Hey Lola

More Excellent Life Coaching Advice by A Professional Expert on Life Coaching About Life

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 25 May 2012 04:48:00 +0000

How to do Exactly the Opposite of What Everyone Expects and Have a Better Life,

by Jessica Benassi

Professional Life Coach and Expert on Figuring Stuff out about Life

Step 1:
Get a job that you're really good at. Throw yourself into it. Excel. Love it. Love it so much you want to marry it.

Step 2:
Start bringing your work home. Spread it all over your bed, and wake up with paperclips up your nose.

Step 3:
Start dreaming about work while you sleep. Wake up in the middle of the night screaming about wedding cakes.

Step 4:
Without noticing, completely lose your sense of humor.

Step 5:
Only have time to eat Doritos and orange pop. Start to turn orange.

Step 6:
Come home one night and introduce yourself to the weird guy in your living room and his 4 dogs.

Step 7:
Develop a rather obvious twitch in your eye.

Step 8:
Consider a career change. Watch an episode of "Animal Hoarders" and think "I could do that."

Step 9:
Decide to quit your awesome job in exchange for a career in waiting tables, blogging, painting pictures, selling stuff you make, working at the bar you own and hanging out with that weird guy and his 4 dogs.

Step 10:
Put on your unicorn shirt, because life just got awesome.

The moral to this story is that you should keep your feet on the ground and your head in your dreams, unless Freddy Krueger shows up, in which case you should run away really fast and maybe think about becoming an accountant or something safe like that.

Also, don't be afraid to quit your grown up job in favor of having a life. Having a life is nice, even if you don't have as much money. Or any money.

Also, can I have a dollar?

Bunions are funions except no they're not and apparently creepy feet creep people out.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 04:45:00 +0000

Most people who know me know that I have ugly feet. Not because they've seen them - my feet are so ugly that I generally don't let them see the light. Most people know my feet are ugly because I've told them and someone who has been unfortunate enough to have actually seen them has served as a witness. Yes. Yes, she has the ugliest feet ever.

Anyway, about a month ago my left foot started to hurt. Always. No matter what. Throbbing, painful, left foot. I almost became a doctor when I was in college, so I knew just what to do. I googled it.

Me: I googled my foot and guess what?!?
James: You have bunions.
Me: Yeah, but guess what else?!?
James: I give up.
Me: I have bursitis!
James: No you don't.
Me: I do. I have bursitis and I'm going to the foot doctor tomorrow and they're probably going to give me a cane and I'M LIKE MY OWN FREAKING EPISODE OF "HOUSE" RIGHT NOW!
James: You don't have bursitis.
Me: You're so jealous ...

Anyway, I went to the doctor and told them about my bursitis and asked them for a cane so I could be my own episode of "House" but they said no and instead, they chopped up my foot while I was sleeping:

I'm sorry about this creepy picture of my creepy foot, but look at it this way: at least it's not your creepy foot.

My bunion and I had actually become friends. I named him "Kuato" and sometimes, when I was falling asleep, I could hear him underneath the covers whispering ,"Quaaaaaaid......Quaaaaaaid." So, you know, I was sad that we had to murder him. However, I'm pretty pleased with Frankenfoot so far...

...except for the part about the crutches.

So...I got my crutches and I was all, "Meh...crutches, smutches...who needs two feet? I'm like a ninja anyway. I'll be vaulting over brick walls and using these as weapons before you can blink"...

And then I tried my crutches and it turns out I'm terrible on them. Like - really bad. I just keep tripping over stuff and falling on stuff and losing my balance. Also, when your hands are all pre-occupied trying to work your crutches, then they become pretty much useless, too. So basically, surgery on your foot = no hands and only one good foot, and it's only a good foot if it doesn't try and trip you all of the time...which mine does....so basically, I'm just a torso on stilts right now.

Showering is dangerous and I can only shower while someone else is in the house with me, because chances are pretty good that I will fall and break something....like myself. This week our local cell phone tower went down, so I can't call anyone...including my husband to find out when he will be home so I can shower safely. I also can't work from home, which was the plan for this week, but no longer works when you don't have access to a phone.

Stairs have taken me out three times so far.

I don't think stairs are done with me yet.

My nerves are a little frazzled.

On the way to my doctor's appointment today, I heard a song that I decided was about putting your dog to sleep and started crying hysterically.

It was a CD and I immediately ejected it and threw it out the window.

And by "threw it out the window", I mean I hit repeat. All the way to the doctor's office, because ...

...I have no idea why, I'm like a crazy person these days.

Did I mention that I hadn't showered?

Did I mention that I'm allergic to everything? It's true. Including the sticky stuff that's on the heart monitors that they use when you go in for surgery to have your foot mutilated.

My entire torso looks like chicken pox. Chicken pox torso on stilts.

Also, I get really blotchy when I get emotional and I fidget with my hair.

Smelly chicken pox torso on stilts with a bird's nest head.

By the time I walked into the reception area at the doctor's office, I was this:

It's my turn to see the doctor.

Anyway, my point is this: The doctor may be able to take your Kuato and your bursitis and your imaginary cane and your freedom but as long as he gives you some rather strong pain pills then I love you...and cake...and flying bunnies...and puppies...look!

...the clouds are shaped like my toes...

...happy toes...

...like clouds....not clowns...

....I like wafffles....

Why Jesus is Jesus and James is not.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 03:01:00 +0000

Me: If I was Jesus, I think I would be mad at people who gave up facebook for Lent. Well, maybe not mad. Maybe sad. Aren't you supposed to give up beef or something?
James: I'm not sure. I think it's food of some sort.
Me: Yeah. If people gave up facebook instead of food for Lent and I was Jesus, I'd be all, "come on, man! Are you serious?" and I'd probably be weeping and stuff...
James: Not me. If I were Jesus, I'd be so pissed off at everyone. I'd delete everyone's facebook and smite them. With explosions.

James: That's probably another reason that I wouldn't make a very good Jesus.
Me: Yeah, 'cause you'd just be mad all of the time about Lent and blowing stuff up.
James: Yeah, and there would be owls everywhere.
Me: What?
James: Yeah, every tree filled with hundreds of owls, all "who cooks for you? hoo!hoo!HOO! HOO! WHOCOOKSFORYOOOOOOOOOOU!" *
Me: You can't have hundreds of owls in every tree. They'll start dying.
James: Um...no. Not if they're magic Jesus owls.
Me: Magic Jesus owls? Are you serious?
James: Uh-huh. I'd make them in my own image.
Me: So if you're Jesus, you're just going to fill the world with a bunch of owls that look like you...?
James: Yep. And blow up people's facebook accounts.
Me: You're right. You'd make a terrible Jesus.

* It should be noted that we had this conversation while driving, and when James started talking about all of the owls in the trees and making his crazy owl noises, he got all bug eyed and crazy and started shouting "HOO!HOO!HOO!" and almost veered off the road and killed a little old lady pushing her cart of groceries across the street....with her baby granddaughter....and her puppy. Because James is a bad, bad man and also unnaturally obsessed with owls.

