Jack and Jill Online

Did I Just What??

2010-04-19T15:52:00.003-05:00

The other morning I got up to take Spot out to relieve himself. When I returned, a half sleeping Jack asked, “did you just poop?”

“Did I just poop?”, I asked, wondering if he had really just asked me that.

“Yeah, I want to know if YOU just pooped,” he replied, sarcastically. “No, I said, 'did he just poop?'.”

“Oh, yeah, he pooped. I didn’t, in case you were wondering, though.”

“I wasn’t and I’m still not, thanks.”

The Moment I Knew

2010-01-06T19:10:00.006-06:00

In all my past relationships, I’d at some point have moments where suddenly I’d think “wow, this guy is a real d-bag.” Those moments were usually precipitated by certain events…like him saying something really insensitive, or, you know, cheating. Things like that. I’ve heard, though, that when you are very much in love, you will instead have a moment where you stop and think to yourself “wow, I think I could actually spend the rest of my life with this person.” Friends of mine have stories about these moments:

“It was when he told me he couldn’t imagine his life without me. I just knew we were perfect together!”

“It was when he met my INSANE family, and he actually managed to charm them.”

“It was when my grandpa died, and he was the most supportive person ever – I knew then that I could spend the rest of my life with him.”

Sweet, right?

Well, guys, I think I had my “moment” last week with Jack. Here’s the story:

I had the week off work, so of course I spent my time wisely—largely by sleeping half the day away. Poor Jack had to work, but had stayed the night at my house. He was quiet as a mouse getting ready so as not to wake me….until he needed 2 things:

First, he walked into my room and loudly said “Jill, are you OUT OF PEANUT BUTTER?” The rage was evident in his voice – a house without peanut butter is to Jack what a house without Spot is to me. Unacceptable. But, yes, I was out of peanut butter.

Twenty minutes later he returned to my room to share this: “So…um, your toilet is kind of clogged. I’ve spent about half an hour trying to fix it with no success. I can’t take it anymore, so I threw some Drano in there and I was hoping you could try to un-clog it when you get up.”

Oh, really? Well that sounds exactly like what I had in mind for my day off!

“Wait – you’re telling me that you clogged the toilet and now you’re LEAVING IT?” (This seems like a slightly harsh retaliation for running out of peanut butter, doesn’t it?)

“Well, yeah. I mean, I think it’s actually a problem with your toilet. There was nothing notable about what I was trying to flush, if you know what I mean. And I have to go to work.”

“Mmm-hmm, it’s obviously my toilet’s fault. OK. Well, have a good day at work. I’m going back to sleep.”

I went back to sleep, and a couple hours later got up, having forgotten all about our earlier conversation. Then I walked into my bathroom. This was the moment I knew that Jack and I probably have a future together. If you can walk into the bathroom where your partner has left a plunger sticking out of a toilet that HE clogged and not run away screaming, you probably have to admit that maybe you found someone special.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I knew.

Jack's Take:

After the "incident" Jill told me the following: "When you go #2, you should always flush before you begin to wipe. My toilet sometimes struggles when you ask it to flush your business and toilet paper."

Umm...so apparently whenever Jill poops, there's a half-time? Does an announcer's voice come over a loudspeaker and announce: "Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a 5 minute intermission."

Jill's toilet needs to be repaired. Period. Therefore, I don't feel too bad about leaving her toilet clogged with a plunger sticking out of it. It wasn't me, it was the toilet.

Being Green

2010-01-06T18:47:00.000-06:00

No, this isn't going to be about how to save energy or stop global warming or how to make friends with Al Gore. It's about something much more important: Me and The Hulk. Kind of.

Last summer, quite early in our courtship, Jack and I went to see the Pixar/Disney movie, Wall-E. As we walked through the lobby on our way in, Jack looked over at the life-sized Hulk replica and said, "Would you still like me if I were green?"

"Like the Hulk?"

"Yeah. Like, green skinned."

"Of course I would. Would you still like me?"

"Probably not."

"HEY! You can't say that."

"Why not?"

"Because I said I would still like you!"

"Well....would you be really big and muscular like the Hulk?"

"No, I think I'd just be green-skinned."

"Then I'll stick with my original answer."

"Why do I hang out with you?"

"Because I'm cool?"

"Well it's certainly not your modesty."

End scene.

As punishment I made him hold my hand during the whole movie. I think that showed him.

We All Do Nearly-Fatal Things Sometimes...

2009-11-16T11:44:00.003-06:00

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

2009-10-21T09:42:00.006-05:00

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

2009-10-15T18:51:00.007-05:00

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...

2009-09-10T11:51:00.005-05:00

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!

2009-09-01T10:53:00.000-05:00

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....

2009-08-26T09:20:00.000-05:00

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

2009-08-20T10:34:00.001-05:00

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

2009-08-16T10:39:00.009-05:00

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

2009-07-16T10:16:00.006-05:00

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

2009-06-26T10:58:00.002-05:00

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)

2009-06-09T11:58:00.003-05:00

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!

2009-06-03T10:43:00.006-05:00

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

2009-05-20T14:55:00.006-05:00

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

2009-05-15T07:48:00.001-05:00

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!

_________________
*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

2009-05-07T10:10:00.000-05:00

(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

2009-05-04T10:13:00.000-05:00

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!

2009-04-20T09:29:00.001-05:00

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

2009-04-17T07:12:00.000-05:00

(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

2009-04-16T07:28:00.000-05:00

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

2009-04-13T13:31:00.007-05:00

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!

2009-04-02T14:41:00.004-05:00

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

2009-03-25T14:30:00.003-05:00

"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

2009-03-23T14:39:00.004-05:00

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

2009-03-18T13:30:00.001-05:00

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

2009-03-12T13:08:00.000-05:00

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!

2009-03-07T11:23:00.000-06:00

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

2009-03-04T10:24:00.000-06:00

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)

2009-02-26T08:12:00.001-06:00

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

2009-02-23T14:43:00.001-06:00

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?

2009-02-19T10:55:00.000-06:00

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.

Jack Makes Himself Unavailable

2009-02-16T16:38:00.004-06:00

A while back I wrote a post about "Five Things that Boil My Blood."

I'd now like to add a sixth: when yoga instructors use the expression, "If it's available to you."

Here's an example:

- The instructor directs you into a fairly basic pose (e.g., Plank Pose*).

- You begin to feel good about yourself. "Hey, I got this. I can feel my core tightening. Good work, Jack."

- Then he or she drops a bombshell. "Now, if it's available to you, curl your left leg up towards your lower back and continue curling your left leg until it's resting on your right shoulder. Next, if it's available to you, curl your right leg up towards your lower back and carefully guide your leg through the space created by your left leg resting on your right shoulder. Then - and only if it's available to you - extend your left arm out in front of you until it's parallel with the ground, leaving you balancing your entire bodyweight on your right arm while your legs are coiled up in the shape of a poorly-made Bavarian pretzel. Remember, you should do this only if it's available to you."

There's just something about the expression that makes me want to go postal. It's just so...passive aggressive. Like it's a way for someone to say "there's no f'ing way you can do this" while at the same time sounding like they think you can do it.

Going forward, I think I'm going to use this expression whenever asking someone to do the near impossible. Hey, Jill, if it's available to you, win the lottery this weekend.
________________
* If you're not familiar with plank pose, imagine that you're about to do a push-up (i.e., your arms are fully extended).

Jill Adds: Every time we're doing yoga and an instructor says this after suggesting something impossibly difficult, Jack looks at me like he might go punch her--without fail, every time. It makes me giggle. Does that make me a bad girlfriend?

Ew, There's Poop in My Mouth!!?

2009-02-11T14:38:00.000-06:00

Not long ago, Jack and I were at a friend's wedding enjoying some vino when we both decided we had to go use the bathroom. He set his wine down outside the bathroom, and I had planned to take mine in. As I was walking in, he says "you shouldn't take that wine in there."

"Why?"

"Because it's not good for you."

"I beg to differ, wine is GREAT for me!"

"I mean the molecules of stuff that will get in there."

"Molecules?" (What? I didn't do well in science, get off my back.)

"Yeah...like, if you can smell poop in the bathroom, then when you open your mouth or if you bring a beverage in there, you're basically asking to eat some poop."

"But I don't want to eat poop!....Wait, is this another one of your schemes to get me to believe something ridiculous so you can tell all your friends later and make me look like an idiot?"

He took my glass and set it down on a nearby table, swearing that he was telling the truth.

"The reason we smell things is because there are all these molecules in the air. So if you open your mouth in that bathroom, you're ingesting anything that you can smell - like poop."

I left my wine outside, but refused to believe him until I could Google that shit (pun intended). And it turns out he's kind of right. This is unfortunate because 1) I don't like it when Jack is right and I am wrong, and 2) I don't want to eat poop. Ever. And now every time I go into a stinky public bathroom, my lips are sealed as tight as possible because all I can think about is that Poop is trying to get in using its clever molecules! Well I'm onto you, Poop (not literally, that would be gross), and I'm not letting you molecule your way into my mouth. TAKE THAT!

I Do What?? Getting to Know Myself...

2009-02-06T11:19:00.002-06:00

One of the interesting things about spending a lot of time with someone is that you end up learning more about yourself. Your partner will notice and (if you're as super lucky as I am) point out your odd little quirks - things that you've become so used to you hardly know you do it anymore. These are a few of the things Jack has pointed out in the past several months:

I have a strange tick where apparently I shake my head back & forth once very quickly, and I quote, "violently". This may explain why I have chronic neck pain, but that's another story. The thing is, I don't notice when I do this. Jack told me recently that for the first 6 months we hung out, he thought maybe I had a mild case of Tourette Syndrome. My own boyfriend thought I suffered from a nervous system disorder. I asked him why he didn't say anything sooner. He was like "well, I don't know, I just figured you didn't want to talk about it." BUT HE THOUGHT I HAD TOURETTE'S. That seems like something you'd mention, you know? Anyway, now every time I do this, he alerts me. I still don't notice, but maybe eventually I will. I'm weird.

