Cecilia

At the risk of providing more evidence to be used against me in the case to put me away, I’d like to introduce you to one of the characters roaming around my mental landscape: Cecilia.

Before I can tell you about Cecilia though, I need to introduce you to my weird tendency to anthropomorphize various parts of me and then narrate for them. One example would be my uterus. Her name is She-Hulk and she is angry most of the time. My liver is some kind of cross between Bob Cratchit and Eeyore; earnest and hardworking but sometimes sort of depressed and sorry for himself. Even the more abstract parts of me get their own personalities. My paranoia’s name is Bobby. He’s a clumsy British hit man who is after me. I often walk out of buildings and look over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t hiding against the wall and I whisper- “Not today Bobby!” He should really get his whole own entry. That is for another time.

Anyway. Cecilia.

Cecilia is the part of me that takes over functioning when I’m too tired, stressed or drunk to operate my own self as usual. She’s a kind of a last resort autopilot I guess. I sort of think of her as the teenage niece of some other part of my brain who just needed summer work. She’s sweet and SUPER excited to help but really not that competent and so I usually hide her away in the mailroom of my brain doing the less important functions where she won’t be seen. I mostly assign her to things like wondering what it would be like to kiss Woody Allen.

Sometimes though, the rest of my brain checks out for the day and much to my horror, Cecilia takes it upon herself to fill in. It’s like she emerges from the mailroom to find a ringing phone in the office and instead of letting it go to voicemail, she picks it up and tries to do business.

Exhibit A: Last night Cecilia fielded a late night phone call that I have little to no memory of now. Although I was partly, or completely asleep at this time, it appears that I spoke to a friend for 6 minutes at 1:00 a.m. and now I have to figure out if there was any information from that call that I need. Did I make plans? Did I promise to do anything? Did this person profess love to me? Naturally Cecilia took no notes on this call because she is entirely worthless as a secretary. I don’t know how many times I have to speak with her about NOT answering the phone but she’s a little overzealous and really does mean well.

I think the key to keeping her away from my normal functions is coming up with a whole lot of meaningless things to ponder which will keep her busy somewhere in the back of my brain. Also staying as awake and sober as possible at all times.

Daniel is cranky today

Me: It's your turn on Words with Friends. Stop doing that Teaming Agreement and play your word.
Daniel: You shut your whore mouth when you're talking to me.

I got one!

I know what you're thinking, and yes, I pulled this one in all on my own.

Hate mail

I've been delegated to do the merry task to telling my coworkers to stop what they are doing to write down a list of what they are doing and then collect these lists, compile them into one big list, and give them to our director, who never reads them. Every Friday, I send out an email, reminding people to do these lists. Here are some of the responses I've gotten in the last month or so:

“Oh god.”

“Crap.”

“Balls.”

“No. and how come procurement doesn’t have to?!!!”

“You’re a big suckfest. “

“Boo.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Ugh, I was gonna send you a snotty reply but you brought me brain coral…I just spoke with the brain coral, and it too does not like pending lists.”

“You disgust me.”

“I’d like to see your pending list one of these days.”

“Pending List + Kat = Kat Vomiting and giving Jess dirty looks”

“Please, I have this in the bag…you’re a pending list geisha.”

“Dear Ms. T----,
Thank you for your diligence in collecting pending lists from the members of the Cost Proposal Unit at ----------------, Inc. I appreciate your understanding of my usual tardiness in providing the fully completed form. I hope that this early submission and congenial email will fall favorably upon you this Friday afternoon.”

“Can you add P. to your pending list email? I’d say thank you but we both know I’m not”

“This is crazy, I googled your name and it brought up an entry on dictionary.com:
Jessica [Jess-ih-cuh]: A Senior Program Assistant determined to make her co-workers lives hell. She is considered by many to be worse than the scum found at the bottom of a toxic garbage barrel that has seen all manner of hazardous waste tossed into it.
Also: an extinct bird. Sorry.”

