Tag Archives: postaday2011

My Pet Rock

4 Sep

There’s nothing quite as beautiful as a 3-day weekend.

In fact, I took off Friday and made it 4.  Because I’m greedy.

I’m always just a bit afraid of letting myself have too much time off because it’s in those brief moments that I regain my sanity and sense of work/life balance in the world and I consider never going back.   I run through the entire thing – how much money do I have in the bank, how many months can I make it without a job, is anyone hiring in my field right now, and am I fully prepared to take the plunge and answer a lot of questions from family.

The answer to all of those things is rarely yes.

Maybe one day it will be again.   I can’t imagine how much money I would need to have saved in order to feel okay just not having income until I find a job that doesn’t suck my soul out of my body through a tiny crazy straw.

I could, of course, just look for a job while I’m still gainfully employed and just make the switch.  But every time I go back, I get brainwashed.  Brainwashed! I forget how delicious the sweet nectar of sanity is and I hunch up at my little computer desk in my windowless cave as the lack of sunlight depletes the color from my skin.

My children will be mutants – half human, half bug-eyed, pale-skinned, gangly office creatures.  They’ll shun sunlight and happiness.

I really need a get-rich-quick scheme to come through for me.  I’ve had a lot of ideas, but none so awesome as the Pet Rock.  That guy was a genius. 

It’s either that or win the lottery, and I don’t think those 1-dollar scratch offs ever got me anything but a free ticket and a second chance to be disappointed.  

So I need to get serious about my million dollar idea.  I need to dedicate more time to finding it.  If someone can take a terracotta pot, make it into different shapes, put an easy plant to grow in it, and attach a catchy jingle and retire early in life, I can certainly dream up something with a little million-dollar potential.   Or a rock that you personalize and call a pet.  A ROCK. 

There’s gotta be something I’m not getting here… something I can grab in my brain and shake the money out of. 

Then it’s hello to infinite days off. ♣

Let's hope these chairs stay there until my success. Dibs!

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My Oompa Loompa License

3 Sep

Yesterday I spent my day off at the DMV like a responsible adult and all I have to show for it is an absolutely terrible license photo.

I know, I know – lots of people have terrible license photos.  It’s a running joke.  But you have to understand that up until yesterday, I’d always taken fantastic photos for my license.  I actually take pretty awful pictures on a regular basis but the one place I could rely on looking good was the DMV.  I was proud of my driver’s license.  It looked like me on a good day – fresh and happy.   I was happy to hand it over to anyone who asked.

Those days are over.

Yesterday I ventured in to the Department of Motor Vehicles in a cute black dress and cardigan – hair down and casual and makeup natural but enhancing.  I looked good.  You know, for what I had to work with.  But when that flash went off and the woman handed me my card, I stared straight into the eyes of a fat-faced Oompa Loompa.

This is pretty accurate. You know, sans the NY part. License sample by Courtney Bolton, Flickr. Oompa Loompa sample by Extreme Pods, Flickr. Click image to visit Extreme Pods' photostream.

I was definitely orange and I was definitely round.

She asked me if the picture was okay and of course, I wanted to take another.  But there was a line of 15 people behind me who didn’t care if I looked like the creature from the Black Lagoon.  Besides, I didn’t think that being fat-faced or orange were two qualities that would be altered by another take.  Unless I went to Lowe’s, bought a few decent lights, and came back to appropriately set up the place – which, I admit, was an option in my mind.

I walked out disheartened, clutching my old, beautiful license in one hand and wanting to toss my new, terribly license in the dumpster.

I went to Burger King to get a burger to heal my wounds – which no doubt increased my chances of coming across as fat-faced and orange the next time around as well.   As I sat there, munching on processed meat and fillers, I thought of all the times in the next few years I would be asked to show my ID and how I would no longer associate it with a sense of pride.   Golly I hope the next time I go to the DMV I’m a little more photogenic.

Maybe I could just put a smiley face sticker over my face until then.