I used to think that the reason I was always covered in bruises was just because I bruise easily. When Jack & I first started dating, he'd see a massive and dark bruise on my arm or something and say "WHAT HAPPENED? That looks awful!" I could never remember, which concerned him more. "I just bruise easily, that's all", I'd tell him. Turns out I am an unbelievable klutz. Like, how did I not know that before? The reason I have massive bruises is because I am always falling down or dropping something on my feet, or running into inanimate objects. Jack is kind enough to point this out each and every time.

I sweat. A lot. Even when it's not warm out at all. I find Jack's house to be unbearably hot most of the time. Sometimes I wonder if he is just trying to get me out of my clothes, if we're being honest. I mean, who has their house at 107 degrees F year round?

I sleep. A lot. So much so that Jack thinks I have suffered from mono for the past 8 months. If I had a dime for every time he's asked me "do you think you have mono?" I would have lots and lots of dimes, people.

As for Jack's behavior, I think I'm far too kind to point out his quirks. I mean, sure, he soaks the bath mat every time he emerges from the shower, but do I mention that every time it happens? No, I sure don't. And he puts his milk in the bowl before pouring his cereal, which I think is possibly the most bizarre thing I've ever seen - nobody does it that way, right? But I only mention that to him every OTHER time he does it because I'm nice like that.

Jack's Follow-Up: Unless you (a) don't have teeth, or (b) just prefer your cereal to be really soggy, you should always pour the milk in first. Trust me. Try it once, and you'll never go back.

Readers: What have YOU learned about yourself from your significant other? Did s/he think you had leprosy or something? Multiple personality disorder? Please share!

Jill Asks Jack About PMS

2009-01-30T13:34:00.001-06:00

Jill Asks: When will men finally acknowledge that PMS is real?!!

Jack Answers: This one's easy. I'll acknowledge that PMS is real as soon as you acknowledge that PNS is also real.

What's that? You've never heard of PNS? Well let me fill you in. PNS occurs only in males. It's caused by a change in hormones (i.e., testosterone) once a month. Symptoms of this serious syndrome include:

A biological need to not wear anything other than sweat pants and cut-off t-shirts.

A biological need to ask you if our butt looks big in said sweat pants and then sob uncontrollably when you ask a valid clarifying question like, "define big?"

A biological need to not eat anything other than potato chips and chocolate chip cookie dough vegan ice cream.

A biological need to then sob uncontrollably when you ask a valid clarifying question like, "does that carton say that a serving size is two quarts, or did you just come up with that on your own?"

A biological need to spend all day Sunday watching SportsCenter and re-runs of Chevy Chase movies on TNT (i.e., the male equivalent of spending all day Sunday watching It's Me or the Dog and re-runs of Renee Zellweger movies on Oxygen).

A biological need to then sob uncontrollably when you ask a valid clarifying question like, "How did Clark Griswold bank enough PTO to go on all of these vacations?" (i.e., the female equivalent of asking a valid clarifying question like, "Why does Bridget Jones own so many f'ing diaries?")

Sudden and painful cramps; these cramps typically occur when men are asked questions like, "Are you ready to go to Bed Bath and Beyond?" (Note: these disabling cramps are similar to the sudden and painful cramps that women suffering from PMS often experience when they're asked questions like "Are you ready to go to bed?")

So...as soon as you and your fellow ladies recognize the seriousness of PNS, we men will also recognize the seriousness of PMS.

Jill's Follow-Up: First of all, I would not put it past you to ask a clarifying question like "define big". This is why I refrain from asking you such things. Secondly, this post explains a lot about all your sobbing I've been putting up with all these months. Maybe scientists need to find a cure for this horrible malady because it certainly is negatively affecting my life. And lastly, I feel an extra bad case of PMS coming on RIGHT NOW. What coincidental timing, huh?!

Staycation Report, Part II: ToxiCleanse!

2009-01-26T21:57:00.000-06:00

For Staycation Report Part I, click here.

Jack is a pretty competitive person. And when I say that, I mean he is competitive about pretty much everything. For our second date, we played board games at his house, and he actually threatened to throw me out his 21st story window after I beat him. I think he was serious and maybe I should have run for my life at that point, but I didn't. So here we are: we compete over everything.

Jack and I both had full physicals a couple months back, and he even wanted to compete over that. "What was your cholesterol? I bet mine is lower"; "My potassium was SO good, the doctor was really impressed." Every single number he wanted to compare and compete. This is partially because Jack and I debate a lot over who has a healthier diet. I know that I'm the one with the healthier diet, but he can't accept that. Sure, his numbers were better than mine overall, but I chalk that up to genetics. Frankly, with my genetics it is amazing I'm not a raging alcoholic with diabetes and a weight problem, possibly also locked up in a mental institution. Oh, and I'd probably have a heart attack in that mental institution - because my genetics are THAT awesome. So the fact that my numbers are all within a healthy range is kind of amazing if you ask me.

Anyway, during our Staycation back in mid-December, Jack & I were each supposed to plan a day of activities. One of my chosen activities, because I am weird hippy and believe almost anything anyone tells me, was to go to this spa and get a ToxiCleanse. This means we went to this place and put our feet in buckets of water with some ion-cleansing-electro-magnetic-other-sciencey-words-that-confuse-people wristband thingy, and it purified our bodies over the course of a half hour (like magic!). The buckets of water turned murky with our toxins. Jack kept inspecting each bucket, proclaiming "your bucket is dirtier, you are so toxic!" and other comments like that. I insisted his was murkier, which he dismissed.

At the end, when the guy came to turn off our ToxiCleanse machines and dumped out the water, he said to Jack, "wow, yours is even dirtier than hers." I guess what I'm trying to say is I WON.

Jack's Two Cents: What the guy said was, "wow yours is even darker than hers." Darker, not dirtier. What Jill failed to mention was that each type of toxin had a different color (e.g., alcohol was black), so the fact that my water was darker does NOT mean that I'm more toxic. (It just means I drink more red wine, which is very good for your heart.) Jill's water included lighter but grosser and more dangerous toxins. Remember all of those white swirls that represented toxic flatulence (no, I'm not joking.) Didn't you also have flammable levels of yeast dripping out of your soles? I don't mean to be crude, but Jill's water was actually curdling!?!?! Hands down, I'm less toxic. So I win. End of story.

This just in: Jack makes things up. Love, Jill.

Five Things That Boil Jill's Blood

2009-01-22T09:32:00.000-06:00

My sincerest apologies for the delay in posting this. Due to the extremely large number of things that boil my blood, it was something of a challenge to get it down to a mere 5. So, without further adieu:

Invasion of my personal space. Sometimes I wish I could wear a large hula hoop around my mid-section everywhere I go. Maybe it'd be electrified too, so that should anyone try to get that close to my person they'd get a little shock. You see, I can't stand it when people crowd me - it drives me insane. Literally, I think I lose a little bit of my already fragile and questionable sanity. Jack has learned this over the past several months when he's invited me to crowded standing-room-only concerts. Having to prevent your girlfriend from beating the crap out of strangers who come just a little too close has proven to be a little much for poor Jack. It's possible I won't get these kinds of invitations anymore.

Pretentiousness. Ooh, you're rich and buy fancy things and go to fancy places, OOOHHHH! Get over yourself, okay? My personal opinion is that people who are all about wearing $300 t-shirts, and going to bars where the drinks are $20 a pop, must have pretty empty lives. I mean, just because you have a successful career, savings in the bank, and a small island in the Caribbean and all I have is this blog, $42.38 and some pocket lint doesn't mean you're better than me. So there!

When people argue with me about what I eat. I'm vegan. You're not. Hooray for you, I don't care! It really is unbelievable how many people like to make fun of my food choices. The worst part is how unoriginal most of the comments are: "You like pigs? I like pigs too - I LIKE TO EAT THEM" or "Hey, Jill, don't you ever get sick of just eating lettuce and tofu?" At least people could be creative about it. Or shut up. That would be nice too.

Karaoke. I know this is a weird thing to get upset about, but for crying out loud, have you heard some of those people sing? Nobody good ever does karaoke, and on the rare occasions that someone actually is good, I can't help but think: "SHOW OFF". (I'm mean, aren't I?)
Being Hungry. Jack will probably write a post someday called "Jill, the Hungry Monster" because, well, I become something of a monster when I'm hungry. I can't help it. I just get angry when I'm hungry. I kind of understand why people in developing countries start wars. If I were hungry all the time, I'd be pirating stuff too. Guaranteed.

(To read Jack's list, go here.)

Jack Takes a Stand Against Mantyhose

2009-01-15T12:31:00.000-06:00

Hi. Jack here. Remember that post I wrote about how comfortable I was with my masculinity? And how nothing I could wear or do would make me feel like less of a man?

Well, maybe I spoke to soon? Perhaps I’m not as progressive as I thought…because I just can't seem to get on board with mantyhose.

Fellas, am I being conservative or do mantyhose cross the line?

Ladies, what would your reaction be if your man started rockin’ some hosiery?

5 Things That Boil Jack's Blood

2009-01-07T15:49:00.013-06:00

1. Idiot Drivers
I could write an entire post about what constitutes an idiot driver, but let me just leave you with a few of the more vexing examples: (1) anyone who pulls out of a driveway without looking to the left, nearly runs you off the road, then slams on their breaks and waves you by like they’ve decided to “let you in,” (2) anyone who is driving while texting, shaving, or eating yogurt, and (3) anyone who automatically comes to a complete stop when the light turns yellow, even though the nose of their car is already in the motherfudgin’ intersection.

