The Jackie Blog

Are you all as paranoid in public restrooms as I am?

I’m not so sure this applies to men.  Men are usually pretty proud of whatever heinous acts have been committed during their bathroom stays and so I imagine there isn’t much to be anxious over.

But I gotta tell ya – I’m anxious.  I worry a lot.   I don’t typically like to use a public restroom to do the dirty deed, but when you have to go, you simply have no choice.

While I’m in there, I like to be quick about it.  I wait until the absolute last minute until what I dub The Decision Hour, which means I have to either decide to use a public restroom to poo, or I have to poo on myself.  There will be poo either way.

I almost always opt for the first.

But I really hate it when people know that I’ve been in there.  Like if it smells. I hate that.  I’ve considered carrying a personal anti-poo perfume just so that I can eliminate all evidence that I’ve been in the bathroom.  And it doesn’t just stop there – I don’t like to be spotted.  Which means that I will sit in the stall as long as I have to in order to exit the restroom without anyone witnessing my being there.  In large restrooms ( a la truck stops, rest areas, mega malls) this is of no concern. No one can possibly trace a smell in there and there’s too much traffic to be able to pin it to one individual with any degree of certainty.

It’s those intimate bathrooms that are tough – like one with just 2 or 3 stalls.  Or worse – one with just one regular stall and one handicapped stall.   If the regular stall is taken and I’m in The Decision Hour, I’ve gotta go to the handicapped stall.  And once I’m in there, I feel an intense amount of pressure to hurry in the event that someone disabled comes in.  They’ll be waiting on me and will be  incredibly focused on my every sound and movement.

I can’t poo under that kind of pressure.

Far more intense is a situation in which I’ve been found out.  If I enter the restroom needing to poo and am followed directly by someone I know and recognizes me, I will quickly shuffle into the restroom, pee, and leave.  I will then reenter as soon as possible after they’ve cleared the area to do the actual business I arrived for the first time.

There was a time when I thought that I was the only one with this hang up.   And you know what?  It could be the bathroom conspiracy theorist in me (see The Underground Bathroom Society post) but I seriously think I’ve spotted this same pattern of behavior in others before.  Perhaps they’ll stick to their guns if they’re spotted by a friend  instead of attempting reentry, but I’m fairly certain that women have lingered in the stall for me to clear the area before showing their faces by the sinks.

Maybe, just maybe… I’m not alone. ♣

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

Oh man, it’s hot in here.

The awesome thing about my apartment is that utilities (minus electric) are included in the rent, and are thus at a fixed and predictable rate.  And since the heat is gas, I don’t have to worry about opening a savings account just for winter heat.

Aside from the fact that gas heat is dry heat and dry heat makes me crazy (See Snap, Crackle and Pop post), it is also controlled by the building owners and not by me.

Hey – there are a lot of super awesome things about being the first floor apartment on the outer perimeter of the building. Like  I have windows, which means my cats have windows, which means my cats are happy.   When my cats are happy, they tend to puke on my personal belongings less.  But since I’m on the first floor, it is my sacred duty to endure the inconsistent and trying heat waves that are necessary for the higher floors to be heated sufficiently.

And quite frankly, it blows.

It’s raining outside.  It’s not even a particularly cold rain.  But if something is falling from the sky, my heat is on.  So here I am, considering renting out my living room as a Bikram Yoga space and stripping down to as little as possible without feeling like a hussy because every single window in my place is open and the predominantly orthodox Jew population in my neighborhood can see my sauna from the sidewalk.

I’m really thankful for heat.  I am.  I think it’s great that I never have to worry about whether or not I’ll have a warm place to stay in the winter.  It’s just that after so many months of waking up with super-static powers, a mouth so dry I can barely move my tongue, sweaty sheets, and high-pitched whistles of gas heat singing me to sleep, I’m just a little jaded.

Okay I have to go now.

