Shhhh, I’m in a Tree Stand.

This morning I called my Dad’s cell just to check in before the holiday travel schedule. He picked up after a few rings, but all I heard was a muffled shuffling in the background.

“Hello?” I said.

More muffled sounds. Like he had his hand over the speaker and was trying to talk through it.

“I can hear something….but not you.”

Finally a faint, “hey…”

“Oh hey! I couldn’t hear….”

Then, in the slightest, faintest but clear whisper I hear, “It’s me. I’m in a tree stand.”


Slightly louder whisper, “I’m in a TREE STAND,” followed by whispered giggles. He thought this was hilarious.

I said to call me later, and he whispered that he would.

Then, I received this on my phone.


Ahhh, Daddy Wade. One of the many reasons I cannot wait to get home to my parents’ house for the holidays. To hang out with weirdos like this one!

I hope your holidays are merry and bright, friends. Enjoy your time with loved ones. Hold them close and kiss them often.

I’ll be kissing a lot on this little guy – so, be jealous.

Meet Cooper, my new nephew. He’s perfect.


Merry Christmas, cotton-headed-ninny-muggins.


Have you Eaten Anything Today?

I went to the doctor yesterday for some lab work. I’ve had this cold that I just can’t kick – even with the help of an antibiotic. So, my doc wanted to run a couple of additional tests. The sweet lab tech who was going to draw some blood said “Have you eaten today?” I said “yes, some fruit this morning – like usual. Should I have fasted for this?”

“No,” she said. “I just want to be able to let your doc know in case you pass out or something.” Oh nice. (remember this, it will be important later).

I was like “no – I’m usually fine as long as I don’t look at it. I just have to turn my head the other way. Otherwise, I can get a little lightheaded. But I won’t pass out.”

I turned my head and started studying the calendar on the wall – just to look at something. She said “take a deep breath.” Needle went in – nice and easy – no problem. She did her thing and I never looked. She had me take another deep breath and pulled the needle out.

I felt like a CHAMP. No dizziness. Boom.

I looked over to her side of the chair (I was sitting, thank God) – and there was a lady about five feet away from me having blood drawn as well. Like a moth to a flame, I looked RIGHT AT the damn needle in her arm.

I instantly felt dizzy. What the heck? When did I become such a wimp?

I felt the color drain from my face.


“Actually, I’m not feeling so hot.”

“OH!” she said when she looked at me.

I was breaking out in a cold sweat. I sweated through my shirt in about 30 seconds. My bangs were instantly matted to my forehead. I asked for a Kleenex to wipe my face, which also immediately got matted to my forehead.

Then my ears started ringing. Oh – this is it. It’s happening. Here we….



She said I was just out for a second and my head just flopped back on the chair – and I came right back up.

She gave me some OJ from a tiny Donald Duck branded sippy can. I tried to pick it up and sloshed it everywhere. I was shaking so badly. She had to feed it to me like some kind of invalid.

I swear – 30 is rough, y’all.

After she did a strep test on me and almost made me projectile vomit on her, I went back to work and decided I better fuel up on chicken fingers and sweet potato fries to get my strength back. Paleo can wait until tomorrow.

I hate passing out. I’ve done it a few times and the buildup (all that sweating and queasiness and ear ringing) is the worst.

I apologized to her about 10 times, but I did not cry like I really wanted to. I walked out of there on my own, but don’t really remember it.


From the Mouths of Babes

Every Tuesday I get to leave work for an hour and go read with two first grade girls at a local school near our office. My company sponsors the Family Resource Center at the school, and this is just another reason I love my job. It makes my day to see these sweet girls and help them get their reading skills up to par. They are doing so well!

Today, there were so many funny things said, I just had to jot them down real quick before I forget. Between the two of them, in a combined 50 minutes, we talked about the following (and so much more):

  • I love Halloween at school. We are going to have ghosteses in the trees!
  • My mom is having a baby. If it’s a girl, I’ll be a big sister. If it’s a boy, I’ll be a big brother.
  • What’s wrong with your hair?
  •  Give me that bubblegum. (Referring to the gum in my mouth).
  •  Who is that on your phone cover?