2. Being Redundant
Last week, Jill and I were playing a board game and the answer was, “women’s lingerie.” Really? Women’s lingerie? Thanks for clarifying. If the answer had just been “lingerie,” I would have been up all night trying to decide if it was men’s lingerie or women’s lingerie. Other redundancies that drive me batty: ATM machine (ATM stands for Automated Teller Machine, so we don’t need the extra machine, Einstein); close proximity (proximity means “close to”), past history, end result, and new beginning.

3. Naked locker room activities
This one’s pretty self-explanatory. The only time you should be in your birthday suit is when you’re showering. Once you exit the shower and get back to your locker, wrap a towel around your waist, OK? And if you insist on staying in the nude, must you floss your teeth while sitting directly next to me? What’s wrong with that wide open spot three feet away from me, Mr. Too Cool for Clothes? Also, if you’re going to sit there and comb your back hair, can you please put on something other than just your bright yellow Crocs?

4. People who call you because they missed your call
While Caller-ID is a great invention, it has led to the extinction of the purposeless call. I used to enjoy calling friends for no reason in particular. If they didn’t answer, I didn’t leave a message (because ─ get this ─ I didn’t have a message). Now, my getaway is never that clean. My friends notice that they missed my call, reason that I was too ill to leave a message, and call me back to see how many days I’ve got left to live. The resulting conversations are always awkward.

Friend: So, I saw you called. What’s up?
Me: Nothing.
Friend: No, seriously. What’s up? Are you sick?
Me: No. Nothing’s up. I feel fine.
Friend: Why’d you call then?
Me: No real reason. Just wanted to say “hey.”
Friend: Do you need to borrow our cotton candy maker?
Me: What?
Friend: It’s no problem. Really. I’ll drop it off tomorrow after work.
Me: Fine. Drop off your cotton candy maker. That’s obviously why I called.

5. Text “lingo” in work e-mails
Last week, a Vice President asked me to resolve an issue regarding one of her employees. After taking care of the issue, I left her a voicemail summarizing how the situation had been handled. The next day she sent me the following e-mail: Thx 4 the vm! Umm…would it have been that hard to write, “Thanks for the voicemail!” Those extra twelve characters were just too daunting?!?! If anyone sends me an e-mail using text-lingo, I secretly hope they end up getting carpal tunnel. I mean…WTF?

Honorable mention blood-boilers: nose hair, work potlucks, ear hair, any product that is packaged in an unpenetratable plastic case that requires an axe to open (e.g., an electric toothbrush head), people who sit directly next to you in a wide-open movie theater, people who sit directly next to you in a wide-open movie theater and then proceed to chomp their popcorn like it’s made out of peanut brittle, “crunk” ringtones, people who pee in the urinal directly next to you when the urinal two spots away is open, any commercial for any spray-on deodorant, airplane food, and people who sit in their car for eight minutes when they know you’re waiting for their parking space.

Next week: 5 Things that Boil Jill’s Blood

Love in an Elevator

2009-01-06T14:41:00.000-06:00

The other day, Jack and I are standing in his elevator, getting ready to leave his place. He was looking dapper, heading off to a football watching party. I was headed home to take a nap after a long night of drinking adult beverages. I turn to him and say "you look really cute today", to which he replies, "so do you."

A moment passes, and then he says, "actually, no, I take that back."

"Um...what?"

"I mean, you look fine, but you don't look really cute. I shouldn't give compliments if I don't really mean them. It's an impulse."

"Right. Insults are much nicer, honey! Thank you!" Then I proceeded to pout.

"No, I mean....it's only natural that when someone pays you a compliment, you want to say 'you too', but sometimes it's insincere. So anyway, you look alright, but I wouldn't say really cute. That's all I'm saying."

What can I say, he is a charmer - and he's all mine!

Happy New Year!

2008-12-31T11:05:00.003-06:00

Hey everyone! We just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year - have fun tonight & be safe. We're headed out on the town in sub-zero weather, so our biggest concern is frost-bite, but we're taking our chances anyway so that we can dress up and hold signs and/or wear tacky hats saying "HAPPY NEW YEAR". Somebody's gotta do it.

We promise that real posts will resume after the New Year. For real. Have a good one!

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-25T10:19:00.000-06:00

Staycation Report, Part I: When Jack Sold Jill Out

2008-12-24T08:17:00.000-06:00

This past week Jack and I were on vacation. More accurately, we were on STAYcation. That's what you do when the economy is so bad you're not sure if you'll have a job next month, your student loans feel suffocating, and all you care about is being together anyway so why bother traveling? (Cue "awwww"s and vomiting). Instead of going somewhere sunny where we could sit on the beach and drink martinis all day long, we opted to stay in the frozen tundra we call home, where we were treated to several days in a row of below zero temperatures (you can see how happy we were with that to the right). Spot was also less than thrilled with the weather, but pleased as pie (can pie be pleased?) to have so much attention all week.

Anyway, Jack and I have a number of stories to share about our staycation, but one I'd like to discuss first is a trip we took to a local comedy club. Somehow when I bought my tickets I must have specified FRONT ROW because that's exactly where we ended up. This made me nervous immediately because comics sometimes like to mock the people in the front. I don't like to be mocked, you see, which I know is quite a unique characteristic.

About 30 minutes in to the main act, the comedian hadn't made fun of anyone yet, so I started to feel a little more comfortable. Well, it was that and the wine, which will always put a girl at ease (and make a girl easy - ba-dup-dup-dup - I'm here all week folks! Hahaha!).

HOWEVER. At one point, the comic - a lady - said something to the effect of "you men know how we women can be a little crazy at times...". Suddenly I feel Jack's hand leave my shoulder. In horror, I watch as he raises it above my head, almost in slow motion, and POINTS down at me, while sporting a huge grin. Did I mention we were in the front row? EVERYONE stared at me, and the comic even pointed out Jack's "hilarious" move - "look, this guy up here even pointed at his girlfriend!", she said. I think she did that just in case anyone in the entire room missed the fact that my boyfriend totally sold me out! I turned 16 shades of red.

Jack, of course, thought he was just about the funniest human being in the world. I elbowed him in the ribs and reminded him it's never a good idea to mess with crazy people. Muhahaha!

Jack's Two Cents

I must not have heard the comedian correctly. I thought she said, "you men know how women can be a little sexy at times." Sexy, not crazy. Sorry for the misunderstanding.

Jack Asks Jill About Women's Clothing

2008-12-21T19:31:00.000-06:00

Jack Asks: At what age do women decide to stop shopping in the "Juniors" section and start shopping in the Women's section? And why are so many of the clothes in the Women's section unflattering, dull, and sometimes downright hideous?

Jill Answers: This is a hard question. Are we supposed to ask each other hard questions? I thought this was just for fun? I have a headache.

Okay, okay, let's get on with it. I've actually often wondered this same thing. I mean, upon someday birthing a child, will I suddenly acquire a fondness for heavily patterned holiday sweaters and pleated pants? Will menopause bring with it a penchant for muu-muus and bad haircuts? Do older men suddenly become attracted to this type of attire and that's why women wear it? Will I have to wear gigantic white cotton underwear too?

Okay, I know that last one has you hyperventilating since you almost lost it when I said I might purchase some Spanx. Calm down for a minute.

Anyway, here's what I've come up with as an answer to your question -- I used to try get my mom (who is pretty young for a mother of a 32 year old) to wear hip, cute clothes. She'd put them on and I'd ooh and aah over how awesome she looked. Then she'd scrunch up her face in the mirror, tug on the "tight" shirt, and say she felt fat or that she looked like she was "trying too hard to look young". You see, there are a couple of things to know about my mom: 1) she used to be a size 4; 2) she used to be quite the snazzy dresser in her day. She's not a large woman now, but she's certainly no size 4, 32 years and 4 kids later, you know? I think in her mind she feels like she can't dress trendy anymore because she doesn't look how she used to look. This, to me, seems absurd. Is she a tiny 20 year old size 4? No, but that doesn't mean she can't look cute & trendy. I mean, I'm not encouraging her to wear mini skirts and tube tops here, just to wear shirts that, oh, I don't know, FIT. Instead, a lot of the time she masks her no longer size 4 body in XXL sweat shirts. Ridiculous, I say!

So...what's my point? I am guessing that sometimes women feel like if they don't look like they did when they were 20, they should dress "more appropriately". The problem here is that their idea of "more appropriately" isn't really....appropriate. Flaunt what yer mama gave you, right? Just because you're 50+ years old and gravity has taken a toll doesn't mean that you can't be a hot mama! Right?

That's what I'm going with, because I plan to squeeze my ass into corset tops and stripper heels even when I'm 50. That seems like a good idea, right? Maybe that's not exactly what you meant....

Jack Follows-Up: For the record, older men DO NOT suddenly become attracted to heavily patterned holiday sweaters, pleated pants, or gigantic white underwear that could also be worn as bike shorts. Also, the idea that older women "don't want to dress too young" confuses me. Who said anything about trying to look young? Just try to look attractive, OK? And by "try to look attractive," I mean try to never, ever, ever wear mom jeans.

House Rules

2008-12-15T11:45:00.000-06:00

I spend a decent amount of time over at Jack's place, so over the course of the past few months, I've gotten fairly comfortable there. He is nice enough to let me bring my dog, Spot, along anytime I come over, and he doesn't fuss about how the second we enter his place, Spot runs into the bedroom and makes himself at home right on Jack's pillow. Ok, he fusses a little bit, but not as much as he surely could.

Anyhoo, while I feel very welcome at Jack's, there are also a few things I've learned about him that were surprising at first. For starters, there are strict rules regarding the toilet paper:

Toilet paper must be positioned such that the user pulls sheets off from the top, sometimes referred to as "over", as opposed to "under". Should toilet paper be replaced in such a way that it does not comply to this standard, the replacer shall be promptly notified and must remedy the situation immediately.
Should a user need to replace a roll of toilet paper, there is a conveniently located roll near by in a place called "on deck". If the replacer uses the on deck roll to replace the original roll, that person is bound by law (under threat of severe punishment by Police Officer Jack) to additionally replace the "on deck" roll. Replacements for "on deck" rolls can be found in the hall linen closet.

