The Jackie Blog

The movie theater concession stand - selling disappointment at alarmingly high prices. Photo by "TheWanderingEye". Click to check out their Flickr Photostream..

Movie theaters have mocked me for the last time.

Yesterday I decided to bend over and take the Harry Potter ending like a champ at my parents’ local movie theater.  After all, I’d promised my dad I’d go with him and since he’s a hermit two steps away from swearing off any and all human contact, I felt it my duty to drag him out into the daylight.  Unfortunately, I was in a bit of a rush from place to place yesterday and failed to eat ahead.

‘Eating ahead’ is when you aren’t necessarily hungry at the time you eat, but rather eat because you know you’ll be hungry before  you have your next opportunity to eat.  It’s basic first-year Fat Girl coursework.

So unfortunately, I found myself about to digest a very long, very intriguing movie on a very empty stomach.  And though I almost always refuse to fall for concession stand inflation devilry, I was hungry and without defense.   I tried to make a somewhat well-balanced financial decision in spite of the fact that there basically was none -and ended up squelching my desire for a hot dog based on its $4.50 price tag and instead opted for nachos and cheese – which was just slightly less and seemed slightly more promising.

It wasn’t.  The nachos were terrible.  Terrible in that way that makes you feel filthy inside.  Like you’re gnawing on flavored cardboard that used to have something tasty in it but is now long gone.

I was in a bit of a predicament, as the  nachos were far too disgusting to eat, but that I’d eaten enough that I couldn’t return them.  And if I truly wanted any satisfaction I’d have to try for the hot dog or make it through the movie battling my hunger like Harry battled He Who Shall Not Be Named.

I was weak and sad and went back to the concessions to drop a few more of my hard-earned American dollars on terrible food.  I went for the hot dog, but was informed that they ran out of ones that had been cooked by a heat lamp and that the only way I could have one was if I wanted it microwaved.

Gross.

So I did it.  I paid $4.50 for a microwaved pig butt on a bun. Not even a foot long.  Just a plain old, stubby radioactive hot dog.

I was pretty disappointed in myself.  I should have just taken my money out of my bag, licked it, and thrown it in the trash can.  It would have been more satisfying.    But most of all, I was disappointed that I gave money to a business who does not have enough foresight to put an ample number of hot dogs on during at 1:00 matinee of Harry Potter.  Sell one, replace one.  It’s pretty straightforward.

When I finally threw everything away and settled in to the seat to wallow in my misery, I got slight pangs of excitement for seeing the previews.  After all, I’ve done away with television entirely and the only way I even know there are movies out there is if I get to see them at the theater.

Unfortunately there was some sort of silliness going on with the projector.  It flipped in and out on a whim and the sound didn’t play along with the clips.    While someone worked frantically in the booth to fix the problem, I watched a trailer for Planet of the Apes to the soundtrack of an upbeat teenage girl voiceover trying to tell me I could take college courses online in my pajamas.

It’s good to know that 15 dollars I dropped on crap food at least goes toward a well-run establishment.

But hey – that will teach me.  Stick to the old standard: make a queue on Netflix, watch them as they come, and visit Redbox to help squelch any sudden urges.

Stay inside, Jackie.  Just stay inside.  It’s safe there. ♣

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011

I think it’s time I get serious about starting my own business.

Like my own product line.  Yeah.  I need to start my own business featuring a line of products to address problems I face on a daily basis.  I assume that since my problems are universal in nature, they’ll apply to everyone and I will instantly make money based on the fact that by making products to solve my life’s problems, I am also by extension, making products to address everyone’s problems.  And even if no one is interested in my super awesome life solutions line, it doesn’t matter.  Because I will have solved the  most nagging problems I face every day.  It’s a win-win with the happiness factor.

Things like excessive underarm sweat.  I’ve blogged about it before and I’ll blog about it again.  I shouldn’t need Botox injections or the removal of my sweat glands to help me get a grip on sweat and finally enjoy summer.

Then again, as long as bathing suits exist I probably won’t ever enjoy summer.

I also have a slew of other problems that today’s product development is failing to properly address.   Like underwear that don’t look like granny panties that are also comfortable.  What’s so hard about that?  Or a nude bra that doesn’t look absolutely and terribly boring and sad.  Or a pillow that doesn’t lose its super awesome fluff support after a few weeks of drool accumulation.

What’s so hard about this?

