jessicabenson

[jessicabenson]

“I was going to share this story about anxiety, but I got too anxious and never did” MY COLUMN:

I told myself I’d post this in May.

It was Mental Health Awareness Month and the timing seemed right and I mean come on, if Kevin Love could share his story, I could share mine, too.

The month came and went, this post sat in my draft folder, I thought to myself, “maybe next year.”

But even though the month came and went, the conversation around mental health just kept growing, and suddenly “next year” felt a whole lot like an excuse for “never” and today is Mental Health Awareness DAY, so here we go.

To start, I have an itty bitty history of passing out.

I’ve notoriously gone facedown into a bowl of soup after playing basketball outside for a few hours.  I’ve taken a sip of Diet Coke that felt like it went down the wrong hole and then found myself on the floor of a ski cabin. Once, I passed out in line to board an airplane. And then there was that time I was lined up at a sorority photoshoot on the beach.  One minute I was hair flipping and the next I was face down in the sand.

That time, one of my sorority sisters was absolutely positively convinced I’d had a seizure (she was a COMM major so this was a legit diagnosis), so I got out of Delta Delta Delta themed arts and crafts and got to go to the hospital instead!

There I was diagnosed with something called vasovagal syncope which is just a fancy pants way of saying you’re more prone to passing out than others. My particular brand is typically triggered when my body is salt deficient. Every single time, and I mean every single time, I have said the words “I’m going to pass out” approximately 10 seconds before I pass out.  I experience the exact same symptoms every time: slight wave of nausea, blurred vision, cold sweat, BADA BOOM BADA BING WHAT’D I MISS BECAUSE I WAS OUT COLD?

So, when I was sitting on a flight from Los Angeles to Mobile, AL in 2014, drinking a glass of wine, watching “The Good Wife” and I felt nausea, vision, sweat…well, at least I was sitting down.

But, instead of passing out, the symptoms didn’t stop. And suddenly there was chest pain. And suddenly I was 100% certain that I was having a heart attack at age 22.

I made my way to the back of the plane and calmly told the flight attendants that I was going to die and it was up to them to save me.

They asked me to explain my symptoms. I did.

“Sweetheart, I think you’re having a panic attack.”

Noooo. That’s impossible.

My brain is strong and my mental health is A-OK and I only just graduated college with no real plan and a degree in broadcast journalism which is a totally stress-free, easy-access career path and…nah, definitely not a panic attack.

They gave me some oxygen and a cookie and I sat on the floor of the plane for the next half hour convinced I’d once again cheated death, and had certainly bypassed passing out.

I experienced no further symptoms, and I moved on.

Three weeks later I was driving solo from Los Angeles to Seattle, WA. I was in the middle of nowheresville when the feeling hit me again. There wasn’t a rest stop for a good 20 miles, so I made myself breathe, and breathe, and in doing so I kept myself from passing out while driving which of course would have consequently left me #dead.

When I finally hit a gas station I bought some salty snacks and three bottles of water. Voila, another pass out avoided! 

This time there was no flight attendant to tell me I was having a panic attack, which of course I wasn’t having because I was totally cool with the fact that my mom was selling my childhood home and moving from Denver to Washington, and I no longer really had a “home” and I definitely didn’t have any job prospects and who knows when I’d see any of my friends ever again and what if my boyfriend decided he didn’t want to do long distance anymore and yeah, definitely no reason to panic.

That summer the feelings of doom started to pick up in frequency.

I saw doctors who told me there was nothing tangibly wrong with me. I saw more doctors who told me I should really try meditating. I saw more doctors who again told me no, you’re not having a heart attack, and no, you’re not having a brain aneurism, and yes, we really think you’re just having panic attacks.

At its worst,  the EMTs were called to check on me after a night at the theatre in Seattle where I ended up on the floor of the lobby. At its best, I sat rocking in the fetal position on the floor of my own home trying to focus on a TV show instead of the feelings I was feeling.

This whole time I was convinced that I was dying of a rare disease that no one could identify because why else did I sporadically feel like I was dying.

Now, I can be a tad overdramatic (I can feel my high school friends rolling their eyes here. I’m looking at you Brooke Jelniker), but that’s really the best way I can describe it. Time and time again I typed the words: “Feel like I’m dying” into Google waiting for WebMD to once again tell me that symptoms of panic attacks are very similar to heart attacks but I couldn’t be having a panic attack so it must be a heart attack and the cycle continued.

Did I have 20+ heart attacks?

No. I obviously had flippin’ panic attacks up the wahoo.

Once I was finally employed, I moved to a small little town in Eastern, WA where I was about two hours away from my boyfriend, four hours away from my mom, thousands of miles away from my dad, and I had zero zilch nada friends. But who needs friends when you’re going to be on TV! I was using my degree! First stop high school sports in places like Walla Walla, WA, next stop ESPN!

One of my first nights anchoring I experienced my first panic attack on air.

I was mid sentence when my words started crumbling inside my mouth and the nausea hit and I felt like I was drowning. I was certainly about to pass out on TV.

Four years later, I’ve never passed out on TV but I have made it through a handful of panic attacks on live television without anyone except for me and my boyfriend knowing the difference. So, greetings fellow coworkers! When I “sit down to rest my legs while the video plays” or when I pace around the studio between soundbites, it’s actually a coping mechanism to help my brain know that I’m ok…I’m not going to pass out…I’m just internally drowning…I just have to make it to the next commercial.

I read books about panic attacks. I listened to a CD called “Guided Meditation For Help With Panic Attacks.” I screamed at myself “GET YOUR SH*T TOGETHER JESSICA, YOU SHOULD NOT BE HAVING PANIC ATTACKS.”

Because ever since I was a kid, I’ve always wanted people to think I’m ok. That I’m BETTER than ok. I used to brag about the fact that I never cried in sad movies. I like people to say, “Oh that Jessica! I’ve never seen her in a terribly bad mood!”

Last year, I was talking to someone who had never met me in real life, only knew me based on my social media presence, and she said, “You look like you’re crushing it and are so happy all the time! I’m so jealous!”

I literally snorted on the phone.

See this picture:  

This picture was taken the Monday after one of the worst weekends I’ve ever had.  

How about this one:

This was in the midst of my first run-in with depression where I barely had the will to get out of bed and go to work.

Or my personal favorite!

Yeah, I started crying on the Hogwarts Express about 15 minutes later.

So what am I trying to get at here?

If each of us can admit that every day is not easy, breezy, beautiful (*whispers…cover girl*), then maybe someone else who is struggling can realize that a panic attack does not equal death; that Instagram likes do not equal internal warm and fuzzies; and that depression does not make you a weirdo, it just makes you a human.

Mental health is just as important as physical health.

You are allowed to feel the feelings you feel.

And for the sake of all that is holy, if someone tells you they’re having a hard time, don’t say, “Cheer up!” or “But, you have nothing to be sad about!” or “Get over it!” or “Other people have it so much worse!” Open your ears. Open your heart. Open your mind.

If you’re struggling, my inbox is, and my arms are, always open.

Jessica Benson is a sports anchor/reporter for Local 24 in Memphis, TN.

She is also the co-host of the “Still Not Engaged” podcast. Listen to episode one and subscribe on iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/still-not-engaged/id1435937606?mt=2

Still Not Engaged by The OAM Network on Apple PodcastsDownload past episodes or subscribe to future episodes of Still Not Engaged by The OAM Network for free.APPLE PODCASTS

[jessicabenson]

If at 1st you fail miserably...try, try again 8 years later.

No childhood memory makes me feel like I'm going to vomit all over myself quite like "Mile Day."

Mile Day

[mīl-dā]

Noun

1. The day of the year where kids run a timed mile in gym class as a test of physical prowess.

2. Torture.

The worst part about "Mile Day" was that it happened every damn year from the time you were like nine up until you finished your PE credits in high school. 

And it always went exactly the same way.

At the beginning of the week, the gym teacher would say, "Alright everyone! Just a heads up! This Friday is 'Mile Day'!"

And most people were probably like oh ok cool mile day is coming I'm going to go eat some more cafeteria square shaped pizza now.

But not me.

2 important things to note:

1) I'm competitive to a fault.

2) Growing up, I hated running. 

One time I was at a basketball personal training session and my coach/drill sergeant/personal-satan wanted me to run a mile and then run stairs and then run another mile, and I was like oh hell no, I’m 12-years-old and intend to find out if Harry Potter lives or dies, so I hid in a bathroom for 20 minutes. (Sorry Karly Haugen!)

But to make the whole “Mile Day” situation worse, all my friends ran like wild gazelles. (I'M ESPECIALLY LOOKING AT YOU JORDAN DEBOER.)

I knew, without a doubt, I was never going to win fastest mile. I probably wasn't going to be the 5th fastest mile. Ok, fine, it'd be a miracle if I was the 15th fastest mile.

But somewhere I got it into my head that if I ran the mile faster than 8 minutes and 15 seconds by my junior year of high school, I was not a total loser.

One littttttttle problem was that my "Mile Day" training always began at the same time each year: the Monday the gym teacher said "Mile Day is this Friday!”

I'd go home and trudge down to my dungeon of a basement where, fittingly, our treadmill lived. I'd hop on. I'd kill myself. I'd do this every day leading up to the grand event. I’d run a subpar mile. See ya next year, old friend!

That prophetic junior year, the year that would make or break my success as a runner, my class made its way down the winding sidewalk to the school's track. A girl in my class said, "This is stupid, I'm just going to walk it this year. It's not like you get in trouble."

Wow.

This girl was a flipping mastermind. Why hadn't I thought of just saying "F THE MILE. I'M GOING TO WALK!"

(Because I was the girl who also cried if she got a "B+" on a test. Yeah yeah yeah, roll your eyes, I'm rolling mine, too.)

It started so promising. This year’s strategy was to sprint the straight part of the track and jog on the curves. Sprint. Jog. Sprint. Jog.

"Alright Jessie! Your time is 8:24!"

What the hell man!? I have sweat coming out of my eyeballs, and you're telling me I didn't even crack 8:20?

The stopwatch doesn't lie my friends.

The rest of my friends finished between 7-8 minutes. I think Jordan Deboer finished in like 6:05 because she's insane.

I was sad that I had failed. I was beyond thrilled that I’d never have to run a stupid timed mile ever again.

The point of this fun trip down memory lane is that it's never too late to start something you never finished. Even if it takes you 8 years to get it done.

Last Thursday was "Mile Day" at Orange Theory Fitness.  It’s a class I go to 3-4 times a week because I enjoy starting my days by feeling like I’m on the brink of death, and also because no matter how many times I shout into the abyss, Soul Cycle refuses to expand to Memphis.

Just like in school, one of the trainer’s started the week by saying “Thursday will be the mile challenge!”

And just like in school, my heart started racing and PTSD washed over me.

I’ve actually developed into a pretty decent runner since high school. I run the occasional 5K. I run, gasp, for fun; to clear my head before work. My boyfriend is deceptively Seabiscuit in human form, so he’s forced my short little legs to pick up the pace and push myself because as we’ve established, I don’t like to lose. 

I knew that there was absolutely no reason I couldn’t run a mile in less than 8 minutes and 15 seconds.

Leading up to the big day, I didn’t run once. I’d intended to but...ya know... adulting is hard and exhausting and sometimes watching 20 episodes of “Beachfront Bargain Hunters” takes precedence. 

So, I walked into class on Thursday with fresh legs and a good attitude and, oh my god I have to run a timed mile why am I doing this to myself after all these years.

I set my first pace. I felt like I was going to puke. I thought about hopping off and going to the bathroom and forgoing the timed mile and just running casually, but after all the buildup, that’d just be stupid! And I’d never be able to write a funny blog post! 

So I just ran. 

And I ran.

And I ran.

I ran through 10 years of adolescence. Through all those years of not feeling fast enough, strong enough, perfect enough, skinny enough, pretty enough, smart enough. I left it all behind in a blur. 

