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  1. Don’t Cheat on Your Stylist (and the importance of patience) | Part 2

    March 27, 2014 by jessica

    When I last left you, I had a glorious victory. I said my peace, stormed out of Ulta,  and then texted home saying that I wouldn’t be picking up Anthony’s Coal Fired Pizza as originally planned, because I was on the lam. I mean, I was right to walk out, but that didn’t mean that Moron Karen wasn’t going to follow me into Anthony’s where I would then have to cause yet another scene. I opted to head for the car instead. They would call if they had any issues.

    During my ride home I glanced up to the rear view mirror at my streaky, wet hair, dreading what it was going to look like once it dried. After all, I left mid-process. I blasted into the house and hysterically explained what happened to the family, then went upstairs to blow-dry my hair and see the damage. I’m not gonna lie to you kids, it wasn’t pretty…

    Granny Hair

    Behold: Fried Grandma Hair

    Goddamn Moron Karen had left me under the heaters for so long that she fried my hair to an abhorrent shade of gray and white! I was not happy with this new straw helmet I was burdened with. I went back and forth in my head about whether or not I should leave it alone and just let it relax for a day or two, or if I should head over to my regular stylist and get it fixed. Especially because I’m no stranger to getting my hair “fixed”. Fixing hair costs a ton; you get charged extra when you come in with already-ruined hair because there is no way of knowing what’s going to happen to it. The canvas is not blank, it is tainted, and extra care has to be taken and thus, extra costs incur.

    I called over to Tangles and asked if Jessica (my regular stylist) was available to lavender-ize my recently whitened hair. Unfortunately, she wasn’t available until Monday. Hmm, it’s Thursday, so I’ll have to wait 4 days…fine, fine. Didn’t want to risk screwing it up more, so I decided to be patient, make my appointment for Monday and wait for Jessica. I was proud of myself.

    *Fifteen Minutes Later*

    I couldn’t take it anymore. I can’t wait ’til Monday! I have to get through the weekend with this ridiculous gray mop on my head? NO. It was going to be fine, I had a plan! Sabrina, Jared’s regular stylist, would be available that evening. She’s been there while Jessica did my hair, she knows what it’s supposed to look like, and she’s not an idiot. So, I called back and changed my appointment to IMMEDIATELY and ran on over to Tangles to have Sabrina fix me up.

    The girls in the salon crowded around, flabbergasted by what I had brought to them. “What did she do to you?” and “What? They put YOU under a HEATER? They should have NEVER done that!” were some of the sentences flying around. Sabrina was up to the task, but warned me that because my hair was so white and fried, she was going to have to put in a little bit darker of a purple just to make sure my hair soaked it in, but said that everything was going to be alright and I was on my way to pale lavender hair. Phew!

    *Several Hours Later*

    The poor shampoo girl had worn her hands down to wrinkly little prunes having tried to wash out the hair color that stuck VERY, and unexpectedly, well. At this point Sabrina was cutting Jared’s hair (he happened to have an appointment) and told the shampoo girl to bring me over to the mirror so she could see the progress. Before I made it to the mirror, I saw it on their faces. It wasn’t good. As I made my way to the mirror, I let out a yelp at the deep, magenta hue of my hair. Sabrina gave the shampoo girl some more instructions, involving strongly scented potions and elixirs, meaning to pull the magenta out and lighten up the color. Now armed with a handheld mirror, I was told to let her know when it got to the lightness I wanted. She washed and she washed, the poor thing, it wasn’t going anywhere. They would’ve gone on all night, I had to call it.

    “Guys. I don’t think we’re gonna get there tonight. Or ever. I…think…this is it,” I said while trying to muster up an understanding smile, even though I hated it and they both knew it.

    We surrendered to the Magenta. What was I supposed to do now? Walk out on another stylist? This time, I could not. I brought her a tainted canvas, I couldn’t hold her accountable for this atrocity. I certainly wanted to, considering the overcompensation of color is what caused it to happen in the first place, but I knew going into it that if you go in with fucked up hair you’re taking a gamble. Besides, this was my regular salon, and I had to come back here again. It was time to cut my losses and pay for my new, cartoon-fuchsia hair…

    Yikes Magenta

    That ain’t Lavender

    Two Hundred dollars later, there was nothing I could do. I had to give it a break. Sabrina told me it should wash out over the next week or so, into a much lighter version of the color and something that wasn’t like a punch in the face every time I looked in the mirror. I would have to wait it out. Or would I?

    For about 10 days I did; I stuck it out with the magenta. Mostly for the sake of my hair’s health and the fact that I didn’t want it to fall out, but I stuck it out nonetheless. It wasn’t getting any lighter. Those bastard magenta molecules were clinging on for dear life. Then one day, strolling through CVS, I saw hope. A box of chemicals located in the midst of all the hair dye called “Color Oops”. I read the box, it was meant for this exact purpose. Put it on, remove the accidental color you have in your hair. “Oops” fit my situation perfectly. I was SOLD. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? It doesn’t come out. Fine. Reviews online said it worked for many people.  It was worth a shot! 

