Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.

Is there a point in updating a blog that hasn't seen action in a year? (Exactly a year, too - lazy coincidence FTW!) Blogger says I have thirteen followers, so maybe, but maybe not. In any case, I don't care, because this blog has always been about how funny I think I am, more for my own amusement than anyone else's. Which is why I am willing to share the following story that, if I had to give it a name, I would call "Once upon a time Jill found a cockroach."

Once upon a time, I found a cockroach. Or rather, it found me. It might not be the first cockroach I've found in my apartment. There was this ... thing ... a few months ago that was vaguely roach-like. It looked mostly like this (although I'm not sure about how many legs it had but to be fair, it's not like I took a good look and counted them or anything):



This particular beastie was dispatched with the aide of EcoSense Indoor Insect Killer. I think EcoSense needs to revisit their definition of "on contact" because the bug didn't even flinch when I sprayed him. I think he enjoyed it, actually. I had to chase him around the living room, alternately spraying and jumping back a few feet, all the while praying that the EcoSense spray wouldn't damage the finish of the laminate on my living room floor, because how would I explain that to my landlords?

Anyway, after cornering the beastie I was able to drown him in EcoSense before scooping up his soggy carcass with a wad of paper towels, throwing the mess away and taking the trash out, holding the bag as far away from me as humanly possible. Then I went inside and had a fit of the heebie-jeebies.

But that's not the story I wanted to tell. Because the other day, I met a legitimate cockroach in my bathroom.

I knew it was bound to happen eventually, so I'd made plans. I didn't think I could stand to actually come near enough to a cockroach to employ the chemical-death-and-paper-towels routine, plus I figured a roach would be too big to scoop up without being able to feel it through the paper towels. So, I planned, if I ever found one I'd use the broom and dustpan, because I have one of these bad boys:



I figured I'd stun the offender with the broom, sweep him up, and run for the front door which is conveniently located from anywhere in the apartment. I felt this would work equally well with any other sort of pest I encountered (cricket, spider, boy attaching a takeout menu to my screen door).

I should have factored nudity in. Because when Once Upon A Time Jill Found A Cockroach, Jill was stepping into the shower.

If I'm counting my blessings, I have to say it wasn't a very big critter, as far as roaches go, probably only two inches long and a little on the thin side. But I was, as I mentioned, sans wardrobe, and the exterior of my building is well lit. Unfortunately, the bug was between me and my bathrobe, and he was headed for me.

Well, I thought, this was no time to be squeamish. So I took a step toward my bedroom. I made it. I turned to assess the location of the intruder and saw him change course - apparently, he liked me. Stupidly, I kicked at the air in its general direction and then, to my horror, it unfolded its wings. I think it was kind of new at the whole cockroach thing, because it only made it two feet in the air before falling. It hit my arm on the way down, and I heard a screech. Oh, hell, I thought. It can fly, and it shrieks.

A moment later I realized the shriek had come from me, not the bug. I was frantic now, and the wings had put a damper on my plans for broom and dustpan. I thought of the EcoSense, but recalling its efficacy on the beastie, I decided to go for the hard stuff - Scrubbing Bubbles. I grabbed the can from under my sink, gave it a little shake, and took aim like Jack Bauer going at a suspected terrorist.

The Scrubbing Bubbles didn't kill it, but they stunned it, buying me enough time to grab the paper towels. Muttering a quick apology to the tree from whence they came, I sopped up the foamy mess and tossed it into the toilet. I flushed twice. When the bowl had re-filled the water, I glanced around the bathroom, all twelve square feet of it, and said, "Let that be a lesson to the rest of you!"

I have no idea who I was talking to. Theoretical other insects, I suppose. I just hope they were listening. Because I'm running out of cleaning products, and I think if I shriek like that again my neighbors are going to call the cops.

Blog Readers and Irishmen: Urine-portant to Me

I've come to the conclusion that the only thing more irritating than a blog that is never updated is a blog where the only updates are apologies for not updating. I've always found those to be a little too much ego to handle. Like, "I know you've all been waiting with baited breath to hear the excruciating minutiae of my unexceptional life, and I'm sorry I haven't kept up with the running tally of my back pimples, but I promise I'll update soon and let you all know how my colonoscopy went!"

Apologizing for not updating seems to say to me that, "My blog and I are so important to you that it was rude of me to live the life of a normal person and not write down every single thought I have for you to read, dissect, and debate."

But I digress. I'm deviating from the most important thing I wanted to talk about today, and that is: toilets. Or, more specifically, toilets in Ireland.

I recently got back from spending about 5 weeks in the Republic of Ireland. When I first arrived, I became immediately convinced that the reason Ireland has never become a major world power is because of the proliferation of alcohol. Everyone drinks in Ireland. I think that, if the indigenous ungulates had thumbs (and pocket money), they, too, would drink. Ireland is part of the European Union, and as in many European countries, everything closes at 6pm. And I don't mean "close" in the American sense, where the lights dim and shopkeepers make announcements that they'd really appreciate it if you headed toward the cash register. I mean, it's 6pm, the door is locked, and they're pulling the gate down in front, if they didn't already do just that at a quarter to.

The only exception to this closing time is the ubiquitous pub. Pubs in Ireland are like Starbucks in the USA - you can't spit without hitting one. No one is bothered by shops closing early, because everyone drinks once the working day is over. At any given moment, about three-quarters of the Irish population is getting foxed.

This, I thought to myself, is why you just don't hear much about Ireland. But the longer I was there, the more places I visited, the more restaurants I ate at, I discovered a much more sinister problem lurking in Ireland's back rooms: there are almost no public toilets in Ireland.