Last Thursday I ran a mile in 7 minutes and 3 seconds.

I didn’t have the fastest time in my class because if life’s taught me anything, there’s always going to be a Jordan Deboer running next to you. Or more appropriately, in front of you. But! You don’t have to be the best to be completely, unabashedly and obnoxiously proud of yourself.

Sometimes a second place finish is all you need to remind yourself that there’s no time limit on achieving your goals; and there’s no reason not to absolutely crush them once you realize they’re just waiting for you to say, “Let’s go.” 

[jessicabenson]

I'm convinced my Nana stayed alive this last week because she wanted to be alive in this world when Ichiro homered in his (probably) last at-bat at Safeco Field.

She loved Ichiro.

Mother of four boys; Nana of six grandaughters. This morning she passed. Thanks to Nana, I'll always remember how to beat the boys at Spades and how time flies with those "newfangled" electronic versions of Yahtzee! and Solitaire. I'll remember that you can't go wrong with an order of coconut shrimp and that you can never eat just one cheddar biscuit from Red Lobster.

No milkshake beats Dairy Queen's; no pumpkin pie beats Ruth's secret recipe.

Speaking of "Ruth's secret recipes," she also made the perfect mashed potatoes, the flakiest breakfast biscuits and an assortment of cookies that didn't help waistline once I quit basketball. I'd even eat her meatloaf. And I hated meatloaf.

Sometime after my papa died when I was in Kindergarten, my Nana moved to Denver. She'd tell me later that while yes, she wanted a change of scenery, she also thought that helping to look after me as I grew up could be just the medicine she needed for her broken heart.

With that, we developed the most special of bond between grandparent and grandchild.

She always got me to practice; she never missed a game or a recital or a living room performance.

One time my parents ditched me to go to Minneapolis for the Final Four, and it was just me and Nana. I'd told her I needed to make 100 free throws before I could come in for dinner. 

When I came inside there was chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese waiting for me on the table. I sat down.

The next thing I remember is my Nana holding me on the ground.

"You passed out into your soup!"

She spent all night with me in the Emergency Room. She'd packed cookies in her purse because that's what Nana did; she never left me without cookies or a hand to hold.

I'll miss that. I'll miss her.

[jessicabenson]

Fighting On.

On September 3, 2016, USC lost to Alabama by 46 points.

By no means should they have made it to the Rose Bowl 4 months later.

On January 2, 2017, I embarked on the day trip from hell to Los Angeles.

By no means should I have made it to the Rose Bowl 14 hours later.

About two and a half weeks ago I asked my boss for a personal day on January 2nd.  I’d come down with a case of the “I’m 24 and On The Verge Of A Quarter Life Crisis” blues and was fortunate enough for Santa Claus to FedEx me a pair of Rose Bowl tickets.  OK FINE, Santa Claus is my dad. Karl came up clutch.

Chris and I were both given the day off. In our industry this is like a pot of flippin’ gold, so bottom line, it better be worth it.

My mom was going, too.  She’d planned to go from the moment USC made it in even though she was recovering from extensive surgery that she’d had the week after Thanksgiving. But, if you’ve met Sharon, God forbid you tell her she can’t go to a college sporting event she’s planning to attend. I hadn’t seen her since the surgery, and suddenly seeing USC in the Rose Bowl with my mom became the most important thing to me in the whole wide world.

She had two tickets and no one to go with. I sent a text to two of my friends asking if either needed a ticket.

My friend Janet responded yes instantly; that she’d been on StubHub that very minute looking for a ticket. She won the lottery. Sorry, Paige.

Janet and I have had some great memories at the Rose Bowl. We had worked the 100th Rose Bowl and final BCS National Championship Game (RIP, BCS) together when we were students at USC.  Then there was the time she got us kicked out of the Beyonce/Jay-Z concert. Ask her about it! It’s her favorite story to tell!

Alright, back to business.

With this trip on the horizon, I had my groove back. It was the kick in the pants I needed to head into 2017 with some pep in my step. 

So, on January 2nd, I trotted into the Memphis airport humming “Tusk” and holding up a “Fight On!” while Sia’s “The Greatest” blared from the airport speakers.

“Don't give up, I won't give up

Don't give up, no no no….”

Chris brought his GoPro and said, “Oh this song will be perfect for the video I will put together of the trip!”

Ha…haha….hahahaha….

Our flight was scheduled to leave Memphis at 6 a.m. I had chosen for us to fly through Houston instead of Denver because I’m a genius and didn’t want snow to cripple my great day.

I’m a moron. The apocalypse hit Houston.

“Hi folks…”

Why do all pilots use the word ‘folks….’

“…the Houston airport has closed off all incoming and outgoing flights because of thunderstorms.  It should only be a 30 minute delay or so. We’ll keep you posted.”

We only had an hour to make our connection so my nerves started pumpin’ real hard.

Chris assured me we’d be alright.  The flight attendant assured me we’d be alright.  We finally took off, and I got a text from my dad saying our flight from Houston to LAX was delayed, too, and that we should have no problem making our connection.

I breathed. I slept. I smiled.

“Hey there folks!”

I jolted from a deep, neck-scrunched-against-the-window sleep.

Folks…the word of death….

“I’ve got some more bad news. We are in a holding pattern as the Houston airport is closed again. We’re circling around Louisiana but we’re going to run out of fuel in about 45 minutes, so if it’s not open by then we’ll have to divert.”

The clock said 8:25. Our flight to LAX had been rescheduled to take off at 9:15.

I ate not one, but two, waffle cookies the flight attendant gave me. No New Year’s resolution diet could exist in a time like this.

At 9:22 we were diverted to San Antonio, TX. It was 60 degrees and sunny.

There was a single flight from San Antonio to LAX.

It was overbooked.

With the help of Karl, we were rescheduled onto another flight out of Houston, this one leaving at 10:45 and getting us to LAX at 12:30 p.m.

I looked out the plane window.  We were surrounded by eight other airplanes, all waiting for fuel.

“It should only take about 20 minutes!” The words of our pilot.  No “folks” included. I should’ve seen this as a sign that he was a Lying-Mc-Liar-Pants.

We waited in line for fuel, which turned into waiting in line for an open runway to take off to Houston which was now perfectly sunny and beautiful and wtf weather why you gotta be like that.

The clock ticked 10:25 as the wheels went up.

Travel agent Karl informed us we could get on the standby list for an 11:45 flight that landed at 1:30 p.m. PST.  At this point, I didn’t care if we made kickoff, I just wanted to get there by half time.

In what should be investigated as the longest flight ever between San Antonio and Houston, we landed at George Bush Intercontinental Airport at 11:30 a.m.

We were at Gate C8. The mystical 11:45 flight (which was - shocking! - rumored to be delayed) was at C46.

Chris took off in a sprint.

I ran like the gazelle I’ve always aspired to be.

Just kidding, I huffed and I puffed and my Uggs started to give me blisters and at some point I took my sweater off and tied it around my waste like a 90’s mom at Disneyland and somehow those two waffle cookies didn’t end up on the ground in front of me. Saying “Diet starts back up, Monday!” for the last four weeks was really biting me in the ass.

Let’ go back to Sia’s “The Greatest”:

“Uh-oh, runnin' out of breath, but I

Oh, I, I got stamina

Uh-oh, running now, I close my eyes

Well, oh, I got stamina…”

We reached the gate. The plane had already been closed. No delay, no magic.

We just laughed.

At this point the only chance we had was to reroute to Orange County and then drive to Pasadena.  The flight would land at 2:35.

This is the part where I remind everyone that kickoff was at 2:00.

Well, we can make the second half!

I calculated that if we landed at 2:35 we could be in a car by 2:40 and at the Rose Bowl by 3:40. We could make it by the 3rd quarter.

“Well we can hope for the world’s longest game and a USC 4th quarter comeback! Maybe some overtimes, too!” I joked.

Boarding was set to begin at 12:08.  At 12:20 we were still waiting.

“Just an update everyone, the flight attendants for this flight were coming from an international flight and they’re now stuck in Customs, so we can’t do anything until they make it through.”

You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.

I still didn’t lose it! I still didn’t cry!

When we were still sitting on the runway at 1:35, nearly an hour after our scheduled departure, that’s when I cried.

But, what can you do?

The only thing that went right at that point was that this flight had DirectTV which meant I was going to watch kickoff from the sky. So technically, I had the coolest seat of all. THE SKY!!!!

(Literally trying to keep that whole return of “Look On The Bright Side Jess!” at the forefront here).

The flight attendant gave me a free Heineken.

USC and Penn State decided to throw me a bone in the form of a bajillion pass plays followed by: Touchdown. Review. Touchdown. Review. The clock ticked slowly.

We made up some time in the air and landed in the OC at 3:04 on the dot. The 1st quarter had just ended.

Oh my lord, we have a chance.

This is where you meet our new bff, Moe. Moe was the driver of the car picking us up. He waited at baggage claim with one of those signs that said “J. Benson” and had a luggage cart waiting.

Chris and I sprinted towards him.

“Hello, are you Jessica? I’m driver, M...”

“LET’S GO MOE!”

“Where is your luggage?”

“WE DON’T HAVE ANY!”

We traveled with a single backpack filled with our toothbrushes, toiletries, a pair of yoga pants if I decided to take a 6 a.m. SoulCycle class before our flight out the next day (spoiler alert: this was not happening), my small purse, Chris’s wallet and a brush.  We’d planned to drop it off at the hotel when we landed at, oh I don’t know, 10:45 a.m. like we were supposed to, but now it was totally expendable. We had every intention of transporting our things into one of those game-friendly plastic bags (backpacks not allowed in the stadium) and ditching the backpack in the Rose Bowl parking lot.

Moe hustled with us to the car. Moe is a baller.

What if I told you…there was a day where there was zero traffic between Orange County and Pasadena?  We seemed to fly down the 405 to the 605 to the 5 to the 110. We made it in 53 minutes. I just looked at how long it would be estimated to take right now.  The answer is 1 hour and 47 minutes.

But like, you still didn’t think we were in the clear right? Because if you did you have not been paying attention.

The Rowl Bowl didn’t allow passenger drop off.  The closest we could get was about a mile out.

I gave Moe a giant hug.

And again, we ran.

And again…why had I taken a 4-week hiatus from the Kayla Itsines workout plan?

We got to the gate closest to our seats, Gate G.

“Do you have any plastic bags?” we managed to choke out between coughs.

“No, try Gate A.”

So we ran again.

“Do you have any plastic bags?”

“No, we’re out. You’ll have to check your bag at Gate C.”

At that point, we’d be running around almost half the stadium.

“Don’t be a quitter!” Chris yelled at me.

“But I’m going to throw up!” I screamed back.

This is love.

We checked our bag. Lost in this moment was my happiness to not have to part with my backpack. We entered at Gate C. We had to walk all the way back to the Gate G area to get to our entrance tunnel.

We walked up the stairs right after Penn State scored in the opening minutes of the 3rd quarter.

I saw my mom. I saw Janet. Instant happiness washed over me.  They greeted us with hugs and at that point more importantly, beers. The girl in the seats next to us had gone to one of the high schools in my hometown of Highlands Ranch, CO. Everything seemed to be falling into place perfectly.

We proceeded to watch Penn State score 28 points in the 3rd quarter.

And then we proceeded to watch a damn miracle.

I can’t describe the happiness I felt as Ronald Jones II ran it into the end zone wearing Joe McKnight’s No. 4 jersey to get USC back within a touchdown.

I can’t put into words what it was like to watch a freshman quarterback, Sam Darnold, throw his 5th touchdown pass to tie the game with 1 minute and 20 seconds left on the clock.

People joke that I went to USC during the worst four years of football.  But everything - from the sanctions to Kiffin being left on an LAX tarmac to Sark- all became so worth it when Matt Boermeester nailed a 46-yard field goal to win the Rose Bowl.

