Tag Archives: postaweek2012

Please Don’t Make Me Shop

15 Feb

A carefully constructed Hell.

Clothes shopping is the worst.

It makes me angsty in all the normal ways, of course.  All the body-related ways.  I spend a lot of time looking at a garment and wondering how I’ll fit all my jiggly into it.  I do a lot of fatty math – things like “if I get a pair of pants that go really high and a blouse that goes really low, how much pressure per inch does it take for my muffin top to disappear into the nether?’

For the record, I’m still running.  That’s right.  I graduated from Couch to 5K and now I run.  Now it’s just something I do.  I don’t want to talk about it too much because I’m afraid I’ll scare it off.  Like the dodo birds.   But it takes a lot of running to undo the terrible wrongs that are hanging on my hips and when I’m encasing them in clothing, it’s really more a matter of trying to find what doesn’t make me look incredibly awful instead of what makes me look incredibly good.   I have special, nonspecific equations that have to do with the original cost of a garment vs. its clearance cost and how large that number has to be for me to convince myself that it doesn’t matter if I look fat in it.

But those are everywoman things.  The tip of the clothes shopping iceberg, if you will.  Even a casual jaunt through Macy’s gives me palpitations.  This past weekend I went to Nordstrom (yes, I had a gift card, and no I don’t make money off this blog) and quadrupled the Macys effect.  All the sales people were super attentive.  I don’t know where the people are in life who enjoy that.  Who goes shopping and hopes that an associate will ask them if they’re finding everything okay? Not me.  Even if I’m looking for something, I’ll wander around pretending to look at things that I don’t pertain to me at all until I can spot what I need in my peripherals. 

I lead a complicated existence.

I worry a lot about the unspoken rules.  Clothing stores don’t all use the same standards so there’s a gamut of things I have to figure out when I go to a new place.  Do I have to ask for a fitting room or are they unlocked? Do I have hunt someone down or will someone be back there waiting?  Is there someone to help me when I need a new color of the mediocre shirt that I’m hoping doesn’t make me look as fat in black, or do I have to get out of my naked suit and go find it myself?  Do they write my name on the back of the door, do they need me to take a number matching the number of garments I have, should I button and zip everything back up when I’m done? And of course the most angst-inducing: do I leave the clothes in the fitting room or do I put them on a rack outside the fitting room? 

Sometimes the rack has things on it that don’t look like fitting room rejects.  And if I’m not invited to do so, or if there’s no rack at all (bewildering), I have absolutely no idea what to do and to avoid being a self-entitled jerkwad of a person, I take my monstrous heap of rejected clothing back out to the sales floor and put each one back to its rightful home.

Most of what I do in life is motivated by self-imposed guilt.

Because I so often have to carry out the latter practice, shopping requires me to be quite sharp minded.  I can’t just wander in there without purpose or I won’t remember where I got clothing from, won’t intuitively catch on to the wardrobe practices, and may risk being scolded by store personnel for a clothing store faux pas.

Nordstrom has an added sense of danger for me.  Things in that store can be so expensive that they send folks who were raised poor like me to the hospital.  I used to go in there when I was young and play “guess how much this costs” with my friends.   Now that it’s not a game and I actually want to buy some of these things (remember the gift card.  And the fact that there are still clearance sales at Nordstrom) I have to be seriously careful about my public reactions to such atrocities.  One blouse I pick up could be $80, on sale for $40.  The next could be $1200.  The real challenge in that situation is to, of course, not pull the blouse downward when your torso wrenches to the floor in disbelief, thereby making the entire rack of clothes topple over.

After an hour and a half of panic-attack-inducing shopping, I finally wandered out of Nordstrom and into the great white light beyond the mall doors.  By the time I made it out, I had tried on about 40 different things and only bought three.  With no reject rack in sight and far too many clothes to wander out of the dressing room with to return to their homelands, I left about 25 in one fitting room and then went to the complete other side of the store to try on anything else I found.  I thought that by leaving half on one side and half of the other, the sales associates would split their contempt for me down the middle.  I was exhausted, and rightfully so: all that salesperson dodging, fitting room hiding, and body fat encasing is quite the chore.