And those are only the ones I've learned so far - there may very well be additional rules that have not yet been communicated to me. About TOILET PAPER.

Other rules I've picked up on include:

If you make fun of the contents of Jack's fridge, you lose the privilege of consuming whatever might be in there.
If Jack says he's going to cook for you HE DOES NOT WANT YOUR HELP AT ALL. Don't you dare try to help him chop vegetables or do anything even remotely helpful. Even if it takes what feels like an eternity, don't get any ideas - he will do it himself!
Do not assume that just because Jack lives there, he wants to clean up after you.
Do not get mascara stains on his bath towels. For some reason he did not like this the first 100 times I did it. I thought he'd get used to it, but he never did.
Do not let Spot poop on the white carpet.
Should Spot poop on the white carpet, don't say "meh, you have other stains anyway".

So I guess you could say he's pretty uptight. It's a good thing I'm so flexible and caring, because I've learned to accept these little quirks about him. He's had it easy by comparison - I hardly have any house rules. Spot has several, like "I get to go where ever I want when ever I want and feed me now and then take me out and then I want a biscuit and now let's take a nap and gimme some attention and rub my belly, and then TAKE ME ON ANOTHER WALK!" Easy, right?

Jack Asks Jill: Why is it OK for You to Wear My Clothes?

2008-12-09T09:33:00.001-06:00

Jack Asks: Why is it more acceptable for a girl to wear something from her boyfriend’s closet than it is for a boy to wear something from his girlfriend’s closet?

Jill Answers: Um, have you seen how adorable I am in your sweatshirts? HAVE YOU? Well, I think that answers why it's acceptable for a girl to wear something from her boyfriend's closet. On the other hand, have you seen the size of my t-shirts? If you put one of those babies on (have you?? be honest, honey, I won't judge you), you'd look sort of like this:

Only probably worse since most of my shirts involve a deep V-neck cut so as to show off "the girls" [read: boobies!]. (In case you all are wondering, that shirt says "I [HEART] FASHION", which is what most of my t-shirts say, obviously.)

Anyway, the point is that I'm cute and you are too but maybe just not in my clothes. Or any girl's clothes. Come to think of it, you asking this question mere days after you tried to convince me (okay, succeeded in convincing me) that Victoria's Secret had opened up a store for men, selling lacey boxers and what not, I am starting to wonder if I should be concerned. Am I not reading the signs? Somebody send help.

Jack Follows-Up: Your response is far-from-satisfying, Jilly. And for the record: no where in my question did I state that I WANTED to wear girls clothes. I was just noting that there seems to be a double-standard that deserves to be called out. If a girl wears a guy’s shirt, why is it considered “cute” as opposed to “butch”? And to be honest, I just asked you this question in the hopes that you’ll return some of the hoodies, sweatpants, boxers, etc. that you’ve ~~borrowed~~ stolen from me.

Jill Asks Jack: What's Wrong with Briefs?

2008-12-05T09:54:00.001-06:00

Jill Asks: Why do men prefer boxers over briefs? I happen to think that briefs are quite adorable and yet most men refuse to wear them. Flaunt what your mama gave you, I say! But seriously, why do men have such an negative/surprised reaction when I say, "I like briefs on a man"?

Jack Answers: Before we begin, let's make sure that we're all on the same page. When I reference "briefs," I'm talking about tighty-whiteys, OK? I'm not talking about boxer-briefs, as those are more like boxers than briefs (and boxer-briefs happen to be my underwear-of-choice, thankyouverymuch).

I also want to state up-front that there is a notable exception to the Boxers Over Briefs Rule: working out. Running, jumping, etc. while wearing boxers is about as fun as getting softly kicked in the junk over and over again, so every guy should own at least a few pairs of briefs for when he's physically active.

Now that the nomenclature is clear, let's get to the main point: there are only two types of dudes who should wear briefs on a regular basis: (1) dudes over 50, and (2) dudes who wear really, really, really tight pants. That's it. End of story.

Since I've been in my share of health club locker rooms over the years, I estimate that I've seen roughly 500 different men over the age of 50 in their underwear. And guess how many of them have been wearing briefs? Every. Single. One. Their commitment to briefs is impressive. So impressive that it's become a part of the uniform for the 50+ club. "Oh, look, he's wearing briefs; he must be one of us." Similarly to how I don't want to wear the same style of jeans that my dad wears, I don't want to wear the same style of undies, either.

The only other time it would make sense to wear briefs is if your pants were so tight that the excess boxer material bunched up and made it look like you were wearing a diaper. But since I don't wear TIGHTS to the office, this isn't really a concern of mine.

One other point worth noting: briefs look A LOT like girls' underwear (e.g., the "boy cut" panty at Victoria's Secret looks exactly like a pair of briefs). So maybe your obsession with briefs points to a bigger underlying issue that the two of us should discuss offline, perhaps?

In summary, if you're a fan of briefs, deep-down you're probably attracted to old men, really tight pants, and/or women.

Jill's Follow-Up:
Dear Jack,

There's something I've been wanting to tell you: I think maybe I'm attracted to old women in tight pants. I've thought a lot about your response to this question and I see no other possibility. I thought you should know.

Love, Jill.

New Feature Coming on Jack & Jill!

2008-12-03T08:37:00.001-06:00

Hi there. We'd like to get you all hot and bothered about something. We've decided to start a new feature here on J & J. Well, it's kind of two new features, but the concept for each is the same:

Jack Asks Jill

Jill Asks Jack

Basically we'll be posing questions to each other, which are to be answered by each party in such a way as to speak for that party's entire gender. Simple, right? Yep, Jack will ask Jill things about women and Jill will ask Jack about men and whatever we say is representative of all men and all women.

I think this will be a winner.

If anyone out there would like to suggest a question or topic, we are open to borrowing and/or outright stealing your questions, so feel free to put them forth!

If Jack Killed Spot...

2008-12-02T10:29:00.000-06:00

Jack had a dog when he was growing up, but he's never had a pet as an adult. I've had a kitty of my own since I was 21, and have had my dog, Spot, for about 4 years now. He is one of the greatest joys in my life. He is like my baby, and I can't imagine my life without him.* I think the intensity of my feelings for Spot has at times been surprising to Jack (and basically everyone else), and perhaps difficult to understand, but Jack has been a great sport about letting Spot be a part of the time we spend together.

Recently, Jack even started taking the leash when we take Spot for a walk. On one of these occasions, he let Spot get a little too close to running out into traffic for my comfort level (my little baby isn't the brightest about cars - he thinks they look like big dogs and wants to go play with them, I think) (Spot, not Jack). Um, anyway, after I screamed something like "OHMYGOD he just got really close to running into traffic! You have to keep him closer to you!", Jack asked the following question:

Do you think you'd break up with me if I let your dog get hit by a car?
If you were responsible for the death of my beloved dog, yes, that would probably be a deal-breaker.
Even if it was a huge accident and I felt TERRIBLE?
Well, I'm just not sure I could get over that, and I think I'd harbor some resentment toward you even if I knew you felt bad. Just don't do it, and we'll be fine, okay?

I don't think he liked my answer. I also don't think he remembered my answer because a couple weeks later he asked if he could take Spot off the leash so that he could chase bunnies better. In downtown. On a patch of grass the size of my bedroom. IN DOWNTOWN. I said no, which is good because moments later Spot almost dragged Jack out into traffic chasing one of those bounding bunnies.

What do you think? Could you forgive your boyfriend/girlfriend if s/he let your dog** get smooshed like a bug?

___________
* And no, I don't feel like a big loser for admitting that. Bite me.
** If you don't have a dog and/or don't like animals (i.e., you have no soul) (just kidding) (not really though), think of something else you love and use that for the example, please.

That Time Jill Got Sick

2008-11-27T07:00:00.000-06:00

I think you learn a lot about your significant other the first time you get sick. Over the past couple days, I have had a cold, and I have learned that Jack is desperately afraid of getting said cold. In fact, you would think I have Ebola or the monkey pox or something.

Don't get me wrong, he has been fantastic in a lot of ways during this time. When I was home from work, he took time out of his very busy day to bring me lunch, tissues, and orange juice. When I had to leave town earlier this week unexpectedly, he took care of Spot for me, and even did my laundry. I appreciate these things - A LOT. But for me there is nothing that can take the place of actually spending time together.

I should probably blame my mother for this. When I'd get the stomach flu as a little girl, she would stay up all night with me, holding my hair back each and every time I threw up. If I had a fever or a cold, she'd bring me cool washcloths and hold them on my forehead. To this day, if I call her when I'm sick, she asks if I'd like her to make a 7+ hour drive to come take care of me. I'm not kidding.

Then there's Jack. I have met his parents and I can't imagine that they would have locked him in the cellar when he came down with something, letting him come out only when he could prove the illness had passed....and yet, that's basically how Jack has turned out. And I suppose I either have to get used to it or cry until I get my way. I think I'll go with the latter.

Jack's Two Cents: I'd like to comment more about this post, but I'm too nervous to touch Jill's germy keyboard. I don't want to get the bird flu or whatever it is that she has.

Hypothetically Speaking...

2008-11-24T08:30:00.004-06:00

I need to tell you all something: Jack has a problem. It's a pretty serious problem and may someday result in a significant brain injury - because it's possible that eventually I'll kick him in the head.

You see, Jack LOVES throwing out impossible, ridiculous, and bizarre hypothetical situations to see what I'll answer. It seems this exercise can be prompted by any number of things, but usually is a result of me saying something absolute like "I will never eat meat ever again".

Enter Jack: "You'll never eat meat EVER again? What if the government imposed a law and you HAD to eat meat, and you could only choose 1 kind of commonly eaten animal to not eat. What would you pick?"

"That would never happen."