My boyfriend

    Who is that baby?

                That’s his kid, Brantley.

    Your kid?

                Nope – his.

   (Blank stares).

   You aren’t a baby momma?

  • I had a sleepover last week. We ate chips that glow in the dark.
  • Do you know what I means?

Yes – it’s like this! (pokes me in the eye).

Never a dull moment.


Vandals. Vandals Everywhere.

You may remember the blender kidnapping of 2013. Well, here’s apartment saga, Episode 2.

Last night I had just drifted off to sleep. Or was dang close. It was a very late 10 p.m. for me.

All of the sudden we were awaken by a huge crash. I may have said some expletives. “What the _____ was that? WHERE the ____ was that?”

It sounded like it was in the room with me and sounded like an explosion.

Got up to look out the peephole in the front door to the hallway, but didn’t see anything. Back to bed.

In a few moments, I heard more glass clattering around and hopped back up to the peephole. This time, I saw a guy right in front of the door, bending over cleaning something up. WTF.

There are these decorative sconces over lights outside each apartment door, even though we have interior doors, that light up the hallway instead of overhead lights.

I pulled my robe on and decided I was going out there. I know.

Sure enough, the sconce that covers my light was destroyed. There was glass on the carpet still and I was in my bare feet.

Down the hall, two guys were probably 6 apartments down, walking away, holding a broom and dustpan. Now, they were turning to look at me because they heard my door open.

I yelled, “Hey! What happened?” and pointed to the light. I can only assume these are students at Vandy — they look to be about 21. But dumber and more entitled.

One sort of giggled/scoffed and said “oh yeah – he was throwing a ball and broke it.” Oh really. That’s hilarious.


“We’ll call the office tomorrow and have them fix it.”

Please note “I’m sorry – did we wake you, old lady?” or “Sweet robe – were you sleeping? Sorry about the noise and breaking your light,” were never uttered.


I said “ok. You live in the corner unit?”

To this, Turd #2 (the ball thrower) snorted. Like “what do you care?” Oh, I care. I care because I want to know where you little vandals live.

Turd #1 said “Yes.” And shrugged his shoulders like “there, are you happy?” No, I’m not happy. I’m standing in glass and YOUR MOM HAS RENTED THE MOST EXPENSIVE APARTMENT IN THIS JOINT FOR YOU TURDS TO DESTROY. Leave mine alone.

I swear. I love my apartment SO hard. It is the best little city nest. But at the risk of sounding like an old lady, it seems to have more than its fair share of idiots living there.

Before & After. 

PicMonkey Collage

Where the old folks at? Let’s hang out. And bring your pitchforks (and canes). I have a plan.


Old lady Wade, out.



The Crazy Cat Lady Next Door

Wednesday night I was sitting on the couch watching a movie – actually, I was painting my fingernails, naturally. Someone knocked on my apartment door, which is real weird in itself. Especially at like 8:00 p.m. Don’t they know I’m 30 and have one foot in the bed already?

Callie, of course, freaks out and runs to the door and baracades herself against it so I couldn’t really open it if I wanted to. I looked through the peephole and there was a normal looking, barely 20-something blonde guy standing there.I opened the door about three inches because a.) he could be the Craigslist killer and b.) Callie REALLY wanted to get at him and eat his face off.

As I poked one eyeball out the door and said “yes?,” I quickly realized this made me look creepier than him.

He clasped his hands together and began to plead his case.

“Hi! We’re cooking dinner down in 238 and our blender just broke – do you happen to have a blender we can borrow? We would really, really appreciate it.”

Because I assume he must be having margaritas for dinner, and I respect that, I said “Sure – I have a blender. Hold on and I’ll get it. ….. Oh, also, about her – she wants to escape. That’s why I can’t open the door – so wait here.” It was then he noticed Callie at my feet, who looked like an insane, 15 pound wolverine hyped up on methamphetamines trying to squeeze herself through a 3 inch opening in the door. He took three steps back. Hands still clasped together.

