Friday, September 26, 2008

Time to Take Out the Trash

Jack keeps a little box in his hall closet where all my jewelry and hair pins go if I leave them unattended in his house for longer than 3 minutes. The first time I got a look at this little box I noticed that several - SEVERAL - of the items in it did not belong to me. Lip gloss, bobby pins, earrings....all not mine!

"Um...who does all this stuff belong to?"


"Why are you keeping it if you don't know who owns it?"

"Well, because what if they come back for it?"

"How long has this stuff been in here?"

"I don't know. But you never know when someone might realize that they're missing an earring and call me up and ask for it."

"I think we should throw this stuff."

"What?!?! We can't do that! What if someone asks me for it?!"

(blank stare) "Yes, we should toss it. I think only my stuff should be in this box. If the other girls wanted their stuff, they would have called you by now, don't you think?"

We had to have this conversation several times before this stuff was actually thrown out, and even then it was only because I got pretty tipsy and picked all the non-Jill stuff out and threw it in the trash. It was fun, let me tell you. I flicked each and every hair pin into that trash bin (flick, flick, flick!) with pure glee and now I know that everything in there belongs to me, me, me! It is a lovely feeling.

Anyway, really, I know times are tough and all, but after 3 months what kind of girl is going to call him up and say "hey, I think I left a 1 cent bobby pin at your house, have you come across it?" An idiot kind of girl, that's who, and who wants to see that kind of girl again anyway?

Jack’s two cents: The problem is that I really can’t tell the difference between $4 earrings and precious jewels. Maybe that gold earring with the seven intertwined silver hoops and the “MADE IN CHINA” stamp was a family heirloom dating back to the Egyptian pyramids? Or maybe that blackberry lip gloss had some sentimental value? Maybe the girl’s grandmother used to bake her blackberry muffins and this $2.99 artifact provided her with priceless memories? What kind of cold, ruthless soul would simply toss those items out like a used Q-tip?
PS. If you are a lady who might have left some really dark lip gloss at Jack's, sorry, but I tossed it. It's kind of like finder's keepers except in this case it was finder's throwers.

PPS. I would like to note that I gave Jack over a month to put the non-Jill items in a different box so that it didn't mix with my $4 earrings precious jewels, but he never did that, so....

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Free Passes

Jack is obsessed with asking me if he can get a "free pass" should he ever find himself alone in a dimly lit room with a hot celebrity. Every time we go to a concert, he asks if I could find a ride home in case he makes it back stage and so-and-so wants to make out with him. These conversations always go the same:
Jack: So later tonight if [Duffy, Kelis, etc] is eyeing me during her set and she gives me the come hither look and then her bodyguard comes and says she wants me to come back stage and then I get back there and she comes on to me, can I make out with her and you won't get angry?

Me: Why would that happen? Isn't she married?

Jack: But what if it does happen? Can I have a free pass?

Me: Well, I don't think it's going to happen.

Jack: Are you saying that [Duffy, Kelis, etc] won't find me attractive? Is that what you're saying?

Me: No, of course she would, but I just think it's pretty unlikely that she's going to get her bodyguard to fetch you so that she can have a night of passion with you.

Jack: Well if you think it's so unlikely you should just say yes.

Me: But what if it does happen? I mean, if you're backstage making out with [Duffy, Kelis, etc] do I have permission to get a ride home from someone else at the concert? Like a hot dude?

Jack: You only get free passes with famous people.
Apparently there are a lot of rules about this "free pass" business.

Anyway, the other night I get a text message that he's been invited to a Neko Case concert. Earlier he had texted me that in addition to being a singer, Neko is also an animal rights activist, something he knows is near & dear to my heart. His follow up text read: "Do I have a pass with Neko? Her voice is smoother than blood orange sorbet."

"If she's into animals, sure."

What I meant by that is that any woman who's into protecting animals is okay by me....but I guess that didn't come across in my text, because this is what I got back: "Wait, did you just call me an animal?"


