GIRLS ARE NOT FUNNY

The Art of Going Home

Sun, 09 Jun 2013 17:41:00 -0400

San Diego, CA

Six months ago, I came home. The year was up and it was time. This road trip however, I made with my hilarious mother who was in fact, adorably looking for an adventure of her own. It was quite precious to watch. She lived up to her potential by paying for all the hotels and saying, thirty miles into the trip, when I asked what the heck the slow driver in front of me was doing - Probably smoking crack. I don’t know where she gets this stuff.

We stopped in St. Louis, Oklahoma City, Albuquerque and the Grand Canyon. I read Bird by Bird, wore the same green jacket, experienced three cities and one world wonder I had not previously been to. Here’s a few film photos from the trip as well as some from Chicago before I left.

Like most things that are hard in life - I turned going home into and art.

Enjoy.

Since starting school full time and de-anonymous-ing this here...

Fri, 24 May 2013 01:16:54 -0400

Since starting school full time and de-anonymous-ing this here blog - writing just doesn’t seem to have the same appeal. However, summer is approaching and I have some ideas brewing! In the meantime, enjoy my bestie Mijanne’s wedding video I had the wonderful opportunity of editing.

Why Girls Aren't Funny and How Jesus is the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Them

Sun, 14 Oct 2012 01:54:00 -0400

Chicago, IL

My first apartment was a sixteen hundred dollar a month two bedroom on Montezuma Road near SDSU. The only thing more disgusting than the amount or rent we were paying was the constant smell of college student throw up in the halls. The place was hot like hell and the only way you beat the heat was constantly pointing a fan on yourself. It’s into my personal fan that my friend Garrett farted. Why not fart directly on me when you can just spray it all over me through a fan. It was ingenious.

The farty fan incident remains a comedic staple between Garrett and me to this day.

This other time, I slightly, barely, joked about passing gas in a guy friends’ car. He then pulled over and asked me to get out.

Though I was pushing my girl-fart-phobic friend’s buttons, one thing still scratched at my soul – if I were a guy, this would be okay, and this would even be funny. However, I do love the tension I can create in a man’s head with just one four letter word that starts with f.

In Tim Keller’s new [text] book, Center Church, when overviewing the Gospel at its very start in the garden, he mentions the division between man and woman. They put clothes on out of shame, shift blame, and as Keller uniquely says it, “Because we are alienated from God, we are also socially alienated from one another.”

Socially alienated? That’s harsh Tim Bone. But when I look back on life I can’t help but agree, and even sigh in relief that if this is true then it’s probably not just me.

I’m not entirely complaining. Men get to fart in comedic freedom, women get to eat first. Men get poker nights, women get ladies’ nights. Men have a better chance of making millions of dollars being a professional athlete; women have a better chance of getting on a rowboat when the Titanic is sinking. I call these societal gender roles. The rules may change based on culture but the roles always exist and sometimes these roles make life awkward.

This is usually when the conversation shifts to feminist theology or egalitarianism v. complementarianism. This is where the woman feels wronged and begins asking questions, right? The conversation is worth having, it’s worth studying, it’s worth praying about, it’s worth finding answers as to why we function in the roles we’ve culturally created, what God thinks about it and if it is right.

But it’s not really the point and it’s like my Orlando nanny boss put it when divulging her plight to believing egalitarianism, “For the longest time, I thought the way to combat complementarinism was to make my husband submit to me. Turns out it’s a dual, constant submission, a persistence to die to ourselves for the sake of one another and I was doing to him exactly what I felt was being done to me.” Regardless of how you feel about gender roles, she’s right.

But let’s slide right past that conversation and into why Jesus is the best thing to happen to the unfunny. It’s this social alienation that Keller references that fuels what men and women can and cannot get away with. While the pressure of social norms and gender roles will probably always exist, what’s great is the Gospel.

The liberation paved by Jesus in both deed and eternity is unparalleled. The Samaritan woman, the bleeding woman, Mary Magdalene, the begging woman with the demon possessed daughter – the examples do not relent. Culturally, women were not to be talked to by men. But Jesus traveled to, healed, accepted, and tested woman after woman. Jesus’ example on how to treat women shaped Christianity’s view on how to treat women which shaped culture’s view on how to treat women. Jesus socially liberated women.

Where women stand in culture today is an affect of the Gospel, but it’s still not the Gospel. And the strain of gender roles and the search for biblical clarity still persists. The fall of man is carnally inescapable.

What’s best is how Jesus liberated humanity’s eternity.

When I interact with girls I am discipling, I can never really promise them much in context to Christianity, but can somehow promise them everything at the very same time. God has provided a plan, a savior, reconciliation, and an eternity – that’s everything. That’s the Gospel!

Girls don’t need to be pumped self-esteem, told their funny, or pretty, or that they have rights. It’s hard enough convincing a girl her worth isn’t based on the amount of instagram likes she gets, let alone, the things I just mentioned. Girls just need the Gospel. To be convinced of it, reminded of it and justified by it.

What's the Chance of Actually Finding a Man?

