Currently I am married to this gorgeous man.

These days Valentine’s Day is a fun affair.  This year Ben bought me flowers and chocolates and he made me a lobster dinner.  But that’s not what this is about.  No, this is about one particular horrible pre-Ben Valentine’s Day.

We have all dated someone completely embarrassing, right?  Personally, I dated about 30 embarrassing guys, but I’m kind of an overachiever.  The most cringe-worthy guy I dated was a snow board instructor/local television producer.  You read that correctly, local television producer.  He was kind of a big deal.  We’ll call him Mark.

Mark was really weird and if I hadn’t been so drunk the first few times I saw him, I would have noticed this earlier.  I met Mark at a bar in Boston .  I was with one of my girlfriends and as we walked out of the bar he stopped me and asked in I knew how to ice skate.  In my buzzed state I thought this question was hilarious, so in lieu of answering I just laughed.  He persisted, and I told him that no, I did not know how to ice skate.  Mark then asked me if I wanted to learn.  I said sure, we exchanged numbers and I went on my drunken way.

Fast forward to our first date.  It was the end of January and Mark took me ice skating at Frog Pond in Boston .  I was petrified.  The thing is, I’m terribly uncoordinated even when I’m not on ice.  I didn’t see how this could possibly end well, so I did what any other reasonable 24 year old woman would do, I got just shy of drunk before our date.  Needless to say that this did not help improve my ice skating skills.

The first date had gone well enough that, despite my inebriation and lack of skating abilities, Mark asked me out again.  This time we were going out to dinner and (get ready for it) drinks, so there was no need for me to show up to this date already half in the bag.  Or so you would think.  Well, we were meeting up later in the evening on a Friday, so rather than going back to my apartment after work and then trekking back out to Back Bay to meet up with him, I decided to stay in Back Bay and grab some drinks with co-workers before my date.  Are you keeping track?  Because I’ve now seen this guy three times, none of them sober.

Apparently I’m charming when I drink because he asked me out yet again.  For our third date, I decided to switch it up and not pregame like a Penn State frat boy.  Through the haze I always had a good time with Mark.  He was funny and cute, so I decided to actually show up to a date in my right mind.  This was a horrible idea.  I learned Mark’s funny cuteness was directly proportional to my drunkenness.  The date was going horribly.  Mark was a close talker.  And he whispered everything in a way that he seemed to think was sexy, but was actually kind of scary.  He also liked to give odd compliments, like, “You have great posture, it’s really sexy.”  I decided to remedy the situation with copious amounts of alcohol.  And sure enough, the more I drank the less he reminded me of a child molester.

But I miscalculated.  I drank too much, therefore making him too charming, therefore making me go back to his apartment, therefore resulting in this little tableau:

Mark walks into his bedroom after having gotten me a glass of water.  I am sitting on Mark’s bed.  Mark dances in front of me like a burlesque dancer.  He is totally serious.  He has his sexy face on.  Marc begins stripping his clothes off.  The dancing is now accompanied by singing.  Sexy singing.  Singing a montage of Beatle’s songs.  He gets down to his boxers which he thankfully leaves on.  He dances over to his closet where he removes black pleather pants.  Marc shimmies into the black pleather pants and starts singing an old STP song.  He continues to dance around the room, signing.  When he finally stops its to tell me that he wants to be a rock star.  Then he proceeds to show me his awesome rock star poses.  I die a little on the inside.

Before I go on, let me explain that this happened in real life.  This happened to me.  I endured this.

Right about this point I realized that there was not enough booze in the entirety of Ireland to make what had just happened sexy.  I feigned sick and left quickly.  But the story does not end here.

