MISSING WOMAN

Where the fuck have I been? Huh? Where? The last person that I spoke to was at 2:56 SATURDAY afternoon!

TWO-FIFTY SIX MOTHERF*CKING SATURDAY AFTERNOON!!

How many women are the going to have to find in the underbrush this week to get a text check up out of you fools?! 

No, don't put this on me - I'm the one possibly murdered in this! Not you. You are, very distinctly, not possibly murdered since 2:56 Saturday afternoon. 

I, however, could have been dead since 2:56 PM, Saturday and here we are whole 24 hours out from then and not a goddamn one of you has checked up on me.

Nevermind the fact that I wasn't in danger of being murdered since 2:5fucking6 yesterday afternoon. That I know of! And you...you certainly don't know if I was or wasn't. 

I'm just saying kiddos, to actually get to a whole 24-hours because I will literally have to be murdered in order to get me to shut up about what horrible friends, coworkers and e-casual acquaintances you are. 

So you can all just sit there and reflect in shame about the time I was maybe missing and/or murdered and none of you thought to think about it. 

No, I will not tell you what I did last night. You think about what I did last night. Because if you're not in the "KNOW" category, then eff you for not knowing I wasn't murdered and being OK with it. 

And finally, for my dear sweet mother's peace of mind - I was not once, between 2:56 Saturday afternoon and now, ever in real danger of being murdered. 

That I know of...

Mwuahahahahaha!!

Inexplicable Good Mood!

Is it the LMFAO Party Rock Anthem? Maybe…it’s silly stupid and I love the dickens out of silly stupid.

Is it my third shirt of the day? Well it is new and wonderful; devoid of coffee stains and entirely work appropriate, unlike the last two, respectively.

Is it that it’s Friday? Probably not given my recently developed fear of weekends.

Could it be because I solved this photo project problem? CAUSE I DID! Take that shit outside, that’s what I say. But all genius aside, still no.

I can’t believe you guys really read all that. The fucking title is inexplicable good mood.

I can’t explicable it to you despite someone’s recent suggestion that explicable was a verb and not a state of being.

Whatever kiddo – go explicable. Expliculate and expliculize.

Mo Finally Explains

Mo: All that smack people say about lawyers is true.

Me: All of everything cannot be true.

Mo: It is. And it will be true about you too.

Me: Mo, I'm not a sell out.

Mo: I am. Think about other lawyers you know.

Me: Umm...

Mo: Exactly.

Me: That's not true. Not everyone sells out. Sometimes you play the give and take.

Mo: That's the sell out mantra.


Me: You're fucking with my 5 year plan Mo. I had this all laid out.

Mo: THIS is what you laid out? THIS??

Me: Well...kinda...

Mo: You need to stop fucking around with this smart shit. Being smart will get you no where.

Me: Did you just quote a Green Day song?

Mo: Smart people can go around and do smart things and write smart crap and smart until their smarters ache...

Me: Smarters? Who the fuck are you? Dr. Seuss?

Mo: ...but no one gives a shit. It's not memorable.

Me: Mo, this is the worst pep talk I've ever had!

Mo: Tough. You asked for my advice and here it is.

Me: Ok, so in summary...I should give up my dreams, quit being smart and listen to Green Day?

Mo: You really would be better off.

Me: I'm going to need a second opinion.


Mo: $5 says it's the same as mine.

Made in China by Africans

I swear to God, my boss is trying to make me insane. I love the guy but he's gone all Barnum & Bailey over the big top with these ideas.

Hey, can you guys buy a bunch of cameras and give them to strangers to take pictures with, then print and frame all the pictures we get back?

You want to give a bunch of strangers digital cameras...let them take pictures of whatever they want...somehow get them back...and then frame them?

Not just frame them - project them on a giant screen with a Bat-signal like light.

Where did you get this idea from.

China.

You got this idea from China?

Yes. These African people in China had taken all these pictures and made this wonderful wall of pictures.

But what about consent? How will we get their consent?

Well the African people in China gave their consent.

That's a country and a continent that really don't give a shit about individuals' consent.

Obviously it can be done.

Maybe it can only be done by African delegates in the People's Republic of China!

You're too pessimistic.

How will we get the cameras back? What happens when all we have are pictures of penises?

Why would there be pictures of penises?

WHY WOULDN'T THERE BE? IT'S MURPHY'S LAW!!

Just make it happen.


If we make this project happen it will be the most amazing feat ever.

