Sunday, December 19, 2010

Does anyone even read this ish anymore...?

Top 20 Things I L.O.V.E. About The Holiday Season
(written in sarcasm font)

  • It takes 2 pissin' hours to buy a new tube of toothpaste because apparently even Walgreens is a Christmas shopping hot spot

  • The only thing I REALLY want for Christmas already has three kids with Victoria Beckham

  • Skittish holiday drivers... skittish holiday drivers are THE BEST

  • Classic Christmas song lyric alterations sung by drop-out musical theatre majors rotating through my brain on a constant loop courtesy of stupid ass holiday marketing schemes... (see: TJ Maxx commercial)

  • The sweet, holy, effin' drama that comes with saying the phrase "Merry Christmas" to someone

  • The sweet, holy, effin' drama that comes with not saying the phrase "Merry Christmas" to someone

  • The Snuggie... it's back...('nuff said)

  • The I-Don't-Give-A-Piss-Holiday-Gift-Set... cash is a better gift than an Axe Body Spray gift set, homey, just wrap up some cash

  • The kick-ass TV series two week holiday hiatus. Like we don't need shit to watch during the holidays...

  • Shipping and Handling

  • The Old Navy Modelquins... (that's actually a year round fav of mine, but I throw it in whenever I can)

  • Stockings filled with worthless chotchkies that nearly force one's hand into taking on a life of hoarding until their next Goodwill run

  • Check-out clerks in Santa hats

  • The Trans Siberian orchestra (i.e. Working In A Doctor's Office). 
I've included one of their "hits" for your listening pleasure (reminder: this is still sarcasm font)

  • "Winter Breaks"... Where's my "winter break", bitches? I've been working my ass off here...

  • The bill juggling/present buying balancing act

  • Starbucks' Cranberry Bliss Bars... (but only because I am not a strong enough woman)

  • Hot Buttered Rum (but only because I am not a strong enough woman)

  • TBS' incessant need to air Tim Allen Christmas movies over and over and if they were SO good the first time we just HAVE to see them again and again and again... (I'm looking at you The Santa Clause 1, 2, and 3)

  • Small dogs in Christmas sweaters... okay, just dogs in sweaters period...

So Oy, Humbug... and a Happy New Year to you and yours!

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Dedicated to every notch on my bedpost...

*** If you're one of the countless fellas that I've dated, however briefly, and you are reading this... Yes, I'm talking about you. You are not the exception... you are the rule. And you are no doubt a lunatic. ***

I have the worst taste in men.

The. Worst.

It's not even up for discussion. It's not even something that someone could challenge.

There is no competition. I win... And by that I mean I lose.

I have a fundamental and unconscious need to seek out the best-looking BAT SHIT BANANA-JAMMERS within humping distance.

Now, I'm not implying, for even a second, that I am without fault when it comes to these "relationships". I am quite the complicated, cynical, hyper-emotional gal. I make PLENTY of mistakes.

I am not, however, certifiably insane... I'm just wildly attracted to those who are.

Due to this substantial gift of mine, foraging through the masses to woo the prickiest asstards in recent history, my friends and I have fashioned a checklist. A somewhat vain attempt at pre-screening my potential suitors based on the holy fuckin' train wrecks of my past.

~Jill's Deal Breaker Checklist~

If you:

  • Are a cat owner (there is something incredibly unsettling about a bachelor with cats)
  • Are my neighbor
  • Were born after 1985
  • Are a chemical dependent
  • Went to my high school
  • Are named Ryan
  • Are 5'6" or under
  • Own a Smart Car (there is no level of dignity that can be maintained getting in and out of a Smart Car)
  • Are a recreational drug user
  • Are vegan (I heart meat... and cheese)
  • Are crazy religious,
  • Crazy political,
  • Crazy
  • Have served time in prison
  • Live with your parents
  • Have a lack of motivation
  • Rock a ponytail or a mullet
  • Are a hoarder
  • Have no transportation
  • Suffer from PTSD
  • Are a friend of either of my brothers
  • Are an excessive crier
  • Say "I love you" within the first week
  • Have baby mama drama
  • Make me pay for EVERYTHING
  • Can not appreciate The Beatles or Sinatra
  • Think using words like "horny" or "pussy" is EVER a turn-on
  • Lie... especially about things like where you live or what you do with your day
  • Store dead hookers in your crawl space
  • Are a card-carrying member of The Church of Mystery and his Pick-Up Artist teachings

I often check this list to see if I've omitted anything that could be considered a non-negotiable. And every time I do, I am satisfied that the list is substantial and fairly all-encompassing. Yet, with every new fella I add to my repertoire, I find I have to tack on new and unusual deal-breakers that I didn't even know existed...

So I've devised a new list... And here be it's grand reveal...

~Jill's Deal Breaker Checklist (revised)~


  • Jill is attracted to you        

I pray that with the above revisions I might be compelled to deviate from the coveted presence of lunatics. Perhaps, inadvertently stumble upon a little enlightenment that may prevent me from accompanying them on a first date (which inevitably leads to a fifth or a twelfth or a 2 year anniversary... I'm looking at you, fish monger)

I'm not betting on success. I'm a sucker for a hot guy...

But at least now I will get to be the one to look at me and say "Told ya so". And I could always use a good gloat... even if it's at my own expense.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

I complain on Sundays...

A gaggle of gripes to satiate your craving for the bitter within me... Don't act like you're not excited...

I'm a renter.

I've been a renter for 13 years.

The mere mention of owning a house causes my asthma to flare... and I don't have asthma.

The permanence of it all, the commitment, the responsibility, the weight... it's suffocating. Home ownership is like an open flame to my fragile wings.

That said, renting is shit.

For so many reasons.

The noise, the inability to make noise, the smell of someone else in my home, the landlords that fail at everything, the monthly stack of cash that may as well be set ablaze, the overwhelming realization that when your father tells you that "you're an adult" and "you don't have a pot to piss in", he's right.

But the single worst thing about being a renter... the coup de grace... is the sex.

Certainly not the sex I'm having... or not having as it were. Rather the All Night Hump-Fest that congregates in the room directly above my once quiet, cozy, innocently sterile bed on a nightly basis. Or thrice nightly basis.

Listen, I am not a hater... I am a renter. And with that comes a responsibility.

I fully comprehend the reality of the situation. We are, in essence, strangers sharing a home. And while we have our own compartments, we are but co-inhabitants of the same dwelling.

I know that this is not all mine. I know that I do not make the rules. I know that these folks pay a substantial amount of money to keep this roof over their heads, just like me. And I understand that the act of love making is a natural and beautiful thing. In fact, I applaud the gentleman for lasting as long as he does... I am not a hater.

I am, however, a gal that needs some sleep. And the fuck factory upstairs is chronically preventing that from happening.

So to you, Upstairs Banes o' My Existence, I offer a few wee suggestions that might prevent me from setting you both on fire...

  1. Spring for some WD-40
  2. Get kinky with a Ball-Gag-For-Her
  3. Go buy a NEW fuckin' BED (pun-intended)      
  4. Hump on the kitchen counter/in the shower/at a reasonable hour
  5. Move
  6. Live on the ground floor
  7. Break up
  8. Eat shit
  9. Die
  10. Substitute my bottle of sleeping pills with a bottle of ruffies... or horse tranquilizers... or cyanide...

Any or all will suffice.

And also, God speed to you both and your healthy sexual appetite. May you never live to see the day that I find anti-gravity boots and pay it forward...

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

'Tis a thin line between "Not Enough" and "Please, shut the hell up"...

I've had a few conversations in the past few days with a few friends and a few co-workers about the evocative and magical allure of The Over~Share...

I, myself, am no stranger to the seduction of logorrhea. Scant are the times that I can answer a simple question without an accompanying anecdote or personal tale that may or may not relate. I am a talker. I talk. The sound of my own voice often annoys me. Come to think of it, I'm not altogether positive how I've managed to keep any friends throughout the years. In fact, I can say with a favorable degree of certainty that I'm a story or two away from being the neighborhood elderly with 16 shelter cats and a disconnected phone through which I jibber-jab to no one all the live long day... I won't even get trick or treaters.

This is hardly the point.

The point is that there HAS to be a line SOMEWHERE... Some societal agreement upon what we are and are not allowed to share with one another. Mostly, I'm lookin' at you COMPLETE STRANGERS.

I'm happy to nod along, feigning interest in the kitschy narrative of a pal or co-worker. I'm typically thrilled to engage in a silly allegory or third party recounting. And I expect the same courtesy be done for me. But when you and I have zero foundation on which to build upon, I request the conversation be kept to greetings and pleasantries and need-to-know info.

The line crossers are many, the details vulgar. And all induce cringe-worthy levels of awkward. But there are two major offenders that I encounter almost daily.

1) The Filter-Free-Killjoy:

  • When the answer is "If my asshole husband hadn't left me for my whore of a nanny in my third trimester, there would be" to the innocently posed question "Is there someone we can contact in case of an emergency?"

  • When the question "Why do you need to see the doctor today?" is satisfied with "I'm pretty sure I got herpes from the bartender I slept with last week. Cuz... ummm... my friend did, so I'm guessing I probably did too."
or the ever-popular completely unsolicited info-share such as
  • "Time killed my old lady last week. I'm probably next."
  • "My boyfriend and I just broke up. I put all his stuff in the street and called the police and told them he was stalking me. So I can't afford my insurance co-pay because I have to go bail him out of jail after my appointment."
  • "I've been shitting water for 3 days and I have terrible gas. And you might want to wash your hands, 'cause I have scabies"

(Actually that last one was helpful information. No harm, no foul to you, good sir)

2) The Ma'am-Are-You-Hoping-To-Lure-Me-To-Your-Boudoir-Via-An-Inappropriately-Excessive-Spattering-Of-Compliments? (usually adopted by middle-aged female former meth addicts and/or the pungently present elderly)
  •  "You're eyes are hypnotizing... and I LOVE your eye make-up! Close your eyes. How do you do that? You Are Gorgeous. Look at you. I bet you hear that all the time. I love your hair too. It's so long... blah di blah di blah di blah... 

These are just a few examples of... ya know, just a lot of information I could have gone my whole life without hearing. I'm prepared to lobby for some sort of worldwide frontal lobe information sharing filter. I haven't quite worked out the logistics, but I'm thinking a surgically implanted "invisible fence" type device that distributes an electric shock throughout the body at the inception of the Over~Share impulse.

I think it would make the socially awkward and generally apathetic folk, such as myself, much more comfortable.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Because I just can't keep my mouth shut...

I'm gettin' down to brass tacks...

I've been meaning to complain about this for a while. And yet Sunday after Sunday passes and I find myself gripeless, or out of town, or busy laying on my couch. But today I read a little post a dear friend of mine wrote called:

"A list of things you no longer have in common with your single/childless friends…and why you love them anyways."

And my inspiration returned...

Her list included things that us "single gals" do that aren't her "cup of tea"...

Things like:
  • "Watching reruns of Snapped stuffing my face with chocolate and wondering why men aren't interested in me"
  • "Listen to my single friends talk about how waking up for work at 8am is exhausting"
  • "Empathize with a friend who complains that her Audi is in the shop while I man handle a God forsaken MINI VAN!" (This one is FO SHO about me, BTW)
  • "Go to a club dressed like a street walker in an attempt to find true love"
I have a sneaking suspicion that a majority, if not all, of this list is in direct reference and/or was inspired by me and my life. And while I appreciate and celebrate the importance of artistic license, and fully understand the neccessity of exaggerating for comedy's sake, I must speak to this... On behalf of single women EVERYWHERE.

To first address the list directly, ANY WOMAN out there who watches Snapped and wonders why men aren't interested in them is straight up twisted. Snapped is about women losing their shit on the fellas they have chosen to have and to hold, 'til murder do them part. If I was the single gal that came to mind when she wrote that, I assure you that she is grossly misinformed... And also, PLENTY OF MEN ARE INTERESTED IN ME, thank you very much. Just not any men that I choose to give up my single life for.

I would also like to say that ANY WOMAN who dresses like a street walker and goes to a club in an attempt to find true love is a dumb ass. Dressing like a street walker and going to a club attracts one VERY SPECIFIC type of man and his name is Scott Peterson... or Ted Bundy... or the Delta Sigma Phi Date Rapist of the Year...

As far as complaining about being exhausted when I get up for work, yes, I do that. But not at 8am. 8am is a vacation. 8am is a Saturday after two sleeping pills IF my upstairs neighbors are on vacation. 8am is an effing cake walk. I wake up at 5:30am... and I'm an insomniac so I fall asleep at about 1... or 2... or sometimes 3:30...

She did check her facts on one thing, though. My Audi WAS in the shop. And I did bitch about it. Mostly because I was without a vehicle for a week... and because it costs an average of $2000 everytime it goes to the shop... and being a "single gal" means that I am also a "single income family"... and $2000 is a LOT of pissin' money. And might I add that buying a mini-van is a choice... I have several friends with children that have chosen against it.

But with all that said, what really sticks in my craw... what REALLY pisses me off is the insinuation by some that my life is somewhat less than those with spouses or children or both. Or that my life is "responsibilty-less". I assure you, my life is quite full. And quite lovely. And chock-mutha-effin'-full of responsibility.
And I find it offensive that I am asked to justify my choices on a regular basis, or that I am asked to not voice the frustrations that go on in my single/childless life.

I am not an old maid. I am not sad or lonely or pathetic or sitting around waiting for a man to love me.

I am very much in love.

I am in love with all the possibility and all the freedom and all the dreams I have yet to fulfill.

And I make absolutely no apologies for that.

So bite me.

It's a three for one... and you'll still feel ripped off...

I logged on today to write about Bachelor Pad... or ANTM... or the return of my one true love Vampire Diaries... but those will have to wait...

Ok, no they won't. We'll just truncate the shit out of it.

Bachelor Pad:

Everyone who wasn't in a couple was eliminated. So once again, the bullies win. I hate bullies.

The ONLY saving grace would be if the couples then had to eliminate eachother... and cause tears... and dramatic break-ups. But alas, the couples are now being eliminated together. It blows.


The new season began as they always do. The tall, skinny, ugly girls are called "high-fashion", the tall, skinny, pretty girls are called "commercial", Tyra shed her straight jacket long enough to break some already fragile anorexic hearts, and the J's were flamboyant. Let the drama commence.

The Vampire Diaries:

I don't even know what happens yet... The season premiere doesn't start for an hour and a half... but I'm so pissin' excited I can hardly contain myself.

My name is Jill. I'm 30. And I'm in love with a teenage vampire show. I am not ashamed.

...and this concludes my television reporting duties...

Now please move on to more important things... might I suggest my most recent post entitled "Because I just can't keep my mouth shut"

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

It's all fun and games until you have to name the worst boob job...

Remember in the high school yearbook how they always had that bullshit poll? And the whole senior class voted on it? And the idea was to label your classmates with baseless titles that actually matter none the day after graduation? Most Likely To Be Seen In A Dream, Most Likely To Succeed, Most Changed Since Freshman Year, Cutest Couple, Class Clown, etc...

And, in the end, all the results confirmed was the same ish we knew all four miserable years we spent together... Most Popular Cuz They Hot, Most Popular Cuz They Smart, Least Popular Freshman Year, Most Popular Cuz They Been Going Steady For A Hot Sec, Most Popular Cuz They Funny, etc...

As you may have guessed... I was voted "Most Likely To Be Completely Overlooked In The Bullshit Yearbook Poll"... but that's beside the point...

The ACTUAL point is this... Bachelor Pad turned that shit on it's head for our delicious viewing pleasure...

This week's episode had us all wondering: What IS the best way to make someone feel like piss?

And we didn't have to wait long for an answer... It came in the form of a challenge geared mostly towards public and nationally televised humiliation... aka "honesty"...

The Sluts and The Man-Whores were each given a survey to be completed confidentially. Which caused Tenley to make this face... again...

Our hosts Chris Harrison and Melissa Rycroft-Strickland then sat The Sluts on one bench and The Man-Whores on another and forced them to write down the name of who they thought received the most votes for each question... and then show their answers... to everyone...


The first Slut and first Man-Whore to guess the majority vote on four questions correctly won the challenge and received a rose...

The results:

Who do most of you believe is going to win?

  "I mean it's nice, it's flattering to hear, but it makes you wonder if you have a target on your back."

Who is your biggest enemy?

 "Of course it hurts, but, I mean, I've always been the one that was picked on."

Who is the most shallow?

 "I don't ever consider myself shallow. I don't even know what shallow really means."

Who is the dumbest?

 "It is what it is. It stinks that everyone thinks I'm dumb, and it upset me."

Who do you secretly have a crush on?

 "I almost want to lose a point if this is right..." (bullshit, bullshit, bullshit)

Who will be a bridesmaid, but never a bride?

 "I mean, just, I want that very badly, and it just was like, you know, hard to, to see someone I like put my name up as someone who would never get married" (whimper, whimper, whimper)

Who is considered to be the biggest jerk by the group?

 "I've never known so many people so full of shit in my life. I mean, I'm not a jerk."

Who has the worst boob job?

 "It's...(sob, sob) just...(sob, sob) so... (sob, sob) embarrassing (sob, sob)"

Tenley and Jesse B won.

Post emotional ass-kicking there were a lot of tears in closets and showers and basically whatever not-completely-public-but-also-not-remotely-private-enough-attention-whore-locale Sluts go to feel sorry for themselves after being called out by the very boys they spread their legs for daily...

Then there were one-on-one dates. Tenley's baby talkin', Kiptyn stalkin' dumb ass took... um... Kiptyn, obviously. I couldn't hear anything that was said on their date because I was deafened by the piercing and consonant-less nonsense that was spewing from Tenley's cram-hole. And I couldn't see anything that happened because I was struck blind by Kiptyn's ever-shine seven head and uncommonly prominent ears. What I do know is that they are an annoying as all hell made in heaven... And may this be the last we see of both of them... Please God...

Jesse B. took Peyton on his date. Which started well. And ended as most of my "relationships" do, with Peyton realizing that Jesse's dashing good looks do not make up for what a Raging Douche-Lord he is. Nor do they void out his tendency to act a damn fool circa 7th Grade Maturity Level. Therefore, Jesse B. ended his night tweeter-free, and Peyton ended hers with dignity intact...

The rose ceremony was a convoluted bitch fit, per usual... There was scheming and lying and "strategy". All of which I didn't give a shit about, I just like to see people cry.

Wes got the ax from the ladies. Mostly because he pissed off McRageaholic by calling him out in a room full of people. And if McRageaholic ain't happy, ain't nobody happy...

Krisily was the sacrificial lamb for the fellas... not for any good reason, just because Kiptyn didn't feel comfortable voting for anyone else, and the other guys can't make their own decisions with all those fake tits around, so they did as The Ears hypnotized them to do...

And as a side note... Whoever the hell named these people should be pushed in front of a bus! I would like to volunteer my services to get this done...

Seacrest, out!

Thursday, August 26, 2010

I love the smell of face rape in the morning...

I've often wondered why men think that women are crazy. I've asked my brothers. I've grilled my boyfriends. I've observed my friends.

I used to think it was because women tend to put it all out there. We don't have a lot of secrets, we don't play a lot of games. If we are fond of you, there is no question. If we think you're a raging douche nozzle, we make it clear. And I used to think that men just couldn't handle that level of honesty. Because as my research has proved time and time again, men like to shroud their opinions in veils of man-code and penis-serving gibberish.  

And listen, I'm no relationship expert...

Far far far far far far far far............. far far far from one...

Unless sheer volume of relationships graduates one to the title of "expert", and then I'm actually Sigmund Freud reincarnate... with better shoes...

I've spent several of my nearly 31 years trying to navigate that trecherous and twisted road that is "the male psyche"...

Which typically ends in a fiery explosion of some sort... and carnage... lots and lots of carnage.

Yet I continue to get behind the wheel, map to nowhere in hand, traveling down that same dangerous and uncertain path I've traveled so many times before. Swerving to hit the casualties I've left behind along the way...

Not. Crazy. At. All.

But really, my point is, I don't think most women are crazy. Or I didn't... until the birth of Reality TV...

And now I see that I've been wrong... I have been oh-so-wrong...

Men think women are crazy because these are the bitches representing us as a whole.


At first glance: A seemingly harmless, attractive, put-together lady
Thirty minutes later: Mildly delusional, and poorly disguised slut bag
One day in: Bunny boiler


At first glance: Squeaky clean jelly bean, pure hearted and wholesome, salt of the earth kinda gal
Thirty minutes later: The Nails on a Chalkboard and Screaming Toddler Chastity Quartet
One day in: I know why your husband cheated on you


At first glance: Fun, flirty, spunky, one-of-the-boys bombshell
Thirty minutes later: Borderline alcoholic
One day in: STD incubator, happy to lop of the willy of any guy who wrongs her... or just for shits...


At first glance: Sideburns
Thirty minutes later: Sideburns with a side of geriatric flamenco dancer
One day in: Sideburns with a side of geriatric flamenco dancer who will ALWAYS choose to stab a girl in the back if it means she'll get attention from a boy

Is it any wonder fellas seek out the one night stand. I'd like to give each and every one of them a badge of honor for making it to daylight let alone calling the next day. And to the men I say, I'm sorry. I was wrong. And I understand your fear.

Episode 3 (at a glance):

The "Insiders" and "Outsiders" became the "Couples" and the "Singles"... it's hard to keep up with what the cool kids are calling themselves these days...

The challenge was a Kissing Contest... which is a nice way of saying Tongue Prostitution. Blindfolded and face raped, the girls voted David (McRageaholic) and the guys voted Peyton (Who? No, really. I'm asking.) the best kissers of the house. Roses to both.

David took Natalie and... two other girls on his date to Vegas. Halfway through the date he sent the other two back to LA and then banged Natalie all night... which apparently means that they are now in a serious and committed relationship. (It never seems to work out like that for me)...

(Thank God)...

(wink, smiley face emoticon)

Peyton took everyone else's boyfriends on her date to the racetrack (i.e. Kovacs, Kiptyn, and Jesse B.) which is the equivalent of tossing a lit match into a pile o' dry cuckoo doused with gasoline. She closed the night by PG-13ing it up with Jesse B., with some bullshit picnic ABC provided and a make-out session ala Every-Teen-Movie-Ever-Made.

Gia melted into a pile of shame and misfortune when Wes performed THE ONLY SONG WES KNOWS for her. She then got shit-face sloppy drunk, called him the Modern Day Shakespeare, and decided to be a trifling whore and "snuggle" with him all night in his bunk. She also got dumped by her boyfriend back home, but she doesn't know that yet.

In the end it was sianara to Gia for being a dumb bitch and giving Wes the rose last week and then admitting to everyone that she was trying to oust Kiptyn in an effort to "break up the couples". And bon voyage to Weatherman for being... well... Weatherman.