    I went home and started the process. I did just like the box said, put the rotten-egg smelling chemicals on for 20 minutes and then spent another 20 minutes rinsing and rewashing my hair. Keep rinsing and washing, they say, and more color comes out! I rinsed and I washed, my poor hair felt like straw. I heard the timer on my phone go off and thought, FINALLY, I can condition it and check out the results. I pulled a piece of my wet hair down toward my face so I could see the progress. To my complete surprise, for some weird, inexplicable reason, it was BLUE. At that point, I started laughing hysterically. Was this a joke? Why on earth did it turn blue?! I was going to lose my mind. I am clearly cursed.


    Color Oops, indeed.

    I rinsed more and more to no avail. My only solace was in the fact that it was at least a light blue, so somewhat closer to fading out than it was before. So, my hair was going to be blue for a few days until I could try something else. Yes, I lack patience which gets me into these situations in the first place, but once I’m in them I don’t give up. I wasn’t going to LEAVE it like that; OBVIOUSLY. Especially since as the days went on it started turning a greenish-blue–not the pretty, ‘ooooh look turquoise’ kind but the ‘ewww look it’s mold’ kind. I wasn’t having it. I figured since the Color Oops got it partially out, even though it turned the remnants blue, another box should remove the remaining color, right? Wrong. Now $230 in the hole, the blue was sticking around. CVS didn’t have what I needed, I would have to seek out the help of professional products from Sally’s Beauty Supply or rather its Buck’s County knock-off version, Beautyland.

    I made it to Beautyland with 15 minutes to spare before closing, and asked the staff for a suggestion on how to remove the blue-green menace. I was directed to a packet by L’Oréal, for $1.89. My immediate thought was, if this shit works I’m going to be pissed that I wasted $30 on Color Oops. It was a product with a warning on the label saying it was to be used by professionals only. Whatevs, with the amount of times I’ve messed up my hair, I needed something on a professional level.

    Normally, with my luck, this packet would have put the final nail in the coffin and blown the hair clean off my head. However, the ultimate irony of this tiny little packet was that it worked perfectly. I could’ve flashed back two weeks, saved $30 and had my hair at a regular shade of blonde…probably, maybe, who knows. For some reason it removed the blue completely, but somehow left a slight tone of gold in it so that it didn’t go back to the whitish-gray that was all the way underneath. No idea why it did that, but it was as if my hair were professionally toned and highlighted that way.



    Now we now all know the real truth behind my seemingly intentional blonde hair. It came with a shitload of money spent, shades of gray, magenta and bluish-green in between, and a whole lot of smelling like rotten eggs. And that, my friends, is why:

    1.) You should NEVER, ever, ever cheat on your stylist and 2.) Patience is important.

    Partial lesson learned; learning to have patience will take some…patience.

  2. Don’t Cheat on Your Stylist | Part 1

    March 14, 2014 by jessica

    If you know me at all, you are aware that I change my hair color a lot…it’s like a disease. A short period of time will pass and I’ll grow antsy, an unexplainable fire starts burning within me and I absolutely must alter my appearance! However, recently, for the first time in my life, I’ve actually been content with the same color for almost (key word: almost) THREE hair styling sessions in a row. That color, was a beautiful pale lavender. It all started with me experimenting with a bright purplish-blue color, but quickly after that (within hours of getting it done) in classic Jessica form, I decided pale lavender would be my next step. My regular stylist would create it and it would be grand. She did once, and then she did it again and once it faded it was now time for a refresh.

    What madness, not only going to the same stylist several times in a row, but requesting the same color? Who is this person? Was I growing as a human being? Yes!

    Well, almost, the above statement would have been true except for the fact that I had just received this awesome coupon to Ulta that offered me a cut and color for $60 compared to my usual $85. Score!

    I took all the risks into account and decided to plan ahead properly. I’m aware that lavender isn’t a common color, so I thought I would call ahead and make sure that Ulta had the tools to do my color the way I wanted it done. I spoke with two separate women at the salon who assured me that lavender is a color that they absolutely have, but that I should bring a picture to make sure the stylist knew the exact hue that I wanted. “Of course!” I exclaimed, “I have a picture of MYSELF!” Not just some random person online with hair that kind of looks like it but isn’t it. Ideal situation for me and for the stylist. Done and done. My appointment with Karen was made and off to Ulta I went.

    I arrived at Ulta sans coupon, as they had told me by phone that the day’s offer was 20% off and not the coupon I had originally wanted to use, which was fine as I looked online at their prices before leaving the house and they were pretty standard and reasonable. This 20% off was a better deal anyway, since I wasn’t planning on getting my hair cut. The stylist introduced herself and we walked on over to her chair to discuss hair plans. At that point I told her I wanted lavender highlights; basically highlight my hair, and then tone it with lavender, simple. I then showed her this photo, as promised, to give her an idea of what I mean by lavender and to avoid any confusion.

    THIS IS GODDAMN LAVENDERIn looking at the photo with her, I said, “This is how I normally get it done. I would like this color but actually a little bit more pale of a lavender than this. Is that okay?” She checked out the photo, said it’s no problem, and went over to get me a quote for the cost of services. When she came back, she said, “It’s going to be $155.”

