I could just see Harry, Ron, and Hermoine’s precious little Gryffindor faces begging me to remain loyal to Dumbledore’s Army.
But all of my friends were reading Twilight, so I finally cast a “Mischief Managed” spell to Harry Potter for a while and put my pride aside to join in on the Twilight hype.
A few chapters in, I realized immediately that I had to stop comparing the Harry Potter series to the Twilight Saga. Trying to compare J.K. Rowling to Stephenie Meyer is like comparing Dom Perignon to Welch’s sparkling grape non-alcoholic champagne. The Dom is expensive, smooth, and effortless, while the Welch’s is affordable, but yet somehow still enjoyable in a 10-year-olds-celebrating-New-Year’s sort of way.
I, personally, like both champagne varieties.
My innate nature is to be drawn to shitty things, while still appreciating the finer things in life. Shoot, half of my life was spent growing up in a tin-roofed trailer house. I wear Jessica Simpson heels with my Producer’s Hybrid seed corn coat. I bring Keystone Light to parties, but still sip on Crown Royal in the comfort of my home. I need a little trash with a little class in my life.
I couldn’t seem put the Welch’s sparkling grape juice down. In fact, I read the entire Twilight series in about a week. Once I finished with the books, I started in on the movies. And again, I was not disappointed. I love Twilight the same way I love Human Centipede or My Bloody Valentine 3D. All three films are quite endearing. All poorly written, all made for struggling 20-something actors. All complete train wrecks. Yet, I continue to list them among my favorite movies.
So, naturally, my love for all things shitty convinced me to stand in line for six hours in the freezing cold to catch the Breaking Dawn: Part 1 premiere last night. Well, my love for all things shitty, as wellllllll as my love for Robert Pattinson. I swear, that dude looks identical to this guy I used to, erm, “hang” out with in college. Every time Bella and Edward lock lips, I’m taken back to my fairly innocent, yet semi-trashy college years. *sigh*
Robbie Pattinson aside, last night was a fantastic production of shitty. Summit Entertainment, the company that produces Twilight, showed four or five of its upcoming movies in the previews, which set the tone for the night. I mean seriously, how shitty does this movie look (Trailer link below)? I hope this movie premieres at midnight, too. I’ll be first (and only) in line!
When Breaking Dawn: Part 1 first began, it was pretty bland at first. Nothing too shitty to stir me up. Well, until Jacob turned into a wolf and then the entire wolf pack started talking in wolfy voices. It was like watching The Lion King, circa 1994. You know when Mufasa gets pissed at Simba for checking out the Elephant grave yard with Nala and he has this little “growl” in his voice when he talks. That’s how all the wolves were talking to each other. They had growls in their human voices. It was very Homeward Boundy and fantastical.
Actually, the entire movie seemed very childhood Disney for me. When I visited Disney World when I was four, Mom and Dad took me to this 3D showing of the inner workings of the human body. We strapped on these 3D goggles and soared through the human body like we were blood or snot or something (I say snot because we entered through the human nose….) You may be wondering how in the world I recall such a vivid memory. It was terrifying. That’s why.
Well, watching Bella transform into a vampire from the inside out was terrifying and torturous. We literally traveled through her veins as if we were vampire venom. And again, I loved every awesomely terrible minute.
And PAH-LEASE don’t even get me started on how useful Kristen Stewart is for when I want to indulge in shittiness. She is the epitome of shitty actresses. You know those celebs who you’re all like, “I’d TOTES be friends with them in real life even though they’re kind of weird and awkward.” (Jesse Eisenberg, the whole cast of Juno). She’s one of them. I feel like we’d sit around brooding about our Chuck Taylor's.
So you want my personal take on Breaking Dawn: Part I? You should probably put down the fancy champagne for a second and go see it right now. All shittiness aside, it really is an entertaining film. Believe me, I’ll be waiting in line next summer for the midnight premiere of Breaking Dawn: Part II.
Oh, hey, and, if you get a chance, you should read this article written by Omaha World Herald columnist Rainbow Rowell:
She, too, is intrigued by the Twilight Saga, but for different reasons than myself. Every reason for liking Twilight is the right reason. Just let go and give in to pure, awesome, unabridged shit.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
As soon as we ate the last of the Thanksgiving turkey, I swear Jacy and my mom would go into full Christmas mode. They decorated the whole house, spent hours wrapping gifts, and belted out Christmas carols at the top of their lungs on the ride to school every morning. It annoyed the hell out of me. MOM WAS A GROWN WOMAN! She shouldn't be singing silly songs like "Frosty the Snowman." I, on the other hand, was much more mature for those shenanigans.
I couldn't even escape the Christmas spirt at school because our music teacher put on a three-hour holiday production every single year. In elementary school, we began Christmas program rehearsals right after Turkey Day. I had zero time to adjust between holidays.
Then, when Christmas Day did roll around, we spent ALL morning opening gifts. ALL MORNING. We'd each open our presents one at a time starting with Jacy because she was the youngest. WHO HAS TIME FOR THAT?!
In my book, it was complete overkill. I spent half of my childhood trying to find the perfect pair of earmuffs to block out the Yuletide carols and the other half opening Christmas presents slowly. I was an honest-to-goodness Scrooge McDuck.
Unfortunately, no Ghosts of Christmas Past showed me the true reason for the season when I was younger. Instead, it took a 10-hour move away from my family to realize just how precious the holiday season really is.
So, please, PLEASE, do not be a Grinch this Christmas. Your piss-poor attitude isn't doing anyone any good. Believe me. If I could take back every negative thing I have ever said about Christmas, I would in a heartbeat. I'd tell my 10-year-old self sing along with my mom to Andy Williams's "It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year." I'd sit down and watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas with Jacy instead of beelining to my room. I'd wake up and "stalk" Santa with Jacy instead of catching those extra hours of sleep.
I can't take back my past actions, but I can make my future Christmases ones to remember. I have 23 years of holiday cheer to make up for and there's no sooner time than the present. I've already started celebrating Christmas this year. A week ago, I purchased a holiday ornament for my rear view mirror. Today, I've listened to six straight hours of Christmas music. And hopefully this weekend, Jacy and I will be able to get some sort of tree decorated in our house. (We're thinking a Harry Potter-themed Womping Willow tree this year. Yeah, we're weirdos. Accept.) When Christmas actually does roll around, I'll let my youngest nephew, Bo, take his time opening his gifts. I don't care if it takes four seconds or four hours. If he's happy, then I'm happy. If he's purely enjoying Christmas, then I'm purely enjoying Christmas.
It's never too late, friends. Your family won't be around forever, so learn to appreciate every single quirky tradition they do to celebrate the holiday. I'll tell you this -- next time my dad cracks open his accordian case to play Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, I'll be right beside him with my saxophone.
What are you waiting for? Pandora's Christmas Radio station is ready for you.
In my book, there can never be enough Christmases in this lifetime.
Friday, November 4, 2011
So remember how my previous blog was about Facebook etiquette and how you shouldn't defriend people on Facebook? Click on the link below for the perfect example of why you shouldn't defriend anyone:
Be Careful Who You Defriend On Facebook; They Might Burn Your House Down!
Jess knows best.
Monday, October 24, 2011
“K! Is this a VIRUS?! You JERKFACE!”
“No,” she replied, “It’s a website that will help us meet people in college.”
K was 100 percent right about Facebook. I began linking up with people I’d never even met. Before I even stepped foot on UNL’s campus for the first time, I had friended almost every student on Abel Hall Floor 5.
Now, just six short years later, everyone and their dog (literally, even dogs….) have Facebook accounts. Shoot, even my dad – MY DAD, who didn’t even want a cell phone a couple of years ago – is on Facebook more than I am. (Rather, he’s on “Faithbook.” For some reason, he calls it Faithbook. I’m not sure if he’s just acquired a pretty hairy lisp or if he really thinks that Facebook is a place to connect Lutherans with Catholics.)
Anyway, I feel like six years of Facebooking have entitled me to set some freaking Faithbook – errr, Facebook – ground rules. Here goes:
1. Facebook is not the same as IMing. When updating YOUR status, please check YOUR grammar.
Please read the following status and circle grammatical errors:
“George is sad because your a bitch and you dumped me. They’re isnt much I can say other than you’re sisters a bitch to.”
