We All Do Nearly-Fatal Things Sometimes...

Since Jack shared his “dumbest thing I’ve ever done” story, he said it was only fair that I do the same. So, here you go:

Back in college, I had this sweet job nannying for a well-to-do family. They paid me lots of money to haul their two daughters to and from various after school activities, to pick up their dry cleaning, and run errands all over the city. They had a beautiful house in which I got to spend much of my free time – they were basically my family away from home. Right next door to them lived this very lovely elderly couple. By “elderly” I mean they must have been well into their 80s. I rarely saw the wife, but the husband was always out and about, tinkering in the garage or doing yard work or something. He was always very sweet, though we probably never said more than “how are you today?” to each other.

One thing you should know about me before I continue this story is that I have a very soft spot in my heart for the elderly. In high school I worked in a nursing home helping the residents get dressed, bathe (yes, bathe), eat, and so on. I love old people and would never do them harm – even the ones that used to kick me and call me names, and even the ones who tried to hit on me while I was changing their diapers (and yes, that happened frequently, and no, an old man in a diaper is not the least bit tempting).

So anyway, one day the younger daughter needed to get to her tap dance lessons, and she was taking her sweet time getting out the door. I was waiting in the car, getting impatient. She finally gets out to the car, and I start backing down the long driveway, being careful not to hit the garbage cans that were at the end of the drive on my left hand side. I was being so careful....but only when it came to the trash bins, as it turned out. On my right side, had I paid much attention to that as I backed up, was Mr. Sweet Elderly Man (I can’t remember his name, so sue me), mowing the lawn on his riding lawn mower (THANK GOD IT WAS A RIDER). He had those ear muff things on that protect your ears from loud noises, so he couldn’t hear me coming, and I am a jerkball, so I didn’t see him there.

You can probably guess what happened: I hit him. I hit him pretty hard. The daughter was all “OMIGOD YOU HIT MR. S.E.M.!!!”, which was clear to me, and not very helpful to the situation. I immediately got out of the car and started apologizing profusely. He didn’t take his ear muffs off – just motioned to me that it was no big deal. “ARE YOU SURE? I HIT YOU! I HIT YOU WITH MY CAR!!!!” And off he went, mowing again, like nothing had happened.

It took me a LONG time to face that sweet old man again. I made the daughter swear never to tell her parents. I thought nearly killing the neighbor might be grounds for dismissal - I mean, who really wants their kids riding around with a woman who's committed vehicular manslaughter?

_______________

PS. This reminds me of one of my favorite quotes from The Office:

Guess what? I have flaws. What are they? Oh I don't know... I sing in the shower. Sometimes I spend too much time volunteering. Occasionally I'll hit somebody with my car. So sue me. No, don't sue me... that's the opposite of the point I'm trying to make. -Michael Scott

The Mystery BAU's

I live in a condo. While there are many things I like about living in a condo (e.g., no mowing, no shoveling), there's one thing I really dislike: community laundry. I'm borderline OCD and a neat-freak to begin with, so when I start to think about my clothes being washed in the same washer that all of my weirdo neighbors are using, I start to sweat. Profusely. This feeling is exacerbated when I think about the fact that the following individuals all live on my floor: an elderly woman who often smells like she's wearing a diaper, a raging alcoholic who often wears t-shirts with dried vomit stains on them, and a stripper. No, I'm not joking.

Whenever it's time for me to put a load in the washer or dryer, I'm usually pretty diligent about inspecting each appliance to make sure there aren't any stray diapers or thongs that were accidentally left behind. But apparently my inspections are not always perfect.

Last week I was folding some clothes and found a pair of undies that I assumed were Jill's. Why did I assume they were Jill's? Simply because they weren't mine, that's why. This is a very important part of the story: I didn't inspect the panties; I just noticed that they weren't mine, so by default they had to be Jill's, right? Umm...wrong!

A couple of days ago, Jill was getting dressed and digging through her drawer in my closet. Suddenly she discovered The Panties That Weren't Hers. And then all h-e-double hockey sticks broke out.

"Whose are these?" she screamed, holding them up for me to see.

That's when I noticed them for the first time. They were big. Like, really, really big. Like, XXL big.

Now I was in a bit of a predicament. I knew Jill would be offended if I said I thought they were hers, but I also knew she'd be outraged if I said they were another woman's. I decided to offend rather than outrage.

"Umm...yours?" I replied, sheepishly.

Wrong decision. Jill was clearly more outraged over the idea that I thought she wore XXL grandma skivvies than she would have been over the idea that another woman's underwear found its way into my closet.

The moral of the story: I need to get my own washer and dryer.

Jill's Take: Frankly, I do not know how these underpants could have been mistaken for mine. I mean, I will admit that I have a few pairs of pretty drab undies, but they all FIT ME. And none of them go so high as to cover my belly button or potentially reach my boobs. So when I looked at these things, two possibilities crossed my mind: 1) Jack is cheating on me. With a very large grandmother-type; or 2) JACK THINKS I'M FAT. Since I am too delightful for Jack to want to cheat on me, and since he isn't desperate enough to date the owner of those underwear anyway, I ruled out #1 and determined that clearly Jack thought those undies were actually mine. RUDE. But I guess better than being cheated on?

We All Do Dumb Things

A few nights ago I was having dinner with Jill, her sisters, and one of their friends. Since it was my first time meeting this girl, I had a number of questions for her.

"Where are you from?"

"Where do you live now?"

"What's the dumbest thing you've ever done?"

I'm routinely fascinated by other peoples' answers to this question. Generally speaking, we're all relatively "with it." And yet we've all done some really, really dumb things.

Here's mine:

I was 17. There was a girl - let's call her PJ - who I desperately wanted to impress. After brainstorming a list of ways I could win over PJ's heart, I decided to take her on a fancy date to The City (i.e., downtown). See PJ wasn't like most of the girls in my suburban high school. She was chic. And clearly she would appreciate a Night of Culture (i.e., dinner at Olive Garden and then a play, which sounds so much more sophisticated than dinner-and-a-movie, right?). To get ready for The Big Date, I did an impressive amount of prep-work. I got my car washed. I burned a mix CD with 16 hand-picked tracks. (BTW, for you youngins out there, burning a CD was A BIG DEAL in 1996.) I even drove to the theater the night before, because, let's face it, it's hard to look smoove when you're lost.

So the night started out delightful. Dinner at the OG was exquisite. The tunes were clearly working their magic; PJ couldn't help but rock side-to-side in her seat when No Diggity and How Do You Want It? came on. I found a premo parking spot in a lot directly across from the theater. We went to the show. It was OK, but PJ acted like it was the best thing she'd ever seen. (I think it was her way of indirectly thanking me for taking her to something other than a movie.)

As we were walking out to my car, I began searching for my keys. "Hmm...this is not cool," I remember thinking to myself. I wanted to have my keys ready by the time we got to PJ's side of the car. I did NOT want to be fumbling for them when my fair lady was ready to enter the Jackmobile. When we got about 20 feet away from my car, however, I abruptly stopped searching for my keys. That's because I could clearly hear No Diggity blaring from my parked ride. Once we got about 5 feet away, I picked up another sound: the purring of my '87 Honda Accord's engine.

