Hot and heavy pumpkin pie chocolate candy Jesus Christ

Hello world!
Long time no see! Long time no chat! You probably think, based on my last post, that I slipped into an alcoholic hole, hidden from the rest of the world in self-destructive debauchery.

I didn’t, by the way.  I’ve just been preoccupied. I’ve got all my belongings in storage save for the essentials, which are rolled up in my blue backpack, and I’m kinda couchsurfing around until I can move into my new house.

Yes.  House.  With a yard.  I even signed a year-long lease.

With all the craziness going on around here, what with my brother moving out here, my job search and the like, the act of signing that lease hasn’t hit me as hard as I’d imagined it would.  I’m in hyper-active survival  mode right now, both for my own sake and for my little brother’s, so I’m not thinking deeply about much of anything.  I’m just moving.  Spending. Eating.

Ugh, the eating.  I’ve been cursed with a body that has adverse reactions to like every food out there, and a post-anorexic greed when it comes to eating that causes zoned-out binges and followed by zealous admonishments of all things caloric.  I also tend to give up coffee.  Women and stress…it’s the worst combo ever.

Anyway, I’m currently at a coffee shop in Tempe (drinking coffee…I’ll quit again some other time) and thinking about newness, commitment, and the idea of home.

I like there to be a clear break from the old from the new.  My guilty pleasure is New Years resolutions.  They’re so clean, so fresh, so hopeful.  I’ve got good intentions spilling out my ears on New Years day.

We’re halfway through 2012 and I’m thinking about my intentions when starting this thing.  I’m thinking its time for a new fresh start.

Which is wonderful because there is so much newness about the place; I’ve got a new job, I’m going to be living in a new house with new roommates, and to top it all off, dig this externality; my roommate and I are going raw for a month.  We are dubbing it Raw-gust, because we are just that witty.

So new home, new workplace, and renewed eating.  Fresh as can be.  My brothers have signed a year-long lease as well, in an apartment up north with two of my favorite guys.  Things are new.  We’re shaking the old off and learning the ropes of adult-siblinghood.

I’m grateful for them.  I’m grateful that my soul-killing old job allowed for me to pay off debt and set aside enough to get me and my brothers through this gnarly month of newness.  I’m grateful that I can couchsurf with church friends while my dog chases squirrels and things at another friend’s farm while we’re between homes.  I’m grateful that my new roommate is out of town (er, country) for a couple weeks and has lent me her car.  I’m grateful for my new job.  I’m grateful for Pinterest.

And I’m grateful that, for at least a year, I am legally bound to be in one place.  I’m excited to make a home, a sanctuary, a safe place for myself and my company.  I’m excited to wake up aching with wanderlust and know that I have to just go back to bed.  There is a peace in having less options, at least for a time.  I’m excited to have real friends and learn how to swing dance and join a rock gym.  I’m excited to frequent more coffee shops in Tempe.

And I’m excited, don’t you doubt it, to finish out my year here and go wild next summer, Associate’s Degree finally in hand. (What do you mean? A LOT of people go to community college for seven years.)  Maybe a US/Canada road trip with certain Aussies who’ve been talking about it.  Maybe South America.  Maybe Papua New Guinea.  Or maybe its going to be something I can’t even anticipate, something here.

A blog ought to be either informative or entertaining.  Right now I’m a little less than both, but I wanted to preserve some regularity on this ‘ere blog site.  I wanted to wave at you from across the internet and let you know I still care, and that I’m still here.

P.S. Apparently there’s a model named Jessica Moran, because one of the most frequent search engine phrase people find this little blog by is “Jessica Moran hot” or “Jessica Moran model”.  This, and the fact that “Disney incest” also brought someone here, makes me cackle like a hyena.  So. Much. Fun.

P.S.S  Whoever “borrowed” my camera at the Fourth of July party took an impressive array of crotch shots.  Here they are, because what else am I supposed to do with them?

Twenty-one

Now, at this point in your life you’re probably 21, kinda floored by adulthood (leases, relationships, jobs, oh my!) and vacillating a bit between dumbfounded panic and finger-tingling excitement.  You probably are stoked to make healthy foods, to ride your bike, to learn about God and love and family.  And you’re also probably learning about alcohol.