I retrieved the blender and took it back to him. “Thank you so much – thank you. You saved the day. We’ll bring it back in like 10 minutes, I promise. We’ll wash it!”

“Cool – no rush.” Famous last words.

I went to bed at like 9:30 – still no blender.

So at 7 a.m. the next morning when I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to leave for work, I pranced right down the hall to 238 and banged on their door. Nada. But not particularly surprised, especially if they had margaritas for dinner. (True – it could have been a marinade they were blending – but I like my version better).

So fast forward to 36 hours later and I walk up to this outside my apartment door:


Really!? How long has that been there? I thought it was a tiny space martian waiting on me from way down the hallway.

How many people have walked by and been like “sweet! Free blender!” Why not at least stick a little post-it note on top that said “thanks! Happy blending.” Or “the margs were awesome!” Or even “please don’t steal me.”


Kids these days have no respect for me or my kitchen appliances.

And my crazy cat lady reputation is currently spreading like wild fire through the building.


If Heaven is a Restaurant, it’s the Catbird Seat

For my 30th birthday, all I wanted to give myself (treat yo’ self, as Kim would say) was a dinner out at the Catbird Seat. For those of you who are living under a rock, the Catbird Seat is a restaurant in Nashville that’s been featured in Food and Wine, Bon Appetit, Southern Living, Travel + Leisure, etc. It’s one of the top restaurants in the country, and I’d venture to say a trailblazer in putting Nashville on the culinary map.

So what’s all the fuss about?

The food. Dear baby Jesus – the food.

But the experience, too. You see, you don’t walk into the Catbird Seat and order some chicken fingers. You must have a reservation. You can only get a reservation within 30 days of when you’d like to go, and you must do it online. You cannot call from your prepaid cellular device. So if you want to go eat there 30 days from now, you get online at midnight and start clicking before the reservations are all gone…because they will be, in seconds.

Then you arrive 15 minutes apart from each of the other parties for that evening. And you sit at one of 32 seats at a square bar around the kitchen, where award-winning chefs greet you, prepare your meal and serve it to you while explaining what it is, how you eat it and then stand there and shoot the breeze with you about things like music and Amsterdam.

You eat 10 courses of the most delightful culinary treats you’ve ever experienced. You don’t order anything – it’s all chef’s choice. Oh, and you have a wine or cocktail pairing with each course. (insert drunk face here).

It is a nearly three-hour-long, foodgasmic party in your mouth where no one overstays their welcome.

And y’all. I don’t really get star-struck in this fair city often – but being the food lover that I am, I knew I’d totally GEEK out over eating here and seeing Erik Anderson in the flesh. In front of me. Cooking food for me. Serving food to me. Talking about food to me. I want to be his best friend and awkwardly show up for dinner unannounced every Sunday.

So we went. We ate and drank. And it did not disappoint. Here is the play by play.

The Catbird Seat.


We arrived, were welcomed by the hostess and rode up the elevator with her babbling about I don’t know what because OMGI’MABOUTTOEATATTHECATBIRDSEATSHUTUP!

We were seated and then greeted by a tiny plate already waiting on us, with the chef’s version of Nashville’s famous hot chicken.

Crispy chicken skin and a “Wonder Bread” puree. Y’all.


The wine and cocktail pairing is $40 per person and worth every dime. (Also, take a cab).


This was another one of our “snacks” and part of the first course. I failed to take a photo of the others before I inhaled them. But this was a beef tartare. Amazing.


Oh hey famous chef Erik.


This was a melon salad. And you’re all like “oh melon salad, whatevs.” No. It was to die for. Those little melon balls almost changed my life. There was an avocado puree, some sort of foam and mint and salt something or another that made it to die for.

This was a celery root that was served on a super hot plate with foie gras shaved over the top. (Foie Gras = duck or goose liver that has been especially fattened). That foie gras melted like butter on the hot root and hot plate and we were encouraged to eat it quickly. Um, no problem.

Mashed potatoes. But not your grandmas. These had golden caviar underneath and cured sturgeon with lemon thyme. You know, like you do. Amazing, but probably the least impressive thing we ate.