As I stood watching USC win the Rose Bowl with my mom, my boyfriend and two of my best friends all I could think was, “Holy hell this day went from being one of the absolute worst to the absolute best.”

And couldn’t we all use that reminder as we enter the New Year?  Pick a cliche, any cliche, but often times the best things come just after we think things can’t get any worse.

From USC football fighting its way back into the national spotlight; to 14 hours of travel that included 3 flights, 6 potential missed connections, 2 diversions, an hour car ride and a 2 mile run that landed me in the Penn State section at the Rose Bowl...you just cannot ever give up.

Because if you do, you might miss the part where the impossible transforms into one of life’s greatest moments.

After all, is that not what it means to “Fight On”?

As we walked down the steps of the Rose Bowl, no joke, Sia’s “The Greatest” played in the background.  

“I'm free to be the greatest, I'm alive

I'm free to be the greatest here tonight, the greatest

The greatest, the greatest alive

The greatest, the greatest alive…”

The day was perfect.

The next day our flight to Denver was delayed 4 hours, we missed all connecting flights to Memphis and got stuck at the airport for the night.  It was 18 degrees, we had no extra clothes and didn’t make it home until 2 p.m. on Wednesday, January 4th.

Again, it was perfect. And most of all, it was so worth it.

[jessicabenson]

I gave up social media for 12 hours. This is my story.

Earlier this week I decided to take a 12 hour break from social media.

12 hours!? (You probably just said with a big ole’ eye roll.)

Yes, 12 hours.  

I check my Twitter account as regularly as I breathe, so this was a tall task. Especially for a Tuesday (which this week is my “Sunday”). So basically the equivalent of any day ending in “y.”

I claim it’s for “work” and to stay “up with the news,” but social media has become such a part of my life, I’m not really sure why I’m doing it anymore. Sure, working in the media requires a certain level of connectivity. But, I got to thinking, at what point am I actually just no longer capable of spending quality time with me, myself and I.

I’m liking 20 photos on Instagram.  I’m debating about responding to 20 frustrating political posts on Facebook (and when I delete those responses I give myself a proverbial pat on the back).  I’m reading 20 tweets and then clicking refresh and reading another 20 tweets and then clicking refresh and reading another 20 tweets and then clicking refresh and then…well, you get the picture.

It was my day off. Earlier in the day I had hit up Memphis Tigers basketball media day for fun.  About two hours of my day “required” me to be connected. Aside from that, I had the rest of the day/night ahead, and I realized I needed to do something more than sit on my couch and scroll through my phone while waiting for my boyfriend, Chris, to come home so we could turn on the TV and scroll through our phones together.  

So, I challenged myself.  Could I go 12 hours without social media?  No Twitter, Facebook or Instagram.

I’m kind of a competitive person.

Hour 1:

I decide to catch up on one of my longtime favorite shows, “Suits.”

About every five minutes I click, “new tab.” And then delete new tab.  I get a Twitter notification on my phone.  I ignore.

I had come home to a bag of popcorn hanging on my front door from my landlord saying “Just popped by to say we appreciate you and your opinion.” You want me to complete a survey in return for free popcorn?  Deal. So, I make that “Butter Lovers” popcorn and enjoy all the butter.  And all the calories.

I complete the online survey.  Around this time I come up with my first big realization.

I haven’t watched a TV show without being on my phone since…???

Sports, award shows, debates, sitcoms, dramas, news, Netflix, cable.  Doesn’t matter what, where, or why; I’m constantly engaging on my phone, on social media, while kicking back and watching TV.  

Even if I’m watching something taped, I’m still totally plugged into whatever’s trending or how much traction my last post is getting or some funny video of a cat I’ve probably seen before but don’t remember because I’m a scroll-a-holic and take in so much digital content I rarely actually absorb it (a new realization I’m having now that I have nothing to scroll through).

Around this time I click “new tab” and start typing faceboo….only to get to the “k” before remembering I’m not allowed to go on there so I grab another handful of popcorn.

Then I realize I’m more of a “Butter Hater” than a “Butter Lover.”  My fingers are yellow and I’m actually paying attention to how the popcorn tastes and it doesn’t taste very good, so I toss the bag to the side of the table and try to focus on “Suits.”

My dad calls. I talk actual human words for 15 minutes as opposed to half listening while scrolling through Twitter.

Hour 2:

Does “Words With Friends” count as social media?  I decide no. Because it forces me to use my brain.

My mom plays “Quads” and gets 70 points.

I immediately want to check Twitter to avoid inevitably losing. I force myself to respond with “Chokey” for 20 points.  I’m losing by 12.

I see on the news that Ken Bone is coming to Memphis.  I want to get on Twitter to see what jokes people are making about his red sweater.  To avoid the temptation, I decide to work out.

I clip into my stationary SoulCycle bike which is the most basic thing I own, and I see on the news that “Jersey Boys” opens in Memphis Tuesday night.  I live down the street from the Orpheum Theatre.  It's Tuesday. I text Chris that we have plans at 7:30 to see a show. I clip-out of my bike, because frankly, to cycle without social media to distract me here and there is tough.

I run down the street so high on life that I almost forget I’m not allowed to check social media.  I think I know someone in the touring cast of Jersey Boys.  I can’t remember.  I go to check Facebook.

It pops up- but I promise!!!- I couldn’t even read that I have three notifications before I  closed  the  app.  WHAT ARE THOSE NOTIFICATIONS. WHAT IF THEY’RE IMPORTANT?

I force the thought to the back of my head while stuck waiting at a crosswalk. Waiting. Waiting. I’m bored. Can I check my phone yet?

At this point I realize I forgot the World Series starts tonight.  And the first night of the NBA, which in our apartment means the resurgence of the Warriors and the second coming of Kevin Durant. I also realize the chance of me watching both these games without checking Twitter is slim to none, so I decide to sacrifice Game 1 / KD’s Warriors debut for my little experiment.

“Do you have any seats available for tonight?”

I walk out of the box office with two, 4th row Orchestra seats.  I see the name of the dude I used to perform with on the board of the show’s cast. I look at my tickets and my seats. My mom would be proud.

So, I call her and tell her because I need something to entertain me on my walk home.

Hours 3-???:

I wait for Chris to come home.  I’m bored.  I do 20 push-ups.  I make myself some broccoli as a snack because I ate all that buttered popcorn and can’t allot the calories for the bagel bites I really want.

I’ve recently been in a creative/work/life rut.  This whole “no social media” thing is making me think about it.  I don’t like it.

I decide I should mediate.  I google “10 minute meditation” because I don’t have time for anything else. But, ten minutes? Ten minutes I can handle.

I breathe in to four and out to six and I think I’m developing more anxiety than I’ve had in months just by focusing on my breathing but here I am going “1…2…3…4….hold….1…2…3…4…5…6….” and I’m on breath number 325 when I hear a ping on my phone but I can’t check it because I’m still in the midst of this “in the moment” meditation.

It’s Chris.  He’s finally on his way home.  We’re going to the theatre.

(Yo Don Draper...where’s my idea for the next Coke commercial so I can make my million and retire?)

This is where I get inspired. So stay with me.

This guy I performed with as a kid is now in the touring cast of “Jersey Boys”, and the lights go up, and he’s the first person I see and suddenly I’m just like, “damn,” this dude is living the dream.

I watch.  I sip wine out of a sippy cup that Chris bought me.  I watch.

And I’m singing along in my head.  And I’m also complaining in my head about the old man behind me who’s singing out loud to every song.  And I’m mesmerized by the people singing up on the stage who are paid to sing every song.

I’m not thinking about social media.  I’m not thinking about my problems.  I’m not thinking about the world that I want to fix.

I see the old lady in the pink shirt.

She is sitting in the first row, right off the aisle. When fake Frankie Valli started singing “You’re just too good to be true…” she put her hands in the air and waved ‘em like she just "don’t care." She had zero inhibitions. She just was.

And I remembered the times where I just “was.”  Where I didn’t care about favorites on a Tweet or the caption of an Instagram or the check-in on a Facebook post.  Back to the time where I ate Red Baron pizzas and wore Limited Too off-the shoulder tops and read books for fun just because I liked to learn, not because I wanted to post some “book recommendation” that’s really a disguise for the opportunity to remind you that I’m smart and read books.

And every month growing up I went to the Buell Theatre in downtown Denver.  

And I remember the one time my family saw “Contact.”  Which my mom remembers as the time this woman in front of us whispered to her friend “I can’t believe she brought such a young daughter to this.”

And I remember my mom being embarrassed.  So embarrassed.  Like still to this day talks about how embarrassed she was.

But, I remember, I didn’t care!  I was just seeing another show and learning new words and new concepts and new life lessons.  And I, dammit, I wanted to be the beautiful girl in the yellow dress.  (Disregard that this show was about sex, spousal abuse and suicide).

Now that I’m older I realize that walking with my parents through the aisle of that show must have been uncomfortable.  But I was like, a 9-year-old and, I couldn’t have cared less what other people thought.

How awesome that must have been?  Not giving a care in the world about what other people thought and just living 100% in the moment of something? 

I’ve seen 113 shows in my life (#humblebrag).  I’ve probably liked 111 more than I liked “Contact.”  But, I’ll never forget that show as being one of the last times I was blissfully ignorant of what other people thought of me.

So back we go to the lady in the pink shirt  at “Jersey Boys” in Memphis, TN who just wanted to dance to some Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons and you know what? She deserved to do just that.

She deserved to dance.  The guy behind me deserved to sing-along.  And I deserved to drum my fingers against my boyfriend as I transferred myself back to the days where I didn’t care about a thing in the world except for the music and the performance and a night at the theatre, away from the rest of the world.

12 hours later, I’ll log back on to my social media accounts and remember what it’s like to care what the rest of the world thinks.  

I still haven’t finished that episode of “Suits.”

The Warriors lost by 29 points.

The Indians won by 6.

Please like my post.

[jessicabenson]

Welcome to Memphis! Go buy a towel.

I haven't written a blog post in 592 days. But today, I come out of retirement because my mom told me I should. 

A quick Spark Notes on how I got from December 28, 2014 to August 11, 2016:

This month, I moved to Memphis, TN after accepting a job with the ABC affiliate, WATN.  I loved working at KNDU-TV and heck, I truly even grew to love the Tri-Cities (especially after I joined two wine clubs).  But it was time to move on, and the chance to cover Division 1 college sports and the Grizzlies was a no brainer for me.

So fast forward to this past Monday- my first non "paperwork and watching other people do things I need to know how to do but won't know how to do until I need to do them myself" day at work.  I woke up feeling like a million bucks at 6:45 am because I was assigned to go to University of Memphis football practice.

I hadn't been at a college football practice since 2014 spring ball at USC with good ole' Steve Sarkisian. I was pumped.

In a total chick move, I had a small, internal conflict about what to wear.   I have yet to let my new bosses know that my usual choice of shoes is either blue, high top Chucks, sparkly Sperry's that saw better days back in 2009 or if I'm really feeling rebellious- my Nike running shoes.

But I'm trying to be all professional and fabulous and not look like I'm still 16-years-old, so I went with a dress and these little Target wedges that are comfortable for exactly 3 hours and 27 minutes. 

Spoiler alert: this was a fatal mistake.  

Hour 1: I sweated in places I didn't know I could sweat.

I was using a new camera, one that I thought I taught myself to use over the weekend.  That all went to hell quickly.  It wouldn't zoom.  It wouldn't focus.  I spent 10 of the 15 minutes we were allowed to film trying to understand this piece of equipment that was screaming at me, “YOU FAIL.” 

Hour 2: I started to feel a little woozy.  Which may explain why my camera was talking to me.

At this point, I felt like I was going through initiation, and that my future reputation as a member of the Memphis media rested on my abilities to sweat through this practice.

I checked the weather on my phone.  94 degrees, 55 % humidity.  It was 108 degrees the day I moved in, so I was like, “suck it up, Benson. This is the 90′s.”

I loved the 90's a lot more when it meant N'Sync and Lisa Frank notebooks.

