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.

Being Green

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 Dumb Things

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?
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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...

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!

Help! It's a TICK ATTACK!

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

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's Advice: Not Exactly a Kodak Moment

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.

St. Patty's Day Fun

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

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.

Health Nut Jack

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)

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?

To Stink or Not to Stink?

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

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?

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

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!

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 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

House Rules

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:

1. 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.
   
2. 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?

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.

Hypothetically Speaking...

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.