    Surprised by the extremely high cost, I inquired further, “Really?? That seems like a lot for highlights with toner…does that include the 20% off?”

    “Oh. No. Hold on.” She walked back to her computer, then returned, “With the discount, it’s $135.”

    In my head I’m thinking, that’s not 20%…that’s $20. This probably should’ve been my first red flag. Instead I thought, ah well, it’ll be fine, we can teach her math later. Despite the fact that this was going to cost me a lot more than what I usually pay, and being that the only reason I switched stylists was to get a discount, I probably should’ve just left. But of course, I had already driven all the way there and I was in the chair, so I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt anyway.  I mean, you get what you pay for, right? There must be a reason this is more expensive. I agreed to proceed.

    Karen went on over and began mixing the bleach for the first step of the process: my highlights. As she placed the foils in my hair, I played on my phone, we had some chit chat, and things seemed to be going along smoothly. Suddenly, a fellow stylist asked her if she was going to put the color solely on my highlights, or on my entire head when she was done. Karen responded, “I was only planning on putting it on the highlights.”

    I thought that was cool, since normally they do it all over, but I thought maybe this was where the extra cost came in. Precision, attention to detail, etc. Then Karen asked me, “Wait, do you want me to do the whole head or just the highlights?” I responded accordingly, “Well, normally they just do the whole head, but if you guys do just the highlights that would be great.” Then her fellow stylist chimed in, saying that it was going to bleed onto the rest of my hair anyway, so she might as well not waste her time trying to nit pick the spots to put it on. I told her to do whatever was easiest, I’m not high maintenance.

    Karen continues foiling way, and then walks me over to the heated hair dome and sits me under there to bring out the highlights more. About ten minutes or so later, I’m reading my trashy salon magazine, and Karen comes up to me and says “So…just to be sure, we’re putting the color on your whole head right? Because if I have to just put it on the highlights…that’s going to cost more money…” Red flag number 2.

    I respond, wondering why she thinks I didn’t hear the conversation that happened just 15 minutes ago considering she was speaking a mere 12 inches from my head, “Wait, what? Didn’t you originally say that you were planning on only doing the highlights?”

    She responds with her LIES, “No, I was always planning to do the whole head, singling out the highlights costs more, which one do you want?”

    Lying liar of a liar. 

    I respond, “Just do the whole head, the original price you quoted me, the one that costs less but already costs a lot. Thanks!”

    I haven’t completely turned on her just yet and am still being nice, despite the obvious lies being spewed in my face and her attempt to squeeze more money out of me. I return to my trashy magazine as my head is still covered in foils and bleach and being heated under the fire-air dome.

    Another ten minutes or so goes by and Karen returns with a piece of foil with two different colored smears of dye on it; one color is fuchsia, the other is a deep, dark purple. Then she says, “Okay, which one do you want?” I look at the colors in front of me in genuine confusion.

    Not Lavender

    My eyes shoot between her and the foil several times before I muster up a response, “Um, neither…this is a bright pink and a dark purple, I asked for lavender. ”

    “Uh, no, these are the purples we have. Lilac (points to the fuchsia) and Purple (points to the purple). So, which one do you want?”

    “Wait, I’m confused. The people on the phone said that you had lavender… are you going to mix these with conditioner or something to lighten them up?”

    “Well, I didn’t talk to you on the phone, and no I’m not going to mix them…this is what we have. Which one do you want?”

    Baffled, I continue, “Karen. I don’t want either of these colors. Neither of them are even remotely close to what I asked for. I understand that you didn’t speak to me on the phone, but when I showed you a photo of my  light lavender hair, that would have been the appropriate time to say that these are the only colors that you have.”

    Mumbling to herself, “Okay…hold on.”

    She walks away for about five minutes and returns with another person next to her, maybe as a bodyguard, who knows. When she arrives, I have the picture up on my phone and ready to show her again. Before I do, she plops a swatch book on my lap, revealing about 8 bright and deep-hued hair colors and says, “See. These are what we have. We don’t have lavender.”

    About to lose my shit, but reeling it in, “I understand…what color swatches are…what I am trying to express, is that the moment I showed you this picture (hold up my phone and show her again) was the moment that you should have said, ‘I’m sorry, we don’t have that color, I cannot produce that‘.”

    Dead silence, they both stare at me. I point to my own lavender haired face in my phone, “Do you understand what I’m saying? This picture is what I wanted it to look like…and you said that you could do it.”

    “Honestly, when you showed me that picture, I thought it looked really faded. Like, that looks faded to me,” says Moron Karen.

    This statement almost causes my brain to immediately explode out of my still-foil-and-bleach-covered, heat-domed skull, “Are you being serious?” My eyes shoot between the two women standing in front of me, “Seriously? You thought…that the picture I showed you of what I wanted my hair to look like…was faded, and your instinct was not to ASK QUESTIONS?”

    “Umm uhhh ummm uuhhhh ummm uhhhhh,” mumbles Moron Karen.

    “Why the hell, would I show you a picture of what I wanted my hair to look like after it faded!? The point of bringing in a photo to a hair stylist, is to REPRODUCE THE PHOTO THAT YOU ARE BEING SHOWN!” I am burning in a rage on the inside, whilst trying to maintain my composure on the outside.