Thu, 06 Sep 2012 18:39:00 -0400

Dave and Bailey

Chicago, IL

It seems as though every time my friends Dave and Bailey get together around me, they land on the topic of my relationship status. Both of them were in town recently, and this is just about how it went down, “Jess, you need to come home.” Bailey kindly affirmed.

“Dude! She can’t go back to San Diego, she’s not going to find a man there. She needs to stay in the Midwest where the real men actually are.” Dave argues back.

“Well, I kind of think so and so is pretty cool…” I chime in.

“Really Jess?” Bailey asked, “There are seven billion people in the world. And you’re just considering that guy because you know him.”

And that’s usually how it ends: Dave marrying me off and Bailey keeping me far away. It’s all very endearing.

But Bailey’s demand to think bigger got me, in fact, thinking bigger.

Seven billion people, I thought. That’s got to be a bunch of bologna.

So I pulled out the maths and I got to work.

How many options do I really have?

According to the census, as of 2010, there were 6,892,319,000 people in the world. Since I have no immediate plans of traveling globally as well as soliciting myself as someone’s green card, I’m going to narrow that number down to the U.S.’ population at 314,235,653.

Females make for awesome friends, but terrible boyfriends, and they make up about 51.8% of the U.S.’ population. I’m no mathemagician, but that leaves me with only 151,781,326 males.

Seven billion, Bailey? Yeah right.

Let’s keep going.

I currently live in the state of Illinois with a male population of 6,292,276. Illinois isn’t exactly the most hopping state and I don’t find myself hanging outside Chicago much. So… Chicago has a male population of 1,405,684. Still at a one in a million “unique” opportunity, but that window of opportunity falls dramatically since 7.8 percent of those males are actually appropriately aged. That leaves 109,643, 25-29 year old males in Chicago. Though, if I were looking to pull off a Demi Moore/Ashton Kutcher fiasco somewhere down the road, then I could tack on about another 200,000 suitors. But until that’s legal… let’s just keep rolling.

5.7 percent of the Chicago male population is gay, that leaves me with 103,394. I tend to like white dudes and that’s 71.5 percent of the Chicago male population. But I wouldn’t mind a little color, so let’s bump that percentage up to an even 73 percent just for good measure which leaves me now with 75,477. Less than 49 percent of the Chicago population is Protestant, so at best, I am left with 36,983.

I have no plans of home-wrecking, so with only 33 percent of Chicagoans being single, that leaves me with 12,204.

12,204 available, Jessica-applicable, Chicago men. That’s a lot. If I could narrow it down more – I would. But I didn’t get very far on Google typing in “how many men in Chicago have a beard?”

Note to self: start an American beard registry.

12,204 Bailey! That’s hardly 7 billion!

But hey, it’s still looking pretty promising.

The Insecure Twenty Something Hipster Moocher

Sun, 02 Sep 2012 18:23:00 -0400

Milwaukee, WI

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ, who gave himself for our sins to deliver us from the present evil age and into the loving, caring arms of the Midwest, according to the will of our God and Father. (Galatians 1:3-4, kind of)

It’s incredible what you can do with four friends and twenty four hours in the city of Milwaukee.

A few weeks ago, the now very established summer “crew” (official name still pending) and I headed that way with a small agenda and large hearts.

Roommates Ashley and Rebecca, Rebecca’s brother Daniel and the happy-go-lucky, likes everything, likes everyone, comedic relief – Tyler.

I just thought I’d start by making something clear – there are two types of twenty somethings – Hipsters and Hipster Moochers. None out of our group is the former, though Rebecca may ride the fence at times, but certainly we are the latter. It’s an easy explanation – you may not want to take on the hipster lifestyle and stereotypes, but you’ll certainly track down their hangouts, buy their music and drink their craft beer, now won’t you? Shit, I do.

After we ate dinner that night at Waters Street Brewery we realized the area was far too “college” and I even demanded we find something more “hipstery.” So then Rebecca actually googled hipster spots in Milwaukee. As we navigated our way across town, we knew we were heading in the right direction as Daniel pointed out, “Look! A bike lane! Oh there’s a lesbian couple! I think we’ve made it guys!” We had made it, we had indeed.

We played Apples to Apples at a bar, danced into the wee hours of the morning at Mad Planet and then played Marco Polo at our hotel’s pool. We aren’t hipsters but we sure acted like it – Hipster Moochers.

Now that that is on the table, our hipster moochering and all, our trip slowed that next morning as we woke. We headed toward Lake Michigan to the local coffee roasters – Alterra. Not even a few sips into my iced mocha, Daniel put a question on the table we were all required to answer – What are we most insecure about?

If you want to take a group of people from acquaintances to friends – talk about your insecurities together. It was intense – I started tearing up and I hadn’t even taken my turn yet. I can boil all five of our answers down to three very key components.

We’re afraid that our current efforts are not good enough.
That our future may not actually hold even better efforts and accomplishments.
And that maybe, the people around us are going to realize all of this.

Take my story for example: I want to be a prophetic, gospel-centric voice amongst young women.

But what if that doesn’t happen, right? What if you never write that song you’ve been dying to write or start that company the world needs or take that trip through Thailand?

Well. Everything would probably be just fine. But it’d still be disappointing, now wouldn’t it?

