Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes...

I love living where I am living right now, and Danielle is probably the best roommate in the history of the world.  However, I am fairly sure that she would much rather eventually marry Phillip and grow old with him than eventually turn into an old maid and grow old with me.   This means that eventually, I will need to find someone else to live with me somewhere else. 

I’m not a bad person to live with.  Sometimes I am messy, but I can’t handle things being dirty.  (There is a HUGE difference between messy and dirty.  Huge.)  I’m an awesome cook, and if you have pets, I will love them as if they are my own.  There are, however, definitely a few things that any future roommate needs to be made aware of before he or she makes the decision to share a residence with me.

1)      It is in the best interest of everyone within a 25 yard radius if I only eat off of paper or plastic plates and only use plastic silverware.

2)      I may or may not have caught a dishwasher on fire when I was 18.  Turns out, you can wash dishes in a dishwasher, but not clothes. Though I think I learned my lesson, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to write “dishes only” on the dishwasher in case my memory ever lapses.

3)      I generally go to my room around 7 pm and I am asleep by 8:30.  I have the sleeping habits of an 89 year old great-grandmother.

4)      While hardwood floors are very pretty and quite easy to clean, they have proven to be nothing but incredibly dangerous to me.  If we live in a house with hardwood, I am required to wear those socks that have the tread material on the bottom at all times.  

5)      Under no condition can cleaning supplies be kept anywhere near hair products.  The bottles feel and often look way too similar.  I can assure you, my hair does not have any soap scum build-up. 

6)      Stairs are completely out of the question.  I’m sure my parents can provide numerous x-rays from my childhood to show exactly why.

7)      If there is something really gross in the fridge, I will take it out, let everyone around know how gross it is, and then proceed to try to get all parties present to smell it. And I’m persistent.

8)      I often get stuck when I am trying to change clothes.  More than once, someone has had to cut me out of a shirt.

Spread the word.  In a few months I will be trying to find somewhere to live and someone to live with me.

I assure you, my indescribable level of awesome totally negates the fact that I’m not all that great at the basic ins-and-outs of everyday life.

I now have the “Three’s Company” theme song stuck in my head.   

Cool.

Peace, my homies.

Be nice to people with needles.

It is crazy how people can enter your life in a completely random way, but you know that they are there to stay. (I so did not mean for that to rhyme. I’m not changing it.)  And before too long, you can’t really remember what your life was like before they showed up.

I am notorious for making friends in not so typical situations.  

But I met Katie when she stuck a needle in my arm.

Not even kidding.

She works in the medical field, and the first time we spoke was right before she shoved a 17 gauge needle in my vein.  We realized that her sister was then dating (they’re now engaged) an old friend of mine.  The conversation progressed and I learned that Katie had recently gone through a divorce.  This was before I had any idea that my marriage would soon crumble before my eyes, so I didn’t really think twice about it.

At that time, it never even crossed my mind that the friendship that would eventually form between the two of us would completely change and save my life.

One of the very first times we hung out, she and her sister, Joey, and I all managed to get locked out of the house that they then shared.  And we didn’t just get locked out a little bit.

Oh no.

The three of us ended up outside on the front porch with the deadbolts on both the front door and back door locked.  Yup.  They always kept the deadbolt on the back door locked, so that was no big deal. But somehow, when we were all outside, the deadbolt on the front door was locked from the inside of the house.

We were the only three people there.

It was one of the creepiest, most hilarious events of my life.

There is no physical explanation for what happened.

We eventually had to break into their house.  Like, literally break in.  We broke out a window and shoved Katie through it.

That night pretty much set the tone for our friendship.

We never don’t have fun (Gracious, I love double negatives. I blame it on my parents and their insistence on proper grammar.), and I have absolutely no doubt that if we decided to publish a book of nothing but our text message conversations, we would have an instant best seller.

She is probably the only person in America that has the same type of luck that I do.

Poor girl.

Everything that I am going through, she has been through it.  All the crazy emotions and confusion that I am feeling, she has felt too. 

And you know what?  She is okay. 

Actually, she is awesome.

When I see her, the way she still laughs constantly and loves with every ounce of her being, I know that I will be okay again soon.

