So here’s the deal, I like people.  I even love some people.  On the whole I think people are interesting creatures worthy of affection.  Long story short, I am totally not a sociopath.  Just wanted to get that out there before I make some potentially sociopathic statements.  Ready?  Okay.  I simply don’t get other people.  Like I am spectacularly awful at normalcy which means that my perspective on most things is just different enough from that of the average human being that I’m sometimes left scratching my head at middle-of-the-bell-curve behavior.  For example, I emphatically do not understand people who crave shoulders to cry on when they are upset.  So confusing.  When I’m down or sad or feeling generally unwell I want to be alone, as in decidedly unequivocally alone.  I just like my own company.  I feel most myself when I am alone.  I like the feeling of my own thoughts in my own head analyzing my own experiences.  I motherfucking like myself (::cough:narcissist:cough::).

BUT, all that comfort with myself?  Completely irritating.  Because guess what?  No man is an island and all that cliched bullshit.  It’s hard for me to connect with other people and yet (ignoring all contrary evidence) I am human and as such require social relationships to maintain my (relative) mental health.  I think (absolute conjecture here) that what helps most people feel genuinely connected to others is a sense of reciprocal need, and total independence doesn’t allow for that type of reciprocity.  And so, I am trying very hard to be… different.  And that shit is not easy, yo.

In an attempt to improve on my whole “human connectedness” shtick, I’ve been trying to come up with a list of things that make me feel all warm and sweet with other people, and I’ve got to tell you I suck at this.  Do these things come naturally to you???  Because my initial list looked like this:

1. Sex

2. Sex

3. Shared passion for NPR

4. Sex

5. Naming me the godmother of your child

And I’ve got to say there are some serious flaws with that list.

1.  I think my friends are going to be totally freaked out if I try to make out with them in order to introduce intimacy into our relationships.  Just a guess.  I mean they’re almost all married with kids, and most of them are women, so you know…

2.  I have yet to meet someone as fanatically devoted to NPR as I am- total dead end.

3.  Um, hi, have you met me?  I had to slip Danielle a mickey to get her to agree to make me her son’s godmother.

Short of sleeping with someone and/or converting them to the Church of Carl Kasell, how does one go about having a deep(ish) and (kind of) meaningful relationship?  It’s a fucking emotional Rubik’s cube.  I’m totally adept at making friends, I can run that social sprint like all get out.  But the marathon of actual friendship?  Fuck, if we’re not actively sleeping together or you’re not birthing adorable children for whom I am spiritually responsible,  it’s totally possible I’ll just stop answering your calls one day and after a few months you’ll just assume I died.  And, dear person who’s calls I randomly stopped answering, just know- it’s not you, it’s me.  You are lovely and I am crazy.

In closing, I’m trying to grow and stuff.  Truly, I want to be the kind of person who turns to friends when I’ve had a hard day.  And more importantly I want to be the kind of person my loved ones can rely on consistently.  So, yeah, if I randomly start calling just to say I love you, I promise I’m not dying of cancer, I’m not in AA, and I don’t need to borrow your car- I’m just trying to connect with you.  While clothed.  Weird, right?

A.)  That tiny horse I was riding up that Philippine volcano died, stranding me in a lava-filled jungle oasis from which there was no escape.

B.)  The cops located that hobo cemetery in my backyard and I was serving a prison sentence for improper disposal of  human remains (to be clear, no one could prove those hobos didn’t die of natural causes).

C.)  I joined/started a cult worshiping The One True Shopping Complex and have spent the last year camped outside of a Kohl’s recruiting white chubby middle-aged ladies who love bargains into my congregation.

D.)  All of the above.

I’m sure you guessed correctly and no further explanation of my absence is necessary.  No?  Huh, okay then.  Here’s a brief synopsis of what I’ve actually been doing over the last year:

- Working

- Moving

- Therapy

Ben got a new job (yay!) and I got a promotion at my day job (yay!) and my mother has been sick (boo!).  Hmm, what else???  Oh yeah, Ben and I were considering moving to Texas (motherfucking boo ya’ll!).  But we didn’t.  Because Texas is kind of scary in that it is nothing like New England and new things frighten me.  And there were mega churches EVERYWHERE.  Like we’d be driving along and I’d be all, “Wow, that mall does a brisk business on Sunday mornings.  Also, why does that mall have a giant cross on its roof?”  Then we’d drive another .75 miles and I’d be all, “Huh, that office park does a brisk business on Sunday mornings.  Also, why does that office park have a giant cross on its roof?”  Rinse, lather, repeat until you hit a gun show then stop and buy a gun.

In the interest of full disclosure I did kind of stopped talking to everyone I know for no reason other than I have clinical anti-social tendencies that rear up when I’m stressed.  Long story short, you are not alone Internet, unless your name is Jill’s Husband or you carried me in your uterus for nine months, we probably haven’t talked much since I returned from Asia.

Reference:  I Am a Bad Friend for more information on this phenomenon.

Where does that leave us?  Can you forgive me?  What if I promise to post a recent sex tape (tasteful, of course) that Ben and I made (of which Ben may or may not be aware)?  Two words:  pony play.  That shit was crazy.

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

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.

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.