How to be a Professional Cell Phone Pet Photographer.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 05:48:00 +0000

How to be a Professional Cell Phone Pet Photographer

by Jessica Benassi,

Professional Pet Photographer and Expert on Pet and Cell Phone Photography

One of the things that I've noticed lately, is how a bad economy kind of forces people to look deep within themselves and find those talents that they never really knew that they had, and to turn around and start a business with those talents. Like many people with talent, I also have talent. Sometimes I feel sorry for people because I actually have probably well over 50 talents that I can make money with, and lots of people only have one or two talents. One of the talents that I have is professional cell phone pet photography, which is very valuable in today's economy and why I'm so lucky to have been born with it as one of my many talents.

Probably the most important part of professional cell phone pet photography is making sure that your pictures tell a story. It's ok if they're blurry or out of focus or the light is bad, because that stuff is artistic and creative and also, lots of photos on facebook are blurry and out of focus and that's actually where most of the best cell phone photographers got their start.

Today I'm going to share an example of what professional cell phone pet photography looks like, so that if you're considering it as a career, you won't get confused by other people who are trying to pass themselves off as professionals, but are in fact, only imposters. Because this is a lesson, I'm also going to spell out the story that I'm telling with the photos, even though other professional cell phone pet photographers will know exactly what I'm saying because they're professionals and also, pictures are worth a thousand words, but only if you know how to read.

This is me with my dog Jack. This picture tells the story of Jack eating the back of my head. Notice how my face is sad? A sad face is good when you're trying to tell a story without words...it lets people know that you're sad without you even having to say anything.

This picture tells the story of Jack trying to yank the hairs out of my head. This is what we in the professional cell phone pet photography field call an "action shot."

Some people might think this shot is a mistake, like maybe Jack kicked the phone or something while I was trying to take this picture. That's not what this is, though. This shot is artistic and you might wonder, "hey! what's that finger doing there?" and the answer is that this finger symbolizes society and Jack and I are oppressed by it.

This is another action shot. If this were a movie, this would be the part where you might wonder if the hero is going to make it out alive, or if they're going to instead get their face eaten off. In your head, ominous music should be playing, because that's what was happening in my head when I took this shot.

Quitters never win, and winners never quit...Jack is still trying to eat my face off and it's at this moment in the story that you might wonder if Jack is even human or if he's some weird terminator robot and is about to rip his fur off and become Arnold Schwarzenegger. Also, if you're wondering why it looks like I'm smiling in this shot it's probably because you're still an amateur and you haven't really figured out symbolism yet.

This is the part in the story where Jack distracts me with a joke and it's so hilarious and we're both just laughing and laughing, but also, because I'm really good at telling stories through photography, you can still see the pain behind my eyes because Jack just ripped out most of my hair ... with his teeth.

This is sort of an action shot, except everybody is really tired of this game, so Jack is just kind of gnawing on my face a little bit and I'm secretly plotting my revenge and...

...then Jack gets possessed by evil spirits and I'm all screaming and stuff and the tension is so high and nobody has any holy water or rock salt (we watch "Supernatural") or strange symbols that protect you when your dog turns all Cujo and then...

...Jack is all "just kidding" because he doesn't want you to win the fight because you found some holy water and he's trying to trick you and you don't fall for it and instead you turn him into a blurry blob with some stuff that you learned reading a "Harry Potter" book, and the story ends and you're all smiley and you also look a little bit like a crazy person due to the hours of fighting with your dog and stuff but none of that matters because you're the hero.

The End.

Learning from your mistakes: More super excellent life coaching from a really awesome life coach.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 17:44:00 +0000

Learn from your Mistakes

Life coaching advice from self proclaimed life coach and expert on life coaching,

Jessica Benassi

One of the things that you should do when you make mistakes, is learn from them. When you learn from your mistakes, you don't make the same mistake twice, because you learned a valuable lesson, and the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Also, mistakes happen and nobody's perfect, so you shouldn't count your chickens before they hatch.

Anyway, 2012 has been chock full of lessons for me and I thought I would share some of those lessons with you, so that you can use them to your advantage and become a better person...

First: Fiverr is this really cool site where a bunch of people will do just about anything for $5.00. Dancing, singing, pretending to be Arnold Schwarzenegger...whatever. There are also a bunch of people who can somehow magically convince all of their facebook friends to like you, for the low low price of $5. I'm a sucker, so I paid the 5 bucks and within 24 hours all of these people had liked my Hey Lola facebook page. It was AMAZING! Then I realized every single new "fan" was a half naked girl named Myrtle, with giant boobs spilling out all over the place, and making her best duckface for her iphone camera.

DANGIT!

My likes weren't from real people. That was one of those, "wow. sometimes i do stuff that's really stupid." moments. Thankfully I only have those once or twice a day, or I'd probably have been run over by a car by now. Or a zebra. Also, I wouldn't ever have any money.

Oh, also, my fiverr guy asked me to change my feedback because I was honest and then we internet argued and then he was all: "i only can refound you...u cant find on fiverr or any where else real likes bro especialy for 5$."

He called me bro and he wants to refound me. I kind of feel like the appropriate response is to exact some really unique comic book style revenge on him. I'm open to suggestions.

I've got more stuff to say, but here's a picture to look at first so you don't get too bored and leave before I'm finished:

It's my dog, Nugget. He weighs about 10 pounds, and he also likes to exact comic book style revenge on people and dogs who do him wrong...and sometimes on my husband, who is behind the camera and Nugget is trying to kill.

Second: A humidifier will keep you from getting sick in the dry winter months. It will also make you look like an idiot when you're at the cell phone store yelling at the clerk about their stupid fancy phones that randomly catch on fire in the middle of the night, and the clerk opens your phone up and it's full of water from your humidifier because you just don't think that far ahead, do you?

Third: Cell phone insurance doesn't cover stupid.

Fourth: The expense of a new fancy phone doesn't sting quite as bad when your car blows up two days later. Buying a new car unexpectedly hurts way more than buying a new phone unexpectedly. Next time you have to replace something expensive, break something more expensive immediately after, and it will make you practically forget about that first expensive thing that you broke.

Here's Nugget again. It's his first day of school. He's an excellent learner. (see how I tied this picture into this blog post? It's because one time I learned a lesson about matching stuff with other stuff)

Anyway, the moral of the story is, if you have $5.00, you should buy 5 lottery tickets, because eventually all of your stuff is going to break and no amount of big breasted facebook fans named Myrtle is going to save you from the sea of debt that accumulates when all of your fancy stuff gets broken.

You know what you need to do, bro.

P.S. I'm trying to replace all of my broken stuff. If you're feeling charitable, I have this store where I sell stuff that's not broken. Some of it even sparkles. Also, check out this present I got for you:

I know. There are no words.