(No way I will ever match her level of awesome though.)

P.S.  Next time someone is about to stick a sharp piece of metal in your arm, be nice to them.  They might end up being your best friend.

When I grow up...

When I was a kid and people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was always the same.  Without even thinking or showing the slightest sign of hesitance I would reply, “An architect.”

I was totally lying.  I just couldn’t tell the truth about my real life ambition.

When I grew up, I wanted to be black. 

(At the ripe age of 27, I am as fair skinned and light eyed as ever.)

When I realized that I was stuck with a terminal case of the Caucasian, I decided that it was a good idea for me to teach.  It is important to address the fact that I was a horrible, horrible student.  I was awful.  I didn’t study.  I didn’t do homework.  I loathed every minute that I spent inside the walls of A.P. Brewer High School.  My grades were mediocre, at best, and my discipline record was long. 

I didn’t spend too much time worrying about what exactly it was I wanted to teach.  English is pretty much the only thing I have ever been good at.  (Yup.  Ended a sentence with a preposition again… on purpose.  I get WAY too much joy from the use of intentional irony.)  Momma and Daddy were always pretty willing to let a few minor cuss words slide, but if I busted out a double negative or, heaven forbid, attempted to work the word “ain’t” into a conversation, you would have thought I had told them that I was looking into becoming a Democrat. 

Plus, I was (and still am) an avid reader.  And by avid reader, I really mean freak.  I read Lord of the Flies and To Kill a Mockingbird when I was in second grade.  Actually, I read both of those books multiple times that year.  To this day, they’re still two of my favorites.

I mentioned it in my first blog entry, but I taught English for two years at a tiny school in a tiny town.  I miss teaching, and I miss the kids, but until the economy becomes a little bit more stable, it isn’t exactly realistic for me to think that I will be getting a job in that field in the next few years.

I do own a small, but fairly successful photography business.  Prepare yourself for the cheesy statement that is about to follow.  But I think that there is so much more to a picture than just capturing the way someone looks.  I truly believe that is completely possible to capture a person’s character, to capture a person’s essence in a picture.  As much as I love when I get the absolute perfect shot, I’m not sure that I could ever take pictures full time.  I’m terrified that if it became my job, I would start to resent it.

So, I’m back to where I started. 

I never wanted to be an architect. I’m still not black. I’m not teaching right now. Taking pictures is fun, but not a career option. 

I need a new life plan.

Is it too late for me to join the Peace Corp?  Will they let me bring Ellie? Or would the natives of wherever I am stationed try to eat Ellie?

Maybe I can be someone who works on a street corner.  You know… the ones who hold the signs and dance to advertise for a local business?  Anyone who has seen my mad dancing skills is quite aware of how fabulous this could truly be.  

Help.

Ellie Mae.

I think the time has arrived for me to introduce the love of my life to all of you blessed souls who read my blog. 

She weighs a little less than six pounds, and she rules my life. 

Meet Ellie Mae.  (And the bottom half of my face.)

A sister of a friend had rescued her and was unable to keep her permanently.  I saw one picture of her and I completely fell in love.  Which is odd.  Because my entire life, I have made fun of people who have dogs that don’t really look or act like dogs. 

This is Sadie Grady.

She, also, is the love of my life.  (Yes, I have more than one.  Don’t question it.)  She is a German Shepherd/Husky mix that I rescued from the pound about 5 years ago, and she is currently living with my parents. (They treat their dogs better than my brothers and I were treated as children.  Her dog house is a mini log cabin with shingles and a fake chimney.  Thanks, Daddy.) 

Though Sadie is way too intelligent for her own good, and though she is quite the snob at times, she is definitely a real dog. 

She looks like a real dog.  She barks like a real dog.  She smells like a real dog.

Ellie Mae doesn’t really look like a real dog.  She doesn’t bark like a real dog.  And she most definitely does not smell like a real dog.

She smells like old socks.

(Sorry Ellie.  Didn’t mean to embarrass you.  But you really do.)

Also, Ellie Mae may or may not be ridiculously spoiled.  She can’t handle it if she feels like I am paying more attention to something or someone else than I am to her. 

