Did I Just What??

The other morning I got up to take Spot out to relieve himself. When I returned, a half sleeping Jack asked, “did you just poop?”

“Did I just poop?”, I asked, wondering if he had really just asked me that.

“Yeah, I want to know if YOU just pooped,” he replied, sarcastically. “No, I said, 'did he just poop?'.”

“Oh, yeah, he pooped. I didn’t, in case you were wondering, though.”

“I wasn’t and I’m still not, thanks.”

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?

Smell This!

This weekend Jack and I were in his car on our way to a restaurant when, per usual, I cranked up the air conditioning. You see, for some reason my body temperature seems to run about 10 degrees warmer than Jack's.

"Sweaty?" he asks me.

"Of course. Ooh! But I got this new deodorant that I just love. I got it at Etsy.com and the person who sells it has all these all-natural products, and some are vegan!"

"Does it work?"

"Well, yes - but it's just a deodorant, not an anti-perspirant, so it doesn't stop me from sweating."

"Clearly."

[Rolling eyes] "Whatever! It smells so good. Like baby powder."

"Let me smell."

So, without hesitation (I think a normal person might have hesitated?), I held up my arm so Jack could take a whiff while we were at a stop light. As soon as he did, we both looked at each other, looked out our windows, and realized that the occupants of the cars on either side of us definitely just saw this very inappropriate intimate moment.

"Those people definitely think we're weird."

"Yes...yes, they do."

No More Sandalwood for Me; I Want the Good Stuff

We're all a bit weird. I, for example, have an unnatural obsession with sneakers and clean bedding. Jill, on the other hand, loves to play Sims and sing out loud in a voice that sounds like Mary Murphy impersonating Pavarotti. But I think we can all agree that there's a big difference between being "normal weird" and "WEIRD weird."

On Saturday I was once again reminded just how "WEIRD weird" some people really are. Jill and I were shopping at Electric Fetus, which is a really great music store that sells everything from vinyl records to concert tickets. The Fetus also sells incense, which I must admit I'm not too familiar with. I have friends who used to burn incense while they were smoking to mask the odor. I've also had a few friends who burned incense because they really liked the smell, similar to how I might burn, say, a candle or a plastic milk jug. But apparently incense also has another application which I was unaware of- which brings us back to the WEIRD weird part.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a normal looking guy talking to a normal looking girl. (By "normal" I mean neither of them were dressed like a wizard.) They were standing near the incense section. As soon as I got within earshot, here's what I heard:

Normal Looking Guy: "...and that's why I rarely use sandalwood anymore in my spells. I just haven't gotten the results I've been looking for."
Normal Looking Girl: "Is that right?"
Normal Looking Guy: "Yeah, and I'm not sure why. I used to use it in a lot of my spells. Maybe the commercial stuff is not as pure as it used to be? Whatever the reason, it's just not as effective as some of my other ingredients. So unless it's a fairly basic spell, I don't recommend sandalwood. It's like the new rosemary."

Naturally I immediately went and found Jill so that she, too, could take in her daily dose of insanity. When we returned, I was pleased to find the wizard couple still deep in discussion. Jill eavesdropped for about 30 seconds, then - based on what she heard - became concerned that she herself could soon be on the receiving end of some type of spell if she was perceived as being disrespectful. So we left.

As we were leaving, I turned to Jill and said what I'm sure she also was feeling: "Wow, we're so not WEIRD weird."

Summer Fun: The Porn Squad and Getting Banged

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really? That's weird."

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

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

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

"Um....okay, what?"

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

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

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

Jill's Advice for Men: What NOT to Say to Your Girlfriend

A few weekends ago Jack and I went bike shopping so I could get a speedier, fancier bike. After talking to the sales person about the differences between men's and women's bikes where it was noted that women's bikes tend to have a little bit wider saddle, Jack turned to me and said this:

(Pointing to the largest seat ever manufactured in the history of bike seat manufacturing) "So, you should probably get this seat since you have wide hips."

Me: [Death glare, death glare, death glare]

Jack: "You as in WOMEN, not YOU specifically as a person....I meant, um, women....?"