That's when I realized I had done one of the dumbest things ever. I had left my car running for 2+ hours - unattended and UNLOCKED - in Downtown Minneapolis on a Friday night. Apparently I was so excited to hop out of my car to open up PJ's door that I forgot to turn my car off. Or turn the music off. Or take out the keys. Or lock the doors.

But of course I wasn't about to let PJ know that this was a mistake. Rather, I played it off. "Look, babe, the car's all warmed up for us." She gave me a look that was equal parts confused and concerned, and no parts impressed.

So, what's the dumbest thing you've ever done?
___________________

Jill's Two Cents: Jack, you can add one more thing to the list of dumb things you've done---you told me this story. From now on I will be expecting you to open my car door each and every time we go anywhere, and I will also want a warm car waiting for me at the end of each date we have in the winter. The bar has officially been raised!

Jack Has Always Been a Giver...

I recently learned that my good friend Bill’s little sister is expecting quadruplets. That’s FOUR babies at once – and with no fertility assistance whatsoever. Apparently Bill’s sister is just naturally outrageously fertile. Anyway, as Jack and I were driving to visit his parents the other day, I mentioned this news.

“Quadruplets….that’s FOUR, right?”

“Yep,” I confirmed.

“Wow, that’s a lot….I mean, what if they didn’t want a family that big?”

“Um…too bad, I guess? I mean, it’s not like they used fertility treatments or anything. Maybe they were just meant to have a big family?”

Jack really hadn’t even been listening. He just sort of picked up where he left off – “…like, do they have to have them all? Or could they maybe have them all and then pick the 2 they wanted and give the others away?”

“WHAT? Give away two of your babies?? And keep two?? How would you decide which ones to keep??”

"I’d give away the girls, and keep the boys. That's what I'd do."

Of course at this point I was livid, because whenever Jack and I discuss how scary it will be to someday raise children, he always says he hopes he only has boys, because raising daughters would be too difficult. Like most men, you see, Jack points to the fact that he “knows what teenage boys think about all the time” - and therefore wouldn’t want his daughters around teenage boys. Best to just GIVE THEM AWAY, I guess?

As soon as we got to Jack’s parents’ house, I had to tell them this story – that Jack planned to give away the girls if he ever had quadruplets. He got a good talking-to about that.

I think my work here is done.

Oh, and the illustration above? That’s me crying because Jack is FORCING me to give away my daughters, whilst happily clutching his precious sons. RUDE!

Smell This!

This weekend Jack and I were in his car on our way to a restaurant when, per usual, I cranked up the air conditioning. You see, for some reason my body temperature seems to run about 10 degrees warmer than Jack's.

"Sweaty?" he asks me.

"Of course. Ooh! But I got this new deodorant that I just love. I got it at Etsy.com and the person who sells it has all these all-natural products, and some are vegan!"

"Does it work?"

"Well, yes - but it's just a deodorant, not an anti-perspirant, so it doesn't stop me from sweating."

"Clearly."

[Rolling eyes] "Whatever! It smells so good. Like baby powder."

"Let me smell."

So, without hesitation (I think a normal person might have hesitated?), I held up my arm so Jack could take a whiff while we were at a stop light. As soon as he did, we both looked at each other, looked out our windows, and realized that the occupants of the cars on either side of us definitely just saw this very inappropriate intimate moment.

"Those people definitely think we're weird."

"Yes...yes, they do."

And This is How My Day Started....

I'm a snooze button gal. Every morning the alarm rings at 6:40 and I hit 'snooze' again and again until 7:00 or 7:10. Since Jack usually doesn't have to be up until 7:45 or so, he finds this somewhat annoying (no idea why). This morning, I actually got up after hitting snooze once because Spot was asking to go out anyway. I took him out and then decided to snooze on the couch for a few more minutes. I was joined by my darling cat, Kitty.

Now, I've shared my home with Kitty for 8 years, and with Spot for 5 and a half, so as you might imagine, I've had my fair share of gross or unappealing pet-related experiences (Spot just peed on the recycling last week, for example - indoors). But what happened this morning takes the cake. Kitty was walking all over me making sure I was petting her in just the right places when all of a sudden I smelled something that wasn't so pleasant. "(Sniff, sniff, sniff), what is that?", I asked myself. Then for some reason I decided to touch my face - I don't know why. It was simultaneously a good and bad decision. The bad part of the decision was that in touching my face I got cat poo on my hand. The good part is that I got cat poo OFF MY FACE. Kitty must not have cleaned up very well after dropping her last deuce, and somehow managed to leave the remnants of that last potty visit on my cheek. In a state of shock, I rushed to the bathroom, turned on the light and checked my face for more poop (I hope that is the only time I ever say those words). Seeing none, I washed the watery brown goo off my hand with an excess of soap. Then I did the same to my face - soap, soap, soap it up!

Given that Jack sometimes thinks my pets are difficult to deal with, part of me didn't want to tell him what had happened. But the bigger part of me - the part that had just gotten cat poop on her face and needed to tell someone - won. I ran upstairs, woke him up, and told him this story. Then, despite my many assurances that I had scrubbed my face excessively, he refused to kiss me goodbye. Rude, don't you think?!

His love is so conditional.

No More Sandalwood for Me; I Want the Good Stuff

We're all a bit weird. I, for example, have an unnatural obsession with sneakers and clean bedding. Jill, on the other hand, loves to play Sims and sing out loud in a voice that sounds like Mary Murphy impersonating Pavarotti. But I think we can all agree that there's a big difference between being "normal weird" and "WEIRD weird."

On Saturday I was once again reminded just how "WEIRD weird" some people really are. Jill and I were shopping at Electric Fetus, which is a really great music store that sells everything from vinyl records to concert tickets. The Fetus also sells incense, which I must admit I'm not too familiar with. I have friends who used to burn incense while they were smoking to mask the odor. I've also had a few friends who burned incense because they really liked the smell, similar to how I might burn, say, a candle or a plastic milk jug. But apparently incense also has another application which I was unaware of- which brings us back to the WEIRD weird part.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a normal looking guy talking to a normal looking girl. (By "normal" I mean neither of them were dressed like a wizard.) They were standing near the incense section. As soon as I got within earshot, here's what I heard:

Normal Looking Guy: "...and that's why I rarely use sandalwood anymore in my spells. I just haven't gotten the results I've been looking for."
Normal Looking Girl: "Is that right?"
Normal Looking Guy: "Yeah, and I'm not sure why. I used to use it in a lot of my spells. Maybe the commercial stuff is not as pure as it used to be? Whatever the reason, it's just not as effective as some of my other ingredients. So unless it's a fairly basic spell, I don't recommend sandalwood. It's like the new rosemary."