Oh, if you're in a pub or a Supermac's, there's bound to be a toilet. But rarely more than two toilets per room (men's or ladies'), and they're usually enough to, if you'll pardon the expression, frighten the piss out of you. I went into a pub toilet once and I turned around and walked right back out.

But during the day, or if you're not a drinker, you are out of luck. There are no public toilets anywhere. Shops will not only tell you they haven't a toilet, but the employees will stare at you as though the very notion of a toilet is too ridiculous to even imagine. One woman repeated the word to me: "Toilet. Toilet?" as though it was foreign to her. Finally, she said something akin to, "Why on earth would we have a toilet?"

Why on earth, indeed. This attitude would explain something else I noticed with alarming regularity in the good old R of I: public urination. In five weeks in Ireland I saw, and I am not making this up, at least 10 men having a pee in some random corner. Or behind a tree. Or into the river or the ocean. Or wherever he might have been standing. I was rather revolted, to say the least, but at the same time I'm not sure what else a person is supposed to do if there's not a pub in the immediate vicinity (rare, but it happens).

And as I mentioned, pub toilets don't seem to have any sort of hygienic standard, the kind that might be enforced by a government entity. Actually, none of the precious few public toilets I did find seemed to have been designed, or cleaned, by anyone with any human DNA. In one stall, the toilet paper dispenser had been mounted on the wall behind the toilet, forcing the user to either try to assess her toilet paper needs before having a pee, or contort herself into a position usually only seen in the Cirque du Soleil to reach said toilet paper after relieving herself.

Then there are the toilets themselves. Irish toilets have remarkably deep bowls, causing what I will delicately refer to as a sort of splashback when any sort of ... ahem ... matter enters the bowl. Just in case public toilets weren't hygienic enough, let's construct them so they function as accidental bidets as well! Why not? And when you come to the end of your time on the can, there's the flush. I didn't once see a public toilet where the handle to flush was actually attached to said toilet. It tended to be on the wall. And sometimes it wasn't a handle so much as a sort of metal cylinder that had to be pushed in. Lever or cylinder, it's a rare Irish toilet that will actually flush the first - or second, or third, or fourth - time you try. And it's nothing to do with whether the toilet has actually been used or not. Some of them simply have to be persuaded repeatedly and with great force. A few jets of water will make a bit of noise, and the toilet will gurgle in a somewhat convincing manner, but nothing much will happen.

The more public toilets I used, the more convinced I became, as I am now convinced, that if Ireland ever wants to have any kind of global impact, they need to re-think their plumbing. In my opinion, a nation rises and falls on the strength of its public toilets. I think that's what has made America the great nation that it is. We may have economic crises to face, we may be divided on important issues, we may face international ridicule for some of our policies or laws. But, by gosh, we know how to do public toilets.

And that's what I'll be celebrating this July 4th, dear blog readers. This great nation called America, and its remarkable system of public bathrooms. I can go into almost any store in America, ask to use the toilet, and be pointed in its direction. And that, to me, is what freedom is all about.

It's not the years, it's the mileage. No, seriously, what's up with the mileage?

Ladies and gentlemen, I have lost my mind.

I think.

A week ago, I noticed that the odometer in my car was at 123417. Sort of random, but in my odd little mind I realized that I would soon be rolling over 123456. Which would, of course, be awesome. I made a mental note to keep an eye on my mileage so I could properly document this momentous event.

And then, promptly, I forgot all about it.

I have a receipt from the gas station that proves that I put twenty dollars worth of gasoline in the car a week ago Monday. $20 buys a little more than half a tank. Two nights ago, I got in my car to go to the mall. The gas gauge told me I had less than a quarter of a tank left.

I was puzzled. By my calculations, I should have had between 1/4 and 1/2 a tank left. I decided I must not be getting the MPGs I once enjoyed - the car is, after all, thirteen years old. I briefly glanced at the rest of the dash, just out of habit. What I saw shocked me.

I had missed 123456. I had missed it by a lot. The odometer read 123722. That would, I knew, account for the missing gasoline. But I was deeply puzzled. Because I did not put those miles on my car.

I've gone back over the past week or two seven or eight times. I can account for 80, maybe 100 of those miles. Which still leaves me with 200 miles I can't account for. 200 miles.

My first thought was that perhaps one or two of the neighborhood miscreants had taken my Camry out for a little joyride. That would explain the miles and the gasoline. But that can't have happened - I Club my car every night. Unless said miscreants had spent hours driving back and forth in a straight line, that wasn't my explanation.

I know of at least one instance in which I have sleepwalked. I wasn't very adventurous at the time. I organized my sock drawer. Driving seemed unlikely.

I asked my mother if she'd been dosing me with Ambien. She plausibly denied it. So I'm stumped. All I can conclude is that I must have gone somewhere in that car and been traumatized horribly enough that I've blocked it out of my mind. That can mean only one thing: the mafia is after me, and I am in serious danger.

So if someday soon I call you up to report that my kneecaps have been broken, don't panic, I knew this was coming. But do be kind enough to drive me to the hospital. In your car, not mine. Because mine is out of gas.

God Is Good, But Never Dance In a Small Boat

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, a few of my favorite Irish verses (including the blog title)

May those that love us, love us,
And those that don't love us, may God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn't turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles, so we'll know them by their limping.

There are only two things to worry about. Either you are sick, or you are well.
If you are well, there is nothing to worry about. If you are sick, there are only two things to worry about.
Either you will get well, or you will die. If you get well, there is nothing to worry about. If you die, there are only two things to worry about.
Either you will go to Heaven, or you will go to Hell. If you go to Heaven, there is nothing to worry about. If you go to Hell, you'll be so busy shaking hands with friends that you won't have time to worry!