Now we’re getting to the good stuff. I had known three other friends/acquaintances who ate at the Catbird Seat and two of the three were served Pigeon. Make that three now, counting me. I was so scared and excited when this came up. LOOK at that claw.

And aren’t pigeon’s referred to as “rats with wings?” They are gross, annoying animals. But I would have eaten a frosted turd if Erik Anderson served it to me.

So, he put this in front of us and explained it and I had heard to ask a lot of questions, when you eat at the Catbird. So the best I could come up with was, “How far down this little claw leg can I eat?” Well played.

He said, “well, that’s a bone – so don’t eat it.” Sweet, dude. Y’all. A real, single tear came to my eye when I ate this dish. We will all be eating pigeon in Heaven. Real talk.

After. Like a boss!

This was maybe my favorite cocktail that got major points for creativity. It was sweet tea, but real tea leaves were infused in riesling instead of water. That’s how we should all be drinking our tea, folks.

This was a top contender for favorite dish, as well. Wagyu beef ribeye that simply melted in your mouth. The watercress puree was really strong — watercress is just such a distinct flavor. I loved it, but it could have ruined it for you if it’s not a flavor you like.

We should always have a cheese course – with every meal. This was harbison cheese, which was kind of the consistency of brie, but twenty times tastier – served inside a hollowed out shallot with a mushy cherry compote of some kind. I don’t know — but it was good.


Hey drinks! And the first of three dessert courses. YES! Sweet corn ice cream, y’all. It was SO good. Served in a potato cone with shaved truffle on top. Truffle is such an overwhelming flavor when served in this quantity — but with the ice cream it was on point. This was a super savory dessert, as well.

IMG_2455Another savory-ish dessert. Maple, bacon, thyme custard served inside a real eggshell with a tiny real piece of bacon. I almost licked the inside of the egg.


Finally — a little smorgasbord of vanilla cake, cherry crisp, oak wood ice cream and pineapple gelee. But the star of this show were the bourbon beads. Close up in the next photo.


So that bourbon bead you see there was a tiny, gel casing that when bit into shot straight bourbon into your mouth. It was the craziest thing and I don’t know how they made them, but I could have eaten a million. I would have died, but it would have been sort of worth it. They were delicious!


Lastly, a tunga vanilla espresso drink with an espresso ice cube. Eh, it was fine. I had a lot of food and alcohol by this point, so I would have enjoyed anything.


Chef Erik, cutting some lady’s pigeon off the bone for her because the claw freaked her out. Really lady? This aint Burger King — you can’t just have it your way.


The view of the restaurant from the door when you walk in. This is pretty much the whole thing.


Lastly, here is a photo of our menu that they give you to keep as a souvenir. You can read all about everything here if you’d like. But I suggest you just fork over the cash and go yourselves. It was worth every penny. (FYI — it’s roughly $100/person plus the $40/person alcohol pairing plus service charge and tax, so…yeah).


We decided we’d treat ourselves once a year to this kind of experience, if possible. The menu changes constantly, so hopefully each time will be new and different.

I love Nashville and I love food. I’m so glad the two have teamed up to make our great city a foodie destination, as of late. There’s so many new eats to be excited about.

Thanks, Catbird. We’ll be back.


I mean, everyone was like 30

I turned 30 last Friday. There, I said it.

Up until now I’ve pretty much been calling it my Second Annual 29th Birthday.

Honestly, turning 29 was weirder. Because it was like “holy s$%*balls – I’m 30 NEXT YEAR.” So I’ve been preparing myself for this for a year now.

What I did NOT expect was another huge life change to happen the week prior to the 30th birthday. I moved out of the flat and into my own little one bedroom, urban apartment. It’s been kind of a devastating few weeks, y’all. But it’s getting a little, tiny bit easier every day when I realize that the world doesn’t really give a crap about my drama – it keeps spinning anyways and I better just try and keep up.

That’s all I care to talk about there. Back to 30….

We have new interns at work and one of my friends and coworkers walked by a gaggle full of them sitting in the cafeteria. She overheard then talking about their weekend and heard one girl say, “yeah – it was a fun place. But we didn’t stay very long. Everyone in there was like 30.”

