2.  Respond with, “You’re pregnant!” when I say, “I have good news!”

<insert eight other iterations of that same idea here>

Here’s the thing, asking a lady about her sex life?  That shit is inappropriate.  Asking people about their family plans?  That shit is banal.  When you ask me when/if I’m going to procreate you have managed to be simultaneously salacious and pedestrian, and while that is actually a sort of impressive feat, I’m still irritated.  If you want to talk about sex I am totally down with that.*  But if you want to talk about the current occupancy rate of my uterus I’m going to be fantasizing about stabbing you while you blather on stream of consciousness style about the joy of breeding.

And while we’re on the topic of breeders…  Listen, I get it, you have a baby/toddler/child/teenager and you think that he/she is the most adorable/precocious/funny/fascinating person ever, but guess what?  I don’t.  And neither does anyone else who isn’t directly related to said offspring.  Allow me to clarify, my friends and their sweet little babies?  I’m sold.  Send me cute photos, forward me videos, tell me about what they did at lunch today.  But everyone else?  I don’t care.  I particularly don’t care when I’m at work and you’re holding me hostage in the kitchen with Tales From Parenthood, presented multi-media style courtesy of your iPhone.

So yeah, being married and in your late twenties is apparently the equivalent of wearing a giant sandwich board that says, “ASK ME ABOUT MY VAGINA AND ITS PLANS FOR THE FUTURE!”  It’s really my own fault.

*Reference:  Every post on this blog that’s not about my imagined allergies nor my propensity towards social akwardness

P.S.  For the record, my godson is the cutest baby on Earth.  Sorry to burst your bubble receptionist lady.

In my life there are several different classes of mass emailers and they are all horrible and rage-inducing in unique ways.  Lets take a look at these special snowflakes:

The Conservative Family Member Mass Emailer

Disclaimer: I live in New Hampshire.  Our state motto is LIVE FREE OR DIE and I’m totally down with that.  I’m not a Democrat, I’m not a Republican.  I do not like getting political propaganda email from either party.  Just wanted to clarify so that I don’t get any nasty emails from any of my more conservative friends.

As I’ve just indicated, I do not want any viral email about any party’s political agenda coming into my inbox, but I must say that I’ve noticed a distinct difference in the volume of right-wing vs. left-wing emails.  I may have a skewed sense of things because I have a crazy aunt who I’m pretty sure is secretly Dick Cheney.  (Lets just say I’ve never seen them in the same room together, suspicious.)  This crazy aunt loves to send me and everyone she has ever met, and probably some people she hasn’t, emails about her three favorite topics:  Jesus, Obama as Satan, Sarah Palin.  If you are lucky enough to have never met my aunt, or Dick Cheney, and if you’ve avoided the Conservative Mass Email Epidemic thus far, let me give you a quick synopsis:

Obama was not born in America, but was instead pushed from the loins of the Devil in the deep fiery pits of hell.  The liberal media is not reporting this story because they are liberal.  And evil.  LET PEOPLE KNOW THE TRUTH!  Email this to everyone you know so that we can amass a great army to defeat the liberal agenda of forward progress!

This random person that someone knows got really sick, and then she and her family prayed to Jesus, and then she got better.  But only after she declared herself saved and started donating 10% gross to the CBN. Go Jesus!  Forward this email to everyone you know so that we can spread the word of Jesus, and also maybe we can amass a great army to defeat the liberal agenda of forward progress!

Sarah Palin is awesome.  The end.  Send this on to everyone you know so that we can amass a great army to defeat the liberal agenda of forward progress!

Guys, I love Jesus and America, but if there is anything in this world that’s going to turn me into salvation hating French citizen, its these emails.  Seriously, I break a commandment every time I get one, just out of spite.

The Read My Blog/Watch My YouTube Video Mass Emailer

Disclaimer: I love being a blogger.  I really do.  I love having a place to share all of the scary thoughts that swirl around in my brain space.  I love getting emails from other bloggers and people who just read this for fun (or to feel normal in comparison, whatever).  It makes me totally happy.

Now, that being said, jillian@pilgrimcongress.com has somehow ended up on a unusual amount of mass email lists.  Inevitably I get these emails from people who I’ve had no prior contact with, and generally they are about this HILARIOUS video I need to watch, or an AWESOME giveaway on someone’s site.  A few tips for those people:  Your kid jumping on a trampoline and falling off is not hilarious, its neglectful.  And a little hilarious, but only if he breaks something.  But even if he breaks something I’m not really interested, and if I were I would just go to YouTube and type in “neglectful parent with camcorder scars child for life via bouncing apparatus.”  Also, I love giveaways.  I dig it.  Its awesome.  That being said, if I don’t read your blog already, I’m probably not going to start because you’re giving away monogrammed stationary from your Etsy store.  Now, if you were giving away monogrammed televisions…  Either way though, really and truly, if we’ve never had any interaction and I get an email from you addressed to a billion other people,  your giveaway could be for a monogrammed picture of Stone Phillip’s penis and I’d still delete it because that shit is spam.