Now, I know you are a reasonable person, an intelligent and motivated individual.  You never drink to get drunk.  You don’t actually even “go out”.  You certainly don’t need a drink (or three) to be fun.  And you would never, ever, drink your stress/anxiety/insecurity away.

For the sake of a blog post more humorous than family crisis, however, let’s pretend you’re curious about how to not be hungover on a Tuesday.  (Abstinence? Cute.  You must be new here.)

First off, once you realize you’re more exuberant on the Blue Martini Dance floor than usual, or that you’ve moved the dance party to your own private rain dance outside, here’s what you need to do; pop a vitamin B12, and fill your pretty pink nalgene to the brim.  Now down it.  Don’t throw it up, but do drink it all.


If you don’t have a nalgene, you’re silly.


Now, you probably forgot to charge your phone because, well, forgetting normal life things comes with the territory of being such a big fan of alcohol, which means you had no alarm clock the morning after your debauchery.  Once you’ve awakened (and realized its ten in the aye-em and you’ve blown off your morning plans with people you care deeply about) you need to refill that nifty nalgene.  Drink that mother.

Although its acidic and you give up drinking coffee all the frickin time, you’re probably craving it.  So walk to the nearest coffee shop, all bloated and groggy, and get yourself the largest iced java you can afford.

Once at home (because I still respect you as a person, Dear Reader, and have given you the credit of sleeping over at someone’s house rather than driving home intoxicated) ignore the judgmental gaze of your dog 

and make yourself an alkalizing elixir with this stuff:  Your body needs some healing and this stuff will help.

However, it tastes like your lawnmower smells, so dose it with Arbonne’s energy fizzy drink mix.  Then its not only bearable, but delicious, and even more alkalizing!

Also, breaky ought to consist of something nutritious and dry.  Viola; hearth-thrive energy bars!

Keep downing that water, turn up Youtube’s Fun playlist (you’re probably a big fan of the song “Be Calm” lately.) and prepare for your day.

This day, in particular, involves bringing Chris to In’n’Out for an interview (ohpleaseohpleaseohplease), dropping off your resume at places (I was fired on Sunday, guys.  And I quote; “you’re a waitress, not a fucking comedian.”), exploring more housing options with the new roommates, and getting Michael’s car washed, as he’s been generous enough to let me use it while he goes off and gets engaged in Europe.

Anyway, here’s to twenty-one.  Cheers, friends.

Brother

My little brother is in town…and we’re not letting him leave.

There’s something about siblings that can churn your insides and break your heart.  Really they’re just these people, these completely individual beings with their own quirks and hopes and character flaws, and maybe you wouldn’t even chose to know them.  They helped form you, though, maybe even more so than your parents.

The boy got a ride out here with another boy, the one who’s game for South Am travels, and upon his complicated arrival and confession of the lifestyle he’s been slowly killing himself with, my older brother and I turned into momma bears and formed a two-part shield around him. Well, three-part, because how do you deal with this much damage without the Holy Spirit?

The plans for this year, the whole not-buying-a-car and saving for South America, has radically changed. This is bigger than  my travel dreams. This is my baby brother.  Remember my baby brother?  Remember catching snails and pretending we were X-Men? Remember when we’d fight, and he’d tell on me, but as soon as my parents tried to punish me he’d throw a fit about how he’d made it all up, how it’d been all his fault, and please don’t punish Jessie.  Remember how you found him on horse tranquilizers that day and he was more of a zombie then than when we’d first put him on Ritalin as a child?

And remember how you wouldn’t hold his hand during dinner time prayers, because ewe.  Don’t tell me you forgot your cutting remarks, your disdain your undisguised disgust at him as he grew up and found more and more illicit escape routes.  Because he certainly didn’t forget.

I’ve never seen such wounds.  I’ve never seen such need.

In this unexpected turn of events, it looks as if my older brother and I will be playing house the best we can and praying for healing and detox.   And don’t give me that crap about how its not our responsibility, how its unfair or how we can barely take care of ourselves.  The Bible says in 1 Timothy 5:8 “If anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for his immediate family, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.”

