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Everyone Please Stop Getting Married and Having Babies

1 Aug

I envisioned a lot of things for my twenties.  I pictured myself being a super cool adult.  I somehow thought that paying my own bills would be awesome.  I imagined I’d be in the best shape of my life.

These things haven’t exactly come to fruition.

You know what I hadn’t imagined?  Everyone I know getting married and having babies all at once.  …Or the invention of Facebook.  

I am constantly bombarded with announcements of love and adoration and procreation.   Which is lovely, in a way.  The Book of Faces has ensured that when I run into someone I haven’t seen since we shared Algebra class, my jaw doesn’t drop to the floor at the size of their stomach.  Or the train of munchkins behind them.  Or the size of their ring.  And since my face tends to immediately barf my thoughts, this has been a source of great salvation.

As happy as I am for all these folks and their hitch-getting and their baby-making, my wallet is getting seriously ravaged.  

Of course I’m glad for them.  Really, it’s a lovely milestone in their lives.  It’s just unfortunate that their milestones cost me so much of my hard-earned American dollars.  Do you realize how many days I have to sit at a desk typing to pay off just one friend’s marriage?! Too many, folks.  Far too many. 

I’ve gotta take off work.  I’ve gotta get a hotel.   I’ve gotta get an outfit.  I’ve gotta pay for gas.  I’ve gotta get a gift.  I’ve gotta hold my empty wallet in my hand as I cry in the hotel shower.

We need to get a handle on this.  My Facebook news feed is blowing up with pictures of fingers sporting rings and pictures of babies still in the womb (which is a post in itself,  mind you).  Every status update is a hit to my bank account and a day of my life spoken for.  We all hit the 20’s at the same time and we’re all racing to avoid a life of cat-filled spinsterdom. I get it.  I fully support it.  I just wish I didn’t have to pay for it. With the number of wedding gifts and baby shower sprinkles I’ve purchased, I could have backpacked through Europe by now.  

Maybe we should just all agree to not get each other anything.  I’m pretty sure we’re all just throwing the same money around and around anyway.  With so many invitations in a year, I can’t even attend them all.  And while that should mean that I save money, social etiquette dictates that if I opt not to attend, the pressure to purchase a gift is only heightened.  That doesn’t even make any sense.  

So I have a proposal of my own; let’s stop buying each other crap.  Let’s just save our money to buy ourselves the things on our registry instead of asking other people to buy those things.  Doesn’t that make lots of sense?  Then again, the gift is the cheapest portion of the wedding excursions.  Its the driving and the hotel-staying that does me in.  Maybe everyone can just get married in a closer proximity to me.  Or maybe everyone can get married at free camping grounds.  Or just revert to immediate family only. That’s probably best.  Let’s do that.

Except start after I get married – because I’ve already invested in folks and I want that money back y’all. ♣

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Jackie the Housewife

25 Jul

This is our fridge magnet. True story.

Today Dave suggested that we move the cat food bowls around the house every once in a while so that we can force them to scavenge for food and thereby “prepare them for the oncoming apocalypse”.

I complied.  I didn’t really have a choice; he was very serious about it.  It felt like a dealbreaker.  And I really don’t want to be the girl that he left because she wouldn’t get over a little Apocalypse Training for the cats.  However, I’m also a little worried that now that I’ve opened the door to the beginning stages of this, he’ll start to get even more serious about their training program. 

First it’s hiding food dishes around the house, next it’s cats knifing me when I come home from work. 

Maybe I don’t have anything to worry about though – I tried to rouse Hobbes with the laser pointer today and he gave me the finger.   I don’t think even the fear of the apocalypse could get him to stop sleeping in the tub all day.  I’ve been meaning to talk to him about his attitude lately.

Anyway, I’m off work this week and I’m trying to spend some of the time teaching the cats  a lesson in productivity.  The theme of my workshop is that just because you’re not employed, doesn’t mean you can’t contribute.  I’m demonstrating a myriad of behaviors I’m hoping they’ll mimic in my absence when I go back to work.   Today, for example, I cleaned the house and did the dishes and made cookies and deviled eggs. 

What I wouldn’t give to have my cat hand me a deviled egg when I get home instead of knifing me. 

They aren’t really taking to my demonstrations, but I’m hoping that soon my messages will get through. I’m like the Jane Goodall of cats.  They’ll come around.

As it turns out I really like being home, aside from Hobbes’ foul behavior.  I really don’t mind dropping things off to be dry cleaned or getting the cats appointments (health pre-screenings for the training), or putting together furniture, cleaning the house, and making dinner.  I think I might really be cut out for this domestic thing.  Hell, I’d start a garden if I had a lawn.

It makes sense, I guess – I’ve always preferred staying indoors in the evening; now that I can be indoors in the morning too, I’m at my peak. It’s only been three days and Dave’s got this look in his eye like he’s afraid I’ve taken to it so much that will never return to work again.   And that could be entirely possible because I feel fantastic.  So to help him agree that it’s a good idea, I’m making him delicious dinners and keeping him from lifting a finger around the apartment.   I think if I can fit in a puppy and a garden, I’ve got myself a good hard sell.

