GIRLS ARE NOT FUNNY

Two Boys, a Bag of Hangars and a Road Trip

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

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

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.

Minimum Wage Conversations II

Winter Park, FL

Besides nannying, I spend my Mondays working for Florida minimum wage, assembling “boutique” paper goods for Rifle Paper Co. It’s all very cute, very hip. But I find myself looking around asking – does this assembly line of beautiful, talented woman understand that they’re dressing up like Anthropologie models to do work most companies pay children in China to do? I also find myself laughing, a lot.

The last time I was just visiting Central Florida, Mj showed me a website that a friend of hers made. Every day the guy would put up a new jingle. They were terribly funny and usually about cat food. I became his fan. He also works at Rifle.

“Wanna go to lunch?” I asked my friend Liz.

“Yeah, one o’clock okay?” she replied.

“Sounds good. But uhh, you think Tom has lunch plans?” I sheepishly inserted.

“Do you want me to ask him for you?” she sarcastically replied, completely onto me.

“How’d you know?” I asked. “Ha. Don’t tell him I said anything.”

Through laughter she consented, but it didn’t really matter because I soon realized he had overheard the whole exchange. I was still unashamed.

During lunch…

“Why are you wearing that string around your neck, Tom?” Someone asked.

It’s my trophy.” He replied though a large grin.

“Tom went to my baby shower yesterday.” A very pregnant boutique paper company employee responded. I began chuckling at the thought of a coed baby shower. “Yeah, you know that game where you have to guess the circumference of the mother’s pregnant belly?” she went on, “Well Tom won and now he is wearing the string as his trophy.”

I looked over as he was literally wearing his trophy, closing his eyes, smiling wide and nodding his head in complete satisfaction with himself.

“And you wanna know how I really won? What my strategy was?” he asked the group. “I measured my own belly.” The whole lunch group exploded in laughs, shouting “no way!” and “whoa!” There was no denying it, his very jolly, round physique proves his strategy true.

“The string was spot on,” the expecting mother confirmed, “not a millimeter too long or too short.”

Read another Minimum Wage Conversation

Nanny Pants

Orlando, FL

As a nanny, I am responsible for four little souls. I have introduced you to Gav and King. And now with such honor and adoration, I’d like to introduce you to Londy. Londy is not related to the rest of the gang comprised of two brothers and one sister, but still very close because their mothers are best friends. King and Londy are close in age so when I am with both of them I spend most of my time planning their future wedding and breaking up their fights.

Londy is a hitter. In fact, she’s such a hitter that every time we arrive to King’s house together he instantly goes into defense mode. His smile falls, he cocks his head and then side stares at us as we travel across the room. I’d like to say that would intimidate the nineteen month old little girl, but it doesn’t. You see, if one could hold the Olympic gold medal in staring contests, it would be Londy. I usually find myself in a staring match with her right after I have told her to stop doing something. Just like that, her icy blue eyes complimented by the largest/cutest cheeks, like this kid, begin to search your soul. She can hold this gaze for minutes. And though everything in me wants to out stare her, I can’t, because every second I stay is another second of my soul that she knows. At one point in a stare down with Londy, I doubted my salvation.

She is a sure force to be reckoned with which is why I keep coming back for more and more – neck kisses, tickle fights and “girl time” walks by the lake included.

If King and Londy are sitting next to each other, Londy will hit him and King will cry. It is inevitable. So when I had to go to the bathroom to take a quick tinkle while they were watching cartoons, I was expecting some cries and, “Stop it, Londy!” from King.

Not even by the time I get into the bathroom the whining has begun. No big deal. Pants down, mid tinkle and the usual crying has turned into life-changing screams that you never want to hear out of any two year old child. I have no other option than to clog myself up and take my bare-butted-jeans-around-my-ankle-self to stop the first degree murder that is occurring in the living room to Barney’s “I Love You” theme song.