Yes. She is really asleep on my laptop.  

I’m not totally jaded.  I know that Ellie Mae is not a pretty dog. 

She very clearly has one of those faces that only a mother can love.   But every once in a while, if the light is JUST right, and if close your right eye and cross your left, she kind of looks cute. 

Kind of.

She really is an awful pet.  She has no concept of personal space (one time she caught me off guard and I swear, she licked the inside of my teeth), she is an attention whore, she is quite spiteful, and she is fairly promiscuous.

It is not unusual for her to be walking through the living room and stop mid-stride, look around to be sure everyone is watching her, and start humping the air. 

I have witnesses.

She is a horrible excuse for a dog, but I love her to the moon and back. 

Have a good weekend, boys and girls.

My (German) Momma.

My Momma and Daddy met right after Daddy got out of Vietnam. 

Daddy went to Germany to visit his father, who was stationed at an Air Force base not too far away from where Momma grew up. 

Momma was 17 years old and had missed her bus to a concert.  Determined to get there regardless, she decided to hitchhike.  No, it wasn’t the wisest or safest decision, but I’m pretty glad that she didn’t give up and just decide to stay home for the evening.   Because the man that stopped to give her a ride would eventually become my Daddy.  

How cool is that?

Daddy spoke no German and Momma spoke very little English.  But that evidently wasn’t too much of an issue, because they have been married for over 35 years. 

Even though she has lived in America for many, many years, Momma’s German accent is still pretty thick and noticeable.  (I couldn’t ever hear it when I was a kid, but now that I have been out of the house for years, I can definitely tell it is there.)  Sometimes, when I meet new people and they find out that Momma has an accent, they beg me to call her and put her on speaker phone so that they can hear her talk. 

She eventually realized what I was up to, so she figured out ways to retaliate. 

One time, when I had her on speaker in front of some of my friends, she asked me about my hemorrhoids and if they were healing properly. 

I didn’t really have hemorrhoids. 

I didn’t really have a way to prove that to my friends. 

Aside from her joy in humiliating me when she catches me trying to exploit her accent, Momma is one of the best people you will ever meet.  No lie. She refuses to speak unkindly of anyone, and she won’t take part in anything that she feels will cause injustice or hurt to another person.  And she is the best cook, ever.  She owns a little German bakery in my home town and anyone in that area will swear that her food is what miracles are made of.  (Yes, I am aware that I just ended a sentence with a preposition.)

But my Momma thinks that absolutely anything can be fixed with herbal remedies. 

Growing up, I was forced to eat and drink some of the most horrid things.  I know now that they were very, very good for me and that Momma never had anything buy my best interest in mind, but gracious, I don’t know where she came up with some of these concoctions. 

As I grew older, herbal supplements started becoming trendier and more readily available in stores. For the most part, Momma took advantage of these new developments, and what she had once spent hours mixing, mashing, and force-feeding me (and often my Daddy… poor man), she now could simply purchase in a bottle.

Believe me.  She took full advantage of this for a good while.  Other kids my age were getting cars and cell phones for Christmas.  I would get bottles of valerian root and fish oil. 

I promise you, I’m not even exaggerating.

But about a year ago she started to digress.  Every time I would talk to her on the phone she would tell me about some new disgusting sounding concoction that she was attempting to perfect.  When I would ask to talk to Daddy, he always seemed to be somewhere else or doing something else.

I don’t blame the man.  He was hiding from Momma’s good intentions.

A few months ago, I went home to see my parents. 

This is what my Momma had waiting for me:

I kid you not.  She expected me to drink it. 

Don’t ask me what is in it.  I have NO idea.  And as you learned from a previous post, I have issues with anything that may look like goose poop.  Tell me that whatever the heck is in that glass doesn’t look like goose poop.  And I highly doubt you would drink it, either.

That’s all for today. 

Love you, Momma.  Just not the awful things you try to make me ingest sometimes.

My stupid pride.

The people in my office like to keep the temperature in the mid-70s.  I have complained about it every day for the past year.