It’s so wonderful to be able to get things done that have been on the back burner forever as low-priority items.  After a while, those things nag at me for so long that they become part of the baggage I carry around all the time.  And this week has been dedicated to ticking those off the list one by one.   I am infinite.

I started to feel so great this week that I realized I should be spending this time doing *all* the things I’ve ever wanted to do and recalled my curiosity for hiking the Appalachian Trail.  Then I remembered that I still have rehearsal at night and every weekend until November is booked (Note to self: add Appalachian Trail to back burner.  Also Note to self: why are you always so busy?).

I also have quite a bit of Lollipop Tuesday hunting to do, as it’s been quite some time since I’ve tried some newfangled adventure.  I’m afraid it’s been so long that if I don’t do one soon I’ll revert back into a cranky old coot.   Of course, finding new ventures is difficult when I get to be home all day in heels and a housedress, showing Dave how good of an idea it is for me to not work. 

Perhaps tomorrow my only goal should be to go outside.  It will hurt, but it will be good for me.  I’ll report back next week.  

Pray for me out there.  I hear the Apocalypse is coming. ♣

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A Day in the Life of a Postal Worker’s Wife

18 Jul

You can find anything on the Interwebz. Even a chipmunk delivering mail to foreign lands. Also, if you have any knowledge pertaining to what the hell this says, please inform me.

Dave is a mailman.

Did we cover this? Have we covered this?  I think not.  This happened some time ago; once a week just isn’t enough.  Stay a while, have some tea.

So Dave is a mailman.  He delivers letters to people and is given a paycheck in return.  He’s a professional courier pigeon.  

Believe it or not, it makes complete and total sense that Dave should join the United States Postal Service because the USPS has haunted me for my entire life.  It’s true.  My father worked there, my brother worked there, and my mother is still an employee of 13 years.  She’s probably due to go postal soon.  I don’t think anyone actually retires in the post office; they just lose their minds, go to jail because they stole all the mail and buried it in their backyard, or both.  

I even worked there.  For a day.  Apparently my family is of good letter carrying stock.  Dave’s and my offspring will be mail marines with all that raging postal blood coursing through their veins.

Honestly, I don’t understand how it all happened.  All I really remember is that the application was just the most awful thing I can imagine doing.   Applications drive me insane in the first place but this monster is the ugliest there is.  It asks you where you’ve lived and who’s lived with you.  For your entire life. 

That’s particularly hard for me, not just because I hate applications, but because I’ve moved 13 times.  And I’ve cohabitated with a lot of people (in a non slutty way).   I have a tendency to exaggerate, but that one has been fact checked by the United States Postal Service, folks; that’s real.

So somehow I managed to not set the paper on fire before I completed it and I handed it in and I was hired.  I ordered my uniform.  I got all nervous for my first day.  And then they called me the morning I was supposed to go and told me that the position was actually no longer open and they didn’t need the extra help and thanked me for my time.

The Postal Service isn’t a very organized lot, despite having the most detailed map to our country.

It was a complete waste of two weeks of my life.   The t-shirt was all I had left.  I kept it, much to Dave’s dismay.  When I wear it casually, he has a visceral reaction.   I guess it’s like him buying a t-shirt that says “Hi Jackie! How was your boss today?!” … I can understand why it might upset him.

There are lots of things about Dave being a mailman that amuse me.  One is that he’s a particularly attractive man and he finds that he gets hit on by a lot of middle-aged ladies who are home waiting for the mail.  The other is that his entire world is now shaped by the mail service.   It’s impossible to perform a task for 10 hours a day and not have it fundamentally shape you as a person.  And though Dave tends to leave his work at work, there are still days he’ll come home with the mail in his hand and say “Honey, you’re failing your duties as a mail recipient”.  He gets worked up when I forget to get the mail.

And he’s for realsies.

Then he sees it’s all Presorted Standard mail and rips it up with raucous laughter. 

For those of you who don’t come from a long line of good postal stock, Presorted Standard is a class of mail that is basically reserved for paid advertising.  When you look to the upper right of an envelope you receive in the mail, if it says Presorted Standard, you can just throw it out.  That’s a piece of mail that a company has paid money to have the Postal Service send to you without you asking.  It’s how they make the bulk of their money so mailmen are stuck delivering these unwanted pieces of garbage to every single person on their routes, just to have them throw it directly in the trash.  

Of course, that’s a big monumental waste of time so Dave would much prefer to bury the Presorted Standard  mail in our front yard and be carted off to the loony bin.  But he comes from good stock, so he delivers it all.  And when he comes home to find that I’ve left a nugget of Presorted Standard beauty for him in the mailbox, ripping up his own junk mail is a welcome bit of catharsis. 

