His name is Seven.

Today I drove out to the middle of Missouri to have our new car serviced at the dealership. While there, I waited for about 2 hours for the brakes to be inspected and the transmission fluid flushed. I sat quietly in the customer waiting area reading the last book in the "Girl with the.." series and trying desperately to ignore Dr. Oz talking about the consistency of a human pancreas.

About five minutes in, a girl about my age and her toddler son entered the room. He was carrying two balloons, stomping, grinning...and screeching.

Screaming. I could no longer hear Dr. Oz talking about pancreatic links to diabetes if I wanted to.

The girl was completely unfazed. She sat down on the tacky leather couch and pulled out her phone. Little Monster scrambled into the adjacent showroom where he continued yelling at the top of his lungs. Let me also say that this child was not yelling words. At least not any from the english language. His mother never looked up. Moments later, a salesman led the wailing boy back to his mother (sans one balloon). When she saw that other humans had taken notice of her outstanding parenting skills, she simply grabbed the child by the arm, plopped him down on the couch next to her and went back to texting. There was no "thank you." No "please behave." Nothing spoken to her child or anyone else.

He sat semi-quietly, fingering his balloon string and alternating between attempting to strangle himself with it and shoving it fist first into his mouth. Still no words. Just humming, blubbing, glopping.

I began to think, paranoid, that perhaps this child was an deliberate experiment in lack of communication and socialization. The salesman wandered back into the room, making light conversation with the girl.

"How old is he?"

"He'll be two in May."

"Does he talk?"

"Not really."

"...He'll get it."

"Yeah."

"What's his name?"

"Seven"

"What made you want to name him Seven?"

"Oh, there's a bunch of symbolism in the number. Biblically and stuff. And he's the seventh grandchild."

"Well, all right."

He walked out and screecher went back to his screeching. I did not read any more of my book. Instead, I spent the remainder of my wait time talking to Seven. Using words. Like balloon. His mom didn't seem to mind. Her apathy further enraged me.

If you make the decision to have a child, raise your child. Don't let your parents raise your child just because they are willing to help you and feel bad for you and love you. Don't leave your child with them every weekend while you go out and get your party fix because you feel you're missing out on something. Teach them everything you know. Words, letters, numbers, colors, manners (in the hopes that you also possess some).

Do not ignore your children. Do not let the television raise your child; it won't turn out well. Help them develop, mentally and physically. This means not feeding them McDonald's three times a week because it's easy. This also means removing the words "baby fat" from your vocabulary and introducing them to the outdoors, sports and sweat.

I don't have any children; I'm not ready. I'm just basing my unsolicited advice on the young parents and children I've come into contact with, and it pains me to know that these children will no doubt have trouble expressing themselves in adulthood. If they can't speak or create or express while in their freedom of their youth, they'll never have the courage or resources to do it when they're older.

If you make the decision to have a child, devote yourself to him or her. Stop thinking about yourself and your hair and your nails and your jeans. Buy your kid health insurance. And please don't name him something that will make it absolutely effortless to gain relative popularity for being a shitty rapper.

Ok sure

Whatever happened to self control?

I was a pop star worshipper. I still find Brit Brit insults hard to take. But REALLY, girls??? REALLY??

God forbid something happen to my girl Sara.

It wouldn't be pretty.

Sorry Sara. Still love you the best.

St. Louis: A breeding ground for important people

It's no secret that I think St. Louis is a shithole. This year it was rated the most dangerous city in America, for good reason. My car has been broken into twice, I hear gunshots bi-weekly, and I regularly see beggars on all four corners at major intersections. St. Louis is a disgrace: a poverty-stricken, severely racially polarized city with very little to offer the rest of the country. Except for Nelly's fantastic music. Recently, I was talking to a friend about buying the domain stlouissucks.com and posting photos, stories, videos and anecdotes relevant to St. Louis's general suck factor. I could also write small biographies for any of these semi-important and/or useless people from this terror of a city:

Akon, hiphop & r&b singer-songwriter

Daniel Boone, explorer, hunter, soldier, businessman

Every last Busch, beermakers, tycoons, girlfriend murderers

Cedric the Entertainer, comedian/actor

Sheryl Crow, singer-songwriter and musician, still got Clapton by the balls

Shandi Finnessey, host, Miss USA 2004

Jon Hamm, actor, surprisingly the worst host of SNL to date

Kevin Kline, actor

Charles Lindbergh, pilot, adventurer, soldier, author, not the greatest babysitter

Michael McDonald, singer

Taylor Momsen, actress, attention whore

Nelly, rapper, singer and actor

Lance Robertson, musician and host of "Yo Gabba Gabba!" (as DJ Lance Rock)

Kimora Lee Simmons, former model, mogul, gold digger

Tina Turner, singer

I could only find a handful of people who actually did anything worthwhile. These included Maya Angelou, Kate Chopin, Tennessee Williams, T.S. Eliot and Jenna Fischer. Yes, Jenna Fischer. I'VE GOT TO GET OUT OF THIS CITY.

My Katy Perry Tribute

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag,

Drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?
Do you ever feel, feel so paper-thin
Like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?

Do you ever feel already buried deep?
Six feet under screams, but no one seems to hear a thing
Do you know that there's still a chance for you?
'Cause there's a spark in you

You just gotta ignite the light, and let it shine
Just own the night like the Fourth of July

'Cause baby, you're a firework
Come on, show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go "ah, ah, ah!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby, you're a firework
Come on, let your colors burst
Make 'em go "ah, ah, ah!"
You're gonna leave 'em all in awe, awe, awe

You don't have to feel like a waste of space
You're original, cannot be replaced
If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane, comes a rainbow

Maybe the reason why all the doors are closed
So you could open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will glow
And when it's time you know

You just gotta ignite the light, and let it shine
Just own the night like the Fourth of July

'Cause baby, you're a firework
Come on, show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go "ah, ah, ah!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby, you're a firework
Come on, let your colors burst
Make 'em go "ah, ah, ah!"
You're gonna leave 'em all in awe, awe, awe

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
It's always been inside of you, you, you
And now it's time to let it through

'Cause baby, you're a firework
Come on, show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go "ah, ah, ah!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby, you're a firework
Come on, let your colors burst
Make 'em go "ah, ah, ah!"
You're gonna leave 'em all in awe, awe, awe

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon

You bitches make me feel guilty.

I can't cook.

Upon reading this statement you're probably thinking, "YES, YOU CAN! I can cook and so can you! It's not that hard, and can be so REWARDING! Jessi, cook something! :) !!!!!"

Shut up. I hate cooking. I know I can cook. I can also volunteer to teach Sunday School. I can sell magazines door to door and wax my own pubic hair. But I choose to do zero of these things. Because that's the power of free will.

But you lovely little ladies with your Vera Bradley clutches and your banana hangers are making me ill. It seems like everyone these days is making their own cooking blog. And if they're not dedicating an entire blog to the business of listing recipes and posting out of focus photos of pie, they're using their personal blog for a once-a-week Paula Deen shout-out.

I have to give credit where credit is due. My former college roommate used to get drunk and make us pasta. She was known to fall asleep on the kitchen counter surrounded by her measuring spoons and using her oven mitts as a pillow. Since her days of following the Moose tracks through the ice cream (to another roommate's chagrin), she has started her own cooking blog, hilariously titled "That's What She Fed." I can stand behind something like this.

My mother is an excellent cook. As I've mentioned before, it is her specialty. She makes homemade cinnamon rolls every Christmas. Everyone wants in on Darlene's cooking. My grandmother has not been well recently. When asked if she would be attending my mother's 50th birthday party, she answered with a question,

"Will she be making food?"

You're in luck, Nanny. My mother is the kind of person who can and will and can't stop cooking for her own birthday party. So my grandmother came to the party. As did anyone else with common sense. My mom is a great cook. A typical southern woman, she enjoys recipes that include butter. And sugar. And melted butter. I have creeping obesity.