Hour 3: I think I actually blacked out.  I was leaning against a fence, praying I would not make a fool of myself, when the sound of the horn signaling the end of practice jolted me back to consciousness.

I suddenly felt refreshed. Ready to ask some kickass questions in the post-practice interviews and remind myself why I was hired to do this job.

That feeling lasted less than a minute.

After hoisting my camera onto my shoulder, I realized I had started sweating.  Hard.  Like Albert Brooks in “Broadcast News” hard.

The sky literally turned purple.  Well, probably not literally.  But my eyes were saying “Hey Jess! Look at this pretty purple sky! You’re going to die now!”  

I was surrounded by six other media guys, and I quickly realized I was either going to A) puke on Memphis head coach Mike Norvell or B) pass out on Memphis head coach Mike Norvell.  I give both those options an A+++ for making sure everyone remembers my name after day one.

But, I’d really prefer not to be singing “started from the bottom now I’m here” a year from now because I literally started out on the ground of football practice.  So, I awkwardly put my camera down, listened to the echoes of some standard “coach talk” and stumbled up a little flight of stairs and into the air conditioned athletic facilities.

There was a water jug, and I started chugging.

I looked up to see Coach Norvell walking in.

"You ok?"

SOS I’m dying. Help me. This is the end.

"Yep!" I answered. "Just getting used to the humidity!"

"I saw you put your camera on the ground," he said. "Looked like you were struggling..."

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha <-- how I envision what came out of my mouth but I don’t really know because I was more focused on not throwing up on the floor.

I’m not even sure if formed any semblance of words after that, but I knew I needed to get sound from the players, so I forced myself to go retrieve my camera and rejoin the huddle.

**Side note: Coach Norvell is such a kind human being, and as a sports journalist, coaches like him make my job so much better/easier.  I’ll chalk it up to us both coming from the Pac-12.**

Back in hell, I slowly but surely got my camera back on my shoulder and started to roll.

A large drop of sweat rolled into my eyeball.  My contact started flopping around like a dead fish in my salty watering eye, and I'm just holding my camera telling myself "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine."  (Listening to my video clips later I realized I was actually audbily saying "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.”  I’m not here to make friends, just to make sure everyone thinks I’m absolutely crazy, ladies and gents.)  I started trying to use my upper left shoulder to wipe my face.  So for you folks at home: my eye is watering, a million-pound (slight exaggeration) camera is on my right shoulder, a microphone is in my left hand, and I’m stabbing my shoulder into my cheek in an unsuccessful attempt to make my eye stop burning.  Oh, and I look like I was just caught in the middle of a flash flood.

I willed myself to stay standing, and soon enough, the interviews wrapped up.  Everyone walked away like it was just an ordinary day.  I finally could use my hand to wipe my eye.  I took a mental note to buy a sweat towel.

I walked out of the athletic facilities with one of the other Memphis sports anchors.  He told me I needed to get myself some dry-fit.  He told me, “If it makes you feel better, I’ve been here forever...and even I’m hot today!”

I felt a little better.  Until I got in the car and pulled down the dashboard mirror.

I had black eyeliner/mascara/eye shadow streaming down the entire left side of my face.  My right side, perfectly intact.  Half ‘Blank Space’ Taylor Swift + half normal Jessica = one giant hot mess express.

I called my mom and laughed instead of cried.  That’s how I’ve gotten through 99% of life’s hard moments and I ain’t stopping now.

Then I got back to work.  That’s when I saw the real winner.

 I’m confused why my boob sweat isn’t as glam as Reese Witherspoon’s boob sweat.

Maybe this is why people were staring at me when I walked in.

Remember all those times you were watching the news and you said, “Ugh what an easy job!  All they have to do is read the teleprompter and get their hair and makeup done and look flawless!”  Yeah, this is me reminding you that’s usually not the case.

But weirdly enough, days like this are why I love my job and wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.  I’ll get back into therapy eventually, I promise.  

My video was ok despite my camera rebelling against me.  My soundbites were pretty good despite me planning my funeral in the middle of the interviews.  It was a decent first real day of work.

I left and drove home to take a nice, cold shower.

Halfway there, I realized I had left my wallet at work.

One 40-minute roundtrip and a trip to Maggie Moo’s later, and I was curled up on my couch with a cup of cake batter ice cream with oreo cookies and brownie bites and chocolate sauce.  I was asleep by 6:00 pm.

I returned to practice on Wednesday, this time ready for battle in shorts and a tank top.  This time around, I did not die.  This time around, I did forget to wear deodorant.  

[jessicabenson]

Jessie B's 2014

2014... oh, 2014... where have you gone.  It seems like just yesterday I was prepping to work at the Rose Bowl on New Year's Eve and now...New Year's Eve?  What's a New Year's Eve? What's a Christmas Eve?  What's a Christmas?  I don't know what day it is anymore; I've been in the back corner of a newsroom for 14 days.  While others eat Christmas cookies and laugh at their uncle's 6th consecutive lame joke; I'm here at work, talking to my imaginary friends and still pretending to be a Seahawks fan. So, I thought, what better time to write my own holiday card!  You know those obnoxious little (or sometimes painfully long) cards people send out to fill you in on their lives even though you never asked the question of what was going on with them to begin with? Yeah, like this:

So alas, as a new card carrying member of the real world, here is my holiday shout out.  It's little bit quirky newsletter. It's a little bit VH1 "Yo! 2014 is over let's check out the best Kardashian (sub in: Jessie) moments of the year!"  I present to you: Jessie B’s 2014

Best Day: May 16, 2014

I was told that graduation day would be the saddest day of my life. It would be filled with tears, internal crises and the overwhelming feeling that the best years of my life were over. Done. Complete. Sayonara happiness, your time is finished.

That is wrong.  Graduation Day, hands down, ranks as one of the top 10 days of my life.

Why? Because you can walk down normal people streets, take gulps of champagne from your red solo cup, look like a complete a-hole and everyone you pass still says "CONGRATULATIONS!" Or "conGRADulations" if you're one of those annoying people…or maybe if you're me.

My mom describes the start of the day like this. Note: at this point in the morning my divorced parents were sitting together at the front of the main ceremony in some special seats my dad had snagged. I imagined them not speaking to each other as they both texted me frantically asking if I had left my house yet. After all, if they weren’t going to see me graduate, why on earth were they being forced to sit together, let alone within arms length?

“Your dad was convinced you weren’t going to make it. I was convinced you weren’t going to make it. Then, there you were, with the first group of soon to be graduates entering the main ceremony in the exact section of the exact space where you were supposed to be.  You were on time, with your friends at your side, with a smile on your face that immediately made us smile. You lifted your red cup in a cheers to the sky, blew a kiss in our direction and sat down. I really couldn't believe it.  With the ceremony just beginning, you looked totally poised and totally carefree...”

I do not remember these actions, but I am glad that they have been properly documented.

All I know is that I sat with some of my best friends in the blistering heat listening to a bunch of jumbled words that preceded the most important words, “we did it!”. After the 19-hour long main ceremony, we split into our “satellite” ceremonies where our journalism school speaker was a man whose name I don’t remember but whose message I will never forget: don’t be a journalist, your life will definitely suck. Side note: Can anyone tell me who in the world selected this man to speak?

My classmates and I took swigs out of our flasks hidden within our robes as this lovely man told us we would be lifelong alcoholics (the fact that 90% of the group sitting there were drinking heavily seemed to support this statement), drug addicts, our families would die and we would not be able to attend their funerals, our children would die and we would not have been able to have ever attended their piano recitals;  we would suffer depression, disease, unhappiness and eternal pain. We would never find love. We would never have friends. This is a real speech folks. Just ask anyone who uncomfortably shifted through it and provided a nervous giggle here and there.

Once he finally stepped down from his pedestal, literally and figuratively;  it was time to graduate! This was it! I’d taken 130 units and managed to never see a “B” on my report card. This was my moment, my nerdy moment to shine. Except let's be real...there wasn't even an asterisk next to my name saying "3.97 GPA right here!" But, I'm not bitter.  Ok, I'm a little bitter. 

Sandwiched between two of my best friends, I joined the snaking line of girls teetering in uncomfortable heels and the approximately 17 boys who were some of the brightest of USC if only by choosing a major that clocked the female to male ratio at 8-to-1.

My friend Paige Graham wrote "Paige Graham-like-a-cracker" on her pronunciation card.

I flat out forgot my pronunciation card on my seat so I just yell-whispered "IT'S JESSICA BENSON. LIKE JESSICA BENSON," to the poor woman responsible for ensuring we each walked single file down a long, unstable stage.

Somehow, I did not fall. I did not pass out (which I am prone to do...even without a mixture of tequila, champagne and beer). I did not embarrass my parents. Well, at least not as much as the girl who said her last name was “Jack Daniels.” I accepted my fake diploma, smiled for the camera and successfully graduated from the University of Southern California with a degree in Broadcast and Digital Journalism and minors in sports media studies and popular music. I did it.

After the ceremony comes the real party. Which if you treated the ceremony like a party, basically becomes the after party.

I had my boyfriend, one of my best friends since childhood, my parents, my uncles, my Linda and all my USC connections under one roof. I was stoked.

So stoked that I started drinking Coronas on an even pace of one per every three minutes.

I gave a speech. I cut into our glorious funfetti cake and thanked the parents, the friends and the friends of friends who supported me and each of my 7 housemates. 

I don’t think I stopped smiling the entire day.

At one point I started stashing pre-opened Coronas in my bedroom- "BECAUSE THEY'RE FREE," I yelled at anyone who asked me why I would want to drink warm beer later- and eventually I had managed to stack 8 bottles, complete with limes, on the wooden frame behind my bed. (This proved to be a total waste of good beer. I apologize, world.)

The day came to an end. The open bar closed shop. The platters of food disappeared from our living room.  I draped myself dramatically at the bottom of the staircase and sighed.

The realization that this was officially the end came in a wave. I realized how fortunate I was to have had one of the greatest college experiences I could have ever asked for. I lived under one roof with my best friends, down the street from my other best friends and within a 5-mile radius to a lot of my other, other best friends. I went to a school where the sky was always blue and the palm trees perfectly framed the old time movie-studio structured buildings. I had learned how to report, to produce, to write, edit and perform. I learned to look at movies and TV with a critical eye, to speak(ish) the French language, to listen to film scores, to sing along with the Great American Songbook, to survive an earthquake and to ask the important questions. I played a male dwarf, hung out on the sidelines at USC football games and survived (albeit barely) as an executive producer as our student TV station. I had conversations with the great Louis Zamperini, the unfiltered Keyshawn Johnson, the therapeutic Ira Glass, the visionary Oliver Stone, the Rent-tastic Adam Pascal and even the gold wheelchair-toting Larry Flynt.

Graduation Day symbolized four years of beauty, wonder and discovery.

I wish I could go back and live this day every single day…like that old ABC Family movie, “Christmas Every Day” where it is literally CHRISTMAS EVERY STINKIN’ DAY. Then I would never have to actually graduate. The real world would eternally remain a day away. I would always exist in the world of USC, where if you dream it, you really can do it.

Worst Day (Week): January 30-February 7, 2014

In mid-January, I announced I was going to go on a crazy diet that consisted of basically not eating any food for approximately two weeks while I prepped for my head shots as one of my first final steps towards finding a job. It seemed rational in the “I live in Los Angeles” sort of way that suddenly becomes rational when you live in Los Angeles.

The above declaration is an important preamble for this part of my story because I am able to tell you with 100% clarity exactly what I ate from 6pm on January 28th until 3am on January 30th.

January 28th: Two pieces of bread with burrata at Bacaro Glass of Sangria

January 29th Cliff Bar Chicken Ceasar Salad Prosecco

January 30th I DID NOT CONSUME FOOD FOR THE NEXT SIX DAYS BECAUSE I WAS ON MY DEATH BED.