He’s also losing weight faster than any normal human being could possibly match.  Apparently carrying over 50 pounds on your back while you walk up and down stairs and hills for several hours a day in intense heat is quite the Ab Blast.  

Obviously, I’m cleaning up my diet to counterbalance.  I can’t let myself be the fat one.  I just can’t.

Anyway, that’s all.  You already know I quit my job (so I can live off my handsome mail carrier).  And hey, I’m not allowed to blog about work because I could be fired, but Dave’s job is fair game, right?

Maybe I’ll change my blog to be a day in the life of a postal worker’s wife.  

That sounds like a shot straight to the top of the famous farm. ♣

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In This, the Passing of My First Life Quarter

11 Jul

I’m right there with ya, kid.

I am writing this post in the last hours of my 25th year.  It is the end of my first quarter-century;  I have completed one fourth of my supposed long and happy triple-digit life.

I am enduring this home stretch with a set of very troll-like eyebrows.

You see, I’m doing this thing for my birthday called destressing.  I’ve spent this past week preparing for a day of complete and total self-indulgent bliss.  I start with getting my hair done, progress to getting my brows “designed” and then get a long, lovely massage.

That’s right, I said “brow design”.  Apparently that’s a thing.   This entire time I’ve been walking around with normal human eyebrows and thinking it’s socially acceptable but it’s not.  They need to be expertly crafted.  Doing so will change the way people look at my face, perceive my hairstyle, and receive my opinion in large groups.

That’s what I’ve convinced myself of, anyway. My 26th year is going to be an expertly crafted Year of the Brow.  There’s only one catch.  In order to properly have your brows “designed”, you have to grow them out.  Like, stop tweezing them altogether for 6-8 weeks.  

I’m a generally fuzzy human being.  No brow maintenance has been difficult for me. In the midst of my neglect, my eyebrows have taken on a life of their own.  I have almost no discernible arch remaining and tiny hairs are sprinting away to my hairline in fear of what may become of them.  

I’m spending the last hours of my 25th year as a common troll.

Aside from tomorrow morning signifying the beginning of The Year of the Brow, it will also be a day for complete and total relaxati0n.  To prepare, I woke up at 5:30 this morning and worked until this post was complete.  Because I’m at a point in my life where I can’t actually take a day off unless I’m going to agree to not sleep another day to make up for it.

I think that’s called adulthood.

Anyway, I’ve been celebrating my day of stresslessness by slowly eradicating awful, stress-inducing things from my life.   Today I even cleaned out my refrigerator and cupboards so that they didn’t sneak up on me in a week and cause a stroke.

I also quit my job.

You like how I just threw that in there?  All casual and whatnot with the fridge and the cupboards.

I am indeed headed to a spa tomorrow as a birthday celebration.  But the real gift I gave myself is walking away from a death-inducing job.  I’m so tickled I might pee myself during the spa celebration just thinking about it.

I would have much preferred to write about all the details surrounding that bundle of joy, but we’re not in the early 90’s anymore, kids.  If I’m going to write about my job, I’m going to have to put it in a tell-all book that will be ravishing enough to make millions – because I’ll never work again.  And I’m just not that confident in my following yet.

So hey: Happy Birthday to me.  I’m overtired, unemployed, and I look like a troll.

Sounds like I’m just a skip and a jump away from 30. ♣

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Therapeutic Cat-Washing

27 Jun

Yesterday I was so upset at the world that I washed my cat.

I think it had something to do with working a ten hour day and having my boss call me the moment I left the office.  Twice in a row.  And then text me seven times.  Right in a row.

There is something about the beeping that my phone makes upon a new text delivery that I am unable to check that feels like a hamster is nibbling at my insides.  When I know it’s my boss and I’m behind the wheel and helpless to know what the emergency is that inspires her to plague me so, that hamster gets upgraded to a gerbil.  And by the time I got to the grocery store, called her, handled said emergency, drove home, unpacked everything, changed my clothes, and saw that the house was a mess beyond livability, I would have had a more relaxing evening had I just set myself on fire and run out of my office building before it all started.

But I didn’t.  So instead, I took my cat for a walk.

Hobbes is an interesting creature of habit.  Once upon a time, Dave had a pang of guilt about man’s domestication of felines and their tendency to remove their manhood once domesticated.  And so to give Hobbes a taste of loveliness, he took him to the park, where I sang him a lively rendition of “A Whole New World”.   Ever since, when Dave gets home from work, Hobbes paws and meows at the front door until we either let him out or shoot him.

We don’t have a gun.

So since I was at my wit’s end and wanted a breath of fresh air anyway, I decided to kill two cats with one walk and bring Hobbes into the great wide open.  He doesn’t require a leash because all he does is roll around on the concrete like he’s on ecstasy and the concrete is neon silk.  The neighbors tend to stare.