A few days later, I bought some of those padded bike shorts. Have you ever worn those? Well, they are the most hideous things on the planet. They make it look like I have the world's biggest, most obvious cameltoe ever. When I pointed this out to Jack (not that it needed pointing out, mind you) I think he had learned his lesson from the bike seat talk, because he keeps telling me I couldn't look bad in anything - not even cameltoe shorts. Good boy.

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.

Let's Talk About POOP, Baby!

Jack and I will often walk Spot together in the evening right before bedtime. If the weather is nice, this can be a lovely ending to the night, and we dilly dally while Spot finds the place that is special enough to receive his waste. We chat, we stroll, and it’s all very nice. When the weather is NOT nice, as has been the case for the past 5-6 months, we are not quite as patient. In fact, we are downright impatient, and want Spot to hurry it up and go as fast as possible so that we can run back inside and be warm and comfortable again. Spot usually doesn’t care what we think, so he takes his sweet time either way.

The other night was one such evening, and it occurred to me that I have a habit of yelling strange things during my conversations with Jack when I want Spot to do his business:

“Jack, don’t forget that tomorrow we said we’d go to – SPOT, POOP ALREADY! - that happy hour with Katie and her husband, okay?”

“Yeah, I remember. That should be fun.”

“I think it will, yeah. – POOPY POOPY POOP, SPOTTY WOTT! – Also, we should think about what we want to do this – I SAID POOP – weekend. Any ideas?”

“Well, I was thinking we could maybe go on a bike ride at some point.”

“YOU ARE SO SLOW, JUST TAKE A CRAP – Ooh! Great idea. We should also – SERIOUSLY, GOOOOO POTTY! – grab a drink at that new bar downtown.”

The conversation doesn’t miss a beat, which I think might be odd. Like, if someone walked by and heard this and didn’t see the dog, they would think I was mental, right? Or maybe even if they did see the dog?

Anyway, this whole scenario gets even funnier when Jack and I are having a more serious conversation … you know, one that shouldn’t be littered with screams about fecal matter (as opposed to all the many conversations that should be). It sort of concerns me that Jack doesn’t even notice this happens. I mean, I had to point it out to him how strange it is. I guess he’s just getting used to how weird I am, and that’s probably good. I’ve been holding back the really weird stuff for when we got to this point, so I think it’s about time I can really let loose now…

Sometimes It's Just Better to Say Something

"Remember back when I used to think you grew dark chest hairs sometimes?"

Having just heard this for the very first time, I practically yelled at Jack: "You thought I what??"

"Well, you know how sometimes you'll hold Spot, and then you'll get some of his hairs stuck on your chest? I thought that was your own hair. Your chest pubes", he explained.

"You thought I was capable of growing man-hair on my boobs and you just kept that to yourself?"

Thinking this was funny now, he said, "I would have said something eventually...you know, when we got to be more comfortable with each other. But early on I thought it would hurt your feelings if I asked you to pluck your chest hair. I mean, what if you wanted it there, like you were proud of it? That would have been rude of me to ask."

"How many girls with hairy boobs have you dated?! I mean, this is just ridiculous! When would you have said something? I am embarrassed now that you thought I was all manly and you never said anything!"

"Well, finally I realized that sometimes the hair was there and then it would just disappear, so I figured out that it must have been Spot's. Don't worry, it wasn't THAT long that I thought you were masculine, honey."

"Oh, great. Just great."

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?

Staycation Report, Part I: When Jack Sold Jill Out

This past week Jack and I were on vacation. More accurately, we were on STAYcation. That's what you do when the economy is so bad you're not sure if you'll have a job next month, your student loans feel suffocating, and all you care about is being together anyway so why bother traveling? (Cue "awwww"s and vomiting). Instead of going somewhere sunny where we could sit on the beach and drink martinis all day long, we opted to stay in the frozen tundra we call home, where we were treated to several days in a row of below zero temperatures (you can see how happy we were with that to the right). Spot was also less than thrilled with the weather, but pleased as pie (can pie be pleased?) to have so much attention all week.

