The Moment I Knew

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.

The Mystery BAU's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take Two: My Pantry Could Beat Up Your Pantry

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.

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.

Take Two: Stink in an Elevator

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.

Take Two: Amongst Friends

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...