Please Don't Write Blogs About Me

My mom has this saying...well, actually she has 2 sayings, the first being "Please don't write blogs about me," which then induces my standard "Sorry in advance" response. Only it's never actually issued in advance of me writing a blog. So now really my mom just finishes her conversations with me by saying "Please don't write a blog about this."

Now that I think about it, that's an odd habit she's taken up, "Love you too sweetie. Don't blog about me. Bye!"

But truth be told, I don't know that my mom actually reads the blog. She just picks up on when she may have said something that I'll think is funny enough to write about. Which is everything, so perhaps is isn’t all that weird that she has standard closing remarks.

Anyway, my mom’s second saying is “Put it down.”

She used to scream it at me when I was a little kid and would pick up everything within reach. She seems to relish the opportunity to tell people about the time when I was 3, I tried to pick up raw ground beef at the grocery store. She screamed, “Jessica Leigh – put it down!” To which I replied, “Please don’t kill me Mommy!”

Cute story huh? We also lived in the mountains of North Carolina, next to a motorcycle camp at the time. Cue the banjos.

Eventually, I grew out of picking up literal stuff, but my mom’s saying didn’t fade into the sunset like some of the other famous directives, such as:

Listen here missy;

Look at me when I am speaking to you; and,

Why would you ever put cheese on the coffee table?

No, my mom still needed to say “put it down” to me because I was now picking up figurative things that weren’t mine either. She would say, “Jessica is that even your problem to deal with? Put it down.” Then she’d make a mom face and I would roll my eyes, and eventually we coined a new slogan, “Now say you’re sorry.”

So I have spent the entirety of my adult life figuratively picking up things that aren’t mine and learning how to say I’m sorry. Quite frankly, I suck at the latter. If you’ve ever gotten an apology from me, it’s a miracle, and maybe included some prodding from my mom. Ok, very likely included actual prodding from my mom.

I must think a problem to death and then rethink it over again until all logic and sense has been exhausted. Then I’ll ask your opinion on it just so I can dismiss it and go back to my original conclusion.

Quite a process right? Hence “put it down.”

And typically, somewhere in all that, I’ll say something shitty that I don’t mean in the long run, which then leads to the, “now I'm saying sorry,” and I’m apologizing for something that wasn’t even my problem.

So here, a mere 12 days into my 30's I find I have become completely unable to pick up, carry or comprehend anything that isn't mine and learned the fine art of an unprodded apology. I even broke down and cried, which happens about as often as Halley's Comet.

I'm an emotional grown-up!

My mom would be proud but I'll never be able to tell you what she says because I'm not allowed to blog about her.

The Queer Bug

Ok, so I'm confused. Is being gay contagious? Because I have tons of gay and lesbian friends and I haven't yet been "infected" by the queer bug.

I don't know where homosexuality comes from. Maybe you're born that way. Maybe you grow into it. But I'm secure in saying you surely don't fucking catch it. And since it's not a disease let's stop trying to cure it. That's about as elitist of a mentality as Nazism. Yeah, I just went all the way there.

How far are you willing to go to make sure sexuality stays pure? Should we set up gay concentration camps? News flash - we already have those - they're called "condominiums."

So how is it, exactly, that gay people are making more gay people? Major draw back to the whole homosexual scenario is the lack of procreation opportunities. So they're aren't exactly making them.

Oh, how fucking dare they adopt those unwanted children that the Holier-Than-Thou straight people had outside of wedlock and gave away. Yeah, gay people, how dare you give orphans a home! You really are monsters!

Is there a recruitment process? My bestie of 20+ years is gay and he's never tried to recruit me or even mentioned this secret agenda. Is it like the Masons?

Seriously, I want someone to explain this to me. What is the big, bad gay threat? What makes a gay person less deserving of rights than me?

Tampon Receptacle Changer; NOT a Rapist

No offense Mr. Tampon Receptacle-Changer Man…I am sure you are the nicest of guys…but your insistence on formalities is quite unnecessary. Please don’t be offended, but I do not want to shake your hand. I – quite literally – know where it has been.

You completely scared me when I was walking out of the women’s restroom today. Your company should perhaps look into making that logo larger on your uniform. Maybe even a “Tampon Receptacle Changer; NOT a rapist” name tag or other such universal non-rapist symbol too.

I’m only marginally sorry for being frightened. I’m pretty jumpy anyway, but I’ve also never seen you before. It’s typically that lady who whistles (while she works). And you were trying to come into the restroom whilst I was trying to exit it, without even a "Hello?"

