Tag Archives: relationships

Jackie vs. iPad 2

27 Mar

I’ve lost my boyfriend.

I didn’t even lose him to a woman.  I feel like if I did, I could maybe still have shot with him.  Maybe he could have just lost his way and we could have worked it out.

But unfortunately I’ve lost him to an iPad 2.  And as we all know, losing anyone to an iAnything is the end of that person as we know them.

The really strange thing for me is that Dave is such a hippie.  The man walks around in his bare feet whenever possible, dresses like an upper-class hobo, and is never spotted without his guitar.  Lately he’s been going with the “less is more” attitude and slowly trying to weed out and donate unnecessary possessions.   And while he’s always been computer-savvy, he’s never really been all that plugged in.  At one point he had something like a thousand unread messages in his email and he only briefly visited Facebook.   So to have had him on his iPad every moment since his parents gave it to him for his birthday has thrown me for a bit of a loop.

Even as I sit here, he stares lovingly into its cold, calculating screen while I sit on the couch alone – a warm, unimpressive bag of flesh.

The really hard-hitting part is that I don’t think I can call him a hippie anymore.  An iPad2 is so cutting edge right now.  And with its use, he’s linked into to the cutting edge crowd.   He’s supposed to be a woodsman – a vagabond- a walker of the earth.  So unless he only uses his newfound piece of technological beauty to order organic groceries, organize protests, and check out sweet guitar tabs, I’m not so sure he fits the stereotype anymore.

And since he just downloaded Angry Birds, I think it’s a done deal.

You know what? It’s okay.  His parents are leaving this afternoon and headed back home, which means we will no longer be going out to restaurants to eat.  Eventually, Dave will get hungry.  And eventually, he’ll have to communicate with me so that I produce food for him.  Because even though the iPad has well over 60,000 and counting,

there isn’t an app for that. ♣

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The Blender of Shame

9 Mar

Last night I got in an argument with myself in the middle of the appliance aisle at Target.

Luckily this time I kept most of it inside my head, except for the portion I spoke aloud on the phone with my mother, who lovingly coaxed me through the decision-making process (and my teetering sanity).

My predicament took the form of a brand-spankin’ new blender, priced at a respectable twenty dollars and positioned exactly at my eye level, where I could easily examine its beauty.   It had a stark white top, a clear plastic pouring/blending doodad, and no less than ten buttons holding the promise of possibilities.

But before I could put it in my cart, I heard Dave’s voice tell me no.

You see, Dave has 2 reasons to oppose my blender acquisition and has stated them loud and clear many a time.  The first is that he has the “Made for TV” Magic Bullet, which can pretty much do anything a regular ol’ blender can do, but it looks cooler and takes less counter space.   It does, however, take up a great deal of cabinet space with its multitude of little color coded cups and contraptions.   In addition, it’s old and rusted and the last time I tried to use it my kitchen was overcome with smoke.  I usually stop using things when they start smoking.  It was a long, hard lesson.

The second reason (and my most hated) is that Dave has a food processor from the 60’s that has been handed down by I-don’t-know-who in his family.  It’s olive green and has more attachments than I know what to do with.  When he showed it to me in his excitement, I promptly pointed out how much space it would take up on my counter and in my cabinet.  I then took the food processor and all of its million, complicated parts, put them in a tote, and hid it all on the top shelf of the closet.

You may think it’s hard to hide a tote, but  I’ve moved 14 times in 24 years and Dave’s moved 12- we have a lot of them.

On top of it all, the food processor doesn’t have an instruction manual because it’s lost somewhere in the 1980’s – twenty years after it was invented.   Dave gets upset that I don’t make use of it and highlights its many wonderful features, including the ability to turn mere potatoes into fully fledged french fries.  It can make whips, dips, creams and salsas.  It can do things to a tomato that I can only dream of.

Actually, I can only dream about all of those things because without an instruction manual, I’m never really going to know how to work all those cranks, levers, and wheels.

So as I’m on the phone with my mother last night, I’m asking her about the many uses of a modern-day, low priced blender.  And as she’s whipping through all the beautiful things one can accomplish with a motor, a blade, and a water pitcher, my dad hears my discussion on speaker phone and yells out “IF YOU DON’T NEED IT, DON’T GET IT!”

So I tried to focus on his good advice and went over to the vacuum filters so I could get what I went there for in the first place.  But by the time I realized I didn’t write down the model number of my vacuum, called all my family members until someone picked up who would google it based on my phone description, and realized Target didn’t carry the one I needed, I forgot why I wasn’t going to get the blender.  And as I walked out of the vacuum aisle toward the checkouts, I passed the kitchen appliances…

Where I swiftly placed in my cart my newfound blender of shame. ♣

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I’m a Big Ol’ Lesbian

25 Feb

Today, my blog is my confessional.