Every day I get discouraged and want to give up. I fear I’m constantly offending people and that there is no substance behind what I am actually saying. I mean, I’m only 23, who is going to care what I have to say? For instance, right now in life, I think people should walk more slowly and drink more alcohol. But if that were good wisdom, we’d probably have a bunch of tardy drunks on our hands. And what’s worse than a tardy drunk? Probably not much.

But it’s like what Tyler and I reminded ourselves this afternoon on my back porch as we listened to a baritone sing the national anthem at Wrigley Field – you have to just keep showing up. If I keep writing, if I keep discipling young women through books of the Bible, if I keep practicing – maybe I will stop offending people, maybe I will gain some wisdom, maybe I will be a prophetic, gospel-centric voice amongst young women.

Maybe the same goes for you too, you insecure twenty something.

So after the open heart surgery we performed on each other at Alterra – we took it beachside. Ashley sent Tyler to grab us some driftwood for our apartment. When he didn’t return for about an hour, Rebecca went to check on how his search was going and came back with a message from him, “Just give me two minutes.” He asked.

Ten minutes later he emerged from behind the jetty floating a fairly large piece of driftwood behind. But as he got closer and as the angles changed, we soon realized Tyler was beaching a fifteen foot piece of driftwood. All the while, the Amish family that had been culminating and I think multiplying before our eyes on that jetty, blankly watched as we cheered on our smiley, proud-of-his-work friend.

The driftwood never made it to our apartment, unfortunately, but I’m sure it will make for a wonderful bench for many beach-goers to enjoy.

Later that afternoon, these photos were instagrammed of Tyler:

Gun Lake, MI I mentioned here that I’m falling in love with Michigan. I mentioned here that...

Fri, 31 Aug 2012 13:59:00 -0400

Gun Lake, MI

I mentioned here that I’m falling in love with Michigan.

I mentioned here that both of my best friends are now engaged.

The video below that I put together for Nick and Mj’s engagement really sums those two things up.

Please check it out:

michigan engagement :: nick + mijanne from Jessica on Vimeo.

Church vs. Church

Thu, 16 Aug 2012 00:21:00 -0400

Chicago, IL

I’ve got a major confession to make: I love my church.

That’s hard to admit, because once you say it, you’re just going to find something wrong with it, right? I mean that’s the mandatory plight of the American church-goer, right? To be in a constant state of at least slightly bothered as you choose to show up and participate, right? Right?!

Well, that’s what I’ve always thought.

But seriously, I love my church. For instance, at small group last night the goofy business dude gave me some of his home brew (which I felt like even I worked hard for because he had spent twenty minutes explaining the process to me before it was done three weeks prior), I said home brew. We drank beer at small group. And then, when it got just quiet enough, the accountant to my right farted. So we laughed about that right alongside her for about two solid minutes, all the while, taking an exegetical look at Ephesians.

There are so many good things to say about my church. Doctrine. Structure. Mission. Community. All good.

Now, about three months ago, while I sat in my seat at my church in Orlando, a young black girl came onstage, named Miracle to pray us out.

These are some the things she said:

“Dear Lawd, I thank you for Yo love. I pray for all da ol people with da sickle cell and da diabetes Lawd and da cancer. Lawd heal der bodies Lawd. And I pray for da kids in Africa drinkin that dirty water wearin dos nasty clothes. And I thank you for my clothes and my fancy shoes Lawd. And Lawd I just thank you for my sisturs and my mama and da people in dis place here. Thank you Lawd, amen.”

So can I just say, admit as well, that I loved my church in Orlando, too. Loved two churches? Is that possible?

And get this – they’re polar opposite. Missio Dei in Chicago is an Acts 29 church plant, non-traditionally respectful of tradition and structure and God’s word. They’re also reformed.

City Beautiful in Orlando is a large community of artists striving to be inter-generational, valuing all ages and their voice – hence, Miracle’s prayer. They are not reformed.

Style, views and priorities will always be important to the western churching-hoping consumerist. But those things aren’t what kept me coming back for more. It was absolutely the Gospel. Both churches have and will always provide the knowledge of a transformative regenerating redemption in Jesus Christ through His death and resurrection, and made it priority to remind me of that constantly.

As a child of God you have a right to the Gospel. So start preaching it, repeating it and hearing it.

I Think I Just Missed the Engagement Train

Mon, 13 Aug 2012 15:05:00 -0400

Chicago, IL

In the last three weeks. Two of my very best friends have gotten engaged.

Mj was proposed to on a boat on Gun Lake in Michigan. They docked and then proceeded to an engagement party that all of their close family and friends flew in for. We spent a weekend exploring the magical west of Michigan and celebrating Nick and Mj.

Danielle on the other hand, was surprised by Ryan and handed a plane ticket headed for Tokyo in 24 hours. A handful of days later he proposed at Tokyo’s version of Times Square – photo on the big screen and everything.

Have I mentioned that Nick and Ryan are also best friends?

These two stories leave me floored. Not only is God providing incredibly solid men for my best friends, He is also lavishing their story in an unfathomable way.

Oh. And check out the rings:

But every time I tell someone the story, they tilt their head, concern their eyes and say something like, “Are you okay?” and “So how does all this make you feel?”