From now on: online shopping.  My fitting room, my rules, and no one asking me if I’m finding everything okay.  Just a couple of cats awkwardly staring at my jiggle and a box with a return slip ready to be shipped. ♣

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The Thrills of Adulthood Part III: Dental Appointments

8 Feb
This post is part of an accidental series I apparently have, entitled “The Thrills of Adulthood”.  Check out previous versions here- The Thrills of Adulthood and The Thrills of Adulthood Part II: My Palace of Filth. 

Those are the eyes of a man you can almost trust.

I started this morning off swimmingly, with a trip to the dentist.  Let’s call him Ned.

My first in six years, folks.  I’m not ashamed to say it.  Listen: that crap’s expensive.  On the list of things to pay for as a young, struggling, adult larva, having a middle aged white guy scratch at my enamel with a metal hook and give me a live demonstration on how to pull string through my teeth isn’t at the top of them.  It’s not that I don’t think it’s important.  It’ s just that when you peer inside the wallet of a mid 20-something, you don’t find much.  All of it has already been wrestled out of our grimy little clenched fists for things we never knew we had to pay for before.  Like car insurance and oil changes and work clothes and groceries and appliances.  Some of my most sobering moments in life have been those in which I have to purchase something that is absolutely unexciting but necessary to higher adult functions.  Like kitchen sponges.  Or batteries.  Or a brand new shiny set of car tires, when I’d rather spend that money on an iPad.  Or a kiddie pool full of long noodles.

Yesterday Dave bought a new white board for us and I convinced myself that it was the most romantic thing that had happened to me in our entire relationship.  I cried.  There were real tears.

Anyway, adulthood is expensive.  And I haven’t even started to have babies yet.  Lord help me.

So I’m sitting in Ned’s dentist chair, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to infer from his handing me a cup of water and holding a funnel beside me (it’s not really intuitive, folks), when he begins to make me feel like a terrible person.  He starts to tell me how people die from bad teeth, how it’s linked to many diseases and deaths, and that he’d like to talk to me about my process.  All this in spite of the fact that I didn’t have a single cavity or much plaque to speak of.

My brother got me an electric tooth brush for Christmas (also a clear indicator of adulthood).  I expected him to give me a certificate or something.  I guess they only do that for kids, which I think it preposterous. Excitement over receiving certificates knows no age limit.

So then the Nedster starts going on about how the real goal after I eat should be to get rid of any of the food that’s left in my mouth.  You know, the little bits and pieces you savor as they swim around for a bit.  He believed that every time I put something in my mouth, drink included, I should then rinse or brush whatever is remaining away.   In fact, he so believed that this was necessary to my dental hygiene that he said I should steer clear of any “hard to clean foods” like cookies.

He went straight for the cookies.  Heartless.

Oreos, he said, are the worst.  Because even if you rinse afterward, you only get about half of it.

I can tell you right now, I’m not going to do that.  Get all the food out of my mouth after I’m done?  What about aftertaste, Ned? What about relishing? What about the sweet satisfaction after you’ve had a nice portion of something you’ve been craving for a long time.  What, am I just supposed to sprint and brush away the satisfaction? Good God, man – don’t you have a heart?!

I ate a small Dove chocolate square about ten minutes ago and my tongue can still remember the silky milk goodness on its surface.

But then I realized he’s playing a trick on me.  He probably loves Oreos.  If I would have looked closer, I might have even found a few crumbs lingering on his eye teeth.  But he’s realized that telling people to floss just isn’t working.  People will always do ever so slightly less than they really feel they should.  So he’s decided to change the game and tell people to do more.  If I’m busy feeling unhygienic and sad because I’m not rinsing and brushing after every snack, I’ll tell myself that I should at least floss.  I mean, I’m already slacking in the rinses – I don’t want to risk death because I also didn’t floss, do I?