This is not because I don’t love my friends deeply, this is just the way Jesus made me, and who am I to question Jesus?  My friends, however, collectively hate Jesus and refuse to accept this reasoning and as a result I end up apologizing.  A lot.  My stock apology is as follows:

I am so sorry (insert name).  I love and care about you, I’ve just been busy this last week which is why I missed your call regarding the tragic death of your family pet.  I have a lot of mental issues that require large chunks of time spent alone analyzing small and insignificant portions of my day and it doesn’t always leave time for checking my voicemail.  You look really pretty today though, have I mentioned that?  Because you do, it really can’t be overstated how pretty you look.  You should probably take your top off.

By the end of the apology my friend is frightened and disoriented, and accepts my apology simply because she’s now desperate to exit this situation.  The compliments and sexual come on work to take the focus away from the initial incident that made said friend angry, and put the focus on the current situation that is making said friend uncomfortable.  Its kind of my signature move.

This brings me to my next point.  I am also horrible at commenting on the blogs that I read.  Again, this is not because I don’t adore those blogs, its because I AM NOT INTERESTING.  I put that in all caps because I thought it added some interest to the fact that I’m not interesting.  I used to be awesome at blog comments, meaning that if I read it, I commented.  Now, I am awful.  I read a billion blogs every.single.day. and comment maybe once a month.  As a blogger I feel shitty about this.  As the kind of person who is too lazy to check her voicemail, I’ve accepted it.  Even when I used to comment, my comments were awful.  I require a lot of time to come up with offensive witticisms.  Case in point, it just took me about 20 minutes to think of the word witticism.  So, to everyone in my blogroll, an apology:

I am so sorry (insert name).  I love and care about you, I’ve just been busy reading your blog last week, which is why I ran out of the time required to think of a comment.  I have a lot of mental issues that require large chunks of time spent alone analyzing every little thing I say on your blog.  It is paralysis, by analysis.  You understand, don’t you?  You look really pretty today though, have I mentioned that?  Because you do, it really can’t be overstated how pretty you look.  You should probably take your top off.

And now onto the last item today on my List of Things at Which I Am Horrible:  You know that saying, What’s good for the gander is good for the goose?  I hate that saying.  Because, see, even though I don’t always answer Mary’s calls, my feelings get hurt when she doesn’t answer mine.  And you know how I am awful at commenting?  I get insecure when my posts don’t get comments.

In conclusion, something something something.*

*I’m also horrible at coming up with tidy endings for my posts.

1.  My first, and most enduring, crush is on Stone Phillips.

2.  My favorite color is red.  Like blood and tomatoes.

3.  I read a ton.  I generally go through a couple of books a week.

4.  I require a lot of alone time.  Mostly because I am socially awkward.  And awkwardness, while hilarious, can also be exhausting.

5.  I did pageants as a kid.  Word of advice, don’t ever, ever, EVER do this to your children.  Or if you do, please put aside money for their future therapy bills.

6.  I don’t drink.  Weird, huh?

7.  I’m not an alcoholic or a Mormon.  Even weirder, right?

8.  Ben and I met in a bar.  That was back when I was still drinking.

9.  I actually don’t drink because Jesus came to me in a dream and told me not to drink anymore.

10.  Not really, but wouldn’t that be hilarious.

So yeah, learning is fun, right?  Now the second part of blog awards involves passing the awards along to other blogs.  Small problem, I read about 20 million blogs and they’re all fucking awesome.  And way classier than this shit.  So, here is a screen shot of about an eighth of my reader:

You’re all winners of Jill Pilgrim’s Half Assed Blog Award.  Congrats!!

1.)    I do not like events that require “family time.”  I feel this is self-explanatory, but in case its not, I’ll elaborate:  My family is crazy and holidays generally descend into arguing about topics ranging from income taxes to various family member’s alcohol problems.  In my family, being festive is a euphemism for screaming obscenities.

2.)    I am cheap.  I plan to die with my money buried around me.  Like a fortress.  To protect me from grave robbers.  And also to bribe Jesus into reincarnating me as a dog.  Who can talk.  None of these dreams can come true if I’m spending all of my money on Christmas presents.

3.)    I actually think I covered everything.  But it seems weird to stop at two, so pretend I have a third reason.  Like maybe I find candy canes obscene, as they remind me of stripper poles.  For underage elves.

Keeping these things in mind, the way I spent my weekend was fairly strange.  Yesterday, Ben and I, along with some friends (adorable couple previously pictured here) went to a tree lighting/Christmas concert in Portsmouth.  And it was actually not totally hateful.  Here’s a picture of Ben and me being filled with the Christmas spirit.

Notice how that picture is both very attractive and not at all blurry?  That’s because I took your collective advice and got a Cannon Elph.  Here’s another awesome photo I took with aforementioned camera.

Pretty fucking impressive, right?!  I thought so too.  Big improvement.  And yes, that is snow you see!  We got our first real snow last night.  And it totally freaked Coco out.  For your enjoyment, a short video of Coco Muffin Pilgrim’s first outing in the snow (brief cameo by Jill Pilgrim).  Enjoy.

P.S.  Yes, that is a shitload (technical term) of hay that you see in the video.  I live in the middle of nowhere.  Also, is it sad that I get so excited about my dog finally going to the bathroom?  I didn’t think so.