“gah.it gets me every Friday even though I know it's coming...”

GUYS. I HAVE TO DO ONE TOO. AND COLLECT ALL OF YOURS! But thanks for making the process more entertaining.

cast not ye your pearls before swine.

Jessica: Want to try some lavender chocolate?
Daniel: Wait, isn’t lavender a flower?
Jessica: Yes.
Daniel: Ok. …this tastes like a bathroom!

quotes from coworkers

As he walked by my desk: “I may be attending a gay rugby fundraiser Friday night…"

Why the receptionist and I will never be friends

So look: I know Everybody Poops. I poop. I have lied and told boys that I do not, but I do. There shouldn’t be any shame in that, but there is. And I cannot- CAN NOT- do it in a restroom with stalls and other people. I’ve tried and I cannot do it. All that happens is I sit there trying to play Jedi mind tricks on the other people in there, trying to make them leave. And until they do, I fake that I am not trying to go. I blow my nose. I flip the lid up and down on the sanitary napkin receptacle. I lift my feet up so that people will think there is no one in there. I sit and wait for people to leave and I grow full of hatred for them.

So I came up with a new strategy. When nature calls and I cannot shut her up, I have taken to using the first floor bathroom in the lobby. No one is ever in there and I can just take my time and do my thing. Sometimes this timed deodorizer goes off and spritzes the room with a floral scent. It’s beautiful. The only problem, is that I have to walk by Claire and Debbie, our receptionists. Somehow Debbie is never there when I make trips down there but Claire sees me every single time. She’s never busy talking to someone else or off doing something. I swear it’s like she waits there for me. She’s this sweet shy type and we’ve never broken the ice enough for me to joke with her or to have anything at all really to say beyond “hey.” And I know she’s on to me. I kind of thought she might just believe that I use that bathroom because was in the downstairs kitchen or something but I think it’s getting pretty obvious that that is not the case. So I have all but stopped making eye contact with her any time I see her anywhere in the building. And I honestly don’t know that I could speak to her if I ran into her on the street.

We will never be friends. Claire, if you ever read this, please understand. It’s not you, it’s me. [Although it would be HUGE if you would just please be somewhere other than your desk just ONE time when I walk by to use the bathroom.]

Thanks, family.

My friend Amy is in NYC today visiting family. I just got the following chat from her:
"I'm being attacked by my family right now. My aunt and cousins are up from georgia. My aunt is like 'Amy, you're SO old, how are you not married now?' and 'Amy, if you don't have babies soon, they're gonna have down syndrome' "

HAHA. Awesome.

Ho-dom.

J: I think the dress I am thinking of wearing might be too short
A: Lol its ok I'm wearing a low cut one.
J: Should I wear leggings?
A: No don't. There are girls at work who wear shorter things.
J: And so begins my decline into ho-dom.
A: Population: 2

To the French woman, with love.

So I work with this French woman, and one time in the kitchen, while we were both getting coffee we parléd a little Français. Or for my part, I made a terrible attempt at it. The thing is, I was already scared of this woman because she’s that strong and silent type that gives NOTHING away about what she thinks about you, and I personally am way too insecure for that sort of nonsense. So anyway, I’m nervous and as a result my French was pretty bad. To cover for myself, I try to say “I don’t speak French as well as I would like these days” but instead I said something like “I speak not as soon as French as I would like recently.” The thing is, my French is actually good enough where I cringe as the words come out because I know they are wrong. Instead of correcting myself though, I stare at her, and instead of asking me to repeat myself, or joking with me that ‘hey wow your French IS bad!” she smiles politely and walks out of the kitchen leaving me mortified and beginning several months now wherein I feel like I need to avoid her because of my shame.

We were both walking from the parking lot together this morning, for example, and I sent imaginary text messages as I walked 30 feet behind her until we got to the building and she let me in with her key.

Anyway.