Anyway, Jack and I have a number of stories to share about our staycation, but one I'd like to discuss first is a trip we took to a local comedy club. Somehow when I bought my tickets I must have specified FRONT ROW because that's exactly where we ended up. This made me nervous immediately because comics sometimes like to mock the people in the front. I don't like to be mocked, you see, which I know is quite a unique characteristic.

About 30 minutes in to the main act, the comedian hadn't made fun of anyone yet, so I started to feel a little more comfortable. Well, it was that and the wine, which will always put a girl at ease (and make a girl easy - ba-dup-dup-dup - I'm here all week folks! Hahaha!).

HOWEVER. At one point, the comic - a lady - said something to the effect of "you men know how we women can be a little crazy at times...". Suddenly I feel Jack's hand leave my shoulder. In horror, I watch as he raises it above my head, almost in slow motion, and POINTS down at me, while sporting a huge grin. Did I mention we were in the front row? EVERYONE stared at me, and the comic even pointed out Jack's "hilarious" move - "look, this guy up here even pointed at his girlfriend!", she said. I think she did that just in case anyone in the entire room missed the fact that my boyfriend totally sold me out! I turned 16 shades of red.

Jack, of course, thought he was just about the funniest human being in the world. I elbowed him in the ribs and reminded him it's never a good idea to mess with crazy people. Muhahaha!

Jack's Two Cents

I must not have heard the comedian correctly. I thought she said, "you men know how women can be a little sexy at times." Sexy, not crazy. Sorry for the misunderstanding.

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

Jack Asks: Why is it more acceptable for a girl to wear something from her boyfriend’s closet than it is for a boy to wear something from his girlfriend’s closet?

Jill Answers: Um, have you seen how adorable I am in your sweatshirts? HAVE YOU? Well, I think that answers why it's acceptable for a girl to wear something from her boyfriend's closet. On the other hand, have you seen the size of my t-shirts? If you put one of those babies on (have you?? be honest, honey, I won't judge you), you'd look sort of like this:

Only probably worse since most of my shirts involve a deep V-neck cut so as to show off "the girls" [read: boobies!]. (In case you all are wondering, that shirt says "I [HEART] FASHION", which is what most of my t-shirts say, obviously.)

Anyway, the point is that I'm cute and you are too but maybe just not in my clothes. Or any girl's clothes. Come to think of it, you asking this question mere days after you tried to convince me (okay, succeeded in convincing me) that Victoria's Secret had opened up a store for men, selling lacey boxers and what not, I am starting to wonder if I should be concerned. Am I not reading the signs? Somebody send help.

Jack Follows-Up: Your response is far-from-satisfying, Jilly. And for the record: no where in my question did I state that I WANTED to wear girls clothes. I was just noting that there seems to be a double-standard that deserves to be called out. If a girl wears a guy’s shirt, why is it considered “cute” as opposed to “butch”? And to be honest, I just asked you this question in the hopes that you’ll return some of the hoodies, sweatpants, boxers, etc. that you’ve borrowed stolen from me.

So I'm Dating a Memory Murderer

Jill and I were cruising around in my ‘64 Chevy Impala ’06 Nissan Altima, listening to some smooth R&B, when Jazmine Sullivan’s new song "Bust Your Windows" came on. For those of you unfamiliar with said song, here’s a sampling of Ms. Sullivan’s lyrics:

I bust the windows out your car
You know I did it ‘cause I left my mark
Wrote my initials with the crowbar
And then I drove off into the dark

What happened next is what we in the business call a “red flag.” Jill started singing along with A LOT of passion in her voice. (Jill normally just hums along to the tune – typically because she doesn’t remember any of the words – so it seemed extremely alarming when she started channeling her inner-Jennifer Hudson to this particular song.)

The whole song is about the joys of damaging an ex’s property. And since Jill ended up singing the last two choruses at the top of her lungs (“I BUST THE WINDOWS OUT YOUR CAR”), I naturally had to ask her if she’d ever damaged an ex’s property.

I was thinking she might say something like “I stole his favorite CD” or “I rubbed his toothbrush in my armpit.” Clearly I underestimated her. What Jill admitted to doing can only be described by two words: pure evil. Here’s what she told me:

“I had an ex-boyfriend who went on a vacation with his new girlfriend. When he got back into town, we got together and he wanted to show me some of his photos. While I was acting like I was scanning through his pictures, I was actually deleting all of his photos from the memory card! He got pretty upset, but I just acted like it was an accident. And I have to admit I felt pretty good afterwards!”