I enter and King is lifelessly leveled while Londy sits expressionlessly over him with his hair rotated around her hand about five hundred and forty degrees. After I untangle his hair out of her monster grip, put her on an eternal time out and comfort him back to emotional wellness – I finally find some time to pull my pants back up to avoid the potential awkwardness of a parent coming home early.

As damaging as this encounter could have been for everyone, especially the pant-less nanny – it just made me adore, love and appreciate Londy all the more.

Rook Beport: The Alchemist

Orlando, FL

In the last few years I have been prominently discipled by two women. From the first, I took away this, “Jessica, I know God is going to use you, well. But you are going to squander it if you do not start showing some integrity in your character. Be a woman of your word, faithful with whatever is given to you, and for crying out loud – show up for things on time.” So as I was doing just that, the second entered my life and had this to say, “You’re under the impression that you’re great. You are not great, in fact you’re mean and you suck. You have absolutely no concept of how to treat people properly, but don’t worry, you’ll get better.”

I did get better. I think. I hope.

Based on these ideologies that have stuck so well to me, it’s no wonder that I was drawn to the beginning of Part Two in Paulo Coelho’s book The Alchemist. Overall the book is very enticing – putting a tale behind and relating to its reader’s most desired outcomes, journeys, dreams and visions. And more specifically, they key players in those situations. After the boy spends a year with the merchant, the merchant can’t help but confess,

You have been a real blessing to me. Today, I understand something I didn’t see before: every blessing ignored becomes a curse. I don’t want anything else in life. But you are forcing me to look at wealth and at horizons I have never known. Now that I have seen them, and now that I see how immense my possibilities are, I’m going to feel worse than I did before you arrived. Because I know the things I should be able to accomplish, and I don’t want to do so.

And just like the drive leading the boy affected the merchant, so did brushing up against those two women affected me. I was content with the life I had built, the fun I was having and the friends that I had made – but from the vantage point of a couple women ten years my senior – I was epically missing out.

Furthermore, this book came at such at impeccable timing. I am on the cusp of departing from my first stop here in Florida and the pressure to stay is getting real and thick. I have ministry, community, church and friends in ways that I never thought a mere three months could ever offer. The relationships are deeply rich and the opportunities promising. But something very stern in me states – keep going.

As the boy has moved onto a different land and is now traveling, namely with the alchemist, they have this exchange,

“My heart is a traitor,” the boy said to the alchemist, when they had paused to rest the horses. “It doesn’t want me to go on.”

“That makes sense,” The alchemist answered. “Naturally it’s afraid that, in pursuing your dream, you might lose everything you’ve won.”

It would be silly to assume I won’t lose by leaving. Hopefully though, it will not be relationships that are lost, but rather the loss will only account for moments in time – which everyone will lose, because time moves and moments vaporize into memories. So by leaving, I am giving up memories with people in which I am profoundly fond. This is a price I am willing to pay to follow my dream.

I pray you are willing as well.

Jesus: The Counter-Culturalist

Orlando, FL

Let’s take a look at John four.

To Jews, Samaritans sucked. They were unclean, racially horrendous and Holy Scripture manipulators. When making the three day trek between Jerusalem and the Galilee, which occurs in this text, Jews avoided Samaria – an almost half way mark.

But Jesus.

In verse four it says,

But He needed to go through Samaria.  

No He didn’t! He needed to avoid it, like everyone else. Right?

He needed to avoid strange women, Samaritan women at that, right? Like the woman at the well, who said to him in verse nine,

“How is it that You, being a Jew, ask a drink from me, a Samaritan woman?” For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.

By verse nine, Jesus has violated three cultural norms, all for the sake of His ministry and glory. 1. Made purposeful contact with the Samaritans. 2. Talked to a woman. 3. Talked to a Samaritan.

At this point in the night, as I am passionately preaching this text to my high school girls, one of them takes a moment in between pauses to tell me, “You know, with that tone and blazer you are wearing, you kind of remind me of a dad.”