I guess I just hope that one day, she reads my blog for some crazy reason because this is for her: “Je ne parle pas Français aussi bien que je voudrais.”

Stress child

I found my Lisa Frank stationary when I was home recently. This is a letter I wrote to Hannah but never sent. Not that this is any reflection of my being a guilty, anxious little person, but the entire thing is me apologizing for not writing sooner. I’m really sorry, Hannah. Fourth grade was just a really busy year for me. You understand, right? I’m sorry.

Self Sabotage

Have you ever made the security questions on an online account too hard to answer? They’re about MY life and I just got locked out of my own account because I COULDN’T ANSWER THEM. One of them was “What is the name of your first pet?” and I got it WRONG because I was like “Well I mean technically it was that puppy my parents got for me when I was 2… but then really, they had a dog already when I was born so was that dog my pet? I mean really… I was more ITS pet because it was around first and I didn’t take care of it… but then if you are qualifying ‘pet’ by who takes care of it, maybe my first pet was that cat I got when I was 8… What was I thinking when I wrote this question?!”

Directions

Insert foot directly into mouth. Do not pass Go. Do not say anything else because clearly you are incapable of filtering out the inappropriate things you’re thinking.

Oscar, meet Truman

We dog-sat for Truman a few weeks ago. Oscar wasn't exacly a fan and spent a good deal of the time sitting on the floor behind the toilet. Truman mostly wanted to make friends but his very presence terrified and repulsed Oscar. Eventually they worked it out. Truman agreed to stop trying to schnuffle Oscar and to give him a 3-4 foot bubble. We even all shared my bed although you will notice the 3-4 foot rule was still in place.

A handful? Maybe.

"maybe he'll realize that I am the Lucille Ball to his Ricky Ricardo. Sure I bring most of the comedy and plot, but we have a great time! Sigh."

Seriously considering therapy today.

This was my weird dream last night:

I let Hannibal Lector, as played by Anthony Hopkins, borrow my pickup truck (because I had one and he needed it) with some other guy. I was driving back from some version of my highschool graduation where my mother showed up wearing overalls like a farmer, and I saw Hannibal and the other guy in the truck. And I remember thinking to myself- why did I let him borrow that? He’s probably going to make a mess in it. And then, as I am watching him, I see him kill the other guy and I’m like I knew it! You just can’t trust that guy! But then I was also totally freaked out and so I called 911 and was trying to explain what I just saw and that the killer was on his way to my house- because apparently he was. And the dispatcher goes- “So the other guy is dead right?” And I’m like- “oh yeah- I’m pretty sure he’s dead.” And then the dispatcher goes, “ok, well we’ll send someone in the morning then- it’s really late and we’re all really tired. I mean the guy is already dead anyway.” And I go “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Because OH MY GOD- Hannibal Lector is on the loose and there is a dead body in my pickup truck!

So, even though I know Hannibal Lector is at home, I keep driving there. When I get home, I find that Hannibal has removed the now headless body from my truck and deposited it at my front door. At this point I have begun to think of Hannibal as my zany brother who kills people and it’s like so inconvenient but what are you going to do about it, he can’t help himself- but of whom I am also terrified. So I shout ‘OH MAN COME ON!’ Because why the heck should I have to clean up after him? I call 911 again and I say “Look GET OUT HERE because A)Hannibal is still lurking around and he’s probably going to kill me and B) I am not keeping a dead body overnight!” And they are still carrying on like I am asking them to bring me a pizza in the middle of the night! So basically I spent the hours I was supposed to be resting last night trying to convince the reluctant police to come rescue me from a cannibalistic serial killer. Seriously considering therapy today.

Thoughtful introductions

This is how I was introduced by a coworker at our department’s quarterly meeting the other day:

Karim: Jessica, this is Jane. Jane works with travel in our Arlington office.
Jessica: Nice to meet you! [Shake hands]
Karim: Jane this is Jessica; Jessica has a weird sense of humor.