Ohhhhhh girl. YoudidnotjustsaythatOMG!

I guess when you are 20 years old, 30 does seem pretty ancient. Now, please excuse me while I drink this Metamucil and chase it with some Pepto straight outta the bottle.

The 30th Birthday Weekend was great. I don’t ever remember my birthday falling on a Friday, so that was fun. I was surrounded by people who love me and even got to spend 24 hours in Nashville with my lovely parents, eating our way through town, as usual. Although, I was in bed by 10 p.m. both Friday and Saturday night. I’m not even mad about it.

I moved, I turned 30 and stayed real busy that first week in my new place. This second week has been quieter. I’ve been finding myself just looking around and realizing how quiet it is – then running to find Callie and making her snuggle on me. Gawd, I seriously would be locked in the nuthouse by now without that fur person. Her companionship saves me, some days. (So said the crazy, old, spinster cat lady).

So, who knows what 30 holds, but I’m counting on the second half of this year being pretty dang good. It better be. I’m going to make it be. I know by the end of the year I’m going to have a niece or nephew, I have an amazing family, such good friends, a job I love, a fur baby and the cutest roof over my head that you ever did see.

It’s gotta be good, right?


Nestle Tea

I mention (in my newly updated “Meet Jenn” section — gah that thing was outdated) how much I love yoga these days. My friend Kim took me to my first yoga class nearly a year ago. I went in her office at work one day and shut the door so I could lay down in the floor and stretch my hands over my head in order to catch my breath. I was having my first full-blown panic attack. (Side note — this was old job. Exhibit A as to why I’m no longer there). I had no idea at the time what was happening — but after seeing some professionals and talking to Kim some more, she recommended I try yoga with her to get a little more zen in my life.

Now, I’m a runner. Like real exercise. I don’t need to participate in yoga, aka adult nap-time. But alas, I went with Kim to Sanctuary Yoga in Green Hills. This guy was teaching who I had been warned was easy on the eyes. (I may have blogged about this before now, I realize, as I typed that). Anywho.

It was clear real quick that there would be no napping. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing and was POURING sweat about 15 minutes in. This stuff is legit. So soon after, I joined the YMCA and started going to yoga regularly.

Now, I’ve got my Dad doing yoga and he’s got my Mom doing yoga and we’re just a bunch of dang yogis. I.LOVE.YOGA! So much.

Since taking yoga, I’ve only had a couple of teachers who really fit the stereotype I had about yoga. I want to workout and get out of my head. I don’t need to om om om om and ground my roots into mother earth, per se. But every now and then, you come across and little hippy dippy earth muffin.

We had a sub at yoga class recently. I won’t tell you which one — but you could probably figure it out if you know me. So, this guy comes in. First thing he does is make us turn away from the mirrors, so we don’t see and judge ourselves. Oh good — this is going to be rich.

He also was wearing a murse. (murse = man purse). Not a bag. A purse. He wore it the whole class. He told us that he wasn’t going to practice with us, because unlike when he first started yoga and he wanted everyone to look at him, he wanted this to be all about us. Oh — thanks. So I’ll just guess what the hell I’m supposed to be doing since you won’t be demonstrating. So he just paced around speaking in soothing tones that actually felt more like razor blades in my eardrums the more I listened to him.

He said “if you’re new to yoga — and really ‘new’ is anything under two years….” Really? He continued, “Really most people in Nashville are new to yoga.”


So he goes on and on about how to get us out of our heads and how we should leave work behind and just not think about anything and just get out of our heads and just be free and just let go of the thoughts and be present in our bodies and listen to our spirits and HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ALL OF THAT CRAP IF YOU WON’T SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE.

Y’all — he talked non-stop.

Then he showed us some stretch, which was awesome I admit — but he preceded it by saying, “now, a lot of people in Nashville haven’t seen this move.”

Then it hit me. This dude is from L.A.

I guaran-dang-tee you he is straight outta West Hollywood.