Here’s to 2015: the year that will end my shame. ♣

 

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I’m Seven Weeks and Craving Butterfingers

2 Sep

Okay, let’s talk about it.  It’s time to talk about it.

I am so completely done with the “breast cancer awareness” updates on Facebook.

Have you seen this? Have you heard of this?

Every so often, in the name of what people call “breast cancer awareness”, women private message each other a chain letter of sorts that tells them to update their Facebook status with something incredibly ambiguous that makes men wonder what the heck is going on.  It will be something like ‘write what your shoe size is, followed by a sad face”.  So all over Facebook you see women with things like “9 inches :(“.  Which, while hilariously making men doubt the adequacy of their God-given twig and berries, does absolutely nothing to help breast cancer awareness.

I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that no one looked at those status updates and figured it was about time they go get a mammogram or donate money in the name of breast cancer research.

There have been bra color updates.  There have been “I like it on the” updates, where ladies inserted where they put their purses and it sounded instead like a sexual innuendo.   And there’s the most recent: “I’m at ______ weeks and craving ______” wherein the first blank corresponds with the month of your birthday and the second is a candy bar that corresponds with the day (list comes in the chain mail). 

Ugh.

It’s like the time that everyone updated their profile pictures to cartoons in the name of Child Abuse Awareness.

What?

Anyway, I’m tired of it.  Like, super tired of it.  I don’t like the chains getting forwarded to me, I don’t like how snarky the messages are about men, and I don’t like how the most recent brainchild makes it look like every single woman is pregnant online.  

I’m a little scared to mention anything, really.  It’s kind of like the  mafia.  You get these messages with privileged information and you’re told not to tell men under any circumstances.   I’m a little afraid that in exchange for my post on this subject, women dressed in all black will show up to my apartment in the middle of the night and smother me in my sleep.

So listen  – even if they come for me, I want you to know that my judgment of stupidity shall not be silenced.  Ignore the status updates.  Please, let’s just all stop it.  If we really want to spread a message in the name of breast cancer awareness, why don’t we grab a couple friends and say if I donate, you donate? Or update your status about the next running, walking, flying, or trapeze-ing marathon so people can be aware and participate?

Listen, I have to stop now – an angry woman is approaching my doorstep and I fear she knows.

If I don’t post tomorrow, know that I have not been smothered in vain.  Just make up some stupid viral Facebook status in my honor.

Those seem to be effective. ♣

I feel aware now.

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My 2/3 Celebration: A Postadayer Reflection

1 Sep

Hey – I’ve made it 2/3 of the way.

I’ve trudged and trekked and schlepped through the murky recesses of my brain to bring you a new post every single day of this year.

…so far.

Early on I spent a lot of time freaking out about how I’d think of something to write about every day of the year.  I don’t mean to insult you, but do you realize that’s 365 posts?! 365!

That’s a lot of posts.

And though my faith in the stupidity of people (and thus, fuel for my posts) is absolutely unwavering, I was pretty concerned about running out of fresh material.  But as it turns out, things tend to reveal themselves throughout the day.  And awkward scenarios, terrible experiences, and rage-inducing conversations are oh-so-much-more bearable when I know that if all else fails at least I have something to post about that night.

That being said, let’s review some pros and cons of being a post-a-dayer.

Pros

  • An excuse to try new things
  • A way to manage stress
  • Improved command of the English language
  • When I’m ‘in the zone’ and write what I believe to be a good post, it’s an absolutely fantastic feeling.
  • My readers are incredibly funny and delightful
  • It’s a great feeling to know that someone likes something you write enough to share or recommend it to others.

Cons

  • Less sleep.  Really.  I’m a walking zombie sometimes.
  • Sometimes I really just don’t feel like posting.
  • …you know, I really thought there would be more cons.

I have this growing fear that I’m going to just start sucking really bad.  Like, really bad.  What can I possible have to say that I haven’t already said in the first 243 posts?

You know, when I first started out it was thanks to a friend of mine who took a photo every day of the year.   Seeing her dedicate herself to doing something every single day inspired me to do the same.  And when I was just beginning the journey, I asked her how I could possibly make it through the year doing something new every day.  I said the year seemed so long and so unsurmountable.