Naturally, my survival instincts called up some old Oprah episode about restroom rapers. It’s not like you were carrying a tampon receptacle, and I already mentioned your tiny logo. As far as I was concerned, you were some navy-clad mid-day office raper and I have a pretty strict rule about being murdered in my office’s bathroom.

I do appreciate you trying to calm me down with the introduction, though it was somewhat meaningless, since like your weensy uniform logo, the logo on the receptacles escapes my memory too. You’re company should really look into better branding. You really just sounded like you had a fetish.

I’m sorry if, even after you had been so nice to me, my refusal to shake your latex encased hand was even more offensive but once it was established you were Tampon Receptacle Changer; NOT a rapist, I didn’t want to touch you. I mean, I wouldn’t want to touch a rapist either. If that helps…

“You look very do-able today"

First of all, I look like that every day. Secondly, that’s a terrible compliment because of the slight inference that there are times in which I do not look “do-able.” Try adding a qualifier to that statement. Maybe “especially do-able.”

But ultimately, you should just shut up.

I’d rather you tell me I’m smart or funny before pretty. Hell, compliment my organizational skills. Sure are a tidy lady. How attractive you think I may be is about as important to me as what you think of my ability to sew on buttons. Fuck buttons.

Yesterday, the guy at the liquor store asks me on a date. No thanks. He says, “Worth a shot…figured you were out of my league.”

Whoa, what? I mean, of course I know I’m not so repugnant that I’m on the brink of being banished into the wilderness by a band of villagers with torches and pitchforks. Bigfoot is really just a really ugly lady. She’s all hairy like that because personal grooming is hard to keep up in the woods. Totally true.

I don’t know what liquor boy’s league is but I am neither in nor out of it. I don’t play your sport kiddo; a league of my own.

Big brains baby…that’s all I care about. Recently, it was pointed out to me that the only reason I could take this position was because I was not hard on the eyes (as it were). Yeah now…me age 15-17…let’s just say the villagers were closing in.

Anyway, thanks for appreciating what irrelevant about me. Next time let’s try having a conversation.

My Kid Is On The Honor Roll

Other Dad: My son has made honor roll. Isn't that impressive?

My Dad: Yes, yes - that is very impressive! Jessica, did you hear? His son made the honor roll.

Me: Umm, Dad...you do know me and my brother have both made the honor roll for the last couple of years.

My Dad: Oh, is that what that was? I don't always understand what you two are talking about.

Me: We get that.

My Dad: But his son made the "overarching" honor roll. It's like a combination of all the honor rolls.

Me: Yeah...I actually asked his dad about that at least 8 times. About how to make the "overarching" honor roll happen.

My Dad: You did?

Me: Yeah but he treats me like I'm in special ed. If he even answered me at all.

My Dad: Well,  I know you and your brother are smart.

Me: You could mention that to him. His dad is on the honor roll committee!

My Dad: You're too impatient. Besides, we're having a party for the honor roll kids, and since you and your brother made it, like you said, then it'll be like your party too.

Me: That's swell Dad. Thanks.

My Dad: Don't be unhappy kiddo. You gotta be positive like your dad. Optimism.

Me: Obviously, I'm adopted.

Your Calling Has Been Forwarded To...

Mo.

My friend Mo. His name isn’t actually Mo. It’s short for something long, too complex to roll off of my simple American tongue, probably of Persian origin, and may (or may not) actually contain the letters “m” and “o.” And Mo’s last name doesn’t include any vowels. Mo is an enigma, or “ngm.”

Anyway, Mo is IT counsel for an company whose software you likely curse the existence of at least once a day. We met at a conference a couple of years ago and hit it off at a networking dinner. He made me laugh until I cried, and we’ve been professional besties ever since. He's fairly busy, so we only get to exchange emails every now and then. But I really need some help on something, so I called him.

"Hey kiddo, I need a favor. Call me."

3 MINUTES LATER (ring, ring) "What's wrong? What happened?"

Very impressive response time. You must really short-change yourself on billable hours though. I ask if he'll read my personal statement for law school, we chit chat about who has the more ridiculous workplace, blah, blah, emailing it now, see you at the next conference. Peace out.

10 MINUTES LATER (ring, ring) "DO NOT GO TO LAW SCHOOL!"

Por que? Don't go? Why wouldn't I go? I was looking for more commentary on my grammar than this doom and gloom, beware of the JD speech.

"You'll hate it. Seriously Jessica, it's not for you."

OH NO! Mo has Alzheimer’s! He’s completely forgotten that what I’m currently doing isn’t for me. Nevermind about reading my personal statement Mo. Just go eat some soup and take a nap.