Naturally I immediately went and found Jill so that she, too, could take in her daily dose of insanity. When we returned, I was pleased to find the wizard couple still deep in discussion. Jill eavesdropped for about 30 seconds, then - based on what she heard - became concerned that she herself could soon be on the receiving end of some type of spell if she was perceived as being disrespectful. So we left.

As we were leaving, I turned to Jill and said what I'm sure she also was feeling: "Wow, we're so not WEIRD weird."

Summer Fun: The Porn Squad and Getting Banged

Jack and I had a really fun day yesterday. Actually, this whole summer has been pretty awesome, hence the sad lack of posts on this blog.

Anyway, yesterday after an hour or so at the pool, we went to run some errands. On the way back, we drove past a group of high-school age girls holding a sign that said "CAR WASH". There was another sign that said "Pom Squad". As we passed, Jack said "I think I need a car wash from the Porn Squad!"

"PORN SQUAD? Really? You think that's what that sign said? PORN squad?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what it said. Porn Squad."

"Honey, it's the POM SQUAD - like cheerleaders or whatever."

"No, it was definitely the Porn Squad, and I think they should wash my car."

He insisted that it made much more sense that a group of teenage girls would be on a Porn Squad instead of a Pom Squad. Because that's totally logical. And not at all illegal.

Later that afternoon, we went to play some tennis. Now, one thing to know here is that Jack played tennis all through high school, whereas I took one week of lessons back when I was 16. I know the basics of the game, and can hit the ball, but not very hard and not very accurately. I still like to play, though, because it's fun to hit balls, and it's a good workout (that's what she said). While we played, Jack was refreshing me on the rules, giving me some pointers on my backhand, and so on an so forth. We were on our last game of the match (he had already won 5 games, I had won one and it was clear he'd be winning the 6th shortly), he tells me "now honey, when you get shut out on the final game of a match, you've been 'banged' - that's what they call it when that happens."

"Really? That's weird."

Shortly thereafter, he won the last point and I loudly announced "I just got banged!" to try out my new tennis lingo.

I thought it sounded funny, but who am I to argue with a long time tennis player, right?

Fast forward to last night. We're about to go to sleep and Jack says, quite ominously, "Honey, I need to come clean about something, because if I die in my sleep or something I just can't have this on my conscience."

"Um....okay, what?"

In my head I'm thinking he's going to say something like 'I slept with your best friend!' or 'I killed a puppy yesterday just for fun!' because my mind goes to places like that when someone starts a statement the way Jack did.

He continued: "In tennis, there's no such thing as 'getting banged' - it's not a tennis term at all. So if someday you're playing with someone else, I just don't want to be responsible for you saying 'YOU BANGED ME!' Okay?"

After over a year, he is finally figuring out just how incredibly gullible I am. It's about time. I, however, still apparently have not figured out that Jack is always lying to me. Hmph.

Jill's Brilliant Blog Idea

So, I have this great idea for a blog, but there is no way I could possibly follow through on it, because I am too easily embarrassed. If anyone else wants to do it, by all means go ahead, and then give me the URL.

I was thinking it would be really funny to do the following: I'd create a totally normal Match.com profile. I'd schedule dates with unsuspecting lads via emails that were also totally normal (or "normal" by my definition, which Jack would say is anything but normal, but whatever). Then I'd show up with the goal of being the strangest date that guy has ever had. Maybe I'd wear moose ears and speak completely monotone; maybe I'd tell him at the outset that I have narcolepsy and then "fall asleep" every 5 minutes for a few minutes; maybe I'd dress up like a clown and make balloon animals for him. My favorite, though, would be much simpler than that: I'd bring a note pad on the date and start asking him standard first date questions. As he answered, I'd write down everything he said and then make commentary under my breath: "Likes to work out....can't really tell by looking at him though", "not close to family...RED FLAG", "likes to hang out with friends in free time....I question if these 'friends' really exist" - you know, insulting stuff like that. Then I'd blog about each date's reaction to my nuttiness. I think it would be absolutely fantastic - if I could actually pull it off.

I brought this idea up to Jack, and to my surprise he was all for it. I thought he'd protest because it would mean I'd be going out on dates with other men, but apparently Jack is in no way worried about another man being interested in a clown who says insulting things. Frankly, I'm hurt. I mean, I make some pretty impressive balloon animals. I really think he is underestimating my allure!

Jill's Advice for Men: What NOT to Say to Your Girlfriend

A few weekends ago Jack and I went bike shopping so I could get a speedier, fancier bike. After talking to the sales person about the differences between men's and women's bikes where it was noted that women's bikes tend to have a little bit wider saddle, Jack turned to me and said this:

(Pointing to the largest seat ever manufactured in the history of bike seat manufacturing) "So, you should probably get this seat since you have wide hips."

Me: [Death glare, death glare, death glare]

Jack: "You as in WOMEN, not YOU specifically as a person....I meant, um, women....?"

A few days later, I bought some of those padded bike shorts. Have you ever worn those? Well, they are the most hideous things on the planet. They make it look like I have the world's biggest, most obvious cameltoe ever. When I pointed this out to Jack (not that it needed pointing out, mind you) I think he had learned his lesson from the bike seat talk, because he keeps telling me I couldn't look bad in anything - not even cameltoe shorts. Good boy.

Honesty is the Best Policy (Most of the Time)

Fellas, this one's for you. You know the old adage, "Honesty is the best policy?" Well I'm here to tell you that this adage needs to be revised as follows: Honesty is the best policy, most of the time. Without further ado, here are the six specific situations when honesty is not the best policy (oh, and Jill's comments are in red):

(1) When your significant other asks you if your ex-girlfriend was attractive.
The answer should always be, "she was average or maybe slightly above-average, but not nearly as attractive as you."

(2) When your significant other asks you if you think she's gained weight recently.
The answer is always, "no." Always.

Jill says: I had to break this down for Jack--we women always, ALWAYS know when we've gained weight. So if you think you're being helpful by pointing it out, well, you're not. It's called "kicking us when we're down and then not getting any lovin' for a while because now you've made us feel like we're gigantic and disgusting looking!" I don't recommend it.

(3) When your significant other asks you if she's the best lover you've ever had.
The answer is always, "yes." Always.

Jill says: What self respecting human asks this anyway? I mean, if it's not offered up, chances are you're not #1....so by asking, you're either going to hear a truth you don't want to hear and then obsess about it, or you're going to hear a lie and know it's a lie. If he doesn't tell, don't ask.

(4) When your significant other asks you if you find her best friend attractive. I don't care if her best friend is Angelina Jolie; you do not think she's attractive! If you can't bring yourself to lie, say something ambiguous like, "I think she's nice."

(5) When your significant other says something like, "My mom can be a bit annoying sometimes, can't she?"

This is a trap. Do not agree with her. Trust me on this one, please.

(6) When your significant other shows you a picture of Wendy Larson - her arch-nemesis in high school - and asks you if you would have had any interest in dating her when you were 17.
Ideally, you should wince and say, "Uggh, no way."