She told me I couldn’t possibly think like that and it was all about one day at a time.

When I remember that, I do all right. Because hey – I’ve gotta write tomorrow whether it’s entertaining or not.  So why sit here and fret? At least I can say I’ve done something every single day for a year without fail or excuse.

…So far.

Onward! ♣

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My Nephew Is a Powerhouse

31 Aug

Yesterday there was an epic happening on the home front.

My pudgy little monkey of a nephew reached deep within himself and declared dominance over his bottle by grasping it with both hands and never letting go.  He conquered an inanimate object and thereby established himself as a blossoming self-sufficient being.

Blossoming, mind you.  He still poops himself.

Needless to say, I’m pretty stoked.  Think about how long he’s been trying to accomplish this one, simple task.  Think about how many times he’s had to drink at an angle determined by someone else – how many times he’s wanted to take a break but could only stare blankly ahead.  Think about how today has rocked his world.

He must feel so empowered.  I’ll bet tomorrow he starts walking around.

I can’t remember the last time I accomplished something so easily measurable and so deeply gratifying.   I wonder what got him through it.  I wonder if it was stubbornness or frustration or an uplifted prayer to God that please, please could today be the day he tells his mother to stop making assumptions about whether he can or cannot hold his own bottle.

Ask and it shall be given unto you.

I’m a little concerned about my level of excitement regarding his achievement.  If I celebrate over him holding his bottle, how on this earth will I contain myself when he takes his first step? Or when he says “Aunt Jackie you’re so cool” for the first time?

I will send him trophies in the mail, that’s how.  

I’ll plaster my excitement all over a piece of paper and mail it to him;  Heck, I should probably go install a little trophy shelf in his room.  I can just send him little certificates of achievement for the most important things in life like learning to roll over, or saying something that sounds like gibberish instead of just crying and stopping his neck from flopping all over tarnation.

These are all worthy of recognition and praise.

So all hail my nephew, master of the baby bottle – achiever of dreams and determiner of his own destiny.

May inanimate objects everywhere  cower at the mention of his name. ♣ 

Hear him roar.

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The (Not So Lazy) Lady’s Guide to DIY: Hanging Herb Garden

30 Aug

I am so tired. I have been beaten to death – obliterated by the supposed simplicity of a DIY tutorial on window gardens.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday ya’ll.

Now I know some of you are noobs to thejackieblog and while I welcome your smiling, shiny faces, I reckon you might want to take a gander at the top of the page where it tells you what the heck a Lollipop Tuesday is because as of this moment in time, you can’t exactly Wikipedia it.  Which is a shame.  Feel free to draft an article for it.

This week I decided to try sucking at gardening.  Well, I decided to try to suck at fashioning a hanging window garden so that I can try to suck at gardening.  It was courtesy of igardendaily‘s suggestion the “What’s Lollipop Tuesday” page, and boy was it a treat.  

Cut bottom, poke holes in it, reposition it, tape the junk out of it til it stays.

I imagine someone who indeed gardens daily and runs a garden blog would perhaps have the patience for such shenanigans, but I, sir, do not.

In order to start the mess I made of my dining room area, I consulted an online tutorial from persephonemagazine.com on how to turn coffee cans into cute little hanging herbs.   The title was promising: “The Lazy Lady’s Guide to DIY: Hanging Herb Garden”.

Why do online tutorials make everything look so freaking easy?  These little craft and DIY bloggers with their beautiful pictures and their artsy websites and their super awesome things that make me wants to recreate their awesomeness in the comfort of my home.   They emphasize how easy something is and when something’s incredibly hard, they use words that keep you from getting discouraged like “tricky”.  

For future reference, don’t trust “tricky”.   It’s the same as saying “this is a gigantic pain in the arse”.

I trusted this tutorial.  It lured me in with a false sense of security.   When I hear “The Lazy Lady’s Guide to….”, I feel capable.  I feel maximum output for minimal effort.   I feel good.