Did you spot them all? Now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s see what the status should look like:
"George is sad because you’re a bitch and you dumped me. There isn’t much else I can say other than your sister is a bitch, too."
Folks, it’s not hard at all to avoid Facebook grammatical mistakes. Just type your status into Microsoft Word first and it will correct the mistakes for you. I know, I know, I have an English degree so I’m kind of a jerk when it comes to this stuff. But I promise it’s not rocket science. And who knows who is creeping on your profile – don’t you want to appear as smart as I know you are?*
*Addendum to the previous rule: Spelling mistakes are acceptable. I can’t spell worth a shit, so I assume no one else can either.
2. Don’t delete people. It’s not nice.
During my freshman year of college, I was a part of the Chancellor’s Leadership Class. The class met once a week and we did all sorts of fun things in the community. Because I was a brown-noser and liked to be involved in everything, I volunteered to lead a fundraising group for the battered women’s shelter in Lincoln. I met some really awesome people during the fundraiser and Facebook friended most of them – you know, it’s allllll about networking in college.
There was one guy on my team who I felt particularly close with at the time. To protect his identity, let’s call him George. (Do you notice a trend? George is my favorite name to use when making up names. I think it has something to do with my Grandpa’s cat being named George. Actually it has nothing to do with that.)
Anyway, George and I haven’t spoken for five years, but at the time, I considered us to be friends. Well, evidently my friendship meant absolutely nothing to George. Last week, a picture of him surfaced on a friend’s profile. I clicked on his name to see what he had been up to and the “Add Friend” tab was present on the top-right hand side of his profile. GASP. That jackass George deleted me.
Notice how I’m now calling you a jackass, George? I never had a problem with you before. In fact, I thought you were pretty cool. But you’ve deleted me. So I think you’re a dirty man slut and I will spread vicious rumors about you based on the things I CAN see on Facebook – your profile picture, your education, and your birthdate. I will also blog about you. You're not the only one, George. This also goes out to you, Barbara (fake name), and you, Georgia (fake name). I KNOW who you are. I mean, come on Barbara. I went with you to get your first tattoo. Doesn't that mean ANYTHING, you dirty pirate hooker?
Here’s the deal, Facebook friends: If I annoy you or just straight-up offend you with my Facebook statuses or pictures, then you can simply hide me from your mini-feed. There’s no need to delete me. I can see that you have 2,200 friends. I can also see that 44 of those people are also my friends. Must you single me out? I suffer from self-confidence issues the way it is. Do you really want me to go jump out my window because you deleted me?
George, Barbara, and Georgia: If I am found face-down in a pool of my own blood outside of my work window, you’re to blame. YOU THREE. I hope you feel terrible.
3. Denying friend requests is also not nice.
There are really only a handful of instances where it’s okay to deny a friend request. It’s okay to deny if the potential friend appears to be a porn star (Harry Buttz, Ivana Kock, etc.) It’s okay to deny if the potential friend has no mutual friends with you. It’s also okay to deny if the friend request comes from someone who appears to be a future employer OR appears to be a fake account created by your creepy ex-boyfriend to stalk you OR if you started dating a guy and his bitchy, catty girl friends are adding you to stalk you and you know it (Sorry about that, Alli...forgive me? I totally understand why you denied me at first.) Otherwise, you should accept.
Feelings get hurt when you deny, causing people to jump out of windows.
I have a particular connection to the friendship-denying thing because my name appears as Jessica Goldschwager on Facebook. Some people have a hard time identifying me because of the name, so I get denied all the time (I refuse to believe it’s because I’m not cool…) I know, I know, it’s probably my fault I’m getting denied. Why does my name appear as Goldschwager? Because it sounds awesome, that's why.
Here’s what I don’t get….
A. Are you that stupid that you can’t figure out that Jessica Goldschwager is actually Jessica Schwager, but I added “gold” to the front?
B. Do I really look that unfamiliar that you don’t want to add me? My picture is of ME.
Sure, a few weeks ago, I had this picture as my profile picture:
If I added you while I had this picture and you denied me, then you’re forgiven. I can totally understand if you thought I was a dog.
JUST KIDDING. Actually you’re not forgiven at all, you idiot. Who the hell denies a Weimeraner wearing funny glasses? Weims are precious dogs. I’m glad you denied me because I didn’t want to be friends with you anyway.
C. I’m not adding you to stalk through all 640 of your profile pictures. I’m not adding you to see if we have similar interests. I could care-a-less about your relationship status or your “About Me” section. I actually have no interest in even looking at your profile picture. I’m adding you to be NICE. I probably met you once or twice, realized we had mutual friends, and am extending my hand as in, “Hey, you’re okay by me. Let’s be Facebook friends.” I am not going to take your photos and Photoshop you into weird pornographic poses. That’s not my style at all.
Seriously, denying a friend request only achieves one thing and one thing only:
I didn’t have a problem with you before, but now I fucking hate you.
I shall stop with just three Faithbook rules today. I literally have a list a mile long, but I felt like these were the most important issues – mostly because if I can help you salvage at least one Facebook friendship, I can die happy. Well, and I must stop for the night because Hart of Dixie is on and I want to get home before it starts. Have you seen the show? If not, get on it. Hot Southern men in that show. Bowchickawowow.
P.S. - I really don't hate anyone. I just hope you understand how hurtful your actions are when you decide to delete your Facebook friends or not even accept a friend request in the first place. Facebook friendships have replaced real friendships (I wish I was kidding), so deleting someone is similar to punching your friend in the face. And, as Jacy says, not accepting a friend request is similar to denying a handshake. Be considerate.
I'm going to stalk the author, Jackie, and maker her be my friend. Just kiddddding. Sort of. Jackie has the same exact stance on love and marriage that I do. A small excerpt:
"I'm not jaded and dead inside, really. This is how much: I just finished the second book of the "Hunger Games" trilogy (really). Aloud. With my boyfriend.
In it, they describe the marriage ceremony in the poorest district in the invented nation of the books. The bride and groom stand over a fire together, toast a piece of bread, feed it to each other, and they are married. Everyone dances. It is simple, short and sincere. It is about love, and nothing else...."
Rather than standing over a fire though, I've always envisioned myself packin' up and heading to Vegas if the time ever comes for me to fall in love. Marriage should be simple, short and sincere. It truly is about love and nothing else.
Well, unless I happen to marry Prince Harry. I'm positive that HE can splurge on a Harry Potter-themed wedding complete with a Dumbledore-impersonating preacher.
Ah, shoot, I just realized that I can't marry Prince Harry now... Jacy colored my hair red. Gingers marrying gingers? I'm not so sure if that's allowed.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Our older sister, Gina, posted this on our dad's Facebook wall this morning. I swear to you, our dad knew all these rules long before they were published last August.
Some of our favorite rules include:
#6: Buy her a glove and teach her to throw a baseball. Make her proud to throw like a girl… a girl with a wicked slider.
This is one of Gina's favorite rules. As discussed in previous posts, Jacy and I can't play softball to save our souls, but Gina was basically an all star.
#11: There will come a day when she asks for a puppy. Don’t over think it. At least one time in her life, just say, “Yes.”
This one especially tugs at my heartstrings because I BEGGED my dad to get me a dog for months and months, but he was all like, "Girl, there's no way in hell you're getting a dog." Then one random day -- maybe because I stopped talking to him completely -- he came home with the sweetest dog for me. I wasn't able to take her to college with me, so now she's completely dad's dog. I think I knew deep down that he'd be awfully lonely when I left, so that's why I wanted him to get me a dog.
#16: Take her fishing. She will probably squirm more than the worm on your hook. That’s OK.
Dad took all three of us girls fishing all of the time -- I think we knew how to bait a hook before we knew how to tie our shoes! This also caused severe sisterly disagreements between me and Jacy. For instance, one time I went to cast my line and got my hook stuck in Jacy's head. Another time, I got pissed at her and slammed her brand new rod and reel into a screen door. Okay, I'm sensing a trend now. I was the one who caused sisterly disagreements...sorry Jace.
Do you know what Jacy got for her birthday one year? A freaking pony. Yeah. Dad bitched about getting me a dog, but the man got Jacy a pony. See how awesome he is? What dad actually gets his daughter a pony? MINE!