Jill says: That Wendy Larson was a whore! I don't care what you say, she was a dirty little trollop whose breast size was inversely proportionate to her brain size (note: BIG boobs, tiny brain, in case I lost any of you there with my math-like talk).

So if you ever find yourself in any of these six situations, please remember: honesty is not always the best policy. Let me know if you think I missed any.

Help! It's a TICK ATTACK!

I know Jack is working on a post about his visit to Hickville, USA, but since he's a little slow at posting, I figured I'd humor you with a story about said visit.

As I mentioned, I grew up in the country. My hometown is 80 miles from a McDonald's, okay? I think we may be the only such community. And yes, I am using distance from a McDonald's as a measure for how rural a place is. In my case: very rural.

Well, as is often the case in the country, there is a decent amount of wildlife where I grew up. There are deer and moose and coyotes, all of which are beautiful and majestic creatures....and then there are the less majestic creatures, like wood ticks. They're pretty gross and I don't particularly enjoy them, but they're sort of a fact of life up there. Since Spot and his 2 doggy cousins were out and about exploring the countryside quite a bit, they were bound to get a tick or two. Or ten. Or thirty. So one afternoon Jack and I are lying in bed watching TV with Spot wedged between us. Jack is petting Spot absentmindedly and I'm nearly asleep when all of a sudden I get smacked on the arm:

"Honey, honey, wake up. WAKE UP. Is this a wood tick? IS IT?" (pointing at Spot's head)

Sleepily, I feel around on Spot's head and determine that yes, he has a wood tick. I pull the tick off and go to get rid of it. In the 30 seconds I'm gone, Jack has completely torn apart the bed, feeling all over for any sign of rogue ticks roaming around.

"Jack, ticks don't really like to attach themselves to lifeless sheet sets and comforters. They much prefer to be on a living being - like dogs or humans."

Immediately his shirt is off and he's running to the bathroom to get a look at his skin in the mirror. I follow him and he says "ARE THERE ANY ON MY BACK? LOOK! LOOK! ARE THERE? CHECK MY BAAAACK!"

Seeing none I say "no.....and are you okay?" Honestly, I was trying to control my laughter at this point. You would think he had just had a close encounter with a tiger or something.

"Well I don't want to get Lyme disease!! "

"You can't get Lyme disease just from seeing a tick, honey. They have to bite you, and then hold on for quite some time. I'm pretty sure you're going to make it there, tough guy."

We've been back for over a week and he was never actually bitten by a tick, but I wouldn't doubt it if he's still doing a pretty thorough check every night anyway. City boy.

Jill Brings Jack to the Birthplace of Rock Picking

Just last night, Jack and I were talking about how different our backgrounds are. He grew up in the suburbs of a large metropolitan area, where he was exposed to things like "rap", "hip hop", "stylish clothing" and "diversity" from a young age. He spent his weekends going to concerts, using public transportation, and learning all kinds of slang words that I still don't know and probably never will.

I, on the other hand, grew up in Hickville, Midwest USA. I spent the first 18 years of my life on a farm outside a town of 130 people. My high school class consisted of 10 people, and I went to school in the same building from kindergarten through 12th grade. Everyone around me was pale and blond just like me, with the exception of 1 adopted kid who stood out like a sore thumb (he could play basketball and dance, you see). I spent my weekends doing things like driving grain truck for my dad, mowing our lawn (a 6 hour job), and combining during harvest. Sometimes we'd mix things up and my dad would drive us along in a field while we "picked rock" - it is exactly what it sounds like: we picked big rocks out of the (~50 acre) fields and threw them into the back of a pick up truck*. I know, it sounds truly magical, doesn't it? Try not to be jealous.

Anyway, I've been to Jack's childhood home a few times, but due to the fact that my childhood home is a 7 hour drive away and there's absolutely, positively nothing to do once you get there, he hasn't been there yet. Well, that won't be the case after this weekend.

I am not sure either of us is ready for this. I mean....I've told him stories but I don't think he quite gets it. Yesterday I texted my uncle (who's only a few years older than me) to see if he'd be around to meet Jack this weekend. He texted me back "I will be. Do I need to bring any guns?" I wrote back "Haha nah, he's a good one. See you this weekend then!" Unlike in the past (where he seriously would have brought guns in an effort to intimidate my boyfriends), he was actually kidding, and wrote back: "I was thinking more like he'd want to shoot them than me having to shoot him!" Oh. Woops! Jack has decided he really sees no reason for guns to be around at all . Probably wise.

__________________

* They make machines that do this for you, but my dad said that with 4 able bodied daughters, why on earth would he spend money to buy a machine??

Jack Thinks Boys Can Kick Farther than Girls

It’s me, Jack. For years people have debated which gender is more attractive. Men typically cite the fact that many male animals are more attractive than their female counterparts (e.g., ducks, peacocks, lions). Women typically cite Angelina Jolie.

Well…for once and for all, let me put this issue to rest: women are more attractive than men. How do I know this, you may be wondering? It’s simple; there are way more men out-kicking their coverage than there are women out-kicking their coverage. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever met a woman who’s out-kicking her coverage. Seriously, has anybody seen a couple where the guy is actually more attractive than the girl? (Present company excluded, of course.)

Recently I’ve been blown away by the number of aesthetically-asymmetrical couples I’ve seen walking around. When Jill and I were at the Honolulu Airport, I saw a 5’5” chubby guy who looked like Harry Caray holding hands and acting all romantic with a girl who could have been a stunt double for Halle Berry. This capped off our week in Hawaii, where I spotted at least 20 couples that consisted of a guy who was a 4 or lower with a girl who was an 8 or better.

If you don’t believe me, take a look at these couples. Mandy Moore and Ryan Adams. Seal and Heidi Klum. Christina Aguilera and this dude. And maybe most shockingly of all: Cate Blanchett and her husband!

When I brought this issue up to Jill, she came up with some nonsensical reply like, “men are more attracted to physical appearance, while women are more attracted to personality, among other non-superficial things.” (I don’t remember exactly what she said, as I wasn’t really listening; I was too busy staring at her beauty.) Honestly, I don’t buy the concept that women are less superficial than men are. At all. I think it just comes down to this: women are generally more attractive than men. Sorry, dudes, but it’s true. (There’s just no other explanation for all of the out-kicking of coverage that’s happening nowadays.)

If you’re still not convinced, post a comment within the next 15 seconds that references a couple where the Mr. is better looking than the Mrs. (And, no, you can’t use Jill and me as your example*.)

So, now it's time for you to vote!

Which gender out-kicks their coverage more often (looks-wise)?
	Men
	Women
	It's about equal
Free polls from Pollhost.com

_________________
*Of course I’m joking. I’m so far outkicking my coverage with Jill that I should probably change my e-mail address to CateBlanchett’sHusband@gmail.com.

Jack Quizzes Jill: Part I

(Q) If Jack were a fruit or vegetable, what would he be and why?

