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!

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."

And This is How My Day Started....

I'm a snooze button gal. Every morning the alarm rings at 6:40 and I hit 'snooze' again and again until 7:00 or 7:10. Since Jack usually doesn't have to be up until 7:45 or so, he finds this somewhat annoying (no idea why). This morning, I actually got up after hitting snooze once because Spot was asking to go out anyway. I took him out and then decided to snooze on the couch for a few more minutes. I was joined by my darling cat, Kitty.

Now, I've shared my home with Kitty for 8 years, and with Spot for 5 and a half, so as you might imagine, I've had my fair share of gross or unappealing pet-related experiences (Spot just peed on the recycling last week, for example - indoors). But what happened this morning takes the cake. Kitty was walking all over me making sure I was petting her in just the right places when all of a sudden I smelled something that wasn't so pleasant. "(Sniff, sniff, sniff), what is that?", I asked myself. Then for some reason I decided to touch my face - I don't know why. It was simultaneously a good and bad decision. The bad part of the decision was that in touching my face I got cat poo on my hand. The good part is that I got cat poo OFF MY FACE. Kitty must not have cleaned up very well after dropping her last deuce, and somehow managed to leave the remnants of that last potty visit on my cheek. In a state of shock, I rushed to the bathroom, turned on the light and checked my face for more poop (I hope that is the only time I ever say those words). Seeing none, I washed the watery brown goo off my hand with an excess of soap. Then I did the same to my face - soap, soap, soap it up!

Given that Jack sometimes thinks my pets are difficult to deal with, part of me didn't want to tell him what had happened. But the bigger part of me - the part that had just gotten cat poop on her face and needed to tell someone - won. I ran upstairs, woke him up, and told him this story. Then, despite my many assurances that I had scrubbed my face excessively, he refused to kiss me goodbye. Rude, don't you think?!

His love is so conditional.

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 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!