I could gush about my dad all day. Gina, Jacy, and I are so very fortunate to have an absolutely amazing dad (AND MOM!). Love you, 'rents!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
My friend, Kylie, made me aware of the song with this message:
"HIIII so this morning I downloaded Justin Biebers new Christmas song mistletoe… it’s so bad… but soooooo good. his grownup voice is sexy…"
And she is so right. It's really the worst song I've ever heard, but yet, somehow, it's so freaking good. I've listened to it three times this morning. And how about that sexy grown-up voice? My informant (Kylie) says the whole Christmas album will be out on November 1st. Get ya some.
An open note to Justin Bieber:
I will mother your children.
Seeing is beliebing.
Friday, September 16, 2011
After work last night, I had this wild hair to spend some money. (God forbid I actually practice SAVING money.) Just 20 minutes after I locked up my office for the day, I became the proud owner of Walmart’s cheapest Huffy bicycle – complete with a wicker basket, a tire pump, a tire patch kit, and a lock.
I’m not sure what compelled me to purchase a bicycle. I mostly blame Norman’s hipster crowd, lookin’ all cute in their skinny jeans, fake grandma glasses, and constant efforts to save the planet. I figured, hey, if they can figure out how to peddle a bike around town, then why can’t I?
A hundred dollars later, I walked out of Walmart with a sense of pride. I, Jessica Schwager, was saving this muthafuckin’ earth, not to mention I was bound to develop the hottest gams in the entire world. The 90-year-old Walmart greeter even told me that I made a fantastic purchase. I guess he used to ride bikes back in the ‘40s and assured me that my giant fenders (do bikes even have fenders?) would repel water away from my legs if I ever rode in the rain. I thanked him for his wonderful observation, but secretly thought, “Riding in the rain? Are you nuts? Duhhhh, it doesn’t rain in Oklahoma. And if the clouds so much as look like they’re going to spit, I’m hoppin’ in my gas guzzler.”
Not more than two minutes later, I was forced to eat my own word-thoughts. It didn’t matter how much pushing, shoving, prying, jumping or praying I did, my new bike was not fitting in the back of my Grand Prix (I think that was just my car’s way of saying, “Hobag, if you’re not driving me anymore, then I’m sure as shit not going to let your new mode of transportation fit in my trunk.”). So, after air kicking my car, my bicycle and I set forth – in the freaking rain – toward my house, which was nearly a mile away.
Here’s the deal though – I wasn’t about to ride my bike home. I’m a freaking terrible bike rider.
Growing up in the country, you'd think I’d be a good bike rider, considering we had to learn on gravel roads and small slabs of cement sidewalks. But right around my crucial bike-training time, I fell off of a devil horse and broke my ankle. I was basically forced to sit around on my ass for eight weeks in a thigh-high cast. The only moving around I did do was with an old lady’s walker because I was too dumb/uncoordinated/fat to figure out how to use crutches.
After virtually eating my weight in ice cream every day and doing nothing active to burn those calories, I gained, oh, 100 pounds or so. Okay, maybe not THAT much, but I bet my average daily gain was, like, 2 lbs a day – yes, I just likened myself to a cow. Moo. (But seriously, I remember my older sister – who was hot as all hell and had a body similar to Jennifer Aniston – telling my mom to send me to a fat camp. So I wasn’t that much different than a cow…)
Between the weight gain and the utter fear of falling off of moving objects, biking wasn’t really my thing. Every time I did try to ride, I’d do something completely embarrassing, like riding my bike into a bike rack and, ultimately, racking myself. Or failing to adjust my seat properly in college and, about half-way to class one day, my bike seat decided to adjust itself, causing my knees to swipe my nose for about a mile. Let’s just say I locked that bike up to my dorm’s bike rack and left it there.
Because my experiences with bikes haven't exactly been great, I decided to just walk my bike back to my house. Did I mention it was raining out? And cold? And I had to walk down one of the busiest streets in Norman?
No one really knows me around these parts quite yet and I just recently dyed my hair from blonde to red, so I didn’t think anyone would recognize the fool pushing her bike down 12th Avenue. Boy, was I wrong. As soon as I got back to my house, I checked my phone (now that I have one again -- that'll have to be another blog in itself) and found a text from my roommate (of all freaking people) that said, “Did someone steal your car? I saw you walking a bike down 12th street…” I guess I looked really pissed off while I walked my bike home, so he assumed that someone jacked my car. Awesome.
As soon as I got home from Walmart, I pumped up the tires and practiced riding around our little cul-de-sac. My neighbors looked at me like I was nuts. I was wobbly as hell, my seat was entirely too short, and I kept running into curbs. I wanted to ride my bike to work today, but I guess God wanted me to live for another day because he sent rain this way, which gave me a good enough excuse to stick to my car.
Unless it rains, I’m going to try to ride to work every day next week. Hopefully it will help me save some money in gas for the next two months (because I need to save up for my November trip to LA, beeeches!). But then my roommate pointed out that my drive to work was only two miles and I really wouldn’t be saving anything. Logical little shit he is. Maybe I’ll just attach a video camera to my basket instead. That way I can make unlimited profits from the videos I sell to MTV full of my bloopers and collisions…
How seriously fecking stupid do I look on this bike? I step on the thing and I go freaking cross-eyed.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Yeah, Trickie, we dedicated this to you. Now do you feel bad for not going to that Italian place to meet up with those guys off of The Bachelor for us? Yeah, I wouldn't either. This is just ridiculous. I wanted to put your head on a stick (Nebrasketball style) and dance around with it, but Jacy looked at me funny.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
For tattoo enthusiasts like me, sitting on the sidelines while a friend gets a tattoo is the absolute WORST. Unfortunately, I found myself in that very situation last weekend. Jacy and I were invited along to be moral support as our friend inked up her right forearm. She grimaced a few times, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the internal pain and longing that Jacy and I experienced.
After my experiences with tattoos, I'm slightly amazed how eager I am to jump right back into the tattoo saddle. My first time was, well, a little on the scary side of things. Sadist? Maybe I am.
Warning: This cautionary tale of my first tattoo.
The time was June of 2005. George Dubyah was in the White House, Green Day was on MTV, and I was fresh out of high school working as a cook in our local bar. Yup, them there were the good ol' days.
On my 18th birthday, I decided to do what every 18 year old should do. I bought porn. And it was an utter disappointment. I love men just as much as the next straight teenage girl, but that shit was downright graphic. Not my thing. So, I went with Plan B -- straight to the good stuff -- I decided to get a tattoo.
I wrangled up my friend, Tim, and we rushed to “Erics Tatoos” in Meadow Grove, Nebraska, to get our first ink. And yes, Erics Tatoos was missing an apostrophe and a “t” from its name. But whatever. I was 18 gosh-darned years old. I was free. I was a woman. I had rights. And I needed a damn tattoo. Sure, there were red flags. Maybe how Eric didn't wash his hands after running them through his waist-long hair. Or how he had a used car dealership/pawn shop out his back door. Or how his breath smelled like cheap whiskey and Mary Jane. But we didn't care. We came for one thing and one thing only: tatoos.
When we got to the parlor, Tim flipped through Eric's portfolio and chose this gem of a tattoo:
No need to rub your eyes again. Yes, folks, this is indeed the Godsmack sign. To this day, I don't know why he chose that as a tattoo. Could Tim even name a Godsmack song? Probably not. But it didn't matter. WE WERE FREE AND 18.
I decided on a teeny, tiny, not-worth-my-15-bucks star on my wrist that resembled supermodel Gisele Bundchen's tattoo. Perhaps the price tag was another red flag. Eric only charged me 15 bucks for my tattoo. Nebraska had a state minimum of $40 at the time. But, I was poor and working in a bar, so the price tag was just right for me.
When Tim and I walked out of that tattoo shop, we had the best dang poorly-shaded, crooked tattoos in the history of man. Tim liked his so much that he went back a few weeks later and got another one - a giant outline of a cross on his upper arm - which he later had to get covered up because of the wonky lines. Actually, I think he got two more. I remember some Chinese lettering on his stomach, too. He had to get that one covered up as well.
Eric's started it all for us. Less than a year later, I decided upon a second tattoo.
At 2 a.m. on some random weeknight, I convinced my freshman year roommate, Hannah, to join me at Guns 2 Roses in Lincoln. I knew exactly what I wanted --a gothic-looking cross on the back of my neck. Easy peasy. Get in, get out. I'm not sure why I was so Hell-bent on a cross, but I think it had something to do with my lifestyle at the time. Perhaps, I thought, if I got a cross, then the world would know that I had a Christian soul and would be forgiven for my freshman year fun. Who knows.