“Going to law school will ruin everything that is great about you.”

Ummm…thanks? Is that a backhanded compliment? I can’t tell. Poor confused Mo.

“You’ll come out in a box. You’ll be inflexible. And full of shit.”

But…but…but…wait, what?

“Gotta jet. We’ll talk another time. DON’T APPLY.”

……..but……….

FUPM

You know you're curious. What does FUPM mean? It's not hipster text lingo. FUPM is a lifestyle. Sadly, one you have to resign yourself to. Once there, FUPM becomes your 4-letter mantra; the last assertion of pride.

Ever love something you were doing - like a job, hobby, team sport, etc - and someone comes along and just ruins the entire fucking thing for you? Along with FUPM, we have a saying, "It just takes one asshole to ruin a good time."

The asshole has ruined something I am genuinely passionate about. RUINED. Call National Geographic and let's do a documentary. Once a vibrate and bustling passion; now a desolate and sad sight. 

FUPM.

It means: Fuck You; Pay Me. 

FUPM happens when your passion becomes just a paycheck; a hobby you're about to give up or a sport you no longer root for. 

That asshole drove my passion to extinction. So FUPM. I'll just push some paper around and collect my check. Thanks.

Buy What Your Wife Told You To

Yesterday I pull into the grocery store parking lot at the same time as a guy in a BMW. As we're getting out of our cars, a van wrapped in "Go2TanAtlanta" pulls into the spaces across from us.

Let's make sure you get a clear visual of this van: it's one of those rapist vans and all of the windows are covered in the "Go2TanAtlanta" logo. So you can't see inside. Apparently this company does mobile airbrush tanning.

So BMW says, "That looks like a smart way to kidnap people."

Ummm...actually, I was thinking the same thing, "Totally. It's probably a lot easier when they get in willingly."

Yes, I know this is a weird conversation but obviously not that weird since BMW and I were both thinking it. Anyway, we're walking inside kind of chatting about how that van is social Darwinism - the self-absorbed should become extinct is beauty out-weighs their survival skills - when I realize that we're halfway through the store and he's still walking with me. Oh the irony of chatting about murder with a murderer.

"Are you following me?"

"I don't think so."

Provided he's not a murderer, that answer was funny.

He stops at the diapers and I stop at the shaving cream. Same aisle; about 15 feet away from each other. BMW shouts at me, "What do you know about diapers?"

"I know you need a baby." I'm suspicious of him. I've now decided he and the airbrush tan van of death are in cahoots.

"My wife sent me to get diapers."

"Buy what your wife told you to."

"She didn't tell me what kind. She just said 'buy diapers' and...what is swaddling? Is that good?"

"Buy the kind you have at home already."

"But these are cheaper."

"The only other thing I know about diapers is that if your wife wanted to switch brands, she'd be here picking them out. Buy the cheaper brand if you want, but you'll probably just have to come back."

"Whoa...it's like you know my wife!"

"There's only one way to be correct."

"I hate Aristotle."

OMG! 1) the fact that I would randomly quote Aristotle because 2) I hate him and 3) have the person I doth quoted to KNOW the quote is 4) amazing, especially because 5) I hate him too.

"Good luck," and I walk away.

Couple of minutes later, we re-run into each other on the beer aisle. Now BMW seems embarrassed, "Sad right? Diapers and beer."

"Try buying diapers, beer and being a chick."

"I never thought about that. Fair point."

"Obviously this has been an eye-opening Kroger trip for you."

Hook & Lie

Can there really be no improvements made to hook and eye enclosure technology? Because they don't work. Ever. Not on any garment. So if the whole concept is futile, let's just abandon it completely. Whose in charge of this? YKK?

Yet I fall for it every time...

Oh look, that dress is adorable! Nevermind that its entire top is held together by unreliable hook and eye enclosures. I know, I'll wear it to work. On a day I know I have a meeting.

Because it's not the least bit distracting to be constantly checking my chest to see if my bra is hanging out. I can't even act all offended at that point.

Hey, my eyes are up here! I know, but your boobs are all exposed down there. You should really look into wearing a top with buttons.

Touche.

Thank You for Last Night

How my phone has not been lost, smashed, dropped in liquid, or some similar iCalamity, I will never know. Seriously, if that phone could talk...

