Tag Archives: adulthood

The Pros and Cons of Half-Jackies

17 Jul

I spent a large portion of last evening weighing the pros and cons of donating my eggs.

I just turned 27. There’s a lot to do.

By “a lot to do”, I mean “shit’s expensive and sometimes I think about donating my eggs”.

Sometimes isn’t a lot. It’s like, three times. Once, when I saw an ad at a bus stop saying I could snag 10 grand for a little potential half-Jackie, once more the other day when I made a joke to Dave about it, and for the third time last night when an excellent friend said she’d been considering it.

Some friends get coffee, some donate eggs together.

We’re both logical beings. Kind of. And after we measured each other’s level of sincerity (mine was at 15%, hers was at 45%), we began to look up everything we could possibly find on the magical interwebz about the pros and cons of donating our eggs.

In case you’re curious, it’s not as easy as just looking good on paper. Sure, it’s pretty standard that people want babies from degree-carrying, attractive egg donors, but there’s a whole lot that goes into the slushie that is my body that I can’t really control. Suddenly, I found myself poring over pages of desirable egg donor qualities, measuring how I stacked up next to what was one of the highest rated potential donors: genius Asians.

If you’re reading this and you’re an genius Asian, get thee to a hospital. They’ll suck your eggs right out of you and slap a check in your hand in no time. I, however, don’t get in so easily. I’m the kind of gal who has done what I can with what was given to me. And what was given to me was a big pile of recessive, sickly, or otherwise degenerative DNA. I got my mother’s creaky knees and migraines, my father’s asthma and allergies, and more teeth than my mouth got the memo for. I’m blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and so pale you can map the blood flow through my veins to most of my major organs. My family is chock full of brown haired, hazel eyed natural tanners so I’m either adopted, or I’m a great underdog story about a mess of genes that lost every war they fought but turned into a fully-functional person in spite of it.

I’m thinking there won’t be a big rush to my egg donor application.

eggs

I like to think my eggs look like this. Close, right?

I’m thinking they wouldn’t be too supportive of exchanging a half-Jackie for a cool ten grand, in spite of the fact that it could fix my car, get me a nice deposit on a new place, and get me out of credit card debt. I mean, when you look at it that way, kids are really great.

Of course, the magical interwebz also had a host of horror stories to share, which brought my 15% down to a 5%. I have to admit that it was mostly the part about how you have to inject yourself with hormones and how after you do all that if you’re unable to have the eggs extracted even if it’s through no fault of your own, you only get a couple hundred dollars. You also sometimes have to wait for over a year or two to get matched with someone, even in the event that there really is a mother out there who wants a gawky, toothy, snarky half-Jackie for her own… which is unlikely.

So all that got me thinking… what would I rather do for 10 grand than wait two years, pump myself full of hormones, bring a human being into this world that I can never see, and have someone stab my ovary with a transvaginal needle, resulting in possible complications for which I have no medical insurance coverage?

Lots of things. But mostly probably a 365. After all, I’m half way through mine and it’s about time I start kicking around some ideas for next year. It is possible that I could raise $10,000 in a year by extreme couponing, gigging on the side, and hoarding spare change like Gollum? Maybe I should raise the stakes on myself and if I don’t have $10,000 in my account by the end of the year, I have to apply to be an egg donor.

That’s a fun game. ..all I need is a good name for the journey.

Now taking submissions. ♣

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The Great Filth Festering

10 Jul

My apartment turned on me yesterday like milk: all at once and gag-reflex levels of sour.

You see, for the past several weeks I’ve been trying to work on that switch in my brain that goes off without warning and sends me into a frenzy of I CAN’T LIVE IN THIS MESS IT’S DISGUSTING I’M DISGUSTING I HAVE TO FIX IT ALL RIGHT NOW.

Sometimes this will happen when the house is truly messy. Sometimes it will happen because there is a sock on the floor in the kitchen and I can’t explain how or why. The attacks come from nowhere and there’s been little that has proven helpful in confronting it.

Lately, I’ve been working on it by trying to ease into the filth. Not nasty filth, but a general lived-in filth. It’s been difficult, but it’s all part of the trying task of not being a crazy person. The plan was to get comfortable with a shelf undusted, cat litter unscooped, a dish unrinsed. You know, like a well-adjusted human being might do. So as part of training over the course of a week, I had been letting a few things accumulate to which I’m typically quite attentive. Like the garbage. And the dishes. And, well, lots of things.

Remember: there’s no judging on The Jackie Blog.

Anyway, I had decided my training session was over and that I would clean the house thoroughly this past Monday evening after work. Unfortunately, we were faced with a bit of a family emergency that needed tending to and left at 6pm for a five hour drive to address it and then turned around at 4am for a five hour drive back. Which was fine. It was good. The problem was that while we were gone, the house turned.