Guns 2 Roses had a whole new set of red flags. 1 - the owner, Gary, listened to entirely too much Phil Collins. 2 - Gary didn't have any tattoos himself. No tattoos on a tattoo artist? Meh, who cares! (I cared later. That guy didn't know how hard he was tattooing me. My foot was ON FIRE!)
My idea of a gothic, uber-Christian cross was shot down immediately after I asked Gary to give me a price quote for my tattoo.
75 bucks? Really? There's now way that a tiny cross on the back of my neck should cost 75 bucks. Didn't he know I was POOR?! Normal people would probably have just walked out on Guns 2 Roses. Or they would have just gone ahead and paid the measly 75 bucks, but I'm not normal. I am a tattoo addict. So, I decided to bargain with Gary.
"Hey Gare, how much would it cost to get a small tattoo on my foot?" I asked.
"Oh, I'd say about 50 dollars for this cross on your foot. I had to charge you more for the neck because it's a little tougher job," Gary replied.
Was this man out of his mind? Did he really think I wanted that same tattoo now? No way. A cross was great for my neck, but not for my foot. Who did he think he was putting crosses on my foot?
I hadn't actually thought beyond getting a cross. I had no idea what I wanted my third-in-line tattoo to be. But I blurted something out anyway....
"Actually, Gare Bear, I really want a Gemini sign on my foot," I said.
So, Gary had his best apprentice draw me up a Gemini sign. Fifty dollars and 10 minutes later, I was the proud owner of a black and teal Gemini sign on the top of my left foot. Looking back, I bet Hannah thought I was absolutely nuts. I went into the shop to get a symbol of my Christian faith and walked out with Chinese Taoism written all over my foot. Guess that's a Gemini for ya.
So far, I've accumulated four tattoos total, with another one coming soon. (I've promised myself a really kick-ass tattoo after I drop another 30 lbs. MOTIVATION!) And, in case you were wondering, I am Hepititis and AIDS-free, despite Erics Tatoos - which was later shut down because of a Hep outbreak (or so I'm told).
And yes, my parents have seen my tattoos and, no, my dad didn't take me out back and beat me with a skillet. And, in case you were also wondering, Tim and I both have full-time jobs. Two thumbs up for accepting parents and employers!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Actually, that's the only ground rule so far. No t-shirts. Hey, a girl can look but not touch, right? When else am I going to see such a beautiful specimen? I sure as hell will never snag one of those, so I might as well take advantage of looking, right? (Jackie, if you're reading this, I will look purely for artistic purposes only. I'm actually really into pudgy guys so I don't feel so damn fat. Mikey will be like a piece of artwork perusing around the house, I swear. And, Mikey, if you're reading this, you're more than just a piece of artwork. You're a dear friend.) There, have I covered my bases so I don't get kicked out in the first week?
Although the dude has been out of town since we first moved in, we're anxious for him to get here. Partly because I need him to go through the thousands of George Foremans/blenders/health foods he has accumulated over the years -- seriously how many lean, mean fat grilling machines does one household need? Not to mention, we need to have a talk about the P90X pull-up bar hanging from the doorway in the living room. I'm staring at it right now. Have you actually tried to do a pull-up? Yeah, I did the first time I walked in the door. I couldn't do one during PE Fun Day when I was 7-years-old, so I'm not sure what made me think I could do one now. Between the pull-up bar and the protein shakes, I'm probably going to weight a buck twenty when this is all said and done.
But I'm really excited to have him around to not only drink an ice cold beer on the back patio with me, but to protect this house. Since "the dude" isn't moving in for a few more weeks, Jacy and I live in constant fear of intruders. I'm sick of walking back and forth, front door to back door, checking the locks before I go to bed at night. I'm sick of jumping at every single noise. I'm sick of avoiding the doorbell when it rings. And I NEED to get that giant kitchen knife out of my night stand. (It's an Ikea kitchen knife. I doubt it could filet a fish, let alone kill a psychopathic killer on the rampage.)
But it's not just the killers we're afraid of. Jacy and I are also scared to death of paranormal activities in our house. I don't know if you know this or not, but I see things -- auras, ghosts, dead people -- it's a curse more than a gift. (I'm only half joking here...) So, to ensure ultimate safety, we "smudged" the entire house. If you're unfamiliar with smudging, here's the scoop: You buy bundle of sage at a local magic shop, you light it on fire, and you walk around the house saying things like, "Out damned spot!" and "Get the fudge monkey out of here, you bloody ghosts!" Then you must bury the bundle of sage in the back yard.
Because Jacy and I couldn't physically bury the bundle of sage due to the rock-like soil (Helloooo, draught anyone?), we just threw it under the kiddie pool. Great idea at the time, but now I've been suffering from insomnia. I'm frightened that, because we didn't bury the sage properly, Casper will come calling in the night. This has caused me to stay up late and think of things.
Two nights ago, Jacy and I sat up and thought up an entire screen play (be looking for our hit at Blockbuster soon --- er, wait, Redbox because Blockbuster will be dead in a few years). Last night to pass the time, I sat up and thought of the three current trends that I loathe. Please, let me enlighten you.
Numbero Uno: Lady Antebellum-esque bands.
No. 2: Cowboy boots with dresses.
No. 3: Facebook engagements.
Out of everything in the world, I chose these three things. Goes to show how lame my life truly is. But let me justify my hatred.
Why I hate Lady Antebellum-esque bands (The Band Perry excluded):
Note: I have excluded The Band Perry from this hate blog because I adore the lead singer. She reminds me exactly of the lead character on Hellcats (which was cancelled -- curse you CW for discontinuing every show I like!! RAGE!) I love the lead on Hellcats, who was also one of the singers of Aly & AJ (trivia!), so by default The Band Perry is not a girl/boy band I hate.
Back to Lady A -- Ever hear of a little movie called Grease? Okay, please go to YouTube and type in "Summer Lovin." Listen to it. Then go to YouTube and type in "Lookin' For A Good Time" by Lady Antebellum. They. Are. The. Exact. Same. Song. Seriously, wasn't that whole "guy-sings-a-line-girl-sings-a-line-girl-and-guy-sing-the-chorus-together" thing a little 1972? BAH! And now, there's some husband-wife band out there called Thompson Square. Since when are married couples sexy? They're not. And I feel absolutely dreadful for their fans. Do you know the percentage of bands that break up these days? (I don't.) How about the number of marriages that end in divorce? (I'm afraid I don't know that number either.) But I do know that the odds aren't in favor for that ball-and-chain band. Don't get too attached, Thompson Square fans.
Why I hate cowboy boots with dresses:
I first noticed this awful trend last football season. I came to Norman for a few OU football games and EVERY SINGLE GIRL had a damn OU dress on -- and by dress, I mean a longer-ish t-shirt torn to shreds -- and cowgirl boots on. Here's why this trend is so wrong. For starters, boots are made for withstanding tough conditions, usually associated with some sort of cattle work. (AHEM, COWboy boots).
Growing up, the only men and women I knew who wore cowboy boots were hard-as-hell workers. I typically only put cowboy boots on to A. work cattle, B. ride horses, or C. show 4-H cattle. Cowboy boots are hot, typically uncomfortable, and are made to keep one's toes safe when a 400 lb animal steps on them. Were any of those football-goers fearful of livestock crushing their toes? Absolutely not! I think what's even more sickening is that these girls probably paid outrageous prices for their boots. Their designer boots were probably handcrafted for the small sum of $600. A pair of really nice, authentic Ariats are half of that. I've now noticed this trend stretching beyond football's boundaries.
Country music concerts are a popular venue for this type of absurdity. Take the Kenny Chesney concert I went to last April, for example. When I think "Kenny Chesney," I think BEACH PARTY, BITCHEESSS! So, I wore a cute little beach dress with flip flops. Chickas at the concert looked at me like I had "RAPEST" tattooed on my head (by the way, you must Google that. True story. Some dipshits actually tattooed the word "RAPEST" on some guy's head. I wonder if rapests are different than rapists...) I swear, I was the only person in the entire Cowboys Stadium with flip flops on. Everyone had friggin' cowboy boots and miniskirts/dresses on.