An open letter to Oprah Winfrey...

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 02:08:00 +0000

Dear Oprah Winfrey,

One time I was checking the news, and all of the news outlets said that Candy Spelling (Candi? Candi with a heart over the "i"? Candee?) was mad at Tori Spelling, so Candy Spelling wrote an open letter to a bunch of celebrities that she didn't even know, and all of the news outlets were all, "HOLY COW! This is some serious news!" so they all reported it, and then all of the celebrities found out who Candy Spelling was, and Tori Spelling grabbed her pug and everybody went to Applebees and had margaritas.

You're probably wondering what this has to do with you, and for a minute I was too, but then I remembered what my point was and my point is this: First - open letters to and/or by celebrities move mountains.

Next -you're doing this whole Next Chapter thing, and so am I kinda sorta, and I think this is a perfect time for us to sit down on your couch and share this exciting time in our lives. While you might not think that we have a lot in common, I'd like it to be known that A.) like Tori Spelling, I have a pug, B.) like most celebrities, I love margaritas and C.) I've been to Applebees on more than one occasion. So, it's pretty obvious that I would fit in really well with you and your celebrity friends.

The gang at Applebees, just being famous, hanging out with pugs, drinking margaritas.

Also, as a bonus, I've eaten everything in sight over the past few months and gained more than a few pounds. One of my friends just told me I looked like a potato, so if you were thinking of doing one of those positive thinking weight loss shows, you probably can't go wrong with a potato like me.

I don't want to tell you how to live your life, Oprah, but remember how happy we were when we never visited the Grand Canyon together?

~~Food~~ potatoes for thought...

You have my number...

How To Be Married: Supporting Your Spouse's Goals

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 07:21:00 +0000

Part of the award winning series *

"How To Be Married,"

by Jessica Benassi,

self-proclaimed expert on marriage.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, my husband decided to take up the art of photography. He's actually pretty good at it, but I don't like to tell him.

Complimenting your husband creates bad habits like positive self image and good self esteem and pride and all of that nonsense that I'd rather not saddle him with or have to deal with on a regular basis. When husbands are good at stuff, it's best that THEY don't know that YOU know that they're good at stuff, because then they'll try harder to make you notice how good they are at stuff by being even BETTER at stuff and the end result is probably going to be breakfast in bed or a spotless house or a back rub or maybe a new car with a bow on it or something.

Anyway, when James got his most recent new camera gadget thingamajig, this happened:

Me: I think I got bit by a spider on my face...
James: That looks kind of gross.
Me: I know. Also, I have a popcorn kernel stuck in my eye or something...
James: Yeah...your eye is pretty red. It's a little swollen, too.
Me: And I spilled coffee on my shirt...
James: Yeah...you're kind of a mess.
Me: I know. I think I need to hide in the house for a while.
James: Cool, I need to play with my new camera...hold still...

Me: I'd rather-

Me: Seriously, please don't take my pict-

Me: No, for real, I don't want -

Me:Seriously, dude, can you please just-

Me: I'm not -

Me: STOP IT!

Me: I'm seriously going to-

Me: No, for real, I'm-

Me: Are you finished?

James: I think so.

James: Just kidding!

Me: You're seriously the worst husband ever....

And that's why:

This is my husband when his hair is a bird and he's being chased by zombies, one of which is scary George Clooney two headed zombie and another zombie who is my dog and all of the zombies are probably going to eat his brains because he runs like a girl, except not like me because I run pretty fast.

Also, he has boobs.

And his hair is a bird.

Because I'm an artist, too.

How to Keep Your Promises

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 07:35:00 +0000

Me: I was talking to my friend Jerry the other day and he said -
James: Wait. Your friend Jerry?
Me: Right. Anyway -
James: Isn't he our friend Jerry?
Me: No. Not anymore. He said he doesn't like you.
James: I don't believe you.
Me: It's true. He said that ever since you started inserting his name into every song, that he doesn't like you, and also, he thinks you suck.
James: I don't think that's true.
Me: I think it was probably "parsley, sage roseJerry and thyme" that did it for him. I think that was the final straw.
James: I'm going to call him and ask him.
Me: Ok. But you should also know that my friend Jerry says that I should post more blogs of you dressed up as a Real Housewife.
James: No he didn't.
Me: It's true. He even said it on Twitter.

Me: See? Maybe you should have thought twice about the song "Jerry Pie." No wonder he hates you.
James: I still don't believe you.
Me: That's ok. I just wanted you to know that even though Jerry wants to destroy your life and thinks that you smell bad, that I'm not going to dress you up in my blog as a Real Housewife. Because I'm your wife and I love you.
James: You promise?
Me: Of course.
James: Thank you.
Me: No problem.

And now, presenting for the first time ever:

"Pictures of My Husband Not

Dressed Up Like a Real Housewife"

by Jessica Benassi

self proclaimed expert in marriage and photoshop

This is what my husband looks like when he's wearing 2009's prom hairstyle of the year. I mostly like how his hair matches his strappy tank top. And also how he kind of looks like one of the Real Housewives.

This is what my husband looks like with a mullet. I mostly like that he has a mullet. Oh, and also his strappy tank top.

This is what my husband looks like when he's the star of one of the greatest movies of all time. This picture is pretty special because first - that's a really great tank top and second - he kind of almost looks like a Real Housewife. Also, everything is all shiny behind him, and shiny is awesome.

This is what my husband looks like when he's a two headed dinosaur and one of his dinosaur heads is scary Oprah Winfrey and they're starring in one of the greatest movies ever made.

Mostly I like this picture because it's awesome.

Happy New Year!

How To Be Married: Teamwork

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 01:30:00 +0000

Part of the award winning series *

"How To Be Married,"

by Jessica Benassi,

self-proclaimed expert on marriage.

One of the things that makes our marriage so strong, is that James and I are really sympathetic to each other's needs and when things go wrong for one of us, the other one is always there to provide a shoulder to lean on. Sometimes this is difficult, as James and I live with dogs who eat all of our food, so we're both kind of skinny and our shoulders are all boney and not really good for leaning on and actually, it's usually just painful and makes everything worse instead of better.

So first - if you really want your marriage to be successful, you should probably gain lots of weight so that your shoulders are more comfortable to lean on. More potatoes and more cake = better spouse.

(via Foodaphilia )

This is a cake made out of potatoes. Probably if you eat this for dinner every night, your marriage is going to be the best marriage ever because your shoulders will be so fat and comfortable.

Sometimes your spouse might think that they're being helpful and a team player, when in fact, they're just being a giant douche canoe and they should be benched or whatever it is that they do in sports when the person is a huge jerk. Take this hypothetic and not at all true example: If your wife is deperately trying to floss a popcorn kernel out of her teeth and reaches for the mouthwash at the same time, and somehow manages to throw half of the bottle of mouthwash in her eyes, knocking her glasses off of her face and is screaming in agony as she blindly crawls around on the floor looking for her glasses, the appropriate response is NOT to stand in the corner laughing while telling her that she's "getting warmer...warmer ....ooooh, dang....nope...never mind...colder..."