Putting my craziest foot forward

Marta: How did the date go?
Jessica: Good! It was fun- I think I like him.
Marta: Oh good! When are you seeing him again?
Jessica: Oh. Well. I mean, I’m not like 100% that I’ll be hearing from him…
Marta: What?! Why?
Jessica: Well… in one of my bouts of nervousness and self sabotage, with which you’re by now familiar, I may have been less than discerning in my selection of conversation topics…
Marta: Jessica… what did you do?
Jessica: What? Nothing! It’s just that in the moment, it seemed funny to talk about my brother’s racist comments and my feelings concerning the lack of women occupying significant roles in the Bible.
Marta: Ok, just tell me that you didn’t do the rant that climaxes when you pound your fist on the table and say “Fuck Ester!”
Jessica: [silence]
Marta: Jessica!

A tribute to my [until-further-notice] life partner, Marta.

Why friendship with you rocks
1) Because you are always game to put biker/pirate/generally bad-ass temporary tattoos on your butt with me
2) Because you get the concept of “driving with your feelings” and that we always end up where we are supposed to
3) Because we cut down a tree in a strangers yard for our Christmas tree
4) Because you did not panic when the first night we had Oscar we made him foam at the mouth and bathed him in toilet water
5) Because you understand that the higher the pitch, the cuter we think something is
6) Because “you cannot begin to understand… the depths… of me…”
7) Because friends don’t let friends date men who are A)boring B)Douchey C)Cocky D)Don’t love Jesus
8) Because figure skating on TV can inspire us both to abandon our homework and our other roommates to sneak off to the Cheesecake factory in Boston at 10:00 at night
9) Because you know that Peanut Butter Jelly Time demands a response
10) Because you understand that my meltdowns about things like post-it notes or closet space are never about post-its or closet space.
11) Because you let me keep my paper fish for 6 years now
12) Because we will drive to Maine at midnight to get one 6-pack of beer
13) Because we have about the same tolerance for crowds/parties and some freakily aligned internal clocks that tell us to leave at the same time
14) Because Dance of the Dissident Daughter has rocked our world
15) Because you have shared my crush on Woody Allen and have also wondered what it would be like to kiss him
16) Because we are ambitious enough to consider running a marathon, but reasonable enough to go for the half-marathon
17) Because we both have shiny happy fits of rage… which occasionally involve throwing bras into a fit pit and shouting “IF GOD IS MALE THEN MALE IS GOD!”

Semi-responsible pet ownership.

Let me tell you about the time I brought my cat to the butcher.

Oscar was getting overly male and in our house, we find that unacceptable so we began to look up neutering options. Marta’s priority was that it be cheap and, because Oscar has been driving me banana-sandwich lately by stealing my earrings and eating my food, my priority was that it be uncomfortable. (I’m KIDDING!)

Anyway. I called some places and it seemed like we weren’t getting out of this cheap. Vets are so pesky these days about making sure your animal has all kinds of shots and microchips and what not. Marta Googled “discount neutering” and found this place that basically functioned as a charity/vet. They were frustrating to get a hold of from the beginning. Marta had to keep calling them back because every time she got someone on the phone, they would sound distracted by some chaos in the background and would say to her “call back in a few minutes!” I saw this as a good sign that they would be inexpensive since they clearly didn’t charge the overhead to hire a fulltime secretary who wasn’t doubling as crowd control/anesthesiologist. And it WAS cheap! It was literally less than half the price of the other places. WITH SHOTS. Bargain hunting at its best.

Marta made the appointment and I agreed to take him because the place was in South Boston, thus closer to my work than hers. The morning of the event, I got out the cat carrier Marta had brought back from PA when she went home last. She had neglected to tell me that it was disgustingly filthy with some sort of soot all over the outside of it. I couldn’t use it like that because A) black stuff got all over me when I touched it and B) Oscar already wasn’t keen on the idea of getting in it and who could blame him and C) I was afraid of what the people at the vet would think. So there I am in my nice work clothes, running late, trying to scrub the carrier so that the discount cat neuterer wouldn’t judge me.