This is not a tutorial for a lazy gender of any sort.

Perhaps part of my problem was that I didn’t splurge on the coffee cans at first.  You see, the hanging herb garden made from coffee cans requires you to buy coffee cans.  But I’m not a coffee drinker and golly is it expensive.  And since the tutorial called for cans with a plastic lid on one end and tin on the other, I thought I could get away with buying Hershey’s syrup cans.  

Now, chocolate syrup is something I can use.

Flip them over, gingerly transplant (and thereby kill half of) the herbs, throw a coffee filter around them, and tape the junk out of it all again.

Unfortunately when I bought said syrup cans, came home, emptied them all into a big vat, and rinsed them, I found that it was necessary for me to be able to use a can opener to cut off the tin side.  And since Hershey syrup cans are rounded on the bottom ever so slightly, my can opener would not comply.  So I went back to the store to drop a bunch of money on coffee I’ll never use for cans I should have bought 3 hours prior.

Note to self: follow instructions.

With gallons of chocolate milk to fuel me, I carried on.  Through the hole-punching and the taping and the glueing and the messing up and starting over – I stuck with it all.   And I dragged Dave along for the ride.  Because by golly if I’ve gotta make four cans, I was going to have an assistant.

It was actually pretty easy for Dave.  Which made me think that perhaps I just don’t have the DIY gene.  There’s gotta be something in these people that makes them awesome at whipping up things from out of absolutely nothing.   They don’t even look like cheap crafts; they look like genuine groovy things.  It’s baffling.

Anyway, I eventually finished it.  I mean – it was hard.  And I spent a lot of money.  And I’m not even sure I can keep these suckers alive

Cover them in glue and paper. Try not to make it look like a 4-year-old did it. Also, pick all the glue off yourself when you're done and throw out half your belongings, which undoubtedly got dipped in glue along the way.

now that they’re in my window living in fear of what I did to my orchid (which, by the way, is sitting below them growing a very exciting second healthy leaf).   I’m a little concerned that I may have spent more time assembling a hanging herb garden than I will actually be able to keep them alive, but that’s a risk.   Especially when you have cats…

I’m sure that dangling the plants from the ceiling that they already loved on the ground was a sound decision.

But hey! I have an herb garden! And until it dies, it looks pretty darn cool.  I can breathe in the super awesome oxygen-rich air around me and pull from the fruits of my labor for cooking experiments while I toast my achievement with chocolate milk.

I really don’t know what else to make with an entire vat of chocolate syrup.   

In the amount of time it took me to write this post, Dave used the leftover paper from the project to fashion a lamp for the dining area to match our new herb garden.

These natural DIY-ers just slay me. ♣

Treasure it, friends. They won't be alive long.

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An Appeal to Foodmakers Everywhere

29 Aug

I’ve recently made a disturbing observation about myself: every morning the only reason I get out of bed is Golden Grahams.

Yeah, I eat Golden Grahams.

Listen:it’s a delicious cereal.  They’re not at all nutritious, I know.  But when I’m comfortable and warm and sucking the luscious nectar of sleep each morning, the force that pulls me from my sheets is not the promise of a paycheck, the throbbing annoyance of an alarm clock, or the urge to be productive.

It’s those beautiful, sugar-coated honey-flavored cardboard squares.

I can’t help it; it appears my entire life is driven by food.  In the morning, I wake up for cereal.  At work, I fantasize about what I’ll eat for lunch.  At the end of the day, I think about how awesome dinner is going to be.   Last night after a 12-hour shoot, I got super excited about a pepperoni roll that I got at a farmer’s market on Friday and intentionally wrapped in foil and put in the freezer in order to prepare for such an occasion. 

I’ve only just recently recognized this trend and so I have only just recently realized how this is probably not the best way to live my life.  Food is my only motivator.  Food is literally the reason I get out of bed in the morning.  I fixate on it, I daydream about it, and I am only really in ecstasy when I’m in the process of chewing. 