I woke up at 3am on the 30th feeling like I was definitely dying. I use the expression, “I think I’m dying,” at least once a day, so this doesn’t really mean anything in most cases but I can assure you this is the closest I had been to legitimate death.

Here is the following timeline:

January 30th:  Text my housemates asking for Gatorade. Spend the next 18 hours on the floor of my bathroom. My friends are convinced that my illness has been caused by prosecco.

January 31st: My friends now think that I'm sick because I haven't had enough nutrients. There is no sympathy. I call the Department of Public Safety to take me to the health center. The health center asks me if I’m sure I’m not pregnant. I tell them I hate them. They diagnose me with food poisoning even though I swear I haven't eaten anything and prescribe Imodium. My friends have called my mom and assured her that this isn’t serious and that I was being silly and not eating enough.

February 1st: I pass out off my toilet. My friend Victoria finally comes to terms with the fact that I should probably go to the hospital. She is the only friend I like at this moment. We spend the next six hours at Cedar Sinai. We both wear surgical masks. I cry a lot.

Sharon flies in and meets us at the hospital. They don’t know what’s wrong with me but they do a lot of tests that will take 24 hours to process, prescribe some heavy duty pain meds to help me pass out and allow me to go home and sleep. My mom and I check into a hotel. We have to go to Walgreens to pick up my prescription. This means I will be away from a bathroom for the first time in nearly 3 days. We go to Walgreens.  A mean Russian woman at the drive-through tells us we have to wait 20 minutes. I need a bathroom.

An attendant yells at me, and if I had listened to his words, I would have heard that the bathroom was locked.

This following moment summarizes my week:

There in aisle 6 of the Korea Town Walgreens, at the age of 21, I pooped my pants. No, not pants. Nike shorts. From there I blacked out.

The next morning I received a call from the United States Health Department. I had been diagnosed with severe salmonella poisoning.

I'M SORRY WHAT. I THOUGHT SALMONELLA POISONING WAS SOME MYTHICAL JOKE MY MOM TOLD ME SO I WOULDN'T GET FAT EATING ALL THE TOLL HOUSE COOKIE DOUGH.

“Well what have you eaten in the last few days,” Carol the health agent asked me.

“Well I had a piece of bread at a birthday dinner-“

“Birthday dinner!? AHA! Did you know that when you eat things at parties they can be left out too long and spoil?”

“But it was a piece of bread…at the restaurant we were at…I didn’t even have any cake back at the house.”

“You must have just snacked on something back at the party.”

“No I can assure you I didn’t…I really think it was the caesar salad from the campus student center…”

“No, no it must be the party. Ok, well take your medicine and hope you feel better soon Jessica! If you have any further questions feel free to…”

At this point I groggily hang up the phone, crawl back into bed and listened to the Broncos lose between sporadic naps and nibbles of saltine crackers.

It was Super Bowl Sunday.

I was bed ridden through my birthday, February 6th, at which time my mom allowed me to eat my first solid food: three bites of mac n’ cheese.

I lost 14 pounds in 7 days. My head shots turned out fabulous.

Biggest Accomplishment:

I am an employed college graduate, doing work that I love.

Biggest Mistake:

Entering the real world.

Most Anti-Jessie Action:

Once upon a time I thought Mardi Gras in New Orleans sounded like the greatest idea of my senior year. What followed was 8 hurricanes at Pat O’Briens, a lot of beads and a 20-minute identity crisis.

It was 1am as a hefty woman started playing “Don’t Stop Believin’” at a famous piano bar in New Orleans. My friends and I joyfully screamed "on and on and on and onnnnnnn", had one of those brilliant "are you thinking what I'm thinking" moments that don't always turn out to be excellent ideas and realized we had just 30 minutes to act on our impulses.

Next thing I knew I was face down on a table in the back room of the Downtown Tattoos and Piercing shop on Frenchman Street screaming, “THIS IS NOT A SORORITY TAT.”

It was a sorority tat. I got a delta, a triangle and a symbol of the Illumniti, smack dab in the middle of my left butt cheek.

All I can say is it could have been worse. I could be my best friend, who laid by my side and received the second of the two deltas dished out that night (we are still in search for someone who wants the third…any takers are welcome to let us know). She decided to ride a mechanical bull with her fresh ink and now has a smudged triangle.  Tri Delta forever.

Most Totally-Jessie Action:

It’s a tie and it’s my blog so I do what I want:

1.  Spent my life savings on a purse. Just one purse. But it was YSL and I was in Paris and it’s all my mom’s fault for saying, “let’s just go in and look.” Someone at Jiffy Lube in Kennewick asked me if I got it at Brighton. My life ended at that moment.

2.  Purchased a Soul Cycle bike for my apartment in Kennewick, WA. Ok fine, Karl purchased it as an early Christmas present. Maybe should have asked for some new tires instead. I guess we'll wait until the end of 2015 to answer that.

Drink of 2014:

Prosecco. All 632 bottles of it that I consumed this year.

Food of 2014:

Nothing that would give me salmonella poisoning.

Song I never want to hear again: All About That Bass

Song I pretend I never want to hear again but listen to every day: Blank Space

Favorite Concert: This should be Beyonce/JayZ “On the Run”, but it’s not. Because one of my best friends projectile vomited on a couple in front of us right as “Bonnie and Clyde” started playing. She yelled and clawed at a security guard as “Upgrade You” ended. We were told we couldn’t come back during the interlude to “Crazy in Love.” I could hear the faint sounds of “I Woke Up Like This…” as I pushed her hair back, told her it was going to be ok, and sent her off in an ambulance. When I picked her up from the Pasadena ER three hours later she asked me if she looked flawless. I was not amused. (She is still one of my best friends. How.)

This should also be Bruce Springsteen in Dallas, but it’s not. Because Chris ate a corn dog and didn’t feel well and had to go back to the hotel room and then I felt like a bad person for waiting to hear “Born in the USA” so I heard it as I swam like a fish upstream through a crowd of thousands of people. It should be noted I did stay at the concert for over an hour before my conscience kicked in.  Details.

In other news, somebody please take me to a great concert in 2015. I hear Sir Mix A-Lot is playing in Yakima on New Year’s Eve.

Nicest criticism from a viewer: “Is Jessica Benson out past curfew when she does the 11pm news?”

Meanest criticism from a viewer: “Can you tell Jessica Benson to learn how to brush her hair?”

Friend of the year: Netflix

Person of the year: Sharon. Because she’s Sharon

Top 11 Random Awesome Moments of 2014:

Going to the Playboy Mansion, willingly choosing to sit on a bed in the “Love Den”, dousing myself in Purrell.

COACHELLA 2014: where I slept in a tent, relived my 6th grade obsession with "Hey Ya!" and constantly got duped by people coming up to me asking if I'd seen their friend Molly.  "No! I haven't seen her!  Jeeze it seems like everyone is looking for Molly here!"

Sports. I witnessed my 12th consecutive Final Four, the final BCS National Championship Game, and the Broncos winning the AFC.  I wish I could bottle these games up to remind me of the greater goal whenever I'm napping in the bathroom during a 15-hour work day or cursing a broken tripod or a high school wrestler is puking on my foot.

I got pinned.  OMG, my boyfriend loves me, I shall wear his SigEp pin and he will wear my Delta Delta Delta and forever and ever and ever we shall be bonded by the internal fabric of the American Greek System! (And even though I make fun of it, I obviously loved every second of it.)

Paragliding over the beaches of Normandie, seeing my dad’s glider crash, asking my guide if my dad was ok, whereas he  answered, “Who knows! C’est la vie!”

i finally took my birthright trip to Paris and spent the next month trying to get a job at ESPN Europe and then crying and thinking about changing careers when I learned such company no longer exists.

Moving into my mom's new beach house which isn't new but now symbolizes bottles of prosecco, dungeness crab and the theme song from "Suits".

Having the current bae meet a past bae and having it be just as awkward as I always imagined it would be.

I ate off the $1 menu at McDonalds so that I could afford to buy four tickets to Broadway shows while I was in New York City. For the future, I probably could have had a little dinner and not bought the silk Alice & Olivia trousers...or the Rebecca Taylor cable knit...or been willing to sit somewhere other than front and center.

I got to dress up as Angelica Pickles and all my dreams came true.

In my first year in the working world I worked 13 consecutive days through Thanksgiving and am now in the midst of 14 consecutive days that include Christmas Eve, Christmas, New Year's Eve and New Year's.  I don't want to say I deserve a gold star but I basically deserve a gold star.  However, believe it or not I had one of my best Christmas Eve's ever. My cousin invited my mom and I over for fondue night. Why everyone doesn't do Christmas Eve fondue night baffles me.  But here I was, stranded at work on Christmas Eve, and my cousin and her family welcomed my mom and I over to their house  for this wonderful spectacle and three adorable kids jumped all over me (and when I say adorable you know it's real because I usually don't even like kids) and for an hour during my work day I was totally  engulfed in the real joy of the true spirit of Christmas. So take that real world.  

I say that as I'm back at my desk by myself working on my script for tonight and sobbing through "It's A Wonderful Life."

And finally, drum roll please....2014 was the year of the long distance relationship.

This one's for Chris- that rando dude I hooked up with at the Olympics who turned into some guy I love.  We're doin' pretty well.  We watch Red Zone in our underwear for 10 hours every Sunday, so I'm not sure where our relationship goes after the NFL season ends.

This one's for my friends-- the people who get snap chats from me nearly every day asking if it's time for a nap and still want to be my friends. It does need to be noted that the friend who actually books a ticket and flies into the Pasco Airport in Pasco, WA, will actually win my best friend-ship forever friendship award, okay, ready go, friends.

This one's for my parents- because who else has to pick up the phone when I call and ask if I'm getting jipped at Jiffy Lube on the price of my oil change.

Most importantly, this one's for my dog- who frankly should have been a child model.  Then maybe I wouldn't have to work.

Now is the time for long distance relationships to thrive.  And thank the good Lord for them because without them I would be stuck in my underwear, watching my 12th consecutive episode of Gilmore Girls on Netflix, spoon straight up in the peanut butter and googling "Small Town Survival Tips for a Big City Girl" nearly every night. 

So cheers to you 2014.  You've been real.  You've been fun. You've actually been really fun.  Now it's time to "workout every day" and "not drink wine every night" and "spend less time on the internet" for about the first week of 2015.  Peace and blessings.

[jessicabenson]

Happy Two Month Anniversary to Me

Hi, my name is Jessica Benson, and I have joined the thousands of young Americans who can dub themselves, "blogging failures."

Turns out once you're working between 8-12 (ok occasionally 15) hours a day, sleep trumps typing snarky thoughts for a Tumblr page.  But alas, I figured I'd write a little, catch up on the last two months of my life and attempt to get back in the jig of things.  Today marks my two year anniversary as a working girl.  I'm a little bit like Melanie Griffith- a little less shoulder pads, a little more sneakers- and I try to listen to Carly Simon's "Let The River Run" at least once a week.

Here are some simple thoughts I've had in these first few months: 

The "Bank of Jessica" is incredibly depressing.  After rent, bills, moving debts and necessities (ie: soap and toilet paper), 5 Lean Cuisines for $10 from Safeway is my new favorite way to dine.

Naps are a glorious, under-appreciated pastime.  You don't know what you got til it's gone.  However, I have learned how to take 10 minute naps in parking lots.  If I get to a game early, nap.  If I'm a few minutes early to work, nap.  One Sunday afternoon I took a power nap in the bathroom. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

There is no shame in clipping coupons.  There is shame in using one for 2-for-1 burgers from Carl's Jr.

Reporters are people, too.  Please remember that. There are people who are rude: A lady who asked if I was staying up past my curfew by anchoring the 11, a soccer mom who yelled at me for leaving her daughter's game early, a Facebook commentator who challenged if I even went to college based on my inability to spell "Dachshund." Then there are the creeps: the man from the Philippines who claims he watches me every weekend (pretty sure our live stream stops just west of Seattle) to get a glimpse of my "rare, mind-erasing smile", a 17-year-old backup, backup, backup QB who asked me to homecoming, a dad who asked me "which little guy was mine" at a child's basketball clinic and then followed with "well how about we get a drink sometime."  We're all just trying to do our jobs.  Give us a break from time to time.