And while Hobbes was relishing the highlights of neon and softness in the sidewalk, I sat beside him stewing about all the work I had to do that evening and how I really just wanted to play video games and eat cookies.   I imagined the carpet that needed to be vacuumed several days ago and the cat litter that I just scooped this morning that already needed to be scooped and the dusting, dishwashing, counter-cleaning and general exhaustion that was about to ensue.  It burned like a fiery pit of filth in my stomach, right beside the once-gnawing gerbil.

That’s when Hobbes’ ecstasy binge led him to a soft pile of dirt and he began to roll in a frenzy, overtaken by the spirit of a chinchilla.

He rolled and rolled.  I’d venture to say it was the happiest moment of his life to date.  It may have even made up for the fact that his ancestors had been torn from the tundra and domesticated into prissy little eunuchs.  

But I was not happy.  My mind was chock full of filthy things needing to be cleaned and even if I did every single one of them, my E-crazed chinchilla was just going to deposit a sack of black dust all over my living room anyway.  And since I had nothing inanimate near me on which to take out my sometimes compulsive cleaning habit, I instead grabbed the offender by the scruff of his neck and the tub of his tummy and carted him to the bathroom.

I think this is where I did the most harm.  Hobbes loves the bathroom.  He loves the sink and the tub and the perfectly Hobbes-sized carpet I apparently bought for him.  He loves the shower curtain and the occasional drip from the tub’s faucet.  He lives like a king in that sacred room.  But he doesn’t like water.  I know this because when, in my fury, I splattered the water all over his dirty behind, his eyes turned to saucers, his tail went stick straight, and he engaged every fiber of his being into actively escaping the porcelain death trap I had set for him.

But I’m a human.  And humans trump cats.  Hence the domesticated nutsack-stealing.

I rinsed about a half pound of black dust and dander down my tub before I started to worry I’d genuinely give him a heart attack so I turned off the water and convinced myself he was clean enough. I smothered him in a towel and then made a note to do a load of laundry because I had just used my last clean towel on my cat.

Freshly toweled cats are hilarious, angry little things.  I highly recommend it on a rough day.

I followed up the traumatic session with a gentle brushing, which was actually in my favor more than his but he’s too stupid to know the difference between a proper petting and a wire brush.  Another point for the humans.  I then nursed the wounds he’d inflicted that, due to my nerdy cat allergies, had swollen to look like boils all over my skin.  Point for the cats.

But I felt better.  I had cleaned something.  Not just that – I had cleaned something that fought back – and I had won.  I mean, I tend to take out my stress on my dirty apartment from time to time, but that’s just a hurricane of cleaning that ends in my sweat and tears.  This! This was fantastic.  Five minutes of cat cleaning and I’m good to go.  I can dust a little, vacuum a little, pick up a few cups and be done.  The filthiest thing in my apartment had already been conquered and it was now so upset at the violation that it was cleaning itself. Perfection.

Therapeutic Cat-washing, folks: I highly recommend it. ♣

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Flurries and Furries

20 Jun

Ladies and gentlemen, I have a blender.

Okay, I know – I’ve had a blender for a while.  That’s what you’re thinking.  Because obviously you’ve read every single one of my posts and you know that one time, in the year of The Jackie Blog postaday 2011 super festival, Jackie posted about wanting a blender.  And you’re right; I got one.  I called it The Blender of Shame and when I brought it home, I was disappointed that for 20 American dollars, you cannot buy a blender that will uniformly chip and blend ice.

The Blender of Shame post was March 9, 2011; over a year ago.  My blender hasn’t done anything since.   For a year, I’ve thought about things I could do with a good blender:  frappaccinos, alcoholic milkshakes, smoothies and protein shakes of all kinds.  And I wept.

But yesterday I found myself at Target.   But yesterday, I went to Target for a blender.  And while in the blender aisle (there’s an entire AISLE OF THEM), I stared at varying price levels with a multitude of claims.  And because I was upset that I had been duped into a terrible blender a year prior, I bought the most ridiculous one there even though it was a terrible financial decision.  I told myself that it would pay for itself in avoided Starbucks trips and in the number of times I will repeatedly buy crappy blenders until one day I give up and just buy expensive ones anyway.

It’s called the Ninja.  It claims to turn ice into powder, which, at first seems just a bit intense.  But I was mad, so I liked it. I set it up the very moment I got it home.

Actually, once I took it out of the box, I ran into my living room and tried to get my black cat to go in it so I could take a picture of her being a ninja in a Ninja box.

I lead a very exciting life.

I say all this to say: this blender is amazing.  It scares the bejeezus out of me.  Right before I touch the speed button, I get this little rush to my chest because I kind of feel like the blades will somehow whip themselves through the blender lid, into the sky, and directly toward my face.  That, and I’m excited about a good smoothie.  

I’ve already made three smoothie concoctions in only two days.  I think Dave is afraid that I’m going to make dinner and throw it into a blender out of enthusiasm.  And he’d probably try it too.

He’s a good man.