The Socially Retarded Friend of Your Spouse Who Has No Tact And Who Makes You Want To Harm Yourself Mass Emailer

Is this just me?

Ben has this friend who we’ll call Paul.  I’m pretty sure Paul is mentally challenged as a result of a being pummeled in the head as a child.  With oranges.  By his mother.  This is the only explanation for the email forwards that Paul sends out daily.  Emails about how women should not be allowed in the workplace.  Emails that he sends to me, a woman, at my work email address.   Emails about how fat chicks are gross, and the various noises that erupt from their bodies during sexual intercourse.  That come to my professional email address.  At my very conservative company.  Emails about the best way to cheat on your wife.  That he sends to me, his friend’s wife.  Oh sir, you are the most offensive mass emailer of all.  Jesus hates you.  He told me in an email that I subsequently forwarded to everyone you know.

P.S.  Thanks Krista.

As such I have been working on a plan to become wealthy enough to buy a large estate with extensive grounds that include a hedge maze.  (Side note:  Is it weird that my dream home is largely based on Kubrick’s interpretation of the hotel in The Shining?)  This brings me to my big reveal:  Internet, I have decided to start my own business.  A prostitution ring/child care service.  My thinking is that there are lots of single moms and dads out there who are in need of physical love and a babysitter.  These parents on the go don’t have time for things like “dating” or “interviewing quality daycare providers.”  So, here’s a solution!  A sexy man or woman shows up at your house in the morning, he or she provides some dirty adult services of your choosing, then you go to work and the sexy man or lady provides some clean child services of your choosing.  The hourly prices are a little more than you might normally pay for a good hooker, but still less than you would pay for a highly qualified nanny.

If you are interested in an employment opportunity, please email me with your qualifications, including sex acts performed and maximum number of children you’ll mind at one time.  If you are interested in becoming a customer of Totally Legitimate Babysitting Services , please email me and I’ll send you some more detailed information.  If you are interested in turning this into a cheeky sitcom with a title like Debbie Does Daycare or Spunky Screwya (these may actually be better porn titles, I tend to work a little blue), please send me money.

Holden Caulfield.

So, in lieu of actually talking about why I’m going to Manila, I’m going to talk about how horribly and embarrassingly frightened I am of the flight over there.  First some back story:

I hate flying.

Additional back story:

I come from a long line of flight phobics, by which I mean my father hates flying.  He’s been on a plane once and he tried to make them land halfway through the flight and he had to be sedated.  True story.  As a result of my father’s phobia we never took family vacations that involved flying.  I didn’t get on a plane for the first time until after college.  And it was horrible.  Not only for me but for the poor bastard that got stuck next to me on the plane.

Picture this, a 22 year old Jill gets on a plane in Logan headed to Chicago.  She is trying to look as normal as possible despite the fact that she is having a giant panic attack.  Coming down the center aisle is a rather attractive young man.  The following is running through my head (writing in the third person about myself is too hard):

Dearest Jesus, do not let this guy sit next to me.  There is a 99% chance I am going to throw up and I don’t want to do it in front of this guy.  Please Jesus.  I will sacrifice a million virgins to you.  And several goats.  And possibly some kittens.  Whatever you’re into.  Just don’t let this guy sit next to me.

And then that dude sat next to me.  And I cursed Jesus and vowed to spend my days making derisive Paint images of Him.

The guy sitting next to me was really nice.  Probably because he had no idea that I was about to lose my shit all over him.

So, the plane takes off and the meltdown begins.  It is epic.  It is me, head between my knees, crying, and praying very loudly.  My poor seat neighbor is horrified.  He looks over at me and asks, in a rather frightened tone, if I’m going to be okay.  I respond, no.  He asks if I want to hold his hand.  So, I do.  This is a bad idea.  You know how on cheesy sitcoms there is always this particular scene when a woman is giving birth?  The one where the woman is clenching her husband’s hand so tightly that she is about to break his fingers?  I did that.  In real life.  To a stranger.  And I wasn’t even pregnant.

Subsequent flights have not been much better.  And I’m pretty nervous/morbidly curious to see how the 20 hours in the air goes.  If I don’t die it will be a success.  I’m setting the bar pretty high.