The heat of the laptop on my legs is testing my tolerance and I shall surely throw it across the room soon. ♣

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

I had originally planned to write about how I ended up describing what a furry is to my boss at a lunch meeting in front of the whole department, but I just saw an Xfinity commercial and I’m too enraged by my cable problems to talk about such silliness right now.

About a year ago, I called my cable company because I was notified that my rates would increase.   I told them I didn’t watch T.V. and so I didn’t need their stinking service anymore and they agreed to keep me at the same rate.

It’s funny how a phone call can change things.

The key to getting your hard-earned American George Washingtons back when grimy little service companies attempt to steal them is pure determination.   For the case in point, I spent almost my entire lunch break on the phone.   Waiting, explaining, being transferred, waiting, explaining, being transferred… It’s a maze of frustration and rage.  And if you make it through to the other side, you win money.

Last night, however, I failed the maze.

I got my bill in the mail and had a 5 dollar hike on it with absolutely no explanation.  Actually, what boggles the mind more is that the only explanation included is a paper explaining that there will be a price hike beginning next month.   Um.  What?  Okay, so my bill is raised 5 dollars a month and in another  month you’ll raise it 5 more.

If I have x apples and Jenny has y apples and Jenny takes all my apples and kicks me in the groin, who do I call to get my freaking apples back?

So I dialed the 800 number listed on my bill, followed the prompts to enter my phone number and zip code, and got connected to Mikey after 15 minutes.   I, like a good customer, always pleasantly begin my conversation asking if I may provide my account number for their reference.   Mikey said it would be easier to give him my phone number, which I did.  Twice.

That didn’t seem to help.

So he asked for my account number.  I was glad he just went ahead and did it my way.    Then he told me that he couldn’t help me because I was from a different city than his branch could service.   I kindly asked him to transfer me and he said he couldn’t.  So I kindly asked for a number to dial and he said he didn’t know.  Mikey said that if I followed the prompts, I should be okay.

Mikey apparently thought I was a moron.

But I’m not a moron, and I told Mikey so.  He suggested I hang up and try again.  I insisted that there was no point in reusing an automated system that I have already proven fails and I nicely reminded him that getting through to him cost me 15 minutes of my life I wouldn’t like to lose twice.  In fact, every time I attempt to call this company, this is what happens and I’d really like to just figure out what the problem is.   Mikey told me we were in a bit of a stale mate because he couldn’t help me and I wouldn’t hang up unless I was helped.

I call an 800 number, I expect help.  After all, I’m paying a 5 dollar increase and that should be reflected in the quality of my service.

So I asked Mikey if he had a supervisor or  manager who might be able to give me the correct number to dial.   He said yes and put me on hold.

Can I just take a moment to say that I really think Enya songs should be the only acceptable waiting music for service calls?  Because when I’m really on my last nerve and have managed to make dinner and eat it in the amount of time it takes to even ask just one question about my account, “The Sounds of Upbeat Jazz” is just not the ticket to pacifying me.  Every toot of the saxophone felt like a machine gun of rage in my ear.

I then proceeded to wait.  Mikey would intermittently check in with me to assure me that the supervisor was on her way. I felt like he was trying to make me go away – it’s a tactic I’ve seen attempted in customer service when I worked in it.   So I hung on for dear life.

But after Mikey checking in three times, 25 more minutes had passed and I hadn’t even gotten on the phone with the person who could get me on the phone with the person who could answer my question.    So I hung up and proceeded to hurl curses at the walls of my apartment and swear that I would try again tomorrow.    And so I shall.

I want my apples back. ♣

My cable company's mascot.

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

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.

I decided that after the last two weeks of heathenistic lollipop events, I should do something with a warm, gooey core of wholesomeness.    And that’s how I came to find myself in strange, new, but all-too-familiar hicktown playing a good old-fashioned game of Bingo.

It’s an atrocity that I grew up in Central PA and never waddled my way over to a Bingo game.    And so waddle I finally did, past tiny little shanty houses and what seemed to be a nuclear power plant a la Simpsons.    At the end of that beautiful hick-laden road was a rec hall with plastic tables, an enthusiastic and under-funded theater club, and a whole lot of old ladies.