I don’t know what to say except that the three of us have lived separate, “big kid” lives long enough.  Now we need each other, and we love each other fiercely.

And somehow, amidst all the problems, all the complexities, it somehow feels so safe and right for the three of us to be in the same room.   I can’t speak for the boys, exactly, but man, it is home when we’re together.  And we three will build a sanctuary for each other, a retreat from the chaos and bitterness the world so lavishly dishes out.  We will wear compassion.  We will experience and exhibit grace.

And sentiment aside…friends, you’ve never met a boy as fun as my little brother.

FREE AT LAST!!!!!!!

Halelujah, I’m free at last!!!!!

From debt, that is.  It feels so good.  I don’t know how people go long periods of time with huge amounts owed to school or hospitals; I felt like it was looming over me this entire time.  I felt almost criminal not paying it, like everything I bought was just borrowed and everything I earned was really for someone else. When the Bible talks about the borrower being servant to the lender, this is what it means.

And if you’ve ever lent a friend or family member money, you know first hand how the dichotomy of the relationship changes. To avoid the resentment, bitterness and awkwardness that usually follows, I’ve made a point of not loaning money anymore.  If I pay anything for a friend, that’s it; its a gift.  I’d rather lose money than a friend.

I know my debt was miniscule in comparison to so many others struggling with debt in America, so if you’ like to be inspired by someone truly tackling their debt and dealing with finances in a mature, Godly, and gazelle-intense way, check out my friends Brian and Stephanie’s new blog, The Debt Free Adams Family.  These guys are newly married and awesome, and I’m certainly looking forward to keeping up with them along their journey to financial freedom. Encourage them, friends, and when they’ve paid this debt off by Steph’s birthday next year, lets celebrate with them.

On work ethic and margaritas

Happy Margarita Monday, friends!

I apologize in advance for typos. :/

I wanted to explain why, though it was a slow and trying day at work, I ain’t mad.  See, tips were sub-par and I even had the serving nightmare of a table exiting the building sans payment.

They cost me $20.13, plus whatever 4% of that is (which I tip-out to the bussers, AKA the most important men in my life.)

Anyway, I wanted to tell you, over homemade margaritas we decided to dose with more tequila (because, God love her, Steph makes such a cute margo) why I’m not upset about this shitty day.  It has very little to do with MGMT radio on Pandora and the alcohol.  It actually has to to with integrity.

See, I like, when I get a shit tip, to recount the entirety of the party’s meal and judge whether or not I earned their pathetic 10%.  If I can replay the greeting, the order-taking, the meal presentation, the coffee refills and the check-dropping, and see that their experience was not found (legitimately) wanting, then I can accept that shit tip and carry my pony-tailed head high.  If I haven’t earned a person’s ill-will, I feel fine with their two dollars on twenty-five.  They’re either clueless or assholes, so who cares?  If I’ve earned it, I’ve no right to complain anyway.

I work very hard.  I genuinely want my restaurant’s guests to enjoy themselves and to be satisfied.  I don’t only recommend the pricey items.  I cater to their neediness, as if they’re my only table and I’m not running on five hours of fitful sleep and caffeine.  I read once that “work” is “a productive interaction with His creation that provides for our families and allows us to use the personal gifts that God has given us.”  I read this in the back of the free bible a church in California gave me a few years ago.  While I’m only providing for myself and my dog, and not necessarily using the “gifts” God has given me (and what are they, anyway?) in my work life, I sure as hell ought to use the grace, interest, and affection he’s bestowed upon me with my customers.  They ought to enjoy being served by me.  I am personally cherished by the creator of the universe; how dare I not engage with my customers in the same, individual way?

This brings me back to my conviction about bad tips.  More-so my attitude about them.  If I’m a shitty server I deserve bad tips and have no grounds to stand on to complain.  However, if I am a friggin awesome server and still get a shit tip (or, you know, a twenty-dollar stiff), I still have no ground to complain on.  I did my best, ok?  I did everything I could.  I was multi-tasking.  I was distracted.  I still remembered your refill.

All this to say…I don’t feel bad about this wretched day.  I feel like this.

Hope your weekend was awesome and you’re feeling patriotic.  Be nice to your waitress.

Cheers.