The key to true happiness and complete satisfaction in life isn’t some hidden secret you only unveil when you’re 60 and wish you could relive life again.  True happiness is having things like garbage bags that stay around the trash can instead of falling into it with the goopy leftovers from last night.  It’s things like self-cleaning cat litter boxes that save you from having to clean up after your own cat’s feces.  It’s pot holders that double as oven mitts and pens that glide on paper but don’t bleed

Perhaps this is a sign of my (ever-increasing) age: the simpler pleasures in life. ♣

Photo by "ejhogbin". Click to check out their Flickr Photostream.

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011

I had big plans last night.   

All day long at work, I dreamt of what last night might be.  I had visions of wine and a lovely homemade meal.  I had plans to snuggle on the couch.  Movies were in order.  Laughter, relaxation – my contentment would know no bounds.

But instead I worked until almost 8, came home, surrendered to ordering a pizza, and got back on my computer to do work the rest of the night.  The only alcohol I came in touch with was a shot of brandy to shake the work out of me.  

I’m a classy dame.

After I took care of emails, etc, I took a glance around the apartment and noticed it was starting to accumulate signs of being lived in.  And since I dedicated my entire life on Sunday to making sure I could eat cake off the carpet without fear, I immediately got up to start cleaning.  After all, I have to work again tomorrow and then go to my parents’ house and somehow fit in a blog post and then spend time with the shiny, new baby nephew, and then I’ll drive back and come back to work on Monday and it will all begin again.

It’s an endless cycle of stressful doom.

I have to figure out a way to break the cycle.   I’ve got knots in my back so huge they’re becoming part of my bone structure.   When I lie down at night, I shoot up an hour  later and plug a bunch of to-do’s in my phone so I don’t miss anything and can sleep in peace.

Isn’t that frightening?  I’m not even married.  Or with child.  Or with dog.  

I’m thinking some super awesome vacation is in order, but on all accounts that costs money.   Even if I decide to spend the time in the woods,  I need to get a tent.  And food.  And probably rent a camp site.  And I have to drive there, which sucks since it’s more expensive than a gallon of milk.  I should just invest in a dairy cow, put it in my backyard, sell the milk to neighbors and use that money to go get gas.

At least then it would only cost me between 20 and 80 cents a gallon.

But I digress.   The point is that I unless my landlord suddenly allows the housing of large, dairy-producing farm animals, I am unlikely to be able to afford even the most rudimentary of vacations.  

I would think that if I’m stressed from working all the time, my working should permit a vacation of sorts.  But all working really does is point out all the things I need money for that I don’t have.  Heaven forbid I trot off into the sunset for a weekend getaway and the car finally heaves its last, strained, dirt-filled breath.  I’d have hock my camping supplies on the side of the road until I got enough chump change to put in a tow call.

I went through this line of thinking not long ago and set aside a jar in the corner of the apartment to collect spare change and loose dollar bills so that someday I can afford to go to Barcelona.  Or Ireland.  Or England.

But I got hungry one night and went to P.F. Chang’s instead.

So maybe relaxation just isn’t on the books for me in 2011.  Maybe this is the year of the go-getter.  This is the year of restlessness, of blog-writing, of day job success, of night hobby take-offs, of relentlessness.   This is my power year.  My year of the tiger. 

Rawr. ♣

Photo by "kimubert". Click to check out their Flickr Photostream

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011

Photo by "Rossell78". Click to check out their Flickr Photostream.

I can’t remember the last time I slept.

I’m sure I slept some time ago – I just couldn’t really tell you when because quite frankly, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on right now.  My life is currently being supported by a bag full of legal drugs including caffeine pills, energy shots, and a horde of Starbucks doubleshots.

I’m sure there were a slew of bad decisions that led to this, but mostly I blame my father, my birthday, and babies.

On Monday evening my dad needed a 60-page thesis reviewed for final edits.  And make no mistake: verbally guiding your average keyboard-pecking baby boomer through edits over the phone is no quick task.  It took a complete five and a half hours from start to finish and while I was more than ready to turn in at 4:00am Tuesday morning, I remembered I still had a blog post to write.

You’d think after  190-something blog posts in a row, writing one wouldn’t be something that has to make it on my “remember to do” list – but when sleepless, my idiocy knows no bounds.

I decided it was best to sleep at 4am and wake at 6am to write the post that would be published by 9.  I woke, I wrote, I went to work., and looked forward to tasting the sweet, full-bodied flavor of sleep last night.    Being my birthday and all, my work day was pretty easy to stay awake through with all the happy wishing and whatnot.  I left the building promptly at 5pm to be greeted by my wonderful Dave, who soon realized that the car would not turn over and take us home.

It mocked us.

