At My Most Charming

Picture this:

You and I are dating, right? and we’re out on a Friday night, throwing darts at walls and drinks down our throats. The music is loud, we’re louder. It’s a fuzzy haze of flirtations and glances and leaning into one another’s bodies, building up the expectation for what will happen once we get back to your place.

We’re practically spilling up the stairs to your apartment, the familiarity of each other’s steps leading us toward your door. You shove the key in the door while my hands trace down your back and my fingers slink into your belt loops…

And then, for sure… The sex. The amazing, incredible sex.

Our bodies are tangled into one another, supremely blissed out beyond measure. (more…)

I won’t be that girl…

So… The Sous and I made things official this week. So… yea… I’ve got a *gulp* boyfriend. Or something. It’s all very strange to say… Like, some sort of foreign language that you knew in high school but haven’t spoken in years. You know what the word means, you can even say it… it just feels… foreign.

We had this incredibly romantic date on Wednesday night. He made reservations for dinner and when I was telling my sister about it, I joked that I haven’t been out to dinner with reservations since… prom. Seriously. Should I pick up a boutonniere for him? (more…)

Jami Sings Karaoke

I feel pretty fortunate, as a single mother, to have loads of “me” time. My exhusband, for all the things I loathe about him, is a good dad. He’s involved, he always pays his child support and, in general, he’s flexible. He loves our son which, really… that’s all I could really hope for. I tell people all the time that he was a terrible husband, but has always been a good dad.

The kidlet goes to his dad’s every other weekend and we alternate annually for big holidays. All the long weekends and big holidays are mine on even-numbered years and are his on odd-numbered years. It’s a little non-traditional in terms of what most parents do when it comes to visitation agreements, but it works out GREAT. It means that, every other year, I get to alternately spend extra time with the kid OR I get lots of kid-free time to go do some traveling.

A few years ago, I went on a trip. (more…)

Talk Me Down

Anxious, anxious, anxious…

For the first time since moving home with my parents, I’m anxious… about money, about romance, about my responsibilities to clients, about that class I’m teaching with Hollis. Bleh! I’m always impatiently tapping my stupid toe, waiting on shit to happen, and when it does, I’m like, “OH NO! WAIT WAIT WAIT!”

I’m not ready. I mean, I don’t feel ready. (more…)

Lookit what I found…

It’s small… And I’m not even sure if my privacy settings will allow you to see it if you’re not my friend on facebook (haha! /nelson), but look what I stumbled across today while I was uploading a video of my son kick ass on wii boxing.

Does it get any cuter? Please don’t pay any attention to all the shit everywhere. This was about a week after we moved into that apartment.

Your honor student can kick my kid’s ass? Well, smarty pants, does your kid know his internet memes? Huh?! Does he?

I didn’t think so. Fool.

Hand-Me-Downs

My parents had a bit of a whirlwind romance… Met, engaged and married in less than a year. And then, to continue with the theme, three children by the time my mother was 24 years old. I, as if you couldn’t tell by my generally spoiled disposition, am the youngest. My sister is four years older than me but my brother is only twenty months older. I was something of an accident, albeit a happy accident.

Given the age difference between my sister and I — not to mention our incredibly different builds — I didn’t get to borrow her clothes until late in middle school. And I use the term “borrow” very loosely. I would just… um… steal them. She would get up in the morning and zip off to high school before I was even awake. So I’d saunter down to her room, as if it were my own private dressing room, and pick out whatever sort of weird polyester, throw-back strange clothes she had that I wanted to borrow. You see, it was the early nineties, and everyone was wearing vintage cords and those hideous, busily printed polyester shirts with the long pointy collars. I would scribble this note on a post-it and then drop it behind her bedroom door,

“Can I borrow your (fill in the blank)? If it’s a no, just write me back. Otherwise, I’ll assume it was a yes.”

See, I was clever. It would be very easy to say, “No, Julie! I left you a note! You didn’t write back! I thought that meant I could borrow it!” (more…)

Wed Nes Day

That’s how I remember how to spell Wednesday. I say it like that… I’m a pretty shoddy speller. I blame technology. My generation was the first one with access to computer programs for typing in school and, I think, the part of my brain that was supposed to grow to help me become a gud spelur was stunted. (more…)

No, fool.