Perhaps you can convince me of why this is a good look. But for now, I'm content believing that cowboy boots should only be worn if A. You're a country music STAR (not to be confused with concert-goer), B. You're in a rodeo, or C. You really are a cowgirl/cowboy. Otherwise, lay off. They aren't flattering at all, they stick to your calves funny, and they look heinous with that black miniskirt you have on.
Why I hate Facebook engagements:
Is it just me or is EVERYONE getting engaged? Okay, okay, I am 24-years-old and yes, more people tend to get engaged around this age. But seriously, it's an epidemic! I wish there was a Facebook application to track the number of engagements this past week. I swear I've had AT LEAST eight different friends get engaged. EIGHT. I'm all about marriage, so please do not think I'm hating on marriage. However, I'm sort of, kind of, just a little bit, wondering if Facebook has anything to do with this upward trend of engagements. Would all of these people be getting engaged right now if Facebook didn't exist?
Okay, hear me out. You know the old saying about "if a tree fell in the woods and no one was there to hear it, would it still make a sound?" That's how I feel about Facebook. Would people really be getting engaged like rabbits if Facebook wasn't there to document their every move? I'll be the first to admit, I've fallen into the deep trap of social media. The only reason I ever take pictures at parties is to prove to my Facebook friends that I'm having a good time. I could be having the worst time in the world, but a photo of me smiling with a cute outfit on and a bottle of Jack in my hand somehow makes me feel like I'm having more fun than I actually am. The moments when I'm not taking pictures are the ones I need to worry about. This means that I'm typically having the best time in the world and I most likely left my camera on a bar stool. Andddd it means I'm going to have a headache the size of Africa the next morning. (I suppose this could go either way... the nights that I'm REALLY camera happy and have pictures of people's legs/arms/half-a-face are also good nights for hungover mornings...)
Either way -- what I'm trying to get at is this: Is social media making people get engaged for all of the wrong reasons? Are folks now-a-days more focused on avoiding the dreaded "SINGLE" status on Facebook rather than waiting a tic to find their one true love? Are girls more focused on posting pictures of their bling on Facebook than the actual act of getting engaged? Are couples uploading 700 wedding photos to Facebook the day after their wedding to PROVE they are happy rather than soaking in the joyful bliss of being married? I'm not sure. It's a tough call. Do I think some things should be kept private? Hell yes. But who am I to say? Maybe, just maybe, after I experience the feeling of true love I'll want to shout it from the rooftops. But for now, I'm sick of my Facebook buddies tying the knot. It's making me feel worthless every time I go downtown and tie one on. Like I should be signing up for speed dating classes so I'll be the next one engaged. I take that back -- I gotta few more years left in these single bones!
Welp, I believe I've wasted enough time tonight with my silly dislikes and hateful antics. I think the ghosts are gone and I can catch some zzzzzssssss.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Every single time I played, I'd always choose my dad. It was nothing against you, Mama Schwag. I love you both equally. I just felt like the courts would force Jacy to live with Mom because, let's face it, Jacy's a complete mama's girl. I'm about 98 percent sure Mom still calls to wake Jacy up in the mornings. And when Jacy loses her keys/cell phone, who's the first person she calls? Mom. For some reason, Mom can always remind Jacy that she left them in the parking lot/freezer.
I also knew Dad would need someone to not only cook and clean, but help him do chores and watch gates. I felt like I was the best girl for the job. (At the time, I took Gina out of the running because she was 10 years older than me and in college. Surely she wouldn't move home to live with Dad, would she?)
By choosing to live with my father in a faux divorce settlement, I think I inadvertently learned things that no other girls/boys at my age knew. I had to be prepared in case the worst happened. (Middle Child Syndrome -- we're realists and cynics. Divorce rates were climbing quickly!) First, I learned the basic things... how to fasten a fishing line to a hook, how to make perfectly-mixed Windsor-Squirts, and how to watch the History channel with my eyes open. But then I started asking Dad to teach me more in-depth things.
Grinding corn? Check. Changing oil filters on a tractor? Check. Sharpening sickles? Check. Netting the river for minnows? Definitely. Making "bombs" to blow rabbits out of old irrigation system pipes? Oh hell yeah. (Though I'm fairly certain this is why Dad and I are hard of hearing...not to mention our poor dog, Lady, who typically waited anxiously near the pipe to eat the rabbit. She had no idea a bomb was going to blow up in her face. She walked around in circles, ear-to-ground, for weeks.)
One summer, I even helped Dad change the sprinkler heads on an entire irrigation system. Yeah, I'm awesome like that. There are days I wonder why I'm still single. Ohhh wait, it's because I can't sit around playing stupid while a guy "teaches" me how to fish. Belieeeveeee me, I've tried to be less cool than I am. Take the other night, for instance. Some really gorgeous man offered to teach me how to play Baggo. I played stupid for a while - oh, ya know, beginner's luck giggle, giggle. I think he caught on to me when I hit the mark with my eyes closed. He left soon after. (Really, I think he left because I screamed "SUCK IT!" and made obnoxious, Eminem-like hand gestures around my waist/thigh area after sinking a shot. THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is why I'm still single.)
There was one thing -- besides the hunting/fishing/Judge Judy-watching -- that Dad loved to do and that was positively unique to my family. He absolutely loved playing Tag. If I were to have lived with Dad post-divorce, I would've been forced to be on my toes at all times. Hmmm, maybe a divorce would have been in my best interest. Playing 10 straight years of Tag surely could have helped my childhood obesity problem....
I'm not sure when the game started, but I was probably 7 or 8 years old. I believe it may have begun in our front yard -- just Jacy, Dad and I playing a friendly game of Tag. We didn't really have rules in our game of Tag. Jacy and I were on one team and Dad was on the other. Really, the only time we couldn't "tag" someone is when they were sleeping because that was unfair.
The game was fairly harmless for Dad and Jacy. Not so much for Jessica. One time, I went to tag Dad in the living room. I had so much momentum going that I completely missed him and jammed my thumb into the floor. I passed out for minutes. The same incident happened out by our sandbox, too. I chased Dad around the sandbox to tag him, I fell off the sandbox, I reached out to tag him, I missed him and jammed my thumb on the ground. Out cold. Another time, when we were playing in the front yard, I tripped over my own fat feet and took a tumble, causing a chronic scraped-up knee. (Seriously, my clumsiness caused it to never quite heal. Red Rover, marching band, volleyball -- all things that caused my knee to be a bloody, oozing mess for years. Hot.)
Despite the injuries, we have kept our game of Tag going for almost 20 years. I'm sure that has to be a World Record of some sort. Everytime Jacy and I come home, we can expect to be knocked upside the head, jabbed in the arm, kicked -- really, whatever it takes for Dad to make sure "we're it."
Okay, so my family may be a little different. I mean, who comes up with a neverending game of Tag? But I love 'em and couldn't ask for better parents. I'm happy they didn't get divorced. Happy (almost) Father's Day, Papa Schwag! Thanks for teaching me everything I know about the most random shit in the world. Love you.
Jacy and I are making an epic trip back to Nebraska in three weeks. Let the games begin, Dad. TAG, YOU'RE IT!
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Jacy and I have officially been in Oklahoma for four months now and I've officially been away from Nebraska for almost a year. Who'd of thunk I'd make a grand tour of the Bible Belt in less than 12 months? I shall note here that I am still a registered Democrat; however, I do enjoy the hundreds of pro-life signs on my drives back to Nebraska. (Mainly, I just use them to pass boredom. I like to count them like I used to count windmills when I was younger.) I am also looking into joining the NRA. Guns, guns, for everyone!
Jacy and I are definitely not the same two girls who left the Cornhusker state. We're much more mature. Case in point: Jacy has unofficially changed her name to "Jae," which is her professional hairstylist name. And I now go by Jes (with one "s") because I was getting sick of having gender identity issues caused by the spelling of "Jess." Rest assured, faithful readers, we will NOT be changing our website to jesandjae.blogspot.com. It doesn't flow off the tongue quite as well. And I'd rather not drop our blog's readership from two people a day down to one person a day....
In our quest to become more mature, Jae and I decided that this was a great time to take on the responsibility of a pet. Our apartment complex doesn't allow pets, so I told Jacy "Oh, hell naw" when she asked if we could get dogs, cats, pigs, mini giraffes, penguins, etc. But, for some reason or another, I really liked her idea of getting rats. I once heard they were loving, affectionate creatures. Plus, they were much easier to clean up after than boyfriends. AND if our landlord caught us with the rats, we could essentially turn the situation around and blame her. "Well, our apartment had a rat infestation, so we felt the only way to control it was to take them in as pets." If she didn't believe us and eviction was threatened, we could just take the easy way out and give them to our friends with snakes.... (gah-ross).