Jill's Answer: Hm. Definitely not peas, since you really hate peas, and I don't think you'd want to hate yourself. I actually don't even think you have the capacity to dislike yourself in any way, so peas are definitely out. And while you LOVE asparagus, I'm guessing you don't want to make people's pee smell funny...........I know! You'd be a potato, because I love potatoes no matter how they look or what you mix them with, and my love would probably be your top concern if you were told you had to transform into some kind of edible object. Yep, you'd be a potato!

Jack's Response: A potato?!?! No way. Too boring. If I was a fruit or veggie, I'd be a Bhut jolokia pepper. Because if I were a veggie, I would want to hang out in the produce department and try to flirt with the radishes (i.e., I wouldn't want to be eaten). And nobody wants to eat the hottest pepper in the world, duh!

(Q) If Jack was forced to become roommates with a current or former reality TV star, who would he pick and why?

Jill's Answer: I don't think Jack watches reality TV. So I guess I don't know who he'd live with but I'm sure he'd have to be forced into it, and that person would have to adjust to Jack's many, many house rules very quickly or his/her life wouldn't be very pleasant.

Jack's Response: Was Mini Me on a Reality TV show? If so, I'd pick him as my roomie. I like having my own space, and I imagine I'd be able to stuff Mini Me into one of my kitchen cupboards and have the rest of the house to myself. Also, I have a hunch that Mini Me would be really good at dusting all of the hard-to-reach spots.

(Q) What’s one thing about Jill that Jack would change if he could?

Jill's Answer: If Jack could change one thing about me it would probably be my fondness for animals---as in, I think he'd like me to be kinder to animals, and love them more, because it is one area in which I am really lacking, in his opinion.

Jack's Response: It's hard to improve upon perfection. Although I guess Jill could be a little bit taller. And smarter. And better at taking jokes (like right now). Oh, and I guess I also wish she was a billionaire. In all seriousness, I think there are only two things I'd change about Jill: (1) I wish she wouldn't text while driving, and (2) I wish she changed her bed sheets at least twice per year.

Hawaii Recap

Hi friends! We have been back from Hawaii for nearly a week now, and Jack still hasn't broken up with me, despite having spent 5 days with my family (they are crazy - like me - but delightful - also like me), and having claimed he was just waiting for the trip to call it quits on us. What a jerkball!*

A couple stories about Hawaii before we continue with our regularly scheduled program (i.e., more nonsense):

• We learned that you should never rent a Dodge Charger. Did you know that all you need to break into one of those is a screw driver? Apparently there is a youtube video that shows you how. Anyway, Jack got a new pair of sneakers at Niketown in Honolulu and left them in the back seat of the car while we did some shopping in the Waikiki area. We also both had our digital SLR cameras in the trunk. Some d-bag broke into the car and grabbed the shoes, then opened the trunk to make sure he didn't miss anything. Upon seeing the much more valuable cameras, he left the shoes in the trunk and jacked our cameras! While you'd think Jack would be highly upset about this loss, he was actually more upset that the burglar didn't appreciate his good fashion sense enough to steal his very cool sneakers. He is thinking about wearing a shirt that says "Reject" whenever he wears the shoes now, and pouts a little when you mention that they aren't worthy of being stolen. (I mention that frequently, incidentally, because I'm sweet like that.)
• Our last night there we were lucky enough to witness a beat down. We were sitting on the porch of a restaurant and across the street some punks just started beating the crap out of another punk. Police were there within 2 minutes. Apparently they are great at catching violent teenagers, but not so great at finding our stolen cameras.
• I convinced a very hesitant Jack that we should do some snorkeling. He finally agreed, then promptly dropped part of the mask into the ocean. "Are you going to get that back, honey?", I asked, to which he replied, "You do it. I don't dive." We were in 4 feet of water - not exactly "diving", really. Anyway, after a little while with the snorkel, I had a Snorkeling Monster on my hands. It was all he wanted to do. It was fun, though, and we got to see a turtle! I named him Frank, and we followed him around for quite some time.
• Jack and I were together for 9 days straight, with almost no time apart. I bet we spent a total of 3 hours apart. In that short amount of time, Jack was hit on by a gay guy who did not believe him when he said he was there with his girlfriend (i.e. yours truly). He was also hit on by the girl who had been sitting next to ME at the pool for hours. I got up to go get a massage (mmmm, lomi-lomi) and she starts up a conversation with him, asking if he's married, and blahblahblah. The NERVE! I was hit on zero times....although being hit on by my massage therapist would have been pretty awkward, so I'm not complaining. Anyway, I can't let him out of my sight at all or the competition - female and male - swarms like a bunch of little sharkies! Hmph!

So, those were some of the highlights of the trip. We had an amazing time and would go back in a heartbeat. In fact, we wish we were still there...sigh.
__________________
*This is our new insult to each other. Jack made it up. He doesn't have the vocabulary of a sailor like yours truly, so his insults are always adorably child-like.

We're Off to Hawaii!

Jack and I have had a trip to Hawaii planned for several months now. We leave later today and will be enjoying the island of Oahu for 8 luxurious days. The first 5 days will also involve my entire family, and will mark the longest continuous stretch of time Jack has spent with them. It may also mark the end of "Jack and Jill" as we now know it. Coincidence? Hard to say.

I'm kidding. I mean, Jack keeps saying things like "as soon as we get past this trip we can break up!" which I think is a joke, but you never really know with him.

I assure you I have no intention of letting that happen, considering Jack has tickets for several kickass shows in May. After that, we'll see.

Any any rate, we're gone for 9 days, and had fully intended on scheduling some posts for while we're gone, but wouldn't you know it, we didn't really get around to that. HOWEVER, we will be updating Twitter while we're gone, so you should totally check that out. Try not to miss us too much! I'll let you know if I'm able to get Jack to go snorkeling - he's even more afraid of the ocean than I am, which is saying something. An island vacation is perfect for people like us, isn't it?

Aloha!

Jill Quizzes Jack: Part I

(Q) If Jill could be any (non-human) animal, what would she be?

Jack's Answer: A dog. Specifically a Boston Terrier. If this were to happen, then Jill's unnatural love for her own Boston Terrier, Spot, would seem a little less weird. Emphasis on "little."

Jill's Response: Eww, you just made my love of my darling Spot into something dirty, not to mention illegal. And you're wrong anyway - I'd totally be a chimpanzee. That way my emotional outbursts and throwing of poop wouldn't be nearly as frowned upon as it is now.

(Q) If Jill could pick any one super power to have, what would it be?

Jack's Answer: The ability to clone people. (See next question for rationale.)

Jill's Response: Um, I don't even think that is a "super power" in the traditional sense of the phrase. Wouldn't someone with cloning ability be more of a "mad scientist" type, not someone with a super power? Your rationale better be good.

(Q) What's one thing about Jack that Jill would change if she could?

Jack's Answer: There's only one of him. If Jill could have her way, she'd surely clone another Jack or two.

Jill's Response: Seriously? THIS is what you think I would change about you, sweetie? I don't think you even answered the question. Making another Jack wouldn't really change anything about YOU, would it? It would just double the thing that I wanted to change in the first place, which is less than ideal if you think about it.