Anyway, I’m telling you about my blender today because I actually want to be telling you that I experienced a fantastical Lollipop Tuesday by going to the Furry Convention held in Pittsburgh this past week.   But I can’t tell you that because it didn’t dawn on me until they were packing up that I should have dressed like a kitten and run down to the convention center to do some insider reporting.

Furries, by the way, are folks who are so into animals that they dress like them.  Sometimes they even act like them.  Some go so far as to copulate when in costume or to never even take off the costume at all.  Here’s a picture for full effect:

 I remember a friend of mine who worked in a hotel downtown reminiscing about the troubles of furries in the hotel.  One furry in particular, deemed it prudent to use the hotel floor as a litter box and did not, in fact, clean up after himself. 

itself.

the furry’s self.

Not all of them do that.  I like to think of those folks as furry extremists.  They can also be people who just like a certain character so much that they associate themselves with it or like to dress up as it.  I love it when the Furry Convention is in town because it’s nice to run into a random raccoon in my favorite restaurant or see a family of small rodents downtown.  Life should always be fun like that.  I also like it because it significantly increases my chances of getting to explain to my boss what a furry is when she asks.

She did.  It was excellent.

But aside from all that, I am genuinely disappointed in myself.  I can’t imagine the absolute wave of inspiration that would wash over me the moment I step foot into that convention center.  It would have been glorious.  But I’m an idiot and by the time it occurred to me, they were packing away their tails and ears. 

Unless they were hardcore.  Then they just walked home or became strays I guess.

Anyway, it would have been easy and wonderful and instead it wasn’t and so instead I wrote about my blender.  And I vowed that next year I would have to continue the blog because by golly I’m not going to rest until I cover a furry convention.

Mark my words. ♣

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How to Drive, Chapter 3

13 Jun

I would like to take a moment to address a woman I met in an intersection this week.  Let’s call her Patty.

You see, I would have addressed Patty in the moment but I was unable to.  I was too busy trying to avoid the mountain of metal she was commandeering so that I didn’t die a painful, car-to-the-head death.  I suppose after I narrowly avoided said mountain of metal, I could have mentioned it but I was too taken aback by the ridiculous face she made, which looked somewhat like this:

Well, that’ s my face doing an impression of her face and poorly cropping it.

This is me.

Also poorly cropped. And in a Yoshi go-kart.  I’m disappointed that this image is not representative of my actual vehicle.

I digress.

Somehow though I was following the rules of good American citizenship and driving according to the details laid out in my Pennsylvania Driver’s Manual, this woman seemed to think that it was my fault she was going to hit me.  And since I never caught up to her to hurdle insults and a driver’s manual through her window, she’ll never know the error of her ways.  In fact, she probably went home to tell her boyfriend all about the idiot she almost collided with in the intersection.

I don’t like fibbers.  And I don’t like to miss teaching opportunities.  I don’t really think I can go on with my life having not taken the time to do my part in educating America.  And though  Patty is probably going to drive around like a moron the rest of her life unenlightened and all her boyfriends are going to think she has terrible luck on the road, it is my mission here on The Jackie Blog to ensure all my readers are not Pattys. So here I give you:

How to turn onto a multi-laned intersection:

Chapter 3 of “Learning to Drive” from the PA Driver’s Manual. Seriously.

Now, the fact that this information is free and distributed both online and in print may surprise you if you’re a Patty.  It’s okay.  Take your time settling in.  That’s a lot of words and a tiny picture.  Let me poorly crop and color it for you.

That’s her in pink in the Birdo cart.  That’s me in green in the Yoshi cart.  This is the way it was supposed to go.  Patty and Jackie want to go west on this lovely roadway, they both have a green light, and so to avoid collision while keeping traffic moving and getting everyone where they need to go, people turn into the same lane in the position as the one they are leaving.  I’m in the left lane.  When I turn, I stay in the left lane.  Patty is in the right lane.  When she turns, she is supposed to remain in the right lane.

However, because Patty is, well, a Patty, she thinks that once you get one tire into an intersection, you enter a portal where you’re randomly assigned a new lane based on how you feel that day.  But she didn’t enter a portal.  She was still in reality, where her car was dangerously close to colliding with mine.   And for what was almost my parting image from this world, I was given with this charming face blaming me for my supposed error:

She also exaggerated mouthing the words “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!?!?!”  She even mouthed the punctuation.  I saw it.

Regarding a left turn in an intersection, the DMV text states “By always turning into the lane closest to the centerline, you also avoid interfering with traffic coming from the opposite direction making a right turn onto the same street.”  It should actually read: “By always turning into the lane closest to the centerline, you also avoid interfering with traffic coming from the opposite direction making a right turn onto the same street. But stay alert for those who consider the intersection to be a sort of ‘portal’ wherein their brains are scrambled and they are randomly dispensed into a lane of their mind’s assignment.“

So hey: if you’re a Patty, please reread this until you’re sure you’ve got it down.  In fact, just reread the whole manual. If you’re THE Patty – welcome to The Jackie Blog; please email me a picture of your face so I can make this more historically accurate.  Please also give your keys to the nearest licensed adult and donate your car to them. If you’re not a Patty at all, please consider sharing this with someone who is.  