I usually reply with an, “Okay, I think.” And then I think more, “Should I be taking it badly?”

Of course I shouldn’t. But the head tilts, the concerned eyes and occasional hands to the hearts are at least keeping things humorous for me over here. Maybe when the weddings draw near and I’ve got bridal showers coming out of my ears and two sets of beautiful vows to listen to, maybe then I’ll lose my marbles. But for now, I’m doing amazing, traveling the country even and more grateful then ever – thanks for asking.

I thought I’d leave you with a photo. One of the last nights in Michigan for Nick and Mj’s engagement we went to a stock car race. I’m not sure why, but it was everything I hoped for. There were chili cheese fries, lots of tank tops that used to be t-shirts and baseball caps with the army print that you see all over those alligator hunting shows.

Playing Twister with the happy couples on the race track in Kalamazoo, MI.

The Purity Gospel: Book Report on Passion & Purity

Mon, 13 Aug 2012 01:05:00 -0400

Chicago, IL

As my highly-suspicious-journey-into-the-world-of-popular-Christian-non-fiction-geared-toward-young-women-continues, it took an obvious turn toward the very popular book Passion & Purity.

As far as I am concerned, the author of Passion & Purity, Elisabeth Elliot is boss. She, along with a group of women played a major role in bringing the Gospel to an unreached people group, after this people group killed all of their husbands. Nonetheless, I wanted to take this book on. I was skeptical.

Let’s take a key word from the title – purity. It’s sort of a bothersome, teeth-clencher for me. Scripture claims that no one is good but God (Mark 10:19; Eph. 2:3) and the Gospel provides us with the knowledge of justification through Christ on the cross (Eph. 2:8-9). It is impossible for flesh to maintain purity and to believe otherwise is to believe in what I like to call – the purity gospel.

I can’t help but see, from my upbringing and from the upbringings around me that this idea of maintaining one’s own purity is rather high on the Christian to-dos. Purity, or what could more namely be referred as abstinence, at its simplest is obedience, and that is something we are actually capable.

Am I trying to downplay the obedience of abstinence? Absolutely not. For that is how we explicitly show our love to God (1 John 5:3). I am however in the business of reminding young women of the Gospel and doing my very best to expose works-based efforts that attempt to replace it.

Coming in with that predisposed concern was quickly alleviated in Elliot’s preface:

It is, to be blunt, a book about virginity. It is possible to love passionately and to stay out of bed. I know. We did it. Have I nothing to say, then, to those who have already been in bed? I would have to have my head in the sand to imagine that my unmarried readers are all virgins… I write to them to say that there is no purity in any of us apart from the blood of Jesus. All of us without exception are sinners and sinful, some in one way, some in another. If I can show others that the message of the Gospel is the possibility of a new birth and a new beginning and a new creation, I want to do that.

Moving past the preface though, turns out, this book is more than anything a memoir of the courting period between her and Jim Elliot. Most of what she says about dating, kissing, and everything else romantically relational is usually placed through the filter of her own story. And ladies, I want to remind you, that, everyone’s story is and will be different.

Waiting five years to find out if the guy of your dreams is willed by God to marry you, no matter how romantic, no matter how storybook worthy, is just not in the cards for everyone.

The bible just doesn’t give clear direction on a lot of the things she places strong opinion and direction over. She gives you a way, certainly, but cannot provide for you the way. Only obedience unto God can do that for you in a very personal way.

This book is worth a read, especially the parts that don’t particularly have much to do with romance. I found myself fiercely underlining basic, biblical discipleship references more than anything because she nailed it. Which leads me to believe she may have done precisely what she set out to do – shifted the focus off us and onto living consecrated to Christ.

Video

Wed, 08 Aug 2012 21:27:47 -0400

Pure Michigan

Tue, 07 Aug 2012 11:34:01 -0400

Grand Rapids, MI to Chicago, IL

I had a coming to Jesus conversation, with Jesus actually, on a bluff overlooking the lake in southwest Michigan. It’s clear more than ever that life revolves around Michigan. The weekend prior, I watched Mj get engaged to Nick there, it was my first stop heading into the Midwest a couple months ago; Garrett will be getting married there in the fall and not to mention the visits I still have to take to connect with all of my grandmother’s living siblings. Michigan is, seemingly, my past, present and future, and quite frankly, I’m not complaining. Actually, I’m addicted. Its famous summers, blueberry picking, lake cottages, and the long stream of heritage that seems to be divinely woven throughout all of my friends and leaves me convinced that our great grandmothers were all friends at young ages and prayed that God would bring their lineage back together one day.

All of this coalesced into that very moment on that bluff yesterday. The sweet Michigan breeze through the trees, Jesus, the lake, and if the cheese-o-meter in this sentence couldn’t go up anymore, there was also the classic family to my left wearing all white shirts and blue jeans taking family photos - the moment was perfect. Or rather, it was impressionable.

I had a lot of, “What’s next?” questions for Jesus. A lot of, “Well this is what I’m good at. You know that, right? This is what I’d like to do, Jesus. Can you help me with that?”