Everyone, meet Blanche.....
Jacy and I are really great about naming our pets racially-obvious names. When we were younger, Jacy had a white rabbit named Ivory and I had a black rabbit named Ebony. When Jacy got a Chihuahua, we didn't have a hard time picking out the name "Cholo." (Thank you, Down aka Kilo for one of the best songs ever written, "Lean Like A Cholo.") Times still haven't changed. I named my white rat "Blanche" after everyone's favorite Southern belle, Blanche Devereaux on The Golden Girls (Caucausian slut). And Jacy named her black rat "Harriet" after Harriet Tubman (African-American abolitionist). Jacy is really into history. I'm really into 1980s sitcoms. We felt like these were very strong and very appropriate Southern names.
Choosing Harriet and Blanche was no easy task. We went to Petco to find them. There were three cages containing rats. The cages didn't indicate what breed of rat was inside, rather they were just labeled "small," "medium," and "large." We thought the labels had something to do with how big the rats were going to get. Come to find out, they were labeled based on the size of the snake that would be eating them. Small rats were for small snakes, large rats were for large snakes. I absolutely despise snakes. I typically go out of my way to kill snakes with lawn mowers, ice picks, machetes, etc. I immediately wanted to save all of the rats. (Kind of like the time I wanted to rescue all of the puppies from puppy mills after taking that stinkin' animal welfare class in college...)
Unfortunately, because we really aren't supposed to have pets at all inside of our apartment, Jae and I could only take home two rats. Jae wanted a "large" one. I didn't. They were far too creepy for me. You've seen "Willard," right? The idea of our rats eating our faces off was unsettling. I had to ease into the rodent thing. So, I convinced her to get a "medium" one and I got the lonely "small" one. (Getting smaller ones really hasn't lessened my fear. Everytime I hear the dang rats stirring during the night, I'm convinced they're bee-lining for my bedroom to begin chomping on my fingers off while I sleep.)
Jae tried to warn me that I should get one of the medium rats because rats were much more social when they were living with other rats, but I was willing to take on the challenge of Blanche. She was so tiny and white and perfect and LONELY. Not to mention, she was inevitably the next rat up for a small snake date. There was no other option. I HAD to take her home with me.
I should have listened to Jacy. Blanche is scared of everything. Oh, yeah, and she has a major problem. She can't control her freaking bowels. I have never been shit on more in my life...and I'm a middle child! (woe is me, woe is me.) Naturally, Jacy's rat is awesome. She perches on her shoulder and cuddles and doesn't poop on Jacy's clothing/floor/hands/carpet. Go figure. Jacy's good at everything, even raising rats (insert more middle child whining here).
If anyone has any great rat-raising tips, I'd love to hear them. I just want to know how to teach my rat to not poop. I'm reallllyyyy far behind on the rat training thing. Jacy's already working on sit, shake, and bang. Also, if you make rat clothing, please let me know. Or little wooden rat spatulas.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Mother's Day is just around the corner and my hometown's local radio station offered a Mother's Day contest this week. There are so many wonderful moms in our little community, so I didn't know if my mama would be able to pull off the victory. (Well, in my heart of hearts I knew she would because she is just that awesome!) In order to nominate her, I had to write a short essay on why she's the "best, most deserving mom of all." I knew instantly what I would write. I thought I'd post it on zee ol' blog for all to enjoy. I only wish my words could give her more justice.
When I think of my mother, Jan Schwager, three words automatically come to mind: courage, strength and love.
My mother’s courage began in 1972, when she moved to Chambers to begin her career as a school teacher. My mom grew up in Elkhorn, so moving to Chambers seemed completely irrational to her friends and family back in Southeast Nebraska. After a couple of miserable years of living in a one-bedroom trailer in Chambers (not that Chambers isn’t the greatest place in the world!), my mom met a smooth-talkin’ country boy, who swept her off of her feet – my father, Gene.
My parents got married in 1975 and had their first daughter, Gina, in 1977. In 1979, my parents had a son, Jeff, and my mom took off work to raise her family. However, my parents were struck with terrible tragedy in their newlywed stage. In 1983, my mother’s father died of a heart attack at a very young age. Then, just a year later, my parents lost their only son in a tragic snowmobile accident.
The death of a child often tears families apart, but my mother’s strength and courage held my family together through even the darkest times. My mother went back to work, helped provide for her family, and put a smile on her face despite the pain. After all, she had a young daughter and a grieving husband to take care of.
Just three short years after my brother’s death, my parents had two more daughters – me and my sister, Jacy. Despite having two young daughters, my mom never lost sight of her career goals and decided to take classes the University of Nebraska at Kearney to complete her Master’s degree. Upon completion, my mom became the guidance counselor at Chambers.
My mom wears many hats at Chambers – English teacher, geography teacher, guidance counselor. She even teaches college-credit classes through Northeast Community College at 7 a.m. every other day. Oh – not to mention – she is one of the school’s administrators. But her passion for teaching has never, EVER prevented her from being a tremendous mother. Even after a long day at work, my mom would have time to cook supper, clean the house and help my sister and me with our homework. Somehow she even attended every single athletic event my sisters and I participated in – and those bleachers aren’t comfortable!
Even though I’ve been far away from home for nearly six years, my mom’s love has never wavered. I always look forward to my daily chat with her. She understands my busy lifestyle, so she even learned how to text, Facebook, Skype and Twitter to keep our family connected at all times.
There is so much more I wish I could say about my mother. And, there is so much more I wish I could give back to my mother for all of the courage, strength and love she has provided to my family. I hope by winning KBRX’s Mother’s Day gift basket, my mother would finally see how amazing she is. I only hope to someday be half the mother my mother has been.
Thank you, Mama Schwag, for always being my light, guidance, and friend. And, perhaps, for giving me one of my greatest gifts --- my words. Happy Mother's Day, Mama Schwag! I love you!
Monday, April 11, 2011
I guess there's some good that has come out of my travels....
1. On a more serious note, I've figured out some shiz in my personal life and now I'm 200 percent ready to move forward with my amazing Oklahoma life.
2. I've come to the realization that I completely and irrevocably despise the state of Kansas.
I've spent more than 32 hours on the road, with about 20 of those hours spent driving through Kansas. Those 20 hours were the most miserable hours of my entire life. The first trip wasn't completely terrible. Jacy was with me and we were still getting along in Kansas. (We started bitching at each other about 20 miles into Nebraska.) But my second trip was how I imagine driving through the seventh circle of Hell would be like...I now know where Dante Alighieri gained inspiration for the Inferno.
For some reason, the Kansas government found it necessary to conduct controlled burns throughout the entire state to "green up the grass." It's not just an acre of controlled burning here and there, OH NOOO, it's 100s and 100s of miles of controlled burning. And I'm not even sure it was that "controlled." I didn't see one fireman containing the burn. There were times that the fire was hopping onto the highway. Sure, I smoke cigarettes every once in a while, but I'm pretty sure that an hour of driving through Kansas has increased my chances of lung cancer even more than smoking.
As if smelling like a bonfire wasn't bad enough, I couldn't even place any calls to keep my mind off of the desolate, charbroiled land. Yeah, zero US Cellular reception in the middle of Kansas. Oh, and did I mention that my GPS got me lost? Only because it lost reception, too. Probably because its signal couldn't zoom past the clouds of smoke (is that what signal does? zoom? I'd like to think so.) My rat bastard GPS died for a while and then came back on, only to instruct me to drive up a two-lane highway at 60 miles per hour. Somehow it made me miss the sign for the interstate (...not my fault at all...). Luckily, I got behind a car with Oklahoma license plates who felt the need to escape Kansas as bad as I did. Unluckily, some idiot with the Kansas Department of Roads thought rumble bars ALL OVER THE ROAD were a good idea. Everytime me and my fellow Okie went to pass the slow-moving vehicles, we'd almost get jiggled to death by the rumble bars (which ran down the center freaking line for miles and miles).
I guess there was one saving grace in Kansas: there were no cliffs to drive off of. Because, after about 100 miles of blackened tumbleweeds, I really may have driven my car off a cliff.
But hey, I had a fantastic trip in Nebraska once I made it there. Slept in a Motel 6 (not a great experience), drank Bloody Marys at Wheatfields (great experience), ate my body weight in Runza (STELLAR EXPERIENCE), caught up with my best friends (an even better experience!) and prayed to the porcelain gods (not a great experience at the time. However, as I reflect back on the weekend, I've realized it was just a symbol of the freaking awesome time I had).
I'll try not to make it a month again, folks.
Peace. Love. Stay out of Kansas.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
I took my last bites of human food last night with a 3 a.m. McDonald's run. Five hours later, I woke up and took my first bites of baby poop (i.e. Medifast's maple and brown sugar oatmeal). They don't call it Medi-FAST for nothing. A bowl of oatmeal here, a weightloss shake there - ayiyiyiiiiii - I'm going to need a lot of strength to get me through this one. Basically, the plan is to eat six times a day. I'll eat five "meals" that Medifast supplies to me and then I eat one Lean and Green meal that I prepare on my own. Today, I prepared chicken on my George Foreman and then ate a few cups of salad with low-fat dressing.
Do you know how hard it is to diet when someone else in the house is eating real food? At noon, Jacy knocked down some Mac and Cheese, at 4 p.m., she inhaled some sushi, and at the movies tonight she ate an entire box of milk duds. I have to confess, I did eat some edamame at the sushi joint, but I didn't think that was TOO bad considering the dreadful circumstances.
I've hit a plateau that I just can't seem to shake, so I'm going to try this crap for a couple of weeks and see how I do. I'll be sure keep y'all updated. Honestly, my posts could get reallllll interesting the next two weeks. Have you ever seen a Schwager deprived of food?? We're like rabid dogs. I'm sure I'll do something completely insane that I'll have to blog about. Stay tuned.....
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
I had a goal in mind when I started (which I'm about 40 pounds away from), but really it's just become a great journey for me. I've realized the importance of a healthy lifestyle instead of just focusing on a number. Sure, I get off track every once in a while, but I'm not secretly binging on fast food in my car. The biggest, most helpful thing to ask myself everytime I shove something in my mouth is, "Would I eat this in front of Ryan Lochte/Josh Hartnett/Jillian Michaels/Bob Harper?" If the answer is "Aw, hell no," then generally I put it down. Sometimes when I'm out to eat with friends I'll still indulge, but I'm not eating an entire plate of shit food. Instead, I'm just having a few bites of shit food and then I'll go back to my regularly scheduled program.
I'm also not being a giant lump of lard who never works out. You know those people who NEVER work out and still remain thin as a rail? (ahem, my BF Maggie...jerk). Yeah, well I'm not one of those people. The gym is my frienemy. But recently the gym has become my bestest friend in the whole wide world....thanks to one delectable gentleman.
Folks, I have this humungo, gigantuano crush on a boy at my gym. (Yes, after contracting Bieber Fever, I now call grown men "boys" and have begun using the word, "crush," to define my feelings for boys.) But really, a "crush" is the only way to describe it.
You know how when you were in ninth grade and you had a "crush" on the hot senior who dated the hottest girl in school? Yeah, that's what's happening here. I feel very Molly Ringwald in 16 Candles. Every time I go to the gym, I find find myself pouding it out twice as hard on the dreadmill just to show him how much of a beast I am. Fortunately for me, he somehow always manages to park his cute behind on the treadmill right beside me. Unfortunately for him, I kick his ASS every time. He runs 6 mph, I bump it to 8. He's at 6 percent incline, I put mine at 12. I kick ass so hard that I almost feel like roaring after my workout. Sadly there is one major downfall to my beast-dom....
I am the sweatiest mo' fo' on the planet.
Dude, I don't even drink my recommended 8-10 glasses of water every day and I still manage to ooze. I swear to you, if you put a 5-gallon bucket by my dreadmill, it'd be at least half full by the time I'm done.
Can you see my dilemma here? How disgusting must I look after my workouts? I try to wear colors like black or navy blue while I work out, but it's tough to hide my hair from looking like I just stepped out of the shower.
I'll be honest with you, this guy isn't even out of my league. I'd probably have a shot with this guy in a bar setting. But how the hell can he find me the least bit attractive when I look like I just ran 10 miles with a two-ton hippo riding me piggy back? It's impossible. Jacy keeps saying, "Ohhh, just make eye contact with him and then give him a smile." Yeah, Jace, I totally would if sweat didn't run down past my eyebrows and block my contacts so bad. Who doesn't love a chick who looks like she just got done seizing/sobbing uncontrollably/fighting off pink eye?
But in all honestly, I'm hoping he'll look past my sweatiness and see my inner badass. I mean, what other girl does 100 squats with 25 lb dumbells in each hand? And really, in the end, this whole "being healthy" business is about ME, not some cute guy with big arms and a nice tan.
But damn, watching him in the gym sure helps me on my journey.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
All-in-all, I really hate this techy generation. (Ha! Like I should talk. I graduated from high school 5 1/2 years go.) But they have one thing that I am completely envious of......
JUSTIN BIEBER <3
*(Yes, I just put a heart after his name. He makes me swoon. It's the Fever.)
I was first introduced to Justin Bieber about a year ago on Chelsea Lately. I had heard his songs on the radio prior to his interview with Chelsea Handler, but honestly wasn't a huge fan. To me, he sounded like any other wannabe pop singer. And believe me, we already had too many wannabe pop singers roaming around. It wasn't until I witnessed his dazzling personality on E! that I fell in love with a boy half my age. He smiled, I smiled. And it wasn't just me either. I could tell Chelsea Handler had an adorable little crush on the adorable little boy as well. At that moment, I started paying attention to the prepubescent, shaggy blonde-haired boy and got giddy everytime "One Time" played on the radio.
A couple of months ago, I saw a commercial for Justin Bieber's movie, "Never Say Never," and made a vow to see the flick as soon as it came out. This was very unlike me. I HATE when young stars create anything autobiographical. I was a faithful Miley Cyrus fan until she came out with her book, "Miles To Go." And Lauren Conrad? Yup, she flew off my radar when she semi-wrote "L.A. Candy." But there was something so endearing about Justin Bieber. He never asked for the attention. He was an innocent bystander in his rise to the top. I didn't know much about him, so I was anxious to learn more in his documentary.
I was delighted when my friend, Kylie, texted me to see if I wanted to go to his movie with her last night.
I believe I replied with an eye roll and an, "UM, DUHHHHH."*
*(The Fever also has me using teenage lingo. One of the many side effects.)
Yesterday morning, I honored my vow by purchasing two tickets to "Never Say Never" on its opening night. About an hour after my glorious purchase, I heard one of my coworkers say, "What am I doing tonight? Well, I have to drop my three daughters (all under the age of 13) off at the theater to see that Justin Bieber movie...hahaha, yeahhh, we had to order tickets last night....the lines are supposed to be huge....all of my daughters' friends are going....oh yeah, they call it Bieber Fever."
I wasn't about to let a bunch of raging teenage girls scare me. Aw, heck no! I was going to this movie. And I had Cougartown and Demi Moore to thank. Persistence is key in stalking young prey. After all, Demi Moore beat out lots of younger women to become Ashton Kutcher's wifey. I will NEVER SAY NEVER.
So Kylie, Kylie's mom (Sheila), and I punched our tickets to the movie. It was the best decision of our lives.
The movie was amazing. I really have no words. The Biebs is freaking talented. He really isn't some wannabe pop star. He has real talent. The kid taught himself how to sing, dance, drum and play guitar. Not to mention he is charming and has the best smile (and hair) in the whole world. And he doesn't have looney toon parents like teen starts before him (think Lindsay Lohan's parents or Jessica Simpson's dad). He is the complete package.
As I was sitting in the theater last night, clapping along to the songs in his concert, watching all of the little girls get out of their seat and dance, I realized how utterly jealous I was of all of them. They could outwardly stalk Justin Bieber and not get arrested. They could weep when they saw him on screen and wouldn't get weird looks from adult strangers. I was born in the wrong era.
The only band I could worship was 'N SYNC and they didn't last long. Wellll, Justin Timberlake did A-OK for himself, but I was a JC Chasez fan. (And if you were a JC fan, you were NOT a Justin fan and vice versa.) I even wrote JC a letter once expressing how much it would mean to me if he came to my sister's wedding and performed. Did I hear anything back? NOPE. Justin Bieber would never leave his fans hanging. EVER. He loves his fans.