I admire his wit.  I do.  I recognize this tactic from my childhood: asking to stay out until 10 because then I’ll get to stay out til 9 and all I really needed was 8? Yeah, I remember that. It’s very effective.  Nicely done, Ned! No wonder I bought your services instead of a pool full of noodles or 18 cases of chocolate milk that I’d have to brush away after drinking.

Speaking of which, I should probably go floss some of this Dove chocolate out of my mouth. ◊

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The Great Bunny Acquisition

1 Feb

Pog, running from me.

I’m trying to convince Dave to let me have a bunny.

A small, white, fluffy one named Pog.

He has some concerns, naturally.  First and foremost that this is one of a series of campaigns I’ve started on behalf of new and interesting apartment creatures.  For some reason I feel that I can avoid my obvious fate as a cat lady by instead acquiring a taste for a strange parades of animals.  I can.

So along came the Pog campaign, right on the heels of a teacup pig campaign and not all that far from my request for a manageably sized puppy.  They’ve been denied, all.

Second on his list of concerns is the idea of Pog getting put in the washing machine.  Apparently, Dave thinks that my would-be-Pog-bunny-bundle-of-adorableness would snuggle himself right up in the crook of a hoodie or the soft nesting of a pillow, and that in my bumbling hurry, I would toss out the Pog with the pillows.  It would be a watery, warbly, truly tragic passing.

Also, all those clothes would all need to be washed again.

Third on his list of concerns is that I plan to capture this bunny in the wild, so as to not encourage breeding of an animal that already overbreeds itself.  Thus, my acquisition of Pog would require me to sever him from his bunny habitat and thus rip him from the paws of his loving friends and family.  To this I argue that life is nothing but pain and separation and that by never knowing love, Pog can never know the lack of love.

I might also just surround him with stuffed animals.  I had a lot of bunny stuffed animals when I was young and I think I could do a great recreation of Pog’s natural habitat.

Fourth, final, and most damning of his arguments is that he would end up taking care of the bunny after I got tired of it.  I don’t know how I could possibly get tired of a bunny.  I can’t even imagine that a bunny needs a whole lot of attention, really. What can they possibly do for fun?  

Have tea parties with the bunny stuffed animals, that’s what.

Maybe I can try a new tactic with Dave.  Perhaps I can lay out a solid business plan on PowerPoint that involves our apartment being made into a petting zoo.  We’re surrounded by lots of students, who I’m sure could use some pet destressing around midterms and finals.  And unlike cat cafes in China, or groups of puppies brought in to schools, my destress petting zoo will feature a wide variety of creatures and folks can pick what they pet.

See? There’s money in your passion if only you pave the path for it….and can convince Dave.  

 Guess I need to get started on that PowerPoint. ♣

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The State of the Union in Awkward Pictures

25 Jan

Ah, the State of the Union Address.  It’s a time for hope.  A time for reflection.  A time to play drinking games with your friends based on the number of Applause Pauses and Standing Ovations.  

I like to watch the SOTU (that’s State of the Union, for the not-trendy-acronym-inclined) because I like to know what the forerunners in the President’s policies are after he’s had some time in office.  I’ve also watched a lot of action movies centered around killing the President so every time all the important people in the national government pile into a room with him, I like to watch just in case one of the Congressmen is actually John Malkovich and he’s there to assassinate people.

But as much as I like to consider myself both politically invested and an action film fan, I have to admit that the main reason I watch the State of the Union is because it’s one of the most deliciously awkward things you can watch in the comfort of your home.  

I don’t ever tune in until 10 minutes after it’s supposed to start because that’s how long it takes for the President to make it to the podium.  But if you want some extra time milking the awkward, you can tune in right on the hour and watch people try to shake his hand that aren’t on his list to stop and shake hands with.  Or you can take careful note of the folks that pull him aside and point to all their friends so that the President has to do an obligatory wave.  You can let your stomach twist as you imagine how these people are trying to ration their hand-clapping power because it’s going to be a long hour and a half, but they can’t possibly stop applauding when the President is still in the middle of his ten-minute-long entrance.