Shiny Suds

I hate it when my cleaning products turn into perverts.

Snuggies FTW!

I really suck at this blogging thing. You'd think I would have figured that out, oh, twelve years ago or so, but such is life.

In my defense, I have, as before, been working on my adoption blog, which keeps me too busy to have anything of use to say here. I digress.

I came across this earlier, and I had to share.






It's about time the Snuggie used its mighty power for good and not evil. Go, Snuggie, Go!

Click and help, peeps. Click and help.

Mr. Whiskers's Revenge

My therapist owns a cat.

You may have read about this before, here or here. I've tried to let the subject die, but it refuses. Every so often, during therapy, I will look at John and remember that he owns a cat. And I will fight the urge to ask about it. I don't need to know the cat's name, really I don't. I'm happy to think of it as Mr. Whiskers. Or at least I am, as much as I can be happy to think of it at all.

But I can't stop now. Mr. Whiskers is so much bigger than any 50-minute therapy session or blog bit. I've been thinking about him and speculating about him and laughing about him for so long that I knew something had to happen, and it was up to me to make sure it did.

And so I've added something new to my resumé. It took me until about 5am, but I did it. I am now a singer-songwriter, for I have penned "The Ballad of Mr. Whiskers."

I may record a performance and put it on YouTube. I'm not sure yet. In any case, here it is, in all its early-morning cowboy-ballad glory.

The Ballad of Mr. Whiskers

Legend has it there once was a mighty, fluffy feline,
They say he lived with a man named John in a pad East of the Beeline.
His eyes were wise, his fur was soft, his claws as sharp as Fiskars,
And legend says he lived up to his name of Mr. Whiskers.

Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-yo!
Mr. Whiskers! In a sweater and a bow!

Well Whiskers was the toughest indoor cat you've ever seen.
He could take on any Tom in that Cat Fancy Magazine.
He lived on milk and Fancy Feast and though he'd sometimes roam,
He was loyal still enough to come when John called, "Daddy's home!"

Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-yo!
Mr. Whiskers! Strolling through PetCo!

Now Whiskers, he looked good in both a sweater and a hat,
And even Santa Claus confessed, "Now here's an awesome cat!"
Mr. Whiskers walked with pride in a collar and a lead,
And though he'd rather now, that cat could swim across Lake Mead.

Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-yip!
Mr. Whiskers! Playing with catnip!

No woman was ever good enough for this noble cat's friend John,
Whiskers frightened would-bes off with a show of cattish brawn.
And so the bachelors lived alone, a counselor and his pet,
But Mr. Whiskers is, of cats, the best of all as yet.

Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-eer!
Mr. Whiskers! Loyal through the years.

John died alone and Whiskers mourned the loss of his dear friend,
Then Mr. Whiskers disappeared and so our story ends.
But be alert, for Whiskers might just pass on by,
You'll know him by his whiskers and the twinkle in his eye.

Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-yi!
Mr. Whiskers! The legend never dies!

Blah blah blah

I haven't updated this in nearly two months. Bad Jill! Bad blogger! Shame!

It's not that I haven't been writing (the frequent updates on my adoption blog are proof of that). Or that nothing has happened for me to write about.

I've mostly gotten very lazy lately, and also depressed. And my fibromyalgia is doing bad, bad things to me. I wake up most mornings feeling like someone beat me soundly with a potato sack full of unripe fruit. Which is not, as you can imagine, a very pleasant thing.

I used to take meds for my fibro, and they worked well enough. But I stopped taking them when I got pregnant, and never started them again. They were expensive, for one. Also, I think one of them might have been doing some sort of damage to my kidneys. And Barbers have kidney problems to begin with.

So no more fibro meds for me. I'm not taking the antidepressant I was on before my pregnancy, either. I'm back on Zoloft. The SSRI I was taking before has a high incidence of liver damage. And I'm very attached to my liver. I've had it as long as I can remember. Also, for some reason, I have always been skeeved out at the thought of anything liver-related. I like to pretend I don't even have a liver.

So apparently I can either have good brain chemistry and lots of energy, or I can have a liver and kidneys. I've rather unsportingly chosen the latter.

I think that's it for now.

Big Ghouls Don't Cry

I have recently re-discovered eyeliner.

I'm probably a little slow on the get-go, here, since I'm 26, and the last time I was at the mall I saw these 10-year-olds who were more heavily made up than a Miss America contestant. But I'm a little on the uncoordinated side, and I've found that I do best with makeup that can't render me blind if I mess up.

I tried eyeliner a number of years ago. It was a bad thing, very bad. I was even pastier in my teens and early twenties than I am now, if you'll believe it, and I was clueless when it came to cosmetics. But I'd started reading Glamour magazine, and their makeup tips were pretty and colorful and they encouraged me. If this 14-year-old Brazilian model in the photographs can do it, I told myself, than so can I! It didn't occur to me at the time that the model probably couldn't do it either, and the makeup she was holding was probably a prop for the photos, and the photos were likely taken in between bits of work by a highly trained makeup artist.

But I was a little slow - I grew up in a pathetically small and isolated town, and I thought I could do it. I bought eyeliner. Charcoal black eyeliner. Did I mention how pale I was? And that I have blue eyes, and that my hair was at the time fairly light? And I bought black eyeliner. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Especially since Glamour was, at the time, spreading the rumor that any woman can wear red lipstick.

Suffice it to say that even my best, most practiced efforts left me looking like a Kabuki hooker.