It appears I had come up right to the brink of disgust. At the time I’d committed to cleaning the place, I had a 24 hour clock counting down to the moment when milk gone undrunk would turn sour, vegetables uneaten would transform from overly ripe to rotten, and all hell would break loose. Dave and I returned from our overnight voyage and went straight to work without returning to the house. All day, my house was left to fester. By the time I got home, I was almost certain I’d need a priest to exorcise the unholy demon of nasty.

There was a plague of fruit flies in my kitchen, feeding off what appeared to be several thick pockets of stench and grossness.

The most obvious culprit was the trash, which had swelled past its max capacity and as I recalled, was a glorious feast for flies since it had scraps of last week’s corn on the cob, watermelon rind, and other epic bits of festery awful. I tended to it and moved to the next cluster, which was gathered around my banana keeper.

Yes, we have a banana keeper. We eat a lot of bananas. We also apparently don’t bother to throw away the top of the bunch from which the bananas hang sometimes. So there, in the awkward half-pieces that were torn from the dislodged fruit, lay nesting several fruit flies. But that still wasn’t the worst part.flies

I realized the dishes needed to be done so I cleaned out the sink and washed the basin thoroughly and remembered that the last time I did that, I promised myself I would rinse my dishes so I would never again have to stare curdled milk in the face. It was chunky. And smelly. But that, too, was not the worst part.

I continued to move about the kitchen, darting from one pocket of air to another, eyes alert for any resettling of tiny black dots outside of my wine glass trap and incense sacrifice. Suddenly, I spotted it.

There, below the banana keeper, I followed a cloud of little black specks to something I tucked away in the far recesses of my brain several months ago: a brand new bag of potatoes.

I remembered it vaguely, the day Dave proudly  told me he was going to “do some rearranging in the kitchen”. For the most part, his changes were upgrades. I was left with more counter space and more room at the bar and was quite pleased.  In the process, however, the potatoes I usually house right on the counter so I remember to use them (a bag of potatoes for 2 people is just unreasonable) were moved to the bottom rack of the bar beside the cookie jar I’ve never once used.

Cookies don’t need jars. They need bellies.

There, beside my unloved bastard of a pastry basin, was a bag of what …used to be potatoes. It had grown and shrank and oozed and leaked its putrid juices into the cracks and crevices of the bar and into the drawer below it, where my once-peaceful collection of teas dwelt.

Apparently I don’t have tea very often either.

Needless to say, I spent last evening whipping the house back into shape. I’m still trying not be crazy about it though  so my bedroom and the living room and the kitchen are squeaky clean, but the 6 square feet that is the bathroom closet leaves something to be desired.

If I clean everything, I won’t learn anything, now will I?

Seriously though. Those potatoes had eyes. *Shudder*

So here I am, staring down the barrel of 27 years old (Friday, to be specific) and still finding myself in situations where things are so absolutely disgusting in my living situation that I can’t recognize a bag of root crops even when a fly swarm leads me to it.

I won’t post again until I’m an entire year older than I am today so I should take this moment to reflect. But I do a lot of reflecting around here so do me a birthday solid instead and join me in finishing these statements at whatever point you find yourself in life. I’d be tickled to read the answers. Also, there are four and it’s fill in the blank and what kind of strangers are we if you can’t write four words for my birthday?

Probably the kind of stranger who stopped reading once they realized the whole post was about the depth of my filth. So a tip of my hat to both those who bowed out early (mad respect) and those who made it this far (troopers, all).

May you all always find the bag of potatoes while it still holds actual potatoes. ♣

 

Please leave a comment with whatever answer is appropriate for this time and juncture in your life or for your mood on this particular day. Try to forget about the flies and potatoes. And thanks. Happy Birthday to you too.

Right now I’m trying to be at ease with imperfections

I find myself eating a lot of buttered toast with cinnamon and sugar

I’m kind of hoping to win the lottery for my birthday

I’m feeling pretty good about my mostly clean home

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My Struggle with Dance

4 Jun

napoleon dance

I wasn’t born a dancer.

I have the long, gangly limbs of an awkward schoolgirl married with the anxieties of a shut-in. Though I’m often mistaken for the kind of person who will get up and dance, it’s one of the pastimes I prefer our culture had never actually developed so that I could never live to be pressured into the misery of participating in it.

I danced once in middle school. I had developed a deep-seated complex about having to shower naked in the open with other girls and so to distract everyone’s attention from my conscientious objection, I stood on one of the benches in the locker room and performed a rousing rendition of “Father Abraham”, which I learned in Christian School.

Father Abraham had many sons, and many sons had Faaaaather Abraham. I am one of them, and so are you. So let’s all praise The Lord! (Right Arm!) Father Abraham… had many sons….

It went on in this hokey-pokey like fashion until all my body parts were involved. It was the dancing highlight of my first decade.