Fast forward to Valentine’s Day.  I walked out of my office at the end of the day and who do I find waiting for me with flowers?  Mark.  And hey, guess what else?  He smells awful.  So, yeah…  Marc walks up to me, gives me the flowers, kisses me on the cheek, and generally acts like this is completely normal.  Have you ever been in a horribly awkward situation and the awkwardness is so massive that it overwhelms and paralyzes you?  Because that is totally what happened to me.  I tried to make my brain work, screaming at it to think of a goddamned exit strategy, but all I was getting was:

What I’m trying to tell you is that I went to dinner with this guy.  After he danced in leather pants.  I did that.  And I’m not proud.  And actually it gets worse, because I kind of, sort of, kept on seeing him for a month or so after that.  And he wore the leather pants again.  On multiple occasions.  And once he asked one of my girlfriends if she had a penis.  And the smell?  Not a one time thing.

The end

Let me give you the haiku version first.  Still crazy in head.  Pharmaceuticals help some.  Jesus Banana.

Now for the slightly longer, but still appropriate blog length, version:

I no longer see the sun.  I leave for work and its dark.  I come home from work and its dark.  This is a problem as I require sunlight in order to function/remain not dangerously crazy.  So, my body is rebelling.  How? you ask.  Well, its decided it no longer requires sleep.  This is never a good sign.  Not sleeping is a precursor to stabbing people totally legal activities.  Another bad sign?  Not eating.  Of course not eating has another, less violent, side effect… sweet, sweet, weight loss.  Primarily in my breasts.  And there’s nothing a girl wants more than smaller breasts!

Here’s the thing about having an anxiety disorder, it sucks.  I wake up with my heart pounding, my muscles cramped, my jaw sore from grinding my teeth.  Lame.  BUT, don’t despair for me, there is an upside!  And here it is, I am so fucking productive when I’m anxious.  Maybe productive isn’t the right word.  What’s it called when you accomplish lots of shit that doesn’t actually need to be accomplished?  That’s what I do when I’m in a particularly panicky state.  Its truly scary.  See, when a person wakes up in the middle of the night and is in the throes of a panic attack she will not be falling back to sleep for an extended period of time.  Fact:  There is nothing good on television at 2:00 in the morning.  So, what is a girl to do?  Well, obviously the logical thing is to read all sorts of obscure and random stuff so that she can shock her husband with her awesome useless knowledge.  For example, today Ben and I had the following conversation:

Ben: How was your day?

Jill: Did you know that a coyote in Maine was found to be 89% wolf?

Ben: Huh.  Okay.

Jill: And 22% of coyotes in Maine are part wolf?

Ben: Oh.

Jill: And 90% of Maine is forested?

Ben: Lets just say you know more about Maine than I do.

Jill: And wolves.  And coyotes.

And then Ben cried because I am so much more awesome than he is.  So, I made him this to cheer him up.

And that is why being crazy is awesome. Except for the smaller breasts. You can’t win them all.

I’ve had that song stuck in my head all day.  And I only know that one line.  I’m pretty close to shooting myself just to make it stop.

On a happier note, I’ve recently diagnosed myself with epilepsy.  How?  Easy, with the help of WebMD, otherwise known as, The Bane of My Therapist’s Existence.  Here’s the thing, I have just a touch of hypochondria.  I’m just a tad preoccupied with my health.  For example, I do not touch door handles with my bare hands, as I am convinced that I will contract AIDS if I do.  I also wash my hands about 1500 times a day.  And I carry hand sanitizer with me everywhere, and use it after I touch basically anything.  Oh, and the Lysol.  I carry a travel sized bottle of Lysol for disinfecting on the go.

Now, if I do happen to get sick, I immediately run to the computer to consult my trusty friend, The Internet.  A headache?  Brain tumor.  Weird hand pain?  Hypocalcemia.  Excessive blinking?  Epilepsy.  Mild cold symptoms?  Black plague.

If WebMD were really smart is would come back with the following possible conditions for all of these symptoms.