Usually, I prefer room temperature to be in the high 60s.  Anything above 70 and I start to feel all hot and muggy and like I can’t breathe.  Seriously.  I absolutely cannot stand to be hot. 

Today, I took a stand at the office.  I marched down the hallway through the sweltering 74 degree heat and firmly pressed the down button on the thermostat until the magic number appeared…

Oh the bliss that is 68 degrees.

Usually.

I am absolutely freezing right now.  My fingers feel like icicles and I can’t feel my toes. 

A few minutes ago my friend Katie sent me a text message that made me laugh so hard I shot lemonade out of my nose.   It was frozen solid by the time it hit my keyboard and monitors.

Okay.  Not really.  But it would have been a heck of a lot easier to clean up that way.

It is so cold in here that I have resorted to wearing lipstick.  I never, ever wear lipstick.  But today, it is totally necessary.  Not only is it making my lips look colorful, moist, and pouty, but it is also completely hiding the fact that my lips are indeed a scary, deep shade of blue.

Another girl in the office just came up front and asked me “Are you not freezing?”

I can’t admit that I feel much as I imagine Jack felt as he was listening to Rose promise him that she would never let go.  He froze to death in the icy waters of the Atlantic.  I am going to freeze to death surrounded by office equipment. 

Maybe some big-shot Hollywood producer will hear about my story and make a billion dollar blockbuster film about my horrible and untimely death…

In response to my coworker’s question, I simply smiled (really it was more like I was gritting my teeth so that she couldn’t see that they were chattering uncontrollably) and said, “Of course not. I think it feels great in here.”

Jesus, forgive me for lying.

Good day.  And Goodbye.   Forever. 

I am obsessed with TV.

I blame this all on my parents.  They refused to get cable when I was a child, so I was stuck with five local channels and a big hole in my heart that only could have been filled by The Disney Channel and Nickelodeon.

I tried to explain to them that I was slowly dying on the inside due to the lack of relevant entertainment available, but they refused to hear my cries of desperation.   For the first 18 years of my life, I was deprived.

Now, here I am, 27 years old, and ridiculously obsessed with television. 

Some people have a couple of shows that they really enjoy and don’t like to miss.  I’m not one of those people.

Oh no. 

I only wish I could exercise that type of self-restraint. 

There are over a dozen shows that I absolutely refuse to miss.  If I am out of the house and have to DVR them, I will watch them before going to bed.  It is pitiful.  And this time of year, when all the fall shows are premiering, you may as well forget trying to get me to participate in any type of social activity that will require me to leave the house.  I won’t do it.

Tonight is the season premiere of Glee. 

To say that my love for that show is unhealthy would be the understatement of the year.  I have seen every episode numerous times.  I can tell you the backstory for each character. If you were to blindfold me and play a random clip from the series, I would easily be able to tell you the episode, who is speaking, and the context of the scene.   I can tell you the full name, age, hometown, and career journey of each actor and actress.  I read and participate in the online forums, and I know which websites and entertainment journalists provide accurate spoilers and which ones are full of fluff. 

My love for Heather Morris and her character, Brittany, is more than a little bit disturbing.  I may or may not have photoshopped myself into a picture with her.  It may or may not be the background on my phone. 

I may or may not have severe issues.

I completely understand if you want to reevaluate your relationship with me.

But if you decide that you want to friend break up, please wait until after 8 p.m. central standard time to notify me.

Goose Poop

As I mentioned in a previous post, I eat Mexican food quite often.  Too often.  And while I am quite possibly one of the least picky eaters known to man, there is one food that I absolutely, positively cannot make myself even attempt to eat. 

Guacamole.

Before I go on with this sad, sad tale, I feel it is important to note that I have two big brothers.  Mike is 6 years older than I am, and Dan is 3 year older.  And when I was a kid, they made my life a living hell.  I mean, I know they love me and all, but I am the youngest and the only girl.  I never had a chance of a quiet, peaceful childhood.

Honestly, I’m not completely sure how I survived the earliest years of my life. 

Mike and Dan would build some scary, incredibly unsafe, and completely awesome contraption (they’re both engineers now, so I guess in retrospect, it makes sense) and refuse to let me have any part of it… until it was time to give it a test run.