"But what if it did?"

"But why would the government make me eat something I don't want to eat? That doesn't even make sense. Why do they care what I eat??"

"Come on! You only get to pick one that you don't have to eat. You'd pick pigs, right?"

"I suppose, but it's never going to happen so I don't have to make a decision, now do I?"

Or sometimes I'll proclaim that I "hate" something - a real no-no in Jack's book - and I am berated with questions about hatred, even if I was just saying it willy-nilly. For example, if I say "I hate Paris Hilton and everything she stands for", Jack will create any number of scenarios in which perhaps I would NOT hate Paris Hilton.

"Would you hate her if the two of you were the only two people left on earth and you HAD to be friends?"

"Who would make us be friends if there's no one else left on earth?"

"Well, I mean if you really got to know her I bet you'd find she's a nice girl. You shouldn't say you hate her."

"But I do, is the thing. And we're not going to be the last two humans on the planet, so I don't have to worry about her changing my mind on that."

"Well, what if Spot were drowning and Paris Hilton risked her life and jumped into the ocean to save him? THEN would you hate her?"

I think it drives him nuts when I won't just answer, but as Kenneth on 30 Rock says: "I don't do hypothetical situations - that's like lying to your brain." Plus, it's kind of fun making him re-define the hypothetical again and again until he gets so frustrated he just stops. It's not a quick process, but eventually he gives up.

Jack's Two Cents: The people who now say "that would never happen" about mandated meat consumption are the same people who once said "that would never happen" when asked a hypothetical question involving a black president. Also, aren't you familiar with the importance of scenario planning, Jill? The first step in scenario planning is often to identify the worst or most unexpected scenario and then figure out how you'd respond in such a situation. When I ask you these hypothetical questions, you see, I'm really just helping prepare you to make the best decision when you actually find yourself stranded on an island with Paris Hilton. You will thank me one day.

Take Two: My Pantry Could Beat Up Your Pantry

2008-11-18T12:20:00.001-06:00

Jill's Take

I happen to like the feeling I get when I open my fridge or my pantry and see lots and lots of food in there. I like knowing that if I want to make something tasty for dinner, I probably have the ingredients to do so. Want some black bean tacos? Guess who can make them RIGHT NOW - me! How about some tomato basil pasta? I'll whip that right up, thankyouverymuch. I do spend a lot of money when I hit up the grocery store, and I surely buy more than I need, but I always, always have a well-stocked pantry - and eventually I'll eat all those cans of beans and tomatoes and vegetables and so on, so what's the harm?

Jack, on the other hand, is a firm believer in never having "extra" food in the house. Sometimes I wonder what he would eat if he got snowed in for a week. You know what he'd eat? Some crackers, peanut butter, and 43 different kinds of beverages. I laugh every time I open up his fridge because it's all very neatly organized by beverage type. On the right side we have the juice - grape, orange, etc; on the left is the milk (and soy milk for me!) and some organic healthy soda things. Below that we have bottled water. It's all lined up very nicely and you always know with just one glance what your options are. But they're ALL LIQUID, so if you think you're going to satisfy any kind of hunger at all, think again.

Bottom line: should there be a snow storm or a natural disaster of sorts, everyone who hasn't stocked up on their food (JACK) is going to be awfully hungry. Hydrated, sure, but still hungry. Meanwhile, I'll be smugly lounging in my house, eating something fabulous with not a care in the world.

Jack's Take

I have to admit: I just read Jill's take and it sounded rather rational. But then I remembered that Jill is notorious for leaving out key details.

Details such as...

- Jill often buys items at the grocery store only to return home and find that she already has 13 or 14 of the very item she just purchased. "Oh, I guess I didn't need to buy this can of black beans after all. It turns out I already have enough cans of black beans to open up a legume retail outlet."

- Jill has absolutely positively no idea what items are in the back of her refrigerator. For fun, I put a dog toy and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure in the way back of her fridge a few months ago. Of course she never noticed.

- Jill and I recently got blood work done and the stats don't lie: my cholesterol, sodium, etc. were lower. Now whenever Jill makes fun of my empty pantry or fridge, I point out the fact that most foods that can be stored for a long period of time have preservatives and/or additives. My pantry and fridge may look a little lonely from time-to-time, but that's just because I prefer to eat the fresh stuff. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

To Kill a Mocking Word

2008-11-13T09:34:00.010-06:00

I was at a party last month where I was approached by a married female coworker who had clearly been over-served (i.e., she was bombed). After noticing me in my tailored D&G suit, she came up to me and said the following: “I’ve seen you a few times around the office and you’re always dressed so great. Sometimes I wish my husband was gay. Or are you just a metrosexual?”

According to ~~the Bible~~ Wikipedia, a metrosexual is “a heterosexual man with a strong concern for his appearance, one whose lifestyle displays attributes stereotypically attributed to gay men.”

As a heterosexual man, this definition infuriates me beyond words. But I’ll try nonetheless.

What does my sexual preference have to do with my concern for my appearance? Nothing, I hope. I like to dress nicely. I’m comfortable wearing pastels. I have a 100+ pairs of shoes. And yet I love me some ladies.

Many of my straight friends often accuse me of being metrosexual. They say things like, “Nice lavender pocket square, dude. Did you borrow it from Clay Aiken?” These are my straight friends who wear pleated khakis, golf polos with the top button buttoned, and Oakley blades circa 1987. And these are the same straight friends who haven’t had a girlfriend since their sophomore year of college. So criticism from them doesn’t really bother me, since I know their (lack of) concern for their appearance just makes me look better to the other straight females out there.

Criticism from Jill, however, drives me insane.

I showed up at her house a few weeks ago wearing an uber-cool bright purple v-neck sweater and some matching purple high-top sneakers. I was ready for the runway. And yet I think the first comment out of her mouth was: “Wow, aren’t we looking very metrosexual today?” She also drops the m-word anytime I do any of the following things:

- Try on anything that's “slim fit”
- Get a facial or manicure*
- Comment that I like another guy’s outfit

To teach Jill a lesson, I’m tempted to show up at our next date wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a XXL Minnesota Vikings shirt. Or maybe I’ll just stop washing my face and clipping my fingernails. Perhaps then I’ll look more “manly.”

And while I’m on this rant, let me just state one more fact for the record: not all gay men are good dressers. Some gay men dress just bad as my aforementioned straight friends. And yet the stereotype persists. Which brings me back to the woman at the party who asked me if I was gay or simply metrosexual.

If I wasn’t such a gentleman, I would have slapped Ms. McDrunkyDrunk upside the head. (But of course I would have done so in such a way to ensure that I didn’t break one of my manicured* nails.)

* For the record, no, I don't get manicures. But I'm adamently opposed to the idea that someone who does get manicures is in any way, shape, or form less "manly."

So I'm Dating a Memory Murderer

2008-11-06T17:14:00.006-06:00

Jill and I were cruising around in my ~~‘64 Chevy Impala~~ ’06 Nissan Altima, listening to some smooth R&B, when Jazmine Sullivan’s new song "Bust Your Windows" came on. For those of you unfamiliar with said song, here’s a sampling of Ms. Sullivan’s lyrics:

I bust the windows out your car
You know I did it ‘cause I left my mark
Wrote my initials with the crowbar
And then I drove off into the dark

What happened next is what we in the business call a “red flag.” Jill started singing along with A LOT of passion in her voice. (Jill normally just hums along to the tune – typically because she doesn’t remember any of the words – so it seemed extremely alarming when she started channeling her inner-Jennifer Hudson to this particular song.)

The whole song is about the joys of damaging an ex’s property. And since Jill ended up singing the last two choruses at the top of her lungs (“I BUST THE WINDOWS OUT YOUR CAR”), I naturally had to ask her if she’d ever damaged an ex’s property.

I was thinking she might say something like “I stole his favorite CD” or “I rubbed his toothbrush in my armpit.” Clearly I underestimated her. What Jill admitted to doing can only be described by two words: pure evil. Here’s what she told me:

“I had an ex-boyfriend who went on a vacation with his new girlfriend. When he got back into town, we got together and he wanted to show me some of his photos. While I was acting like I was scanning through his pictures, I was actually deleting all of his photos from the memory card! He got pretty upset, but I just acted like it was an accident. And I have to admit I felt pretty good afterwards!”

Excuse me? Who does that? Someone who’s evil, that’s who.

What if he had a once-in-a-lifetime image stored on that memory card? What if it was a picture of him and his dying grandma? What is Jill going to do to me if we ever decide to go our separate ways? Wait a second…maybe her telling me this story is just her way of using a fear tactic to lock me down? Hmm…

Jill's Two Cents:

What Jack isn't mentioning is that this "new girlfriend" was procured prior to breaking up with the old girlfriend (i.e., ME). So, let's check the score:

This guy broke my heart into a million little pieces by cheating on me, then took pictures of them together and waved it in my face.
VERSUS
I deleted a few pictures of his [wildly unattractive] new girlfriend from his camera.

I'd say that made us STILL NOT EVEN CLOSE TO EVEN. But now I guess I probably shouldn't tell Jack all the follow up things I did to even the score. Sheesh! Ya tell a guy you destroyed a few memories and he gets all paranoid!

Also, I've decided not to leave my toothbrush unattended anymore. Are you pit-swabbing it?!?!?

Drop It Like It's Hot

2008-10-30T13:59:00.004-05:00

The other night, Jack took Spot out for his evening walk-slash-potty trip. When he came back in he said "Of course when I take him out he does a HUGE number 2!" I laughed because, well, poop is funny.

The next day, we were walking Spot together when my little doggy finds a nice patch of grass, squats, and drops a big one.

As I went to pick it up Jack goes, "Ewww, that is just like mine from last night!"

Shocked, I replied, "Did you just tell me about your poop?!?!" I wondered if we had somehow reached a new level of intimacy without my consent. I thought you had to be served papers or something if this kind of talk was going to start happening.