And after all of that was processed, the only thing that withstood was the Matt Chandler podcast I had been mentally munching on during my solo drive back home to Chicago before I had stopped to sit on this bluff. He quotes a friend that says something like – in this great exchange between man and God, the absolute only thing we have to offer, is our sin.

This thought does not necessarily negate my, “What’s next?” questions, but it certainly attached some perspective to it all.

Jesus is not Your Boyfriend Part II: A Book Report on Capitivating

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 23:32:00 -0400

Chicago, IL

I’ve been doing some research on the top selling young women’s Christian books to see what information is being pumped into our brains. Obviously I was suspicious.

I read Capitivating when I was eighteen years old, while living in one of the best towns England has to offer while attending Bible College. I walked away from that book officially in love with my high school sweetheart who was back in California getting his degree in business at one of California’s best schools. I don’t blame the book, but surely it had a profound effect. And in retrospect, I’ve always wondered – how did a book spur me to fall in love?

I had to find out. So some nearly six years later I pulled out my copy (which has somehow made it across the country with me because of a heartfelt inscription a dear friend wrote inside the cover) from my grandfather’s WWII trunk that charmingly holds my only belongings.

Stasi and John Eldredge do a great job at some things in this book:

1. Articulating the relationship between men and women. The way we compliment and the way we wound one another.

2. You can tell that the two have spent much time with both sexes, counseling people through understanding their stories but primarily their wounds and the need for healing over these wounds. People like this are very helpful.

3. They also give romantic dreamers, like myself something to read, something to relate to.

4. They can find God in anything – nature, a mediocre movie. And according to the word – “Word” in John 1:1 which in Greek is “logos” that can better be defined as “communicating,” so I too, believe you can find God in anything.

For instance, the other day I was sitting on my roof, reading a book, writing thoughts, on the northeast side of Chicago just being so hip, so unique, you know, and a butterfly came by and landed on my foot. It sat there for a couple minutes and I thought – little butterfly, what are you doing sitting on my foot when you could be doing much better things like hanging out with other butterflies or sniffing beautiful flowers? And then I thought – God? Are you trying to tell me I’m this little butterfly? Should I be doing better things with my life? Am I just sitting on a foot?

See I can go there. I get it.

But, it’s quotes like these in the book that make me ponder the book’s original effect on me as well as its message:

Let’s go back for a moment to the movies that you love. Think of one of the most romantic scenes you can remember, scenes that made you sigh. Jack with Rose on the bow of the Titanic, his arms around her waist, their first kiss… Now, put yourself in the scene as the Beauty, and Jesus as the Lover.

No! I don’t want to make out with Jesus. Jesus is not my boyfriend.

But what really gets me worked up, what makes me question this book and others like it, is less of what it’s saying and more of what it is missing.

What little eighteen year old Jessica needed that Fall semester in York, England was less of me, less sneaky lines like this “he is making me more me,” sandwiched between two biblically acceptable sentences, less follow your heart business (Jeremiah 17:9-10) , less making out with Jesus on the bow of a ship, less how to’s on “captivating” men (which makes me feel more insufficient than empowered and wishing it be appropriate to throw the book across the room) and simply just more of Jesus, more of the Gospel.

Don’t get me wrong. Books like this will always point you to Jesus; I just wish they’d start with Jesus. And to start with Jesus means sacrificing ourselves as the main character.

Girls need the Gospel, not another how to on coping with our emotions and dreams. That’s helpful but that’s secondary.

A Note to Young Women: Jesus is not Your Boyfriend

Tue, 24 Jul 2012 16:52:00 -0400

Chicago, IL

You may have said it once. “Oh I’m not dating anyone. I’m dating Jesus. (Which secretly means – I’m using Jesus as a ploy to hide the searing pain and insecurity I feel about not having a boyfriend.) Jesus is my boyfriend.”

No He’s not. Jesus isn’t your boyfriend. The boyfriends I know dating young girls are still figuring out how to treat them properly and usually like dry humping them behind closed doors. That’s not Jesus. Jesus treats girls well. Jesus does not dry hump.

Equating your relationship with Jesus to a relationship of that of a boyfriend is like saying, “Jesus is thinking of dying for me, I mean, we’ve talked about it, a little. He’s not sure he’s ready for the commitment though.”

The only symbolism that stands is Jesus as a groom. He has already committed, died for and chosen His church. You could also pull some symbolism of a Lover out of Song of Solomon and a Jealous Husband out of Hosea – but not a boyfriend.

Jesus is not your boyfriend.

Orlando, FL There’s a little one I forgot to introduce while nannying in Orlando. You know...

Sun, 22 Jul 2012 09:59:00 -0400

Orlando, FL

There’s a little one I forgot to introduce while nannying in Orlando. You know Gav. You know King. You know Londy. Lastly, I’d like to introduce you to Indi. I believe there’s no better way to do so than through some of her journal entries I discovered.

How to Make Friends in a New City

Sat, 21 Jul 2012 15:15:00 -0400

Chicago, IL

In the past month or so, I’ve met a lot of people in Chicago. However, last night, I made friends in Chicago. Not to say I haven’t already made friends but let me explain.

I have two roommates – Ashley and Rebecca (Family portrait above).