About five years later, I took a real stab at it in college. It was a pact between a friend and me– we were both ungifted with grace and thought taking Modern Dance would be an excellent way to help gain control over our gangly limbs. I remember it taking me several weeks simply to memorize the warmup routine. I also remember slamming my head off the stage during the final performance. Mostly.

A few years after that, I made one final and last-ditch effort to fall in line with society’s demand that I dance. After knocking out my gen eds, I transferred to a performing arts conservatory  with a nationally-lauded dance program. I was in the acting track and thought it would be prudent to dip my toes in the dance water to help not embarrass myself in future auditions that require rudimentary movement.  I signed up for “Dancing for Actors” – a class specifically tailored to actors who want to avoid humiliation. We learned basic steps and combinations and had to choreograph a piece and teach it to the class.

I struggled. There was a lot of stepping on toes and attempting to lead, which apparently isn’t permitted by humans with hoo-has. For my final piece, I choreographed “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and featured a freestyle section where everyone was commanded to channel their inner jungle animal and move through the space. It was beautiful.  It’s the only assignment on which I got an A.

And also the only assignment for which I didn’t dance.

My least favorite part of being a non-dancing human is weddings. People will always try to get me to dance at weddings. Somewhere along the way, someone told society that if you’re in an environment where other people are dancing and you’re not, you must not be having fun. The reality of the situation is that I’m highly skilled in self-entertainment (as a child I spent a lot of hours sitting in the car alone while my mom ran errands). But because society has been taught that dancing is fun and non-dancers are miserable, it becomes everyone’s personal mission to make non-dancers dance at weddings.

As if it’s not humiliating enough to have to scramble for a bouquet of flowers in front of everyone.

I have made two attempts at dancing in the past several months (a new record). The first was at a wedding where my friends pulled me onto the dance floor against my will and gang-danced me into a circular cage until I had to either move or ruin everyone’s fun. The second was last week.

I was at the wedding of a lovely and fantastic couple and feeling quite safe about the experience because Dave has been very vocal about his distaste for dancing. I remembered that quality being one of the things I checked off my “ideal man” list that I keep in my pocket at all times for cross-referencing. However, at this particular wedding, he was dancing.

This was an entirely new kind of pressure. Dave is a very attractive man, and weddings typically feature moderately attractive women. So added to the weight of ruining a wedding with my sourpuss non-dancing and the pressure of my friends egging me to do so publicly, I now had to consider that if I didn’t get out there and dance with him, some other boobed lady beast would.  So I did what any self-respecting woman would do: I asked the DJ to play “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” by The Darkness and threw caution to the wind. He followed it up with “Brick House” and two things occurred to me: 1) I don’t mind dancing if it’s to amusing music and 2) I don’t mind dancing as much now that I’m not so fat.

That last part is a big one.

For those of you following along at home, I’m halfway through a venture I’ve dubbed Project Fatass 365, wherein I must work out every day all year. There on that dance floor I realized that there was much less jiggle in my jiggy and that I wasn’t nearly as concerned with people’s eyes being on me as I used to. Not just because there is less of me and because I can better control what I have, but because I just care a lot less about what people think. Now that I’ve shed some of the megagut I was using to store my food for winter all year long, I have more energy to be my middle-school self.

I’m still not a dancer. I will probably never be one. I’m living proof that slides, be they of the cha-cha or the electric variety, are not universally demonstrated. But that’s okay because I do one hell of a Father Abraham.

So here’s to a new Jackie – a Jackie who dances not because she’s egged on or pressured or gang-danced to humiliation, but because she hears Brick House and wants to get funky and doesn’t really care what it looks like to everyone else. It’s a shame that I ever lost that spark that got me on the locker room bench in the first place.

But you still can’t make me shower in public.

Father Abraham had many sons, and many sons had Faaaather Abraham. I am one of them, and so are you. So let’s all praise the Lord (LEFT ARM!) Father Abraham….♣

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Can’t Work; Gone Camping

29 May

I’m approaching my foretold destiny as a child of the forest.

By “foretold”, I’m referring to my having told you before. Though, I’ve also told you I’m a well-ripening cat lady so it appears I’ve laid out before you two possible Jackies: forest child hippie commune Jackie and shut-in cat lady Jackie.

I know no other futures.

The thing is, this year has been doing funny things to me. Ever since I committed to a 365 Fitness challenge, (I believe it’s formally dubbed “Project Fat Ass 365“), I’ve been getting out more often. I mean, I kind of have to. I was doing Jillian Michaels for a while there (and still do when I have need to crush a can with my butt cheeks) but working out is a lot better if I keep my options open. Lately, that has meant biking a lot.