Jack's Annoying Habits, Vol. 1

Whenever we write something on this blog and people agree with me instead of him, Jack insists that I am secretly friends with everyone who has agreed with me. We "probably sit on g-chat all day long" and are "facebook friends" according to Jack, and somehow I am bribing you all to agree with me -- apparently I do this with my superior facebooking and g-chatting skillz ("OMG! LOL!" and so forth). Oddly enough, whenever people agree with him, it would be preposterous to suggest that he has these same types of secret friendships.

This makes no sense. What does make sense is that 95% of the time it's easy to agree with me because I AM RIGHT. I mean, who does crap like this anyway and expects to get a lot of support from sane, intelligent, wonderful people like you?*

____________

*And Jack, don't look at me like that. I said I'm not bribing anyone - I said nothing about blatant flattery.

Jack's Advice: Not Exactly a Kodak Moment

Fellas, this one's for you. Maybe you're like me and you enjoy playing practical jokes. And maybe - just maybe - you've thought about playing the following joke on your girlfriend:

Step 1: remove all of the photos of your girlfriend hanging up in your living room

Step 2: refill the now empty picture frames with photos of ex-girlfriends

Step 3: make sure at least one of the photos is of an ex-girlfriend in a string-bikini

Step 4: next time you and your girlfriend are hanging out in the living room, gaze longingly up at the pictures of your exes and say, "man, we had some good times."

Take my advice: your girlfriend's not going to find this "joke" nearly as funny as you do. And you'll probably be in the doghouse* for a day week month or two.
___________
* (Fortunately for me, Jill really loves her dog, so her doghouse is actually pretty nice.)
___________

Jill's Two Cents: Yes, Jack actually did this, about 3 months into our relationship. No, I'm not kidding, and yes, I wish I were. When I first noticed the change of photos, I rubbed my eyes, sort of like you would if you were in a cartoon and you saw something that couldn't possibly be there because it was so ridiculous (like a man with sensitivity!), you know? Then I got mad, which was made even worse by Jack then saying "What? I did this to my last girlfriend and she thought it was funny."

(deep breath)

(another deep breath)

Luckily, after MUCH coaching, Jack has learned that a) we do not pull practical jokes that involve putting up bikini shots of ex-girlfriends who happen to be tall, blond and thin; and b) we do not say things like "my ex-girlfriend was so much more laid back than you!" or anything that might at all make it sound like your ex-girlfriend could in any way be superior to your current girlfriend.

Let's Talk About POOP, Baby!

Jack and I will often walk Spot together in the evening right before bedtime. If the weather is nice, this can be a lovely ending to the night, and we dilly dally while Spot finds the place that is special enough to receive his waste. We chat, we stroll, and it’s all very nice. When the weather is NOT nice, as has been the case for the past 5-6 months, we are not quite as patient. In fact, we are downright impatient, and want Spot to hurry it up and go as fast as possible so that we can run back inside and be warm and comfortable again. Spot usually doesn’t care what we think, so he takes his sweet time either way.

The other night was one such evening, and it occurred to me that I have a habit of yelling strange things during my conversations with Jack when I want Spot to do his business:

“Jack, don’t forget that tomorrow we said we’d go to – SPOT, POOP ALREADY! - that happy hour with Katie and her husband, okay?”

“Yeah, I remember. That should be fun.”

“I think it will, yeah. – POOPY POOPY POOP, SPOTTY WOTT! – Also, we should think about what we want to do this – I SAID POOP – weekend. Any ideas?”

“Well, I was thinking we could maybe go on a bike ride at some point.”

“YOU ARE SO SLOW, JUST TAKE A CRAP – Ooh! Great idea. We should also – SERIOUSLY, GOOOOO POTTY! – grab a drink at that new bar downtown.”

The conversation doesn’t miss a beat, which I think might be odd. Like, if someone walked by and heard this and didn’t see the dog, they would think I was mental, right? Or maybe even if they did see the dog?

Anyway, this whole scenario gets even funnier when Jack and I are having a more serious conversation … you know, one that shouldn’t be littered with screams about fecal matter (as opposed to all the many conversations that should be). It sort of concerns me that Jack doesn’t even notice this happens. I mean, I had to point it out to him how strange it is. I guess he’s just getting used to how weird I am, and that’s probably good. I’ve been holding back the really weird stuff for when we got to this point, so I think it’s about time I can really let loose now…

Sometimes It's Just Better to Say Something

"Remember back when I used to think you grew dark chest hairs sometimes?"

Having just heard this for the very first time, I practically yelled at Jack: "You thought I what??"

"Well, you know how sometimes you'll hold Spot, and then you'll get some of his hairs stuck on your chest? I thought that was your own hair. Your chest pubes", he explained.

"You thought I was capable of growing man-hair on my boobs and you just kept that to yourself?"

Thinking this was funny now, he said, "I would have said something eventually...you know, when we got to be more comfortable with each other. But early on I thought it would hurt your feelings if I asked you to pluck your chest hair. I mean, what if you wanted it there, like you were proud of it? That would have been rude of me to ask."

"How many girls with hairy boobs have you dated?! I mean, this is just ridiculous! When would you have said something? I am embarrassed now that you thought I was all manly and you never said anything!"

"Well, finally I realized that sometimes the hair was there and then it would just disappear, so I figured out that it must have been Spot's. Don't worry, it wasn't THAT long that I thought you were masculine, honey."

"Oh, great. Just great."

An Open Letter to Jack's Dentist

Dear Dr. Miller, DDS:

You've been my dentist for the past six years. Every six months or so, you check out my teeth and give me some things to work on (e.g., "floss every day," "use a Sonicare," "drink less red wine"). Well after last week's check-up, I decided that it's time for me to provide you with some things to work on.

(1) Brush your teeth before every appointment. Have you noticed how I always show up for my check-up with a freshly cleaned mouth? Well, you should do the same. That dentist mask you're wearing is not nearly as resistant as you apparently think it is. So if you feel the need to polish off a can of sour cream & onion Pringles and a bottle of Mr. Pibb right before you see me, at least have the decency to swirl some Listerine. Please?

(2) Do not ask me open-ended questions while keeping your instruments stuffed down my throat. Seriously. Are you not familiar with what it takes to speak? One needs to be able to move their mouth, for starters. If you're going to limit yourself to yes or no questions (e.g., "do you need a rinse?" "nice weather, huh?" "do you mind if I take off my pants?"), ask away. But do not - I REPEAT, DO NOT - ask me to summarize the plot of Slumdog Millionaire while simultaneously immobilizing my jaw and applying fluoride.

(3) Back. The. F'. Up. You know all of those fancy tools you have on that tray next to you? Are you sure one of them isn't a magnifying glass? See, if you had a magnifying glass, then you probably wouldn't have to get FOUR INCHES AWAY FROM MY FACE to see whatever it is you need to see. Sometimes I get confused: are you trying to clean my teeth or give me mouth-to-mouth? On a related note, did you just eat a can full of Pringles?