    “I don’t know, that just looks faded to me,” she continues to defend herself.

    “Well IT IS faded, if what you THINK you’re doing is DARK PURPLE. It is ACCURATE if you’re doing LAVENDER!” I am beside myself.

    “Well…what do you want to do?” Derrrr, Karen, derrrrr.

    “Wash it out. Take it out. I’m going to leave.” I am blown away.

    She scrambles to take the heating dome off my head, which I must have been under for 45 minutes at this point and guides me over to the sink where she begins to remove the foils and wash out my hair.

    Moron Karen takes this opportunity to start giving me tips on what I should do next, ”You know, you could always go to another salon that does lavender and get it finished there? Or you could go by a beauty supply store and pick up some lavender toner and have a hand at doing it yourself?”

    I stare at the ceiling in shock and say nothing, afraid I’ll scream as loud as I possibly can, through her face. Once she’s done rinsing it out, we begin to walk away from the sinks and toward the styling area which is also in the direction of the exit.

    As I pass her chair, she says, “Wait, you don’t want to get it blown out? You’re just going to go out in the cold with wet hair?”

    Still confused by her level of idiocy, “No, no I don’t want a blow out. I don’t want anything else from you at all. The level of unprofessional that this situation is, baffles me. You were about to charge me $150 for something that you can’t even PRODUCE, do you understand how absolutely absurd that is?”

    She nods her head in agreement before trying to defend herself once again with the fact that she was not the one who said lavender was an option on the phone.

    I continue, “Stop. I can get behind the first misunderstanding on the phone, you weren’t on the phone, but the moment I sat in the chair and showed you that picture, you should have said ‘I. Can’t. Do. This.’ If you thought it was faded, fine, another opportunity to SAY something. Say anything at all. In the future, it might do you some good to ask some QUESTIONS. COMMUNICATE. Because this is absolutely unacceptable.”

    She nods again, and I begin to walk away, hair dripping wet and combed back with my fingers.

    Moron Karen speaks, “Hold on I have to print your paperwork out. Your receipts.”

    Obviously, I ignore her and keep walking.

    Moron Karen has the gaul to raise her voice, “EXCUSE ME, wait! I have to print your paperwork!”

    I stop and do a half-turn back and look at her, eyes wide as saucers and call back to her across the store, “You are INSANE, if you think I’m paying for THIS,” as my finger points to my streaky wet head.

    I stormed out, nobody chased after me, and I never heard from Ulta or Moron Karen again.

    After a lifetime of dealing with sub-par service and altering my life in order to avoid places where said terrible service was given, I made a promise to myself: If I am treated poorly or don’t get what I paid for, I will no longer keep it to myself. It was absolutely exhilarating to not only speak up and tell Karen why the way she behaved and the service she gave was unacceptable, but also to walk out of there in the absolute right; you get what you pay for, and I refused to pay for what I didn’t get. 2014 Jessica doesn’t take any shit.

    hair saga to be continued. 

  3. How to Write a Pop Song

    December 16, 2013 by jessica


    1. Say some sentences about stuff that’s happening.

    2. Repeat something super obvious that’s happening 4-6 times in a row.

    3. Say more sentences about stuff that’s happening.

    4. Repeat the same super obvious thing that was happening before 4-6 times.

    5. Break off on a crazy tangent for like 15 seconds.

    6. Say your least/most favorite thing that’s happening/happened.

    7. Repeat the same super obvious thing that was happening before an undetermined amount times in a row ’til the music fades out.


  4. Dear Massage Therapists

    October 10, 2013 by jessica

    Seems like I’ve been writing a lot of letters lately; oh well, some things have got to be said or change will never occur.

    To preface, I have back problems. My muscles think it’s cool to tense up to the point of nausea, throbbing, and pretty much causing me to be laid out on the ground, useless and in tears, et cetera; hence, I try to get massages as often as I can afford them. That being said, I have yet to find the perfect Massage Therapist that can get those knots out but also knows how to shut the hell up for 60 minutes so I can goddamn relax. At this point, I’m writing a letter to not just one masseuse in particular but to several that I have already seen/will never see again, and hopefully to any that I will see in the future. This way they can prevent losing another client and in turn I can get a decent rub down. I’m not even looking for a perfect masseuse anymore; I’m just looking for one that doesn’t do any of this ass-backwards, nonsensical shit listed below. All of the items listed are ACTUAL things that have been said or done by my past several massage therapists, and I’m running out of places to go.

    Dear Massage Therapist,

    Hey there, you massagin’ machine, you. You’ve got some nice, strong hands and I bet they’re ready to massage these knots out of my body in exchange for an agreed upon cash amount plus tip, aren’t they? Yes they are! Now, before we get started, I have some ground rules that I probably shouldn’t have to say, but I will. Why? Because 4 out of 5 of my most recent massage therapists (you know who you are) thought this shit was normal, and I don’t want you to make the same mistakes they did.