Side Note: I generally do better when I fly with Ben.  Because Ben is an airline pilot.  Seriously.  I married an airline pilot.  The irony is not lost on me.  Or maybe it is.  I’m not entirely sure what irony means.

When I was a little girl, back in the 80s, I thought that Madonna was the most outrageous person ever.  Totally convinced she was going to hell for sexualizing black Jesus and having cylindrical breasts.  But holy shit, Madonna was such an amateur.  I know that now, and that knowledge makes me sad in my head parts.  Like, if I ever have kids (by which I mean abduct kids to then subsequently raise as my own) they’re going to go to middle school dances and instead of doing the hand jive to the Grease soundtrack, they’ll be giving hand jobs while listening to Flo Rida rap about boots with fur and jeans filled with guap.  This is why I’ve decided to forgo my previous plan to kidnap a neighbor child, which was probably Lady Gaga’s plan all along.  Kudos Lady, keeping America’s children safe.

In related (only in my head) news, I have recently become convinced that my radio is trying to communicate with me.  Like its trying to send me messages.  Normally, when I am driving, I listen to NPR.  As a result I start approximately 3,721 sentences a day with the following phrase, “So, I was listening to NPR today and <insert long and rambling story>.”  Recently, however, I’ve been listening to music stations on the way into the office.  This is mostly due to the fact that listening to the news in the morning was making me cry in my car and I didn’t want to keep showing up at work with puffy eyes, lest someone think that I’m a bloated drunk who knocked back a few too many last night before propositioning that chick I thought was a hooker, but who just turned out to be a slutty-dresser/false-advertiser.

Listening to music on the way into work has succeeded in making me cry less, but has caused some pretty interesting paranoia.  Now I will assault you with some recent examples of the various things that my Jeep’s radio is trying to tell me:

Tuesday Morning.  Supertramp, Goodbye Stranger:

Feel no sorrow, feel no pain, come tomorrow, feel no pain

The radio is trying to tell me that I’m going to die tonight.  And also, that since my death is imminent I should do whatever I want today, since there will be so shame soon.  I’m going to house that quart of ice cream.

Wednesday Morning.  The Band, Ophelia:

Ashes of laughter, the ghost is clear, why do the best things always disappear

The radio is trying to tell me that something I really care about is going to disappear.  Dear God, Coco is probably going to die.  Or, it could be that I’m going to die.  No wait, that’s totally narcissistic.  I’m not the “best thing” and therefore can’t disappear.  Unless I’m just being modest.  Shit.

Friday morning.  Talking Heads, Psycho Killer:

Psycho killer, <things in a different language>, far better, run run run run run run run away

The radio is trying to tell me that I’m going to be murdered by a psycho killer.  And that I should learn French.  The radio is trying to tell me that I am stupid and about to die.

So, what I really want to know is should I talk to my psychiatrist about upping my meds, or am I good?

Honestly, my brain is barely functioning at the moment from all the STRESS and the fact that I haven’t lit this place on fire is a testament to the fact that Zoloft totally works.  I’ll post more details soon (along with the winner of my blow job giveaway), but until then here is an artistic representation of what’s going on inside my head right now.

I’ve joked a lot about my anxiety disorder, here and here for example, and now I’m about to get all serious on your ass.  And it may be a little, um, Oprah, so feel free to skip this post.  Or if you need a good cry blackmail material, read on.

So here’s the thing, its currently 3:30 in the morning,  I have to be in the office in a few short hours and I am not sleeping.  Why?  Well, see my body?  It randomly decides it doesn’t require sleep.  Or food.  Or sanity.

Allow me to over share.  I have, um, how do I put this delicately?  Mental problems.  It kind of, sort of runs in the family.  Case in point:  During one particular trip to an amusement park my father was cajoled into riding the log flume with my brothers and me.  We got to the top of the highest hill, and my dad?  He got out of the log.  And scaled down the side of the ride to “safety.”  This is not something normal people do.

I got all of my father’s crazy, manic, obsessive genes.  With just a dash of my mother’s depression.  Its quite pleasant.  When looking back, I realize that I have always been a little (air quotes) different.  Seriously, my first grade teacher described me as intense.  True story.  I was an intense six-year-old.  And, hey, guess what? I am way more intense at 27 than I ever could have dreamed of at the age of 6.

