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.

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.

Confessions

I'm working on a few new rants, but in the meantime, here are a few random items from my list of deep, dark secrets (so deep they squeak).

-I have no idea what “3G” means.
-I didn’t know how to pronounce the word “mojito” until about three months ago.
-I have two Hannah Montana songs on my iPod (but I won’t say which two).
-I have had the game of football explained to me more than seven times, but I still couldn’t tell you which guy does what and for which reason.
-When people in public places ask me to sign a petition, I tell them I am Canadian so that I don’t have to sign without hurting their feelings.
-I cried at the end of “Nanny McPhee.” I cry every single time at the end of “Nanny McPhee.” I have seen "Nanny McPhee" about ten times.
-I joke about my fear of fish, but I am seriously terrified of the things. If I ever had to touch one I think I’d have a seizure.
-I think that pigeons are adorable. Also, chickens. Farm animals in general get me very excited. I think they are fantastic.
-I do not understand the cultural appeal of the zombie. Or the pirate, or the ninja.
-I once kicked a dog. The dog had it coming, and if I had the chance, I would kick it again. It was a horrible beast.
-It's not really a secret anymore, but I watch "SpongeBob SquarePants" with alarming regularity.
-I enjoy watching TV infomercials.
-I screen my phone calls.
-I am addicted to celebrity gossip. I waste my money on at least two scandal rags every week.
-I faint at the sight of my own blood.
-I'm not sure what it says about me that the preceding are some of my deepest, darkest secrets.

“How exciting to be present at the birth of a new phobia.” – Niles Crane

Ladies and gentlemen, I just got even more lovably neurotic. I have developed a delightful new phobia.

You wouldn’t think such a thing was even possible, considering I have about thirty-seven phobias already. What more could I possibly have to worry about?

Barking dogs.

I don’t know if it’s because the weather’s been in the double digits lately, or if there’s been a rip in the space-time continuum or if there’s a disturbance in the force. I don’t know why, really. But I do know that in the past week I have heard more barking than I have heard in the past … oh, year or so. All of a sudden, the dogs in my neighborhood can’t keep their yaps shut.

My neighbor, Zippy the Pinhead, has two or three of those nasty little fuzzy crap machines – pomegranates or whatever they’re called. I’m not sure why. I’ve never seen him or the vampire chick that used to live there or Bobby Hill or the ugly beer-drinking chick go anywhere near the dogs. No one walks them. No one pets them. No interaction. And every so often, perhaps in protest, one or more of them will start yapping.

The yapping I can handle. My father had them trained, Pavlov-like, to run into their house when our back door opened (he spent months using a powerful spray bottle full of water shooting each dog when the noise got bad). They don’t do that anymore, but I’ve found that they respond rather well to me shouting “Shut up!” at them. Also, I know the exact address of next door so if the dogs don’t shut up I can always call the police.

The booming bark is new.

A few weeks ago at 11:15 it started and didn’t stop until my mother called the police. The next morning it started again. The police were summoned again. The barking stopped. I didn’t hear any barking for about a week. I thought perhaps the police had put the fear of God into the dog’s owner. But a few days ago it started again. At 3am. And again at 4am. Then this morning at 6:30. This dog barks whenever it wants, for as long as it wants to, and the owners seem to neither know nor care.

I can no longer relax.

I spend an unprecedented amount of time worrying that barking is going to start at any point. I dread coming home from stores and events because I think, I’m going to sit down to relax and then the barking will start. I dread going to sleep because I think, as soon as I’m mostly asleep, the barking will start. I’ve been wearing earplugs but I don’t know how much I trust them to keep things quiet in my head. I realized a few days ago how fixated I have become on the possibility of barking and I decided to keep track of it. I made a note of the time each time the paranoid fear hit me. Here’s a sample day:

11:36am
11:41am
11:51am
11:57am
12:12pm
12:17pm
12:46pm
1:15pm
1:24pm
1:37pm
1:45pm
1:53pm
1:58pm
2:13pm
2:17pm
2:32pm
2:45pm
2:57pm
3:01pm
3:07pm
3:14pm
3:27pm
3:31pm
3:46pm
3:49pm
3:53pm
3:58pm
4:19pm
4:37pm
(out of house for a while)
6:12pm
6:16pm
(out of house)
7:34pm
7:41pm
7:48pm
7:53pm
7:56pm
8:05pm
8:09pm
8:20pm
8:24pm
8:30pm
8:36pm
8:46pm
8:49pm
8:55pm
8:58pm
9:12pm
9:26pm
9:30pm
9:36pm
9:42pm
9:58pm
10:00pm
10:06pm
10:11pm
10:15pm
10:21pm
10:25pm
10:47pm
10:57pm
11:01pm
11:52pm
11:59pm
12:01am
12:04am
12:10am
12:15am
12:21am
12:26am
12:31am
12:35am
12:42am
12:47am
12:52am
12:56am
1:06am
1:12am
1:21am
1:29am
1:35am
1:38am

That is, I believe, at least 70 times. And that was just when I had a pen and paper handy.