A really cool thing happened in Pittsburgh recently- a bike trail that runs the length of here to D.C. called The Great Allegheny Passage was completed. Well, technically it will be complete in two weeks when everyone plans to celebrate it. Anyway, it’s just a few miles from my place, runs along the water, features several pedestrian bridges and even serves as home to a Bald Eagle. I discovered it after volunteering for Bike Pittsburgh a few weeks ago and am having a hard time getting things in life done because I’d rather be riding the trail. Oh yes, that’s right – you heard me: I’m having a hard time being a responsible adult because I’d rather be biking.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. Biking is the perfect activity for a hermit. You move quickly through the space so no one can notice your fat jiggle while you exercise or see your face long enough to recognize you. It’s acceptable to practice biking alone and since everyone you pass gives you a nice smile and a flick of a nod, you kind of feel like you’re being social. Well, you kind of feel like if you do it once in a while, your skin won’t be so pasty and your eyes look so terrified all the time.

Part of the grand allure of The Great Allegheny Passage is that it makes a nice substitute for hiking The Appalachian Trail. I’ve often told myself I should just put my stuff in storage, select a good trail name, and make like a nomad until I understand all the mysteries of life and/or get eaten by a bear. Of course, my parents are terrified that I’m more likely to be bear food than to be enlightened and when I consider the requirements of the situation, such as buying a bunch of hiking gear, leaving my job for about a year, and somehow managing to pay for all my junk in the meantime, well, I go back in my apartment and play Fat Princess some more.

 

This gem was done by TheGrossUncle, who has a pretty groovy collection of work over at thegrossuncle.com.

This gem was done by TheGrossUncle, who has a pretty groovy collection of work over at thegrossuncle.com.

But this bike trail would just require that I take a vacation, a few hundred dollars, and head into the woods with all the bike equipment I already own. Plus, Dave said today that he’s getting the itch to get rid of a few things and go buy a bike. And since we all know that Dave is the king of the forest, his doing so would mean that I can bike and hike and camp to my heart’s delight and while I’m busy getting all enlightened, he can tend to the bear fighting.

That’s where he’d rather be anyway. I could strip him of everything but his underwear and drop him off in the woods only to come back three days later and discover him the king of some man tribe, complete with forts, trolleys, and a fully-fledged hunter-gatherer society.

When presented with these fantastic possibilities, I find it difficult to focus on daily tasks like work and hobbies taking showers. 

So for now, there are two potential Jackies: forest hippie child and shut-in cat lady. Maybe my life is about being the latter and constantly seeking the former. I have been hexed with the struggle. This is my burden and I share it now with you.

Quickly: to the forest! ♣

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Strumpets in the Summertime: Part Deux

22 May

I was all geared up to write you a poem about the oncoming summer. It was something to do with the good Lord protecting us from the inevitable onslaught of boobly boobs and private unmentionables coming our way with the heat. Spring has been hot and muggy, and while prefer it to the bitter cold I am never quite prepared for how bare-ass naked other human beings can be in the wide open public with complete and total comfort.

But as it turns out, I’ve already done that one. It was called Strumpets in the Summertime and was one of my 365 musings in the 2011th year of our Lord. So here I am, getting all old and cranky with the same, repetitive complaints about humanity. I guess that sums up my life experience to date: I was simply born a cranky, old woman. I like to think I just matured at a terrifyingly rapid pace.

I should note that Dave caught me checking a girl out the other day (boobs are magnetic, I don’t care who you are) and said it’s a frequent observation he makes about me. So I guess I’m the one needing protection from The Almighty this hot, muggy spring. 

May He be with us all.

Strumpets in the Summertime

 Is it just me or are clothes being made smaller and sluttier?

That has to be the only reason it’s acceptable for all these body parts to be out on display.  It’s not even summer and all the gals in the city are free-flying with their anatomy out in the sunlight for all to see.  Tiny little short shorts, dresses with dangerously high hems, and low, low, low cut blouses.

How, exactly, am I supposed to compete with that?

I don’t really have any good ideas.  I mean, I’ll put on a dress but I’m not about to approach looking like a lady of the night when I do it.  Quite frankly, I was raised a tomboy and the fact that I’m willing to wear dresses or skirts of any kind should have everyone’s mouths agape.  When I reach for a makeup brush, people should have near-heart attacks.

Or at least they would be if there weren’t five girls within a 50 foot radius at all times with their legs and arms and boobly-boobs on display.

It’s not really a matter of competition.  After all, I’ve got a handsome guy by my side and I don’t really have any interest in attracting anyone’s attention but his.  But holy cow if I were him I’d have a hard time paying attention to me.

Since I’m unwilling to go the way of sluttery, I’m going to have to think of something else.  Maybe I could always smell like something nice.  Not flowers or musk – I need something that competes with tittery.  What’s a good scent to get a man’s attention? Bacon? 

I don’t know that would help my cause to be associated with cooked pig.