I had to all but dump Oscar in there too because he somehow knew that this was not his day. The poor guy cried the entire way there. I talked to him like he was my preschooler the whole time. It took me FOREVER to get there/ find the place too. By “South Boston” Marta meant Dorchester. I was driving down the NARROWEST alleyway –so narrow that I had to drive with my left tires up on the side walk to get around a car stopped on the right. I was on what my GPS said was my destination street thinking “surely not!” It looked like it was just back doors. But then, I saw a small white sign claiming to mark the spot. Out front was chubby man in a ratty looking sweatshirt smoking a cigarette. I guess he’s having his cat neutered too… I parked around the corner and carried my poor little kitten to the door. Apparently smoking guy worked there in some capacity. Awesome.

So I wait in there forEVER with all the other people with cat carriers and Oscar is shaking like a leaf. By this time, I am feeling pretty badly for him. The experience up to this point had to be enough punishment to compensate for all of the earrings he has carried off and that bag of my pita bread that he ate. I am about ready to call the whole thing off because I realize I don't hate him enough to leave him here when some guy wearing scrubs who has backhair spilling out the top walks up to me and says "Oscar?" He has some miscellaneous Eastern European accent. I consider looking at him blankly and pretending that I speak even less English than he does and then grabbing Oscar and making a run for it.

Instead I say “Yes. He’s right here.” I hate myself in this moment and I shoot Oscar telepathic messages that say “Look little buddy, I’m like 60% sure you’re going to be ok so just relax and be nice to the strange man. Plus, we wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t have to go and start humping household objects!” The strange man tells me that I also have to give Oscar a distemper shot and a rabies shot and worm pills. Sure whatever- is it still the same price we discussed?

I let the man take little Oscar in to the back and as he goes I shoot Oscar eyes that say I’M REALLY SORRY!

They tell me I can pick him up at 5:00. I guess you get what you pay for though because I called at 4:30, as instructed, and he hadn’t even been touched yet. He wasn’t ready to be picked up until almost 7:00. Marta picked him up and reported that he was “swaying like a drunken sailor.” There were stitches in the area of concern but now that he’s healed, neither of us are really convinced that they did anything because there has been really minimal behavior change.
So there is the most recent story of our semi-responsible pet ownership. He is alive but still a little bit too male for our liking.

Beards

Me : Oh man. Can we talk about how sexy men with beards are?

Marta : Yeah. Well wait. We need to narrow the parameters. Do you realize how many Islamic extremists you just opened us up to?

Guilt

For the second time this week, I got home to find an empty ice cream carton that, when I left for work in the morning, had been full of "community" ice cream. Marta was nowhere to be found, but I found the following notes on my pillow.

In case you can't read them, they say "I'm a monster" "I admit it" "Please don't judge me" and "I was stressed"

He won't even look at me.

So unhappy. Here he is being dropped off for his neutering. Here’s hoping he forgives me. Here’s hoping I get him back alive (we brought him to the sketchiest discount neutering facility- more on that later).

Some days you need a little help.

Marta may or may not have walked in this morning and found me listening to the following video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d6wRkzCW5qI

quotes from my boss

“I believe I asked that someone bring me a cookie. I’m going to remember this when it’s performance report time.”

texts from the road yesterday

Marta: i just had a flashback of the time you explained to charlie what a fupa is and he didnt really appreciate the humor. hahaha. oh man.

Jessica: sometimes i think moments like that are a good snapshot of my life.

almost famous...

So today, I pulled into the parking lot at work and a group of my coworkers got out of the car next to mine and immediately, Candice says to me "Your face is on a poster at Whole Foods!"

WHAT.