It will make the world a better place and may one day make me famous enough to afford a Yoshi go-kart. ♣

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My Declaration of Laziness

6 Jun

I’m in one of those modes again where I don’t feel like doing anything.

Well, I should be more specific.  

I feel like doing lots of things.  I feel like playing video games, eating junk food, taking lots of naps, buying things online that I may not even use in the next three months, and holding long conversations with my cats.  I’m also farting more than usual.  I don’t know what that’s about.   And I’m doing all of these things – while avoiding the absolutely monstrous and ever-growing to do list.

All the things on my to do list are “adult” things.  And adult things are icky.

Adult things like dishes, not adult things like porn.  

Anyway I have a lot of things to do and instead of paying them any mind, I am wrapping myself in cozy blankets when I come home from work and talking to my cats until I pass out with my hand still lodged in a bag of generic cheesy poofs.  I’m finding it difficult to get on top of things with this ritual.  Perhaps I should explain how I got here.

You see, several weeks ago I had reached a sort of Jackie Critical Mass.  Every day I was pelted with some new and hugely stressful thing and though I’m usually really good in those sort of scenarios, I really just couldn’t catch a break.  And I sort of went to the hospital with stroke-like symptoms.

Don’t freak out.   I know I don’t usually talk about anything but video games, Lollipop Tuesdays, cats, and social awkwardness, so you might feel somewhat uncomfortable right now.   If so, go up and read the part about my cats again, who have been mentioned twice in less than 300 words.  Breathe.  Come back when you’re ready.

Anyway, I didn’t have a stroke.  They ran lots of tests and took lots of blood and affirmed that I had a severe case of Stressed-the-Hell-Out.  I guess that isn’t the technical term for it but it should be.  After much arguing and a lot of harassment, I took time off from work to try to mellow out and not die.  I know it seems like a great excuse to get out of work, but I don’t often go to the doctor and when I do, I don’t often believe them.  Not going to work because I’m ‘overly stressed’ sounds pretty stupid to me.  Besides, if I have to use vacation time, I want to use it to go places and do things.  I don’t want to spend it sitting around.  So I tried to come in to work the following day but was instantly sent home because apparently they were serious when they told me not to come in.  I returned to my humble abode and spent most of it cleaning my apartment and catching up on all the things I was too busy to be able to do while I was at work.    

After two days of that, Dave whipped me into submission and I was forced to coddle myself.  I painted my toenails, I played video games, I browsed Pinterest; I was a waste of human flesh.  I actively said no to extra responsibilities, unwanted tasks, and things I usually do out of obligation.  I kept wading through the to do list and pushed everything off my figurative plate until it was squeaky clean and I could hear myself think again.

And that’s where I stayed.  For the past several weeks I’ve just been hovering in a state of aggressive relaxation.   It took a really long time to get here and now that I’ve practice saying no to lots of things and have taken such a liking to it that I fear I may never contribute to society again.  Every day I wake up a few minutes later, every day I convince myself a little more that I shouldn’t go in to work ever again, and every day I’m more at risk for showing up at the desk of a social worker, unwashed and jobless – babbling something about the day everything changed.  

Me. Totally gross. You know, it took me forever to find a larva picture that wasn’t on the move. Apparently they get around. Very mobile, larva. I felt that would be an inaccurate representation of my current state and opted to find a larva curled upon itself; a non-contributor.

I suppose I’ve been in denial for a bit so we can go ahead and call this very public admission of guilt the second step to recovery: I have milked my relaxation far too long and am now simply a lazy, non-contributor of a human being.

Okay, there it is.  I wrote it loud and proud.  That counts as acceptance.  I have to talk myself through this because as far as I know, there are no Lazy Slugs Anonymous groups in my area.  That, and in my state of perpetual do-nothingness, I had no contributions for today’s post and was forced to write the truth.

Now it’s time to get back on the trolley.  I’m pretty sure if I don’t get any sleep until Sunday, I can clear out the massive amount of junk that has acquired during my hiatus.  That’s probably a good way to have a stroke though.  Maybe I’ll just take it one step at a time.  Getting my hand out of the bag of cheesy poofs to write this blog post was a good first one.

And hey: for the last several weeks I’ve been posting my weekly post at the end of the day it is due instead of the beginning (how nice of you all to not mention anything).  But looky there: today I’m bright and early!

Maybe the winds are changing.  

This is Larva, signing off. ♣

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Hypnosis and Nail Biting: An Experiment

29 May

You know, after trying over fifty new things last year, sometimes I wonder how I’ll continue to find fresh and interesting things to try as I maintain my Lollipop Tuesday series.  Luckily, there are a variety of daily deal companies that are happy to litter my inbox with wacky shit to try for a cheap price.  This week, it was hypnosis.  Because nothing says “hey, this is creepy and uncomfortable” like a Daily Deal Voucher for Hypnotherapy.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ladies and gentlemen.