Thankfully, I have married a man who enjoys cooking. He loves to make a big ole mess (which is also what I call cooking). He makes big breakfasts with eggs and bacon and toast and home fries. We are in love. And most of the time I don't mind cleaning up the big ole mess. We have a healthy relationship when it comes to cooking. I will make grilled cheese at any given time, and he will decide when he wants grilled cheese and when he'd like to make real food instead.

But these girls. THESE GIRLS. Quit it with your exotic recipes. Your slideshows. You are making me feel bad. My house is immaculate, our bills paid and the oil is changed in the car. But stop posting torturous material. I go to Trader Joe's exclusively for flowers and wine. And my new years resolution is to stop feeling guilty about this part of myself. I'm not turning into Rachel Ray anytime soon. She has nodes anyway.

Children know best.

Charlie Brown: Isn't there anyone who understands what Christmas is all about?!

Linus: Sure, I can tell you what Christmas is all about: December 25 is associated with the birth of many Pagan gods, including Mithra, Horus, Hercules, Zeus, and Sol Invictus. The Roman festival Saturnalia would also end around this time. Christianity imported many of these Pagan myths and traditions into its own customs around 400 AD. Today Christians express outrage that Christmas is losing its Christian roots. This is ironic since it was Christianity that hijacked the holiday in the first place to make it easier to convert new followers. Nevertheless, it is a wonderful opportunity to share our love with friends and family, and commit acts of goodwill for those that are less fortunate. It is a time for children to revel in their innocence and wonder about the world, and adults to find their inner child. That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

It's a funny thing, Christmastime. Four weeks ago you were stuffing your face and sharing the same awkward moments with the same people. Here you are again. This time you've got a new sweater (wouldn't want your extended family to know you only have one sweater!!) and you're ready to make this shit quick. You're also not as willing this time to feast in reckless abandonment since you've reached your winter weight gain limit and your pants feel like they may not be joining you in the new year. You've got your $15 gift handy for your white elephant exchange (it's a scarf) and you're on the edge of your seat. Hoping for gift cards. Children inevitably end up with the best gifts post-exchange. Because, really, Christmas is about children and making sure they never cry because they're annoying when they cry. Also it's nice to avoid letting children grow up too fast with too few happy childhood memories because nobody wants to have to help pay for therapy and/or bail later down the road.

Children are smart. You ask an adult what they want for Christmas and they say something silly like, "Continued health of the family... a job market turnaround." You ask a kid, and they have a list of fourteen possible options including applicable accessories and extras. They list them in desired order, placing special emphasis on specific and highly necessary details. Swan Lake Barbie is on the list, but if you get the Swan Lake Barbie with the red hair and not the blond hair, Santa is going on her shit list. I distinctly remember asking for Puppy Surprise as a kid, making sure to stress that I wanted the maximum amount of puppies- NO EXCEPTIONS. I was a thorough, though terribly bratty child. Imagine my parents' anxiety upon realizing that Puppy Surprise was indeed also a surprise to its purchaser, with no way to predetermine how many puppies one might end up with. I think my parents were more nervous than I was come Christmas morning. I ended up with three puppies, one more puppy than the minimum. Thankfully, I was so excited about my other gifts, I barely made a peep about the mistake.

You never hear children harassing others to "put Christ back in Christmas" and "remember the reason for the season" because children know well enough to keep their trap shut. Children are too busy scouring the Sunday ads for toys they may have somehow glossed over to pull you aside and exclaim with their eyes closed about the "magic and splendor" of this holiday. Children are too busy doing what everyone else should be doing: minding their own business and planning their next move. I'm all for giving, and for experiencing the joy of helping others who don't have the luxuries I do. I throw my change in the red bucket, and I pay my outrageous taxes to the city of St. Louis. But this Christmas, instead of being cheap and sharing only your religious beliefs with others, show a little childish pride and go sit by yourself until somebody asks what you want Santa to bring you.