But, alas, WebMD is not smart.  It is the devil.  It whispers in my ear, “No, Jill, you’re not crazy.  You’re just dying.  From a rare disease.  That’s what your symptoms tell me, and I am the all knowing Internet.  Now take your top off.” That last part might be Jesus.  Either way, WebMD reinforces my crazy hypochondriacal thinking and I end up at my doctor’s office.  And then my doctor sends me to my therapist.

This afternoon, when I diagnosed myself with epilepsy, I was thinking about this usual chain of events and I had an epiphany.  WebMD was created by the Democrats to get me to go to my doctor more, have more unnecessary tests, drive up health care costs, so they could pass healthcare reform and make America a socialist country!  All of this to achieve their ultimate goal:  killing my grandmother via a government death panel.

I’m onto you, Democrats.  But here’s what you don’t know.  Your plan is moot.  My grandmother is already dead.

Let me explain something to you.  You know how yesterday I posted that really embarrassing vlog?  This story is so much worse.   So.Much.Worse.  The upside?  Its not about me!  Score!

Background information:  I went to the nerdiest and most awkward college in the history of education.  It was like 99.87% male, and the guys were awesome and sweet and smart, but also?  Most of them?  Not super experienced with the ladies. 

Okay, so its 2002 and I am friendly with a certain fraternity member, we’ll call him Jack (because that’s his name because that is an awesome alias).  I’m 20 billion percent sure that Jack had never seen a real live naked lady.  This much was very obvious.  Evidence?  He called breasts “boobies” like in a totally serious, trying to be sexy way.  Like, “Oh man, I’d love to touch her boobies!”  Did you just throw up a little?  I know.  But man up, because its only going to get worse.  Jack has clearly never had sex, but he talks about “all the chicks he banged back home” basically non-stop.  Apparently, Jack thinks his right hand is several chicks.  Sad.

Around this time I also had a very trampy friend named Heidi (total alias or is it).  Jack thought Heidi was very doable (by the by, men?  doable is not a compliment.  just wanted to pass that info on.) and he told her so at a particularly drunken party.  Heidi was suitably impressed and now felt like removing her panties.  And it was on.  Magical?  I thought so too.

Cut to Jack’s room at the frat.  Heidi’s naked, Jack is naked, intercourse is imminent.  Jack refers to Heidi’s breasts as boobies.  Heidi is a little concerned, but figures he was just trying to be funny.  Or something.  Foreplay continues.  It gets a little oral.  Then Jack bites Heidi’s vagina.  Let me repeat for you, he.bit.her.vagina.  Not like super hard or anything, but apparently it wasn’t pleasant.  So Heidi is all, “Um, what are you doing?”  And he’s like, “Oh, my old girlfriend used to like that.”  Red flag number two.  Which Heidi ignored.  And the hooking up continued.  Heidi is such a trooper!

Fast forward to an indeterminate time later.  Intercourse commenced.  Heidi suggests switching positions.  She tells him she would like to do it doggie-style.  Jack seems hesitant.  He’s like, “Oh, I don’t know…”  But Heidi isn’t taking no for an answer.  So, she gets on all fours and then… he inserts his penis in her ass.  Because that’s what he thinks doggie-style is.  Heidi is not happy.  Things end poorly.  She is yelling at him.  He is insisting that, “that’s what doggie-style is!!”  Then Heidi left and told everyone that Jack was a virgin who didn’t know the difference between anal and doggie-style.

And that, my friends, is way more awkward than a tranny hooker vlog.

So today, The Husband and I decided to enjoy the glorious New England weather (which quickly turned less than glorious because, well, we’re in New England) and go toStrawbery Banke Museum this afternoon.  If you’re not familiar with Strawbery Banke, its an area of Portsmouth, NH that has been restored to how it appeared at various points in time (late 17th to mid 20thcentury).  There are 32 buildings that you can tour through and acres and acres of gardens.  It takes about 2 hours for the entire tour, but its totally worth it. 