(4) Don't Insult Me With a Free 25 Cent Toothbrush. After causing (a) aching in my teeth, (b) swelling in my gums, (c) numbness in my jaw - and after (d) nearly drowning me with that hose/rinsing tool - do not expect to "make it all better" by giving me a cheap, plastic toothbrush with five limp bristles. Would it really kill you to spend the extra $1.49 to hook me up with a toothbrush that I'd actually consider using for something other than cleaning my sink? You and I both know you're going to charge my insurance company more than enough to cover the cost.

See you in six months,

Jack

St. Patty's Day Fun

Last night Jack and I celebrated our first St. Patrick's Day together. We did this not by dressing up as leprechauns or drinking green beer, but by bike shopping. Isn't that what everyone does on St. Patty's? No?

Well, spring is almost here, and I talked Jack into getting a bike so we can gallivant around town together this summer, enjoying the fresh air and a good workout. (Plus, I bet he'd look adorable in spandex.) Anyway, the thing is, Jack met me at a time where I wasn't my active self. A few short summers ago, I'd spend my weekends biking 20-30 miles a day, with a ride or two during the week as well. But then I got injured (non-bike related, non-diva-dance related) and all but stopped working out. That's when Jack and I met. This is only important because last night Jack was very concerned about my bike knowledge: "Until a few minutes ago, I didn't realize I had brought Lance Armstrong with me!" I think he said that when I told him that it wasn't the smartest idea to pick out a bike based solely on color - something he was considering doing.

As Jack rode the model bikes around the store he kept telling me in a very excited voice, "I can't believe how light this thing is! I mean, it's sooooo light!"

"When was the last time you rode a bike, the late 80s?"

"Maybe."

"Yeah, surprisingly they've made some improvements since then," I smirked.

"Ooh! Know-it-all-Jill with her fancy bike knowledge. Who are you? Where is my girlfriend?!"

When he asked if his new not-yet-purchased bike would fit in the back of his car, I suggested he get a bike rack instead.

"That's a little much, don't you think? I don't think I'm ready for a bike rack."

"READY for a bike rack? What does that even mean?"

"Well, next thing I know you'll be telling me we need to move to Wyoming and get a Subaru."

I'm actually kind of scared to go biking with him...I have a feeling he'll throw a fit if the bike gets dirty or something. Maybe he should just stick with dance?

Jack Goes to Diva Dance Class

Word up. It's me, Jack. A few weeks ago I got a Community Education course guide in the mail. I casually paged through the various class offerings and stopped when I spotted the following title: Dance Funk Diva Routines. The description of the class read something like this: "Have fun and burn some calories while learning the dance routines from today's hottest songs."

So naturally I signed up.

Looking back, I have no idea what I was thinking. Probably something like, "this will be a funny story to write about" or "I hate my treadmill" or "ever since I saw Save the Last Dance, I've secretly wanted to be one of Janet Jackson's back-up dancers."

Well last night was my first class, and...Houston, we have a problem!

7:03 pm - As I listen to my 24 classmates introduce themselves (e.g., "My name is Jasmine. I'm 22 and a senior at the U. I've been taking dance classes for 8 years. My favorite type of dance is ballet.), I realize a few things: (a) I'm one of only two dudes in the entire class; (b) spandex tights are apparently back in style; and (c) I picked the wrong night to rock sweat pants and an ironic mustache (i.e., I looked like a pervert).

7:05 pm - "Hello. My name's Jack. I'm....umm...29ish. I work in an office. I've never really taken a dance class. Wait, I take that back: I had two weeks of square dance lessons in elementary school. Oh, and also my friend Trevor taught me how to sorta moonwalk in 8th grade. My favorite type of dance is...umm...break."

7:08 pm - Our instructor explains to us that we're going to begin with some "basic moves to get stretched out." She puts on an R&B song (Ray J, I think) and most of the class - including yours truly - follows along.

7:15 pm - Once I was "stretched out" (i.e., tired), I was made aware that it was now time for us to learn our first routine: "Tonight we're going to learn the dance to Fergalicious by Fergie."

In an effort to repress as many memories as possible - and to keep this brief - I'm not going to subject you to a minute-by-minute blow of what happened next. Let's just say that at approximately 7:30 I found myself on all fours doing double-time booty pops while "t-t-t-t-t-tasty, tasty" blasted from a beat-up boom box.

At around 7:45 I was being taught how to "shimmy" my chest while hearing my way-too-chipper instructor sing out loud, "And he be lining down the block just to watch what I got." Right before class ended, our instructor left us with this news: "Now be sure you go home and practice. Next week you'll all be asked to perform this routine in front of the rest of the class."

Worst. Decision. Ever.

Moral of the story: don't take Community Ed classes. Especially ones titled Dance Funk Diva Routines.

It's a Jack-Attack!

Last night I had a session with a personal trainer. Ironically, this man's name also happened to be "Jack", though he was not nearly as adorable as my Jack. (Just ask Jack - he'll tell you himself, even though he's never seen Personal Trainer Jack in his life.)

Anyway, somehow I got suckered into this thing, which wasn't such a bad thing since it resulted in the best workout I've had since the late 90s, but what's funny is what happened when I told Personal Trainer Jack that my boyfriend is also named Jack. At first he was just like "oh, yeah? Cool." Fast forward to the end of the session and he starts asking things like, "So, how long have you and your boyfriend been together?" and "is it going pretty well then, or what?" and so on and so forth.

I told my Jack about this, and he was like "he was hitting on you!"

Yes, yes he was.

This morning he mentioned it again, jokingly, and I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. You see, whenever Jack gets hit on (and this happens a little more often than I'd like--it's flattering until it gets annoying), he makes up some excuse for the girl, just to drive me nutty:

"Honey, I don't think she was asking if I had a girlfriend because she wanted to date me. I bet she was doing a sociological study about relationships or something. She's just academic is all!" or "She didn't call me hot and then ask me out for drinks because she was romantically interested in me, she's just looking for more friends....who happen to be attractive..."

These excuses used to be genuine naivety on Jack's part. Never in my life have I met anyone more clueless about a woman's intentions and ability to manipulate. I had to give Jack some serious schooling on just how awful (creative?) we women can be when we see something/someone we want. At any rate, despite this extensive education, Jack still likes to say things like this just to get me riled up...and sadly, it always works.

So this morning when he mentioned Personal Trainer Jack again, I said, "Honey, I think he just wanted to make sure I was in a healthy, happy relationship so that my fitness will in no way be compromised. He's looking out for my health!"

Outraged, Jack replied: "HEY! That's the kind of stuff I say---you can't say it!"

"Why not?"

"Because when you say it, it's not even genuine. I really am that naive," he whined, trying to hide a little smirk.

"YEAH RIGHT! You just don't like that I'm using your own tricks against you!"

Then he just made a pouty face and threatened not to kiss me goodbye. But I got my kiss, don't you worry. I also got a new strategy for dealing with his nonsense, and I have to say, I am pretty happy about it.