Instead of spending a lot of time discussing the variety of awkward experiences that take place in less than 90 minutes, I decided to take some screenshots for you of the live broadcast I watched online so you could see for yourself where to look for these treasures the next time we’re due for a dose of SOTU.  Enjoy.

This one wasn't so much awkward as it just made me want to tear the tie off his neck. He kept adjusting it throughout the President's speech, which made the lines go all willy nilly and made me want to scoop out my eyeballs with a spoon.

I don't know about you but I always feel awkward being the only one sitting while everyone else is giving the ol' Standing O. The SOTU is full of strongwilled half-souls, though, and you can always find people who will ignore every single idea that is offered up that evening.

After about 20 minutes, you can start to locate the sleepers. It's a bold move, sleeping during the President's speech. Bold indeed.

 

Ever have to sit by the boss during a company meeting? I can't imagine how much more awkward it is to have to sit here.

 

By far my favorite awkward moment of the night was when Obama made a terrible, terrible joke about crying over spilled milk.  It was the most tweeted moment of the speech.  After it received no love from the audience and an eye roll from the First Lady, even Obama had a look that made one wonder who he just fired.  Here’s a look at the audience reactions.

So there you have it, folks: the State of the Union in awkward pictures.  Now you won’t ever have to watch a Presidential Address again without taking time to appreciate the subtleties.  

After all, that’s where all the fun is. ♣

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Stop SOPA, Save the Unicorns

18 Jan

I was going to post today but I like the magical Interwebz and I feel like you do too and I thought I should take a moment to point out that we might want to work together to save the magical Interwebz unicorns.

Some other people put it a different way.  You can check out their version here:

http://vimeo.com/31100268

Thanks for taking a few minutes to edumacate yourselves.  And for helping the pages you visit stay online.

Fellow unicorn lover,

Jackie ♣

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2012: The Year I’m (Almost) Not Always Right.

11 Jan

Image from A Paper Proposal - click to explore their site of wedding-inspired awesomeness

This past weekend marked the twentieth time I have locked myself out of my own vehicle.

Admittedly, that’s a rough estimate.  But it’s probably not all that rough.

I was going running (sixth week of Couch to 5K, by the way, thankyouverymuch), and decided that I would tuck the key to my car in a tiny zippered compartment right above my jiggly bum.  This tiny contraption is courtesy of the super awesome pants that Dave bought me for Christmas.    But since it’s so tiny and located directly above my rearend, I thought it best to cut down on bulk and take only the key to the ignition and not the little button pad that locks and unlocks the doors.

Mark: this was a conscious choice.

You know that fleeting moment when you wonder if something will pose a problem for you and that you might want to pursue it to ensure that you are wrong but you convince yourself that you’re being illogical and choose to ignore it?  I think it’s called laziness.  Or apathy.  At any rate, for a moment I wondered whether or not I needed the button thingamajig to get back in my car but told myself that was silly and that ignition keys always open doors as well.  I locked the button whats-it in my car, tucked the ignition key into the secret ass pocket, and took off. I ran, I succeeded, I got back to the car, and the key failed.

Failed hard.

It’s unfortunate because I was hot off the victory of my week 6 run and excited to get back in the car and go take a much-needed shower.  I’m not a natural-born exerciser.  You know, one of those dames who can fun 5 miles and have a soft, beautiful glisten? I was bred to sit on couches and play video games and eat potato chips.  When I perform a task any more strenuous than brushing my teeth, I immediately break out in a coating of sweat not unlike the look of a sloppily glazed donut. I needed that shower.  Instead, I was outside my car fumbling around at the keyholes in the cold.  I decided to conquer the situation with my mind.  I deemed it a logical impossibility that my ignition key would not also lock and unlock the doors, and prayed to sweet baby Jesus to please do some sort of automobile miracle for me on this 28 degree day.

That also failed.