My very closest friends know about my struggles with my mental/emotional health.  I see a therapist, a psychiatrist, I take medication, I eat well, I exercise, I meditate.  In short, I take my mental/emotional health very seriously.  You know how some people are health nuts?  I am like a mental health nut.  That being said,  2009 has not been the greatest year for me.  Starting in January I began really struggling with my anxiety disorder.  I had stopped eating, I couldn’t sleep, I was in and out of the hospital.  I had a myriad of physical symptoms that, in the end, all turned out to be the result of stress (read, craziness).  I started seeing my therapist weekly.  I went through a lot of med changes.  I dropped too much weight.  For months I thought that this was just the way my life was going to be.  And slowly, with the support of Ben and some very good friends and a very, very good therapist, things started to get better.  Over the last couple of months things have gotten so much better.  I feel like a normal person again.  Usually.  Not right now though.

The thing is, my anxiety disorder?  Its smart.  It changes.  When I figure out new ways to cope, my anxiety figures out new ways to attack.  One of the more recent developments is waking up in the middle of a panic attack.  I wake up  shaking, cold sweat, heart pounding, short of breath, on the verge of tears.  The first few times it happened, the attack was so intense I would just pace for hours.  Now, I’ve learned to cope.  I just have to ride it out, wait for the adrenaline to clear my system.  When friends ask me what it feels like to have a panic attack, I stab them in the face.  Because that’s what it feels like.  But worse.

Note: I have never been stabbed in the face, at least not yet, so I’m kind of guessing here.

So yeah, I’m not even sure where I was going with this.  Basically what I’m saying  is being crazy is not as fun as it sounds.  Like when people say things like, “Oh man, we had a crazy good time last night,” they are making it sound like hearing voices is fun.  Hearing voices is not fun, unless those voices are telling you where to score some sweet pharmaceuticals , that’s actually pretty fun.

In closing:

Ben’s job has him traveling four days out of the week, so I’ve kind of got a lot of time on my hands.  Also?  I have a crazy anxiety disorder that wakes me up every night without fail.  Leaving me with a dilemma, what to do between the hours between 1:00am and 3:00am…

When Ben is home, and I wake up in the middle of the night, I wake him up too.  And then I tell him long and rambling stories about whatever dream I was having before I woke up.  For example last night I woke up, and shared this gem:

Oh man, I was having this totally weird dream where I was in this car.  But then is wasn’t a car because it was made out of wood.  And my aunt was cheating on Bob with this guy that looked *exactly* like Bob.  And I found out because my car told me.  So then I was so angry that I threw this brand new dress I had just bought on the pavement.  Ben, are you listening?  Ben?  Oh good, I thought you fell asleep.  So, then I had to go to a wedding, but my dress was ruined.  Oh, and Evan was in the hospital, but she was okay.  She had like a parasite or something, but in my dream it wasn’t a big deal.  And then I woke up.

Don’t you wish you were married to me?  That Ben is one lucky man.

So, all those nights that Ben is “traveling for work” (or stalking hookers, no one knows for sure) I have to find other ways to quell the voices in my head.  This brings me to my confession.  Guys, I have an addiction.  To Xanax.  But also, to the My Heritage Celebrity Look-alike feature.  Its unhealthy.  In addition to running millions my own pictures through the search, I also like to run my friend’s photos.  Then I send my friends long, and probably scary, emails detailing which celebrity My Heritage thinks they look like, and whether or not I agree.  Strangely enough, no one ever responds to these emails.  Huh.

Occasionally in these emails I’ll share ideas of ways to improve the My Heritage Celebrity Look-alike search.  Like, wouldn’t it be awesome if there was one of the options was to upload pictures of your tits and you could find out who your celebrity breast twin is?  GENIUS!  I think mine would be Frankie Muniz.  Get it?  Because I have petite breasts.  OR what it you could upload pictures of your boyfriend/husband/mailman and find out which Ninja Turtle he has the most in common with?   My life is sad, huh?

Anywho, here are the results of some of my more recent searches.  Now please get thee to My Heritage and tell me what celebrity you look like (leave a comment, send me an email, post it on your blog, whatever.  We’ll be united in our celebrity-obsessed-self-absorption.  Validate me?).

Narcissism, more fun than you might think! <- My slogan for narcissism.

Love,

Jill “The Box Killer” Pilgrim

P.S.  For a slightly more coherent post, check me out on Maxie’s blog, I Hate So Much.  Its about turkeys.  Or penises.  Or something.  I can’t even remember, as my mind is filled with box hatred.  All other knowledge has been pushed out.

Sanding.  Aw, working with my hands is fun!

Still sanding.  Hmm, maybe this manual labor thing isn’t all its cracked up to be.

Still fucking sanding this fucking chair.  Cursing the existence of all chairs and sandpaper.

And this is my way of telling you that regularly scheduled posting will be on hold through the weekend, as I am in the process of moving/murdering people/possibly getting arrested due to the murdering which is a direct result of the moving.  In closing, please get your bail money ready.