Ashley is a Wes Anderson fanatic. So somewhere along the summer dream in Chicago, we started projecting Wes Anderson flicks in our backyard. As classically hipster as this may seem, it’s a pretty fine event. We grill, make twenty dollars’ worth of guacamole, put our fingers in front of the projector to block out the boobie scene he seems to have in all of his movies, and, as I discovered last night, we turn acquaintances into friends, or more namely, blood brothers.

After the movie, a group formed, a group of dancers. Or as I choose to believe, less formed and more divinely selected by the Holy Spirit. The others made their way inside to do boring things and just like that we were dancing. Some were resistant, nervous maybe. “Hey dudes from Grand Rapids, show me what you got!” I encouraged. One moved his hips a little but kept his hands in his pockets. So someone just called out, “Alright then, do the Eric!” So we all put our hands in our pockets and moved our hips as uncomfortably as possible.

The rest of the dance session played out similarly – calling out dance moves – which I believe is the best way to dance. Some of my favorites include: “Catch the penguin that escaped from the zoo!” a very panicky, handsy, run around combo, “The T-Rex,” small hands and leg motions insinuating you have large and in charge thighs, “Dance Floor Zombie,” one person is a zombie, bites the next person and the next and before you know it everyone is a dancing like a zombie, and “Grab-a-Prop,” pretty self-explanatory – the married girl was slapping a bystander’s flip flops, the stock trader was thrusting a lawn chair in the air and I was spinning the lid of the BBQ like a shield.

I battled for a while in my heart, whether or not I should pull out the “Cry Baby.” I had been stunning crowds with that one at weddings and proms up until Madi, my PK friend told me it was time to stop about a year ago. She was right. But maybe I had seen enough weird movements out of these people that anything was game now. So the last song came, I yelled, “Let’s do the Cry Baby! Everyone get on your stomachs!” Not everyone followed, just the dudes from Grand Rapids and the more creative dancer of the group. “Alright boys, twist those hips and get your butt in the air! Now take your fist and hit the ground! Alright, you ready? Now pop that butt!”

The Cry Baby pretty much looks like a cross between a baby throwing a fit and making love to the ground. It’s alarming. But it went over like a hit and I knew, sometime between the “Cry Baby,” and the “Grab-a-Prop,” that I had experienced something with these people, something deep, and we were now friends. We all knew this and shook hands while verbally affirming what had just happened between us.

We headed inside to see what the boring folk were up to and the first thing I heard as I entered was someone saying, “And that’s why we need to think through the usage of Ethanol.” I’m not kidding, that’s what they were talking about. So we livened that situation up with a competitive game of Chalk-itionary and gladly played into the wee hours of the night.

Laughing at my terrible depiction of King Kong during Chalk-itionary.

Molly & Me

Thu, 12 Jul 2012 20:00:00 -0400

Chicago, IL

Guess what my Chicago employment is? You guessed it! I’m a nanny to three wonderful children - Elijah, 6; GiGi, 4; and Molly, a 10 year old, yellow lab.

Being touristy with Elijah and GiGi

Molly is the worst. But (kind of, not really, maybe) in the best way. And if John Grogan can write a whole book on the life and shenanigans of his dog, Marley, certainly I can write a blog post about Molly. And by the way, Molly is pronounced: “maw-leeee” so that the constant feeling of frustration she evokes is noted and emphasized.

During my first shift, every time I sat down, Molly would whine and bark. It resembled a “Billy’s drowning in the lake!” Lassie-like bark. It was so convincing, I’d stand up franticly and ask myself, “Where are the children?!” and checked on GiGi four times during her nap.

I tried every seat in the house — the barking continued. “Sit!” “Shut up!” “Please, shut up.” Nothing worked.

My boss assured me she was being needy. So I dug deep into my heart, to the little girl that hated pets so much she let her bird fly away because it was annoying. I found that little girl and demanded reform. I was going to give Molly attention.

So I did. Molly got better.

But a few weeks in, Molly barked again. Elijah warned, “You should take her out to pee.”

“Na, she just wants my love.” I replied giving into our petting routine. She kept barking and ten minutes later I caught a whiff of a Molly fart, which is similar to old meatloaf and a touch of overly ripe lemon.

“I know why Molly was barking.” Elijah smartly announced. He didn’t need to explain — the smell, the barking — I knew.

Picking up a pile of poop sucks. But I would have gladly done that, bare-handed if it meant avoiding the cleaning venture ahead of me.

This is what I think Molly did while I wasn’t looking:

1. Pooped in a bowl.

2. Grabbed an apron and whisk.

3. Added relish.

4. Added gelatin.

5. Mixed well but allowed for some lumps.

6. Spread contents across dining room floor, approximately a 12’ x 12’ space.

All this time, I thought Molly wanted my love. I dug deep for that dog, real deep. And how does she repay me? Doggie diarrhea.

I’d like to say things have gotten better. Since then, she’s peed on the carpet, vigorously licked every inch of my legs, and knocked over the industrial sized trash can to eat old pizza and such, countless times. Elijah never fails to remind me that this only happens when I’m here. However, I think I’ve mastered the pooping thing. In fact, the other day while on a walk, she was watching herself poop, which put her into a chasing tail-like rotation. By the time she was done, she had created some sort of spiral of poop. It uncannily resembled a crop circle from Signs, I was Bruce Willis and this was a warning. A warning of more poop, probably.