"HIS POOP THAT I PICKED UP LAST NIGHT", Jack retorted. "Why would I be describing my poop to you??"

Oh.

Well, he really should be more specific, shouldn't he?

You can imagine he had a hay day with that little misunderstanding.

Intelligent Email Exchanges

2008-10-23T08:20:00.000-05:00

Jack: [yadda yadda yadda unimportant stuff]. he - larry - us.

Jill: Who's Larry?

Jack: Sigh....sometimes you are so blond. Say "he – larry – us" as one word.

Jill: HAHAHAHA. Maybe I was joking. Did you ever think of that? (Sadly, I wasn't)

Best. Weirdest. Gift. Ever.

2008-10-20T08:29:00.001-05:00

I’m a big fan of giving gifts for no reason. And an even bigger fan of receiving gifts for no reason. And I’m an even bigger fan when the gift is a bit unusual.

Over the past few months, Jill has given me some very sweet gifts for no reason. A CD. A box of organic cereal. Even a new yoga mat.

But yesterday she gave me quite possibly the best-slash-weirdest gift I’ve ever received.

She gave me a tub of Playtex Femcare Personal Cleansing Cloths.

At first I was really confused. (Especially after I read the following description on the box: “Playtex Personal Cleansing Cloths help keep you feeling fresh and clean, even during your period. These super soft disposable wipes are incredibly gentle on your delicate skin.”) But then I remembered the entry I wrote a while back about wanting a bidet and the gift made a lot more sense.

I’m still not sure how comfortable I am having a Playtex Femcare box sitting on top of my toilet, but I can assure you that I’m going to find a way to test these “wet wipes” out for a while. Regular toilet paper just seems so uncivilized now.

Best. Weirdest. Gift. Ever.

Jill's Two Cents: Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking in encouraging this kind of neuroses. I am starting to get a little concerned about Jack. I think he has a problem, and now I've gone and made myself an enabler! Is it time for an intervention? Then again, do I really want to discourage personal hygiene? Seems like that could be slippery slope... Plus, you really should have seen how his little face lit up once he realized what the purpose of the gift was--like a kid on Christmas morning. Priceless.

Cooking for Two...Hundred

2008-10-15T08:00:00.001-05:00

Let me begin by stating the obvious: cooking for two is hard to do. I'm aware that most recipes are designed to feed four or more people. So when you're cooking for two, it's understandable if there are leftovers. But apparently my idea of "leftovers" is significantly different than Jill's idea.

My idea of leftovers: two pieces of lasagna to re-heat the next day

Jill's idea of leftovers: enough full pans of lasagna to feed a high-school football team.

For the record, I love it when Jill cooks for me. (As do my neighbors, their pets, and the homeless guys that live in the alley behind my condo.)

But these are the cold, hard facts:

- A couple of weeks ago I told Jill that I was in the mood for a meatball* sub. So we agreed to make them from scratch together. Based on the recipe she came up with in her head, we ended up rolling approximately sixty-two meatballs, give or take twelve.

- Last weekend Jill decided that she wanted to make vegan pancakes. To prove my theory that she tends to cook more food than any two reasonable adults could possibly eat in one setting, I made a point of trying to count each pancake that she made. I lost track at seventeen.

- Then came "pasta night." Jill's idea was to make a homemade pesto, which sounded great to me. When we went to the grocery store beforehand, however, I questioned Jill's insistence that we get THREE CUPS of basil. "Yep, I'm positive we'll need that much," she assured me. People, the next time you're at a grocery store, please make a point of noting how many leaves come in a one cup package of basil. And then please multiply that amount by three. And then remember that we were cooking a dish for TWO PEOPLE. I'm convinced I actually went into a "basil coma" that evening. I also had pesto breath for the next four days.

- Last night Jill innocently told me that she was going to "whip up something simple." When it was finally time to sit down, she served me a BBQ rib* sandwich, asparagus, corn on the cob, and enough sweet potato fries to feed a family of sixteen. After stuffing myself to the brim, I noticed that there were roughly eight ears of corn on the cob still available. Did I already mention it was just the two of us?

She's officially out of control.

If you or anyone you know has suffered from this serious condition known as "IsecretlywanttobeajuniorhighlunchladyandsoIcookmyproportionsaccordingly," please let me know of any possible treatments. Thanks.

_________________________
* Jill is vegan. So the meatballs were really veggieballs. And the ribs were really soy ribs.

This Conversation Really Happened

2008-10-12T06:58:00.001-05:00

Jill: (excitedly) Victoria's Secret was having a sale and I got 9 pairs of really cute undies for $50!

Jack: That's awesome. See, that's one way that men really do get kind of screwed.

Jill: (confused) Because you can't wear women's underwear?

Jack: (in disbelief)

Jill: (still confused)

Jack: No, because men's underwear are so much more expensive.

Jill: Oh. Yeah, that.

Making a List, Checking it Twice

2008-10-09T09:08:00.001-05:00

Remember that post I wrote about Free Passes? (If not, click here.) Well…based on suggestions from some of you, Jack (reluctantly) and I (more reluctantly) agreed to document our lists of celebrities we'll be able to hook up with guilt-free. And, of course, these lists wouldn't be complete without snarky commentary from each other, so here you go!

Jill's List (with observations by Jack):

1) Michael Vartan (photo)
Who? Is this guy even a celebrity? Or does he actually work at the falafel place by your house and you're just calling him a celebrity so you can have a free pass? I'm on to you, woman.

2) Christian Bale (photo)
Umm…search "Christian Bale The Machinist" and tell me if you still feel the same way. You can hook-up with any celebrity in the world and this guy made your Top 5? Seriously?

3) David Beckham (photo)
I hate to break it to you, but hooking up with Mr. Beckham would NOT automatically make you a member of the Spice Girls.

4) Matt Damon (photo)
I'm sure his WIFE AND TWO KIDS will be flattered by how much interest you have in their HUSBAND and DADDY. Home-wrecker.

5) Tom Welling (photo)
This dude is best-known for playing a character who wears head-to-toe spandex. Enough said.

Jack's List (with observations by Jill):

1) Norah Jones (photo)
If I say something bad about your precious Norah I have a feeling you'll toss me out like yesterday's trash....so I'll go ahead and leave this one alone.

2) Beyonce (photo)
Does it make you sad that instead of hooking up with you, she's married to someone who looks like this? I mean, that guy is UG-LY. Talented, but not much to look at. Anyway, it would make me sad, that's for sure. Although this probably increases your chances with her should you ever find yourself with an opportunity....crap.

3) Scarlett Johansson (photo)
Oh, honey, Scarlett? Really? This is very upsetting to me. This girl thinks that Barack Obama actually emailed back and forth with her. In all his free time. Right. And they're engaged too. I actually think all those blond jokes were written about her specifically. And if you try again to convince me that she's smart because Woody Allen says so, I'm going to remind you that he's super old and she has big boobies. The end.

4) Alicia Keys (photo)
Your list is starting to make me wonder if you realize you're dating the palest, blondest girl in America who can't sing or play any kind of musical instrument. You do know I don't have any musical talents, right?

5 - tie) Jessica Alba (photo)
YOU DON'T GET SIX. Let's just get rid of Scarlett and keep these two, huh? Wait a minute - she has a baby - who's the home wrecker now?!

5 - tie) Zooey Deschanel (photo)
YOU DON'T GET SIX. Cheater! If you meet Zooey you only get to hug her. Same with Jessica Alba - since they apparently are only half of a person each. HUGS ONLY. Your little plan just backfired!

Darth Vader Does Hot Yoga

2008-10-07T10:27:00.000-05:00

I love yoga. I really do. Not only is it a good workout, but it has a calming effect on me - something I am in dire need of on a daily basis because I am, apparently, "high-strung". So the other night Jack (yes, I got him to go back!) and I went to what was supposed to be a nice, calming, relaxing hot yoga class at my yoga studio (did that just make me sound pretentious? It did, didn't it?).

But do you know what happened? Some heavy breathing jerkface decided to take the same class, and instead of relaxing, I spent the entire 60 minutes a) trying to figure out which a-hole it was making all the Darth Vaderesque noises, and b) imagining myself walking on over to him and kicking him in the head mid-downward-dog. Not exactly relaxing, although picturing that did make me giggle inside because REALLY, what do you think would happen if I did that?

But I digress.

I don't know why I let things like this bother me. OkYesIDo: I seriously have NEVER heard anyone breathe that loudly. Ever. And I used to work in a health-care facility where there were people with emphysema and oxygen tanks for crying out loud! No healthy human being should be breathing that loudly, I don't care what our yoga instructor recommends.

After yoga, I was a little concerned that Jack hadn't noticed Darth Vader in our class. He clearly wasn't as insanely upset about it as I was. Maybe he has hearing problems, I was starting to think! (That would actually explain quite a few things.) Once we were in the car I politely asked him, "DIDN'T THAT DARTH VADER A-HOLE ANNOY THE BEJEEBIES OUT OF YOU???"

"Yeah, who was that anyway?"

THANK GOD. I was starting to wonder if I was a crazy person - this puts that to rest! Right?

Got Bidet?

2008-10-02T10:52:00.006-05:00

I’ve always considered myself to be a rather clean dude. I keep my fingernails dirt-free. I floss every day. I even change the sheets on my bed once a week. And yet after recently visiting my friend Kiro’s house, I now feel like I belong in a pigpen.

This “cleanliness inferiority” complex sprouted right after I used his bathroom. And saw this thingy:

Naturally I had no idea what it was or how it worked. So I just got on my knees, washed my hands and left.Upon exiting the bathroom, Kiro noticed the look on my face and said the following: “I should have given you a heads-up, man. You’ve probably never used a bidet, huh?”

“Umm…you mean that low sink with the really deep bowl?”