Jack's Two Cents
What Jill fails to mention is that if she happened to find herself in a dimly lit room with Robert Downey Jr. or Chris Martin, she wouldn’t even have the decency to request a free pass. It’d be on like Donkey Kong, with no courtesy text messages preceding her rendezvous. Now that I think about it, the same would probably be true even if it was just Twitch from So You Think You Can Dance?

Monday, September 22, 2008

Take Two: When Bloggers Attack

Jill's Take

The other morning, Jack was like "hey, is your hand as long as your face? Put it up against your face to see."

Since I trust Jack (mistake #1), I did as he said, placing my palm square over my nose to see if my face was as long as my hand. Then he up and smacked my hand! Not nice, right?

Since I am not very original, I was like "Now YOU do it". I was going to smack him right back, you see. So he puts his hand up like I had just done, and I went to smack him....but before my hand got there, he moved his hand, and wouldn't you know it, I smacked gently tapped him directly on the face.

Well, that set him off. He went on and on about how violent I am, and how it hurt soooo bad, and he thinks I chipped one of his teeth.

"You could be arrested for that! That was domestic abuse!"

"Oh, stop!" I demanded, through my laughter.

"Stop? I can't stop! I'm in so much paaaaiiiin!"

"You are so dramatic."

"I think I should call the police. Or at least the paramedics!"

I maintain that I barely grazed his face, however. More of a "love-tap", if you will. He clearly was overreacting, as he is prone to do.

Jack’s Take

Have you ever told someone a joke and then had them immediately retell it back to you? Me neither. But that’s apparently how Jill’s brain works.

I played a joke on her. So then she tried to play it back on me immediately. How original, right?

The only difference in Jill’s approach was how she chose to deliver the “punch line” (no pun intended).

To recap: I patted her just hard enough to make the point “yo, genius, you shouldn’t be so gullible.”

When it came Jill’s time to pat me, however, she apparently had a flashback to that old arcade game where you would smash caterpillars with a mallet as soon as they popped up. Remember, it looked kinda like this:
In other words, Jill smashed my face like she was trying to buzz-in on the Family Feud and the question was: “Name a pet.”

I don’t want to get too dramatic, but I did have a swollen lip the next morning. And I also think I had a grey eye – not quite a black eye, but definitely something that was heading in that direction.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Jack Tries Hot Yoga

2:30 pm – I receive a message from Jill: “Any interest in some hot yoga tonight?”

2:32 pm – I Google “hot yoga” and browse through the search results. I conclude that Jill is either (a) inviting me to a Bikram yoga class where the room is heated to 105 degrees with 40% humidity or (b) really kinky.

2:33 pm – I reply back – “sure, sounds relaxing” – without really knowing what I’m agreeing to. By noting that I associate “yoga” with “relaxation,” I hope to come across as an Alpha Male who thinks that anything other that bench-pressing slabs of cement is a relaxation session, as opposed to a work out.

2:34 pm – Regret sets in.

6:14 pm – I show up at the studio and am greeted by a friendly receptionist. Actually, I’m greeted by a receptionist who looks friendly. While entering my registration information, any perceived friendliness melts away. The following dialogue takes place:

Receptionist: What level are you: beginner, intermediate, or advanced?
Me: Is there a category below beginner?
Receptionist: Do you at least know how to do downward dog?
Me: I’m sorry, what’d you call me?

6:18 pm – Jill and I find a “premium” space on the floor to lay our mats down: second row from the front, dead center. Jill justifies the “premium” adjective by telling me, “Now you’ll be able to look around the class and easily observe what you’re supposed to be doing.”

6:20 pm – I begin to sweat. Profusely. Further regret sets in.

6:22 pm – Our instructor enters the studio and says the following: “Tonight’s class is going to be full, so we need everyone to move their mats up and in. There only needs to be three inches between you and your neighbor.”