That’s Molly, sitting like a lady.

Two Boys, a Bag of Hangars and a Road Trip

Fri, 22 Jun 2012 21:58:00 -0400

Orlando, FL to Grand Rapids, MI

It’s the last Friday of May 2012, late into the night, so I suppose it’s really early Saturday morning. I have just celebrated my last night in Central Florida with about thirty of my friends and I have nothing left to do but lie on the couch with my feet propped, large grin on my face and repeatedly thank God for the last five months. The experience was rich, the people real and the time so regenerating upon the prior state of my restless, twenty something soul. If there were hiccups, they were mild and quickly remedied by a Family Dinner or a conversation with one of the many loving friends I had acquired. It’s almost unreal, maybe even incorrect how flawless that time was, but there I lied, into the night, relentlessly and joyfully thanking God for everything.

During my time there, I kept in touch with the three musketeers and even roped two thirds of them into driving up to the Midwest with me toward my next location. Jessica traveling with two boys, all of my dreams had come true.

The trip started off strong – last looks with my closest friends at a coffee shop. What exactly is a last look? How do you actually perform a last look? Glad you asked. A last look is an intensive stare designed to provoke emotion upon the subject in which you are giving the last look. Tilt your head in an unnatural direction, completely obsolete to which direction you are actually looking. Proceed to pierce your eyes upon your subject in a manner somewhere between a stare and a glare. This technique will produce effective last looking.

I did this all throughout my going away party. I’d whisper someone’s name across the room, grab their attention and last look the sense out of them. But seriously, it only made people self-conscious, looking themselves up and down wondering if they had something on them, or did something wrong. A couple people even left their conversations, traveled across the room toward me, with a raised brow wondering what I had to say.

Right before we left for the coffee shop, as the boys were so kindly packing up the last remains of what I own into my car, I hear one of them, Leighton, yell, “Jessica! We are not taking this bag of hangars!”

Stubborn rage instantly swells in my stomach. Last time I road tripped across the country, I left the hangars and you know what, I spent about fifty bucks on hangars upon my arrival into Florida. There was no way I was doing it again. We were bringing the hangars.

“Over my dead body!” I yell back, “We are bringing those hangars!” We do this back and forth for a while – iron wills battling over a trash bag full of about a hundred white, plastic hangars. I somehow let my guard down, get distracted and disengage from the battle. My first mistake.

On our way to the coffee shop, during mid-sentence, the other musketeer, Jason, begins cackling. His only excuse – he had just thought of something funny. My defenses build, my senses strengthen and I know something is fishy. It takes about thirty seconds and then I see it. As we were following Mj’s car, that resembles more of a toaster than an actual car, toward the coffee shop, I see it. There in her back window is a white trash bag bulging with hangars – my hangars!

“Leighton! Those are my hangars!” I yell, completely amazed with his unashamed, creative and strategic move.

Then, ever so calmly, as he was lounging in my backseat, through a cheeky smirk, Leighton casually states, “Oh yeah. We’re not bringing those.”

Through yells, rage and a whole lot of laughing, I assure him that we are in fact, bringing those hangars.

When we arrive, I immediately tell the girls what Leighton has done and recruit them to get the hangars back into my car. They oblige, but Danielle, who was conveniently in town and well acquainted with Leighton says to me, “You know Jess, even if you get these hangars in your car, Leighton will just sneakily throw them in a dumpster at your first stop.” Deep in my heart, I know this is true. He would stop at nothing and at the very least, throw them out the window one by one along the way. But my will raged on and I grabbed that bag and shoved it into the very last spot opened for any last piece of anything in my car. I pushed, I punched, I recombobulated. And no matter what I did, the hangars did not fit and only hung over awkwardly onto the lucky person who got to sit in the back seat.

Tragically, Leighton was right, those hangars were not going anywhere.

I took a deep breath, played my cards correctly and still battled it out with Leighton. I did this all so we could “compromise” by him paying me for the hangars. “Fine!” he yelled, “I’ll just give you money if we don’t take the hangars!”

Honestly, I think we all won, in some way.

After coffee, in a little less than a day’s time,

Leigh and Jason at The Chocolatier in Chattanooga, TN

the three of us booked it up to Leighton’s hometown, where we spent the weekend before I took my leave for my summer dwellings. It was an awesome weekend, full of relaxing, new people, a total crush on Leighton’s dad who spent the weekend trying to convince me to come back in November for deer hunting,

Picking out my gun for November

a family farm and an adult pool party – which sounds dirty, but isn’t, I’ve just never been to a pool party as an adult.

So here I have been now, for a few weeks, in Chicago.

The Hipster Capital of Central Florida

Sun, 17 Jun 2012 16:04:00 -0400

Orlando, FL

I may be beating a dead horse here, but I am going to make fun of hipsters, like everyone else does on the internet.

Finals were approaching and I had no other late night, coffee-serving, internet-providing venue but the token hipster coffee shop that is somehow conveniently located down every road.