Listen you broad-backed, fat-backed redneck! If you spent less time eyeballing the candy selection and more time listening to me, you’d understand that I’m not some swindling car salesman trying to upsell you on fucking postage.

What you asked for was tracking. What you want, since by your smell, I can tell that you likely don’t have the extra income to pay for things like soap and running water, is the “cheapest option” which doesn’t include tracking.

No. Shipping with the post office won’t give you tracking.  You can purchase Delivery Confirmation for an additional charge but it isn’t tracking. Watch my mouth as I say this — it should be easier than watching your mouth as your yellowed and strangely spaced teeth are a bit distracting — DELIVERY CONFIRMATION IS JUST A CONFIRMATION OF DELIVERY. See what I did there with the context clues of the god damned word?

Two suggestions for you: when someone that works in a professional capacity tries to help you, don’t suck your rotten teeth at them and try to tell them how to do their job. You don’t do this for a living. I do. Shut your damn mouth.

I love how you nickel and dime about how much tracking costs (a difference of $4) when you scoop four candy bars up in your sausage fingers. I got a peek at your black encrusted nails. Thanks for that. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost my appetite for the remainder of the week. Bikini body, here I come!

Drugs are bad kids.

There was a story on Jezebel that popped up tonight on my facebook news feed.

Here’s the excerpt:

Meet Noah Smith. He allegedly burglarized a home in South Carolina on Saturday night. A scuffle with cops sent him to to emergency room, where a doctor noticed that Noah had a mouse in his rectum.

When police arrived on the scene — responding to a call about a break-in — Noah was lying down in the doorway, nude. But he stood up and “rushed” the cops; and also slapped, kicked and tried to bite the officers. They used pepper spray, batons and a Taser to “subdue” him. That’s how he ended up in the hospital, where an emergency room physician “noticed a mouse hanging” from Noah’s bottom. X-rays showed that part of the mouse was “lodged” in Noah’s rectum. When questioned, according to the police report, Noah said “he did not recall what happened, nor did he remember any confrontation or prior dealings with law enforcement.”

And here’s the aha moment:

Officers were speaking to the individuals outside the residence [who] stated that the subject was most likely under the influence of mushrooms.

Not that shrooms explain the mouse, but… better than nothing.

I got nothing.

Oh wait, yes I do. The ER Doctor, “noticed a mouse hanging” from Noah’s bottom? Hilarious. Thanks for that. I wonder which end was inside his winker?

Here’s a question to ponder: if you had to shove a rodent up your ass, would you put him in head first or ass first? There’s a part of me that thinks it would be totally fitting to put the ass-end of the creature up your ass-end. Just because! But then that leaves him free to just like, bite and thrash about with his claws on your sweet cheeks.

The craziest thing about the story is that it compelled me to ask and then answer that question. CRAZY!

Jami Howard used to want to teach Jazzercise, but realized she liked ice cream too much.

Link: I have arrived, chirrens. I’m teaching a class at Hollis Gillespie’s Shocking Real-Life Continuing Ed/Writing School/Drinking Club. (more…)

On Luck

I don’t believe in luck… That is to say, I don’t believe in good luck. I mean, bad shit happens all the time, but so does the good stuff. If you spend your time and energy throwing yourself into superstitions — avoiding walking under ladders and crossing the street to avoid a black cat — you’re like, not really living to me.

Good things and bad things will happen to you whether you make yourself consciously aware of them or not… They’ll both assault you, unwarranted, whether you’re a GOOD person or a BAD person. We’re all just people bouncing back and forth and experiencing things, both good and bad.

If you ask Devon, she’ll tell you I’m lucky. I remember one weekend recently, we’re sitting on her back porch, pontificating about life and waxing poetic or some shit. Probably just drinking and smoking too much, but this is when we really get our hands dirty with conversation. (more…)

Thank you, liver.

Friday night I went out for my birthday with Ms. Winston and a few of her friends in Athens. I don’t really KNOW Athens all too well, but I knew I wanted to be in Athens for my birthday. Why? God, I don’t know. A change of scenery? Originally, Cincy was supposed to come down this weekend, but she was pummeled with some financial worries and had to back out. I knew she’d like Athens and she’d never been, so it seemed fitting to make our Friday night plans there. When she had to cancel, I just stuck with the plan. And boy, am I ever glad I did. (more…)