6:24 pm – I glance around the room and size up my competition. There’s about a four-to-one girl to guy ratio. I can do this, I think to myself, I am a MAN. I then notice the girl directly in front of me bend at the waist and rest her head on the back of her knees. Umm…all right, then. It’s settled. I’m officially about to get worked.

6:26 pm – My claustrophobic tendencies activate. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that when I lay down there will be eight people within a half-a-foot of me.

6:28 pm – I massage the back of my neck and am aware that it’s already covered with a sheen of sweat. I’m also aware that class hasn’t started yet.

6:30 pm – Our instructor re-enters the room and introduces herself as “Kitty.” Naturally I wonder if she’s also a stripper.

6:31 pm – Kitty informs us that our goal for today’s class is “to move oxygenated blood to every part of our body.” Internally I commit to a more modest goal: survival.

6:34 pm – I finish off my bottle of Ice Mountain water. I had hoped that my water supply would last me an hour. Turns out I came up short by fifty-six minutes. Oops.

6:35 pm – I’m pleasantly surprised by my ability to keep up with all of the intricate stretches and poses.

6:36 pm – Kitty – aka Queen Dream Crusher – slaps me back into reality. “Now that we’re loosened up, let’s begin class.”

6:38 pm – While performing my first downward dog, I glance up and notice that the girl in front of me’s badonkadonk is approximately eight inches from my face. Given the fact that I haven’t yet even offered to buy her a drink, this seems like a serious breach of her privacy. I quickly close my eyes.

6:39 pm – As soon as I open my eyes back up, I’m blinded by the salty sweat that had trickled down my eyelids while I was trying to be respectful. I vow not to close my eyes again – even if it means feeling like a Peeping Tom.

6:42 pm – I squint at myself in the mirror and notice that my cotton light-gray tank top has turned the color of wet charcoal. Upon further inspection, I also notice that my tank top has somehow also turned into a youth size medium sports bra.

6:46 pm – Kitty directs us into a pose that requires you to balance on your right foot while simultaneously extending your left foot towards the ceiling. I’m about halfway through the move when my right foot slips on the standing pool of sweat that has formed on my mat and sends me stumbling toward Ms. Badonkadonk’s crotch, which now looks like an open scissors standing on one of its blades. By the grace of Bikram Choudhury himself, I somehow manage to regain my balance before initiating a “reverse baby delivery.”

6:51 pm – I’m cognizant of the fact that I’m sweating more than I’ve ever sweat in my entire life. Imagine sitting in a sauna wearing thermal socks, snowpants, and a North Face parka. Under a spotlight. With a blow dryer in your face. Now times that by infinity.

6:59 pm – As we near the halfway point, Kitty blesses us with this pearl: “Relax your knees; let them drop through the floor.” It takes all of my willpower not to mutter back: “Hey Kit Kat, what should we do if we CAN’T FEEL OUR F’ING LEGS?”

7:02 pm – We’re in the middle of about eight consecutive “rotations” that all end in a downward dog, so every thirty seconds or so I find myself in a close enough proximity to compare notes with Ms. Badonkadonk’s gynecologist. It doesn’t help that she’s wearing what appears to be the lower half of a wet suit. At one point I think I actually catch a glimpse of one of her ovaries. Hmmm…is this why Jill described this as a “premium” spot?

7:04 pm – Kitty is relentless. She next instructs us to: “Place your palms and forearms flat on the mat, bend your elbows, and lift your torso and legs up into the air into a tripod position.” Why stop there? Why not also direct us to do a handstand using only our left pinky?

7:08 pm – If only I had enough energy left to speak, I would be able to offer the guy directly behind me $20 for the rest of his bottle of Evian.

7:11 pm“All right, class, now it’s time for some ab work. Let’s begin with our extended bicycle kicks.” Trust me, Kitty Kitty Bang Bang, that if I could extend and kick anything right now, it’d be you.