    I have two rules, and they are very simple:

    1. Don’t talk to me. I’m not here to chit chat; I’m here to relax. Just turn on the plinky music, light the candles, and get rid of my knots. Nobody cares about whatever you were thinking about talking about; you’re not a damn hair dresser.

    2. If you must talk, the only thing I want to hear you say is “How’s the pressure?”, “Is it too hot/cold in here?” or other questions related to my muscles, their well being and the overall relaxation of my massage experience. Anything else will fall into the “Danger Zone” where your ass gets shit-canned and I not only never return for another massage with you (and possibly your entire establishment, depending on how awkward you  make it), but also don’t recommend you to anyone. Ever.

    If for some reason you are incapable of following these two simple rules and insist on making conversation, then you may need to find a different line of work. However, if you are very good at giving massages and are just a nice person who genuinely wants to get to know your clients, I MIGHT let you slide…but please, please, PLEASE refrain from discussing ANY of the following topics (NO EXCEPTIONS):

    1. Your current financial state/lack of income/inability to pay your rent and/or bills. — Listen, we’ve all been there, but what do you expect me to do about it?! Pay your rent? Get outta here.

    Side Eye

    2. Childbirth, its fluids and your recommendations about it. — If I hear the words “placenta” and “umbilical cord” or recommendations for natural water birth, and I’m not in labor or in a pregnancy class preparing for labor…we’ve got problems.

    3. My level of attractiveness (this is for you, gentlemen). — You’ve just made me very aware that I’m naked and I am now incredibly uncomfortable.

    4. Your jacked physique, how often you go to the gym, how much you can lift and what amenities your gym offers. — Nobody cares.

    5. Tragedy/Death/Serious Illnesses that you and/or someone you know are currently going through. – I am sorry for your loss/situation, but please don’t go into the details; I am not a therapist.


    6. Lord Jesus/God…your Holy Savior. — You don’t know me or what my religious preferences are, going on a preachy tangent about how you don’t understand people without God in their lives is not only presumptuous but borderline idiotic. Not everyone believes the same thing as you and assuming they do just shows what an oblivious bubble you are in. Don’t be a dumbass, not everyone will be as understanding of your biblical rant.

    7. Death again. —  Don’t ask about loved ones I have lost and the details of their deaths. Use. Your. Brain. The LAST thing I want to do is spend my massage explaining how one of my friends or family members died.

    8. My tattoos and how I should get them removed. — What the hell do you think this is? Criticize-other-people’s-decisions-Hour? How’s about you get back to rubbing those knots out.


    Jeez, that was exhausting and not at ALL relaxing to relive, let alone relaxing in the moment. The problem is, bringing it up in the session is nearly impossible; what kind of heartless asshole is going to cut you off during your story about your recent tragedies and tell you to shut up and focus on the trapezius? Do you not realize that after I say that I’m completely naked and stuck with you for the next hour under your complete control? It is an unfair position to put someone in, not to mention wildly inappropriate. You should know better. Stop it.

    In closing, if you have done any of the things above on the list of massage therapy no-no’s, now’s the time to get your head out of your ass and turn over a new leaf. If you haven’t, pat yourself on the back and give me your number; I need a massage from someone who isn’t a jackass.


    Warmest regards,




  5. Dear Jon Bon Jovi (For my friend Sue)

    August 7, 2013 by jessica



    Dear JBJ,

    Can I call you JBJ? I feel like it’s more informal that way. Yes? Okay. Thanks. Anyway, you probably don’t know why I’m writing you this letter, but not to worry because I’m about to break it down for ya real nice.

    Let me tell you a little something about this lovely gal named Sue. Okay, shhh, I know I know, can I continue? Anyway, Sue is a wonderful and hot woman. Any time you sang a song in the past 25 years that sounded like it was to a woman, it was about her, you just probably didn’t know it yet because you haven’t met her. She like, buys all your CDs. Yeah, I said CDs. The old school kind, not even MP3s on the internet. She buys them as soon as they come out AND comes to see you in concert, too.

    Think back to your last concert in the northeast. She was probably there. Yup, you got it, she was the one wearing the I Heart Bon Jovi t-shirt.

    Oh, and another thing, no, never mind, I won’t tell you that. Yes I will; she has a hot black and white picture of you as her phone background. What is more die hard than that? Nothing. That’s what.

    So anyway, you should definitely meet her and embrace your destiny. But be careful, she’s very awesome and has 5 rules to get past the initial testing in order for you to be worthy of dating, so don’t fuck it up. I won’t tell you what those are since that would be cheating, but I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Woah woah, don’t start taking your shirt off, Sue didn’t get here yet. Patience.

    Oh, one more thing, you’re welcome.


    Your Biggest Fan’s Friend


    PS – I almost forgot, she has big bodacious ta ta’s. She wanted me to tell you that; Just FYI.

