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.

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!

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."

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 Brilliant Blog Idea

So, I have this great idea for a blog, but there is no way I could possibly follow through on it, because I am too easily embarrassed. If anyone else wants to do it, by all means go ahead, and then give me the URL.

I was thinking it would be really funny to do the following: I'd create a totally normal Match.com profile. I'd schedule dates with unsuspecting lads via emails that were also totally normal (or "normal" by my definition, which Jack would say is anything but normal, but whatever). Then I'd show up with the goal of being the strangest date that guy has ever had. Maybe I'd wear moose ears and speak completely monotone; maybe I'd tell him at the outset that I have narcolepsy and then "fall asleep" every 5 minutes for a few minutes; maybe I'd dress up like a clown and make balloon animals for him. My favorite, though, would be much simpler than that: I'd bring a note pad on the date and start asking him standard first date questions. As he answered, I'd write down everything he said and then make commentary under my breath: "Likes to work out....can't really tell by looking at him though", "not close to family...RED FLAG", "likes to hang out with friends in free time....I question if these 'friends' really exist" - you know, insulting stuff like that. Then I'd blog about each date's reaction to my nuttiness. I think it would be absolutely fantastic - if I could actually pull it off.

I brought this idea up to Jack, and to my surprise he was all for it. I thought he'd protest because it would mean I'd be going out on dates with other men, but apparently Jack is in no way worried about another man being interested in a clown who says insulting things. Frankly, I'm hurt. I mean, I make some pretty impressive balloon animals. I really think he is underestimating my allure!

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.

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."

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?

It's a Jack-Attack!

Last night I had a session with a personal trainer. Ironically, this man's name also happened to be "Jack", though he was not nearly as adorable as my Jack. (Just ask Jack - he'll tell you himself, even though he's never seen Personal Trainer Jack in his life.)

Anyway, somehow I got suckered into this thing, which wasn't such a bad thing since it resulted in the best workout I've had since the late 90s, but what's funny is what happened when I told Personal Trainer Jack that my boyfriend is also named Jack. At first he was just like "oh, yeah? Cool." Fast forward to the end of the session and he starts asking things like, "So, how long have you and your boyfriend been together?" and "is it going pretty well then, or what?" and so on and so forth.

I told my Jack about this, and he was like "he was hitting on you!"

Yes, yes he was.

This morning he mentioned it again, jokingly, and I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. You see, whenever Jack gets hit on (and this happens a little more often than I'd like--it's flattering until it gets annoying), he makes up some excuse for the girl, just to drive me nutty:

"Honey, I don't think she was asking if I had a girlfriend because she wanted to date me. I bet she was doing a sociological study about relationships or something. She's just academic is all!" or "She didn't call me hot and then ask me out for drinks because she was romantically interested in me, she's just looking for more friends....who happen to be attractive..."

These excuses used to be genuine naivety on Jack's part. Never in my life have I met anyone more clueless about a woman's intentions and ability to manipulate. I had to give Jack some serious schooling on just how awful (creative?) we women can be when we see something/someone we want. At any rate, despite this extensive education, Jack still likes to say things like this just to get me riled up...and sadly, it always works.

So this morning when he mentioned Personal Trainer Jack again, I said, "Honey, I think he just wanted to make sure I was in a healthy, happy relationship so that my fitness will in no way be compromised. He's looking out for my health!"

Outraged, Jack replied: "HEY! That's the kind of stuff I say---you can't say it!"

"Why not?"

"Because when you say it, it's not even genuine. I really am that naive," he whined, trying to hide a little smirk.

"YEAH RIGHT! You just don't like that I'm using your own tricks against you!"

Then he just made a pouty face and threatened not to kiss me goodbye. But I got my kiss, don't you worry. I also got a new strategy for dealing with his nonsense, and I have to say, I am pretty happy about it.

Jack says: For the final time, I WAS NOT BEING NAÏVE. When that girl at the bar asked if I could "help her get out of her pants," she did NOT have an ulterior motive. Her pants were quite form-fitting, Jill, and I could tell that she was starting to get genuinely concerned about cutting off circulation to her feet. I mean...if a girl was choking and asked me do the Heimlich maneuver, would you accuse her of trying to get me to wrap my arms around her?

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?

Ew, There's Poop in My Mouth!!?

Not long ago, Jack and I were at a friend's wedding enjoying some vino when we both decided we had to go use the bathroom. He set his wine down outside the bathroom, and I had planned to take mine in. As I was walking in, he says "you shouldn't take that wine in there."

"Why?"

"Because it's not good for you."

"I beg to differ, wine is GREAT for me!"

"I mean the molecules of stuff that will get in there."

"Molecules?" (What? I didn't do well in science, get off my back.)

"Yeah...like, if you can smell poop in the bathroom, then when you open your mouth or if you bring a beverage in there, you're basically asking to eat some poop."

"But I don't want to eat poop!....Wait, is this another one of your schemes to get me to believe something ridiculous so you can tell all your friends later and make me look like an idiot?"

He took my glass and set it down on a nearby table, swearing that he was telling the truth.

"The reason we smell things is because there are all these molecules in the air. So if you open your mouth in that bathroom, you're ingesting anything that you can smell - like poop."

I left my wine outside, but refused to believe him until I could Google that shit (pun intended). And it turns out he's kind of right. This is unfortunate because 1) I don't like it when Jack is right and I am wrong, and 2) I don't want to eat poop. Ever. And now every time I go into a stinky public bathroom, my lips are sealed as tight as possible because all I can think about is that Poop is trying to get in using its clever molecules! Well I'm onto you, Poop (not literally, that would be gross), and I'm not letting you molecule your way into my mouth. TAKE THAT!

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.

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.

Intelligent Email Exchanges

Jack: [yadda yadda yadda unimportant stuff]. he - larry - us.

Jill: Who's Larry?

Jack: Sigh....sometimes you are so blond. Say "he – larry – us" as one word.

Jill: HAHAHAHA. Maybe I was joking. Did you ever think of that? (Sadly, I wasn't)

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.