7:13 pm – Lying on my back, I’ve just been encouraged to put my hands under my hips and extend my feet into the air. Miraculously, my body responds and my legs shoot up like a stalk of bamboo. My initial joy lasts for three or four seconds, which is when the sweat starts pouring down from my kneecaps and landing on my face. It takes me a while to decide if being showered by my own patella sweat is gross or refreshing. I ultimately settle on gross.

7:18 pm – In the history of poor casting decisions, the decision to name our instructor “Kitty” has to go down as the greatest misnomer of all time. Kitty!?!?! No, I don’t think so. Try Wolverine. Or Saddam.

7:25 pm – Oh, to have the strength to speak! I could then proclaim my willingness to give one of my neighbors $50 for a sip of water. For a bottle of Gatorade, you could take your pick of my internal organs.

7:26 pm – Darkness. Literally and figuratively. Kitty lowers the lights to “help with the unwinding process” and I pass out to help with my dehydration.

7:31 pm – I awake to the voice of Jill asking me what I thought of hot yoga. “Not bad,” I lie. “Not much of a work out, but it’s always good to get in some light stretching.”

Friday, September 12, 2008

We're Going for Gold!

Jack has a rooftop patio & pool at his condominium complex. A few times this summer, he has invited me to go on late night swims. I know what you're thinking, but please get your mind out of the gutter. Instead of any bow-chicka-bow-bow (you need to sing that - if you didn't please go back and re-read the italicized phrase in a sing-song manner, thanks) action going on, Jack had better ideas. For example, the other night when we went swimming, we decided to race across the pool - both running (hands out of the water to prevent cheating!), and actual swimming. I dominated of course (maybe). Anyway, after watching several weeks of Olympics, Jack then decided we ought to put together a synchronized swimming routine (no, we weren't drunk).

"Okay, I'll choreograph the first 8 beats, and then you do the second 8 beats. Ready?"

"Sure...", I reply, somewhat hesitantly.

But there he was, choreographing some moves and making sure I kept pace and had proper form (according to his expert opinion).

Then it was my turn, and might I say my 8 beats worth of movement were quite challenging (read: ugly). We practiced all 16 beats a few times over, proclaimed that we were ridiculously talented, and then decided we needed a finale, which we then choregraphed together. As Jack suggested ideas, he would say things like, "the judges will be impressed by that move!" and "sometimes simple moves are the most beautiful", and so on and so forth. And as we practiced he ordered me to reduce my splashing because "the judges don't like too much splashing!" When I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter I was told in a very stern voice: "Look here, I have not been practicing and working my butt off for the last 4 years so that we can blow this!"

What can I say, he is a passionate man, and by golly, if we don't get a gold in 2012, I don't know who will.*
* Perhaps someone with actual talent?

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Take Two: Stink in an Elevator

Jill’s Take

So Jack and I are in the elevator in his building the other day, just having finished taking Spot, my dog, out for a walk. I'm holding Spot, per condominium rules, when the elevator stops and 3 more people stroll in. As the door closes, Spot lets out one of his stinky, stanky, LOUD farts: Pffffffffft!

Me: (laughing uncontrollably as quietly as possible)

Jack: Really, you couldn't hold it? (not as quietly as possible)

Me: That wasn't me! It was Spot.

Spot: (Pffffft!)

Me: See?! That was him!

Jack: Stop blaming the dog - it was totally you. You could apologize, you know.

Meanwhile, our elevator friends are visibly uncomfortable, but don't really acknowledge what has just happened. I'm still laughing uncontrollably of course, because apparently I am a 10 year old boy and farts are really, really funny to me--especially because IT WASN'T MINE. I maintain that fact no matter what Jack has to say about it!

