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.

1.  My job.

This is purely practical.  I have no interest in being dooce’d.  I work in a conservative field, for a conservative company, in a very buttoned-up position.  Also, my job is not terribly interesting.  I’m not a ninja.  Or a polar bear.  Or a sex worker.  So, you know, not a lot of material there.

2.  My family

I’m not even sure I ever made a conscious decision to not discuss my family, it just sort of happened (or rather didn’t) naturally.  I don’t really discuss my family in real life (barring my therapy sessions), so I never felt the need to discuss it on the Internet.  Except that one time when I posted about vagina math and gave them all pilgrim heads.  Well, fuck that Internet, lets get intimate and talk about family!  More specifically, my family.  Though, I’d love to hear about your family too.  We have a reciprocal relationship, you and I.

A little background:

I have two brothers, Chris (real name) and Tom (not real name).  I am very close with one of them (guess who!) and I do not speak to the other.  Um, it’s complicated.  My brother Tom has a serious drug problem.  And he has a personality disorder.  Huh… guess it’s not that complicated after all.

My brother Chris is the bee’s knees.  We’ve always been really close.  He’s by far the most normal person in the family.  If you’ve been reading me for a while, you may remember him from this & this.

I have two parents (shocking, I know), both alive, still married.  I have a complicated, but loving relationship with my mom.  Its terribly Oprah.  My father and I are not currently speaking.  We’ve been estranged, off and on, since I left for college almost ten years ago.  Both of my parents are kind of insane, which I’m sure is not surprising considering they raised someone who twitters as Very_Real_Jesus.  In the interest of full disclosure, I will say that my parents are not haha/fun crazy.  My father spent some time in an inpatient psychiatric program in his younger days.  My mother was hospitalized for depression/suicidal behavior a few months ago.  I totally come by my own craziness naturally.  As a matter of fact, on the Pilgrim Scale of Crazy, I am actually completely sane.  By the Pilgrim Family Standard, I am totally well adjusted.  Scary, right?

In addition to my immediate family, I have an aunt (mother’s sister), Irene, who I am very close with.  Growing up, I kind of wanted to be her.  She seemed so, um, stable?  Or something.  My aunt has a daughter, Evan, who is my best friend.  If you’ve been reading for a really long time, you may remember that this site was originally started by both me and Ev.  Here is her post about frozen penises for your enjoyment.  Just because.

So, why the fuck am I telling you all of this?  Um, mainly because I want to bitch about this wedding I’m in next weekend and I thought you needed some back story to fully appreciate my bitching.  That’s a totally valid reason for airing all of my family dysfunction on the Internet, right?

My aunt is getting married next weekend.  Ev and I are her bridesmaids.  My mom is giving her away.  Cute, huh?  Yes, its all terribly adorable and happy and all that bullshit.  There is, however, one major issue.  Two issues, really.  My father?  My brother, Tom?  They are both totally going to be there.  As for my brother, Chris?  That bitch totally bailed on me and is not coming.  And if I didn’t adore my aunt/cousin/mom so much I would join him.  Damn you, familial love and obligation!

See, my dad and Tom?  Both very, very, VERY confrontational people.  I’m bracing myself for the inevitable awkwardness, which will be followed by passive aggressive goading, which will end in yelling.  And maybe crying.  Here’s a flowchart to illustrate the likely chain of events:

The upside is that I get to wear a not-totally-hideous dress.  And there will be cake.  And this will give me some fresh material for therapy.  And it will probably make for an interesting blog post.  Also, there will be cake.

Secondly, I did not quit blogging.

Thirdly, your emails?  They touched me.  Inappropriately.  They made me take my top off and they touched me.  It was very uplifting.

On to your questions:

Jill Pilgrim, why did you stop posting?

Short prison sentence.  Which may or may not be related to the male prostitute ring that I was running.  And those prostitutes may or may not have dressed as bananas, koala bears, and hamburgers.

Did Ben finally escape from the basement and exact his revenge?

No, Ben is still safely chained to the radiator.

But, no, seriously, what happened?

Two words.  Legal action.  One more word.  Landlord.  Three last words.  Nervous fucking breakdown.

You may remember that I moved recently.  You may also remember that shortly after moving Ben and I discovered that our place was infested with bats.  And mice.  And red squirrels.  Oh, and there’s arsenic in the water.  Three times the legal limit.

So um, yeah.  Not good.  Not good at all.  Its been a crazy few weeks.  Weeks filled with me making public scenes <- Seriously.  There was the time that I accosted my landlord, chasing her into another tenant’s apartment.  She was trying to escape me.  Because I was screaming at her about the water.  And, um, I had a video camera.  <- That shit totally happened.

And there was the time that we had a tenant meeting.  And I brought a tape recorder and yelled a lot.  And then my tape recorder was taken away by my landlord’s husband.  Who is also her lawyer.  He put my tape recorder in the freezer.  <- No, really.  That shit totally happened.  In real life.  He couldn’t figure out how to turn my tape recorder off, and he didn’t trust me to turn it off, so he put it in the freezer.

So many water tests, health inspectors, exterminators, lawyers, and tears later, its finally over.  Our landlord officially, in writing, released us from our lease yesterday.  And it was GLORIOUS.

So, um, I’m back.  Hopefully I have not been kicked out of your reader.  In order to win back your trust and to show you that I’m serious about making this work, I’m going suggest we go to couple’s counseling.  At my church.  Where Jesus lives.