A few years later, when I was about twenty or so, I decided to try again. I thought maybe it would be okay if I dropped the red lipstick. But I was still terribly pale, and horribly unskilled with an eyeliner pencil. If my hair had been darker I'd have looked goth. As it was, with the beret I'd decided to start wearing, I looked a bit like a mime. I am terrified of mimes and clowns. So once again I gave up on the idea of ever wearing eyeliner.

But recently (I'm a little slow as I said) I discovered Sephora, and I decided I needed to give eyeliner one more shot. I found a Sephora brand pencil in a pretty dark copper color. I practiced. I discovered I actually looked okay if I applied to my heart's content and then used a Q-Tip to remove 75-80% of what I'd put on. I actually looked pretty good, if I say so myself. I started wearing it almost every day, and I thought I looked terribly sophisticated and alluring.

Then one day, in a fit of hormone-fueled frustration, I ended up crying about something. I expected sympathy, at the very least, from my mother. What I didn't expect was the look of abject horror on her face.

"Jill! Are you okay?"

"Do I look like I'm okay?" was my mature, controlled response. Come on, Mom, I'm crying here!

"Your eyes are bleeding!" she said, shoving a fistful of Kleenex in my direction.

As it turns out, a big part of the pretty copper color was red pigment, and my tears mixed with the eyeliner to form a rather convincing-looking sort of fake blood. I had to take my contacts out and clean them and spend a good ten minutes removing the red streaks from my eyes and face.

Oh, well. Maybe I'll try again in a few years.

I have nothing new to say, but I found this when I was going through my "My Pictures" folder and it made me laugh. Bono is so smug. Smugness is a very irritating quality.

Whine, whine, whine

It's been a while since I complained. Something must be wrong with me. I ALWAYS complain. I need to rectify the situation. So here goes - the latest list of things that are cheesing me off today.

-It's called the fast lane for a reason. If you want to go 60, get out of the fast lane. 60 is not fast. Especially when the speed limit is 65. Speed up, change lanes, or be prepared for a vicious tailgating.
-I hate it when I want to read a book that has been made into a film or TV show and I can't find a copy at the store that doesn't have Jennifer Aniston's dumb face on the front. Famous actors and actresses rarely look the way I imagine characters to be, and I'm buying the dang book, people, not the movie. They are rarely the same. Did you know they changed the whole bloody end of "My Sister's Keeper"? And Cameron Diaz is SO not the mother I pictured.
-While I'm on the subject, I bought "Flash Forward" at Barnes & Noble the other day and the description on the back of the book is a description of THE TV SHOW. Not the book, the TV show. And they are not the same thing. The book is very different.
-It's not irritating, but when I was at the zoo last, I walked past the primate exhibits, and a zoo employee nearby asked me, "Do you want to go in the monkey house?" which wouldn't have been funny except his tone of voice made it sound like the worst chat-up line in history. I don't think he said it that way intentionally, because he looked confused when I laughed and declined his offer.
-I got a new debit card a few months ago because the old one finally expired. I didn't just get a new card, though, I got a new PIN. I didn't want a new PIN. I'd had the old PIN for 10 years. I wrote the new one down somewhere but I lost it and it's really irritating. I tell cashiers to run the card through as credit but they always forget, and they have to cancel what they did, and sometimes my card won't work again so quickly, and I have to use another card.
-I seem to be missing $600 from my savings account. Last time I checked, I had $700 in savings. Now I have $123. I'd check out my transaction record, but the credit union website no longer likes my password and I'm too lazy to call their corporate office and fix it. I shouldn't have to! I KNOW I have the right password.
-I'm not very funny anymore. I used to be funny. Then people started telling me I was funny. The more people told me, the less funny I got. Now I'm about as humorous as cancer.
-TV Guide magazine keeps cheating and putting together these double issues. It's a double issue because they put two weeks in one. Which means two weeks of listings but only half the other content I'm paying for. And they got rid of the "Is It Just Me?" column, which was my favorite.
-I've had a migraine for three weeks.
-Did you know that the Salvation Army bell ringers make like $7.25 an hour? They can't even be bringing that much in with those little buckets. Which makes me suspect that the money I donate goes to pay bell ringer salaries and not to help the homeless. The bells were irritating enough when I thought they were helping society. Now that I know it's not a volunteer operation, it's extra irritating.
-I hope I never meet Stephenie Meyer, because if I do, I'm likely to hurt her. If I have to hear the words "Twilight," "New Moon," "Jacob," "Edward," or "Sparkly Vampire" one more time I will bloody lose it. It is a bloody stupid book, people! And yet there are women - grown women in their forties and fifties, puff-painting t-shirts and screaming about Robert Pattinson. Can you imagine if the genders were reversed? It wouldn't be cute if a bunch of middle aged men lined up to see Miley Cyrus walk the red carpet.
-Speaking of, WTH happened to Miley? She used to be this cute, age-appropriate, normal little thing. Now she's a cheap skank. I cringe when I hear my 7-year-old niece talking about Hannah Montana.
-I am only going to say this once (once today, anyway): Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, looks good in skinny jeans. Skinny jeans are gross. I'm looking at you, Jonas Brothers.
-Fibromyalgia sucks. I sleep for ten hours and wake up feeling like it was closer to 10 minutes. And I feel like someone was beating me with a sack of unripe fruit while I slept. And you know how sometimes you don't feel like exercising but you know that if you do, you'll get this nice energy rush? Fibro ruins that. I exercise and feel like crap. Worse than crap. Crap squared.
-People keep feeling the need to chastise me for complaining. Because it could be worse and I could be homeless and disabled and have no family and no food, or because I don't live in the coldest place in the world, or because I'm not fat enough to require surgery. Well you know what folks? If I want to complain, I can complain. I don't care if there are people who are worse off than me, I don't care if I'm not the fattest person in the world, and I don't care if you don't consider 50* to be sufficiently cold. I'm crabby and tired and thoroughly miserable and a size 18, and if I want to whine, I'm by gosh going to whine. I'm allowed to, and you can't stop me.
-Someone asked me the other day about "giving away" my baby. Excuse me? I did not give her away. I placed her for adoption with a wonderful couple. I did not put an ad on Craigslist.
-I used to be able to wear my contacts for days, even sleep in them, and these days I get five, maybe six hours of comfortable wear out of them and then they hurt my eyes. Well, that was a fun fourteen years.