The best part?  HISTORICAL ACTORS!  Fuck yeah!  Oh man, I love historical actors.  I especially enjoy trying to talk back to them in their old timey speak (random note:  anyone else read Choke? because now when I see historical actors all I can think about is kinky sex games).  The Husband and I had an especially great interaction with one very awesome historical actor in the Victorian section of Strawbery Banke.  Here’s how it went down: 

I was standing all nice and proper, posing for a photo in front of a very pretty fountain:

When The Husband and I see what appear to be Victorian-era hula hoops in the yard of one particular home.  I was mildly interested, which is to say that I ran screaming toward the toys yelling, “HISTORICAL HULA HOOPS!”  The husband and I then proceeded to do this:

Yeah, so it turns out there were no hula hoops in the late 17th century.  Who knew?  The historical actor!  That’s who knew!  So, this woman comes over and SCHOOLS us.  She was all, “Dude, what the hell are you doing,  that is not how you play with that!  You’re getting your bathing suit areas all over it!”  Except she said it in 17th century speak so it was more like, “Miss!  Tis not how you play with that!  Lo, you vulgar wench!”  She then demonstrated how to properly play with this faux hula hoop:

The Husband caught on quickly and was rewarded with the praise and approval of the mistress of the house:

I couldn’t figure it out so I was sent to the gazebo for time out:

The hula-hoop-that-wasn’t-a-hula-hoop incident inspired me to really embrace my inner child.  So I found a tea set and a doll to play with:

Then The Husband was like, “WOMAN!  What do you think you’re doing?  Get in the kitchen and make me some bread!”  And I remembered that in addition to a lack of hula hoops in the 17th century, there was also a serious lack of women’s lib.  So, as my husband’s lady slave I got my ass in the kitchen and made my lord and master some bread:

And then he ate it:

Now that my husband’s belly was full he allowed me to venture into town to run errands at the country store:

Turns out the store was actually in the 20th century part of the town!  I had escaped the harsh rule of my 17th century husband!  I was free!  And he was in so much trouble.   I’m going to make him pleasure me with his body all night as punishment.  Who’s the slave now???

So, in closing, Strawbery Banke is totally rad.  And my husband owes me hours of ecstasy.  Hope that fake plastic bread was worth it.

Well now that we’ve established that I am an unbiased reviewer who just happens to love Redhook we can move on.

My youngest brother, who we will call Fluff, recently turned the big 2-1.  He celebrated with his friends, his girlfriend, and just about everyone else, but this weekend he finally deigned to grace The Husband and I with his presence.  Celebration was in order!!  Where to celebrate?  Discovery Zone?  He probably still digs that, right?  Turns out he doesn’t.  Who knew?

After turning down a few more of my awesome ideas (kayaking, anyone?), we finally agreed on something.  Redhook!  Beer!  Food!  Naked ladies!  Okay, so there weren’t really any naked ladies, but it was fun nonetheless.   Evidence of said fun:

After a thoroughly enjoyable meal of burgers and wings, enjoyed outside on the patio, we ventured inside for a tour of the brewery. 

Let me pause here to emphasize something:  Go on the Redhook Brewery Tour.  For one dollar you get a tour of the brewery, a small glass, and a sampling of Redhook’s beers.  A dollar!  You can’t even get a blow job in Chinatown for a dollar anymore!  Damn inflation.

Anywho, here are the tour times behind me:

In case you don’t have super human vision, you can just click here for the times.  You poor people, with your shitty vision. 

Now we learned all kinds of interesting and informative things about the brewing process that I have since forgotten.  Me no smart.  So, in lieu of actual information here are some photos from the tour:

In closing, go do this.  The Internet is telling you to.  And if that isn’t reason enough for you, check out me with the sweet tour guide:

I can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday.  Sorry Jesus.

Friday was not all that interesting.  The end.

Saturday the husband and I headed over to our friends’ house for a little renovation party.  We laughed, we cried, we painted doors, we cried again, we painted more doors, we started plotting the destruction of all doors, we painted more doors, we fantasized about a door free world.  Our friends just moved into this great new house and we love them.  We express our love via door painting, its just our way.

