Summer Fun: The Porn Squad and Getting Banged

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really? That's weird."

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

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

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

"Um....okay, what?"

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

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

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

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

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!

Staycation Report, Part II: ToxiCleanse!

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.

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

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.

Take Two: When Bloggers Attack

Jill's Take

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are so dramatic."

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

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

Jack’s Take

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

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

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

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

When it came Jill’s time to pat me, however, she apparently had a flashback to that old arcade game where you would smash caterpillars with a mallet as soon as they popped up. Remember, it looked kinda like this:

In other words, Jill smashed my face like she was trying to buzz-in on the Family Feud and the question was: “Name a pet.”

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