Ok, so here are my thank you's:

Thanks to Blake for picking me up even though I should have been immediately suspicious of it because Blake is never so nice. Don't worry, he hasn't gone all golden boy on us. As soon as I got in the car he turned on 311, pumped up the volume and sang their horrible songs to me. Then he threatened to punch me in the face because I don't like ice cream, so an extra thank you to Blake for not doing so.

Thank you to Karen for saying the following random phrases: "Who is 311?" - I didn't think that was best-able until she said - "Did you ever see the Michael Jackson Delorean repo episode?" and for having the most interesting plan of attack against meter maids and booters.

Thank you to Chris for suggesting Atkin's Park which was, as promised, delicious and had the best people watch seats we could have ever hoped for. How the newest guy in town knows all the places to be is pretty amazing.

Thank you to the chick on the bike in a skirt and to her ass. Thank you to the guy with the Guitar Hero guitar strapped to his back like he was going to a show. Thank you to all the people dressed oddly similar, traveling in pairs. Thank you to the little girl with the big bow and her mom for being nice that the people at the bar all waved at her.

Thank you for that shared "You sing karaoke at the Clairmont too?!" moment.

And a very special thank you to the man carry the little ladybug-wearing baby in the palm of his hand.

Thank you to Joseph for always being like-minded with me on chicken fingers and for picking up my tab. I am also thankful that he never fell backwards off the ledge. Obviously all those kettlebells make for   some damn good balance. Thank you kettlebells.

Thank you to Jolene for being my mfbff4l and for coming out even though Robbie was off on a Friday night. Thank you to Robbie for babysitting.

Thank you to Jeremiah for not making too much fun of me when I busted ass and my knee, as well as for getting me home. Even though you apparently robbed me of my phone and other quasi-important purse items, you still get mad credit for meeting me half way this morning. Also, thanks to your lovely finance for being cool about the fact that you had to do all that right when she got into town.

Thank you to Adam for that text message. It made getting my phone back that much more amazing.

And finally, thank you to my neighbor for finally turning off that fucking Britney Spears album you've been blasting all morning. It really has made laying on my bathroom floor much more therapeutic.

Your Epic Thursday Night

Holy crap! You all went fucknuts last night! And I missed it!

While I was having a nice quite evening at home, ALL of you were out getting drunk and rowdy...or worse. I have to say, bravo kiddos! This morning was quite possibly the most interesting set of text messages I've had the pleasure of waking up to in a long time. No - EVER.

Here are some snippets:

Make sure your boot has the time on it.

Styx gave me a thumbs up!!!

It just hit me. I love you lots!

Oh! And I think I'm confused about my sexuality

Love or hate me, fundamentally, I'm a black Jew.

I think I'm moving to LA tomorrow...

Do you think it hurts a potato to become a chip? I'm asking if plants feel pain.

Bag it and tag it yo for I am the shit!!

This chick it outta my. Advice!
?? I need help??
Wha, ru efn sleepn?!
Ur the WORST wingman!
NVRMd...tapt! hbd kiddo!!

The last one was my favorite. 

Listen Here Wilson....

Do you know how much shit you talk? You're always, ALWAYS, always talking shit about how I never answer my phone. Or how I never call you back. Or how I can't handle all the witty banter you'd telecommunacitvely drop on me if I were to answer the phone.

You also have a regularly scheduled bitching about how I don't invite you out enough.

Well, the joke's on you motherf*cker because I just called to specifically invite you out and your ass didn't answer!

Except, in EPIC Wilson-esque style, you fucking called me in the middle of my rant and took the wind right out of my putting you on blast.

Touche.

Stating the Obvious

Do you have any idea how much fakery goes into being a girl?!

We’re all plucked, preened, festooned, or augmented. I get up every morning, spend about an hour beautifying and embellishing myself, so that I always look straight from a spa retreat.

Did I get my hair cut? No! I spent 30 minutes burning my finger tips, trying to give it the right amount of movement so that at least one person will ask me that question every day.

Have I lost weight? Good God no! You should see the fucking rigging under this devastatingly fashionable ensemble. Minimizing, maximizing, smoothing, controlling, and no see-through seaming.

Have you been out in the sun? Of course not! The sun is bad for your skin. Instead, I’ve been applying a highly toxic chemical dye to my entire body at least once a day. Then I smear on some SPF 15 moisturizer before heading out.

Thank you, yes, my Barbie pink toe nail polish is the shit! Heaven forbid it chips, exposing the hooves underneath. Good thing I pay that Asian woman to clip, scrape and declaw me every 2 weeks.

And even though I have an actual woman to rip the hair off my lady parts with hot wax, I still bought that damn Schick bikini line trimmer to landscape the hedges.