Then, I was their girl.

One time, a zip line they built broke when I was about 10 feet in the air. They had assured me that as long as I held on tight, I had nothing to worry about. 

They lied.

I have been tied into a wheelbarrow that was attached to a pulley. 

The pulley was about 15 feet in the air. 

(That’s another story for another day.)

Guntersville Lake is about 30 minutes away from where I grew up, so a few times a month, Momma and Daddy would load us up in the van and take us out there to spend the day.  We would head out in the morning before the southern summer heat would set in, and we would just spend the day walking the trail and playing in the water. 

If you have ever been to Guntersville Lake, I’m sure you’ve experienced the excessive amount of geese that reside there.

They. Are. Everywhere. 

Where there are lots of geese, there is lots of goose poop.  Unfortunately, the two go hand-in-hand. 

I was never incredibly bothered by the geese or their poop.  The geese avoided me, and I avoided their poop.  Simple solution, right?

Once the midday heat would begin to set in, we would all hop back in the van and go to a local Mexican restaurant.  Not going to lie… it was always my favorite part of the whole day.  My order was the same every single time:  taco salad with chicken.

Oh me.

It was bliss in a deep friend shell. 

Unfortunately, one sad day, Mike and Dan brought my happy little world of chicken chunks, shredded lettuce, cheese, tomatoes, sour cream, and guacamole to a screeching halt.

I can’t remember exactly which one of them said it (the trauma of it all causes black spots in my memory), but one of my wonderful older brothers looked at me and said, “Hey Jessie… you know that guacamole is made out of goose poop, right?”

To this day, I can’t eat guacamole. I can’t do it.

I now know that guacamole is made from avocado, and that no type of avian excrement is involved.  I promise.  I really do know that.

But I am scarred. 

Forever. 

I dare you to tell me you don’t see the resemblance.

Enjoy your guacamole, ladies and gentlemen.  

Butter Knives Are Dangerous.

Paper cuts hurt.  End of story.  They’re awful and miserable and don’t ever heal within a normal span of time.  Until last night, I would have testified without hesitance that paper cuts are at the very top of the list of minor injuries that really, really hurt.

A butter knife changed everything.

I eat at Casa quite often.  By quite often I mean entirely too much.  Most of the servers and managers know my name, and if I come in with someone different than one of my usual companions, they get really confused and concerned.  In all honesty, I have probably eaten there an average of at least once a week since I first moved to Florence.

So, let’s see here… 9 years…52 weeks per year…  I have eaten at Casa over 450 times. 

Please don’t tell my mother.  

And until last night, none of these approximately 450 times had ended in injury.

Katie (who is one of my best friends and will undoubtedly show up in many of my posts) and I had already finished our meals and were just sitting and talking as we finished our drinks.  All was well in the world as we discussed her new found love for cowboy boots and my completely unhealthy obsession with Glee. 

Suddenly, I felt a sharp, searing pain in the index finger on my left hand. 

I guess it is important to note that I was holding a butter knife in my right hand. 

I was trying to make Katie understand my inexplicable and unabashed love for Heather Morris and the character of Brittany, and in doing so, I had picked up the knife to gesture.  

In my zealous explanation, I somehow managed to take a small chunk of flesh out of my finger. 

How does that even happen?

Luckily, Katie is an EMT, and she quickly assured me that my injury was not life threatening.  

(I may or may not have been slightly dramatic about the whole situation.)

The moral of this story:  butter knife cut > paper cut

Good day.

chapstick =/= eye-black

In my purse, I used to carry a tube of eye-black

I think that’s totally normal

Some people might say it’s totally whack

I meant to take it out a while ago

But I’m kind of scatterbrained

In case you didn’t know

I keep it in the front pocket of my trusty Kavu

And ironically enough

That’s where I keep my chapstick too

A few nights ago my lips were hurting pretty bad

But I had chapstick in my purse

So there was no reason for me to be sad

It was late and I was stopped at a light

So I grabbed a tube from my purse

And applied my chapstick in the darkness of night

I’m sure you can figure out how this story ends

So many times I wonder

How I manage to have any friends

You’re welcome.