As far as Lollipop Tuesday adventures go, on a scale of 1 to awkward, hypnosis ranked somewhere beyond the meter.  It was a prime example of an instance in which I could be murdered (as are almost all instances of leaving the house).  The idea of lone wolfing it into a strange office with a couch to talk about my feelings, get put into a trance by a watch, and to cluck like a chicken is, in my opinion, a likely murder scenario.  Because if someone is willing to do all of those things, they’re also probably willing to go out back to the shed and dig their own grave for you to bury them in.  

Anyway, I spent quite a great deal of time leading up to my appointment by strengthening my mind to oppose any ideas that might lead to my own murder while under hypnosis.  It was a lot like Harry Potter being trained for Occlumency, except I played the parts of both Snape and Harry.

I had no idea what to expect.   I was really hoping it would be like Office Space. 35 dollars for an experience that would result in my complete apathy toward work-related things, a loaded bank account from a scheme that I don’t go to jail for, and a coworker burning down my place of business is a great daily deal voucher indeed.   What I didn’t expect is to be asked what I was coming in for.  I told the hypnotherapist (let’s call him Skip) that I wanted to try something new.  He told me that he likes to focus on something for the sessions and that he would like to know what I struggle with.

That’s a little personal, but hey: I’ll roll.

As many avid readers know, I tend to take out my nervousness, boredom and/or general mood swings on my fingers.  It’s not just my nails; in fact, now it’s all cuticles.  I go at them with the vigor of a rabid mongoose as if in a trance and when I come to, I’m staring at something from Grindhouse.

Skip seemed happy to address my nail biting issue but the gravity of my scenario didn’t seem to hit him until I was on the couch in his office and he was talking to me about my “feelings”.  I didn’t really anticipate the couch treatment.  I don’t know why, but I thought we would just casually chat and then he’d put me in a trance.  Instead, he asked me about my history with my hands and when it started.  I told him I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t do it.

He got real serious on me then.

He started asking me how I feel when I do it, what the scenarios are that make me do it.  I told him I’ll revert to it when I’m bored.  If I’m forced out in social situations and I don’t want to be there, I’ll often just take out my angst on my hands.  Skip asked me what I meant by angst.  I explained that I didn’t really like to be around people.  He asked me what I do to cope and I said sometimes I’ll put on a character to just get through the night and pretend I like it.  I started to explain the concept of Mindee when I realized something very serious about myself:

I sound like an effing loon.

Really, I sound like I should be institutionalized.  I don’t like to leave my apartment because the idea of running into people I know or being forced into social situations with people I even call my friends makes me so angsty and upset that I often put on a character in order to cope? 

Suddenly, the nails don’t seem to be the problem.

I tried to casually wrap up conversation on the crazy nesting in my head and he said “I think I’ve got a good amount to work with here” and told me I could have a seat in the enormous  La-Z-Boy to his left.   Skip explained that the session would consist of an active relaxation technique in which he would guide me through a visualization using repetition and reaffirming statements. I would close my eyes but I would not sleep.  By the way, there were no watches involved.

Sounded simple to me.  You do a lot of strange things in theater school and lying on the floor, pretending to be somewhere else while music played in the background was certainly one of the tamer ones.  I told myself the worst part of the session was over.  I can do visualization.  I’ve rolled around on the floor in front of twenty of my peers using only the terms ‘glitter’ and ‘kitten’ as my guide; I can take a mental walk with a Hypnotherapist as my forest guide.

He guided me through relaxing all my muscles and thoughts and did the stereotypical “deeper and deeper” repetition to help get me into my happy place.  All I really did is go to my skeptical place, because in those theater classes in voiceover recordings and I was really unimpressed with his lack of vocal variety.

I imagined skeptical Jackie was not welcome on the forest walk so I tried to leave her behind and instead heard Skip reading aloud the Mad Lib we had created together earlier.   I was a wood nymph, headed to a pool of water on the forest floor and when I looked into the pond I saw someone with beautiful hands.  And that from then forward, I would feel (insert mad lib word from couch session) when I looked at my hands instead of (insert mad lib word from couch session).

It was kind of hard to get into it since his techniques were so obvious, but it was even harder when he kept accidentally incorporating cue words from a beach visualization into my sacred forest glade.

Apparently a lot of people order the beach for their getaway.

I wasn’t sure what the effects of bouncing between a beach and a forest would do to my inner psyche but I’m pretty protective of my napping hours and I don’t want Skip getting in there and messing things around.  I thanked him for his time, the recording, reassured him that the beach/forest mixup was no biggie, and went on my merry way.   He awkwardly wished me a happy future with beautiful hands.