  6. Dear Sinterklaas (4 months later)

    August 1, 2013 by jessica


    April 3, 2013


    Dear Sinterklaas,

    I know it’s gotta be weird hearing from me in April, but I wanted you to be ahead of the game in what you’re getting me this year on the day that’s dedicated specifically to you. Here’s some things I really want right this moment, but feel free to text me later in case I come up with new ideas:

    • Outback Steakhouse Cheese fries
    • Cheese fondue
    • Popeyes biscuits
    • King Crab legs
    • Oysters
    • A GOOD slice of pizza
    • Jalisco sauce with crinkle cut spicy fries
    • A pretzel hot dog
    • A bleu cheese burger on a brioche bun (also with fries on the side but this time not crinkle cut but the straight kind with the skin still on it)
    • Caesar salad with good croutons and freshly grated Parmesan
    • Krentenbollen met kaas
    • Bittebollen with mustard
    • Lobster Mac and cheese with bacon and bread crumbs
    • Crawfish stuffed twice baked potatoes
    • Potato skins
    • Southwestern egg rolls
    • Green bean fries
    • The old mexiQ pork guacamole, not that new shit they came up with
    • Pizza Hut breadsticks WITH LOTS OF CRUMBLIES; I can NOT stress to you ENOUGH, no crumblies, no deal


    I’m now realizing that all of these are food. Don’t worry, I will get to things that aren’t in a second. There will probably still be more food requests though.

    • An extra dirty Grey Goose martini with blue cheese stuffed olives
    • Corn and bean salsa with Hint of Lime chips and a Bud Light Lime in 75 degree sunny weather
    • The Curacao ocean
    • To ride a jet ski (or you can buy me a jet ski but I wouldn’t have anywhere to put it so just pay for the hour or whatever it is so I can ride one)
    • A Buttermilk Chicken Sandwich from Table Tales
    • No traffic
    • Fame for some sort of accidental innate brilliance
    • To go back in time and not have put 5 layers of cover up tattoos on my wrist only to result in one big splotch that will never be able to be removed
    • A house on the beach
    • A trip to New Orleans
    • No back pain
    • The formula to make as many Louies as possible
    • The cure for Cancer (if you can fit in some other bad diseases while you’re at it that would be great)
    • A 2lb bag of assorted jelly beans
    • A hot air balloon ride
    • The chocolate flavored cool whip to be around all year


    That’s all I’ve got for now. It might seem like a lot, but you’ll figure it out.



    PS – Don’t bring Zwarte Piet with you, it will freak Louie out.

  7. A young girl’s traumatic recollection, in a nutshell

    November 29, 2012 by jessica

    he came over one day

    we went to the park to go on the swings or whatever

    and i was wearing white shorts

    i was on the swing and he was all, “i wanna tell you something but i don’t want you to get mad”

    so i said, “don’t tell me”

    13 year old jessica must not have wanted to get bad news, preferred to be blissfully ignorant i suppose

    then like an hour or so later

    i went to the bathroom and saw the stain. totally through the shorts. definitely what he was talking about

    i was still too nervous to bring it up/admit it

    so i just changed into another pair of similar yet OBVIOUSLY different white shorts

    then he left

    and i died

  8. Honey (not Boo Boo)

    October 25, 2012 by jessica

    I was sitting on the floor in the gate’s overcrowded waiting area when I spotted her.

    Late 60s-early 70s, slim figure, short and curly helmet of black hair, glossy crimson lipstick and shimmery emerald eyeshadow. She was struggling with a gigantic red carry on. Her husband pleaded, “Whaddaya doooing? Just stay hea!” but she wasn’t having it. “Come…on. We’re. Moving,” her eyes screamed “NOW” but her voice was low and controlled. It’s all in the eyes; she was clearly some sort of lunatic. Please don’t put me anywhere near that batshit crazy woman, I thought.

    As I near my seat on the flight, there she is. I look down at my boarding pass in disbelief, my eyes shooting between the assignment on my ticket and the number and letter combinations above the seat. Damn it.

    I have the window, so she and her husband get out of their seats so I can get to mine. I hear her let out a grunt-like sigh as she inconveniences herself to let me in. Here we go.

    After taxiing over to the runway, we’re waiting in a long line of planes. Clearly it’s going to be a while. The pilot reaffirms this on the loudspeaker. Suddenly, the woman seated in front of us starts belting out this deathly cough. Each time she does it I cringe. Somebody get this woman some water before she chokes to death right here on the plane and delays us even longer.

    We’ve been waiting for about 20 minutes now, and the coughing isn’t going anywhere. As I grip my seat and look out the window trying to think thoughts other than what is going on in this woman’s lungs and what parts of it are getting into the air, the crazy woman sitting next to me speaks, “Oy gevalt.”

    I turn my head to the left and we make eye contact. The coughing in front of us continues. She rolls her eyes and I give a nod of agreement, I, too, am displeased and disgusted by this woman’s coughing.

    As I turn my head to look back out the window, ending our bonding moment, she continues, “Oy, the germs! Thea trapped in hea with us.”

    Well, you’ve already made eye contact, there’s no turning back now. I nod again, wearing an expression of concern on my face.

    “That’s an illness cough, ya know,” she says.

    “Oh yeah?” I engage.

    “Oh yes. I’m like…a…a medical expert.”

    “Really? It sounds more like a smoker’s cough to me,” I offer my humble opinion.