No, my eyelashes are not this long. I plump up the volume for 3x magnification. Later, I waste 4 jumbo cotton balls just to get the glam black back off of my measly lashes.

I use skin firming cream and anti-wrinkle cream even though I’m not of slacking skin and have never seen a wrinkle. I tell myself that the absence of evidence means it must be working.

I wear 4” heels despite being a respectable height for reaching most things on shelves.

I also own an obscene amount of jewelry that I never wear because I don’t want to seem pretentious (oh, the irony!).

My contacts don’t change the color of my eyes, but they keep me from wearing my Coke-bottle glasses. Well, they once were Coke-bottle-esque – I paid extra for the fancy glass that’s cut in a special way to appear slimmer in the frame. Yep, I paid extra for something I rarely wear. Not that the frames aren’t rock your socks off sexy, because they are, but if I wear my glasses I can’t wear my oversized en vogue sunglasses, that don’t block UV rays, but make me look fierce.

Everything must be organic and grass-fed, even though I’d rather being eating nachos and drinking a High Life. Fuck the environment; it’s the champagne of beers.

Despite the above advocacy of greenery - all of my clothes have to go to the dry cleaner because the shit I feel compelled to buy is too goddamn fancy for water.

My emotions are disingenuous because I take hormones to alter the course of Mother Nature’s design. Sorry biology, I am going to the beach this week and I just can’t fit in ovulating. We’ll just double-time it when I get back so that I cry at Publix commercials, scream at strangers and vow never to leave my house again because I am too fat and hideous.

Go tell your lady friend she looks hot. She worked hard at it.

WANTED: Chicken Murderer

Dear CBS Atlanta,

If you're really in the business of asking the "Tough Questions," then perhaps you might want to start asking why someone poisoned this man's chickens in the first place. Or why he insists on having more than the ordinance allows.

Or why he has roosters, which are explicitly not allowed. Or why in God's name does he have SIX roosters, again against code, as well as all sense of reason related to chicken hierarchy. Rooster - singular - rules the roost.

I am so motherf*cking sick and tired of listening to those roosters have a cock-a-doodle-doo contest from dawn 'til dusk. And I especially hate that one extra stupid rooster that sometimes crows in the middle of the night. What's wrong with that f*cking rooster?! Is it having nightmares? It's 2 mfn AM and that stupid ass bird is up like it's daybreak.

Apparently these questions are only tough to your news people because they're pretty fucking obvious to everyone else. So once you've sorted through the elementary stuff,  then perhaps you can ask why:

• he lets a pig live in his house;
• he threatens to shoot people, and has posted signage stating so;
• he once shot a chicken once in front of me and my 5 year old daughter, and left it on his pick up to bleed out all afternoon;
• he thinks it's appropriate to use a backhoe in the middle of the night to grade his yard;
• his best friend, the Mayor, is keeping turkeys at his house (turkeys, too, are not allowed within the city limits, which is probably why Mr. Mayor doesn't keep the turkeys at HIS house)
• if the chickens really are his precious babies, does he let them roam free in his yard and the street

No one poisoned this man's chickens. All of those who loathe the chickens (and yes I am a card-carrying member of the loathing party) were out of town, where we, at the very least, could enjoy a couple of days without having to listen to those damn roosters crow from 4 am to 8 pm.

Except, I am almost completely sure he did it himself so he could woe to the media. And you stupid fuckers fell for it all over again. How can you seriously call someone who let hundreds of yard birds run loose around his property, the street, my property, etc. an "animal lover?" Shouldn't his 100+ "babies" be on leashes? I mean if the man can't follow the law about how many pet chickens you can have, then he could at least follow the goddamn leash law. They probably poisoned themselves so they didn't have to live like that anymore.

So if you really wanted to ask a tough question, ask what it's been like to be this man's neighbor. And if you do find the person responsible, I'd like to give them a high-five.

Sincerely, Jessica

Drawer Droppers

Will the person who lost a pair of dirty blue underwear please come to Lost & Found to claim them.

Last year we were losing weaves, this year it's our undies! Ladies, what is going on here? How does this happen?

Actually, I know exactly how this happens - you have an impromptu booty call and stuff your dirty skivies in your purse the next morning. But how it came to this, I'm baffled by.

Obviously this was very much unplanned because no one ever had premeditated a booty call in granny panties. Not to mention, it was a weeknight and I'm assuming that most (hopefully most) of my coworkers wear clean drawers to work.