That's not teamwork, mister...that's just a road to Kardashian Town, paved with lies and diamond earrings that are super glued to the cobblestone so you can't actually pick them up and when you reach the end of that road, your knees are all scabbed and gross from crawling on the ground, your fingers are nothing but bloody stumps, you don't have any diamonds and OK! Magazine just told you that you're getting divorced.

So think about that.

Keep coming back for more expert marriage advice and remember, "True love never dies. It just turns into a zombie with festering wounds all over the place, terrorizing the neighborhood and trying to eat everyone's brains."

* Actual awards haven't been granted yet, but as I am also a self proclaimed expert on seeing the future, I can tell you that the awards are coming. For real. You'll see.

P.S. I found this for you:

(via smosh)

Expert Fashion Advice by a Fashion Expert on Fashion

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 03:59:00 +0000

Due to the economy and the shortage of brilliant ideas around here and the lack of time to write because of my grueling work schedule and also because I'm mostly lazy, I've decided to explore different ideas in writing that will make me money and also, let me sleep more.

One of the ideas I came up with is to be a fashion writer. Fashion writers don't have to tell you long stories about Marriage or Vagina Purses or Oprah Winfrey and tampon shoes . Fashion writers just pick an outfit and tell you what's awesome about it or what sucks. I picked up the InStyle magazine with Gwen Stefani on the cover and I always read the rest of the fashion mazines in the grocery store check-out lanes...things like Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Country Living and Soap Opera Digest. I also watch Fashion Police on occasion and I went to college. I feel well qualified to take this job on. So, presenting, and also, introducing the first article in the award winning series:

Stuff About Fashion

by Jessica Benassi

Self Proclaimed Expert on Fashion Writing and Stuff About Fashion

Today we're going to talk about wearing clothes that are shiny. Shiny clothes are a definite do. This one time I went to a Barry Manilow concert and he always picks somebody out of the audience to sing a song with him and I was jumping up and down on top of my chair, all "BAAAAARRRRRYYYY!!!!! PICK ME!!!! I love you!!! I know all the words!!! AIEEEEEEEEEEE!! ARGH! LOVE. YOU. BARRY. MANILOW. AIEEEE!!!!! PICK ME! PICK JESSICA!!! PICK JESSICA!!!!" and Barry Manilow did NOT pick me. Instead, he picked a woman in a big shiny dress a couple of rows over because, as he told all of us, "I had to pick her - she looks like a baked potato!"
(this is a 100% true story.)

So first - shiny clothes get you stage time with Barry Manilow.

Second - shiny clothes are shiny, and things that are shiny are pretty. For instance:

(via Unique Wedding Ideas)

See? Look how...shiny...everyone is! The puffed sleeves only add to the look. As a self-proclaimed expert in fashion, I do have to offer a critique - a large shiny bow in everyone's hair would really have completed these outfits. You just can't have too much shiny.

I'd also just like to say that it's nice that someone blurred out everyone's faces so that no one could track them down and steal their beautiful shiny gold dresses.

Keep coming back for more fashion expertise, and remember, "People who wear ugly clothes shouldn't live in glass houses...because then everyone can see you in your ugly clothes."

Life Coaching by a Professional Life Coach Expert on Life Coaching. Expert. Professional. Life Coach.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 03:05:00 +0000

In addition to all of my expertise in just about everything, I'm also a life coach. I didn't realize that I was a life coach until I was on twitter one day and realized that the qualification for being a life coach was basically just claiming to be a life coach. Which I just did. So I'm a life coach and also, an expert on life coaching and here to offer you life coaching advice on your life.

Because I'm a life coach.

Follow Your Dreams

Life coaching advice from self proclaimed life coach and expert on life coaching,

Jessica Benassi

One of the things that's important to do in your life is to follow your dreams and realize that you can be anything you want to be. Don't let anyone tell you any differently - you are you and you control your own destiny and you can be anything you want to be because you are the pilot of the airplane of fate and destiny and other stuff that has to do with the future. Go you!

Except you can't be a dinosaur.

Dinosaurs are extinct and it would be pretty stupid of you to even think that's possible. Stupid people don't get to be whoever they want to be. So don't be stupid, and then you can be whoever you want to be.

Also, losers only has one "o" in it, so you should also learn how to spell. Don't be stupid, don't try to be a dinosaur, learn how to spell things, and then you can be whoever you want to be.

Except you can't be Oprah Winfrey's best friend.

You shouldn't even attempt this, because it's not going to work, and you'll just end up crying in the corner of your shower every night, naked, with a half empty bottle of cheap whiskey.

So, in conclusion, follow your dreams and you can be whoever you want to be except for a dinosaur or Oprah Winfrey's best friend.

Seriously. This isn't happening.

It's like a band that nobody's ever heard of, with sparklers and fancy underwear...

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:45:00 +0000

Soooooooo....

Right. It's been a while. However, you'll be happy to know that things are pretty much the same around my house:

Me: I'm going to form a theatre troupe, I think...
James: Can I be in it?
Me: I don't think so. You're not very talented, and also I don't want to hang out with you any more than I have to.
James: I'm going to be the musical guest star.
Me: No you're not. You're not in it.
James: And the special guest star should be our mayor, all nerdy and straight laced and he can introduce me and be all, "ladies and gentlemen... introducing....WASP!"
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
James: Yeah, except instead of Blackie Lawless, it'll be me wearing my chainsaw cod piece, with sparklers shooting out of my nipples.
Me: Are you insane? First of all, you're not in my theatre troupe. Second, what is your obsession with WASP?
James: Probably because they're awesome.

James: So listen...I need a chainsaw cod piece and sparks to fly out of my nipples.
Me: No you don't.
James: You could get it for me for Christmas!!
Me: Name one song by WASP.
James: Cod piece.
Me: That's not a song.
James: Chainsaw nipples.
Me: That's not a song, either.
James: Nipple weapons.
Me: None of those are songs.
James: How do you know?
Me: You're right....I don't. I'll google it. Where are you going?
James:I have a chainsaw and some fireworks in the garage...I have to get started on my costume...

Follow me on facebook for more stuff like this...and a little bit of spam.

P.S. I found this for you on the internet. It's Nicholas Cage...on the cover of a biology text book...in Serbia:

(Via Best Week Ever)

And then my dad died...

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Wed, 25 May 2011 06:02:00 +0000

* EDIT * I posted this a while ago, left it up for a while, and then hid it because...well...it's not really my normal bloggy routine. It's a bit raw and emotional and doesn't really fit here. But you know...screw it...It happened, I wrote about it, and I'm just going to leave it out there. So...um...here it is...out there..