    She stops and looks up at the ceiling, her mouth drops and she gasps as her palm meets her chest, as if she’s had some sort of revelation, “OH! A smokah. That’s IT. Definitely, a smokah’s cough.”

    I smile and try to turn away.

    “So. You from New Yawk? Flahridda?”

    I explain my answer, but it’s uninteresting and irrelevant to this story so I won’t include my end of the dialogue.

    “My husband and I, we’re dansahs (dancers),” she continues.

    “Oh really?”

    “Mmhmm. Salsa,” she gushes, “just spent 3 weeks at a Salsa convention. Oh we daaance. We love ta dance,” both of her hands go in the air as she starts to do a little dancing shimmy from side to side.

    “My friends say, Honey, I can’t believe it, yah so thin! Honey this, Honey that. It’s the salsa.”

    “Honey? Is that your name?” I ask.

    “Yeah, people call me Honey.”

    I smile as she rattles off some salsa music greats, asking me if I’ve heard of them; I’m honest when I answer that I don’t know who the hell she’s talking about. Suddenly, the topic shifts.

    I’m a Jew. Can ya tell? Whatta you?”

    “Ummm…none. I’m not religious,” I respond.

    “But whaddya come from? What’s ya family?”

    I answer to the best of my knowledge.

    “Well. I’m a Jew. We’re Jews, my husband and I. I think it allows for a betta sense of humah about things. Ya hear these comedians sayin’ all these sterea-typical things about Jews, and they’re TRUE,” she pauses to laugh, looks down, palm to chest again, “They say, ‘If ya evah need pills, ask a Jewish girl.’ And I think, hey, that’s me! I have a pill, fah everything.”

    I want to tell her that this is something we have in common, despite me not being Jewish, but I don’t.

    The pilot comes on the loudspeaker and lets us know we should be taking off soon. It’s been 45 minutes so far; Honey scoffs, and we’re both pessimistic. Strangely enough, we start moving within a minute of the announcement. Out of nowhere, someone is now counting.

    “10…9…” Honey’s husband has now joined the conversation.

    “Oh, stop,” Honey gives him a playful smack on the arm.

    “8…7…6…” he continues.

    We’re revving up pretty much in unison with Mr. Honey’s countdown.

    “Oh gawd,” she puts her fingertips on her forehead, looking down and covering her eyes, embarrassed.


    At this point we’re at full speed, taking off and Honey is gripping my and Mr. Honey’s arm very tightly.

    “Oh no,” She squeals, frightened.

    “1!” He yells as we’re lifting up into the air.

    She’s now fanning herself, surprised that we’ve made it into the air, I guess. He laughs and she slaps him again, this time less playfully.

    And then: turbulence. I feel her gripping my arm again, and as the plane shakes up and down she begins screaming.

    In Honey’s defense, this is more than your usual amount of turbulence, and she isn’t the only one screaming.

    Mr. Honey, on the other hand, is laughing maniacally. She’s holding on to both of our arms screaming, he’s hysterical, and in turn, I cannot help but burst into laughter as well. After a good 30 seconds of pretty rough turbulence, we emerge from the clouds and are now flying steady. Honey releases her grip and resumes fanning herself.

    “She’s such a baby,” Mr. Honey tells me, rolling his eyes. He pops his headphones in and leans back to remove himself from the conversation once again.

    Once Honey’s heart rate has reduced to a normal rate, she restarts the conversation.

    “Whadda ya do?” She asks.

    I tell her that I work in marketing, but that I want to be a writer.

    “Oh, a writah. You’re probably very eruidite. Do you know what that means?” She asks.

    I can’t quite make out the word she’s asking me, on account of the accent and perhaps the way she’s also pronouncing it, so I say, “No, what does it mean?”

    “E-R-U-I-D-I-T-E, I’m a very good spellah,” she says.

    Ah, I see what she meant. She’s saying and spelling it wrong.

    She goes off on a tangent about spelling, after several minutes I decide to interrupt her, “So…what’s the word mean?”

    “Oh. It means you’re smart.”

    I can’t help but smile.

    The rest of the flight went on like this, Honey and I going in and out of “conversations”, but mostly her displaying hilarious thoughts on several random topics.

    Before this becomes a novel about Honey, which it probably could be, I’ll share a few final gems…

    On appropriate attire:

    “I wear things that expose the shouldas. Ya know? Not low cut, that’s disgusting. Especially at my age.”

    On her pack of airline peanuts:

    [Struggling] “Ya gotta be Hercules to open this thing.”

    On my love for French fries:

    [Disgusted] “Oy gevalt, I haven’t had a French fry in 40 yeas.”

    The biggest lesson? Sometimes it’s a good thing to get stuck sitting next to that batshit crazy looking old woman that you were trying to avoid, because she ends up being hilarious.

  9. The Worst Thing I’ve Ever Done (hopefully)

    July 21, 2012 by jessica

    We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, myself included (hard to believe, I know). You usually feel better about these things over time, but some just haunt you forever. The way I’m talking you might think I murdered someone, which I didn’t. Not literally, anyway.

    I was about ten years old, which seems to fall into the set of years that I was the biggest dumbass. By dumbass, I mean the type of dumbass that doesn’t seem to know better (See: unintentional fish slaughter of 1993), not later types, like the teenage dumbass that kind of knows better but does stupid things anyway.