Think about that.  

It’s a wonder I’m not a thousand pounds.  One thousand.  You know, I saw a lady the other day who had to turn sideways to fit into the door of an establishment.  

It was a food establishment.

When I realized that my entire life is spent looking forward to the next time I can eat something incredibly delicious, I thought of this woman and her door dilemma.  Every day she has to deal with the fact that she can’t fit through a door, go on an airplane, fit in a theater seat…heck, she probably has to turn sideways to scoot down small grocery store aisles.  But it’s okay because in between those inconveniences, she’s chewing in ecstasy. And listen – I want to make it clear that I’m not making fun of her.  I’m not.  Because I understand how delicious food is and no matter how times I get into my skinny jeans, a burger will bring me right back to square one every time.  And there’s no guarantee that I won’t eventually be as large as the woman I recall, who struggles to complete routine tasks.

It’s clear that I can’t just stop eating good food.  That never works.  I’ve abstained from deliciousness for exactly three weeks but no longer.  And a mere three days of delicious indulgence can counteract three weeks of healthy eating.  Sad, but true.  

I am Sisyphus, and a fatness is my rock.

So this is my appeal to foodmakers everywhere:  

Please stop making food so delectable.  I know I like it and I beg for it all the time, but you’ve gotta believe me: I want to be able to still fit through doors when I grow up.  Like, regular doors.  Not supersized American doors that will no doubt have to be considered in new architecture plans  because we’re all super fatty fats. So please make healthy food.  Let’s just get rid of all the bad stuff.  If I have no delicious options, I will eventually have no option but to eat boring, healthy food – which will eventually result in my skinniness. 

And don’t pretend that delicious food that is also healthy exists.  It’s not true.  It’s not.

So let’s just do a mass exodus of all yumminess so that next summer I can finally go swimming.  I missed out again this year because it appears that the only swimwear that covers my problem areas is a scuba suit and it’s really just too tight to be flattering.

Okay, so thanks for the consideration.  I really appreciate it.

Puppies and Sprinkles,

Soon-to-be-skinny Jackie ♣

 

 

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The Art of Bar Luring

28 Aug

I think I’ve found my calling.

I say this a lot.  My life is really just a series of daydreams regarding million dollar ideas and true callings. I’m searching for the key that will unlock my rich financial future and free me from the grimy chains of corporate America.  

My most recent life calling is being a bar lure.

This is a novel concept that was created last night as I was out at one of Dave’s gigs.   I was seated at the end of the bar, right in front of the stage where he was playing his set.  As part of my new ‘don’t talk to me’ initiative, I brought along my laptop to try to whip out a blog post.  

That’s right: I’ve bypassed the journal idea entirely and gone right to full laptop mode.  I figure I can’t get any more dismissive than having a complete computer set up with the dull, blue glow on my face to highlight my apathy.

But as it turned out, my drink choices garnered some unwanted attention.  The first was a bright blue cup of fun.   It was basically glorified jungle juice but the folks at the bar were  attracted to its neon blue glow and inquired with the bartender to copy my order.   After I established my position as a trendsetter, I asked the bartender for something chocolatey.  It manifested itself as a glass of Bailey’s on ice, garnished with a whopping pile of spiraled whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and a cherry on top.  

It was an adult milkshake and it caused quite a stir.

And therein I found my life’s calling.  It occurred to me that I could work out something with the bartender where I could go in once a week on his busiest night, ordered absolutely ridiculous, eye-catching drinks, and get folks excited about doing the same based on the look of elation on my face as I suck them down.

He could rake in thousands, I could take a cut, and I could pay my bills by writing my blog and having a drink.  It’s brilliant!

Maybe I could even do cool tricks. Breathing fire is pretty darn attention-getting.

In fact, I could even attempt to be sociable and look like I’m having a good time.  Maybe that would prompt other patrons to do the same and really set the mood for the joint.