I wonder how long into your day were you before you discovered they were missing. What was your, "HOLY SHIT MY DRAWERS ARE MISSING!" moment like? Did you look for them? Somone picked them up. They're not still laying out by the daisies.

Well, whatever the circumstances that led to this mysterious drawer-dropping, on behalf of everyone that got to walk by them and snicker, I thank you.

You're Wrong for That

OH MY GOD, PLEASE STOP BEING SO WRONG!! I cannot take it anymore! Everything out of your mouth it w r o n g. You’re like a hell mouth of misinformation. I feel like a villager in Pompeii being smothered by the cloud of stupidity you’re spewing.


Though, if this really was ancient times, the Spartans would’ve killed you for being so weak minded. I don’t even care that point isn’t historically accurate. You’re a dumbass. You won’t know.

BECAUSE YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!

Yet, for whatever reason, you’ve been allowed to sit and spout wrongness in meeting after meeting until all of our brains have turned to pudding and we actually believe in your expertise. The only thing you excel in is dancing around the point, talking in circles and pretending to be getting emails on your Blackberry. I’m not sure you can even work the damn thing. PUT IT DOWN!! Fiddling with it in meetings doesn’t make you look smart; it makes you look rude. Rude and dumb. That’s the definition of a donkey. Look it up.

Don’t talk over me. Shit I say in my sleep is more profound that what you can produce in a year. Don’t ever call me naive again. You just haven’t been around long enough like I have to get the big picture. You’re being naïve.

Listen here Antiquatasaurus…of course I don’t get your “big picture” because you’re still showing it silent film style with that speakeasy piano music in the background. I’d be happy if you were even using Dolby and Technicolor but that’s like asking the Amish to build a space ship. Fine woodworking doesn’t get you into orbit.

And truth be told, the Amish are more technically advanced than I’ll ever give you credit for.

Friends List Clean Up

I think it's Friends List clean up time. But I've decided to do it a little differently and tell you I'm about to delete you beforehand, instead of the "YOU SURVIVED" route.

Start campaigning for the preservation of our virtual friendship!

Actually, it's not that I don't like all of you. I do, in fact, know all of my friends. Reasonably personally. There's only 2 I haven't physically met but at this point, I've known them well enough to met up with them and not fear being chopped into bits.

But here's the thing...I count on the people in my life to be entertaining. Not like go out of your way, try to hard, fake something interesting entertaining but be themselves and have fun about it.

So all of your and your stupid app requests, win a free laptop, blah-blah-blah, etc. will have to go. That's not you. That's passive marketing. So not only is it not you, it's lazy someone else! Not interested. Not one Farmville, Fishtown, Ferret Fiefdom has ever made me giggle. What's the point in knowing all my Facebook friends if they don't act like themselves?

Anyway, can't wait to hear your campaign promises! And if the whole make-your-case with me pisses you off, then do us both a favor and delete your too sensitive ass now.

It's Like That Old Wives' Tale

"I like your art."

What? People say this all the time and it always trips me up. What the shit are you talking about? Ohhhh, the tattoo...umm, yeah art.

It is art. Mine is. The tribal bs, tramp stamp you have isn't art. But too many pick-it-from the sheet people got their feelings hurt and now it's all called "art." Does Poster Hut sell art? I think not. Mine's a tattoo. Art it what you hang on a wall with a nail. And if your tattoo has any association with nails - you're entirely too old school hardcore for me or a carnie (likewise, not for me).

None of this is the point anyway; back to the complimentor. Thanks dude. I was thinking that in order to come to this beach I was going to need a faded Old English tattoo on my stomach or back but I'm glad to see your kind still appreciates my "art." Mine must look like a fucking Da'Vinci compared to that Etch-a-Sketch shit on your arm.

"What do the birds mean?"

BTW, he has them too...

Wait. Whoa. What? What the hell do yours mean??

"It's the old wives' tale."

I'm not sure that's the correct classification but I'll accept it as being pretty close. For a second I thought he was going to tell me something crazy or lewd as the meaning.

So then, of course, he did...

"It's for how many past lives I've lived."

Yeah. Read it again. It's that stupid. Imagine hearing it in person!

So I say, "Oh," and thought of leaving it at that but, I mean SERIOUSLY! How wrong is that?!?

"I've never heard that (because it's moronic). Sailors used to tattoo swallows on their chest so that if they were lost at sea and drowned, the birds would carry their souls to Heaven. I got mine when I started traveling a lot."

THEN, this m*therfucker seriously says, "That's what I said."