Sunday (also known as today, but whatever), we went to the HOLLIS FLEA MARKET!!  Excitement abounds!!  Hence the CAPS and exclamation points!!  Here’s the thing, this was totally my first flea market and it was quite the shit show, and we all know how much I love a shit show.  Let me begin at the beginning.  The husband and I thought it would be awesome to get rid of the massive amount of stuff we seem to have accumulated since our college years.  We literally had a storage unit full of old furniture, about ten million books, clothes, random business and the what not.  In a moment of pure genius I decided that it would be awesome to sell all of our stuff at a flea market!  Wouldn’t that be so cute?  And fun?  I had pictures in my head of hippies and grandmothers searching for great finds, happy to turn their money over to me for my random shit that I have deemed unworthy of being owned by me.

(Confession: A couple of weeks ago I announced to my husband that we would be making $1000 at the flea market, then he countered with a lower figure, a figure in the $200 range.  I was so insulted that I actually lectured that he had no idea how wonderful and lucrative the flea market is… stupid husband. Who was actually right.  But that’s beside the point.)

Fast forward to this morning, five o’clock this morning to be exact.  We packed up our Jeep chock full of useful wares just waiting to be purchased!  Then we drove, and drove, and drove (have I mentioned that we live nowhere near Hollis, NH?  That I found this flea market through a random search and once I located it, I didn’t feel a need to search for a flea market that is closer to where we live?  Well lets just put that out there now).  After what seemed like a cross country road trip we finally arrive at the wonderful, glorious, HOLLIS FLEA MARKET!  Except it was not so much wonderful or glorious,  as it was dirty and sketchy, but I can’t be bothered with those details.  Here’s the thing, it was nothing like I pictured.  It was not hippies and grandmas, it was frightening people who did not want to pay more than a dollar for anything.  After a couple of hours it became clear that there was no way that we were going to sell all of our crap and it became equally clear that we were not digging the idea of hauling all that shit back in our Jeep.  I just want to pause here to explain that I’m what’s called “a solution oriented person” and I am also what’s known as “someone who likes to create a riot.”  Our predicament at the flea market presented me with a perfect opportunity to embrace both of these aspects of my personality.

Want to see people totally lose their shit at a flea market?  Start screaming, “FREE!!  EVERYTHING HERE IS FREE!!  CLOTHES!  BOOKS! FURNITURE! EVERYTHING FREE!!”  People didn’t know what to do.  First, there were confused looks, followed by questions demanding to know if everything was really free, followed by the realization that these frigging flea market amateaurs were giving shit away!  Good times had by all.  There was a rush of people to our lot, all of our stuff was taken, and it was awesome.

So, final verdict on the Hollis Flea Market?  I will never go back.  I thought the people were just a little scary and it just wasn’t my scene, much as I love the smell of urine mixing with the smell of hotdogs (did I mention the spot we were assigned was right next to the restrooms and concession stands?  Score) I think we’ll stay away from the Hollis Flea Market for the next five decades or so.  Long story short, though it was fun to create a small public disturbance by giving away all of our castoffs to people who clearly live to get that chochski for a dime instead of a quarter, it was not a super fun way to spend a lovely spring day in New England.  Sorry, Hollis Flea Market.

Now I had intended to take photos of the flea market so that you could feel like you were there with me, but that kind of fell apart along with the rest of our flea market business plan, but I do have a photo for you!  Its not a flea market, but it is me suffering the after effects of the flea market!  Little backstory here, I had some dental work done last week (some very expenseive frigging dental work) and ever since I have had ever increasing pain in my jaw.  Well, after we got home from the flea market my jaw decided to punish me for forcing it take part in Operation Cause A Riot At The Flea Market, so here is what I look like now:

Oh Jaw!  You may have won this time, but tomorrow I’m taking you back to Dr. BankAccountDrain to have you put in your place.