Enough about me. I've found a new way to annoy others - or to trick them, in any case. When I'm at the zoo, I'll pick an empty patch of land to stare at and photograph, and I'll see how many people stop to stare, too. My record is five.

Missed connections

I have done a craptastic job of blogging lately. I can think of a number of reasons for it but none of them are very good.

In the time I have spent online not blogging, I have been indulging a guilty pleasure. I am slightly addicted to the "Missed Connections" section on Craigslist. Have you ever looked at Missed Connections?

The concept is a simple one. You're out somewhere - a club, a grocery store, a gas station. You see someone, you make eye contact, maybe you say hi. And then the moment is gone, and so is the person you connected with. So you go to Missed Connections, write up what happened, and see if that person responds.

If I'm honest, I don't read Missed Connections because I have missed any connections. My purposes are much more nefarious than that. I do it for entertainment. Because there are an awful lot of idiots in the world, and these days most of them have internet access.

I stick to m4w, Men for Women, because I've found that men tend to be a bit more ridiculous and maudlin in their posting. I've only gotten a laugh out of Women for Men once or twice. M4w? The world is a scary place, ladies and gentlemen.

I am slightly worried that so many men seem to find "hot" women shopping at Wal-Mart. Especially West Valley Wal-Marts. The West Valley is where 99.9% of violent crimes in Phoenix seem to occur. And Wal-Mart is ... well, have you been to the People of Wal-Mart website? It's a leper colony.

But overweight hoochies aside, there is a sort of poetic stupidity in the subject lines I've encountered. I've been collecting them for a while, and I'd like to share my favorites with you, faithful reader.

I think my favorite so far is "You returned a Derek Jeter Halloween Costume." Brilliant, isn't it? There'll be no mistaking that one. How many people returned Derek Jeter costumes? Actually, I'm not sure, but I think this one is still brilliant, and I never even read the posting, just the headline. The headline is all I ever read, if I'm honest.

Equally brilliant (in its stupidity, anyway) is "You startled me in the alley while I was peeing." Kind sir, while I don't doubt you may have been stumbled upon by a beautiful woman in the alley, do you really think that said woman is going to be interested in a man who urinates in public? Is she going to be sitting home, thinking to herself, "You know, that guy who was peeing in the alley was pretty hot. I wonder if he noticed me?"

There has to be a story behind "I can't believe you bossed your grandma around" and I, for one want to know what it is. I read the listing for this one and I'm still not sure what was going on. Or why a man would be interested in a woman who bosses her grandma around.

"No Tip was big enough, Emily." Was it because Emily was beautiful or because Emily was an unusually competent waitress? The world will never know, because I never read the posting and the listing's expired. Alas. Rest assured, Emily, your efforts didn't go unnoticed.

I have a few questions for the man who posted "T-BIRD ER WAITING ROOM." Sir, who sits in an ER waiting room and checks out the women there? Especially T-Bird. Their patients are either criminals or the elderly. I realize you're stuck there for four or five hours, but maybe you ought to let the doctors reattach the woman's severed hand before you attempt to hit on her. Just a thought.

When I read "I bought eggs from you =)" I sincerely hoped it wasn't from the same people who post every day offering 8 grand to a Jewish egg donor. Perhaps it was a trade, as the same day, posted in w4m, was "to the kind stranger who bought my pumpkin."

Ah, Craigslist. You give so much and ask so little. Idiots of the world, post on. And please be specific.

You Can't Say I Didn't Get Something Out of It

In mid-October, my mother and I attended Kendall Summerhawk's Money, Marketing and Soul Intensive, or MMSI for short. My mother was excited to learn about how to grow her business and market herself. I was excited to get a facial at the hotel spa. But my ticket was dirt cheap owing to a great deal my mother got, so I went along to the workshop as her personal assistant.

I don't know if it was the stress of travel or the fact that I sleep poorly in hotel beds, but I had the attention span of a fruit bat during the event. I could not pay attention had my life depended on it. I tried very hard to pay attention but failed miserably. I thought that perhaps if I took notes, I'd do better. I was wrong.

The notebook wasn't lined. I can't write in an unlined notebook. Not only that, I can't stop myself from drawing in an unlined notebook. Never mind that I have little to no artistic ability to speak of. So while my mother and the rest of the crowd were excitedly learning about money archetypes and branding and seeding and all sorts of strange verbs, this is the sum of what I accomplished in four days.










I showed my mother my work. I'm not sure if she was horrified or amused. I like to think she was amused. And my facial was awesome.

Baseball Will Kill You

I mentioned on Twitter the other day that when the Yankees won the world series 11 years ago, my father killed a man.

This is a true story.

But lest my father's memory be tarnished with a half-truth, I feel I should clarify what exactly happened in 1998. Although my father hated the Yankees, he certainly didn't mean to kill anyone. Especially not Leo Larson.

