Dude. Bunny.

(Brace yourself. This will probably offend someone.)

So, I was wandering around Walmart with my sister recently and we happened upon the Easter aisle. You know the one. It's packed with Reese eggs (love those), jumbo Reese eggs (love those even more), Peeps, jelly beans, Easter grass (dogs love that) and the CHOCOLATE BUNNY (this is more effective if you imagine it being announced in an echoey voice.)

The bunny. It is essential to any young, hyper, chocolate loving child's Easter basket (mine too, but that is not the point.)

First and foremost it's amazing that those who aren't religious celebrate Easter at all. I mean do parents realize that the Easter bunny and eggs both symbolize fertility? I mean essentially we are encouraging children to make babies, awkward. Also awkward, in most children's farm animal books, chickens and bunnies seem to get along. BUT for some reason the Easter bunny can steal chicken eggs and give them to children? What? Isn't that...creepy?

Ok, ok, I'm off track. Back to Walmart.

In the Easter aisle I discovered Dude Bunny. Oh yes my friend, chocolate bunnies are not only egg stealers, they are thugs. Dude Bunny is equipped with a winter cap pulled over his ears, white chocolate bling dangling from his neck, and baggy pants drooping at his little bunny paws. Offensive? Not until you acknowledge that Dude Bunny is milk chocolate. Racist? Yes. But, good news, it doesn't stop there. Diva Bunny is here to save the day. Diva Bunny, besides having a nice figure, is sporting a candy necklace and trendy outfit considering it's carved into chocolate.

I must admit it took me a few solid minutes to stop laughing everywhere. The sheer absurdity of these bunnies was overwhelming and I have so many questions and judgements to cast on  people who buy these things!

Oh well, what can you do? Me? I asked my parents to get me one for Easter...

Swank Tank

Oh the joys of childhood. Birthdays are much sweeter with goody bags, sleep overs, screaming middle schoolers running around hopped up on ice cream cake, cheetos and soda. *sigh* Oh those were the days..

This weekend my boyfriend and I ventured to Cleveland for a spontaneous visit. (Or so we thought.) Amid our intellectual banter on the journey there, we had a conversation that went a little like this... (actually, this is exactly how it went.)

Me- Isn't your little sister's birthday coming up?
Him- Yeeeeeah. It's at the end of February.
Me- What day?
Him- Hmmm...the 20th?
Me- That's this weekend!
Him- Oh...oooooh.
(This is when it all clicked. It seems his mom mentioned going to the grandparents for cake and ice cream. Unfortunately two post grads visiting northern Ohio isn't occasion enough for cupcakes and neapolitan ice cream...who knew?)

Upon this discovery, I realized we did not have a gift for his little sister's 12th birthday (which if you're me, is a huge problem). So, obviously I start suggesting things that a 12 year old (and I) would like. Glittery clothes, Bieber poster, etc. Then I realized getting her a pet was an excellent idea.

Seeing as the festivities weren't until Sunday, we had plenty of time to come up with a brilliant birthday gift. Saturday my boyfriend, his mom and I headed to the pet store to get his sister her very first fish. No big deal, right? WRONG.

It's all about presentation. I'm not sure how familiar you are with the fish world these days, but it's fierce. There are salt water, fresh water, tropical, not tropical, big, little, mean, lazy...the list goes on.

 While I bounced around the pet store like a pinball in a machine, my cool and collected counter part discovered what we soon found out to be the COOLEST FISH TANK EVER. (imagine a booming voice here and it adds to the affect.)

Picture this: LED light, neon gravel and neon colored fake plants AND the best part, neon fish! (It turns out, certain tropical fish glow when exposed to an LED light.) After buying all the items needed to pimp our tank, we selected five Neon Tetra to be the lucky new inhabitants of the swank tank.

A few hours later, after meticulously arranging the gravel (black and neon flecks for affect), putting in the different orange, green and pink plants and installing the disco ball (not really, but it would've been awesome), it was time for the critters to enjoy their new home.

Keep in mind, all of this was done in secret so the little one wouldn't know until Sunday morning. I gingerly released the tetra into their new home. They darted all around and looked like they were saying things like "groovy" or "totally wicked." These fish were hippies is what I'm getting at.

We go to bed, pleased at our brilliance and anticipating the next morning when we would unveil our marvelous creation. Bright and early (more like 11 am) his sister arose and opened the gifts from the rest of the family. It was our turn and pleased with ourselves we took her to the tank to watch her reaction to the best birthday gift ever.