Why isn’t there already some sort of scent out there to assist in these situations?  Perhaps I should bottle something myself and label it as strumpet defense.   The commercial could feature a bunch of strumpets (naturally) all dressed up in their strumpet clothes (of course) and a decent-looking-but-not-blow-your-socks-off woman in the midst of them with an aura of light around her and a man staring at her with rapt attention.   And then some clever slogan. 

I’m going to have to work on that.   In the meantime, I’ll just have to keep making delicious food and being charmingly dorky.  Because those are really my only two redeeming qualities and I’m not sure the last one even counts.  I’m just trying to slip that in so I can make ‘redeeming qualities’ plural.

Maybe the bacon perfume isn’t such a bad idea after all.  It might remind him of pig, but that will remind him of food and that will remind him of me.  We can go from boob-gazing to food-grazing in 3 seconds flat and I can pull him out of the outside world of strumpetry and into our apartment where it’s safe and where I feed him and make him forget that there are attractive, young women absolutely everywhere.

Oh man- it’s only spring!  I’m gonna need one helluva plan when summer hits. ♣

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For the Love of All Things Holy, Please Don’t Take My Lollipops

1 May

I’m developing a problem.

Okay, I’ve had a problem for a while and I’ve only recently watered down my stubbornness enough to taste the truth of it: I have a serious affinity for sugar.

I know, I know – big surprise. I suppose my love letters to Cap’n Crunch, Ben and Jerry, and anything white, doughy, and delicious over the years have made it obvious to everyone but me. The truth set in last week, which was just one of several completely ordinary weeks in which Dave suggested I had a sugar problem. I don’t really pay attention to him but it was something like “snarfle snarfle diabetes snarfle”. It wasn’t until I was in the midst of pouring chocolate syrup from the economy-size jug onto a table-size spoon with a course set directly for my belly that I actually heard the whole “diabetes” thing in between the snarfles.

It occurred to me that it might be helpful to know what the daily recommended maximum of sugar is for a human such as myself. The answer is the amount equal to the spoonful of syrup I was about to swallow. That doesn’t count the other spoonful from earlier in the day, the yogurt I had afterward, the lollipops I suck on to keep myself from aggressively attacking people when I’m angry, or the bag of M&Ms I would sneak into my bag at the store later.

Apparently this is not an acceptable way to go about my daily activities, in spite of the fact that instead of supplementing my sugar dosage with pizza and kids’ cereal, I’m now rocking whole grains and vegetables. And I’m running and stuff. But now I’m starting to get ever-so-slightly concerned. I’ve been under the understanding that working out, meeting a calorie count, and making healthier choices was going to put me on the track for being in the best shape of my life by the end of the year. As it turns out, those things will help, but I’m supposed to only have one lollipop a day, and that’s only if I really, really must. The chocolate syrup injections should probably inch their way out of the equation as well.

I’m pretty upset about this. It’s like the time I read Skinny Bitch and spend 8 months as a vegetarian (until Thanksgiving, thankyouverymuch); I don’t want to hear this truth but I’ve heard it and I can’t unhear it and NO ONE TOLD ME THEY WERE GOING TO TAKE AWAY MY SUGAR.

Honestly, people – isn’t a couch potato committing to a 5K and eating more broccoli enough anymore? 

Last night I rebelled, like a kid at camp in Heavy Weights. I went to the store, bought an entire loaf of Italian bread, a bag of M&Ms, a bag of lollipops and more milk in which I can pour even more chocolate. 

So this Saturday I run my very first 5K (or attempt to, rather) and that will wrap up April’s fitness focus. It appears May is going to focus on sugar. Which means I’m probably going to get less done, be grumpier while I do it, and attempt to fill these gaps in my life with some other terrible vice. Who knows what it may be. One lollipop less per day could mean one more serious act of violence. One forgone spoonful of syrup could translate to cussing and profanities of all kinds. It’s possible that the only thing making me a marginally pleasant, somewhat successful human being is my affair with sugar. Without it, I’m quite certain I’m just a regular, exhausted, pessimistic schlump of a thing.

I’m worried about May, people. Real worried. This could be the month I fall off the wagon.

…and dive into a swimming pool of sugar in literal sweet rebellion.

Growing up is hard. It’s always just so hard. ♣

Image

Me, circa next week.

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Showerheads. Furries. I’m Tired.

24 Apr

I have lived in my apartment for three years and have only just now discovered that this entire time, my shower head featured a massage function.

Well, “massage function” insomuch as an apartment shower head can offer. That is, with poor water pressure, constant fluctuations from scalding heat to shocking cold, and an overall lackluster performance.

A poor person’s spa treatment, if you will.

I’m sorry I said that just now. Not the poor people thing. We allow ourselves the pleasure of mocking our own class and race so I’m going to go ahead and cash in on the Poor  Cracker category.