You should know that the following blog post is unlike any of my other blog posts. I'm grieving and a bit drunk and I felt the need to verbally vomit all over the place, so...you know....you were warned...

Normally, I hate the "I'm going to share my whole life on the internet" mentality. I feel like some things should be kept private or at least not broadcast across the internet, for anyone who knows the basics of using Google to find. After all, aren't sad status updates put out there not so much to share information, but rather with the intention of eliciting sympathy? And if that's the case, shouldn't we just be honest and say, "Shit really sucks right now, and I'd like you to feel sorry for me?"

Also, at the end of the day, what on earth does " ((hugs))" really do to make you feel better?

I'm a bad person. I'm unsympathetic and judgmental and at some point in my life, I've looked at everyone's online life and had an “I can't believe you just shared that” moment. Because the internet is for the surface and shallow things in our life... for us to post pictures of ourselves making stupid faces, and invite each other to our band's performances and pimp our businesses and complain about our jobs and show pictures of our crafts and our Etsy store and answer quizzes about which one of our friends is the best looking and do you think Obama's birth certificate is real?

Facebook and blogs are not, however, a platform for me to tell you that my dad just died, and that I am a complete and total fucking wreck about it and I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing right now and I've actually already seen this episode of Chelsea Lately, and truth be told, I can't seem to focus on tv or this book or this article in the paper and while I appreciate the suggestion, I actually already sat on my porch and smoked cigarettes and had a couple of drinks and stared numbingly into space so I'm just going to write...because I really don't know what else to do.

My dad...

My dad broke my heart on a regular basis. I knew him for a little while when I was a kid, and then he was gone. I knew him again in my early twenties, and then he was gone. Then I knew him again and I really liked my dad. Like - I LOVED him. He was funny and smart and easy to talk to and I thought, "wow. I have a dad. For real... I have a DAD." And then I called him...and called him...and called him...I got worried, because that's what I do...and I called him...6 months later he called me back. He was sorry; he just got distracted and forgot about me.

Right. He forgot about me.

I can't really talk about my relationship with my dad without talking about my relationship with my mom...or rather, lack thereof. The nicest way to talk about it is to say that 21 is a very young age to have a child and mistakes were made. And while I agree that mistakes should be forgiven, some mistakes leave lasting scars. Actually, not so much scars, but deep and painful wounds that have a tendency to get the scabs ripped off anytime I'm near my family, leaving me bleeding all over the place. It's no one's fault really...it's just that the past can't be erased and for me, it just happens to hurt all of the time. I can't make that go away and when people try to re-write the past with fluffy bunnies and rainbows and Bradyesque scenarios of a not typical but still completely happy family...it hurts just a bit more. So it's difficult for me to relate to my mom...we remember things differently and it makes it hard to communicate. Unfortunately, there's also an age gap between my siblings and I, so their version of history doesn't necessarily match mine, either. For a while I started to think I was crazy...but as it happens, there are police and medical records to show that I'm not crazy, and that my memories are in fact, real.

For the record, proof doesn’t make communication any easier. Everything is still a gigantic mess and no one seems to want to talk to the girl who wipes the dust off of the family secrets and tries to make everyone acknowledge them.

Anyway, it was refreshing to talk to my dad because he admitted it. He said it.

Yes.

Things were really fucked up and yes.

Your mom and I had real problems and not “mommy and daddy don’t like each other very much” problems but REAL problems (now is not the place or the time) and then...the holy grail.

"I'm sorry."

And not just, "I'm sorry you feel that way" or "I don't remember what you remember, but I guess I'm sorry" or a bunch of other sorries that are really only designed to get past all of the emotional bullshit and on to "happy fake fluffy bunny Brady family" land....like...

...a real apology. An admission of really being a bad parent for a while, a recounting of what made him a bad parent, and a promise to try and do better...to really be my dad.

That was awesome. And here's the thing and it does need to be said....I wasn't a perfect kid. In my defense, I was just a kid, but I don't want to color my account with "everyone around me sucked and I was so perfect." I had some real problems and I’m sure I could have made life easier for everyone if I would have behaved a bit better…but…you know….fucked up families breed fucked up kids, and there I was…

I digress…

My dad was honest with me and that was like the sun shining through the clouds. It was the first honest parental interaction I could ever remember having and I needed it so much…I can’t even tell you how amazing that felt…my dad and I spent some real quality time after that, and that’s when I grew to love him…not only as my dad, but as a person that I genuinely liked.

But then it was gone. My dad just…*poof*

…and then, months later, he was back. To tell me that his wife had died and that he was broken hearted and that he was also dying…of hepatitis C, of Crohn’s Disease, of diabetes and skin cancer and liver cancer and a broken heart…and that he really wanted to see me. I didn’t even know if any of that was true…I still don’t. I cried on the phone with him and didn’t bring up the past and invited him to stay with my husband and I…to MEET my husband and hung up the phone feeling so sad but excited to see my dad again.

And then nothing.

I called my mom and found out he had made the 8 hour trip from Minnesota to Illinois and was less than a half an hour away from me. I called my dad and we spoke for a couple of minutes and then he got distracted and said he would call me right back.

And nothing.

So I called the next day and we spoke briefly and he got distracted again and said he would call me right back…again.

And nothing.

Rinse and repeat…for 3 days. And then I called my mom and he had left…gone back to Minnesota without so much as a word.

I need to remind you that I still firmly believe that the internet is not for me to share these personal details of my life…not for me to tell you that I was hysterical and cried for hours because my father could make an 8 hour trip to be a half an hour away from me…but the extra half an hour to actually see his daughter was too much. A completed phone call was too much effort.

The internet is not the place for me to tell anyone who knows how to use Google that at that moment, I knew my father could care less about me, and that it broke my heart.

The internet is not the place for me to tell you that my father doesn’t love me, no matter how much I want him to, and that that feeling feels like my heart being ripped out of my chest….even now….even as a grown-up, with a family of my own, and surrounded by people who truly do love me and show me that they love me, every single day of my life.

My father still breaks my heart.

And today…last night, actually….my father has broken my heart for the last time.

Because he died.

My dad died and I have no idea how to process it…how to grieve…how to be angry…how to forgive him or love him or convince myself that he did indeed love me…

…because after that last trip…where he was going to call me back…and he was going to come and visit…and I guess he just forgot about me again…

We never spoke. Nothing. No letters. No calls. Nothing.

And my mother tells me that he loved me and that he was just damaged. Which, you know, ok…sure. We’re all fucked up and we all put our personal disasters on people in our own unique ways but…

Come on…

You forgot about me? You got distracted? You’re damaged?

I’m pretty confident. I spent a long time building myself into a person that I could be proud of and my self-esteem is, for the most part, pretty healthy.

But…

My father doesn’t have 10 minutes for me and I am of so little importance, that I can be forgotten…like the last item on your shopping list, that you really didn’t need anyway…

It’s hard not to feel small and worthless and really, just like garbage. Even if you can talk yourself out of it after a couple of minutes, and recognize your self-worth…for a couple of minutes….you’re garbage.

