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!

Home Is Where The Ghosts Live (and other dislikes)

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.

Bad Day

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.

Nugget #2:

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.

Tag. You're it!

You've played that game, right? I played it all the time when I was growing up. You know -- the one where you'd choose which parent you'd live with if they got divorced. (I always played this game in my head of course. I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.)

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!

Oh, Rats!

This blog is dedicated to Katie B. Now...GET OFF MY ASS! Just kidding, friend. Thanks for reading. I'll blog more often, I promise. Miss you! :)

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.....



And Harriet....



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.