No, I’m referring to the use of the phrase “if you will”. I’m pretty sure it’s a result of grad school. It’s only in my brain because I noticed it used several times in the last two weeks by people attempting to explain tiny concepts with many words. That phrase makes no sense to me. It only goes to great lengths to make you sound desperate. Unless you’ve said it with a somewhat British accent, in which case all is well by me.

Last night in class, while I was noticing the excessive use of the phrase “if you will” in class, I successfully inserted the word “poop” into the conversation.  You know, to balance things out a bit. Also, the professor was discouraged by our lack of feedback on each other’s public relations plans so I took a note and decided to get involved.

My classmate’s plan wasn’t poop. Rather, her plan was centered on a downtown hotel’s ineptitude at attracting convention center visitors. And as you may or may not know because I may or may not have spoken emphatically about it before, our downtown convention center is utilized for a major Furry Convention.

I watched as the scene played out before me. One student looks confused at the term and half the class pretends to know. The other half recognizes the one confused face as an opportunity to witness the first-time reaction to the description of a Furry.

And I’ll tell ya – it was a darn good thing I was there because wouldn’t you know discussion in the room drove right to how all furries dress up like cats and use their hotel rooms as a litter box.

This is our world. These are its issues.

So, having no other motivation to speak prior to the mention of furries, I sought to clarify the definition. I didn’t want virgin ears to be polluted by these allegations.  I apparently leaped to the defense of furries everywhere and was sure to inform the class that furries range from fan kids in costumes to fully-fledged hotel-carpet-soiling cathumans.

Right, so poop.

Look! There's one now!

Look! There’s one now!

 

Where were we? Oh, the showerhead. Yes. I’ve made a discovery today. It wasn’t so much about the shower head (or the furries) as it was that I’m beginning to notice I’m a bit tired. I suppose I thought that if I were awake and paying attention, I’d have noticed this detail. Then again, that seems to insinuate that I’ve been tired for the last three years.

…Which, now that I’ve said it out loud, actually sounds kind of accurate.

But hey, the semester is coming to a close so now’s not the time to quit over a little shower head confusion. I’ll admit that I’m tired. And before when I got this tired I could choose to lose sleep, drink coffee, and carry onward. But I’m already doing those things and it’s still not enough time.  But there are places I can squeeze it from.

When I think of all the time that accumulates over the course of several years for personal grooming alone, I go insane.  If I’d just give in to bushy brows, chin hair, woolly armpits, and year-round leggings, I could sneak in a few more hours of rest.

You know, it’s a shame we’re so far from No Shave November.

Here’s to the home stretch. ♣

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A Good Night for a Drunk Run

17 Apr

I shouldn’t really say I update on Wednesdays if I’m not going to get off my rear and post before midnight, right?

I was off my rear, though. I’ve been off my ass since 7 this morning; I just wasn’t typing. Typing has, however, been the only thing I’m doing every other day of the week, all the time, always. I have had so many papers due for school in the last few days that I’m not sure there are any more thoughts in my brain.

For those of you just recently joining the jackie show, it would be helpful for you to know that I am currently enrolled in a dual masters program while also employed to pay the ba-dillios.

Those are bills. Ba-dillios are bills.

So anyway, I’ve been a little busy. But good busy. I’m happy busy. I’m just also out of things to say that are worth saying. Sometimes I stare at the screen for an hour and nothing gets written. Last week, I wrote a paper 3 different times because the first two attempts were a total fail.

I am not failing, however, at my 365. We’re rolling up to the 1/3 mark for my fitness 365, wherein I resolved to do something active for at least 20 minutes a day and have since conquered two Jillian Michaels DVDs and almost finished training for a 5K. No, I’m rocking that party hard. Allow me to regale you with a glimpse of Jackie Present (that is to say the current Jackie who is motivated and no-excuses and trapped by her own very public announcement to not fail or make excuses.)

It was yesterday. I woke at 7am to try to finish a research paper due that night, I went to work, I came home, I tried to finish the research paper again, I went to class late and turned it in, went back home to start a research paper due the next day (idiot) and instead decided to go celebrate my hard work by attending Dave’s open mic.

There, I had a few drinks in the fashion and manner typical of a classy lady. And just when I had almost freed my cares from thoughts of finals and writing and taxing schedules, I realized: I hadn’t run yet.

It was 2am.

You see, I specifically set up my 5K training program (wherein I transform from human Cheez-It disposal to competent jogger in several weeks) so that my final day of training is the day of the race and the first official time I actually run 5 english semi-miles. That means that if I skip a day, I am seriously in danger of being unable to achieve my goal. And if I fail to achieve the 5k, I seriously endanger my ability to finish the 10K in September, thereby bringing my 365 to a dramatic and successful semi-conclusion to ride the home stretch into the end of the year.