My love for blazers seemingly never goes unnoticed with past comments I have received such as this, in which you think I would stop wearing them. But a blazer paired with a cute little dress is my fashion addiction.

As the girly, teenage giggles ensue, I grab their attention by saying, “So what you’re trying to say Ali, is that I look like a dyke.”

The room erupts and I have now lost them to yet another moment of where I have left them amused but still asking themselves – is this girl really allowed to be our discipleship leader? Similar to when they saw a photo of me smoking a clove on instagram and that other time I called myself a “shithead” when referencing my absolute need for God’s grace.

Ali’s face is completely red. And Kate, the hilarious and most newly follower of Christ of the group as of two months ago, who spends most her time quoting Summer Heights High and lacks any kind of Christendom social norms, slaps on a girly whiny voice and makes a lesbian innuendo by saying, “But it only happened once!”

Now I am leveled, grabbing my stomach and laughing with watery eyes.

As that simmers, we finish looking at the rich text. There are a lot of theological stops on the way through chapter four of John, such as: living water, lovingly addressing the woman’s sin, food to do the Father’s will, a whitened harvest with sowing and reaping, and a similarity in how this woman was used to how Mary was used in chapter two – an active faith that pushed others into active faith.

Those things are good. Those things make me want to do somersaults and smell flowers, but what I wanted to take closer look at is what happens in verses twenty three through twenty six,

“But the hours is coming, and now is, when the true worshippers will worship the Father in spirit and truth; for the Father is seeking such to worship Him. God is Spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth.” The woman said to Him, “I know that Messiah is coming” (who is called Christ). “When He comes, He will tell us all things.” Jesus said to her, “I who speak to you am He.”

It is 2012 and the new covenant is established. Disciples have been commissioned and now we are riding the coat tails of western missionaries. We have broken into denominations. We have reformed. We love the Gospel and we tell people about it. And with that, it becomes hard to fathom that people existed without a Messiah and with only the promise of one.

Right here in these scriptures, Jesus is foreshadowing to a much bigger proclamation. He has chosen a sinful, Samaritan woman to say – you have been waiting for your Messiah and I am He! To firstly proclaim reconciliation amongst the God of the Jews with the Samaritans and to further foreshadow the reconciliation that would be occurring between that same God and the Gentiles just a couple years down the road, on a cross at Calvary.

Maybe today you need to be reminded that Jesus if for everyone, every nation. So let’s be a part of it.  

Smashing Women’s Dreams at a Wedding Near You

Lakeland, FL

The moment I walked in on the groom’s grandfather taking a whiz, right before the bridal party made their entrance down the aisle, I should have known, it was going to be one of those nights…

“Jessica, go!” Both of my bosses yelled repeatedly to me while pointing to the crowd of single women. “Go! Go!”

“But Mj will fire me if I go.” I replied in a whiny tone just waiting to be convinced more.

“Go!!!”

So I went, taking one last look at her, the only woman not in white. Wearing white was a last minute request made by the bride and groom that my boss was not aware of. It turned out to be a great idea, full of beautiful symbolism. But unfortunately for my boss, who chose to wear red, looked like a twenty first century version of the character Hester Prynne from the Scarlet Letter.

Single Ladies by Beyonce queued in like I am sure it does at all bouquet tosses across the nation ever since its release some couple years ago. As I rounded the left side of the group of women my fiercely competitive nature kicked in – I had committed now and fully planned on catching the bouquet. I took the sneak attack route and stayed on the left side awaiting a quick swipe in front of whomever it landed. I took the Ray Bans off that I had stolen from some dude on the dance floor and was now ready to single-handedly take home my fourth bouquet in the last two and a half years’ worth of weddings.