The true joy of my Bingo adventure was that it wasn’t for money.  It was for Vera Bradley bags.

Personally, I’ve never gotten the allure of Vera’s wacky color combinations, paisley-on-acid patterns, and quilt material.  It looks like a craft.   You know, like from a craft show.    Except there I can get one for a decent price.  If I want the Vera brand, I’ve gotta pony up way too many pennies for  my liking.    So I went into the rec hall with every intention of winning myself a bag and putting it on ebay.

But I severely underestimated the intensity of an average Bingo game.

These women were bingo semi-professionals.  Most of them already had Vera Bradley bags, well-worn and poised beside them as proof that they were there to take in some serious winnings.  Some brought their own Bingo markers, which were so enormous and metallic that at one point I mistook one for a light saber.

I think the Bingo marker was my favorite  part.  I spent most of my time thinking about how genius of an invention it was.  Dave spent the whole time in awe of how much fun it was to stamp things with.

Oh yeah – did I mention I took Dave?  The only thing better than the Bingo marker was the look on Dave’s face when the moderator said things like, “Come on, ladies!  Who wants to win this bag?!”   It was a genuine pleasure to see him juxtaposed against huddled-over old bitties, with their glasses pushed down to the very tips of their noses, their Bingo markers in the ready position, and a look of sheer determination.

I think I saw one of them curl up her lip and bare her teeth.

Tensions are high in a Bingo game.  If multiple winners cry out after a number is called, they go into a “Bingo Off” and the  moderator pulls another number. Whoever has it on their winning card is determined ruler of all.   One disputed card required 5 more numbers be drawn to determine the tie and the 85 seconds surrounding the event were amongst the most painfully gripping of my life.

A little over halfway through the game, I had to readjust  myself because I had somehow shlumped down and was hunched over my card.  My nose was only a few inches above the table and I was staring straight down, burning a hole through my card with my intensity.   I was going to intimidate the card into giving up the correct number.

It didn’t work.

In fact, nothing I tried worked and I went home a big, fat, penniless, Vera Bradley bagless Bingo loser.   I didn’t mind so much, because I had a really good time.

But then I realized that instead of just being a regular old crazy cat lady when I get older,  might be an old crazy cat lady who plays Bingo.

Shoot. ♣

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

jasminestarblog.com

I’m tired.

Not just tired.  Old-lady-tired. 

I was up pretty late last night making wonderful and responsible decisions.  And when my head hit the pillow at about 4 in the morning, I had to come to terms with the fact that I would not be early to rise and indubitably half my Sunday would be over before I even woke to greet it.

The entire concept of a mere 2-day weekend is absurd.  I need more time.  I spend Saturday catching up on all the things I have to do but don’t have time to tend to during the week because I’m, you know, working.  And then when Saturday is over, I have to face the harsh reality that the very next day means the end of my weekend and will be entirely overshadowed by the fact that I have to work again on Monday.   And then 5 days to trudge through before my next pathetic 2-day weekend.

I demand an Adult Break.

It’s preposterous that I’m allowed 2 weeks of debauchery, exploration, and adventure in the spring and 3 months in the summer every single year of my life until I graduate from college and then it disappears when I’m ejected.  Absolutely disappears.  And short of my striking it rich, marrying into money, or finding a sack of cowboy gold on the city streets, I have no way of making my own 3-month adult adventure because while I’m off trotting around in Europe or Jamaica or even just freaking Kansas City, I’ll have to find a way to pay my rent, phone, gas, electric, water, garbage, credit cards, and student loans.

Why are we all just okay with this?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for hard work and all that jazz and I totally get that bills need to be paid, even though my inner hippie screams in frustration that I have to pay for things that should, in my opinion, be free to all.  That’s fine – I’ll suck it up.  But I would really like a small section of my time each year to be liberated from worry, work, and obligation.  It’s called living, and I would like some please.

So what shall we do? Organize a march on the capitol steps? Or start a movement and design marketing tactics?

I vote movement.  ♣

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