I’m not sure what to call this new phobia – the fear that sometime soon a dog will start barking – but I think I’ve got enough empirical evidence here that it does in fact exist. If you can think of a good name for it, let me know. But speak loudly – I’m wearing earplugs.

Dear Old Navy,

You guys used to be cool. Your ads were stupid, but they were INTENTIONALLY stupid. No one expected a Grammy-winning song about Performance Fleece. People expected kitsch, and kitsch they got.

I looked forward to getting an ad in the mail featuring a chimpanzee in a t-shirt and khakis. Because, by gosh, you guys SOLD that t-shirt and those khakis and I could buy it if I wanted to. Or two for $15, because that was the kind of nice sale y'all usually had going.

I didn't mind the ads with the puppy, either, because who doesn't like a puppy? Also, you sell dog toys and shirts - which caused a little eye-rolling on my part, because if the good Lord intended for dogs to wear t-shirts, He wouldn't have given them fur. But I digress.

The point, Old Navy, is that your ads used to be okay. They were lame but overall unoffensive. Now? You have crossed the line. Because I draw the line at talking mannequins.

Calling them "SuperModelquins" doesn't make it okay. Giving them names and personalities doesn't make it okay. It makes it worse. It creeps the hell out of me. I don't like to see normally inanimate objects talking. I don't want to see a plastic finger break off when one plastic demon proposes marriage to another. I don't want to see disembodied legs in the back room. I don't want to see a metal pole disappearing into a female mannequin's nether regions under one of your stupid sundresses. I don't want to see a torso twisted at an unnatural angle, or worse, improperly attached. It's just yucky.

Those painted-on smiles, Old Navy? They give me nightmares. They scare me. They creep me out. I don't know what jackass in the idea room decided to use talking dolls as a selling point, but he or she needs to be fired, and then beaten soundly with a hard plastic limb. You know why? NOBODY LIKES TALKING MANNEQUINS. THEY ARE FREAKY.

I mean it. Show me one person who thinks the SuperModelquins are cute and I'll show you a person with deep-seated psychological issues and about half the normal amount of brain cells. There is nothing cute or clever about a talking mannequin. It is disturbing and scary and until you bin the lot of the SuperModelquins, you're not getting me to buy any more $10.50 t-shirts, even if I can get two for fifteen. No, sirs and madams, you've got to offer me THREE for fifteen before I can overlook that level of creepiness. I don't need a three-button-placket polo shirt that badly. I'll buy one at Wal-Mart. Wal-Marts may inevitably smell like pee, but I don't have to worry about anything coming to life and suffocating me while I shop - except maybe a greeter or two.

So you know what, Old Navy? Ditch the dolls and bring back the chimp. Well, not THE chimp since he ripped a lady's face off. Maybe another chimp. Or a pony. Nothing says kitschy like a pony in a polo shirt.

Something's Fishy

My name is Jill, and I am afraid of fish. (“Hi, Jill!”)

I read somewhere that most animal phobias have their root in childhood trauma, and mine is probably no different, although I can’t be sure what did it for me. I think it goes back to my first vacation. My family took a trip to Sea World when I was 2½. I was wandering down a hallway, the walls of which were actually large aquariums. I stopped to look at a small, plain-looking fish. My sister was with me. She tapped on the glass or something, I don’t remember. Maybe she just pissed the thing off. All I know is that one minute the fish was this big, the next, it was THISBIG. It was a puffer fish. And it scared the tar out of me. I don’t remember looking at any more fish there, but I do remember the penguins, and thinking that they were magic for some reason. I don’t know. I was two.

I still sort of think that about penguins, though. I love penguins.

In any case, I’ve always hated/feared the slimy little Satan-spawn. They creep me out and make me nauseas. Most of the time it’s not a problem, since people don’t exactly walk their pet fish, or put fish pictures up on their living room walls or wear fish t-shirts. But every now and then my phobia would become a problem.

My parents wouldn’t let us have a cat or dog, and thanks to me a pet fish wasn’t going to happen either. When our neighbors asked us to watch their pet goldfish while they went out of town, my parents had to prop open books and magazines up around the bowl so I couldn’t see it. Aquariums were off-limits. Nature shows were a no-no. Forget about serving tuna. And when I went shopping with my mother, we had to carefully detour around the seafood in the meat department.

But still, we all adjusted, and it was just one of those cute little quirky things about me, the same as my compulsion to correct the grammar of others, or my habit of memorizing the disturbing facts I learned in “Reader’s Digest” or my penchant for dramatics or my night terrors. And as I grew up, I learned to adjust. I simply avoided the fishing report in the local newspaper; I stayed away from the hunting and fishing area of Wal-Mart. I didn’t think much about it anymore.

However, in recent years, the health-conscious have begun promoting fish as a good way to increase one’s omega-3 fatty acid intake. I’m cool with that. But it’s not enough, apparently, for magazines and newspapers to suggest eating fish. Oh, no. They have to accompany this recommendation with photographs. Of fish – more specifically, dead fish, in threes and fours, piled on plates, their cold, soulless eyes staring up at the reader, wispy little tails and fins in place and everything.

Ugh. I’m getting sick just writing this. Pardon me while I vomit.

