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.

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.

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.

Best. Weirdest. Gift. Ever.

I’m a big fan of giving gifts for no reason. And an even bigger fan of receiving gifts for no reason. And I’m an even bigger fan when the gift is a bit unusual.

Over the past few months, Jill has given me some very sweet gifts for no reason. A CD. A box of organic cereal. Even a new yoga mat.

But yesterday she gave me quite possibly the best-slash-weirdest gift I’ve ever received.

She gave me a tub of Playtex Femcare Personal Cleansing Cloths.

At first I was really confused. (Especially after I read the following description on the box: “Playtex Personal Cleansing Cloths help keep you feeling fresh and clean, even during your period. These super soft disposable wipes are incredibly gentle on your delicate skin.”) But then I remembered the entry I wrote a while back about wanting a bidet and the gift made a lot more sense.

I’m still not sure how comfortable I am having a Playtex Femcare box sitting on top of my toilet, but I can assure you that I’m going to find a way to test these “wet wipes” out for a while. Regular toilet paper just seems so uncivilized now.

Best. Weirdest. Gift. Ever.

Jill's Two Cents: Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking in encouraging this kind of neuroses. I am starting to get a little concerned about Jack. I think he has a problem, and now I've gone and made myself an enabler! Is it time for an intervention? Then again, do I really want to discourage personal hygiene? Seems like that could be slippery slope... Plus, you really should have seen how his little face lit up once he realized what the purpose of the gift was--like a kid on Christmas morning. Priceless.

Cooking for Two...Hundred

Let me begin by stating the obvious: cooking for two is hard to do. I'm aware that most recipes are designed to feed four or more people. So when you're cooking for two, it's understandable if there are leftovers. But apparently my idea of "leftovers" is significantly different than Jill's idea.

My idea of leftovers: two pieces of lasagna to re-heat the next day

Jill's idea of leftovers: enough full pans of lasagna to feed a high-school football team.

For the record, I love it when Jill cooks for me. (As do my neighbors, their pets, and the homeless guys that live in the alley behind my condo.)

But these are the cold, hard facts:

- A couple of weeks ago I told Jill that I was in the mood for a meatball* sub. So we agreed to make them from scratch together. Based on the recipe she came up with in her head, we ended up rolling approximately sixty-two meatballs, give or take twelve.

- Last weekend Jill decided that she wanted to make vegan pancakes. To prove my theory that she tends to cook more food than any two reasonable adults could possibly eat in one setting, I made a point of trying to count each pancake that she made. I lost track at seventeen.

- Then came "pasta night." Jill's idea was to make a homemade pesto, which sounded great to me. When we went to the grocery store beforehand, however, I questioned Jill's insistence that we get THREE CUPS of basil. "Yep, I'm positive we'll need that much," she assured me. People, the next time you're at a grocery store, please make a point of noting how many leaves come in a one cup package of basil. And then please multiply that amount by three. And then remember that we were cooking a dish for TWO PEOPLE. I'm convinced I actually went into a "basil coma" that evening. I also had pesto breath for the next four days.

- Last night Jill innocently told me that she was going to "whip up something simple." When it was finally time to sit down, she served me a BBQ rib* sandwich, asparagus, corn on the cob, and enough sweet potato fries to feed a family of sixteen. After stuffing myself to the brim, I noticed that there were roughly eight ears of corn on the cob still available. Did I already mention it was just the two of us?

She's officially out of control.

If you or anyone you know has suffered from this serious condition known as "IsecretlywanttobeajuniorhighlunchladyandsoIcookmyproportionsaccordingly," please let me know of any possible treatments. Thanks.

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* Jill is vegan. So the meatballs were really veggieballs. And the ribs were really soy ribs.

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.

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.

A Little E-card Can Go a Long Way...

I am happy to report that Jack got his car washed this weekend and his windshield did not shatter into a 1000 pieces.* It was a pretty big deal. I mean, with how often that happens it's a miracle he made it through - but he did! Hooray!

Speaking of Jack, he's off enjoying the weather today on a golfing trip with his buddies, while I sit inside at my job. Lame. I mean, even though I am absolutely terrible at golfing, I am particularly skilled at driving golf carts recklessly and drinking wine (Coincidence? We can't be sure.). Surely they could have used those services?

Anyway, as he is away for a couple of days, I wanted to let him know I was thinking about him. I'm of the school that says you should always make that special someone in your life feel very, very, um, special. So, I sent him an e-card:

Needless to say, he was touched--and rightly so. If that doesn't say "I care about you deeply" I don't know what does.
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* See point 2 under "Things you should know about Jack" for reference.