Leo was my parents' insurance agent for around 25 years and a friend of my father's. Despite a near lifetime in Arizona, Leo was a big, big fan of the New York Yankees. In the mid-90s, Leo took on a position of leadership in our church. My father was the executive secretary, so he attended every Tuesday meeting the church leaders had. Leo and my dad used to talk baseball, because my father couldn't stand the Yankees and because Leo loved them.

I should mention here that Leo was diabetic, and there were complications. His health was poor, but his spirits were good. Leo, busy with work and church all day, missed game 4. My dad saw the game before he left for the church - a bit later than he'd have normally left, but he was hoping the Padres could pull it off and force a fifth game. No such luck, however, as the final score was 3-0.

The meetings proceeded as usual that night and, my father later said, if Leo was a bit quieter than usual, no one noticed. He looked a little pale, but that was typical given his health. When the meetings were over, everyone left but my father and Leo, waiting to rehash the game.

"Well, Leo," my father said, eying the man's Yankees necktie, "The Yankees won it. You can die a happy man."

And he did, late that night or early the next morning. I never heard for sure when it happened. But my father said later that he was pretty sure he was the last one to see Leo alive, and that other than a goodbye, "die a happy man" were the last words anyone ever spoke to him.

Last year, a month after my father died, I was watching the Dodgers lose the NLCS, and I remembered that world series ten years ago, and I smiled to myself for a minute, thinking that when my dad ran into Leo in the next life, perhaps Leo would reassure my dad that he had indeed died a happy man.

The Return of Mr. Whiskers

I held out as long as I could, I really did.

For weeks, I found excuses for giggling during therapy - knock-knock jokes, lines from sitcoms, bumper stickers. I tried as hard as I could to keep from mentioning how much mental energy I have expended of late thinking about my therapist's cat.

Yesterday, I failed.

I blame my mother.

John's birthday was the 24th, and my mother mentioned something about having a birthday party with the cat, and I mentioned something about giving the cat a party hat, and it went downhill from there. Yesterday, about two-thirds of the way through my hour, I pictured Mr. Whiskers in a party hat, and I lost it. It started with a choked-out laugh, scarcely suppressed.

John raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering what I found so amusing about having boundary issues. I tried to cover my laugh with a cough, but that only made things worse. I found myself wondering if John would say "Bless you" to his cat if the animal sneezed (do cats sneeze?), and I laughed again. Unbidden, the image of John and his cat in matching Christmas sweaters came to mind, and I found myself shaking like a hotel bed with Magic Fingers.

I laughed out loud, more of a bark than anything else, and the dreaded giggle loop came crashing down around me.

I bloody lost it.

John stared for a moment, clearly worried about my sanity. Then, perhaps realizing that as my therapist, he should have a better grasp on my sanity than to simply wonder, he asked me what I found so amusing.

Excuses flooded my mind, each less plausible than the last - I just got a joke I heard yesterday. I figured out the best way to exact revenge on my ex-boyfriend. I'm having a seizure.

Perhaps if I hadn't been trying so hard to come up with an excuse, I could have actually come up with one. But in this sudden surge of brain activity, I lost control over my tongue, and out came the words, "You have a cat!"

Understandably, John didn't see what was so funny about the fact that he owns a cat. I can't blame him. I laughed the laugh of the damned for another minute, and then the tale of Mr. Whiskers came tumbling out of my mouth. The cat's name. The leash. The screensaver. The matching Christmas sweaters.

John seemed particularly offended at that last bit. "Oh, gosh, no!" he exclaimed, and I could see him racking his brain, trying to figure out what he may have ever said to me to make me think that he was the sort of man to put a sweater on a cat.

I gave him the first excuse I could think of. I blamed my mother.

"She's a sick woman," I blurted out. "She needs medication!"

He raised an eyebrow, which gave him a rather unintelligent look owing to the fact that his mouth was still open, as it had been since I brought up the topic of cat sweaters.

"I don't know what's wrong with her," I continued. "It's got to be her ADD!"

John managed to compose himself at last. "Does she do that sort of thing often?" he asked. "Just take a topic and go off on it?"

I thought about that for a moment. "Yes," I lied.

I'm not sure if he believed me or not. He didn't seem to, but I could tell that he wanted to, that he would rather believe me than accept the fact that after working with me for four years, I am still mentally disturbed enough to spend the better part of two months imagining his life with his cat.

After the tale (no pun intended) came out, there was a moment or two of awkward silence, during which, I believe, John and I made a tacit agreement never to speak of Mr. Whiskers again. Then he asked me how long I'd been seeing him, and I cheerfully told him it's been four years.

I think a little bit of him died when I said that. I could see a bit of light leave his eyes. I smiled more widely. It is slightly perverse, I'll admit, but the truth is that, as much progress as I have made since 2005, I didn't feel I'd accomplished very much until just then, when I realized that, whether he liked it or not, John would never be able to forget me for the rest of his life.

And if I'm not mistaken, he's learned an important lesson about sharing bits of his personal life during an hour that someone else is paying for. And that, my friends, is progress.

Birthday Blog

So. It's my birthday. I'm 26.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. On one hand, I am now firmly out of my early twenties and smack dab in that comfortable mid-twenties age bracket where you are neither too young for things nor too old for them.

On the other hand, I don't think that anyone aspires to be mid-twenties, single, unemployed, and living with mom.

In my defense, I've had a rather busy year. I got dumped, fired, and pregnant, my dad died, my car broke down four times, and I placed my baby for adoption. I think I can be forgiven for taking a little time for myself to figure things out.

Part of me feels that, at my age, I should know what I want to do with my life. I thought I did, actually. But the more I look into certain degree programs, the less excited I get about going back to school. I'm not even going to get in to the cost of ASU.