Recently, I agreed to do a product trial with Skin Organics (the offici

al skin care line of the dreamy Bachelor). I DID do "before" photos and I DID sign release forms saying that they could do whatever with them and I DID momentarily fear that my coworkers and others would see them. But I thought to myself SURELY no one is ever going to see these photos because they probably had a ton of people doing this trial and tons of places for these ads to be. But sure enough, the photos are up and they've been seen. Amy was kind enough to get a photo for me. Melissa tells me that they'll be going up in the office.

Without further ado, here are my "before" photos. I would like to point out my favorite elements- A) I am not from Wayland and B) next to my name and face it says Oily Skin in bold. Awesome.

I totally do this

No one gets him.

So Oscar is being really weird lately. He’s been skulking around the house and hiding under the bed and glaring at you when you go to pet him. Between that, the screamo music and dark clothing he’s been wearing, Marta and I have begun to think of him as our moody teenage son. Sometimes he joins us on the couch when we watch TV but he won’t look at us and likes to pretend that he doesn’t even care about people food, which he used to beg for so desperately. I’m really trying to be understanding but every now and then I say something mocking like “Oh- the little prince has decided to join us this evening- to what do we owe THIS pleasure?” To which he rolls his eyes and seems to say “no one gets me.”

He usually sits on top of the toilet and watches me put on make-up in the morning. He’s still been doing that, but now he has this ironic look on his smug little face and when I smile at him in the mirror he mutters things like “… you are so generic.”

I’m really at a loss. The angst in the apartment is almost tangible. We’re hoping that the removal of his manhood will make him chill out a little. Speaking of which, Marta is not allowed to make any decisions about that independently. Do you know what she asked me the other day? “Do you think we could just find someone who we can just pay under the table to come over here and do it?” Yeah. No.

I just like to keep it classy, you know?

Leave it to me and Julie to go to a Super Bowl party and end up drunk and discussing feminist spirituality and how much we love each other.

Delusions of grandeur

Me: I was just thinking about how messed up it is that while children have imaginary friends, I as an adult have an imaginary hit man.

Marta: I’m not sure how that compares with the imaginary men who are in love with me…

Snow shoeing sucked this weekend.

Kat and i thought it more appopropriate to call it "No-Shoeing."

McDonalds is my nemesis.

Welp. I just got back from McDonalds and as I lie on my bed- milkshake cup still in hand- with my typical stomach cramps and self-loathing, I just thought to myself "McDonalds is my nemesis."

Then I realized that I wasn't completely sure what "nemesis" meant so I looked it up. Turns out it was the ideal word for what I meant to say. Ready? Ima hit-chou wit some knowledge.

nem⋅e⋅sis

/ˈnɛm -ə-sɪs/ [nem-uh-sis]

–noun, plural –ses

1. something that a person cannot conquer, achieve, etc.


2. an opponent or rival whom a person cannot best or overcome.


3. (initial capital letter ) Classical Mythology. the goddess of divine retribution


4. an agent or act of retribution or punishment

It's like no matter how many times I get the same old nausea and stomach cramps I can neither build up a crap-food tolerance or resist its magnetic fatty appeal.

It always goes the same way. I do something I think is great and then I think I deserve a treat. Now, depending on how my life is going at a given point, the greatness bar can be pretty low. Like, today, I got my oil changed like I've been meaning to do - reward! or I really wanted to punt Oscar into next Tuesday and instead I just locked him in the bathroom- yay for me!

Tonight I ran 5 miles IN A ROW. Right? Please. Obviously I went to McDonalds after that feat.

I always go through the drive thru (due to my shame) and ask for a cheese burger, a small fry and a small vanilla shake. That's really all I ever want/feel like I need. Turns out, it is the exact recipe for my distress. I of course know this when I order it but somehow, I always believe that this time will be different. This time, I am going to feel awesome, justified, proud, rewarded, cool, sexy, satisfied and great.

