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.