We all huddled around the tank and there was...one fish, two fish, three fish, four fish, five fish...dead fish. All five. Dead. Happy Birthday?

There's no I in team.. But there is an I in "I hate this team"

Generally, I make it a rule to be open to personal criticism so I can grow as a person. Bahahahaha, clearly that's a lie, but I thought it'd be fun to say. Mission accomplished. 

Moving on... Recently, it was brought to my attention that I am not encouraging enough to other people. Apparently telling people they're a moron isn't considered constructive encouragement (who knew?). So, I've taken it upon myself in recent weeks (ok, just last week) to be more inspirational to people. I'm pretty much a poster child for enthusiasm.

However, it turns out that a sarcastic ass like myself begins a project with semi good intentions and half way through realizes it was a huge mistake. I'm convinced that anyone interacting with me on a daily basis may notice me giggling and talking to myself (more than usual). 

Why? Well, here's the situation... I find myself mentally cheering for people now.

Example. Two people are walking into a building. Person 1 is about 6 paces ahead of person 2. Person 1 hits the handicap button (because this person is clearly too lazy to actually pull the door open) to enter. Person 2 scurries forward to try to get inside the door before the time expires and the door swings closed. And there I am watching it all thinking "You better hurry. Go now...now! You can make it, run! Faster! Good work! Well done." I mean come on... I'm cheering for laziness.

I also have this uncontrollable urge to tell people they're doing a good job. Don't get me wrong, I believe in giving credit when it is due, but when someone pushes the button in the elevator telling them "Good job!" only gets you an eye roll (trust me). 

And it turns out, motivating the bagger at the grocery store by telling them they're doing excellent work isn't really a good way to make friends. 

I went as far as to tell the pharmacist at CVS she was my hero after filling my prescription (true story).

BUT the kicker? Lately my right windshield wiper has been slower and less motivated than my left one. Driving home in the snow the other day, I kept going "Come on! Wipe! Doooo it! You can do it! Go go go!"  Result? It stopped working completely.

Moose

Our neighbors were ambitious enough to welcome a small, black lab puppy into their homes last spring. They named him Moose and at the time, I had no idea how fitting this name would become. 

As a general rule, I think people should buy appropriate puppy gear before investing in the actual animal. My neighbors skipped this (key) step. 

For several weeks, Moose was led around on a red rope looped around his neck, no collar, no nothing, just Moose. His owner tried diligently to teach him the basics: sit, stay, come, stop chewing on my hand, no don't pee there, cut it out! You know, the basics. Well, to put it bluntly, his owner failed... miserably.

No big deal, right? 

The weather started to get colder and I saw less and less of Moose because I assume he's been confined to his inner sanctum where I'm sure he terrorizes the hell out of everyone. 

Keep in mind, the last time I saw Moose he still resembled a small, enthusiastic puppy, not quite able to put one foot in front of the other without swaying.

Tonight however, I had the privilege of getting reacquainted with Moose in the most unfortunate of circumstances. Walking to my truck this evening (I parked 2 blocks from my house...long story) I was briskly turning the corner, concentrating on the ground so as not to slip on all the snow and ice, when I hear the all too familiar jingle of dog tags coming in my direction.

Whipping my head up I see a 70 pound black creature barreling straight at me through the snow with complete ease. Clumps of snow are flying through the air in slow motion as club like paws claw at the ground, quickly gaining momentum. And, running at me with little coordination and great speed is Moose. Fucking Moose. 

I stood frozen (literally and figuratively) deciding what to do. 

If I don't move, maybe he won't see me. No! If I use my ninja-like reflexes, I can just jump OVER him once he gets to me. No! I'll rapid fire snow balls at his face long enough to scurry away. NO!.... As you may have guessed by this time Moose has reached me. I closed my eyes, braced myself for the blow (and most likely death) and waited...and waited... After deciding I wasn't dead, I opened my eyes just in time to see Moose miss me completely, hit the snow and ice covered road and go slip sliding away down the street.

For the record, while he was sliding away, I bid him farewell and I noticed no collar, no nothing... just Moose.

To Be Jolly

Decorating the tree (or MY tree if we're getting into specifics) is an intricate process. Allow me to elaborate.


Years ago, my dear mother separated my ornaments and my sisters into separate bins so that when we grew up, we could whisk them off to our own homes and decorate our own trees. Well... 3 years later we're still decorating our parent's tree.

That's not the point.