But I loved my dad. Like so many of us…I loved my fucked up father.

And after the last time I swore that that was it. I was never going to let him hurt me again and he could go to hell and I had enough love in my life without his stupid ass screwing me up every 6 months….

And here I am. My dad is dead and I’m so very sad. Because…you know….he won’t ever hurt me again. This is the very last time. No more opportunities for hurt…and no more opportunities to make it better, to make things right and be a family again.

I miss my dad. I’ve missed my dad for a really long time. He was smart and funny and handsome and good at a lot of things and not so good at being a father…but I loved him. I’ve missed him for a while and I’ve pretended like I didn’t because it’s painful to miss someone that you’re not sure even cares about you…but he’s gone now and screw it. I miss him. I wish things would have been different.

The internet is not the place to share your sordid family history or your daddy problems. The internet is already full of TMI…but I didn’t know what else to do. I am grief stricken and confused and panicked and freaked out and losing my mind and I just.don’t. know.what.to.do.

So I wrote…and I’m sorry it’s not funny or light hearted or my usual banter but…in my defense…

My dad died. It’s a bit weird in my head at the moment. Also…

Shit really sucks right now and I’d kind of like for you to feel sorry for me…

Mamas, don't let yer doggies grow up and watch t.v. Seriously. It's not ok. You'll rue the day or something.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 03:56:00 +0000

Me: James - did you leave the t.v. on?
James: No, why?
Me: The dogs are watching "Animal Planet" again.
James: The dogs aren't watching t.v.
Me: I'm telling you...I can hear them heckling "The Dog Whisperer." They're watching t.v. You need to talk to them.
James: I'm not going to talk to the dogs about watching t.v. You're imagining things.
Me: Uh-huh...

How to be Married

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 20:38:00 +0000

A lesson in relationship stuff that's way smarter than stuff Oprah or Dr. Phil says because I'm a self-proclaimed expert in marriage.

By Jessica Benassi, self proclaimed expert on marriage

First - Get married before you get married. Some people call this “being divorced.” Getting married before you get married is a lot like dodgeball practice.

Sure, your co-captain launches dodgeballs at your gut the whole time, causing you to double over in agony and wonder why it seems like nobody’s following the rules.

He might even launch the ball at your head, knocking your glasses off and making it so that the tall, super bitchy blonde standing next to him is kind of out of focus and doesn’t look like a dodgeball threat.

This is ok…it’s just practice and it doesn’t actually count like a real dodgeball game . (If you’re Catholic, sometimes it’s harder to prove that dodgeball practice doesn’t count, but that’s only because most Catholic people like soccer and dodgeball probably confuses them a little bit.)
Usually you can find a fair and honest referee that will agree that your original game was just practice. Actually, sometimes the referees suck, but the important thing is that everybody agrees that at the end of the day, it was just a practice game and also, everybody should get to keep the sweatbands and tube socks that they brought to practice and not be a dick and try to take everybody else’s sweatbands and tube socks.

One thing that can get tricky is when team members decide to enlist a mascot for practice games. This is pretty stupid, because practice games don’t need a mascot and when it’s time to play real dodgeball, everybody thinks that the mascot should represent their team. The only way to solve the mascot dilemma is to put the mascot in a circle and have both co-captains from the practice game call to the mascot and let the mascot choose her own team. Also, it’s important to shove bologna in your bra and in your socks, otherwise you run the risk of the mascot choosing the wrong team and that would be stupid because you’re the one that picked the mascot in the first place.

Sometimes people get babies and little kids and stuff as mascots and things get weird. I don’t have any advice to give about that…the only mascots I’ve ever had were canine except the one time when I had a baby, except he was an imaginary baby and now he’s all grown up and in the FBI and the CIA and is apparently too good to play dodgeball with his family, and also he’s ungrateful.

Once you’re done practicing and you have your tubesocks and your sweatbands and your mascot, you’re ready for real dodgeball. Real dodgeball can also be tricky, because sometimes your co-captain seems like he’s not on your team and when you’re not looking, he’s launching dodgeballs at your gut and you might get confused and start thinking that you’re practicing again. Take a deep breath. You practiced your dodgeball game way longer than any sane person should ever practice dodgeball and you know what to do.

Crouch down…catch the ball…launch it back, straight at his big fat husband head...except be careful not to mess up the wig, because those are expensive and also probably a limited edition.

In the morning, when he is conscious again, he will acknowledge you as the Supreme Dodgeball Champion of the House and surprise you with French toast in bed and DVD copies of every Joseph Fiennes movie ever made, because Joseph Fiennes is beautiful and also the patron saint of dodgeball and marriage.

You’re welcome.

My Heart Keeps Beating Like a Hamburger...

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 05:04:00 +0000

James: Is she saying "hamburger?"
Me: Who?
James: In the song...she's saying something is like a hamburger.
Me: It's not a hamburger.
James: Yes it is..listen...something, something, something "hamburger."
Me: It's her heart...her heart is beating like a "hammer."
James: That's stupid. What does that even mean?
Me: Are you dumb?
James: Am I dumb? "ooooo, look at me, I'm too cool for lyrics that make sense 'cause I'm all edgy and stuff." You're an idiot.
Me: HAMMER. Her heart is beating like a HAMMER.

James: Oh. Well that makes more sense.
Me: It's amazing what listening does.
James: Whatever, you're still an idiot.
Me: Because your heart is beating like a hamburger?
James: No. Just because.

Normally I would argue with him, but in the last 24 hours I pretty much proved him right by:

* Throwing my self into a set of dog stairs when I tripped over a piece of air that was...hanging in the air or something.

* Falling off of a ledge in our office when I tripped over a piece of air, launching my knee into a steel safe, after which I immediately rolled around on the floor in agony for a half an hour while my co-workers gathered around, drank coffee and laughed at me.

* Recovering from the safe incident and immediately tripping over a piece of air and falling down a short set of steps.

* Throwing myself off my front porch when I tripped over a piece of air.

* Nearly spraining my wrist when I punched James in the elbow for laughing at me when I tripped over a piece of...air.

And just so everyone is clear...there's ice covering every square inch of nearly every surface here and I have injured myself half a dozen times in the last day by tripping over AIR. For my own safety I clearly shouldn't be allowed to do anything but stay in bed all day and watch reality t.v. and eat microwave popcorn ...

(while wearing goggles because in addition to tripping over air I also got a freaking popcorn kernel stuck in my eye for three days and also got my face mauled half off by a killer spider which almost got me fired from my job except I'm really great at my job, and also I'm the only one willing to do it for the $3.00 an hour that they pay me even if I do show up looking like some Deliverance reject...but that's a different story.)