It’s an elaborate and volatile plan and my sudden decision to enjoy a few classy lady drinks was putting it in danger. So I ordered several coffees like a champ, left the bar at 3:30am, and went home to put on my running gear.

And proceeded to run. Semi-sobered and exhausted, I launched my flailing limbs across the great pavement plains of my neighborhood. Also, I brought Dave. He’s the best.

I came home, thoroughly pleased with myself and thoroughly exhausted at the realization that I had been up for nearly 24 hours, fell asleep in a pile of sweet satisfaction, and fell asleep until the next afternoon.

When I woke, I celebrated with chocolate. And hot dogs. It was a slippery slope; I’m now cuddled up in bed with an empty plate of pizza to my right and staring at the bottom of a bag of chocolates I’ve just obliterated.

A girl’s entitled to a little visit to Fat Jackie’s Paradise as a proper celebration, isn’t she? Maybe not. But I’m doing it anyways. Leave me alone.

So listen: to all the ducklings attempting The Gauntlet 30 Day Challenge right now, you’re about halfway through. If there hasn’t been a day like this already, there soon will be: you’re going to have a day when your schedule spirals out of control and before you know it, you’re holed up in some bar somewhere, drinking in celebration of your dedication only to find you’ve failed to remember to do your 30 Day Challenge activity.

And when that happens, you’re going to have to suck it up and go drunk running at 4am. Or work to better your small business. Or read a new book. Or cook a challenging meal. Or apply to a job. Or whatever it is you crazy kids are doing out there.

Oh, and congratulations. You’re halfway to being filled to the brim with awesome sauce.

Puppies and Sprinkles,

Jackie ♣

Oh. I couldn’t find a picture appropriate for this so instead here’s a picture of a human feeling up a cat. Warning: Not suitable for work.

cat

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Me and Miss Bojangles

10 Apr

bojangles cute

If you were avoiding my blog posts because they were all about The Gauntlet and, like church on Sunday, you stayed away for fear of true conviction, I have good news: it’s over for now. Business as usual until further notice.

So I went ahead and got myself a puppy. I’d like to talk about it.

Well, it’s not my puppy. It’s my neighbor’s puppy. They’re going away for a while and are going to need someone to dog sit. As many of you know, I have a serious puppy problem. I want a dog very badly but for several responsible adult reasons, I have avoided the urge to adopt one (no money, no yard, no time). In the meantime, I have nursed my desire in other, somewhat unhealthy ways. For example, I fantasize about opening up my own Puppy Amusement Park. Also, I stalk them when I’m out for a jog. Frequently I will talk to them through cages at dog adoption events all about our futures together while crying tears of hope married with shame. 

For all these reasons and more, I’m glad to be all set up to dog sit in several weeks and that I have a lot of time to plan out her stay with me. Oh yes, the dog is female. And as is The Jackie Blog standard, names are changed to protect the innocent. Henceforth we’ll call her Miss Bojangles. 

Miss Bojangles will be staying with me for quite a few days. Puppy fever sets in pretty heavy in the springtime because a lot of glorious furballs are out for a walk and it can be really easy to forget that dogs are money-gobbling, excreting, puking, whimpering pains in the ass when they look so cute and happy in the sunshine. This is why I need some quality time with Miss Bojangles.  She’s got big ol’ Basset Hound eyes and jowls so big you could hide jars of jam in them. I have plenty of time to soak up that adorable, droopy face while simultaneously being reminded that trying to coordinate a drive-by to the apartment every 5 hours to tend to her bodily functions is an inconvenient, gas-guzzling, never-ending truth. 

It will be good for me. Like puppy boot camp.

I’m taking note of things I’ve always wanted a dog for so that I can take full advantage of them while I’m dogsitting. Mostly, that means I plan to carelessly drop a lot of food on the ground while I’m cooking. And to encourage her to chase Hobbes around in the hopes that the sight Miss Bojangles’ flappy, wavering jowls chasing him will inspire a few pounds of fat to be exorcised from his fat, fleeing body. And walks. There will be lots of walks.  If she weren’t so old, I’d put a reflective puppy vest on her and bring her running with me.  

I may or may not include the use of public puppy parks where I may or may not pretend that her name is really Miss Bojangles and that I am her owner.

Of course I have my concerns. Like that she’ll eat my cats while I’m away, or take an enormous dump in the middle of my living room out of homesickness or that when it’s time to give her back to my neighbors, I’ll  instead rent an RV and go cross country with her, claiming that we were always meant to be together and that no one can understand our love.

Then again I can’t really afford an RV at this time in my life. So I guess we’ll have to steal one. Which I guess would make Miss Bojangles an accomplice. Which is pretty great since I’ve already hooked her up with an awesome criminal name.

 

Come to think of it, I’m going to need a decent criminal name myself. And a good article on how to hot-wire an RV. And probably some disguises for our getaway.