I made an attempt at this last night.  Two gentlemen came in off the street looking to rest their feet and grab a beer and we struck up a decent conversation wherein they seemed they might order extra drinks as a result of finding a friendly face.  But as it turns out, they were more interested in me being a friendly female face than just a friendly face.  And within a matter of minutes, the conversation had turned sour and they made their ways to the door.

I couldn’t help it: one of them called me sweetheart.

I’m sorry, but I don’t care what you look like, what you do for a living, or how good of conversationalist you are.  If you call me sweetheart, I don’t want anything to do with you.  And it isn’t even because I’m offended (which I am).  It’s more so the fact that I don’t want anything to do with someone who calls a girl they’ve only talked to for 5 minutes “sweetheart” casually. 

It’s not even a pick up line.  It’s just lazy.   And it assumes things of me.

I wasn’t even rude about it.  They called me sweetheart and I said please don’t call me sweetheart.  I wasn’t a jerkface, I didn’t go off on a big don’t-call-me-toots monologue– I just said please don’t call me sweetheart.   It wasn’t anything to go verbally breaking down and running away over.

 But they did.

And so the customers I gained, I immediately lost and proved to the bartender that perhaps a customer at the end of the bar ordering interesting-looking drinks would be good for business if she didn’t have such a snarky mouth attached to her that drives away as many people as it attracts.  I guess I broke even on the life calling thing and it’s back to the drawing board.

It shouldn’t take me long to whip up another; I’ll keep you posted.  And one day, I shall prevail. ♣

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The Great Pie War

27 Aug

Dave’s playing dirty.

If you follow my Lollipop Tuesday series, are a daily reader, or even if you just go click this right here, you’ll recall a story of a girl who, not too long ago, attempted recreate David’s grandmother’s homemade apple pie from only the loins of the earth for the blogosphere’s general amusement.

In a word, I failed.

The end product, though it looked like a pie, left much to be desired.  Like good taste, for example.  Or an apple filling that didn’t also have the apple skins.  Or a dough that was smooth, ever so gently crisp, and smooth with beautiful little slits in the center.

Mine had none of those things.  But it had a lot of heart.  It’s unfortunate that heart only counts in college sports, inspirational movies, and Captain Planet.

So Dave took one tiny little bite of my lackluster pie and decided it was so awful that he wasn’t going to eat any more.  Well, he didn’t put it exactly that way.  He’s much too wonderful to just come right out with it. Rather, I asked him if I left it out would he eat it, he said no, probably not, and I filled in the gaps.

I threw it in the trash and decided that I would blog and admit defeat, blame it on a generational misunderstanding of the concept of ‘recipes’, and I resolved to make a better pie someday.  Just one, so I could make one if I had to.

Sometimes people need pies.

But I need not bother.  For today, I walked into my home after work to the slightly spiced, warm air of apple pie wafting through hall.  My stomach jumped to my throat as I realized what was happening.  I looked to Dave to find a half smirk revealing his underhandedness.  I ran to the oven, threw open the door, and revealed THIS:

Look at it. Just LOOK at it.

That golden crust that isn’t overfloured and hasn’t been pinched together in desperation.  If you crack that sucker open you’ll find an apple filling so soft and sweet it makes you feel soft and sweet.   It’s well done, it’s delicious.

And a blatant declaration of war.

At first I was pretty upset.  Who watches someone try something new and then a mere 3 days later does it perfectly themselves to display their superiority?  Warmongers, that’s who.  But just as I was gearing up for an epic pie war, it occurred to me that there is another way to look at this situation.  Think about it:  if my overwhelming suck at something prompts Dave to do it and do it better, then I can start failing at all sorts of things!   Why do I need to learn how to make a pie if he can make a lovely one?   Our skill set is unified in nature – I do things he’s not good at, and he does things I’m not good at.  It’s a pretty awesome system and since he so willingly added “making pie” to his list, I can call on him for the pastry in a variety of pie-requiring events.  Family reunions, support for those in mourning, selling a house, and holidays of all varieties.  

Apple pie is incredibly versatile in its application.