Because loud noises are poop circles are fun.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 05:27:00 +0000

Like most of the country, our little city got a gazillion pounds of snow dumped on us the other day and 90% of our citizens got to take a day off of work. James and I used our time off together to sleep most of the day, walk around the house in our underwear, drink orange soda and eat popcorn until we puked, watch every season of "Supernatural" and spend some very serious quality time with our family:

...because we're grown-ups now, and that's what grown-ups do when they don't have to go to work.

47% of everything Google says is 97% true which is why it's ok to use it as a substitute for a marriage counselor. Usually.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 05:04:00 +0000

The other night when all of the plumbing in the freezing cold basement at our place broke, James and I got into a huge fight. Obviously. Everybody knows that a gigantic fight is the first step in fixing a plumbing problem. It went something along the lines of:

Me: No! Water!
James: Broken. Everything's broken.
Me: Fix water!
James: Can't. Broken.
Me: Water feet! Cold! YOU!
James: Quiet! Broken water!
Me: No. YOU quiet!
James: Smell bad!
Me: You smell bad!
James: Water smell bad! Stupid!

I think we went back and forth like that for something like 76 years until a plumber showed up. When I got home I started googling ways to save my marriage, because everybody knows that 47% of marriages fail because people don't use google after a fight, and also because google is the answer for everything.

Google said that James and I should roleplay so that we can understand each other better, but when I talked to him about it he was all resistant because he hates marriage, and also, he hates fun.

Me: Google says that we're supposed to dress up like the Real Housewives of Atlanta so we can save our marriage.
James: Save our marriage from what?
Me: From ourself...selves.
James: Ourselfselves?
Me: Whatever. Anyway, I bought you this wig. Put it on.
James: I'm not putting on that wig, and also, why are you still wearing the tampon shoes?
Me: I know. I can't take them off, though. They're so warm on my toes. Also, check out my weave.
James: You know we have mirrors here that you can use?
Me: I can't believe we're on the brink of divorce and you won't even wear this wig to save our marriage.
James: I'm pretty sure our marriage will be ok without me wearing that wig.
Me: I can't wait until you fall asleep so we can roleplay like Google told us to.

Wearing tampons as shoes will not win you Oprah's love. Not even close.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 08:37:00 +0000

James and I own a teeny tiny restaurant in a really, really old building. The plumbing is stupid, as most plumbing in old buildings is. I don't want to get into too many details, but about an hour after I got to work tonight I smelled like a sewer, I was covered in black sludge, my lips were blue and I had bar towels taped around my feet. I went in the bathroom and scrubbed some of the black sludge off of me, and doused myself in diffuser oil to cover the smell. As I walked out, one of our customers stopped me...
"What's going on with your feet?"

"Oh...see it's this thing wi-"
"Whatever. You look like you have tampons on your feet."
And she walked away.
I looked down...

...and I looked like I had giant tampons on my feet.

And I smelled like cinnamon apple crap.

I think this is why Oprah has never called me.

She's scared of the stupid that follows me everywhere I go.

This isn't so much a blog entry as it is a desperate cry for help...and a toothbrush.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sun, 23 Jan 2011 20:21:00 +0000

Two weeks ago, Las Vegas...

James: I think I left my toothbrush at home.
Me: That sucks.
James: So I used yours.
Me: Are you serious?
James: Yes.
Me: That's really gross. Really.
James: I'm going to use it tomorrow, too. Just so you know.
Me: Awesome.

The next day, in Las Vegas...

James: Are you sick?
Me: No, why?
James: I thought I heard you getting sick in the bathroom.
Me: No...I was just gagging while I was brushing my teeth with my own toothbrush that you defiled with your mouth.
James: Am I crazy, or having we been making out for over 7 years now?
Me: I know, but...you're gross.

One week ago, at home...

Me: I think I left my toothbrush in Vegas.
James: That sucks.
Me: So I used yours.
James: Are you serious?
Me: Yes.
James: OK.

Last night, our bathroom...

James: I think it's time for you to get your own toothbrush.
Me: I know. This is so gross.
James: So why don't you just go ahead and get your own toothbrush?
Me: Because my toothbrush is fancy and I don't have $70.00 lying around to replace it.
James: You know you can buy a cheap toothbrush, right?
Me: That's probably the stupidest thing I ever heard in my life. Why would I do that?
James: Because you need to stop using mine.
Me: Yeah, but you can't replace the toothbrush of the gods with cheap plastic. They'll smite you and your teeth will turn green. It's like lying in church.

(Sonicare = toothbrush of the gods. And me.)

The next morning, our bathroom...

Me: James! Where's the toothbrush?

Me: James? Hello?

Me: Toothbrush?

Me: Dang.

P.S. Speaking of missing things ...

Despite James' best efforts to destroy me, my brain is still here for you.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 06:59:00 +0000

First things first:

No one has given me $60,000 yet so I'm placing an ad in the middle of my own blog for my own store for people to buy my stuff that I made with my own bare hands. Here it is:

You can buy my stuff here. Do it for the penguins...and for me, too, because obviously I'm not just sitting around making stuff for penguins...I have bad habits to support and also, penguins probably don't really even need my help...actually, screw the penguins. Just do it for me.

Anyway, no one has donated to my very worthy cause, so James and I pawned all of our shoes and stuff to go to Las Vegas this weekend. We were going to a wedding and I thought it would be kind of romantic and we could do
Las Vegas-y stuff like renew our vows with Elvis and gamble our life savings away, but once again, James just used it as another opportunity to try and kill me for the insurance money.

Me: Do you think it's safe for me to fly with the flu?
James: Yes.
Me: I'm really congested, though.
James: Uh-huh.
Me: My ears could explode.
James: Your ears won't explode.
Me: I'm going to google it.
James: Google is not the answer for everything.
Me: I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.

James: Did you just google "earballs exploding in space?"
Me: Yes.
James: Earballs exploding in space?
Me: I need to make sure my brain doesn't explode on the plane, stupid.
James: What's an earball?
Me: The inside of your ear, obviously.
James: And the plane to Vegas is going to...outer space?
Me: Close enough. Also, I'm way better at googling than you, so don't question my methods. You have to phrase things just right or you'll get a bunch of porn back in your search results.

James: It's weird that people think you're smart.
Me: I'm super smart - that's why I have to make sure my brain doesn't explode. People depend on my brain and also, quit trying to distract me from my research and make me die.

Anyway, after James left me alone and I was able to continue my research, I found out a couple of things: I'm not the only one who has what is a completely rational fear of the flu making my brain explode on an airplane. Not by a long shot. Also, if you have to get on a plane and you don't want your earballs to explode, you should suck on menthol cough drops. This is true and you should trust me because A.) I'm very good at googling and B.) I once wanted to be a doctor.

You're welcome.

P.S. Somebody commented that if anybody deserved glitter boogers, it would be me. That's probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. Also, if you google "glitter boogers," this comes up:

Pour Some Glitter on Me

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 06:29:00 +0000

I've been hit with a bit of a gnarly cold. Of course, it figures that when I went to the medicine cabinet in search of medicine, I found: deodorant, perfume, hairspray, wire cutters, needle nosed pliers, some eye cream, white acrylic paint, 4 paintbrushes and 2 tubes of glitter. Of course.