Other than 'N SYNC, I had weird, WEIRD taste in music. I loved Bette Midler, Cher, Semisonic, Sugar Ray and the Spice Girls (my musical taste was not unlike young, gay boys at the time). As for hot young boys to fantasize about? I did have the beautiful and talented JOSH HARTNETT. I plastered my closet door in his pictures. I wept when he died at the end of Pearl Harbor. I wrote him fan letters. I attempted to stalk him on an FCCLA trip to Minneapolis. No luck. Today's teenage girls have Twitter and Facebook to track Justin Bieber's location. I had NOTHING.
Let me reiterate my first statement...I would give my left foot to be a teenage girl right about now. Seriously, go see "Never Say Never" and you will understand why. Justin Bieber is a phenomenon and he's not going anywhere for a very long while. So I say you should just accept him into your lives and get down with the Bieber Fever. (Best illness I've ever had.)
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Back in the day, when I had been looking at OU as my future college, I remember someone telling me that I wouldn't like it here because of the "tarantulas the size of Volvos that roamed the highways." I am happy to report that I have yet to see a tarantula. Well, except for ones I just now saw when I Googled the word "tarantula" to figure out how to spell the word, "tarantula." Yikes. The first words to appear in my my Google box were "Tarantulas in Oklahoma." Naturally, it took me to a Wikipedia page describing and showing the many brown tarantualas in Oklahoma (luckily, brown Oklahoman turantulas are the best kind to have as pets...good to know...). Shit, now my ears are ringing all weird and itchy. Oh, and I also have major goosebumps because I'm thoroughly convinced that there is one crawling on the wall behind me. Should I look?...........Okay, I just looked and, again, I have yet to report a sighting.
One thing I have been dying to see is the species best known as the "Rednecks." I was lucky and got my Redneck experience out of the way early when I went to pick up my Cox digital cable router this afternoon. Two steps into the place and I felt like I was time-warped to 1987 when mullets were a hit (or was it 1972 when Grandma Glasses were in style? Orrrr it definitely could have been 1960s England when not brushing one's teeth was a fad). Any way I look at it, I was warped into the time of Redneck. And it was awesome. Thick Southern drawls, flannel, buck teeth, greasy hair, plastic glasses and a delightful Cougar with teal eyeliner. I certainly picked the right day to get my router.
I don't mean to judge or even be mean because, well, I am pure trailor trash. Ummmm....Hello Pot? This is Kettle. I'm calling you black. But I can tell you that none of my posse (i.e. family members) ever had a mullet as awesome as the guy's in front of me. But perhaps my favorite Redneck was the lady who came in a few minutes after I stepped in line. She had on tight leggings, an even tighter black Goodwill t-shirt and ol' school Nike tennis. Her hair barely avoided the ceiling and I really couldn't tell where her eyes ended and her eyeliner began. I pegged her for a Cougar the moment I laid eyes on her. I then confirmed it when she spoke to me.
"See that kid behind the counter? Isn't he just a dolllllll? God bless his little heart. I love his beard. Don't you love his beard."
Uh, yeah, lady. I love his peach fuzz. He's freaking 12.
Speaking of 12-year-olds (and this may sound creepy), I LOVE going to Walmart/Target because of all of the little Southern boys and girls. Have you HEARD a Southern child with a Southern accent? BLESS THEIR FREAKING HEARTS. I could adopt 10 of them. Seriously though, it is my quest now to find a husband with the thickest Southern drawl I've ever heard so he can make sure our kids have at least 3/4ths of his accent. Some kid in Target tonight kept shouting "Poo-poo face butt, poo-poo face butt," but the sing-songy drawl in which he was enunciating his words with made the phrase sound like butter.
I could get used to this Southern lifestyle. Rednecks, Southern children and fuzzy spiders. My kind of living.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
However, I have two brief comment.
1) I love this season already. No BS! Brad took note of the drama happening in the house and eliminated it immediately.
2) Um...how horrible was the makeout session between Brad and that girl at the carnival? Wow. Suckfest. It made me uncomfortable. She tried to eat off his lips.
Anywho...I have lots to do today and blogging isn't on the top of my list. Peace.
Monday, January 3, 2011
I'm an avid Bachelor lover. I watched the first few seasons, but unfortunately steered away in high school because my Monday nights were far better spent being lame. Luckily, I stopped being a piece of trash and tuned back in around the time Brad Womack ditched DeAnna Pappas and decided to fly solo.
Missed the past 615 seasons of The Bachelor? Let me catch you up!
So here's the scoop on the recent seasons I've seen (hold on tight): After DeAnna was torn up about the Brad thing, she decided to become the Bachelorette. I was enthusiastic about DeAnna. She was cute and seemed sensible and stable. But then she pulled one over my eyes when she duped Jason for a snowboarder guy named Jesse. But snowboarder guy didn't work out and then she ended up marrying a hot twin from another season.
I was just going to turn ABC off on Monday nights after being so disappointed in DeAnna, but then I got sucked in by hot Jason and his adorable son, Ty. Jason went on to pick my favorite gal, Melissa (yayyy!), only to break Melissa's heart in the "After the Final Rose" segment and re-pick ol' whatserface with the bad eye makeup (Molly). But everything turned out okay because America got to watch Melissa shake her groove thing on Dancing With the Stars.
Back to the Bachelor. So the third-girl out, Jillian (in Jason's season) had her own Bachelorette where she chose that Ed guy over many charming guys, including a hot pilot from Dallas named Jake. Jake was sad and had a dramatic cry over a hotel balcony. ABC decided to make him the next Bachelor because, honestly, that scene with him and the balcony surely drew more viewers. Jake's season really sucked. Like ABC probably should have discontinued the show. Jake had a whole slough of girls to choose from and he picked a gold-digging ho-bag over a bunch of really nice girls, including one Ali Fedowsky (okay, technically this isn't true because Ali actually quit Jake's season to continue to pursue her career in marketing). Ali was cute and blonde, and also very sad that she chose a career over love, so she naturally became the next Bachelorette (last season).
Ali chose hot Latin baseball player Roberto and they're still together. ABC wanted to get runner-up Chris Lambton on this season's edition, but unfortunately, Chris decided against doing The Bachelor because he was REALLY freaked out by the publicity (and more notably, the fan mail that crazy chicks were sending him).
So, ABC ran out of options and approached two-timer Brad Womack as this season's Bachelor. He's really quite gorgeous though, so I'm okay with it. Oh, and did I mention his cute Austin drawl? I'm a sucker for Southern accents.
Tonight was the first episode of the season and I'm surprisingly okay with how everything turned out. Not too many weirdos. There was one perfectly normal gal who liked to wear vampire fangs at night (Madison). She was cute - minus the True Blood fetish. Brad really surprised me with his decision to give her a rose, but I guess he found her really sexy and "cool." I'm scared to death of real life vampires and, in the off shot she REALLY was one, I would have kicked her to the curb. Unless she looked like Robert Pattinson. Ooo or that Cam Gigadet guy. HOT.
I really liked a girl named Emily. She lost her husband in a plane accident in 2004. A week after burying the poor fellow, she discovered she was preggers with his baby. DRAMA! GASP! Um, hello Lifetime movie! She deserves a second shot at love for sure. And she got it this week with a dazzling rose.
Other than Emily, I haven't really formed many opinions of the other girls. Give me another week. I do know that Brad is optimistic about love though. He even had his psychologist testify on national TV how he is no longer scared of commitment (Um...doesn't that go against some sort of HIPPA law? Who knows.)
My predictions, you ask? Well, I watched the previews and am fairly certain Brad gets ditched in the end. Or one of the girls gets eaten by a lion in Africa. Either way I saw a lot of tears coming out of Brad's eyes. I'm also fairly certain Seal is going sing "Kiss From a Rose" live for one of the one-on-one dates. Ooo, okay, here is my official final prediction: The girl that Brad's in love with decides to run away with Seal. Then Heidi Klum will naturally become our next Bachelorette.
Anyway, those are my thoughts on the first episode of The Bachelor: Season 15. Shoot me your thoughts!
Flashback to last season when Jacy and I decided to do our rendition of Ali vs. Kasey. Click Here.