Being on TV is exhilarating.  So much so that you may forget to turn on your mic your first time on the air.

Just because you're an adult, doesn't mean you have to ever leave your couch when you're not at work.  Or put on pants.  I've made it my mission to look as ugly as humanly possible on days when I'm not on-air.  You're welcome, Chris.

The moment all young broadcasters dread happened on 9/11/14.  I was told I had to cut my hair.  I made it two hours before I had a soul-crushing melt down and ugly cried for six hours. (This is not an exaggeration).  

I work Saturdays which means I watch USC football in the newsrooms. This can either make my coworkers hate me or despise me, depending on the weekly outcome. It's gotten to the point where if I scream or toss papers in the air or throw myself dramatically to the ground, nobody even bats an eye. The photo below was taken of me the second Arizona missed the field goal and USC won.  

But my weekend crews are the best.  I work with awesome people who don't make me want to punch myself in the face. They also put up with my completely and totally strange habits such as: prancing and leaping around the newsroom, loudly announcing my presence at all times, the occasional velociraptor impression, a lot of four-letter words during games and telling run-on stories with no specific ending. I typically say "I hate everyone" at least 3 times a day, but these guys are the best.

Fridays are the new Mondays.  Tuesdays are the new Fridays.  My social life is the newest black hole in the solar system.

My version of "work appropriate shoes" still include sparkly Sperry's, sparkly Converse and Uggs. 

I'm 3 hours and 43 minutes away from this beauty, plus Sharon and her home-cooked meals.  Who are we kidding, her home-cooked meals consist of prosecco and a refill of prosecco.

Shows I'm digging this season that I thought were going to be atrocious: How to Get Away With Murder, Red Band Society, Madame Secretary, The Affair.

Shows I'm digging this season that I've digged for many seasons: The Good Wife, American Horror Story, Scandal, Modern Family, The League, The Middle, Castle.

I took my first stab at color commentary.  It was hard, it was fun, I never thought I'd say this but...I missed being on the sidelines.  People who work in the booths gained a gazillion respect points in my books.  I really just wanted to sprint down to the field and eavesdrop on coaches.

Fantasy Football will give me an aneurism by December.  College football will give me one by next week.

If you can't wear a mustache and oversized corduroy blazer on TV, I question your dedication to the craft.  Shoutout to Greg Talbott for sharing my belief that quirk, wit and humor are what sports television is all about.  Also shoutout to Chris for wearing a wig and going by "Christina" on Halloween.

To sum it all up: I get paid to sit and watch football on Saturdays and Sundays; to add 90s lyrics into scripts whenever possible; to be a weirdo; to force myself to brush my hair on a regular basis; and to have the time of my life starting out in the world of local television. I couldn't be happier.

[jessicabenson]

Paychecks are for rent, gas and shoes 👌

[jessicabenson]

Days 11-13

DAY 11:

My first experience going out in Kennewick:

A woman sang "I Could Have Danced All Night" from My Fair Lady at a karaoke bar called, The Village. That is all.

DAY 12:

This was my last Sunday (for a while...maybe someday they'll be back). The last hoorah. The last time TGIF applies and the last time I can watch the pigskin in my underwear.   From here on out I'll be watching all my CFB and NFL games from the newsroom.  My weekends will transform to Wed/Thurs. I figure this gives me lots of chances to make friends here in Kennewick because who doesn't like going out on Monday nights?  

Chris and I went to pick up his car from The Village (it looks even rougher in daylight).  Then we picked up my new dresser from Pier 1 that weighed approximately 670 pounds.  It came in a giant box.  To get it upstairs we had to take it out of the box. Remove every drawer. Take the drawers up. Then take the 570 pound base up.  We magically made it up the stairs.  It has a few bumps and bruises but I figure they add some nice vintage character to the piece.  Once again, moving is hard; being an adult is hard; furniture is hard; life is hard.

Then we didn't leave the apartment the rest of the day.  This is how relationships should wor.  We watched football, cooked steaks, baked cookies, hung pictures and got my apartment in order.  True love is checking your Fantasy Football teams for 6 hours and having a mutual understanding that Julius Thomas needed to blow up, Demaryius Thomas needed to be "just ok", the Broncos D needed to have a decent game but Andrew Luck needed to score at least 2 TD's and T.Y. Hilton needed to score but Trent Richardson did not and if all those things happened then we would both be happy.  And we were.

DAY 13:

My favorite teacher in all the land, Mrs. Anastacio, challenged me to list 10 books that have affected me the most.  SO HERE WE GO (taking creative liberty and including plays).

1.  A Streetcar Named Desire: Tennessee Williams

2.  Gone With the Wind: Margaret Mitchell

3.  August: Osage County: Tracy Letts

4.  Little Women: Louisa May Alcott

5.  The Stranger (L'Etranger): Albert Camus

6.  Unbearable Lightness: Portia De Rossi

7.  The Sun Also Rises: Ernest Hemmingway

8.  The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: Mark Twain

9.  The Eloise Series: Kay Thompson

10. Harry Potter, said every person born in the 90's: JK Rowling

Couldn't stop at 10.

11. Are You There Vodka, It's Me Chelsea: Chelsea Handler

12. Riding with the Blue Moth: Bill Hancock

And NOT Brave New World because let's face it Mrs. A, despite doing a presentation on it, I never quite got around to reading it :)

[jessicabenson]

DAY 10: Beat the Farm

Today I'm nostalgic for USC and wishing that I was in a car or a fraternity bus or a private plane (not out of the question at USC...) heading North on the 5 for the Weekender. It's the time of year where all of USC travels up to either Stanford/Cal and delivers as much debauchery as possible to the Bay Area. 

We would stop at In N' Out.  More than one person would remark "I thought San Francisco was a lot closer..."  Someone would get a Snapchat taken of herself sleeping with the caption "Can't Hang."  We'd arrive three hours later than we initially intended.  We'd invade the city, take a million photos, get kicked out of hotels, end up in another hotel because Trojans are everywhere and then somehow magically end up in Palo Alto the next morning by 12:29pm to see USC defeat Stanford in some dramatic fashion.

MY WEEKENDERS:

Freshman year: "The homeless year."

I road tripped with four of my freshman best friends- you know, the friends who become your best friends because you live down the hall or have a class and then they have friends who become your friends and then the next year you're Facebook friends and say hey but you never road trip again.  

We were supposed to stay at the Hilton with another group of people. "Share a room with 20 people," they said. "It'll be fun," they said.  I was young and naive.  I did not know the beast of the weekender.  

Stanford won by 2 in a fairly depressing fashion, and we headed back into the city following the game. 

By the time we arrived there were too many people for the room.  A glass table was broken.  Everyone was kicked out of the Hilton.

My friend Alex and I decided to just leave.  We would drive 7 hours back to LA.  We got to the parking lot where our car was parked. Ah, but alas, the parking lot was locked.

All I remember is wandering the streets, every hotel was sold out, eventually finding a boutique hotel that charged us a ridiculous amount for a six-hour stay and driving home in near silence the next morning.

Sophomore year: The "I'm in a new relationship and we never do anything without each other" year.

My boyfriend of the time couldn't go because he had to hold down the fort at the campus radio station, so I didn't want to go without him.  We ordered pizza and I complained all weekend that the campus was too empty.

Junior year: The "who are you and why are we sleeping on a floor together" year.

In typical weekender fashion, we went in with a plan and that plan failed miserably.

(In happier times at Palo Alto).

First of all, USC lost.

Second of all, I had told all my friends we could stay where the Stanford football team lives because I knew a kid on the team.  Then I realized that was a terrible idea.  So that leads us to third of all:

My friends and I ended up in a random room with 6 frat guys who kindly gave us shelter in the city after the game. I knew two of the boys by name, two by their letters and two not at all.

We tried to rally and go out but we were depressed and ended up eating Chipotle and passing out.

2 beds, 6 people, exhaustion. I woke up the next morning (don't worry mom, FULLY CLOTHED) on the ground next to a tall dude who fell into the "not at all" category.

He was nice. We got milkshakes once when we were back at USC. I have zero idea what he is doing now. #shortlivedweekenderromance

Senior year: The "I just want to get a bread bowl from Boudin" year.

We came, we tried to conquer.

We bought a disgusting handle of gold rum that is still sitting in the trunk of my car to this day because its simply not something you ever want to drink.

I came home after the first night out to a battle scene at our hotel.  I'd say 10-15 Trojans had just decided to sleep in the lobby.  They laid on tables, on chairs, on floors and even curled up alongside the concierge desk.  The hotel staff didn't even know what to do.  One girl had a slice of pizza hanging out of her mouth. THIS is the weekender in all its glory.

USC beat down Cal.  We got back to the city.  The lines into bars were so long we said screw it and had wine like the classy, mature seniors we were.

(Neutral colors for work are fun.)

At the end of the day, we just wanted bread bowls.  And it was bread bowls we received before we drove home the next day.

SO FOR ALL OF YOU LUCKY SOULS AT THE WEEKENDER: no matter how un-perfect your weekender may be.  Just remember that it's one of the greatest experiences you have as a Trojan.  I'm still bitter I missed mine my sophomore year.

#BeatTheFarm

[jessicabenson]

DAY 8

Topics of the Day:

Pantyhose: There's a lot of really unfair things in life that girls have to do that boys don't.  Childbirth, dealing with that time of the month, but mostly PANTYHOSE.  Holyyyy expletive expletive expletive.  After one day in these suckers my legs just want to breathe.  My toes want to wiggle free.  My stomach wants to hang out like it just consumed 4 pizzas and a chocolate shake.  But the worst thing about pantyhose is that if you're wearing them, going to the bathroom becomes like a twenty minute affair.  And nobody has time for a 20 minute pee break, but when you finally can't take it anymore, you snag your pantyhose on a hangnail as you're pulling them back up.

Ergonomics: After watching an hour-long safety video, I still do not understand this big, fancy working-world terminology. 

Hockey: When I was a kid I dreamed of being the first female in the NHL until I realized my teeth and my nose are two of my best features.  Now, I get to cover hockey every week!  I'll be hanging out on the ice with the Tri-City Americans, a major junior ice hockey team who plays in the Western Hockey League (WHL). I also had the realization that I will be spending my next two years interviewing kids born after 1995.  If I didn't feel ancient before, I definitely will every time one of them says "yeah, it's pretty sick." (add an 'eh' in there because 98% of them are Canadian).

Little people: Also known as children.  Children tend to not be my forte.  I was a terrible babysitter, babies tend to cry in my arms and the thought of wiping drool of some small creature makes me incredibly uncomfortable.  BUT BREAKING NEWS: I have fallen in love with three precious kids.  So in the nature of the theme that this blog is leaning towards, I must be growing up.  My cousin Megan lives in Kennewick and she has three of the most perfect, adorable, awesome kids in the world.  Her son, Madden, wore an Iron Man costume to his first day of preschool.  He then wore it at dinner and proceeded to hug me over 35 times between taking bites of his quesadilla.  I almost asked if I could take him home with me.  Then I remembered kids + me + glass tables + nice new apartment = no.

Sleep: I don't think we are going to be best pals anymore. #RIPnaps

[jessicabenson]

DAY 9

Remembering Joan Rivers

I found out that Joan Rivers passed while I was quite literally in the middle of nowhere.  I was on a two-hour drive to Spokane and I broke down and cried surrounded by trees, a Howard Johnson and a truck stop.  Joan Rivers would have said, "Get me out of here."