So class ends, which was just more stressful than good because he was pacing around me in his Birkenstocks swinging his man purse the entire time. Then someone asks him how long he has been here and he says, “Oh, just a little while — I moved here from Los Angeles…..” and I quit listening because in my head I was like ‘I KNEW IT!’

Word on the street has it he may soon be our regular teach. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I might make up some yoga moves that involve gang signs and tell him they are the newest on the yogi scene. I bet he’d be teaching them city-wide later that afternoon.

Oh — and about the title of this post — to keep me from going total yoga hippie, I always say “Nestle Tea” rather than Namaste at the end of class. It feels like I’m not totally conforming. 😉


Come Fly with Me

On March 1 I got up bright and early and headed to the Nashville International Airport with my best girl Rach. We were on our way to a long weekend on West Palm Beach with four other girls who make up our Book Club. Yeah – we’re crazy like that.

We arrive at the airport, and being the good citizen that I am, I had all my liquids and gels in their tiny little containers in their quart-sized Ziploc baggie. I took my shoes off, went through security and was standing shoeless waiting on my stuff to come out. Rach was behind me.

All of my stuff came out of the scanner, except for my purse. Then I saw my purse peek out and go back in the scanner. WTF. Then I saw the x-ray dude call over another TSA official who then removed the bin with my purse from the conveyer belt. WTF. He held it up and yelled “WHOSE BAG IS THIS?”

I shot my hand in the air proudly – “MINE!”

Then my thought process went like so:

“Man – what could I have possibly left in there? Every lip gloss I own is currently in that tiny Ziploc. Are there tweezers in there? Man they are strict…you can’t do anything these days without….OH MARY JESUS AND JOSEPH. My tazer.”

So let me just pause right here in the story and provide you with some history.

Several years ago, my ex-father in-law (if you just said “huh?” then just keep reading… I don’t have time to explain that story too) bought all of the women in his life (his wife, daughter, daughter-in-law) a tazer for protection. It was awesome. It was pink and had a deployable cartridge and could also immobilize a second victim via contact (like a stun gun). And IT WAS PINK! I had carried it for like 5 years and never used it. Well, full disclosure – I never HAD to use it. I may HAVE used it though after one particularly wild Steeplechase weekend when some very brave (read, drunk) young men wanted to see what it felt like. That’s neither here nor there. But I did carry it all the time. If I had to walk to my car late after work I would have it out at the ready. If I ran after dark by myself I would carry it with me. It also had a laser sight on it, which was enough to scare most people off – and I did shine that at a creeper once while running. He took off.

So that’s why I have had a tazer.

Back to the airport. “It’s my bag, sir.”

“I’m going to need you to step over to this metal table – real slow.”

OMG. My stomach just fell out of my butt.

I walked over to the table and he asked me to put my hands on it. He asked again if this was my bag. YES. Is there anything in here that might poke or stick me?

“No, but something might taze you. There’s a tazer in there. I’m sorry. I just forgot.”

He just glared at me and began sifting through my purse. When he spotted said tazer at the bottom of the bag he didn’t touch it. He apparently can’t as it’s not in his jurisdiction. He radioed to a Metro Nashville Police Officer who came over. At the same time, magically a couple of what I assume now were Air Marshalls appeared over my left shoulder. Then another metro cop appeared over my right, and the one who the TSA official called was there also, ready to look in the bag. He pulled out the tazer.

In the meantime, someone appeared with three copies of my drivers license. I don’t even remember giving it to them, let alone know how they made copies that quickly.

“Again – I’m sorry. I just totally forgot it was in there. What’s going to happen? Can I mail it to myself?”

“Ma’am – you can’t mail a tazer. Ever.”

“Oh. Can I check it in my bag?”

“You can NOT check this in a bag without it being secured like a firearm.”

“Hmm.” Now I’m starting to realize why they are annoyed. I clearly know nothing about weapons or traveling and here I am mixing the two.

They were all really nice, to be honest. But they couldn’t have cared less that I was some airhead on a trip to Florida with her book club friends. They took me every bit as serious as you might expect them to take someone carrying a weapon through security.

About that time Rachel asked what was going on and I said “TAZER.” And made a tazer noise at her. “BZZZZZ.”