I then went digging in my purse, where I found a lonely blue pill that I thought might be some sort of decongestant, but may also have been someone slipping a roofie into my purse....I guess we'll find out in about 20 minutes.

The lesson to be learned here is: Be prepared - a cold can strike at any time. Those who don't prepare will most likely end up roofie-ing themselves, and waking up with glitter pouring from their nostrils...eyeballs probably, too. Maybe with white paint in their ears. I'm not sure why the white paint would show up, but glitter can very easily be mistaken for Nyquil.

Whatever - I don't feel well. I do what I want. Also, this is kind of a lame blog post so to make up for it, here's this picture of 80's super group Def Leppard in short shorts:

I know what you're thinking...I have that exact same outfit in my closet, too. It's pretty embarassing when I show up at the same party as Def Leppard and we're all wearing the same outfit. Thankfully it's only happened a couple of times - I think they've learned their lesson.

Happy New Year, I'm not dead.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 02:58:00 +0000

So, um...here's the thing. I need to borrow some money from you guys. Probably something like, 50....maybe 60,000 dollars. Don't worry - It's not for gambling or drugs or jelly beans or anything crazy like that.

Ok...I'm not going to lie. There probably will be jelly beans. But mainly there will be me, not going to an office every day, and not working a gazillion hours a week. I'll be able to sit around the house, making jewelry and selling vintage clothes, blogging all the live long day, planning an occasional wedding here and there, and being your super online super best friend...while eating jelly beans.

Jelly Bellies, actually. Jelly beans are for posers. True story.

So...um....you know. I've never asked you for anything, and it's really not that much, and I think it's only fair, given all that we've been through...

Especially because your investment will contribute to the completion of great stories like "James Gets Mad at Me for Punching Myself in the Face" and "If You Were Stranded on an Island with James Ex-Girlfriend, What do You Talk About?" and everybody's favorite "Yes, that's my dog and no, I can't get him to stop humping your leg."
I'll let you think about that for a while and I'll leave you with two things:

This is my for real dog. For real. He really looks like that. In real life.

This is my sort of for real husband. Not really. But I'm pretty sure he dresses up like the Wham! version of George Michael when I'm not home, and just shakes his butt all over the house. I'm almost positive. He's just that sort of person, as almost everyone who knows him would gladly tell you.

Also...did you see that picture of my dog?

P.S. Don't freak out, but I'm probably going to start posting some real pretty romantic stuff here soon. And clothes. And store things. Unless you come up with $60,000 to loan me, in which case we're just going to go back to talking about my dog humping your leg.

Andrew Jackson's big block of cheese, with nary a macaroni in sight...

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 01:58:00 +0000

I don't know what that means, but I'm pretty sure it has to do with porn. Also, if you're checking your blog for the first time in a long time and your comments are all pasta and porn spam and the Real Housewives of Somewhere is playing in the background and somebody's talking about their "vajayjay" the whole time...you might start to wonder just what the hell happened to your life.

Also, this happened:

Me: I'm leaving, kiss me.
James: I'm not going to kiss you.
Me: Why not?
James: I just don't really feel like it today.
Me: Come on, dude! Kiss me!
James: Fine, here...kiss me on this cold sore.
Me: Don't be a dick, just kiss...wait...is that really a cold sore?
James: No...it's herpes.
Me: You're the grossest guy I ever married. What's wrong with your face?
James: I think it might have been a zit. Kiss me.
Me: No, I don't think I'm going to.
James: Come on, dude! Kiss me!
Me: When are we going to get divorced, do you think?
James: Not soon enough.
Me: Yeah...ok, then. I'm leaving. I love you!
James: I love you, too!

The Winfrey-Caine Family Reunion

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 22:23:00 +0000

Ok, I know that Oprah's not REALLY related to me. And I know that Awesome the First isn't REALLY Horatio Caine. However, when your full grown FBI agent of a son, who lived in your stomach for 90 some odd months and probably has super powers because that's almost unheard of these days...like seriously, I think only people related to Moses had pregnancies as long as mine...anyway...

I totally forgot my point. I think it probably had something to do with the fact that he's my kid and I can call him Horatio Caine if I want to. And also he's probably got super powers. And also, Oprah and I are probably going to be such great friends by the end of this year, that people will mistake us for sisters. Therefore...and ergo...Hence...if I've been away from my blog for a very long time and all of the sudden I show back up, it makes perfect sense for me to call my comeback "The Winfrey-Caine Family Reunion." Because of all of that stuff that I just told you about.

Anyway, here's what happened: I went to school to become a doctor and then I decided that I didn't want to be a doctor, because I'm artsy. But I still kinda wanted to do doctor type things, so I worked for a tissue bank. Then the entire world fell into this economic black hole and all of the sudden my really great job was practically non-existent. So I went on hiatus and went back to waiting tables while I tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Then, when I was chatting with my boss one day about weddings and such, she casually mentioned that they needed a wedding planner...which of course, I was all,"OOOOOH!! Let me do it! I'll plan the BEST wedding for you ever because I'm ARTSY!" And she kind of looked at me funny because she's really not into artsy wedding type stuff and also she doesn't even have a wedding date picked or anything and apparently what she was talking about wasn't even close to what I thought she was talking about...I mean, it was, but not really. Anyway, turns out that the restaurant that I worked at also runs this beautiful, historic banquet facility and they needed a new "Supreme Director of Everything and Beyond" and since I have a biology degree, I was an obvious choice for the job. So, for the past two months I've been perfecting my position as "Ultimate Fighting Event Planning Warrior Champion," which is why I've been neglecting all of you guys and the Winfrey-Caine family. I'm sorry. Planning weddings and receptions is hard. For real. Like, J. Lo is really on my bad side because "The Wedding Planner" is a HUGE lie. First, no way does she have time to sit in a park every week, watching old movies, swingin' her legs to and fro, while picking brown m&ms out of the package. Also, no way does she have time to even think about planning her own wedding, even if it is at the courthouse. Also, people get married EVERY SINGLE WEEKEND, so I'm not sure where she found the time to be all showered and manicured and pretty and stuff and why she wasn't answering her phone every ten minutes and how she could even think about falling in love with somebody else's fiance, especially when she's so super tired because during the summer, PEOPLE GET MARRIED EVERY SINGLE WEEKEND.

Eff you, J.Lo, you're a big old liar and we're not friends anymore, and yes, I AM going to tell Oprah about this.

So, in a nutshell: The Winfrey-Caine family is still strong and still a force to be reckoned with, I am not a doctor, my son probably has super-powers, I have a new job that I love, and finally...Jennifer Lopez is a liar and I'm probably going to write a song about it very soon.

In the meantime: