last night, i watched "my life without me," which is basically the kind of movie that nobody should watch alone, expecially if they're pre-menstrual. i didn't time my crying, but it had to go on for at least fifty-six minutes. this is a beautiful, sad, heartwrenching movie. it recieves the jackie award for two kleenexes up. soggy kleenexes, that is.

i have to take harriet in for an emissions test today. harriet is my car. she's lovable and scrappy, modest and dependable. she likes the same music i do, and she doesn't mind stowing away my empty fast food bags and coffee cups. she likes to go everywhere i like to go, shuddering only a little bit when i wear her out on certain days. i know she's not going to be happy to go get her emissions tested. "jackie," she'll say, "do you ever notice that all the people who work here.... are kind of scummy?"

"it's not so bad," i'll reassure her. "if you're good, maybe i'll splurge for the mid-grade gas next week."

harriet is getting old. they give her "special" oil now. really, the special oil is the same crap as the regular oil, only it costs twenty bucks more. harriet enjoys the illusion of luxury, though. she says she wants to enter her retirement in style. i'm afraid to tell her, though, that retirement won't be a gold watch and a condo in florida- it'll be the victory auto wreckers, where she'll be pillaged for parts and peed in by vagrants. which is just as well, because, being a car, it would be difficult to write out the check for the condo. never mind not having a wrist for the watch.

i didn't sleep last night. now i want to take a nap, but my mother always warned me: if i sleep now, i won't sleep later. this from a woman who sleeps all the time. now, where does she get off?

have you guys seen that pop-up ad for the marines? it basically says, "join the marines, and we'll give you an ipod." then you see two kids in capri pants dancing it up to the music that their ipods are presumably cranking out. what i want to see is these kids in uniform, overseas, scared shitless because an assload of suicide bombers are making their way up the street- in something turbo-powered. "where are your precious ipods now?" i'd shout at them. if you join the marines because of the free ipod, you're a goddamn idiot. although, i will admit, once i almost joined the army for a duffel bag. this was a duffel bag that could have fit ten, twelve heads of cabbage easy.

did you know that koalas often get chlamydia?

oh what to do,
oh, what to do.

you should read "the last man" graphic novel series. yes, you. it's funny, it's thought provoking, and one of the characters is a helper monkey. how many more reasons do you need?

plus, one of the lines is, "i've been eating so many canned peaches that i think i shat a cobbler." reading that sentence made me want to dance. the delight that filled me was too much to contain, and i nearly toppled over.

i'm tired of dreaming about high school. i do it too much, but it's never quite the high school that i remember. true, it's still roughly the same building, with roughly the same people, but last night, for instance, i was commuting from arlington heights to go to school in tinley park. i still didn't have my high school degree. i never do, and i'm always over 20.

what does the internet have to say about dreams like this?

Dreaming that you have to repeat high school, suggests that you are doubting your accomplishments and the goals that you have already completed. You feel that you may not be measuring up to the expectation of others. The dream may occur because some recent situation may have awakened old anxieties and insecurities.

great. but it's hard to doubt accomplishments when they're few and far between. also, i know i don't measure up to the expectations of others. i could be a better girlfriend, manager, writer, friend, daughter. but i'm not. this dream description mentions naught of being lazy.

Classic dream figures, drawn from the edge of our adolescent circle of friends, are likely to be symbols of aspects of our personality which we first became aware of when we projected them onto these same people back in high school. When these faces show up in our dreams, it means that these same aspects of our own character are resurfacing, and now wear the masks of these old acquaintances for purposes of recognition. Whatever we thought about those people when we knew them, is what we think about these emerging parts of our own psyche now.

i never dream of friends from high school, just people- mostly guys, ahem- that i barely knew. maybe i assigned characteristics to these people that i now have? that's odd, though- i've not once held a football.

there's something in me that fears the progress i've made since high school. i used to be shy and quiet and overly self-conscience. i didn't ever think life would be kind to me, or that anyone would see me as pretty or funny or smart; i was convinced that i'd grow into nothing and live with 400 cats and have to get money from the government since i'd have no possible way of supporting myself. i always saw myself in a floral dress with wild, grey hair and a face filled with so many wrinkles that if a drop of rain were to fall on my forehead, it would just spiral down for hours until it finally reached my neck. mind you, i imagined myself as only 30. now that i've become a person that i like, now that i know that i'm lovable and can do things i didn't think i could ever do (while still maintaining the element of lazy)- i don't think i entirely know how to deal. when will i ever know? these dreams do not occur just once in a while; they are almost serial, definitely recurring.

perhaps i've shared too much. blast it.

dear editor,

i don't necessarily agree with your stand on that one certain issue. nonetheless, i am willing to overlook our differences if you will simply publish this letter.

i don't have anything of importance or relevance to say; i just want my name in print. who am i, you ask? i'm the part-time wallflower avoiding eye contact in crowds. i'm the browser that doesn't buy. i'm the girl who speaks of big dreams but then goes home to make a sandwich and spend the evening watching four hours of "full house" reruns.

i wanted to volunteer to read to the blind, but only so i could change the endings to stories. "and then cinderella got run over by a gubernatorial candidate driving a greyhound bus." i would always use the word "gubernatorial," because i like the way it sounds.

i'm not a mean person, but i often envision my enemies getting crushed by randomly falling grand pianos. i took a vocational test once, and it told me that i should become a gardener. not that i have anything against flowers, don't get me wrong- but, well, i could never be a gardener. first of all, i really don't like mud. it gets beneath my fingernails, like mustard or pizza sauce. only not as tasty. second of all, i don't have the best track record when it come to taking care of plants. i left a potted family of, let's say peonies, outside during a rainstorm. they washed away. thirdly, you always see gardeners wearing sun hats or bonnets. i don't think either would be flattering on me.

is it wrong for me to think that the quality of my life will improve once i move into a different apartment? that's what you can do, editor- riddle me that.

jackie

friday, the cheese and i hung out with my friend john and his wife kirstin. we went to the restaurant bahama breeze, which is caribbean food brought to us by the same good people that gave us the olive garden, red lobster, and mercury in our seafood. i feel like i want to set john and dan up- not for any kind of romantic relationship, of course, but to be friends. i want john to say: "jackie? yeah, i met her through dan!" they are both artists working in less than satisfying jobs. although john knows more about bifocals.

last night, chris and i drank a bottle of wine at our favorite french bistro, and then proceeded to open a charge account at a furniture store and buy a lot of furniture. not a whole lot, mind you- just seven items. i'm sure they'll all look great in our new place, which is about a block away from the bar we ended up at later. the karaoke dj announce that it was time for the electric slide, and chris promptly jumped up and proclaimed, "okay, we're leaving."

today i worked all day, battling the forces of good, evil, and taxation without representation. well, mostly just evil. and now we're off to houlihans, which advertises "amazingly timeless food and drink." what's the difference between timeless and stale? maybe dan and the redhead will know.

i'm looking at time magazine's 100 most influential people. aside from the obvious problem of why i'm not listed, i also noticed that they grouped people into the following categories:

builders and titans
heroes and icons
leaders and revolutionaries
artists and entertainers
scientist and thinkers

alright. so there are no builders and thinkers? no leaders and artists? what about scientists and entertainers? how come there's nobody out there who mixes an acid and a base and then does a song and dance about it?

also, i'm very curious about how nicole kidman got on that list. she's influenced me to puke a few times, but, friends, does that really count?

i came across this list of the 25 most influential people in real estate. interesting to note that the two lists have not one name in common. maybe if cnn had added "brokers and closers" to their list? we'll never know.

from the country that brought us "iron chef" and the bento box, mitsubishi motors and yokoi shoichi, sumo wrestling and hello kitty, japan presents: wario world.

of course, it's been out for a while. but my love affair with wario world has just begun, and i feel like a giddy school girl on the day of homecoming. oh, what will become of this exciting new relationship? will wario (who, i just found out, has a brother named waluigi) and i become a permanent item? will i be able to convince my friends that his zig-zag mustache and habit of yelling out "have a rotten day!" are all part of the appeal? or will our love affair die like the sucker punched magons in level one? part of my aching heart fears it's inevitable; i have to return the game to blockbuster on monday morning. then what happens? will wario call? will he write? i just don't know.

i get the safe open, no problem. i set the alarm and try to get the hell out of there. the only problem is that my thumb is sore from all the nintendo i've been playing lately. attempting to turn the key with a swollen thumb is like trying to pull the sword from the stone. it takes me forever to finally get the door securely shut. i walk to my car and think, "that went well." i begin to drive away.

suddenly, i ask myself, "what's that siren noise?" i look in my rearview mirror and see that a bunch of little red and blue lights that i didn't even know my store was equipped with are flashing out of control. shit. the goddamn alarm is waking up the entire northwest suburbs. i slam my car into park and race to the door, my nintendo thumb aching as i desperately try to unlock the door. all around me, lights are flashing and sirens are blaring.

inside the phone is ringing. i punch the code into the alarm's key pad and then answer the telephone, still remembering to use the phone script. i even ask if they want to schedule an eye exam.

"this is the security dude," says the security dude, "what the hell's going on?"

my heart is pounding. "i have nintendo thumb," i blurt. "i mean... i set the alarm... off... instead of giving us thirty seconds to get the door locked, i really think you people should allow, like, ten minutes. fifteen, even."

sigh. yet another thing i have to explain to my manager, on top of why i used his toothbrush to clean the floor tiles. but who keeps their toothbrush at work?

at my aunt's 50th birthday party, we played a game where we all had to write down a memorable moment involving my aunt. she was to guess who had written it. "i've got my memorable moment," chris proclaimed, scrawling on a sheet of paper, "there's an open bar, and you're welcome to drink, but don't drink too much if you're driving." my aunt had repeated this four or five times upon our arrival to the restaurant.

his was the first memorable moment pulled, and my aunt immediately guessed, "chris?"

my mom's family always plays games like this, and my aunt rita always organizes them. i wonder if me and my sister will be like this one day, at our own sure-to-be-pitiful family parties. "my memorable moment with marcia," i will write on a sheet of paper, "is when we swore we'd never do this. and yet here we are. here we are."

my mom played her guitar. surely, she had rehearsed for the past three weeks, no less than four hours per day. my younger cousins each said something into the microphone. "i'm having fun at aunt barb's fiftieth birthday," corey said. "i can't wait until she turns sixty."

we almost bought a table set today, but we're both somewhat cheap. we almost bought a coffee table, but it was out of stock. we purchased a lamp after dropping it. looking at each other, we said, "i'm sure it's fine." if we wanted to get another one, we'd have to go up two sets of escalators. that was not going to happen.

we're going to memphis soon. i can finish off that roll of film that i started in virginia four months ago.

my sister and her boyfriend of three years have allegedly broken up. actually, my sister's just assuming they've broken up, as they got into a huge fight and now he's completely avoiding her and having his friends lie to her as to his whereabouts. she's also certain that he cheated on her. which makes me think: how could we all have been so wrong about him?

it's funny; last week, i would have said, "my sister's boyfriend? he's great! they're perfect together!" today i say, "if i see the goddamn asshole, i'm going to run him down. him and his dog." which i say despite knowing nothing about his pet status.

i feel awful for my sister, because she's the most beautiful, funny, and sweet girl in the entire world. she should never have to deal with heartache. other girls, they can deal with heartache. the olsen twins, for instance. they deserve a little heartache. why? well, why not?

i don't know what they're saying, but this is damn hysterical.

this is a great website. watch episodes.

i have to write quarterly reviews for my associates at work today. the key is to include something positive for everything negative.

"katie is horrendously rude to customers. she does, however, always smell nice. she is consistently late to work. i really liked that sweater she wore today. an opportunity for katie would be to work on her sales goals. katie has all of her teeth."

i also have to create the upcoming schedule. that's always fun. "jackie, it appears you've scheduled yourself '1:30 to 3:30' everyday."

work stresses me out a little. i've never had specific things to do before; i just kind of walked in and hung out for a few hours. now i'm writing reviews, making schedules, and yesterday i trained one of the managers for another store. a lot of my training went like this:

"they say you're suppose to do this, but i never do it.... here's another thing that's kind of important, but i don't do that either.... you won't have to worry about this because if somebody asks you about it, you can always just make up something."

i'm due for a promotion any day now.

i went to school in canada, living in a beautiful old home as opposed to just a dormitory. the subjects i studied were varied, but forgettable. what i do remember is the kinds of things i did in my beautiful old home. i made the bed neatly, tucking in the corners of the sheets. i created tasty dinners in the sunny, oversized kitchen. i pounded away at my typewriter in the den, working on my memoirs. i had the dean of students over for tea. "i'd like to attend this school again next semester," i told him, "and, of course, stay in this house."

the dean of students looked strangely like dean cain. in my head, i called him "the dean of students cain." he didn't like my tea; i noticed him pouring it out behind the sofa when i turned to butter a croissant. "why do you really want to stay here?" he asked. "it's certainly not the education you're receiving."

true. in fact, i should have been in class at that moment. intro to... something or other... 101. i shrugged, and he continued, "you could find a house like this in america, you know."

i feared that he lied. "but how can you be so sure?" i asked. "and how will i move the stove? it's heavy as sin."

"that stove belongs to the owners of this house," he said uncomfortably. "you're just a renter."

then the dean of students cain asked, "and why aren't you wearing any pants?" i looked down, saw my bare thighs, and quickly grew embarrassed.

Easter Facts

In 1953, it took 27 hours to create a Marshmallow Peep. Today it takes six minutes.

Why... what... when... why would you bother? Twenty-seven hours seems a bit extreme. If I buy a frozen pizza and I have to leave it in the oven longer than 20 minutes, I'm pissed. I can't imagine working at that factory and taking over a day to create a peep.

In Norway, reading detective novels and crime thrillers has become a popular Easter pastime.

Okayyyyy. Let me try to bend my head around this one.... I can't.

That's all the Easter Facts I have for now.

_______________________________________

I'm not a fan of holidays. There's too much pressure on holidays to be sociable. On holidays, it's hard to go to the mall. And then there's the whole dressing up bit. Unless I'm going to work, I want to wear jeans. I don't care if it is Easter or Christmas or Thanksgiving. I want to wear jeans. Period.

Last night, I ate non-imitation lobster for the very first time. It tasted a lot like the imitation lobster, only there was that cumbersome shell to deal with. I didn't get to pick my lobster out of a tank; I did, however, get to go dig up which potato I wanted. Interesting restaurant, that one was.

first, read this five part essay on buying viagra online.

then, read the rest of my blog entry.

i got chastised yesterday at work because my clothes were baggy and unironed. wrinkled, if you will. i don't know what i was thinking yesterday morning when i got dressed. it reminded me of the one time when i went to work in a sweatshirt. i got sent home that day, which was fine because i think that's what i was subconsciously aiming for. i remember feeling more mental than usual that afternoon.

now, i wasn't mental yesterday, but i still went to work looking like i'd just taken my pants and shirts (i had layered two mismatched colors, see) out from the bottom of the hamper. the doctor told me a patient made a comment about it. i wonder if that same patient made a comment about my shoes: "it looks like she wore out the leather in the front and then just colored in the worn parts with a black marker.... and then that black marker turned blue... who colors their shoes, anyways?"

today i think i look okay. my blacks don't match, though. they seldom do. my black pants are a nice shade of black, but my black shirt is more of a "jackie black," as in, it's a little faded and almost looks navy. much like the colored marker on yesterday's shoes. see, i'm tying it all together.

getting dressed can be a bitch.

i think my parents traded our in first home- a two story dump- for our second home- a one story dump- partially because i had a habit of falling down the stairs. a lot. i fell down the stairs going from my bedroom to the living room on a semi-daily basis. i think i was just always in a big hurry to get from my bedroom, where there was no tv or bologna, to the downstairs, where there was a lot of tv and bologna, and i rarely watched where i was going. thus, i did a lot of tumbling.

i also walked into walls a lot at our first house, mainly the wall right by the stairs. i ceased to worry my parents because they just got used to hearing my random "thuds" either at the base of the stairs or against that one particular wall. they'd hear a "thud" and roll their eyes, saying, "there she goes again."