One might say, if one were nerdy enough to research definition numero 3 wherein Nemesis is the goddess of divine retribution, that my McDonalds induced misery may be punishment for succumbing to my hubristc belief in my own entitlement and ability to overcome the forces of nature.

Between the time it takes me to drive from the ordering speaker to the window where I pay, I have usually reached Gollum levels of pathetic/desperate/aggressive. That is, if Gollum were trying to play it like he didn't like... NEED the ring. Basically I am unpleasant when I get up there. The lady tells me the price, I hand her my card. I see her sizing me up, judging me, taking forever to just hand me my damn shake. I start having an imaginary conversation with her where I defend my menu selection and tell her about the great thing I just did and how I deserve this food. This woman always takes forever. I begin wondering if she can't read/add or if she is just screwing with me by going so slow. I think maybe she is bitter and, sensing my desperation, uses her small amount of power in this world to wreak havoc on my emotions. In the imaginary conversation I'm still having, I begin to refer to myself in the third person. That's right, you tricksy little hobbit. Give Jessica the milkshake and she won't leap trough the window and tear it from your dumb slow hands.

After an hour and a half she hands me my food and probably says something like "have a nice night." I really have no idea what she says though because "At Last" by Etta James starts playing in my mind and between that and the sound I'm making with my straw as I immediately suck down 3/4 of my milkshake, I can hear very little else.

I've finished my fries and half of my cheese burger before I drive out of the parking lot and by the time I get home, I've only got that last quarter of my milkshake. And then there I lie, on my bed feeling nauseated and crampy, ruing the day I tasted my first Happy Meal.

And as I lay here this time, I recall a lifetime of defeat to this wretched force called McDonalds. I remember, as a 4-year-old getting my head stuck between the bars of the Hamburglar's jailhouse slide on the McDonalds playground. Panicked, I screamed and cried for my mommy who was unable to get me out. I should have realized that I was dealing with something genuinely formidable right then when even my all-knowing, all-powerful mother could not save me. The manager had to come out and they were just about to call the firedepartment when the Beast decided to let me go, only to torment me for years to come.

McDonalds always wins. That is the lesson here. And yet as I lay here in misery, I take the hand that's not still clutching my milkshake and I make a fist. I raise this fist towards the ceiling- the heavens really. And I shake it. It's a motion that is one part "I would have succeeded if it weren't for those meddling kids and their stupid dog" and one part "After all, tomorrow is another day..."

I'd like to say that this is the end of the story but I think it's clear at this point that McDonalds' has it out for me. But you know what? They're on my list too...

*insert dramatic/epic music + fade to black*

Jessica and Marta’s first real Christmas tree... OR the Time Jessica and Marta stole a small pine tree out of a complete stranger’s yard

If you’ve spoken to either of us in the past 2 months you’ve probably already heard at least the summarized version of the story of our pine tree “appropriation” but here it is in full, along with the much requested photos.

Hokay. So. It all started because we wanted our very own REAL Christmas tree. We’ve had a fake ones in previous apartments, but it sort of always felt like we were just playing house and this year, we wanted a real tree that would, like our pain-in-the-ass cat Oscar, legitimize our fabulous adult lives.

Beyond getting a tree that was real, we also wanted our tree-procurement to involve some element of adventure; after all, this is a Jessica and Marta tale here. I mean, sure we could have walked literally across the street from our apartment and bought a real tree at the florists. We could have done that... if we wanted our tree story to SUCK.

But no. Adventurers are we and so we decided that we would cut our own tree and that we would do it in the wilderness, not at a tree farm- those are for pansies.