The bouquet floated surprisingly close to me and just like that, my only competition being one of the bridesmaids, half caught it, half dropped it and then eventually completely retrieved it, doing so with only my left hand. Swiftly with my right hand, I put the Ray Bans back on, and began my victory lap around the dance floor waving my floral trophy in the air and ended by celebrating with and high-fiving the two women, of whom I nanny their children, with the bouquet. I hear my first and last name roaring through the speakers as my friend Josh, the DJ announces the winner at perfect timing to throw my hand in the air as Beyonce sings, “If you like it than you should put a ring on it.”

I didn’t plan for this spectacle. I didn’t even think I’d dance. Mj had planned this wedding and paid me a couple bucks to be her number two for the day. Participating in these activities seemed out of the question. But after commenting on how nutty I usually get on wedding dance floors to one of my bosses, I had to rise to the challenge when she asked me to prove it. Almost instantly I ran right into a group of familiar dancers and had an “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” going which quickly turned into a dance circle. That dance circle then transformed into a conga line in which I strategically lead past my boss and mouthed, “I told you,” while pointing back to the people behind me.

So I danced, a lot, quite vividly, actually. I heard a lot of, “Looks like you’re having a great time, Jessica!” from parents throughout the night. Of course this came after I held on to the suspenders of one of the guys I do the high school ministry with as he circled the dance floor and danced the whole night convincing viewers that I am epileptic. I caught the bouquet. Remember that, just told you about it. Yeah. And for a split second, I even found myself accidentally running down the sparkler-lined aisle as the bride and groom were making their exit. My douche bag points were reeling at this point and hit their climax as Mj informed me of a photo one of the mother’s had taken that involved me grabbing the arm of the bridesmaid that would have caught the bouquet had I not succumbed to the employer pressure I was under.

The loud, flirtatious girl from California, that most of these people at the wedding do not know very well – was at it again. The next day Mj said to me, “Jessica, I feel like your PR Agent, talking so highly of you to everyone constantly to downplay of all the shenanigans you’re up to.”

Shame could have poured over heart, which it did for a while, pondering the potential of seething women losing to hired help. But it is times like these that remind me of how badly I am in need of grace. And although it is not always offered by the people around me, it is most certainly promised by Christ.

In fact, that grace had already been lavishly extended the night before at the rehearsal dinner. Though I’ve known the groom and his family since I was sixteen years old and have religiously visited them to glean, learn from and simply spend time with – I still should not have been at that rehearsal dinner. Due to the circumstances, I was. I quietly watched as two super families toasted to the bride and groom. Siblings, grandparents, mothers, best friends, etc… The love and the gratitude being expressed behind some barn in woods of central Florida was humbling.

As the night ended with worship by one of my favorite dude friends out here in Florida, I wept. Contemplating the glorious symbolism taking place before my eyes in reference to Christ uniting with His bride and how in my total depravity, by default, I shouldn’t even have been invited to that eternal wedding, now should I? Should any of us?

No.

But I am, claimed completely by Christ, invited to partake in the wedding celebration, the feast.

This is good.

Now I Know Why God Let Me Play Basketball That One Year in High School

Orlando, FL

Again, I am a nanny, here in Florida. I find that the families that require nannies are headed up by two really rad, influential people. Or families with lazy moms paired with expendable incomes. But in my case, thankfully, it has been the rad, influential type. I have been amused, loved, entertained and annoyed very well by the cumulative of now seven kids, coming from three different families, but never have I been, in just a little over a month’s time, so challenged.

His name is Gav, he is nine and this is why he does not like me:

1. His previous nanny was my best friend Mj. Mj is a babe. She has thick, blonde, awesome, wavy hair that goes to the middle of her back, a booty like Beyonce and a killer smile. This combo would make any nine year old not only develop a crush but perpetuate an attitude of complete bummerness when realizing that Mj is being replaced by a girl like me. “A girl like me” is a girl: with a collection of “nanny shirts,” which are simply an array of 5 button up, collared shirts, mostly flannels, that get switched out day to day (sometimes I’ll wear a t-shirt if it is hot). A girl that feels no need to ever wear makeup to a nanny shift. And a girl that waits till after the shift is over, when the party really starts, to wash her hair.