I was visiting my hometown and only knew one person in the area that I still kept in touch with on a regular basis and was within walking distance.  Unfortunately, I hadn’t seen her in about a year and didn’t want her first impression of me to be fresh off a 2-mile, just-out-of-bed-and-now-a-glazed-human run. But I had no choice: I needed someone with AAA and someone in her house had to have it. I didn’t know that for a fact.  I just knew her family, and her family was chock full of folks who would really need something like AAA.

The sister was my winner.  In fact, I cashed in on her third and final lock out call of the year.  Score. 

I finally got in the car and got to my cell phone to call Dave and tell him about how incredibly stupid I am, which I am apt to do on an almost-weekly basis.  I like to remind him that I need him around because when without, I can’t really function easily like other human beings.  Without his assistance, I’d be wandering the streets of the city barefoot and coat-less with only a kittens and slices of leftover pizza in a knapsack to accompany me.

Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad.

As it turns out, David had told me only one month ago that my key pad was absolutely required to open the car and I said that was no problem and why would I ever not just use the key pad.  Though I pretended not to remember this conversation, I had a movie scene flashback to my exact location at the time of its happening.  I was flippant.  And I had just paid the price.

Sometimes I just don’t listen to Dave because I don’t feel like it.  I tell him I won’t take a coat outside because I don’t need it and then I ask to borrow his only a few hours after.  I tell him I don’t  need to wear sneakers because sneakers look stupid with my sweater and then I ask him to stop somewhere to buy flats because my feet look like they were attacked by badgers. 

And I also tell him to stop rambling on about using the key pad and then lock myself out of the car because I forget that I need it.

Therefore, I have deemed 2012 the year that Dave is always right.  I’m boldly going where no woman has gone before.  I’ve dedicated 2012 to blindly following wherever Dave will lead me.  I have a good feeling it will involve more jackets, better shoe choices, and fewer lockouts.  It’s a win-win.  Either I find he’s not right and I can carry on henceforth not heeding his advice, or I’ll find that he’s almost always right and become a more efficient, more put-together human being.

Here’s hoping the latter also means less lockouts. ♣

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The Newsletter for Superhumans

4 Jan

This could be you.

I’ve written a draft post every day and haven’t let myself hit the ‘publish’ button.  That’s how hard a habit dies, folks.

Welcome to The Jackie Blog 2012, where I won’t be posting every day like I did in 2011.  Instead, I’ll post once a week on Wednesday in a considerate attempt to help distract you from the ghoulish terror that probably is your work week and to encourage you to log questionable web addresses in your browser, thereby causing suspicion in your corporate entities and getting you all fired. Then, when we’re all jobless and happy, we can form an elite group of superhumans and I can use this blog as our newsletter.

Too much?

Well anyway, I’m going to be posting every week this year. That leaves me with 6 more days to sleep and play video games and leaves you with 6 less emails in your inbox.  If you subscribe.  Do you subscribe? You totally should.  Every time someone clicks the “yeah sure” on the top right side of this page, a baby angel learns to fly.  Granted, I got quite a few followers in 2011 and I’m so thankful for each and every one of you.  You’ve raised a fleet of baby angels that shall someday do our bidding when we form our elite group of superhumans.  But I also know there are gremlins in the woodwork who didn’t want to be spammed with my brain splatters every day and instead chose to stop in on occasion.  If you’re a gremlin, you should subscribe.  Out with you!

Also, I made a Facebook page in 2011.  And I got a Twitter account.  And I had this header image designed.   Listen, a lot happened last year that I’m still sleeping off.  So take your time, browse my brain goop, and reap the beautiful, chaotic bounty I sowed for you in 2011.  Oh, and for those of you who keep asking: yes, I’ll be doing Lollipop Tuesdays in 2012.  But they’ll be more like a surprise Tuesday post than an every Tuesday post. Less pressure, less emails, less running all over the country, putting on costumes, doing questionable things, and sprinting to a computer to write about it.

So there we are: look forward to 2012, revel in the treasures of 2011. Facebook, Twitter, Email Subscription, and 365 posts.  There’s fun for everyone.

See ya next Wednesday. ♣

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