At the moment, I have an AGS, a cosmetology license, and a notary commission for the state of Arizona. I sort of like that none of those things are the least bit related. It makes for an interesting resume. I've considered spending the next few years getting more interesting little certifications and qualifications, just so I could print up the world's strangest business cards. For instance, I'm considering learning to drive a forklift. How cool would that be if my business card said "Jill Elizabeth. Hairstylist, notary, forklift operator"?

(Pardon me while I have a strange interlude. It bothers me that I can't ever remember whether in cases like the preceding I should put the question mark inside or outside the quotation marks. I think I'm doing it wrong, but it doesn't look right when I do it the other way. Grr. Okay, end interlude.)

I've also recently got it into my head to become a CNA. And a pharmacy technician. And I'd love to learn stunt driving. And get a masters in social work - which of course means I'd have to first get a bachelor's in social work.

None of this has anything to do with my birthday, does it? I've slept seven hours in two days (I've been doing school presentations for LDSFS, and high school classes are early) so I have the attention span of a fruit bat at the moment.

But it's my birthday, and if I want to ramble, I'll ramble.

I have a personal history of bad birthdays. I had good ones as a child, but the older I got, the worse my birthdays became. I think it was my eighth birthday party when one of my friends convinced another two of my friends that none of them liked me anymore.

There was one year when I was late getting home to a family party, and I arrived to find that my relatives had eaten most of my cake without me. No candles, no singing. There was the year I was in a car accident. The year I started taking antidepressants. The year everyone but my parents seemed to have forgotten my birthday. The year I failed my driving test. The year my college roommate's bad hygiene made the dorm room smell like excrement. The year my mom was in the hospital for gallstones. The year I was in beauty school learning exactly how little talent I had for doing highlights. The year I had to work at the salon for ten hours all by myself. The year my dad had cancer. And last year, when I found out I was pregnant.

Happy birthday? Not possible.

This year's been pretty good, actually. I think partly because I had such low expectations, but there you are. I had to wake up early to do two more school presentations, but then I had brunch with a friend and then relaxed and played a video game and read a bit and went shopping and went out to dinner with my mother and came home to watch TV and chill.

Not the most exciting birthday in the world by anyone's standards. But nothing horrible happened and except for my birthday migraine, I feel alright. So far my 27th year is off to a dull start. But on the upside, dull is better than bad, and I did get a free Grand Slam.

On the Upside, There Were No Mountain Lions

I don't usually use this blog to talk about specifics of my life or what I've been up to lately. I have another blog for that, and it is appropriately pathetic. But I just got back from a trip to Tucson and suffice it to say that an acid trip would have been less upsetting.

I got directions to the hotel from the hotel's website. It was fairly specific, down to the fact that one road would change names after I'd been on it a few miles. However, it then specified that I needed to stay on said road with changed name, so when I was on Skyline and saw that I needed to turn left to stay on Skyline (the road was, just for the hell of it, changing names again, which the website didn't mention), I turned left. There are a number of places in Tucson where, for reasons unknown, the same street intersects itself. Skyline intersects Skyline, Sabino Canyon intersects Sabino Canyon, and Kolb runs parallel to Kolb in one place. Sort of a nexus-of-the-universe thing.

I should not have turned left. As it turns out, I needed to stay on Sunrise, which was once Skyline, which was once Ina. It would have been nice if the website had mentioned that.

But Jill, you might say, how hard could it have been to find a giant resort built into the side of a mountain? And perhaps I could have found it by myself had it been daylight. But this was Tucson, and for reasons I can't explain, they aren't big on things like streetlights or signs or roads that go in straight lines or roads that actually lead somewhere. But they especially hate lights - I have never been in a darker city. I think there may be some sort of city ordinance where no one is allowed to use anything brighter than a ten-watt light bulb, even outside. The hotel wasn't lit up and the street wasn't lit up.

After an hour or so of trying to find my way around Tucson, I found the hotel. My mother checked into the hotel. It's supposed to be this luxury resort. Well, I don't know where all the money goes, but it isn't into their electric bill. We drove around the hotel for ten minutes trying to find the parking lot by our room, but again, it was too dark to see where I was going. We returned to the lobby area and one of the valets drove a golf cart in front of us to show us where to go.

The hotel is quite literally built into the side of a mountain. Our room, which had an outdoor entrance, faced this:



My mother was afraid that a mountain lion was going to come down and eat us. I was more concerned about the unusually large cockroaches, several of which seemed to be enjoying the lack of light around the hotel. We got into our room. My mother claimed one bed, so I went to the other one. It had hair on it. I don't mean two or three long hairs. It looked like this all over the bed:



Apparently, the Wolfman is on the housekeeping staff. I am highly allergic to dogs and their fur, but Loews prides itself on being a pet-friendly chain of hotels, which apparently means dogs are allowed to frolic in freshly-cleaned rooms. I found hairs in the bathroom as well. The front desk was called, and hell was raised. I got fresh bedding. I inspected it closely for more mystery hairs. It seemed to be okay so I went to bed. I was looking forward to seeing Tucson during the day. Unfortunately, the money and marketing conference my mother and I were attending went from 8:30am to 5:30pm, so by the time we got out, it was too dark to do anything. I gave up on having any sort of good time and commenced drawing cartoons in my notebook.

We checked in on Wednesday night, and while I was waiting for housekeeping to de-fur my bed, I looked out on the balcony. There was a grassy sort of area outside the patio and a woman was walking one of those nasty little furry crap machines - pomegranates or whatever they're called. So on Saturday night, when I heard a strange grunting bark outside, I figured someone else was walking a dog out there. But the dog sounded sick. Really sick. And angry. I opened the curtains to see what sort of dog it was.