Can't argue with crazy, so yep. Just like you said.

Later he compared Andre 3000 songs to Equal Opportunity, "3-stacks diversifies." I was impressed with the vocabulary. You can always win me back with a big word or two.

Can We All Just Get Along Without Me?

I promised myself (and all the other people with me) that I was not going to check my work email while on vacation. My job isn't that important. There are hoards of other people who can handle an emergency in my absence. But I lack self-control. Fucking curiosity. So I checked the work email.

How the hell is it possible to have 362 emails since last Thursday?!? 362?? That's almost an email for every day of a year! What the hell is wrong with you people?!? I could not have tipped around the office more, announcing my vacation and complete lack of connectivity to you after I left the building on Thursday! It was a tip-n-skip basically.

361 of those emails will go unanswered until Monday. You should've been better prepared. The 1 - the ONLY one from somewhere doing real work (gasp and be offended; it's still true) - was answered. Then she RE:RE:RE'd me, calling me "amazing" and thanking Heaven for my existence.

Take note. That is the best way to get me to help you. Tell Heaven I'm awesome, stroke my ego and I'll respond faster.

The rest of you, who did not thank Heaven for me; perhaps damned me to Hell or cursed my name and/or asked me to look at something you should have known better not to be doing in the first place can hold your horses until I get back. FUPM.

Psssst! Help Me!

I never thought I'd beg to come home from vacation, especially vacation at the beach but I am being held hostage by a lack of understanding and guilt. You're familiar with it. Your mom uses it on you all the time.

Help me!

I'm supposed to come home on Saturday. But I'm trying to up it to Friday. I need to come home Friday. Dear God let me come home Friday. I have to leave town again for 4 days on Wednesday. I'd like more than 3 loads of laundry's time at home before turning back around and leaving again. I have an all-day meeting on Monday. I'm feeling unprepared...and stressed.

But I'm being thwarted. Like I want to drive 7 hours over go to the beach. Seriously? That's not the reason! Do I hate my hosts? Of course not. I JUST MISS MY GODDAMN HOUSE!

Is that really too complex to understand? I travel 80%. Eighty! I want some quality time with my couch. My bed. All that new plumbing I'm still paying off, subsequent new carpet from said plumbing and the new roof. I paid out the ass for all of that shit and by God I want to spend some time with it!

None of that is a personal slight against anyone. Stop being so sensitive. Or; at least, so difficult about your delicate sensitivities. I want to go home 12 hours earlier than planned and I want to do so without all this fussing.

I Don't Want To Go To Sawgrass

Well no one asked you!

How is that a rational statement?! Where would you rather go? It better be Shangri-La because that's about the only place better. Even then, Shangri-La doesn't have a golf course, so once you get there, you'd be like  - dammit, I wish I was at Sawgrass!

I'm astounded. No, aghast. And befuddled. Shocking horrible perplexer.

Out with it! What is this amazing alternative to the paradisaical wonderland of Sawgrass?

St. Augustine Alligator Farm (*).

...speechless...

*not suggested by a child, but by a should know better grown up

I LOVE VACATION

I spent the first 12 hours of my July 4th Weekend hungover in an aquatic center with 600 screaming children, driving 8 hours with a panting Siberian Muttsky 6" from my face, being fussed at by Lillian for the outrageous suggestion that donkeys live on farms, and desperately praying for God to just go ahead and take me quickly. I'm too tired for this!

We stopped at the sketchiest gas station ever found in south Georgia. I'm the only person who did not arrive in an '86 Caprice Classic or bring a glock.

Daaaaamnnn, that dog be big. Do he be mean? Yes. Yes, he be mean as far as you need to be concerned. I'm very happy that stereotype; at least in Sylvester, GA, proved true.

Honestly, I don't know what Nigel would if someone tried to attack me. His general defensive behaviors include laying on his back and letting the aggressor pee on him. I really can't believe I let him protect me. I refused to be peed on.

The beach was awesome. There was a Hare Krishna parade. Good to see them getting out of airports.

I had funny beach neighbors who listened to Chechen disco music. Lillian announces that she hates the way their accent sounds. How the hell can she talk louder than the OCEAN?!? Whoa, whoa, whoa comrade - these are your people! Or were your people. Whichev, kiddo - don't hate on your at one time compatriots.

I made friends with the only person who didn't know you needed sunscreen at the beach. Stranger's name is Phil. And yes, Phil ended up smelling like watermelons.

I love vacation. Can't wait to do it all again tomorrow.