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.

Spontaneous Verbal Diarrhea

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

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

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.

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...

Nice Moosey

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.