This is when they separated us. They did not appreciate that one bit.

The cop next to me who was now holding my tazer said, “Well, one of two things are going to happen. We just changed our policies so I’m trying to get verification. Either you can surrender this, which I hate for you to have to do because I know these things are expensive. And then you can hopefully go on your way after some paperwork. OR, if our policy says so (again, trying to get verification), I’m going to have to take you downtown and book you on a criminal misdemeanor weapons charge.”

Oh, I just thought my stomach fell out of my butt earlier – now it really did.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope – I hope we can just fill out some paperwork, but up until a few weeks ago our policy was to book you. I think it’s changed.” Oh please have let it changed. Come on Obama!

About that time ANOTHER cop appears and escorts us to a small room where there were mug shots of potential terrorists hanging on the wall. Y’all.

The room was only big enough for about three of us, so the other 5 air marshalls and cops stood outside the door. In the meantime another one of my already boozed up girlfriends walks by and saw me sitting there. She is a lawyer, but since she may or may not have had mimosas on the way to the airport, she just kept walking. Thanks girl.

They took photos of me, took photos of my tazer and had me fill out a bunch of paperwork saying I was willfully surrendering my tazer.

The cop said, “well, that’s it. Do you want to speak with her?” And he waved one of the air marshall guys in.

He said, “why did you have a tazer, ma’am?” Just for protection, sir. I just totes forgot I had it on me. So sorry. He smirked.

He said “Have you ever been in the military?” No. “Have any other criminal charges pending?” No. “Do you go to shooting ranges often?” No. Just the one time. He smirked.

He said, “well, they will take all of this into consideration when giving you your fine.” WHAT. WHO? FINE? “Who is they and how much is the fine?”

“They are the TSA lawyers in Washington D.C. You’ll probably get a call or a letter and you can either get a lawyer or just work it out from there. I have no idea how much the fine might be.” Geeze Louise!

After some quick googling on the plane (yes, I made my flight and promptly ordered a bloody mary), I learned that the fine could be up to $10,000. I ordered another bloody mary.

So, I’ve been waiting on pins and needles to find out how much my fine would be. 45 or so days later, this week, I got a letter that said they were letting me off with a WARNING. A warning!! Praise baby Jesus! Thank you, TSA, for a.) doing your job and b.) realizing there are bigger fish to fry than the book club tazer bandit.


Quick side note, then I’ll end this long post.

On the way BACK to Nashville from West Palm Beach (great trip, by the way) – I was joking about how I’m probably on a watch list now and bet I get picked for an extra special search. Rachel told me no way, not to worry about it. Well, sure as the sun rises, they pulled my purse from the belt again and he said “who’s bag is this?” Are you kidding me? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

“Ma’am – step over to that table.” I KNOW THE DRILL, sir. I’m a pro.

“Is this your bag?”

Yes – is this a bad dream?

He proceeded to pull a giant bottle of water from it. OMG. I SUCK AT FLYING. I said that out loud. He said, “nah, you aren’t that bad.” About that time Rachel appeared and said, “yeah – she’s pretty bad.”

I pulled her away toward the gate before she could blow my cover.

And that, my friends, is how I may or may not have gotten myself on the watch list. Who wants to go on a trip with me!?

29th Birthday — Martinis not Optional, but Required


Today is my birthday. Actually, it’s my last birthday. Or my first 29th birthday. Or, from here I’ll just start counting backwards. I haven’t really decided yet.

I’ll come back with a more thoughtful birthday post on my 29 years soon, but for now, I share with you the above photo. My darling friend and sorority sister Adrienne made it for me.

Following her sending it, our conversation went like this:

Adrienne: Birthday Princess! Love you.

Jenn: Ha — thanks, Atay 🙂 You are awesome. Love you!

Adrienne: And no, I’m not suggesting you go topless today, I just haven’t mastered shirts in Microsoft paint 😉

Jenn: Ha — well. This is embarrassing — since I just ripped my shirt off at work and poured myself a martini.

Adrienne: Amazing, I expect nothing less from the birthday girl.

Hopefully the birthday continues along these same lines. 🙂