I’m not Catholic, but that’s probably best. I doubt there are any priests who read my blog anyway.  Not after the Vagina Dentata post.

The other night, Dave and I were talking about his “Special Skills”, which is a set of fun little extras at the bottom of an Acting Resume that you hope someone calls you out on in the audition room.  Specifically, we were working through his impressions  – which to date include Zapp Brannigan , Tony the Tiger, Jack Nicholson, Matthew Mcconaughey, and Roger Rabbit.  He does a fabulous Roger Rabbit.   And so of course we got talking about Jessica Rabbit, because it’s impossible to mention Roger without his ridiculously hot human counterpart.   I added to the conversation that I had just seen the sexiest digital rendering of her online the other day.

And that’s when Dave casually mentioned that part of being in love with me is accepting that I’m a bit of a lesbian for Jessica Rabbit.

At first, this claim struck a strange chord in me.    But not because I disagreed.  I totally agree.  I’ll say it loud and proud: I’m a total lesbo for Jessica Rabbit.  Who wouldn’t be?  She’s bangin’ enough to make my grandmother get down with her lady-lovin’ self.    She’s got long red hair, a stick-thin waist paired with a completely unrealistic hip and chest size, and her boobs are so enormous that they’re spilling everywhere and always running into something.

I don’t care who you are – that’s hot.

So yes, I lean a little toward the gay side when confronted by an uber fabulous cartoon sex icon.  It’s not my fault – she comes from Toon Town and her powers are not of this world.

The strange chord Dave’s comment struck in me is that this truth was something he had to accept about me.  As if it were something I wore on a t-shirt that could have been a dealbreaker had he not chosen early on to take it as his burden.

His doe-eyed, smoky-voiced, patty-cake-playing burden.

Of course now he might be able to make the t-shirt argument because I did just announce this to the world here in this moment.  But you know what? I’ve been announcing a lot of things to the world these past two months and it turns out that  a lot of you are thinking the same things.  You’re just not saying all of them because you aren’t forced into a self-made contract to post goop from your brain to a public forum every day.

So I’ve spared you all the time and effort.  You don’t have to think this up yourself – you can just chime in and support me.

Because she’s an irresistable vixen and you know it. ♣

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JACKIE SMASH!

24 Feb

For Valentine’s Day, Dave’s mom did a wonderful thing: she sent us cards and a few gifts to brighten our day.   Unfortunately, the gift Dave received was the beginning of a new peeve for me.

One thing I love about Jeanette (Dave’s mom) is that she is genuinely thoughtful and tries to lend a hand wherever she can.  That’s why Dave’s Valentine’s Day package included a small token of her affection: a key finder.

For those of you who don’t know, this lovely little contraption is intended to be clipped to your keys and emits a high pitched beeping sound when you whistle.  The idea is that you can simply whistle and find your keys wherever they may be hiding.

There are several unforseen downfalls to this brilliance.

The first is that it ruins a long-time favorite joke of mine.  Every time Dave loses something, I tell him to call it – regardless of what it is.  It’s never funny for him, but it’s always funny for me.  Unfortunately when he says he can’t find his keys and I make my staple comeback, he can simply whistle and shoot me a quick glance of superiority.

I hate quick glances of superiority.

The second is that the key finder isn’t too particular about the pitch required to initiate beeping.   So when I’m clinking dishes in the sink, it beeps.  When I hit a particular pitch in my natural voice, it beeps.

The other day, my cats chased each other down the hallway with an unusual amount of gusto and it beeped.

Dave’ s a bit concerned about taking it out places given its highly sensitive nature.   Who knows what could set it off and how inappropriate it might be for the situation at hand.   He can’t live his life in fear like that.

It’s slowly driving me insane.  You would think the solution is easy: we could just take the batteries out or get rid of it.  But it’s actually pretty handy when you need it and Dave and I are still in the process of weighing out whether or not it’s worth the constant annoyance.   And it’s impressive how long we’ll both sit on something we know needs done… not because we expect the other to do it, but just because neither of us makes an attempt to remedy it.    This is the cause of most of our collective downfalls.

There is one thing I love about the key finder.  It’s a  fun game Dave and I play that I’ve dubbed “stop talking”.    The rules are pretty simple: if Dave or I is saying something the other finds disagreeable, we simply whistle.   It’s simultaneously hilarious and maddening.

I’m still trying to determine if this keyfinder is a blessing or a curse to us.  We sure do have a good time with it, but I don’t think it has anything to do with its ability to make keyfinding any easier.   But I’ll admit that after the 5th time it goes off in the middle of casual conversation, I have considered taking a hammer to its tiny, seemingly innocent exterior.

I feel my breaking point quickly approaching. ♣

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Baby Bunny Face for the Win.

13 Jan

I know I’ve officially emerged from the muck and mire of sickness when it all comes out of my face at the same time.