Immediately after my session, I went to get a manicure.  All that talk about my ugly and/or beautiful hands made me want to spend twelve dollars on my digits.  And though I think it’s much more a result of paying so much attention to the issue and not so much the Hypnotherapy, I must admit that it’s been a week and I have yet to tear at myself so viciously.  Don’t get me wrong: I still do it every single day, but I’m sparing the nails now and only going for the cuticles and when I attack my fingers, I snap out of the daze and stop the violence a lot earlier.

I think that had a lot to do with Skip’s eye judgment and insinuation that I’m an addict out of control.  I didn’t like how quickly he made me feel like a lunatic with his hypnobabble mad libs and his alarm at my social anxiety.  I don’t want to say Hypnotherapy worked, but to be fair I have to admit that my nails look better this week than they have in quite some time.

I think my record for such achievements is two weeks.  In three, I’ll likely get a visit from my inner mongoose.  I’ll keep you posted. Until then, I’ll keep playing the voice of Skip walking me through the beach/forest and I’ll keep reimagining the rousing game of psychiatric mad libs on a leather couch.  

So far, so good.  Just don’t make me go back to the couch. ♣

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The Trojan Unicorn

23 May

I’ve come to you this week in a bout of confusion and ecstasy.     

Seven short days ago, I was at work having a rather terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  Honestly, that’s usually the case if it’s a weekday and between the hours of 8am and 5pm.  All times outside this window are sprinkled with pixie dust and merriment.   But seven days ago was different.  Because as I was encroaching on the final hour of my workday, I received an email from someone I didn’t know with an attachment I instantly loved.  And it changed the course of my life’s trajectory forevermore.

Well, maybe just for the remainder of the workday. But that’s still pretty epic.

At first, I was hesitant.  Typically, if I don’t recognize a sender or if there’s no subject line I instantly trash the message.   But I was feeling adventurous and clicked on the note in a bout of carelessness.  There was a name and a non-spammy looking email address and what looked like a hand-drawn attachment (dear non-gmail users: gmail lets you thumbnail preview attachments. come drink the google koolaid). And since I just couldn’t stop my rabid curiosity, I opened it and found this:

I have no rights to this image except that I adore it. If you own the rights, please email me back. WHY WON’T YOU EMAIL ME BACK!?

Yes – that’s a baby unicorn being tickled.  And it’s amazing.

Now, as my longtime readers will recall, I have a doppelganger who lives in California and who has an email address that must be strikingly similar to mine because I frequently receive emails that are intended for her.  She is a constant source of frustration in that she won’t email me back and is apparently friends with a bunch of people who don’t feel inclined to say thank you or sorry when I reply to kindly let them know they’ve reached the wrong person.  That’s why when I received a receipt for 25 of her students to attend mini golf in California, I considered grabbing 25 of my friends and going to mini-golf in California.  But it wasn’t really fiscally responsible.  And I guess a little vindictive.

Anyway, it is quite possible that this ticklish baby unicorn was meant for her.  

But those longtime readers will also remember that California Doppelganger Jackie is the antithesis of Jackie Blog Jackie.  She likes to go places and do things and run and has blonde hair and tan skin and surfs.  I don’t like any of those things.

I only actually know about half of those from the emails.  The others I intuited.

But given that she is so far away from the core of my personality, is it really possible that we both share a love of this uncontrollably ticklish baby unicorn?  I think not.

There is, of course, every possibility that someone doesn’t like me, reads my blog, has gathered that I harbor a love of such things, and forwarded a “Trojan Unicorn” if you will, that has downloaded a big awful virus to my computer.  That’s entirely possible.  Which is why I have saved this baby unicorn in several places in the event that my computer is wiped out.  I will win, Trojan Emailer.   You can take my files but you cannot take my newly acquired baby unicorn.

I’ve also considered the possibility that this person reads my blog and actually likes me.  Or is indifferent about me and just hopes I’ll blog about their unicorn and make them famous.  There’s no way for me to know because I ran the full Jackie Stalking Program on this email address and I came up with a whole lotta nothin’.  There are profiles similar to this handle, but no actual content to the profiles or followers associated with them.  A reply to the email containing the attachment resulted in complete 7-day silence.  So with nothing to go on but my imagination, I’m spinning my own stories.

It could be possible that this *was* indeed intended for someone else and this person is embarrassed that I intercepted something so adorable and unicorn-y.  

…Or maybe I’m looking at it wrong and it’s baby unicorn porn.

Well, look at it.

I mean… it could be. It really could be.

Now it feels a little dirty, doesn’t it?  With the Lisa Frank 90’s treatment and a little Marvin Gaye on in the background, it’s downright criminal.

It’s a baby, after all. It should not be sexually exploited.

Anyway, enough about baby unicorn porn.  My point is that I love it and that no one has claimed it.  So instead of hoarding this random wonderfulness to myself, I have bestowed it upon the unholy magical Interwebz.  May it find a home.  Or an owner.  Or millions of adorable-loving fans.

But hopefully not baby unicornphiles.  That would be criminal. ♣

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