    To set the scene, Hiddo and I are walking home from the bus stop in Riverbend, our little suburban neighborhood in Weston, where your house can only be one of three colors and they alternate so that every third house is the same color. It’s clear that the same person or group of people designed the entire neighborhood.

    One of the neighborhood kids, Hiddo’s friend Eddie, is walking with us. Hiddo is grumbling about something he’s annoyed at our mother for and how he doesn’t want to go home right away, even though he was instructed to do so. He decides he will go the disobedient route and ignore her demands by going to Eddie’s house for a couple of hours instead. Concerned, I ask him how he’ll get away with this; he simply shrugs, hands me his hoodie and casually says, “Here, tell her I got hit by a car or something.”

    Now, you would think that any decent person would immediately respond to these instructions with shock, disgust and refusal to participate. You would think. Unfortunately for the appearance of my ethical code, what he said didn’t faze me. Maybe it was the nonchalance in his voice; maybe it was the fact that he is my older brother and I harbored trust in the fact that if he was leading me down a path it couldn’t possibly be wrong; to this day I have no idea. But whatever it was, it worked in his favor; I simply took his hoodie, nodded, and we parted ways.

    As I neared our peach-colored home, I stopped at the front door and began to prep my expression. After all, I had an important job to do here! Hiddo needed two extra hours of freedom and in order to achieve it I had to sell this whole “tragic accident” thing. It was time to show off my acting chops.

    Hoodie in my left hand, turning the doorknob with my right, and with my head hanging low, I slowly walked into the house. Sniffling lightly and keeping my head low, I’d only made it about three feet into the door when my mom came up to ask me what was wrong. Without looking up, I raised the hoodie, handing it to my mother while slowly choking out the words, “Hid…Hiddo…got hit…by a car.”(Sniffle)

    Now, up until this point, I’m not sure what I expected her reaction to be. Was she going to just take the hoodie, toss it on the couch and go “Ah well, at least I still have one kid left”? Was she going to tell me to cut the shit and tell her where he really was? No. None of those were right. Apparently, my performance was stellar, because she went fucking insane.

    She gripped my shoulders with her hands and began shaking me maniacally, probably trying to dislodge more information, while screaming questions like “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” and “WHERE IS HE?”–You know, all of those natural things that you, as a mother, must immediately need to know when hearing that your first born has been trampled by a car and is nowhere in your sight for you to give any sort of aid to.

    The look on her face is…indescribable. As the realization of what I’ve done floods into my brain, I’m horrified. I immediately burst into tears and begin screaming the truth at her as quickly as I possibly can so I can erase that look from her face and put a stop to what she must be feeling. As each word leaves my mouth, I feel more and more like the worst person in the entire universe, which to her at that moment, I pretty much am. Bawling, I eventually remove myself from her grasp and run into the closet in an attempt to hide from the whole situation.

    Meanwhile, back at Eddie’s, it’s safe to say that Hiddo doesn’t know the traumatic events that are unfolding in his name.

    Although the whole situation only lasted a few minutes, the psychological impact was tremendous; 17 years later and I still feel bad about doing that to my mother. It was definitely a lesson in the importance of trying to predict the consequences of your actions. Also, never listen to Hiddo.

  10. Releasing the hate

    June 19, 2012 by jessica

    There’s this girl that I’ve hated for about ten years, for several reasons. Let’s call her Sidney, because I don’t know anyone named Sidney personally.

    Whenever I heard anything about Sidney, I would instantly fly into a rage. Facebook allowed this to happen often because we had mutual friends and she would pop up here and there, making me want to virtually punch her in the stomach.

    A friend of mine brought Sidney up recently and told me about some of her recent success.  This made me angry of course, as someone I don’t like couldn’t possibly be successful. She then continued to talk about Sidney and with each bit of information I started to realize that she was no longer a person I knew. She then told me something that happened to Sidney that is something so incredibly hurtful that, forgive me for sounding ridiculously cliché, only happens to people in movies. After hearing it all, the strangest thing happened: my hate instantly evaporated.

    Not to worry, she isn’t dying of some disease or anything like that, but it was one of those “if it doesn’t kill you it only makes you stronger” type of things that makes you want to slap anyone that actually uses that phrase to make you feel better.

    The point is that the revelation I was experiencing wasn’t just because I felt bad for her, but because the person that I hated no longer existed. It was like she was suddenly human to me. Not only that, but she got dicked over (like, hardcore) and was still kicking ass at life. I was proud of her.

    I realized that in order to hate someone, especially for so long, you have to really dehumanize him or her. They become a thing to be despised instead of an actual individual with thoughts and feelings. What was once hate was suddenly surprise, sympathy and then pride–feelings that had never existed between Sidney and me.

    It was so refreshing to feel something else. Hating someone takes so much more effort than letting things go. I really didn’t even realize how much hate I was holding onto until I actually let it go. It was like finally putting down a suitcase full of shit-covered bowling balls…if that were a thing, I mean.

    The moral of the story: Release the hate; it’s weighing your ass down.