An Open Letter to Jack's Dentist

Dear Dr. Miller, DDS:

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

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

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

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

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

See you in six months,

Jack

Jack Makes Himself Unavailable

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?

Jack Takes a Stand Against Mantyhose

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

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

That Time Jill Got Sick

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.

To Kill a Mocking Word

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."

Darth Vader Does Hot Yoga

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?

Jack and His Crackberry

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

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.

Did You Just Say That I Don't Listen?

* 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.]