I hate getting all mushy for celebrity deaths. It seems so bizarre to get so emotionally distraught over a person I didn't even know. I don't know what Joan Rivers liked for breakfast (I imagine gold flecked scrambled eggs) or what her favorite color was (definitely black).  I don't know if she took cream in her coffee or what toppings she liked on her pizza.  Did she even eat pizza?  Who knows.  All I know is that the bitch could make me laugh.  

I read her book "I Hate Everyone...Starting with Me" on a bike at the gym during summer break 2012.  I remember audibly snorting out loud. A Highlands Ranch soccer mom next to me asked me what I was reading. When I told her she said, "Oh, I hate Joan Rivers."  In my head I said she definitely hates you too.

Rivers opens the book with: "Love may be a many-splendored thing, but hate makes the world go round."

She hates free range chickens and ugly children and boy scouts and rainbows and Oprah.

She includes what she thinks the real slogans of states should be called. For example: Ohio, The Mistake on the Lake State or Oklahoma, The Sooner I'm Out of Here the Better State or Colorado, The Lots and Lots of White People State.

She hates old people but loves funerals:

"When I die (and yes, Melissa, that day will come; and yes, Melissa, everything's in your name), I want my funeral to be a huge showbiz affair with lights, cameras, action…. I want Craft Services, I want paparazzi and I want publicists making a scene!

I want it to be Hollywood all the way. I don't want some rabbi rambling on; I want Meryl Streep crying, in five different accents. I don't want a eulogy; I want Bobby Vinton to pick up my head and sing Mr. Lonely.

I want to look gorgeous, better dead than I do alive. I want to be buried in a Valentino gown and I want Harry Winston to make me a toe tag. And I want a wind machine so that even in the casket my hair is blowing just like Beyoncé's."

Just last week my mom and I watched the final Fashion Police: Emmy's and VMA's Special.  We laughed and laughed and commented on how Joan Rivers would be making people laugh well into her hundreds.

And even though she's gone, she remains as funny as ever.

Joan Rivers inspired me to laugh, to make others laugh, to laugh at myself, to write, to be creative, to never wear a peplum skirt, to think extra hard if a cropped pant would make me look like I was waiting for a flood, to assume any sort of animal print top will make me look like a stripper, but mostly she inspired me to hate myself.

WOAH. Pump the breaks. Yes, I said the most important lesson learned from Queen Joan is to hate yourself.

Here's where people missed the mark on Rivers when they thought she was just a giant asshole.  With her, it's not a "mean" hate, it's a "funny" hate. It's in jest, not in malice.  If everyone could laugh at themselves and know their flaws and be comfortable being the weirdo creations we all are, then when people start flapping their mouths or dissing on Twitter or trying to hurt feelings you can say, "Cool, I already know that I should cut out ice cream from my diet, carry on."

And in the end if you really sit there and try to think about what you hate about yourself, chances are you're also going to realize all the great things you love about yourself, too. 

Joan Rivers laughed at herself just as much as she laughed at others. She wasn't afraid to raise eyebrows or make enemies.  She wasn't afraid to say what everyone else was thinking.  She told it like she saw it.  

And couldn't we all be so lucky to have the flair and the balls to be just like her.  

[jessicabenson]

Day 7

First things first, my mom dropped me off at my first day of work, and then she rode off into the sunrise. She texted me that she got lost five minutes into her drive, so that made me feel confident about her next four hours behind the wheel.  I've said it once, I'll say it a billion times, my mom is a rockstar.

But enough about her, more about me and my first day in the working world.

Being a suck up has gotten me remarkably far in my young life, so I figured I should probably extend that quality into my adult years, as well.  I showed up to my first day of work with 24 donuts.  The biggest lesson I've learned in the media so far is that if you feed people, they'll at least pretend to like you for a bit.

I spent most of my day filling out paperwork I didn't understand (PLEASE BUSINESS MAJOR FRIENDS HELP ME WITH MY TAXES I BEG OF YOU), learning how many times you can refresh your browser without receiving any new emails and shifting around uncomfortably in my first pair of Spanx.  I also thanked my lucky stars on multiple occasions for USC's Annenberg TV News. I think ATVN can best be described as that terrifying and all-encompassing mother who you don't fully appreciate until you're out in the real world, realizing that all of her lessons are actually remarkably applicable and important. Instead of feeling like a fish out of water, I feel confident and prepared as I move into my new position.  

I skipped lunch because I just paid my first rent check and have approximately 78 cents in my bank account but after going 12 hours at ATVN without eating more than Diet Coke and gummy worms on more than one occasion, I was properly trained to survive this scenario.  

Lucky for me, my dear dad KARL arrived tonight.  He took me to Outback Steakhouse so I could eat something other than the Saltine crackers that are currently in my pantry.  Karl is like my own personal genie.  Only instead of 3 wishes, I definitely asked for unlimited wishes when I came out of the womb. Karl flew from New Orleans to LA, rented a big, ole' SUV and brought all of my things from my storage locker in Los Angeles.  Karl is actually the best.  

I don't know what 90% of these "things" are, but they're obviously really important since I've been without many of them since approximately spring of sophomore year of college.  Upon first glance I have an N'Sync collage I made in 3rd grade, enough bars of soap to start up a hotel service and a Wii console that I hope will make me popular with my future adult friends.

I'm really excited to go back to work tomorrow which I believe is a good sign. I can't wait to continue to get to know the people I'm working with because they all seem really cool.  I like all of them. And they obviously all like me because I brought donuts.  (At least that's how I imagine it).

My day in pictures:

[jessicabenson]

Day 6

One of my best friends Brooke Jelniker nominated me for that “5 day positivity” thing on Facebook. I look at it as the less popular but equally cool younger sister to the Ice Bucket Challenge. So rather than making it my status, I’m putting it here. I’m supposed to pass it on, so I pass it on to everyone because we all just finished Labor Day and fall is inevitably creeping towards us and it’s important to remember the positive.

Today I am thankful for my mom; who we all know is the best mom on this planet. She moved me in to not one, but two apartments in the span of five days. She knows how to put down shelving paper like nobody else, and she didn’t complain when we didn’t get anything done on Saturday because she was on the couch right next to me watching football. We have had the perfect summer together and nothing makes me more grateful than the fact that I found a job that is only a 4 hour drive/1 hour flight away from her. She leaves tomorrow and I miss her already. This also means I have to make my bed for myself everyday which may be the worst part of her leaving.

Today I am thankful for my boyfriend Chris Luther because if I didn’t have him, I would have been faced with the single-girl decision of picking up the phone when Seth the cable guy called me at 3am. I usually limit all posts about Chris to be sarcastic and sassy, so here’s one that actually sums up how great he is. He brought me housewarming gifts. And built me things. And babysat the dog. And made me laugh when I wanted to cry.  And when the onion rings came at our fancy date at Red Robin and there were two sauces to chose from, he liked the one I didn't like so we could both use our designated sauces in peace.  And he now lives only an hour away which after London —> America —> USC —> Syracuse —> Los Angeles/Denver —> San Francisco —> back to USC —> Yakima, it seems like we are next door neighbors. So I’d say we have a pretty awesome relationship.

Today I am thankful for being employed! Tomorrow is my first day of work and I’m nervous/excited/giddy/bubbly/terrified/ecstatic/NEED TO WASH MY HAIR ASAP. I feel so fortunate that I am starting a job that doesn’t feel like a job but an adventure. It’s cliche but if you do what you love you never work a day in your life, right? (Remind me this when I’m covering high school girl’s basketball in the spring.)

In other news I bought a table today so I will no longer be eating on my floor. I know this was a big concern for everyone, so alas, I will not be spilling anymore Diet Coke/wine/beer/Chinese food/pizza on my white carpet.

Here are some photos of the things I have done in my apartment for proof that I am indeed making progress, not living on the streets & have a new love of Pier 1.

[jessicabenson]

366 Days of Becoming an Adult (Days 1-5)

366 Days of Entering the Real World:

DAY 1:

I should begin by saying I just tried to spell “Entering,” as “Enterring,” so we are off to a ravishing start.

I was sitting in my bed moping last night because yesterday kind of sucked. It was my first day in the real world- that mythical hell that comes calling to kids the second they graduate from college. Even though we complain about it, we’re all certainly in a hurry to join in and abandon the unemployment line, i.e.: living at home, i,e: questioning all facets of life, i,e: thinking you paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for a piece of paper and the skills to work at McDonalds.

My dear friend and king of the puns, James Santelli, started this thing where he’s blogging every day for 365 days. So I figured it sounded fun. And I will be blogging 366 just to seem more accomplished.

I’ll be documenting my journey into adulthood. It’s a transition that I’m learning is not nearly as fun as switching from Kindergarten to 1st grade where I simply went from taking afternoon naps to eating afternoon snacks.  Some posts will be long, others just short snippets, but I vow to write every day and post whenever I get a chance.  

So I will start off this adventure here:

Yesterday, I was born.

Nope. Too Charles Dickens-ish.

Ok. Yesterday, I packed my car to the brim, drove 4 hours and ended up in my new home, Kennewick, WA. I drove 65 mph in a 70 zone to keep my mom at ease and played a game where I couldn’t stop to use the bathroom until Paul Finebaum talked about a conference other than the SEC on his radio show. (Spoiler: didn’t go to the bathroom for 2 hours and 45 minutes).

My mom, Sharon for those of you hooligans who haven’t been graced by her presence, and our dog Taddie drove separately behind me.

And here’s where we face problem number 1. By ridin’ dirty alongside Taddie, my mom was technically harboring a fugitive. My new apartment complex doesn’t allow dogs, but there was no one to take care of Taddie back home in Gig Harbor. Taddie is a sassy old lady. Taddie does not do well kenneled by strangers. So, I talked to my new landlady and she said if we keep it on the sly; as in no one sees, hears or imagines Taddie to exist, then she can stay with us for the weekend.

So once we reached Kennewick, we split up. My mom and Taddie went to Petco to try to find one of those fancy fake pieces of grass so Taddie could pee in peace indoors. I went to pick up my keys and see my first big kid apartment!

Here’s where we face problem number 2: I signed a year long lease, sight un-seen. That’s 12 months at a place I had simply seen on the internet. This is where you meet my boyfriend, Chris. Chris is a reporter at KNDO, the NBC affiliate in Yakima. I am now a reporter at KNDU, the NBC affiliate in the TriCities. The two stations co-exist and run off the same management. So when I needed to find an apartment and find one fast, Chris said, “Oh you should live in XYZ! That’s where all the reporters live!”

*real names of housing will be excluded so I don't get murdered in my sleep*

All the reporters? In my head that meant all my potential new best friends. In my head that meant the place was perfect. Let’s be clear, it was in my head.

The lovely (I say this with no sarcasm…everyone here is remarkably nice) landlady showed me around the grounds. I kept my eyes peeled for new friends! I was on the prowl.

Instead I saw a little old lady in a wheel chair. A man sitting in a garage filled to the top with random trinkets and a sign outside of it that said, “elk.” A young woman breast-feeding her baby. And my new neighbor (who I would later learn is married to the man in the garage) who was talking outside to her garden gnome. She’s like 40. And she talked to that gnome for a solid two hours.

All in all, the only person I saw under the age of 30 was the woman milking the infant.

“So…what’s the demographic of people who live here,” I gingerly asked the kind landlady. Her name is Natalie. I like Natalie.

“Well it used to be the place all the young people lived. I think we called it Hollywood Row or something because of all the TV people who lived here…”

Yes, yes Hollywood Row! I’m liking where this is going!!

“…But I think a lot have moved out now. Well maybe a handful are left. So it’s really kind of turned into an older community. We have the retired people. We have the men who come work during the weeks and then go home to their wives somewhere else on weekends. And then there’s like 10-15 younger kids.”

Oh.

But I tend to have a sunny outlook on life, so in my head I’m trying to think of the advantages of living around old people.

*Cookies? Old people love baking cookies, right?

Safe? I can definitely outrun an old person.*

My thoughts were interrupted with the turn of a key and the entryway of my new pad.