Move over, Maya Angelou.  You have nothing on me.

The Bane of My Existence...

The bane of my existence isn’t a mean girl from high school that left me scarred by her vicious words.

The bane of my existence isn’t my parents’ 110 pound black lab that tries to eat me every time I go visit them.

The bane of my existence isn’t my 2003 Ford Focus that reminds me constantly that he has seen much, much better days and will soon be going to join my beloved ’88 Bronco II in the big parking lot in the sky.

The bane of my existence is a Lanier LD245 Super G3 copier, fax machine, printer, and scanner combination. 

I have named her Jezebel. 

Why Jezebel, you might ask?  Because this machine is evil.  Purely and undeniably evil.  The Jezebel of the Old Testament caused all of Israel to fall into sin.  The Jezebel of my office causes me to say bad words.  The Jezebel of the Old Testament abused her power by having people killed so she could rule a nation.  The Jezebel of my office abuses her power by working perfectly for everyone else in the building and then mysteriously jamming up as soon as I need an important document.

I kid you not.  This machine hates me and doesn’t care who she harms in the process of making this hate evident.  Working in bankruptcy law, it is incredibly important that certain documents go out at a certain time.  People can lose their cars and even their houses if we don’t meet certain deadlines.  Does my modern day Jezebel care?  Not even a little bit.

I have tried everything.  I have talked nicely to her.  I have kicked her.  I have promised her jewelry and chocolate and wine.  At one incredibly low moment, I took full responsibility for all things wrong in our relationship and begged her for a completely fresh start.  Not even my tears and earnest words can pierce that cold, plastic exterior she keeps wrapped around her incredibly complex and confusing silicon chipped heart. I pour my heart out to her, and in turn, she gives me a one word response: ERROR.

The Jezebel of the Old Testament never changed her ways.  She never repented—never regretted any of the destruction she caused.  Unfortunately, I’m fairly certain the Jezebel of my office has no intentions of repentance or lifestyle changes either.

Is it blasphemous to pray for the salvation of office equipment?  I’m fairly sure Jesus is the only thing that will somehow negate her inexplicable hate of all things pertaining to me.  Ha.

Just the Beginning...

Very soon, I will be Jessica Grady again.

Yes, divorce is a scary word.

Yes, I am okay.

Yes, this is hard.

Yes, I did everything I could to save my marriage.

No, I don’t want you to say anything negative about any other parties involved in this whole debacle.

No, I don’t want to answer a million questions about it.

Of course, I still know that God is good and that His love for me is incomparable to anything that I can imagine.

I have wanted to write a blog for years, and I think now is a wonderful time to start.  A whole new chapter in my life is beginning, and after lots of tears, a ton of prayer, and the occasional glass of moscato, I’m finally to a point where I am really excited to see what God has in store for me.  I’m sure that bits and pieces of my journey will make it into this blog.

For those of you who may have randomly stumbled across this page, I only feel it is appropriate to do somewhat of an introduction.  To put it simply, I am everything one would expect a 27 year-old female who was born and raised in the heart of the Bible Belt to be.  I love country music and Jesus.  I have a degree in English Education and spent a few years teaching English and coaching at a small school in the middle of nowhere.  Due to the fact that the current government doesn’t give a dadgum about making sure our education system is properly funded, I am currently working as a legal assistant/office manager for a bankruptcy and divorce attorney.  I am so thankful for my job, but I miss kids every single day of my life. I read more than any other person I have ever met, and you’ll never find me without my Kindle in my purse. My dog, Ellie Mae, is the most spoiled dog in America, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I also own a small photography business.  Yeah… I’m one of those people.  I bought a nice DSLR, figured out how to use it, and what started as a joke has actually turned into something pretty successful. 

Strange things happen to me.  A few months ago, I managed to swallow a staple.  I once drove over 10 miles on a completely flat tire because I thought that the thumping I kept hearing and feeling was my car’s bass.  At least once a day, something happens to me that makes me stop and say, “Really, God?”  My life is awkward.  (Hence the title of this blog.)  But, my life is awesome and never boring. 

You’ll see.