Jack’s Take

So Jill and I are in the elevator in my building the other day, just having finished taking Spot, Jill’s dog, out for a walk. Jill rarely holds Spot (even though condominium “rules” require her to do so), but on this particular occasion she was (a) holding Spot, and (b) holding him on her hip. In hindsight, the hip is the perfect place to hold an animal if one is ever interested in…oh, I don’t know…concealing a boisterous fart.

There were three of my neighbors on the elevator as well. They were very “serious looking” (e.g., the guy closest to Jill was wearing an Armani suit and had a copy of The Economist on top of his briefcase; in other words he didn’t really look like a card-carrying member of The Guys Who Think Elevator Farts are Hilarious” club).

As the door closes, Jill farts. It’s clearly Jill and not Spot, since human farts and dog farts sound significantly different. Dog farts tend to be squeaky and high-pitched; this one had some deep bass. My first inclination is to ask Jill if she has a subwoofer stuffed down the back of her jeans.

Jill: (laughing uncontrollably because she thinks it’s hilarious to fart in an elevator full of strangers)

Me: Really, you couldn’t hold it? (trying to let my neighbors know that I was civilized like them and did NOT think it was hilarious to fart in an elevator full of strangers)

Jill: That wasn’t me! It was Spot.

Spot: (looking annoyed and insulted..then deciding he should fart like his Mom just did) Pfffft! (note: Spot’s fart sounded completely different than Jill’s fart)

Me: (genuinely embarrassed) Can both of you try to hold it for a few more floors?

Meanwhile, our elevator friends are visibly uncomfortable, as am I. Jill is still laughing uncontrollably of course, because apparently she is a 10 year old boy and farts are really, really funny to her. I look at her giggling like a school boy and wonder if it’s time for me to give online dating a chance.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Spontaneous Verbal Diarrhea

I’ve met Jill’s parents. But she hasn’t met mine. And there’s a reason for that. Actually there are two reasons: my dad and Jill.

You see my dad and Jill both suffer from spontaneous verbal diarrhea (SVD). At any given time, they have both been guilty of blurting out random comments uncontrollably.

In Jill’s defense, my dad’s case of SVD is probably more severe, if only because he’s been afflicted longer. To illustrate my point, here’s a near-verbatim excerpt from a conversation that took place between my parents (AROUND OUR DINNER TABLE) the last time I brought a girl over to meet them.

My mom: “Did you hear on the news today that they arrested a man for a murder he committed three years ago? Apparently they found the body…”

My dad (interrupting my mom): “See, that’s what I don’t get. Why do these guys have such a hard time getting rid of the body? I mean, come on! If I ever killed anyone, I can assure you that nobody would find the body. Would it be that hard to chop a body up into little parts and put it down the garbage disposal? Or how hard would it be to burn a body? Throw it into an incinerator. Collect the teeth and stuff that didn’t burn and then throw that stuff into the garbage disposal. I mean this isn’t rocket science, people! I just don’t get it!”

Again, this was the FIRST time this girl met my dad, who in reality is one of the sweetest men on the planet and winces when he has to kill a wasp with a rolled-up newspaper. Nonetheless, my girl’s eyes were the size of the hubcaps on my ’87 Accord when she heard him spouting off like Ted Bundy.

And yet if it was only my dad that I was worried about, I would have facilitated this introduction already. But Jill also suffers from SVD.

For example, this past weekend Jill and I were at an OUTDOOR concert where people were smoking. Apparently Jill doesn’t appreciate smelling secondhand smoke, as she casually informed me:

“If this girl doesn’t watch where her smoke is going, I'm going to stab her in the neck.”

It’s important to note that Jill said this loudly enough that pretty much everyone around us heard her. Now was really going to pull out a shank and slice someone? Of course not. I knew it was the SVD, but what if the others didn’t? I quickly made a point of nervously smiling at everyone nearby in an attempt to restore the peace.

Sigh…I’m sweating just thinking about the possibility of my dad and Jill in the same room. Does anybody have any advice as to how I can make this happen without either party saying something I’ll regret?