For the eighth time (combined) in the past year, Jacy and I packed up our belongings and moved yet again. This time is different though. This time, we moved into a lovely little house on the east side of town. How is this different than the past eight places we’ve lived? You see, this time the house comes with a dude. Not just any dude either. This dude is a college athlete. This dude has muscles. This dude can protect us from intruders. Although this dude has a girlfriend who we love and adore, we have set some ground rules for the man of the house. 1) Thou shalt not wear t-shirts in the house.
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.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Jacy and I got to talking today about our blog and how we hardly ever post anymore. And by "we," I mean me. Why don't I post anymore? I think it's because I need to have some epic story idea in order to blog (it's the journalist in me). However, Jacy doesn't feel like that's the case at all. She thinks I should post little nuggets instead. So that's what I'm doing tonight....
Last night's nugget:
This is Jacy. Jacy is "tired." Jacy is not passed out at all. When I accused Jacy of being passed out, she yelled at me and said I was being "goofy." However, this picture was taken right before she asked me to make a drunk run through McDonald's to get her a "Number 1 with a Bertrand Burger and a side of Chambers."Bertrand and Chambers are both towns in Nebraska. Evidently, her drunk self is really homesick for Bertrand (a place we've never been) and Chambers (a place that we were just at). Let me just tell you how awkward it was for me to run through Mickey Dees with Jacy in this state. The guy at the drive-thru window winked at me and said, "Good night, huh?" Yeah, maybe for you sir. You don't have to deal with drunk Jacy.
Please take a good, hard look at my pupils in this photo. So after I made sure Jacy was nice and passed out in a good place (errr... I mean after I tucked sleeping beauty in bed), I woke up in the middle of the night with an excruciating pain in my left eye. I had NO IDEA what could have caused the pain. Surely it wasn't because I hadn't taken my contacts out for 3 months, right? NO WAY. I decided to be smart about the issue and take my contacts out, squirt some eye drops in my eye, and go back to bed. However, at about 7 a.m., I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I forced hungover Jacy to take me to the eye doctor. Let's just say that Dr. Scott Mendell of Norman Eye Care is my hero (Does this plug get me a discount on my next pair of glasses, Doc?). He rolled out of bed on his day off and opened up his shop to deal with my dumb, non-contact-taking-outing ass. He even had to drive to Tulsa today for a Bachelor party. I've seen The Hangover. I know what goes down at those things. He dilated my one pupil (to minimize pain), gave me some eye drops, and sent me on my way. It's 10 p.m. on a Saturday and my left pupil is still blown up like I've been doing coke on just my left side. I've never done coke, but I've seen enough movies to know what it does to a person's eyes. Anyway, Jacy has been laughing at me all day and calling me "Mad Eye Jessica." What a treat!
Nugget numero tres:
I didn't really think a day where my eyeball got torn to shreds by a contact lens could get much worse, but it did. I decided to be semi-responsible on my Saturday afternoon, so I did a little laundry. Um, yeah, I failed to look in the laundry machine before I put my clothes in it. Who'da thunk that someone would have placed a paper grocery bag in the machine? (Really though, why would a paper bag be in our washer? I don't understand...) Evidently, paper bags don't make it through the machine as well as, say, clothing. I spent a good 10 minutes trying to peel paper bag off of my clothes until Jacy suggested I throw them in the drier so the lint catcher would sort out the paper shreds. Here's what the giant mass looked like -- kind of rats nest like, huh? And I know a thing or two about rats nests. (Well, not anymore. Blanche and Harriet decided to take a vacation.) My clothes are currently being processed again.
Wow, those little nuggets turned into an entire 4,000-word blog. My bad. I guess I need some nugget practice. Hey, at least my day has gotten better. I'm sitting on the couch - blogging - and watching Jacy go through our old home movies (not THOSE kind of movies). Love me some really fat and ugly Jessica and Jacy. I refuse to ever give my kids a video camera.