So one December Saturday, we got in my car, filled up the tank, stopped by Max’s house for some saws, and got on the highway. I asked Marta if she had any idea where we should go because beyond getting into the car and driving to “the wilderness,” we hadn’t really put much thought into where we were going. Marta confessed that she didn’t really have any idea. Not a problem. In these situations we always have a reliable back-up plan: driving with our Feelings. You may scoff, but it always gets us somewhere interesting if not to our originally planned destination. “I feel like we should get on 128 South,” Marta said. I looked in my rearview mirror and nodded. I felt it too. After a half hour of driving and singing along too the “Jessica and Amy Dance Their Butts Off” mix (complete with James Brown and the Bee Gees), our Feelings told us to get onto the Pike. Right on, Feelings; there are trees out west.

After a half hour on the Pike, our Feelings told us that we were getting really warm, which was great because we were getting tired of driving. We got off the and drove down some minor highway in a sort of strip-mally area. We were a little discouraged; this was not the wilderness we’d hoped for. After a couple miles Marta began to despair. She pointed to some shrubbery behind a hardware store- “What about those?” “Get a hold of yourself woman!” I shouted. “We didn’t come all this way for strip mall shrubbery!”

We decided to follow a lake that came up on our right into a more rural/residential area. We saw a sign about conservation land. Bingo. TREES. We were inspired. We drove on with renewed strength and purpose. We found a little parking area near a sign that had some words on it like “Trust” and “Conservation.” How much more ideal could this place be for this mission? It was perfect on two levels- 1) There were trees here and lots of ‘em and 2) The element of danger since we were fairly sure that we could get into some trouble for cutting one down.

We got out of the car, inspected our surrounding and then put the saws into our coats because we thought we might look really suspicious carrying saws into conservation land and honestly, that’s really how you ought to transport sharp metal objects- right next to your unprotected body.

Here’s Marta demonstrating this tactic.

Anyhoo. We walked across this field into the woods. We didn’t have to go far before it became obvious that there was somehow no pine in these particular woods. It was uncanny. Despair. Sorrow. Defeat. Some other negative feelings.

We walked back to the car. We drove back to the main road in silence. It was that part of the story where things aren’t looking so good for the heroines. It looks like they are going to go home losers. But wait! As we drove back down the residential street we’d come on to get to the “Conservation land” (pff!) we began to see friendly little green pine trees. The only problem was that they were in peoples’ yards. “WAIT!” Marta cried. We had just passed the sweetest little gathering of 6 foot pine trees. They were right next to a mailbox. I put the car in reverse and like a total creeper, crept back slowly until we were right next to them, sitting there eyeing them like some weirdoes with a sick tree fetish. “Do you think those people would miss just one?” Marta asked. It was a pretty heavily wooded area, I couldn’t imagine that they would even notice. “I mean... the real question here, is would we get caught,” I said.

We decided to feel the situation out a little. I opened my hatchback and went around as though I was just, you know, getting some washer fluid out or something. Marta got out and sat on the ground next to the tree and started sawing at it with her arm extended to the side and not even looking at it. What we didn’t know all this time, was that Max’s saws were fricking magical or at least really sharp and so that little tree was down in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Marta leaped up in panic and scurried into the car; she didn’t plan on actually cutting it down. I sprung into action, grabbing the skinny little thing and shoving into my trunk. I slammed the lid, ran around to the side and we sped away like criminals in the night. Oh the adrenaline!

Here it is in the back of my car. I guess maybe Max’s saw didn’t have to be magical to cut through it so quickly.

We decided to celebrate our victory with a little seasonal Dunkin’ Donuts Beverage when we got back to the strip mall area. We went through the drive through and who should pull up behind us but a cop car. Play it cool. Play. It. Coooooool. We sat there cringing at the scrawny little pine branches sticking up in all directions, clearly visible through my back window. We finally breathed a sign of relief as we pulled out of the parking lot unfollowed by the Law.

So that is really the exciting part of the story. After that we got home, put our tree in a bucket with water and bricks (classy), hung some popcorn and paper stars on it and called it a day.

Behold the finished product:

Were we a little cuter/suburban mom, we might have made a Christmas card out of the one with Marta, Oscar and me.