When I walk in, gay flags loudly wave just to make sure you know how they feel on the topic, as if you didn’t know to begin with. I look to my left – there’s some sort of community group meeting at the long table in the middle of the room and it is 11pm. But with a hipster’s wake up time being 2pm, I quickly reason out of the absurdity.

I find a place to settle – the hundred year old couch, uncomfortably positioned in some nook. Classic. I begin pulling out my laptop and am instantly shamed. I own a 142” Toshiba PC that my friends call my flat screen TV. Everyone around me is tapping on a perfectly proportioned MacBook Pro. I soon become less shamed as I realize I’m actually the most original. So what I am saying is, just don’t be surprised if you see a PC movement occurring amongst the hispster community after you read this.

I go to order my drink. I had no idea what I was in for. At the counter was a five-foot-nothing barista with skinny jeans, a teeny tank top, and no bra. I could handle that, but then I noticed one side of her head was shaved and the other half was dreaded and all came together into what I think was a braid. Okay, I thought. Haven’t quite seen that but still, I get it.

“Would it be possible to get a half-caf cup of coffee?” I ask.

She follows hipster suit and takes about a split second longer than all other human beings and responds, “What do you mean?” The response would have taken me off guard if her voice hadn’t first. It was some sort of cross between Snow White and Miss Piggy. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it took to perfect that one.

“Hmmm.” I say, “Do you think you could make me an Americano with a caffeinated shot of espresso and a decaffeinated shot of espresso?” I ask. She pauses and then looks up as though she is consulting the fairy that lives in her hair. Eventually she complies with an unwarranted attitude as if she doesn’t get paid to do what I asked her to.

It takes five minutes, but I get my Americano and begin looking for cream. Spinning in circles, there’s nothing and she has already disappeared through some curtain made of beads. So I wait some more. I find someone who looks like they work there a little bit more than everyone else, because at those places, you can never really tell. Phew, she does. She helps me and quietly disappears as well.

Shoot! There’s no room for cream and no place to pour it out. I begin spinning again. No one. Nothing. A man comes by, “Do you need somewhere to pour out some of your coffee?”

“Yes!” I enthusiastically reply.

“Come with me.” He demands in a whisper.

I instantly take on a hunched over posture, stepping lightly, anticipating “danger” or “adventure” at any turn.

“Where are we going?” I whisper back as we exit the building.

“Just right around the corner here.” He responds, keeping me very intrigued. “There, you can pour it right there.” He points to a planter. “Don’t worry, those plants won’t be harmed.” He affirms.

“Are you sure?” I poke.

“Yes, I do it every day.” He gently responds.

“Okay, thank you so much.” I declare, yet keep at a whisper out of sincerest of hipster reverence. And then he quietly disappears.

Check it out for yourself - Stardust Coffee on E. Winter Park Road, between Marble Avenue and Corrine Drive.

All that to say, like a poser, I did show up wearing my glasses from Urban Outfitters lacking any form of prescription, so I can’t really make too much fun, now can I?

Besides going to church every Sunday, the only other time this hipster moment has been rivaled was when I somehow found myself at a Saturday night dance club called Midnight Mass. Hipsters sling their PBR in the air, and sway their bodies in new and exciting and uncomfortable ways.

Midnight Mass

Teenage Boys: Another Reason why Girls are not Funny

Wed, 02 May 2012 21:20:00 -0400

Orlando, FL

Discipling teenage girls is fun because it means that teenage boys are not far away. Unfortunately though, our boy to girl ratio is about one to ten. So when strategizing on how we could bring in more boys I turned to the Homecoming King of one of the local high schools and asked, “Carson, how can we use your popularity to bring in more dudes?” In which a guy leader interrupted with a tone of disappointment in me for pumping Carson’s ego and said, “What she is trying to say, Carson, is how can you influence guys around you at your high school to partake in our community?”

The shame of irresponsibly asking that question did not last long because Carson’s instant response, in a very concerned tone was, “But all my friends are girls.”

Guys like Carson make things very exciting because consequently, girls are not funny.

For instance, Carson started the #rudenudes hashtag on instagram. So when a teacher turns their head in class or during an innocent walk down the hall, Carson will unbutton his shirt and a friend with an iPhone will not be too far off to capture the moment. It’s turned into a cultural phenomenon down here in Orlando amongst high schoolers. Unfortunately, some have taken the “nude” part extremely literal. I’ve already seen one too many underage butts.

So what I am basically saying is – Carson is that guy we all knew in high school that gets away with anything and everything, all for the sake of humor, and if a girl tried any of this, she’d be a slut. He also happens to love me, a lot. Last week he asked me to marry him. It’s all very adorable, very hilarious.

So to help paint the picture, I thought I’d share some photos I receive from him, of himself of course, with both impeccable and awkward timing.

So when Carson finally made a guest appearance at Family Dinner with all of my friends, I made him tell everyone about his self-generated, slightly inappropriate hashtag. Once the story was told, an instant challenge was given: Carson had to take a rude nude without any of us noticing.

Twenty minutes later, someone checked their instagram and found this:

So thankful for Carson, his heart for the lost at his school, and of course, his humor.

Video

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 12:19:41 -0400