Faithbook

I was first invited to join Facebook during July of 2005 – right as I transitioned from high school into college. My friend, K, and I were messaging each other on MSN and she sent me a link to join Facebook. At first, I questioned her intentions.

“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 not jaded and dead inside, really."

I stumbled upon this blog post earlier today and I had to share it.

http://www.xojane.com/relationships/wedding-planning-non-romantic?utm_medium=facebook

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.

Daddy's Hands

I absolutely had to share this with all JessandJacy readers. If you're a girl and you had the best dad in the entire world, then please read with a tissue in your hand.

http://www.fromdatestodiapers.com/50-rules-for-dads-of-daughters

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.

#40: She might ask you to buy her a pony on her birthday. Unless you live on a farm, do not buy her a pony on her birthday. It’s OK to rent one though.

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!

This Christmas, Become A Belieber

Great news for Beliebers out there! Justin Bieber released his new Christmas single, "Under the Mistletoe," yesterday. Here's a link to the song via gossipcop.com:

http://www.gossipcop.com/justin-bieber-mistletoe-listen-full-song-audio/

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.

-Jessica


Seeing is beliebing.

No Handlebars, No Handlebars…

I think I did something really stupid. Actually, take that back, I know I did something really stupid.

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.

Swagger's Tricky

In honor of our return to Nebraska in a couple of weeks, we made this video. We need lives...

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.

Jesus Loves Me And My Tattoos

I have a constant itch for a new tattoo. There's a pit in my stomach that won't go away. Every time I run my fingers any one of my tattoos, I think, "Man, I regret getting this tattoo. I really wish I would have gotten something even bigger." I'm not sure why I like tattoos so much. Maybe it's the pain, maybe it's the badassyness of it all, maybe it's the meaning. Whatever it is, I won't stop until I get a full freaking sleeve. (Just kidding Mom...)

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 dollars."

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!