It was a lack of fuel parading as a dead battery, and while I appreciated getting it started and finally heading home, I did not appreciate the sleep time it cost me.  I got home at 7pm with no time to nap before my 8pm birthday dinner date with friends.     One large dinner and several large drinks later, I went home to happily sink into the beautiful nest of pillows and covers that never looked better but was greeted by a text proclaiming my sister-in-law was in labor.  I called, I texted, I rejoiced, and then finally sank into my  nest of hibernation.

Until my brother and father mentioned that they’d actually prefer I be there in person for the baby’s arrival: an unanticipated notion given that I had planned to drive in this weekend to spend time with everyone.  I woke, Dave drove, I arrived at the waiting room at 3:00am, almost 2 days sleepless and chock full of every caffeine pill, shot, and drink convenience stores had to offer.

At 4:57am  in a full zombie state I helped welcome into this world a moist, pasty new member of the family and was crowned with aunthood.  I smiled, I rejoiced, I hugged, and then promptly noticed it was 6:05am and time to head back home.  Dave drove, I supported his efforts from the passenger’s seat, and we arrived at 9:45am, just in time for me to show up very late to work.  There, I will stare at my screen, click on emails, and ponder the intricacies of human language at a pace approximately ten times slower than normal.  At the conclusion of my workday I will virtually have been awake for 56 hours straight and almost entirely non-functioning.

Yesterday a friend wished me a “very blogworthy” birthday.  I considered it the best wish of all.  And seeing as how I’ve had a car breakdown, a birthday experience, absolutely zero sleep, and a baby delivery, I’d say it certainly came true.

If only she would have wished I also had the mental faculties at the end of the day to be clever about it all. ♣

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011

Photo by "brionv". Click to check out their Flickr Photostream.

Today is the last day of my early twenties.

I suppose technically, exactly a year ago at this time was the last day of my early twenties.  Ever since I hit 24, I’ve officially been in my mid-twenties.  But last year at this time, I tried to avoid the grieving process by telling myself that 24 was still the early twenties and now I have to reap what I have sown.

I’m not entirely sure how to conduct myself on this, the last day of my youth.  Without question I shall spend the first 8 hours of it slaving away in corporate America.  When I go home I will have to tend to my to-do list because I just hate the idea of starting 25 with lingering to-do’s.  If I do, I will wake up tomorrow and curse 24-year-old Jackie for not taking care of her own business.

It is the fact that I plan to celebrate my last hours of 24 with a hefty to-do list that truly shows I’m ready for 25.

I tried to make myself feel better by calling my mother and reminding her (as I often do) that I am the last of her offspring and that my closing in on a quarter of a century surely means that she must be ancient and weary of this world.  It didn’t make me feel any better.  Because like a fairy dying from someone’s lack of faith, every time I voice out loud that 24 is coming to a close, a little tiny 24-year-old cell in my body crosses the bridge to 25.

I don’t think I ever properly mourned 21.  It was the last birthday that actually came with a perk.  Of course it didn’t really mean anything to me because I didn’t have my first drink until I was 22, but by golly if I could go back and celebrate the hell out of a birthday that came with privileges, I would.   Technically 25 comes with perks too but I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to go rent a car.

Maybe I should, though.  Maybe I should just march right over to my local Enterprise and ask for the most ridiculous rental car they have so that I can drive it around as I mourn the passing of my youth.  I can let my pathetic, jaded tears soak into the rich, leather seats.

I think that 8-year-old Jackie had too many big plans for mid-twenties Jackie.   Little Jackie  laid out these years as what would be her golden age – her peak of ripeness – her legacy.  She imagined vague but certain success, clearly defined and measurable goals, and a laundry list of unfathomable accomplishments.  After all, there’s so much hope to be had in the mid-twenties.  And your metabolism is practically at its peak. Glory! She imagined glory!

Turns out mid-twenties Jackie has an Acting degree she doesn’t use nearly often enough, a soul-sucking job in corporate America, and an underwhelming apartment near the city that looks like a hippie circle has been living there for weeks.   She also has an immovable layer of fat hibernating on her sides.  She does, however, have a blog.  And I think 8-year-old Jackie would think that’s kind of cool.

Even though she wouldn’t know what a blog is.

Maybe I can squelch this sort of thing from happening down the road by not setting my expectations too high.  If I project that Future Jackie will be homeless, goal-less, and so obese she’s practically leaping into her grave, there will be very little required of me to achieve the glories I have laid our for myself.  For now, however, I have to accept that I did not live up to 8-year-old Jackie’s expectations.

In defense of 24-year-old Jackie, 8-year-old Jackie didn’t know much.

So this is it.  Every hour that passes is one hour closer to 25 – to the closing of a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed chapter.   How monumentally depressing.