Positives:

1) It’s really large. Like really large. I have 2 rooms for the price of a closet in sunny Los Angeles.

2) The 90’s styled wall air conditioning unit makes my living room feel like an ice box.

3) I have a nice bar. I like bars. I like wine.

4) I have a fireplace. So, now I have an excuse to buy a big fluffy rug.

5) As of now, it is clean.

And the negatives:

1) That big 90’s styled wall air conditioning doesn’t have circulation, leaving two rooms with no air in 100 degree heat.

2) I have no hot water in my bathroom sink. There’s hot water everywhere else. Just not my bathroom sink.

3) There’s a giant crack in my mirror which is A) screaming bad luck and B) makes me look like crazy eyes.

4) It looks like Mike Tyson punched in my refrigerator.

5) Pieces of the ceiling keep falling on my head.

I tried to ignore it, and the adrenaline of getting my first apartment really kept me going. I was pumped. I was independent. I was an adult.

Natalie left me to either smile or cry in my new apartment, I wasn’t really sure which emotion was going to win out. So, I decided to go get my couch from my car before Sharon and Taddie came back to see my place.

I grabbed my couch, determined to make it up three flights of stairs by myself. My neighbor (the gnome-talker not the garage-sitter) came and looked over the edge.

“Looks heavy,” she said matter of factly.

My insides smiled. This kind lady was going to help me carry my couch!

“Ugh it really is…”

Before I finished my sentence she had gone inside and slammed the door.

My mom came. She started googling other apartments in the area. Then I told her I’d already signed the lease. She cried.

Let it be noted: Sharon has cried three times since we got here. She is really disappointed there’s not a William & Sonoma in Kennewick. And in her words, “everything looks a little better in the dark and after drinking some kind of alcohol.”

We decided to forge ahead and embrace my new space. Most importantly I needed a television so that I could drown my sorrows in football. My mom needed to guard Taddie so I headed to Costco, found a TV, dropped it on my foot in the parking lot and sighed.

Next I wandered around Target aimlessly for about thirty minutes. I bought a George Foreman and a power cable.

Then Costco called to say they found my mom’s credit card in the parking lot.

We took Taddie to a park so she could eat and poop like the free dog she was raised to be. My mom and I decided to get Red Robin take out. It was just that kind of a day.

Returning to Chez Jessica, we noticed garage man was indeed still in his garage. We wrapped Taddie in a blanket and ran up the three flights of stairs, got to my front door, put the key in the lock and…

Nope.

The key didn’t work. It was 9:30pm on my first night in my new apartment and I was locked out. I called the late night maintenance number I found online and a nice guy named Mitchell showed up about 10 minutes later. He apologized, “they gave you the wrong set of keys,” and I realized Mitchell would be a great late night ally to have in the future.

Once back in the apartment we popped a bottle of champagne I’d brought home from Paris and we toasted to day one. I inhaled my order of Clucks and Fries (with a side of buzz sauce, duh). I drifted off to sleep on a blowup mattress in my living room with Sharon and Taddie because it was the only place with air.

DAY 2:

I woke up to a knock on the door.

CABLE. I’M GOING TO HAVE CABLE!!!

I had scheduled Charter to come out and install cable and internet a week prior. It was imperative that I had these gems so I could watch college football as I moved in. I quickly realized that while I had been quick on the cable, I had not scheduled water, electricity, gas or waste. Details. Adulthood.

Seth the cable man helped me out. He then told me if I ever wanted to grab a beer, he and his hockey friends usually hung out at the sports bar. I had my first friend(s)! If I could make friends with every person who came and installed something for me, I could really have a decent group of people to hang out with by the end of the week. I had high hopes that the man installing my gas later was equally kind.

An hour later I had internet, cable and a smile on my face. The sun always rises.

My mom went out to do a bit of a reconnaissance on the area. She came back with Starbucks in tow.

“So I asked the barista at Starbucks…”

Barista…I’ve trained my mom so well with 21st century lingo

“….about where good apartments are in the area. I think we should just look…”

But at this point I was adamant in making things work. After all, isn’t a not-so-perfect living arrangement part of the deal with the Devil after you get your first contract? I was a strong, I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T woman. There is no mountain too high, no river too low and certainly no dented refrigerator that can hold me down.

We went to Best Buy. A nice group of men helped me get a TV stand. And a vacuum. Three of them even came outside to help me put them in the trunk!

“I think those guys just took pictures of your backside while you were loading the car,” my mom said.

We looked out the window to see them huddling together over a phone, laughing and smiling over something.

#YesAllWomen ammmmiiiiright!?

We then went back to our park to eat lunch and let Taddie roam free. Along the way we passed some nice looking apartments.

“Those are the ones the person at Starbucks said were so nice! Let’s just take a look!”

The woman doesn’t back down without a fight.

The grounds of the complex were beautiful and green. I walked into the front office to humor my mother.

Here’s where I share one of my first big adult findings: When you make a mistake, don’t keep miserably riding out on that mistake. Fix it and move on.

I walked into the new apartment complex and immediately knew this was where I was supposed to live. I felt at home. I felt comfortable. I felt safe. But most of all, had a real smile on my face for the first time since I had arrived roughly 24 hours prior.

The complex allowed dogs, so my nugget could happily be paraded around the grounds. They had one, single bedroom unit available. The layout was called “Merlot.” The apartment was on Chardonnay Lane. It was number 206. My birthday. All signs- red and white- led me to believe that this was going to be my new home.

A) I hated my mother for showing me this place because in my head I was stuck at the first. B) I loved my mother for impassioning me to make a change now rather than a loooongggg 12 months from now.

Confrontation is hard. Whether you’re asking for a raise or demanding someone treat you better; it’s always hard. I don’t think anyone, even the most confrontational people out there, thrive off and/or enjoy confrontation.

I marched into Apartment XYZ’s office, and I explained. I said that I had made a mistake and now I needed to know what had to be done to rectify it. My hands were shaking and I felt like a terrible person, but despite an hour of them trying to convince me I was making a mistake, they agreed to let me out of my lease.

After another 6 hours of moving everything out of Apartment A and into Apartment B, I was finally home.

Tonight I’m sitting on my new apartment’s deck looking out at freshly cut trees and a little girls soccer team practicing at the park just down the way. There’s a group of young women in Nike shorts and brightly colored running shoes gathered at the foot of my front staircase. My neighbor just greeted his girlfriend with a bouquet of sunflowers. There’s a young man walking his black lab down the street.

There’s something incredibly satisfying about making things right. So often we get stuck in ruts. We don’t know how to get out of them so we just continue to get swallowed deeper and deeper until we’re so miserable it’s easier just to wait for the good rather than taking charge and find the good ourselves.

I am happily a resident of Kennewick, WA. And I can’t wait to hit my next curveball out of the park.

(Note: that next curveball was realizing that with my move I no longer had cable or WiFi. I had a Fantasy Football draft at 8:45 last night. I did it sitting outside a closed Starbucks, using a weak but manageable WiFi signal, waving to the Jimmy John’s delivery car every time it circled by to make sure I was ok.)

DAY 3:

Things I did:

Built a table.

Built a TV stand.

Realized I never want to build anything again.

Seth the cable guy game back.

Got cable.

Ate a sandwich.

Welcomed Chris to my new home.

Went to my cousin’s.

Realized if I ever have three kids at one time I might collapse and die.

Figured out little kid cars/scooters/toys you sit on in any capactiy should have weight limits (hint: I do not meet said weight limit).

Discovered PF Changs exists here.

Watched football.

Learned the hard way that inflatable beds often cave in on themselves and you wake up to find yourself in a sunken hole of doom and your boyfriend is sleeping on the floor.

DAY 4:

“It’s the difference between being a hobo and a respectable human”- Chris Luther in response to me not knowing I’m supposed to use a box spring under my mattress.

(Other than not thinking I needed a box spring, all I did on this day was watch college football and eat pizza on the floor because I don't own a table.)

DAY 5:

Shopping for a new home is hard, especially when you are making the salary of a budding sports reporter.

A stream of conscious from today:

Thank God for air conditioning. Why is football not on everyday? Do I have enough money on a Starbucks card to treat my mom and Chris to breakfast? What am I going to do when I have to make decisions on my own? Let’s go to Bed, Bath and Beyond. Why are there so many kinds of spatulas? Why are some of them $20 and some $5? Is a spatula something I should splurge on? Ooh Pier 1 Imports, my friend from elementary school’s mom worked there. I think. Is it too early to buy a pumpkin for Halloween? This pumpkin sparkles. Is that tacky or cute? Will I regret spending this much on a dresser? No, absolutely not. Is Chris good at building things? I hope so. Let’s build a towering bookcase! Shoot, I really hope that dresser doesn’t make me go into debt. Back to the bookcase…I could have sworn there were nails? Did Taddie eat the nails? Is Taddie going to die? Did Chris lose the nails? Oh, the nails are under the instructions, false alarm carry on. If I put my French purse and an empty bottle of French champagne on top of my bookcase does that mean I live in France by association? Is it wrong to eat at Red Robin twice in one week? If it’s wrong do I want to be right?

With all that I finally am feeling at home! I color coordinated my closet, set up patio furniture and bought a fur rug; all signs of becoming a real, true adult. Stay tuned for pictures coming soon!

[jessicabenson]

Put Us In Coach

Alright, West Coasters: Raise your hand if you’ve heard of Saturday Down South.

Allegiance to the Pac-12 keeping your arm tied down?

Well, get with the times. 

I spent my weekend down in Orlando, FL with SDS,  and these guys are awesome.  I mean awesome.

Don’t believe me?  Check out their SEC hype video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NFMSRfKnYc

BUT- plot twist- THE BEST PART OF THE WEEKEND WASN'T EVEN THE FACT THAT IT WAS ALL ABOUT COLLEGE FOOTBALL.

Here’s how I ended up in Orlando:  My broadcast coach/networking pro/master convincer, Rachel Baribeau, sealed a deal at SEC Media Days.  She convinced SDS that her team of 8 girls could bring fresh work to the site and would help out during the season.  

But here’s the real deal.  SDS is great and I highly encourage you all to check them out.  However, while you’re at it, you're going to need to check out each of their latest video correspondents: Morgan Weeks, Jaclyn Wallace, Nataly Williams, Kasey Watkins, Kassidy Hill, Rebecca Wrobleske and Ashley Barnett.

These girls are the future of sports media, and I had the privilege of getting to know them and learning alongside them during my time in Orlando.

I have always been intimidated by the South.  Maybe it’s my fear of misusing “y’all” or my lack of taste for grits, but I've always boxed myself in as "West Coast or Bust."  

Now I have a family in the South.  I have these 7 girls that I could call up and say "Hey SOS I'm stranded in Tuscaloosa/Memphis/Athens/Mississippi/Gainesville/Auburn/Waco," and I'd have a couch (no need for a blanket because humidity makes me cry) and a friend to help me out.

And at the head of the household is the fabulous Rachel Baribeau.  I can't really say enough good things about Rachel.  She kind of came out of the sky for me as I began my exit from college and transition into the big, bad real world.  She tells it how it is, rocks a maxi dress like nobody else and happens to throw down legit knowledge about sports. But my favorite quality she has: She makes things happen.  Rachel isn't the kind of person who sits around and waits for luck to find her.  She puts out a full frontal attack on the world each and every day by asking, "What can I do to make the world a better place?"  And on her mission to save the world, she's managed to change the lives of 8 girls in the process.

Being a woman in sports broadcasting can be a little daunting.  There's this assumption that no matter how hard we try, we just don't get it. Well guess what?  We do.  And because of women in the business like Rachel, a future generation of voices are able to develop and find their creativity and not get bogged down by Twitter trolls and preconceived notions.

So, whether you grew up loving the SEC or thinking it was an exclusive monarchy for those living in the Southeastern hemisphere, I encourage you to follow and learn about all of those aforementioned.  I assure you that you're going to want to be able to say, "I remember them when they first got their start."