Kiro then channeled his inner Tim Allen and gave me a Tool Time presentation on bidets. I don’t want to get too technical, so I’ll just leave it at this: a bidet allows you to wash your pooper with water. Kiro – who is from Japan – went on to explain that nearly everyone in Japan uses a bidet after they go number two. He told me that it was “unsanitary” to just use toilet paper. “You need some water, man,” he said. “How are you going to clean down there without water?”

And you know what? I think he’s right.

The more I thought about it, the more I agreed: how are you going to clean down there without water?

I thought about other cleaning activities and – surprise, surprise – they all involved some good ol’ fashioned H20. Imagine that you’ve just gone for a ten mile run and now you’re really sweaty. Would you ever just consider wiping yourself clean with a towel? Of course not. And yet that’s essentially what we’re doing each time we wipe ourselves clean with some Charmin.

Perhaps a more vivid analogy involves a white dinner plate. Now spread some beef stroganoff across that plate. For artistic purposes, let’s even go ahead and sprinkle some corn on the plate as well.

Now when it comes time to clean said plate, are you going to simply wipe it clean with a paper towel? No way, Jose. You’re going to rinse that bad boy with about two gallons of water. Anything less would be flat out disgusting. Which is why I’m heading to The Home Depot tonight. I think it’s high time for this dirtball to clean up his act.

Editor’s note: After doing some additional research, I found two more nuggets (no pun intended). Toto is a Japanese company known for its upper-end bidets. On Toto’s website, consumers are encouraged to “experience unequaled cleanliness, comfort, and refreshment…the ultimate in modern hygiene.” Even better, Toto also sells handheld bidets (i.e., portable butt sprayers). Apparently when Japanese tourists travel overseas, they want to still be able to feel so fresh and so clean when they utilize less equipped toilets. Inspirational.

Time to Take Out the Trash

2008-09-26T15:21:00.000-05:00

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?"

"People...."

"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....

Free Passes

2008-09-24T20:46:00.004-05:00

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?"

Woops.

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?

Take Two: When Bloggers Attack

2008-09-22T13:05:00.002-05:00

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.

Jack Tries Hot Yoga

2008-09-17T12:07:00.003-05:00

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.”

We're Going for Gold!

2008-09-12T07:59:00.005-05:00

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?

Take Two: Stink in an Elevator

2008-09-09T13:00:00.000-05:00

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.

Spontaneous Verbal Diarrhea

2008-09-06T18:18:00.002-05:00

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?

Get to Know Jill Just a Little Bit Better

2008-08-29T11:36:00.000-05:00

Jack says I shouldn't share things like this, but I can't help myself. Plus, we're all friends here, right? No? Well, we really should be...

Last weekend I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things. One of those things was toilet paper. I grabbed a 12 pack and headed to the checkout. As I was standing in line, I noticed that it said "6 Rolls" on it. I thought "well that was stupid, there's 12 rolls in here - how did they let this get through production with that big of an error?!" I shook my head in disbelief that a multi-million dollar company could make such a big mistake. Um....yeah, the thing is I actually bought 6 rolls of paper towels and zero rolls of toilet paper. I actually, really, truly thought they had made a mistake. Because obviously that makes a lot more sense than me being an idiot, right? Right.

A couple weeks ago, Jack took me out for a nice dinner at a local Indian restaurant. Within minutes, I managed to spill my glass of wine all over the table. After the server cleaned it up, I went to pour some more---but (surprise!) the cap was on. I'm a genius. Now anytime there is something to be poured he reminds me that I should check the cap. Isn't he helpful?

A few weeks back as Jack and I were leaving a yoga class he says "wow, that car is awesome!" I look over in the general direction he was pointing to and say "the Ion? I didn't know you liked Ions so much." I cannot adequately describe the look with which that was met. Probably 2 cars down was a fancy classic car of some sort.

"Oh...you weren't looking at the Ion were you?" Amazingly, he wasn't.

In my defense, the Ion was really shiny.

Jack and His Crackberry

2008-08-24T09:34:00.003-05:00

Shortly after Jack and I started hanging out, he got a Blackberry. Before that he had a regular cell phone that allowed him to check and send text messages every minute on the minute. The Blackberry has the added feature of allowing him to check and send his emails every minute on the minute. That means that, on average, every 30 seconds he is doing something with his phone - and I'm not even counting when he "checks the time" (which is code for "I know you hate it when I check my text messages this often, so let's both pretend I need to know what time it is."). It has been a real joy for me, in case you can't tell. I mean, I am THRILLED with this development in his communication capabilities.

Jack is a trickster, though, because the other day he asked me, "on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the highest, how would you rate your satisfaction level with our relationship?"

"A million", I replied.

"No, really, 1 to 10."

"A ten."

"Me too."

"Why did you just ask that?"

"Well, if you rate it a 10 then there's nothing you'd change about it, so you must not really mind it when I check my Blackberry."

Dammit.

Jack: The Good Neighbor

2008-08-21T13:03:00.001-05:00

So last Saturday afternoon I'm strolling down the hallway, quasi-whistling the tune to "I'm Not Going to Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You," when my neighbor from a few doors down almost runs me over while exiting his unit like a bat out of h-e-double hockey sticks.

Before I go any further, I should provide some much needed context: prior to our near-collision, I did not even know said neighbor's first name. Up to that point, our longest conversation had been:

Him: "Wow, it's hot out today."

Me: "Yeah, tropical."

But on this particular day, Chad - as he would later introduce himself - was chatty.

Him: "Hey, bro! What's up?"

Me: [silence, looking around to see who else in the hallway he could possibly be addressing]

Him: "It's good to be alive, bro, huh? So what are you up to?"

After realizing that Chad's biological brother was not walking behind me - and that Chatty Chad was in fact addressing me - I purposely avoided the small talk and cut to the chase.

Me: "I'm on my way to the grocery store."

Him: "Cool. Can I go with?"

Me: "Umm...what?"

Him: "Can I go with you to the grocery store? I need to pick up some groceries as well. And it doesn't make sense for us to both drive, does it?"

The next few minutes of dialogue were too bizarre to transcribe. I began my argument by pointing out that I grocery shopped at a natural foods co-op and that they don't sell items like Doritos or Pepsi. Chad retorted by saying that he had been thinking that he should start eating healthier and that this would be a perfect chance to begin doing so. I then noted that I might also be stopping at Target and the post office on my way home, a detail that backfired on me and actually heightened Chad's enthusiasm for carpooling with me. After unsuccessfully trying to persuade Chad - a.k.a. "Mr. Debate Team Captain" - not to tag along, I relented and decided to play the role of the Good Neighbor.

Me: "OK, fine. Let's go."

* * * *

On the ride from our condo to the co-op, I said a total of six words. Mr. Chatty Pants filled the rest of the space with anecdotes covering a variety of topics, including his love of mountain biking, the challenges of making homemade pasta, and his girlfriend's inconsistent sex drive. Again, I'd like to point out the fact that I didn't even know this guy's name twenty minutes ago, and suddenly I'm an expert on what it takes to get his girl in the mood. Silently I vowed to myself to never be neighborly again.

* * * *

When we arrive at the grocery store, I give Chad the clearest instructions possible: "It's 2:10 now. Meet me back here at 2:30."

Fast forward twenty minutes:

2:30 pm - I finish paying for my groceries and wheel my cart to the agreed-upon meeting space. Chad is nowhere to be found.

2:33 pm - I check my watch for the fifteenth time in the past three minutes. I contemplate leaving Chad behind. I then remember that Chad is (a) clearly not sane and (b) built like a brick house, and it's probably not the best idea to desert a crazy bodybuilder at a grocery store - especially when that crazy bodybuilder lives less than fifty feet away from you.

2:37 pm - I start to worry that maybe Chad slipped on a wet floor and now needs me to give him a ride to the hospital. What else could explain his excessive absence?

2:38 pm - I spot Chad on the other side of the store, casually making his way through the produce department. He happens to glance up and we make eye contact. I point to my watch and give him the "what, are you on drugs?" look. He holds his index finger up, mouths the words "one minute," and goes back to carefully inspecting a cantaloupe. If I had a rifle on me, I would have taken a shot.

At 2:42 pm - twelve minutes late - Chad finally makes his way over to me and excitedly says, "Where to next, partner? Target or the post office?"

I want nothing more than to tell him that I hope he gets salmonella from his chicken breasts and that I'd rather give myself a swirly than go to Target with him. Instead I lie and tell him that I bought some frozen peas that need to get back to my freezer right away.

"All right, bro. We'll hit up Target next time."

Right. Next time.

Take Two: Amongst Friends

2008-08-19T08:42:00.005-05:00

Jill's Take

Recently Jack and I were discussing whether or not it would be okay if his friend gave me a professional massage. His friend is only a professional massage therapist in this hypothetical situation, mind you, but somehow this still came up as a reasonable thing to discuss.

My feeling was that it would be awkward and, well, inappropriate. I've had enough professional massages to know that there is always a certain level of nudity involved, and, if you play your cards right, some making out. Seems to me that that wouldn't be appropriate considering the nature of my relationship with Jack (acquaintances?). What's more is that I don't think I'd want his friend to give me a massage (no offense, buddy). Wouldn't it just be weird?

"Not even if it were free?" Jack asked.

"No, I don't think so. I don't want him to see me mostly naked. Wouldn't you be uncomfortable with that?"

"What if he were the best massage therapist in the country?"

"I'd see the 2nd best I guess."

Then it became a challenge for Jack--under what circumstances would I let his friend see me mostly naked? The conversation jumped from the friend being the #1 massage therapist in the country to the #1 gynecologist in the country. And suddenly I had a major problem with my vagina. Great, now I'm dying of a vagina disease in this hypothetical situation! JUST GREAT.

At any rate, am I a prude or is Jack trying to hook me up with his friend?

Jack's Take

Is it just me, or has Jill watched one too many late-night movies on Cinemax? I mean, seriously, what kind of world is she living in? One in which every mundane situation is only a few synthesizer chords away from turning into a steamy baby-making session, apparently.