It wasn't a dog. It was a pack of javelinas. Javelinas, or collared peccaries, are a sort of wild desert hog. They are alarmingly large and noisy, and they were hungry. I'm an idiot, so I went out on the patio with my camera. Of course, it was too dark to get a good shot. Not because it was night time, but because there are about two light bulbs lighting up the whole of the outer hotel.

I saw the javis again in the parking lot on the way to find a Denny's. I almost ran one over with my mother's Highlander. But the car's headlights illuminated them a bit better, and I got this picture:



Apparently, my mother should have been more concerned about javelinas than about mountain lions. There was also a frog by the ice machine, and a coati by the swimming pool, and of course the world's largest cockroach hanging out on the stairs, and a few grasshoppers that were determined to gain entry into our room. The mountains are indeed beautiful, but it was all just a bit too much nature for me.

I've decided I hate Tucson. I don't ever want to go back. Maybe someday, if they decide to invest in lighting. But I'm getting a room inside, and I'm taking a gun in case the javelinas get aggressive.

Happy Anniversary! You're Crazy.

Tomorrow is kind of a big day for me. Kind of.

It's also sort of depressing. Tomorrow is the four-year anniversary of my being in therapy (with this particular therapist, anyway). This is depressing for several reasons, two of which are that 1) my relationship with John is the longest I've ever had with anyone to whom I am not related, and 2) it's been 4 years, and I am still in therapy.

I mentioned the anniversary to John last Thursday at our session. He wasn't sure of the date. He unearthed my file, which is dangerously thick.

He rifled through a heavy stack of session notes to the last page. "Four years," he said. I wondered if he was thinking what I was, which is that I'm not sure what it says about his skills as a therapist that I am still seeing him four years later, and I'm not quite 26 so how screwed up can I really be yet that I need four years of therapy?

He then asked me what sorts of things I felt I still needed to work on. I'm sure he was thinking along the lines of grieving my father's death and my baby's adoption and the anger I have at my ex.

But what I was thinking to myself, that I almost blurted out, was, "I have a problem, John, and it is a big one. I have spent more time wondering about you and your cat than I have spent on anything else this week."

I didn't say that, of course. I thought about it - several times I thought about it, throughout my session. And at one point I actually laughed out loud about it. John asked what was so funny and I had to make something up to keep from telling him that every time I drive past a pet supply store I picture him inside pushing his cat up and down the aisles in a shopping cart.

I told him what I felt I still needed to work on, and he said something about how those were valid issues, blah blah blah, and as he spoke I pictured him discussing boundary issues with his cat.

I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up. Eventually I am going to have to tell him about the cat problem, and I'm not sure how he'll react. I'm hoping he will find it funny and we can have a good laugh about it and move on.

I am terrified that he will feel the need to give me details to set me straight on the subject. I know too much already. What if I discover something even more distracting? What am I going to do then?

I think it's probably a good thing that, four years later, I am still in therapy. I seem to need it.

My money's on "Mr Whiskers"

My therapist has a cat.

I wish I didn't know this, but I do. He mentioned it in my last session. My therapist is in his forties, and single, and he has a cat.

I wish I didn't know this. Oh, certainly I'm glad to know that he prefers cats to dogs, because I've found that cat lovers are more empathetic than dog owners. But I still wish I didn't know this. I wish I knew that he liked cats, but not that he owns one. Because my mind can't just let it go. I can't just accept that he has a cat, and move on with my life. One could argue that, were he a better therapist, I would be able to let it go. But I've been seeing him for four years, and he has a cat, and I can't let it go. Questions arise, unbidden, in my neurotic brain.

I start to wonder about the cat. Is it a shelter cat? What sort of markings does it have? What color are its eyes? How big is it? How old is it? How long has John owned it?

What is its name? What sort of name would John choose for a cat? Paws? Frankie? Boots? Mr. Whiskers? Or does it have some sort of embarrassing lovey-dovey name like Angel or Sweet Pea or Baby? Does he talk to the cat?

Is he the male equivalent of a crazy cat lady? Does he have a picture of his cat as a desktop or a screen saver on his computer? Does he subscribe to Cat Fancy magazine? Would he, in casual conversation, refer to his cat as his furbaby? When he gets home from work, does he announce to the cat that daddy's home? Does he kiss the cat on the mouth? Does his cat screen his dates? Is that why he's still single?

Does he take the cat for walks? I think he's the sort of man that might put a cat on a leash. Do they go shopping together at Petco for kitty toys? Is he the kind of person who puts outfits on his pet for different holidays? Is there a picture of the cat with Santa? Are there pictures of John with his cat? Would he send them out in his Christmas cards? If the cat went missing, how much would he offer for a reward?

I am taking advice - life advice - from a man whose house contains a box that holds cat poo. How can I do that? How can I take my psychotherapist seriously when I know that he spends some of his time scooping cat poo out of a litter box? Is anyone who would voluntarily handle cat poo really qualified to give advice?

I don't know how I'm supposed to take him seriously now. Tomorrow I'm going to see him, and I have to try and sit there and discuss my problems and pretend that he doesn't have a cat and that I haven't spent the better part of an hour wondering about the cat. What if, mid-session, I crack up? What if I can't stop laughing? He's going to ask what's so funny, and I'm going to have to tell him that I have a mental picture of him and his cat in matching Christmas sweaters.

I'm not sure this is going to work anymore. I think I may have to find a new therapist.

And now, for something completely different

I don't have anything to say today, but I'm sick of this blog being stuck in the middle of my list on my Blogger Dashboard. Which is my own fault for having more than a dozen blogs, but I digress.

Here's a pig in a bath.