Okay. But honestly, there has to be a better way to convince me to eat something. If pork was suddenly found to be highly nutritious, would photo editors suddenly start accompanying their pictures of broccoli and asparagus with shots of lifeless porcine carcasses? I think not. Showing a dead animal, as is, is not very appetizing. What’s wrong with showing a fillet of some sort, all cooked and pretty with a little garnish? Why show me slimy black fish bodies? It didn’t used to be this way. But lately I have noticed more and more and more of it. Every article about health and diet has a picture of the little dead devil-things on a platter. And I’m here to say enough. I’m tired of having to ask my mother to pre-screen my periodicals for me with a sharpie and scissors so she can make things safe for me. I had to stop subscribing to “Martha Stewart Living” for just this reason (well, also, it sort of sucked).

I’d rant more, but I feel another good sick coming on. Let me just conclude by saying that when I read an article about how the ocean’s fish were in danger of dying out by 2040, my first thought was hallelujah, followed by the thought that it’s a good thing I don’t live anywhere near the ocean. All those dead SOBs have to go somewhere, and it’s best if where ever it is, is far, far away from me.

And by the way, the irony of the fact that penguins EAT fish is not lost on me. I try not to think about it. It’s easier to like them that way.

irrational phobias for dummies - aaahh!! dummies!!!

This originally went up on my MySpace blog on July 4th but I think it fits the criteria for this blog, too, which means that it is neurotic, rambling, and vaguely amusing, and that I don't think it's particularly depressing or offensive.


Well now, aren't I just the gift that keeps on giving? Another blog! Just as inane and meandering as the last one - and that's a promise.

I've been watching a marathon of "The Twilight Zone" on the Sci-Fi Channel. I forgot until a few hours ago that they show a few dozen episodes on New Year's Eve and day and July 4th, give or take a few hours. I always manage to miss my favorite episodes (although at the moment I couldn't tell you which ones those are).
I do remember that last New Year's I ended up watching the one where Marsha couldn't leave the department store and it turns out she was a mannequin - you know, the episode that irrevocably scarred me for life and caused a deep-seated, unhealthy and completely irrational fear of mannequins, dummies, and by some odd extension, wigs. I knew I should have turned it off as soon as it came on but I couldn't do it - I couldn't stop watching. And I have to tell you, that's the scariest fecking thing I've ever seen. Forget any of the Saw movies; anything with zombies or mass murderers or contagious flesh-eating diseases or body-snatchers. Mannequins scare the hell out of me. I avoid them in department stores and I won't turn my back to them . . . Aw, hell. I can feel a panic attack coming on just thinking about it. Damned soul-sucking plastic minions of the devil...
Where was I?
Right. "The Twilight Zone."
Seems like I always end up watching the episodes I don't like. Or I should say, the ones I don't like as much. Burgess Meredith was in an awful lot of episodes, wasn't he? And something about him just grates on my nerves. I can't explain it - although I do like the episode where he's a librarian on trial for being obsolete. I don't know why.
It's funny I was thinking about those two episodes. Because they sum my life experience up pretty well. I like books. And I hate things with faces (things meaning inanimate objects, not people or animals or actually most stuffed animals but that's probably because I was never allowed any pets growing up).
I think part of my problem with mannequins also stems from the fact that when I was young and impressionable I watched a TV program called "Today's Special." I'll elaborate for the uninitiated here, which I sincerely hope is everyone, because, damn.
"Today's Special," like so many other crappy, crappy things, was produced in Canada, America's hat. As I recall, the basic premise was that this woman named Jodie worked in a department store at night (I'm not sure why). Jodie hat a magic hat she put on a mannequin named Jeff, who had spectacularly awful hair, and the hat brought him to life. There was also a large, rather creepy puppet named Sam who was something like a security guard. He had a huge mustache and the sleepy eyes and red nose of a career alcoholic. The character I liked was Muffy the mouse. She had the coolest little tiny apartment in a tiny building with a tiny elevator, and all of these little bitty clothes and accessories and even a little bitty motorcycle. I wanted all of her stuff very badly (for one of my favorite toys, a 5-inch tall stuffed cat named Crinklebine). Although in retrospect Muffy was a little creepy looking as well. I don't remember any specific plots but I do remember that even though I knew it was coming it creeped the hell out of me when Jeff came to life.
Aw, hell. Why am I blogging about this before bed? I'm going to have psychotic dreams about the evil plastic people. Plotting malicious deeds under cover of night, locked in their stores, their limbs unnaturally shiny - some missing appendages and bearing metal rods instead of hands, their harsh faces frozen, cold dead eyes fixed on a target in the distance, some with sloppily painted hair molded to their perfectly rounded skulls, others with hastily styled wigs hanging lifelessly from their heads, hard lips locked together, impossibly proportioned torsos straining forward, ready to lean in, to push, to crush, to strangle, to press in, smother, suffocate, violate, kill...
Crimeny. Nick was right - I am action-packed with issues. But you know what? When the mannequins rebel and unite and attempt a takeover, I'll be ready with a sawed-off shotgun and my daddy's Ruger, shooting their plastic noggins off.

Maybe I should see my therapist twice a week.