This by no means constructs an environment where Gav’s crush could simply hop from one nanny to the other.

2. One time I heard him singing along to a top 40’s song on the radio. So the next day when I picked him up at school and it was playing, I blasted the volume and rolled down the windows and yelled, “Hey Gav, get in! It’s your favorite song!” He reluctantly approached the car and I watched as his expression changed. He got in, sunk low into the seat and said, “This isn’t my favorite song. This is so embarrassing.” Meanwhile his younger siblings are giggling in the back and I finally notice the audience of other nine year old boys waiting for their mothers.

I would say oops, but it was all pretty much intentional.

3. I am encouraged by his mother to encourage him to do his chores well. Sometimes this means doing them twice.

With that said, “Chore Day” can also be called, “Nanny I Hate You Day.”

This was also the day that he spilled orange juice on his homework, twice. So when I tried to cheer him up, I by default went into philosophical Jessica mode and said, “One day you won’t be able to pay your bills, finish all of your college homework and a girl will just have broken your heart and you’ll look back on this moment and think that wasn’t so bad after all,” in which he responded by rolling his eyes and walking away.

4. One afternoon I discovered we could play basketball together on the neighbor’s hoop. This is something Mj could never give him. I was schooling him at one on one and had won him over finally, smiles and all.  Except for when he charged the net and tripped over my foot, fell on his elbow, now had a gaping wound, borderline crying and rolling on the cement.

After some counseling sessions with Mj and a couple more games of one on one, I think, he likes me now.

A Series of Most Embarrassing Events: Certain Exposure

I pride myself on being the initiator and reason behind other people’s most embarrassing moments. But sometimes, I fall victim, I fall victim real badly.

Once upon a time I was fifteen, at the beach, laughing so hard on the shore that when I was slapped on the side of my body by an aggressive Southern California wave, I had no idea I was flashing my whopping 34A cup to one of my guy friends. The only indicator that I had was my guys friend’s stare, followed by an uncommonly slow face cover with his hands and then Mani’s pointing, laughing and falling on the ground. I was exposed for a long 10 seconds by the time I finally stopped laughing, got a clue and looked down.

I was mortified, yes. But felt slightly better when my guy friend succumbed to the idea of showing me his butt in return for my most certain unintentional flashing. Not sure how I pulled that one off, but it made me feel a little better. Whenever I see this friend, we reminisce and give each other some knucks to that endless summer on some Southern Californian beach where only locals dwell, full of carne asada burritos, tanned skin and teenage boobies.

Now fast forward some years later, I’m visiting Mj in Florida, hanging out with her and a bunch of high schoolers with the youth group she is now working for, at the beach, except now I am twenty one and they are not.  There I am standing in a circle with Mj, and three other boys, one of them being another leader. I’m half engaging in casual conversation and half engaging in adjusting my bikini top by shifting the string. Except when I pulled on the string I forgot to hold down the triangle. So the triangle went right along with the pull on the string and there you have it, I am exposed once again.

I freak out. All of them say they weren’t looking, but I’m not convinced. I start accusing them, “You saw, I know you saw! I’m so sorry! I’m so embarrassed! But I know you saw!” All of them say no, but the chances of our circle formation and four other sets of traveling eyes make it impossible to believe. Later I see the two high school boys talking and laughing, so I go up to them and start accusing them more.

I suppose the mortification forced me into this accusatory mad woman – but I couldn’t help it. Finally Mj reined me in by informing me, “Uh Jess, _______ has struggled with pornography. If you could stop asking him about seeing your boob, I would really appreciate it.”

So I let up, but not without the occasional, judgmental stare directed to the elusive seventeen year old giggle monsters.

Like the previous flashing, the sting of embarrassment has certainly worn off now two years later. But I’m certain, there are two, now nineteen year old boys out there saying to each other, “Dude remember that one time when we saw that one girl’s boob?”