Good thing I’ve got a good head start. 

costume♣

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Board the Awesome Train

28 Mar

There is no room in your brain for new content from me today. 

Because it should be filled to the brim with ideas for how you might best conquer The Gauntlet.

That’s right: The Gauntlet. I told you all I wanted to have a contest wherin I give you an incentive to better yourself from the lazy pile of slop that you are now by bribing you with American dollars. I polled you about how you’d best like to be challenged and you said I should  incentivize you to a 30 Day Challenge. I threw down The Gauntlet, gave it a hashtag, announced the rules and prize, and set you about brewing up a plan.

Have you been brewing?

I’ll tell you about some of the people who have been. There’s Samantha Owens, who feels like she needs to relax, balance, and organize her brain.  She’s going to knock those out by doing yoga every day for 30 days. She blogged about her throwdown here. There’s also Grace Bell, who is pregnant, achy, and having trouble getting enough time outdoors. She’s afraid that as she gets more pregnant and more achy, she’ll just be more and more unlikely to go out.  So for 30 days in a row, she’s committed to getting 20-30 minutes of time outside her house.  To make sure she sticks to her guns, she even dedicated an entire page of her blog to it so that she can give regular updates, and others can give her regular encouragement. Follow her journey here. 

Everyone has different goals, is at different places, and needs different things. So pick just one little sucky thing about yourself and see what happens when you battle it head on every day for thirty days. Maybe you need to improve your physical, emotional, or financial health. Maybe you need to get more sun. Maybe you need to find more time with your kids or read more often or be more creative. Whatever. You can start any time, but the timing is such that you can easily start April 1st, end April 30th, and then still have several days to submit your entry. That means you still have plenty of time to cook something up and go for it. While you’re working all those cobwebs out of your brain, go check out Samantha’s and Grace’s attempts at awesomeness.

I want to do my part, too. So here are a few tips to get you started and keep you going. If you’ve been following for even a short amount of time, you know that I struggle.  I frequently finish my day to find that my underwear was inside out all along, I take on too much with too little time, and I will always prefer a box of 50 Munchkins alone in my bed to going outside my apartment. A gal like me doesn’t conquer a challenge without some built-in motivators. So here’s some lovin’.

1) Use The Gauntlet Rules & Discussion Page 

If you direct your pupils to the right side of this page, you’ll see an enormous Gauntlet. If you click it, you’ll go to a magical page buried deep in the recesses of this site that lists the official rules, deadlines, and has a section for comments where you can discuss your own progress and connect with others. Go, read, encourage and be encouraged.

2) Make a Motivation Board 

Nothing like staring at the several measures of my fatness to get me moving.

Nothing like staring at the several measures of my fatness to get me moving.

I have no patience. I can’t even wait for people to finish their sentences so I have to refrain from finishing them. It’s a serious and chronic issue. So as one might imagine, I don’t like to wait for results. To help ease my anxiety and keep me looking forward, I made a motivation board and threw it on the back of my bedroom door. I house all sorts of information there, like before/after pictures, weight and measurement tracking, current workout programs, an envelope full of rewards, and a current short-term goal. On days when I don’t feel like working out, I look at the board, stare at the before and after, remind myself of the short-term goal, and think about the beautiful rewards in that envelope that I can draw from when I complete it. You can make this for any challenge; a motivator board can be made of inspirational pictures and quotes or a calendar where you cross off your accomplishments, or post interesting articles.  It’s whatever you want it to be and it can be your most helpful tool in this process.

3) Tell a Bunch of People

It makes all the difference in the world to know you’re accountable. I frequently want to back out of things after I sign up for them so I try to talk about them as much as possible. On difficult days, the embarrassment of writing a post about how I gave up is enough of a motivator to get me moving. Do whatever works for you; post on Facebook, throw it on Twitter, email a friend with progress updates – whatever you need to do. 

4) Get Inspired

If you need some motivation, tweet at me. Email me. Go to The Gauntlet page and talk to others. Look up articles about what you’re doing, about other people doing 30 Day Challenges – about anything. 

5) Freaking Do It Already

The whole point is to stop  making excuses and accept that there are ordinary people with regular struggles just like you all over the place doing more than you are with what they were given. Someone out there wakes up earlier than you, goes to bed later than you, and has more responsibilities than you who isn’t using those things as excuses. This is an experiment.  You’re not committing to a year.   You’re committing to 30 Days. Every single day, for 30 Days. What’s stopping you?

So that’s the deal, ladies and gents. The next time you hear from me, you will almost be out of time to join the challenge. Remember to let me know what you’re up to by tagging #TheGauntlet on Twitter, emailing me at jackiemarie@gmail.com, or commenting on The Gauntlet’s page. 

After all…I just signed up for my first 5K. Don’t leave me hangin’ here. ♣

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