Excuse me? Who does that? Someone who’s evil, that’s who.

What if he had a once-in-a-lifetime image stored on that memory card? What if it was a picture of him and his dying grandma? What is Jill going to do to me if we ever decide to go our separate ways? Wait a second…maybe her telling me this story is just her way of using a fear tactic to lock me down? Hmm…

Jill's Two Cents:

What Jack isn't mentioning is that this "new girlfriend" was procured prior to breaking up with the old girlfriend (i.e., ME). So, let's check the score:

This guy broke my heart into a million little pieces by cheating on me, then took pictures of them together and waved it in my face.
VERSUS
I deleted a few pictures of his [wildly unattractive] new girlfriend from his camera.

I'd say that made us STILL NOT EVEN CLOSE TO EVEN. But now I guess I probably shouldn't tell Jack all the follow up things I did to even the score. Sheesh! Ya tell a guy you destroyed a few memories and he gets all paranoid!

Also, I've decided not to leave my toothbrush unattended anymore. Are you pit-swabbing it?!?!?

Drop It Like It's Hot

The other night, Jack took Spot out for his evening walk-slash-potty trip. When he came back in he said "Of course when I take him out he does a HUGE number 2!" I laughed because, well, poop is funny.

The next day, we were walking Spot together when my little doggy finds a nice patch of grass, squats, and drops a big one.

As I went to pick it up Jack goes, "Ewww, that is just like mine from last night!"

Shocked, I replied, "Did you just tell me about your poop?!?!" I wondered if we had somehow reached a new level of intimacy without my consent. I thought you had to be served papers or something if this kind of talk was going to start happening.

"HIS POOP THAT I PICKED UP LAST NIGHT", Jack retorted. "Why would I be describing my poop to you??"

Oh.

Well, he really should be more specific, shouldn't he?

You can imagine he had a hay day with that little misunderstanding.

This Conversation Really Happened

Jill: (excitedly) Victoria's Secret was having a sale and I got 9 pairs of really cute undies for $50!

Jack: That's awesome. See, that's one way that men really do get kind of screwed.

Jill: (confused) Because you can't wear women's underwear?

Jack: (in disbelief)

Jill: (still confused)

Jack: No, because men's underwear are so much more expensive.

Jill: Oh. Yeah, that.

We're Going for Gold!

Jack has a rooftop patio & pool at his condominium complex. A few times this summer, he has invited me to go on late night swims. I know what you're thinking, but please get your mind out of the gutter. Instead of any bow-chicka-bow-bow (you need to sing that - if you didn't please go back and re-read the italicized phrase in a sing-song manner, thanks) action going on, Jack had better ideas. For example, the other night when we went swimming, we decided to race across the pool - both running (hands out of the water to prevent cheating!), and actual swimming. I dominated of course (maybe). Anyway, after watching several weeks of Olympics, Jack then decided we ought to put together a synchronized swimming routine (no, we weren't drunk).

"Okay, I'll choreograph the first 8 beats, and then you do the second 8 beats. Ready?"

"Sure...", I reply, somewhat hesitantly.

But there he was, choreographing some moves and making sure I kept pace and had proper form (according to his expert opinion).

Then it was my turn, and might I say my 8 beats worth of movement were quite challenging (read: ugly). We practiced all 16 beats a few times over, proclaimed that we were ridiculously talented, and then decided we needed a finale, which we then choregraphed together. As Jack suggested ideas, he would say things like, "the judges will be impressed by that move!" and "sometimes simple moves are the most beautiful", and so on and so forth. And as we practiced he ordered me to reduce my splashing because "the judges don't like too much splashing!" When I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter I was told in a very stern voice: "Look here, I have not been practicing and working my butt off for the last 4 years so that we can blow this!"

What can I say, he is a passionate man, and by golly, if we don't get a gold in 2012, I don't know who will.*
__________________
* Perhaps someone with actual talent?

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.