You know what I’m talking about.  That day after a sinus infection when you blow your nose for five minutes straight, wondering where it’s all coming from and whether blowing harder will mean pulling your brain out through your nostrils. Yesterday was my day.

It started out as a simple, ordinary nose-blowing session and once I realized the depth of the situation, I nonchalantly made my way to the bathroom so that I could complete the disgusting task in peace.   Dave, (King of the Man Purse Tribe) sensing what was about to happen, proceeded to follow me and begged to see the tissue when I was done.   Actually, “followed” is not an accurate term.  He proceeded to chase me. 

There is little in this world I hate more than being chased.  It doesn’t matter if it’s playful and it doesn’t matter if it’s someone I know won’t harm me.   It could be Mr. Snuffleupagus behind me and I would still sprint into the far horizon screaming bloody murder.  There is something about running with something intentionally running after you that scares the living daylights out of me instantly and without fail.  Dave knows this and will often accompany the chase with raised eyebrows and cold, murdering eyes, darting like a fierce mongoose through the jungle of furniture in our apartment.  He chased me through the dining room, around the living room, and past the hall to the bathroom where I found my refuge and begged for release. 

I absolutely cannot stand being interrupted while I’m in the bathroom.  In fact, if there’s one thing I hate more than being chased, it’s probably being interrupted in the bathroom.  It’s the only place in the world that I can be alone without having to answer anyone, listening to my phone beep at me, or being responsible for missing out on the goings-on of the world.  

Showers offer me a rare and golden moment of solitude in life.  

 Dave also knows this about me and sometimes tests me while in the bathroom, shouting out ridiculous questions that I clearly cannot answer in my current state,  like where the remote control is.

The beauty of his method is that he does everything that makes me crazy all at once so that he only has to suffer the repercussions of one incident when he’s actually managed to commit several major crimes.   And I can’t blame him because it really is a brilliant methodology.

Unfortunately, our bathroom door is old and complicated and doesn’t lock and since Dave clearly knew that I wasn’t using the restroom for naked purposes, he barged into my fortress of solitude and waited until I had to bring the tissue down from my nose.  I stood there, unyielding and still wide-eyed from the chase.   Like a frightened baby bunny, I coiled in the corner, heart racing with fear, waiting for him to sink his sharp teeth into my tender neck for the kill.    He relented and exited the bathroom so that I could finish my business in peace.  

I’m pretty sure it was my baby bunny face that did him in.

And so I have regaled you with my nose-blowing adventures.  It is the final chapter in my blogging about my sickness.  Because on this, the 13th day of January in the 2011th year of our Lord, after a high-speed chase and a little bit of my brain pulled through my nostrils, I declare myself officially cured. ♣

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Dave, King of the Man Purse Tribe

10 Jan

Man, I’m so hot right now. And not like Megan Fox hot (she totally is, don’t lie).  Like I’m-working-up-a-sweat-just-typing-and-I’m-on-my-last-box-of-tissues-hot.

I have to admit that there has been an upside to how incredibly awful I’ve felt these past few days and it came in the form of a bowl of soup.

I should preface this by saying that I never task Dave with making dinner.   This is usually because doing so will mean I am barraged with very detail-oriented questions regarding times, spices, and temperatures out of sheer terror that he will mess something up.  Which I think is adorable.  But when it comes down to it, I’d rather just do it myself.  Kind of because I get easily annoyed by questions and kind of because I’m more of a “go with it” kind of cook.  I can’t really tell you what makes my burgers delicious;  I don’t pay attention. 

But on this particular weekend, just being awake was such a chore.  My super awesome Dave – after working all day – went to the grocery store and bought the necessary plants, animals, and chemicals and came home to spend the next 2 hours concocting the best chicken noodle soup I will ever see in my life.   It was so beautiful I just wanted to take a picture of it.  But I’ve learned to stop doing that because two days later, without fail, I check my phone, call “Jackie two days ago” a moron, and delete 15 random pictures of food from my phone.

Sometimes I think food is just breathtaking.  It’s part of the reason I was such a fat ass in high school.  No joke –  the year they changed our volleyball uniforms to include spandex shorts was a startling dose of reality for me and everyone in the bleachers. 

But this chicken noodle soup was seriously amazing.   I kind of felt bad about being shocked by how good it was.  It’s not that I didn’t think Dave capable… it’s just that, well, I tend to harbor some rather traditional ideas of gender roles and Dave is most certainly a man’s man.  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 crazy man tribe, complete with forts, trolleys, and a fully-fledged hunter-gatherer society.

But then I got to thinking about him making mention the other day of his newfound desire to attain a man purse.  …What if he’s transforming?  What if he’s being taken over by some sort of nurturing side that is set up like a time bomb in his body to mature and fully reveal itself when he hits 25?

Hey – if it means I get more picture-worthy meals that I don’t have to cook myself, then I say bring on the man purses. ♣

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