Lord be with me when I turn 30. ♣

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011

Image by ENUL Inverted Nail Systems. Click to check out their Flickr Photostream.

On Friday a coworker took me out on my lunch break to give me an early birthday present: a new set of talons.

I have mentioned from time to time my affinity for gnawing the living daylights out of my fingers when I get nervous, excited, anxious, angry, bored…  Perhaps it’s easier to just admit that if I’m not sleeping, I’m probably biting my nails down to their nittiest grittiest.  But on Friday, I was given the gift of sass and can no longer access said slivers of nail thanks to a thick, acrylic coating that separates them from the wrath of my incisors.

And though I rocked fake nails in high school like it was my job, I have been without them for quite some time and have spent the weekend reacquainting myself.   In addition to a hefty dose of instant sass, my newly acquired falsies offer a slew of obstacles during everyday activities.

The most frequent, and unfortunately  most painful, is the taking out of my contacts – which can now be aptly renamed ‘the gouging out of my eyeballs’.  After having finger/eye contact twice a day for a million days in a row without razor sharp acrylic blades attached to my fingers, it does not come easily to me to make the adjustment.  As a result, I burrow into my eyeball to peel out my contacts and in the process stick the end of my nail tip directly into my eyes.  Twice a day, every day until my brain learns.  I also can’t open sodas without assistance.  Or type as efficiently.  Or zip up my jeans without a great deal of struggle. 

Let’s be clear: zipping up my jeans is always a struggle.  Just not often for this reason.

It is obvious to the outside observer that the cons of said talon acquisition (no HR pun intended) far outnumber the perks.  And I certainly agree.  The problem is that the few, lonely perks are just so darn nice that I tell myself I don’t actually need practical use of my fingers in all occasions.    After all, what’s opening a soda compared to giving killer back-scratches, not looking like I have sausages for fingers and having an automatic dose of sass added to my gestures?

There are times, however,  – usually right after a good, firm poke in the pupil – that I think I should rip them off.  But the only thing worse than terrible cuticles and sausage fingers is terrible cuticles and sausage fingers that have just emerged from the ripping off of fake acrylic nails.  No, I made a decision and I’m sticking to it.  I decided to live in the land of sass and magic and here I am.  There’s no practicality here – no ease of use.  Pain is beauty, my friends and I the price for sucking at growing out my natural nails is that I must insert my fingers into my eyeballs until I either learn a better method or go as blind as a baby mole rat.   I’m going to have to strap in and get a hang of these.

Or switch to glasses, skirts, and bottled soda. ♣

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011

This morning while I was brushing my teeth I was greeted by a little baby cockroach that emerged from the deep, dark recesses of beyond my medicine cabinet.

Photo by Sarah Camp. Click image to check out her Flickr Photostream.

I know.  This is hard for me, too.

A long, long time ago, I thought I saw a cockroach dart from behind my aspirin bottle to a strange manufacturer-placed keyhole  in the back of the medicine cabinet.   Like, a full-sized cockroach.   A daddy roach, if you will.    But I told myself I was seeing things.  I told myself my eyes must have deceived me and that instead of coming from within the very walls of my apartment, daddy roach actually came from the  land of make-believe.

But then I saw the baby cockroach this morning and as my toothbrush dropped from my slack-jawed, foaming mouth, it became clear to me that I was staring at the offspring of some master hive behind my cabinet.  Behind that very thin, very ancient scrap of metal is several thousand cockroaches milling amongst each other making sweet, sweet cockroach love.

I’ll bet cockroach sex is awkward.

Unfortunately, I live in an apartment complex and I can’t just call a fumigator and smoke them out immediately.  Instead I must call my grumpy, teapot-shaped landlord – who will just call a fumigator.   I would like to reiterate that I live in an apartment complex and am thereby relieved of said cockroach love nest.  We’re very clean people.

They’re in there right now.  Eating my aspirin.

The real problem here isn’t the medicine cabinet, really.  The problem is everywhere else.  Because every time I open a carton, glance in a cup, crawl into bed – I fear I might find one  crawling around with little bits of medicine cabinet drugs gathered in its antennae.    I fear I’ll wake up in the middle of the night to images of the teapot landlord pulling the medicine cabinet out only to find one super giant, human-sized cockroach lording over them all.  

I’ve obviously watched too many movies in which human-sized cockroaches are not negotiable.

Maybe this could be a good thing.  I mean, I don’t really get out of my apartment much and Dave is often out doing gigs.  So maybe an enormous cockroach could be my new best friend.   I would name him Stanley.

On second thought, I’m sorry.  This has gone too far.  I need to go call my landlord.

I’m starting to get the willies. ♣

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011