"i think i really hurt my brain," i told them once, upset because they didn't seem to care that i kept walking into walls.

my dad held up a seagram's 7 bottle. "what's the number on this bottle?" he asked. "can you see it clearly?" this would help him with his prognosis of whether or not i was fine.

i exaggerated my squinting. "it's a 'Q,'" i proclaimed. "and, who are you again?"

"you're fine, go play," he said. pouting, i purposefully walked into the wall once more, and then, on accident, managed to fall *up* the stairs. "now that," my dad said to my mother, "is at least something new."

finally, an informative web page i can use!

and this whole time i thought my lucky number was 6. or 8.

What Irrational Number Are You?

You are φ Of all the irrational numbers, you are considered to be the most beautiful. Those who know you well have called you by many names, all golden. However, most people don't know you by name and probably won't even recognize you by sight, but they do like to see you. Despite your pretty face, you are by no means shallow. You are involved it many things: finance, biology, architecture, art, music, and much more. In some ways you and e are a nearly perfect match. The power and intensity of e excites you. Your lucky number is approximately 1.61803399

Shiny Lemur Straif's Blog

i can't hear the word "hearty" without thinking of soup.

this blew my mind.

then this continued to blow my mind.

my mind is blown.

a line to get tickets for the art museum snaked outside and down the steps. if we had waited in line, we would have waited for at least half an hour. we stood in the lobby wondering if it was worth it, watching as the line slowly crawled forward. "we could do something else," i suggested.

"or we could just try to walk in," dan countered.

he slipped past the security guard first. then i did, afraid to look behind me as i strode confidently forward. i didn't think chris would make it, but he did. the three of us had just thwarted the security guard at the art institute. don't you chicagoans feel safe to know that i could have walked in with a bomb in my purse and nobody would have stopped me?

also, how nice to not pay on a non-tuesday. not that my "suggested donation" would have added much to their pockets. i think they recommend you pay ten bucks. i may have thrown them ten cents. this is because, although i support the arts, i am a horribly cheap bastard. plus i'm still trying to pay off this lap top. one year later, and i've still only paid about 1/4 of what i owe. fuckers.

i need a library card. i need to go to the library.

my dad took me to the library once and said, "you can only pick out two books." knowing two books would only last me two days, i first whined about his rule and then proceeded to pick out the two thickest books i could find. i'm not sure, but i think i may have checked out the king james bible.

what kind of father *limits* the amount of reading his daughter can do? maybe if he'd have let me have three books, i would have gone to harvard.

my mother used to take me to book sales at the library. they'd have a deal: all the books you can fit in a brown paper bag for five bucks. she had an art to arranging books as to maximize the space. by the time we were done packing books into that paper bag, it weighed approximately the same as an adult human being.

there were always stickers in the children's books: please wash your hands before reading! sometimes i'd smear peanut butter onto one of the pages just to be a bitch. how dare they order me to wash my hands! what kind of slob did they think i was?

and if i was out of peanut butter: red sauce.

what does it mean when you dream about cars? when you dream that your car, driven by a girl who looks just like you, flies off a bridge and crashes into a building? what does that mean, anyways? or when you dream about being in your car, getting lost, and driving to see your boyfriend, who for some reason lives three hours away? and he calls you and tells you to "forget it and just go home?" but you're already too lost? and your car is threatening to overheat? what does it all mean?

what does it mean when you dream you're driving but then suddenly realize that your terribly myopic eyes are currently not fitted with their prescription contact lenses? and you're going too fast to stop right away, and since everything is a blur, you don't see the school children that you hit, rather you just kind of feel them?

what does it mean that once you get out of your car, the ground suddenly turns to sea? there are just floating stepping stones here and there that you can kind of hop to and from on? the water is ice cold, and if you miss a stepping stone, you know you're fucked? you get back in your car and get on the highway. what does it mean when the highway twists and turns and loop-de-loops like a racetrack for a matchbox car? and when you drive past the building that the girl who looks like you crashed into, you can still see a red stain exactly where she hit? what, i'm asking, does that red stain signify? and why does your car smell like fast food- even in your dreams?