I’m trying to think of other things I’d like Dave to do for us.  Now that I know his process, all I have to do is indicate a  few areas of weakness and he can pick up the slack! I can suck at lots of things: cleaning the oven, roasting a turkey, doing the laundry, wiping windows, cleaning out the car, scrubbing the tub – golly, there are loads of things I’m about to not do well.

Perhaps it’s war after all. ♣

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Why I Stay Indoors, Reasons 130 and 131: Dogs at Bars and Touchers

26 Aug
Apparently, I’ve begun an infrequent series on my blog called “Why I Stay Indoors”.    The first in the series was about movie theaters, and though it was the first of its kind, I decided to label it Reason #129.  And so we’ll pick up here today with #130.  Because what’s a blog about a hermit without a reminder as to why she’s a hermit once in a while?

 

Last night someone put their arm around me while I was out.

I really hate it when people touch me.  I try to send as many please-don’t-touch-me-ever signals as I can, but sometimes when I’m not focusing hard enough, someone gets through.  I must have just really sucked at it yesterday because I got a hug, a close-talker, and an arm-putter-arounder.

People touching me is big deterrent to my experiencing the world outside the walls of my apartment.  But alas, last night I was forced out into the open and ended up right in the arms of an arm-putter-arounder.

Since Dave’ a musician and all, I tend to find myself in all sorts of strange places.  I usually just take my little pocket journal and try to think really, really hard until a blog post comes out.   Unfortunately, it doesn’t always end in a post.  But it rarely fails to keep people away from me and that’s really the underlying goal.

But last night at this bar, I was filing into the place and waited with Dave until he got a beer before snuggling into the masses.  And while I stood there, unenthused by my surroundings, I noticed a small poodle on the bar stool beside me.   It was well-groomed, uneasy, and wondering why it was in a bar, sitting on a stool.  A gentleman came up beside me, put his arm around me (cringe), and drunkenly stated that it was his dog.  He also said that it was “a princess” and that I “shouldn’t tell the dog he’s a boy because he thinks he’s a girl”.

I suspect that had a lot less to do with what the dog thought of itself and a lot more to do with what the gentleman thought of it.  It was, after all, a dog.  On a bar stool.  Against its own will.

The woman beside him excused herself to go to the restroom and after 60 complete seconds, he asked me where his girlfriend went.  I told him she went to the bathroom and he said she wasn’t really his girlfriend at all.  She was just a friend and he was actually gay.

I told him I figured that.

It was here that it seems I offended him.  He said: “what made you think that?! I’m not that drunk, am I?”

I would argue that if one must check with someone else for a confirmation on their level of drunkenness, they are indeed drunk.  I would also argue that how drunk one is has nothing to do with how gay one is, which is a link that this gentleman apparently just attempted to make.

But he was really in no state for me to point out to him that he had a dog that fit in his man purse and that he exclaimed so to the bar.  Or that the woman he was with didn’t seem at all interested in him and so I assumed they were not together.  Or that he openly stated that his dog is “a princess” when his dog is a boy and really, just an unhappy dog in a seedy bar that can meet none of its dog-like needs.

It can, however, meet its princess-like need to socialize in trendy venues.

Knee-deep in social discomfort, I decided it was time to pinch Dave in the side until he got the memo that I needed an out.  I’ve tried subtle things like ear tugs, winks, hair playing, and hand signs, but when I’m in the throes of close-talkers, arm-putter-arounders and superdrunks, those are a little too subtle for Dave to notice, all things considered.  So now I just cause him physical pain until he relieves me of mine.  I think it’s a pretty good arrangement.

Dave promptly put his arm around me, grabbed his beer, and escorted me to a table where I could write while we listened to the band.  I began to scribble down a few notes about dogs in bars before the lights were all turned off in favor of one lone spotlight on the lead band member and I was left to mull over my distaste for people and public places.

But hey – that will teach me. Going outside one’s home can lead them to unhappy dogs on bar stools, drunk arguments with a very loud gay man, and uncomfortable touching of all kinds.

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

Super creepy. Super.

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