The point is that my ornaments (mostly hand decorated glittery objects indistinguishable from crumpled trash with the letter 'J' all over them) MUST be showcased. Let's be honest, I was a child prodigy in the area of feather and glitter placement when it comes to decorating. All of that to say I tend (always) to claim the front of the tree for the strategic placement of my masterpieces collected through the years.

This year was different. After years of my sly manipulation a certain sister REFUSED to have her ornaments ignored. The result?

Cindy.

Picture this: a ceramic angel whose face was drawn by an eager 4 year old with permanent marker. Cindy's "gown" (if you can call it that) is bedazzled with glitter that has dutifully clung to her robes for all these years. Not impressed? That's because I didn't tell you about her yellow feather hair glued all over her head, jutting out in every direction.

This year, for the first time, Cindy is displayed proudly in the front and center of our Christmas tree.

You must be thinking, wow Jessica, you've really grown as a person to not be so selfish. FALSE. I felt guilty for the following conversation:


(Decorating the tree listening to christmas music)

A christmas song starts playing and the whiney voice of a woman just keeps repeating the line "a baby changes everything" over and over and over. I waited until halfway through the song (sometimes I try to keep my opinions to myself) to comment "Wow this song is really stupid." My sister agrees with me whole heartedly by saying "I know! This is stupid!"... We continue to decorate the tree and listen to this awful song... 30 seconds before it's over she yells "OHHHH! Like a baby, like baby Jesus!! I get it!!"

After rolling on the floor laughing for a while, I finally managed to ask her what she thought it was about, a public service announcement about premarital sex?
She responded by saying she just thought they were trying to get the point across that babies make life hard. Then follows it up with a statement along the lines of "I was wondering why they were playing such a depressing song during Christmas."

I love her and I love Cindy.

Tis the Season

So now that Thanksgiving has come and gone, Christmas festivities begin.  Hanging decorations, putting up lights, getting the christmas tree...it's all very "lifetime movie" esque.

My family, per my insistence, has a yearly tradition of trekking out into the wild (a tree farm in Utica...and by that I mean somewhere in Ohio that feels forever away) to hand pick and chop down our family Christmas tree. Before you get a gleam of Christmas cheer in your face, you should probably know the facts.

First, we take the dogs. Mine and my parents along for the ride. It can go one of two ways... pleasant snoring from the back, OR (the more likely option) my dog climbing back and forth over the seat to sit in my lap, check out the snacks, lick my eye...the usual.

Second, my parents and I have a different idea of what constitutes Christmas music. While packed in the SUV, I insist (every year since its release) that we jam to NSYNC Christmas. Is it really too much to ask to enjoy boy bands during the holidays?

Third, once we arrive the searching commences. My mom always selects the first tree she sees and is CONVINCED it's THE PERFECT one. The reason for this is because she wants to go home because my sister and I have annoyed the hell out of her by now. And more often than not, her selection is...well...awful.

Fourth. You should know I am a Christmas tree connoisseur. Since childhood my parents have made my sister and I "take turns" picking the tree. Note the " ". Obviously my eye for pine needle perfection cannot be suppressed. So, for several years running I have been able to convince my sister that she picked the tree last year.

It goes: "Jessica, it's my turn! You picked it last year!"
Me: "Lies! You always say that just because you want to get your way. I can't believe you're being so selfish!"

So, later after we've strapped my selection to the roof of the previously mentioned SUV, we begin the drive home. This is where the tradition SHOULD end.

Fifth. The ride home. Well, it goes like this:
"Hun, I don't think you tied the tree on tight enough. I think it's moving"-Mom
"No, I did. It's fine. Stop watching it." -Dad
"I'm not. I'm watching the shadow...OH! I heard something move...what if a squirrel is in there...we should have brought more rope.... Should we pull over to tighten it?...Jessica, stick your arm out and try to hold the tree on to the roof."- Mom


So, can't you see why I refuse to let my parents get a fake tree? What a hassle....

In Michael Jackson We Trust?....

I've been saying it from the beginning, that Justin Bieber is a freaking moron, but tonight at the AMA's he illustrated it better than I ever could.

As he strutted to the stage with his boy band swept hair, tight jeans, and bling (let's keep in mind he's white) he had victory gleaming all over his prepubescent face. 

He accepts his second award with the following words "I want to thank Michael Jackson. Without him, we wouldn't be here."

WHAT? Ok, to clarify, I enjoy the musical talents of Michael Jackson as much as the next person. BUT COME ON.

In the beginning Michael Jackson created man? In the name of the Father, the Son and Michael Jackson?  Did Michael have a hand (a white gloved one at that) in divine creation? 

FAIL.