In reality, here's what happens when Jill gets a massage from a professional masseuse:

She changes into a robe and lies down on a table
The masseuse goes about his or her business in a professional (i.e., non-erotic) manner
60 minutes later, Jill leaves feeling more relaxed and the masseuse leaves $80 richer

And yet, somehow, here's what happens -- at least in Jill's mind -- when she gets a massage from my friend:

She changes into a robe and lies down on a table
Upon entering the room, my homeboy trips on the shag carpet and spills a bottle of hot oil all over Jill
Rather than simply towel off the excess oil, Jill naturally decides to get butt nekkid and "air dry"
Overcome by Jill's nekkidness and stunning beauty, my friend ignores the fact that he and I have been BFFs for years and turns into The Ladies Man
60 minutes later, Jill leaves with a baby daddy

Umm...right. That sounds quite plausible. I totally get where you're coming from. Not.

You're cute, Jill. But so cute that a good friend of mine wouldn't be able to keep his professional hands off you upon seeing your shoulders exposed? Nobody's that cute.

Oh well...I guess it's a good thing that none of my friends are world-class bikini waxers. Now THAT could potentially be awkward...

Nice Moosey

2008-08-16T19:47:00.005-05:00

Jack is out of town again this weekend. Frankly, I am starting to wonder if there is another "Jill" out there somewhere. Likely a much less attractive, hilarious version of Jill, but that's not saying much, is it? Just kidding, there's no one even remotely like me (and I'm sure Jack will back me up on that).

Anyway, Jack is in the country somewhere. I don't mean America, I mean somewhere RURAL. Being the sweetheart that he is, today I got a picture text message from him with the subject "Thinking of you". How sweet is that?

This was the picture:

The message below said "Naturally this made me think of you."

See, I'm vegan, remember? So it's funny because a moose head is not exactly something that I particularly enjoy - unless of course it's on a moose body, walking around in a moose pasture. See?

My favorite part was that he named the picture "Nice moosey.jpg". Ah, that Jack!

Anyway, hopefully when he returns we'll be back with some more super interesting things to say and I won't have to carry the weight of this new venture all by my lonesome anymore. In the meantime, we'll be thinking of you.

A Little E-card Can Go a Long Way...

2008-08-11T15:00:00.001-05:00

I am happy to report that Jack got his car washed this weekend and his windshield did not shatter into a 1000 pieces.* It was a pretty big deal. I mean, with how often that happens it's a miracle he made it through - but he did! Hooray!

Speaking of Jack, he's off enjoying the weather today on a golfing trip with his buddies, while I sit inside at my job. Lame. I mean, even though I am absolutely terrible at golfing, I am particularly skilled at driving golf carts recklessly and drinking wine (Coincidence? We can't be sure.). Surely they could have used those services?

Anyway, as he is away for a couple of days, I wanted to let him know I was thinking about him. I'm of the school that says you should always make that special someone in your life feel very, very, um, special. So, I sent him an e-card:

Needless to say, he was touched--and rightly so. If that doesn't say "I care about you deeply" I don't know what does.
_____________
* See point 2 under "Things you should know about Jack" for reference.

Did You Just Say That I Don't Listen?

2008-08-08T10:16:00.001-05:00

* Black text = Jill; Red text = Jack *

_____________

Jack has been upset with me lately. He claims I don't listen to a word he says. He got this (mistaken) idea because I may have asked him several times why he has a scar on his abdomen; I tell him I like his shoes and ask if they are they new even though apparently he's worn them around me many times before; and because I say things like "I'm sorry, were you talking again?" with regularity. I don't get how you take all that and add it up to "Jill doesn't listen to a word I say", but apparently that's what he's done. (Editor’s note: Jack had a few suggestions for improving this paragraph, but Jill wasn’t listening to any of his suggestions.) This is troubling for me. You see, I have always prided myself on being a good listener. (Please tell me you’re joking. That’s like Jeffrey Dahmer priding himself on always being a good nutritionist.)

The problem, I think, is not that I'm a bad listener - I think it's more that my memory is what you might call "lacking". (Actually, the problem is that you’re a bad listener. But you’re probably not listening to me right now anyway.) Well let me revise that - my memory is what you might call "selectively lacking". For example, if Jack were to tell me my ass looked "huge in those jeans", I can guarantee you I would never, ever, ever, ever forget that. But when he tells me about the time he had The Appendicitis, it takes a few times to sink in. You'd think I could just put 2 and 2 together (scar on right side of abdomen about the size of an appendix = he probably had appendicitis), but I also tend to open my mouth and yap before I really think anything through. "Heyyyy, what happened here? Why do you have a scar??" This is usually met with "Are you serious? You don't remember? I HAD MY APPENDIX OUT! DON'T YOU LISTEN TO ANYTHING I SAY?"

(The scar is what triggers your memory?!?! How about the STORY? My parents were up North and I was under the care of an irresponsible older brother? Said brother responded to my cries-for-help by accusing me of drinking a bottle of vodka and telling me that it was “normal to have an upset stomach”? Said brother later refused to bring me to the hospital to prove a point about the dangers of underage drinking? He then left me lifeless on my bathroom floor doing face-down snow angels in a pool of my own vomit? Is any of this ringing a bell? How about the part where the doctor who was performing my ultrasound started bulging his eyes in amazement when he saw how close my swollen appendix was to exploding?!?!?! How do you forget a story like that – especially after it’s been told to you a handful of times?) He gets kinda cranky, if we're being honest. (I get cranky when you forget about my near-death experience. You get cranky when I don’t notice which specific strands of your blonde hair were highlighted blonder.)

To remedy this situation, I have been trying extra hard lately to remember things that he says. He suggested carrying around a notebook, and while I considered that, I think it might be insulting (not to mention tedious) to write down everything he says as he says it. My suggestion was that he should just say much more interesting things, like "Jill, you are so beautiful!" and "Jill, you are like the sunshine in my world; without you, everything would be pure darkness." (Just to clarify…your suggestion is that I start lying?) Those things would be easy to remember, you know? In addition, I have decided that when I see him wearing shoes that I think are new, I'm going to keep my trap shut. This might get me in trouble at some point when he's actually wearing new ones and wants me to notice, but I'm willing to take my chances. (I will never, ever, ever “get cranky” if you fail to praise me for my fresh kicks. But if you ask me one more time about the scar on my abdomen…)

(By the way, your ass looks huge in those jeans.) [Now Jack is in trouble. BIG trouble.]

Getting to Know Us...

2008-08-07T12:48:00.000-05:00

5 Things You Should Know About Jill (according to Jill)

Blond (literally).
Believes that "being on time" is highly overrated, kind of like "paying attention", and "showering regularly".
Used to think that squirrels lived inside hollow trees, despite the fact that there are very few hollow trees around. Feels as though animated TV led her astray by portraying rodents living in tiny human-like houses inside trees.
Enjoys planning every last detail of everything under the sun. Spreadsheets are her best friend (and that's only because they can't protest, really). Worries constantly that "things might not go according to plan". This would obviously be disastrous.
Enjoyed playing "House", "Adoption Agency", and "Veterinarian" as a child. Also enjoyed putting on plays about the evils of smoking in an effort to get her elders to stop smoking. Still feels personally responsible for that failure - acting has never been her strong suit.

5 Things You Should Know About Jill (according to Jack)

She’s vegan. And when she’s hungry, she acts like a starving raccoon in an alley full of empty trash cans. Who was just left by her husband for a young squirrel. And who has PMS. In other words, Jill gets kinda surly when she’s hungry.
Has the worst memory known to man.
Loves her dog. And by “love” I mean if she had to feed either me or her dog to a pack of wolves, the name of this blog would soon be changed to Spot & Jill.
Constantly has the sniffles. Either used to snort cocaine or she’s allergic to cat hair, dog hair, dust, air, sunlight, and water.
Secretly wishes she was a professional dancer. Actually, it’s not a secret at all. Often spends three hours a night watching “So You Think You Can Dance” episodes in slow motion.

-----------------

5 Things You Should Know About Jack (according to Jack)

Momma’s boy.
Has an irrational fear that his windshield is going to be shattered by the pressure from the auto-dryer each time he gets his car washed. He’s also scared of elevators, swimming in open bodies of water, and guys who wear jean shorts. But who isn’t?
Owns 61 pairs of sneakers.
Considers himself to be the best driver in the world. Literally.
Has an unnatural obsession with all things peanut butter. Peanut butter & jelly. Peanut butter & crackers. Peanut butter & a spoon. Peanut butter cookies. Peanut butter brownies. Peanut butter sushi.

5 Things You Should Know About Jack (according to Jill)

Doesn't just own 61 pairs of sneakers, but proudly displays them as though they are awards won for something like Curing Cancer or Saving Orphans From Blazing Fires. Some pairs are even too special to wear. And should you step on one of his feet whilst he's wearing these precious sneakers, beware - you might just lose your foot. Let me put it this way: if his favorite pair of shoes could type, this blog would quickly be renamed "Jack and His Supras".
Is unnaturally attached to his Blackberry. (More on that later, I assure you.)
Likes to push my buttons. Has an unnatural talent for quickly identifying what will drive me most insane and then skillfully deploys tactics that will do this in the most effective manner.
Lives in a high rise building despite apparent fear of elevators (???).
Is metrosexual but refuses to admit it.

Coming Soon....

2008-08-06T13:01:00.000-05:00

But not in a pervy way. Jeez.

Which gender out-kicks their coverage more often (looks-wise)?
	Men
	Women
	It's about equal

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Are briefs on men as awesome as Jill thinks they are?
	HECK YEAH!
	Only if you're over 50, like Jack said
	Um, NO. Not awesome at all.

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Could you forgive your significant other?
	Yes
	Maybe--if s/he felt REALLY bad about it
	No way no how, hit the road, Jack!

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