Jack says: For the final time, I WAS NOT BEING NAÏVE. When that girl at the bar asked if I could "help her get out of her pants," she did NOT have an ulterior motive. Her pants were quite form-fitting, Jill, and I could tell that she was starting to get genuinely concerned about cutting off circulation to her feet. I mean...if a girl was choking and asked me do the Heimlich maneuver, would you accuse her of trying to get me to wrap my arms around her?

Health Nut Jack

I'm not sure I've mentioned this, but Jack is a very health conscious eater. He is convinced he is semi-diabetic and will have his first heart attack at the age of 40, and these fears keep him chomping on spinach and whole grains and all that good stuff. Now, I'm vegan, and while you can certainly be a very unhealthy vegan (think Coke & french fries for every meal), I'm actually a healthier eater now than I was in my omnivore days. But while my main question prior to eating anything is "are there animal products in this?", Jack's first question is always "is this going to clog my arteries and send me into immediate cardiac arrest?" Or at least that's what I imagine his first question is.

Ok, where am I going with all this?

Butter. Yes, butter. So, Jack mentors this kid at a local junior high, and he went there for an assembly a couple weeks ago. The assembly was supposed to teach kids about dog sledding (not up my alley, but whatever) and how the mushers survive in impossibly cold temperatures. Because mushers need to consume a lot of calories to stay warm, they said they eat things like entire blocks of cheese or sticks of butter in one sitting. So, as a contest, they had 3 students compete to see who could eat a stick butter first. Three chubby kids volunteered and went to town.

Whenever Jack tells this story, you would think that the assembly was about "how to dismember a toddler in 3 minutes" or something. He was so horrified. He wanted to run up on stage and stop the kids from doing this. He waited & waited for a teacher to intervene. And no one did...and so a sweet little toddler was dismembered entire sticks of butter were consumed before his very eyes, bite by buttery bite.

He was outraged. "If my kid went to that school and ate a stick of butter, I'd be on the phone so fast!.....No, I'd drive down to the principal's office to complain! Maybe I'd start a protest or something. I mean, that was one of the most outrageous things I've ever seen in my whole life!"

Me? I was just annoyed it wasn't vegetable based margarine.

Getting Our Zen On! (Sort Of)

Hi, it's me, Jill. I'd like to tell you a little story about last night. Sometime last week I asked Jack if he would be up for going to a meditation class with me. I have always wanted to try it but just never done it (that's what she said). Since he is pretty adventurous, he said yes. So last night was meditation date!

A couple things you should know: Jack and I are not very patient people. It hasn't really been a problem in our relationship so far because a) it's not like we're impatient with each other (usually), and b) we're both quite aware of the fact that we could improve ourselves in that regard, so I think we both make something of an effort. His parents are routinely asking me how I manage with his lack of patience, and honestly it hasn't been that bad except when he's behind the wheel of a car. Then WATCH OUT. One time, we were behind a woman in the left turn lane, waiting to turn left onto a one way street. You can turn left onto a one way on a red light, you see. But this poor woman didn't know that. I thought Jack was going to lose it for the 15 seconds we sat there. After the turn, he actually pulled up next to her and had her roll down her window so that he could tell her "you know, you can turn left on a red light there because you're turning onto a one way". Her English seemed limited, and she just said "no, no, no", and drove off. Jack felt like he had performed a public service. I felt like I should duck and hide from embarrassment.

Anyway, because I would like to work on my patience, and because so many people recommend meditation for those of us who are Type A (him) and moderately insane (me), I decided this would be a good thing to check out - for both of us. Jack agreed to go, but afterward, he definitely disagreed on the benefit of meditation in helping him build some patience. "That is the WORST way I could try to improve my patience. I sat there frustrated the whole time. I mean, when he said look at the floor but un-focus your eyes, what did that mean? It's physically impossible."

"Well, I think you missed the point, honey..."

"Point? You think there was a POINT to that nonsense? Was the point to BE DRIVEN INSANE?"

"Um...no. But I actually meant that I think you missed the point on the not focusing thing. You know how if you focus on something your eyes will start to hurt? Well, they don't want you to do that because it sort of defeats the purpose of relaxing, you know?"

"But how am I supposed to NOT focus my eyes? They're MADE to focus. That's how I can SEE."

At this point, honestly, I was losing my patience with dear Jack. I mean, he just refused to admit that maybe you could look into space and NOT focus, but lots of Buddhist monks everywhere would disagree with him. And I was disagreeing with him because I am disagreeable.

The moral of the story is that Jack won't be going back to the Zen Center any time soon. Instead, I think he'll just continue to enlighten people on traffic laws where ever he goes. Because if he doesn't, WHO WILL?

Jill Knows Her A-B-Cs

Hola. Jack here. Normally my posts are rather light (i.e., stupid). But today’s is quite heavy: Jill has a serious problem, and I’m not sure how to help her.

What is Jill’s ailment, you ask? She can’t stop spelling words out loud.

It all started innocently enough. Jill’s dog can’t spell, you see. So when Jill wanted to slip something by Spot, she’d spell it out.

“After lunch, maybe we should take him to the p-a-r-k?”

Or, “since it’s 3:00 a.m. and snowing outside, I think it’s your turn to take him out for a w-a-l-k?”

Recently, however, there have been a couple of disturbing developments. First off, Jill is starting to think Spot has a bigger vocabulary than he does. I think Spot’s vocabulary consists of six words: treat, water, out, walk, park, and potty. Jill thinks Spot’s vocabulary consists of thousands of words, including m-e-d-i-c-a-t-i-o-n and g-r-i-l-l-e-d-t-e-m-p-e-h. And quite frankly I’m not the best speller, so it’s getting hard to keep up.

Secondly – and most disturbingly – Jill has started spelling words out loud even when Spot isn’t around. Last week the two of us were dining at a nice restaurant when Jill casually asked, “Will you give me a back rub tonight after I take Spot out for his w-a-l-k?” Concerned – and confused – I quickly checked under the table to see if Spot had in fact actually sneaked inside the restaurant without me noticing.

I wish I was making this up. But I’m not. Please help.

To Stink or Not to Stink?

Jack washed my winter parka earlier this week, because, as he so delicately put it, "you look like you work at Jiffy Lube". You'd think I could wash my own, and you'd be right, but Jack tends to feel a greater sense of urgency as it pertains to cleanliness, as it were. So anyway, he washed my Jiffy Lube parka, and then returned it in a plastic bag the next day.

Last night I opened that plastic bag and decided that clearly he had put the jacket in there without fully drying it, resulting in a "damp" smell - you know the kind, right? I made him smell it and he detected nothing (or CLAIMED to detect nothing), so I let it go, even though I was pretty sure it was stinky. Later in the evening I felt a little bad for accusing him of doing an inadequate job while doing a favor for me, so I texted him, "I'm sorry I said my coat smelled. It doesn't. Thank you for washing it."

His reply?

"I figured out what probably smelled funny to you: cleanliness. :-)"

Sadly, I think he has a point. Either that or he's trying to make me stinky to deter all my other suitors? Tough call.