buymymoustache.com.

this is so fucking ridiculous, i don't even know what to say about it. but it's made me laugh on four separate occasions today, so that's a plus. check it out.

and, dan, look, you're #6 on the "things i did while sporting my moustache" list. isn't it great to be part of americana?

Master of None took first place at last night's installment of the Emergenza Festival. One more show left (at the Metro, no less) and then the boys are off to Germany. I'm so freaking proud of my good friend Dan and his awesome band. If only there was some way I could attach myself to his coat-tails and hitch a ride to Germany with them. I'd offer to be a roadie, but we all know how that would turn out: Worst Roadie Ever.

I'm glad I went last night. I had a fabulous time, and I felt like I was part of something big. I hope it's the foreshadowing of greatness for the band and not just indigestion as usual.

i think i have a problem with drinking alone. last night, i had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and chris was at work. so i thought, "i'll have a glass of wine, do some cleaning, and maybe read a little." one bottle of wine later, and i was stumbling through our place, making a mess by trying to grind a bunch of coffee beans despite the fact that i did not want any coffee, and then listening to an old elvis costello cd while writing a letter (which i will not be mailing) to one of my old teachers. "i couldn't believe the size of your tumor," i wrote her, because it had been about twenty pounds, "but then i saw this special on the discovery channel featuring a hundred pound tumor, and now i'm sorry that i doubted you."

i woke up this morning feeling like the world's biggest alcoholic. i checked my cell phone to see that i had completely missed four phone calls. i checked the washing machine to discover that i had put in my clothes with the intention to wash them, but then had forgotten to turn the damn machine on. i couldn't remember falling asleep the night before, but i could remember how i had asked chris if he had an eye patch i could borrow due to the severe double vision. i remember making the choice to drink white wine instead of red because i wanted to avoid the inevitable staining of my lips and teeth when i drink more than a couple glasses of red. see, i had known i wouldn't have just one glass of wine.

well, this can't be good. do you think i have a problem? perhaps if i had more friends, i wouldn't have to drink alone. or, perhaps if i had a hobby and maybe a little restraint, drinking alone wouldn't be an issue.

Look!

For the love of God, do not buy it. I don't make any money off of it, and, frankly, it's not that good. I can email it to you if you want to read it. I actually wrote this last year, but for those that did read it, I changed the ending because the other ending was piss poor. This ending is also piss poor, but at least it's different.

I just think it's cool seeing a book with my name on it, even if it's just a self-published, 42 page book. And even if it's a name I still don't quite consider "mine." Partially, the only reason I did it was a "dry-run" for when Mary's cookbook is ready to be printed. Partially, the other reason I did it was a masturbation of sorts. But, as I warned before, do not buy it.

Maybe one day I'll have a real book for sale. Until then, this is it, folks.

The worst is when you're in a public bathroom, you bend slightly to line the seat with toilet paper, and your sunglasses go kerplunk straight into the toilet. And on top of losing your favorite sunglasses, you're also forced to switch stalls.

my sister burned a cd for me. the artist is named sia, and i am so taken by this cd that it has become the current soundtrack to my life. you may know the song "breathe me" from that movie "derailed," and, yes, while that song is what you might call "hauntingly beautiful," i think you should refrain from further comment before you get the whole cd. holy christ. thank you, little sister.

i'm trying to remember the last time i was this obsessed with a cd. it's hard. i went through my obligatory tori phase in high school, and "little earthquakes" certainly made the cut. but what else? let me think.

(thinking)

jeff buckley, grace - this cd helped me through an impossibly hard break-up. maybe now that i'm married, i'll never have to go through that feeling ever again. at least the catholic church has assured that i won't, so that should count for something. but it's comforting to know that should i need it, "lover, you should have come over" and "last good-bye" will always be there for me.

aimee mann, bachelor number two- carole and i used to suspect each other of actually being aimee mann. that's how much her lyrics meant to us. and still do, sweetheart, still do.

elvis costello, brutal youth- i listened to "sulky girl" on repeat for about two years straight. and one night, when a particularly handsome classmate called me sultry for no apparent reason, of course i misheard and thought he said "sulky." either way, for the time, it was a compliment. this whole cd reminds me of rain and of driving alone around orland park, looking for a way to occupy my time. i always ended up at borders. which makes me wonder why i didn't become friends with rachel first.

the smiths, singles- i listened to this cd non-stop when i was in the process of moving out of my parents' house- that long, three month process. i didn't sleep at all during those three months. looking back, i don't know if it was out of anticipation or fear. i had no idea what awaited me with chris. it was such a big transition period for me, the girl who had never lived away from home, had spent the last four years at what she thought was the greatest job in the world. there really was a line that i crossed on the morning that i left. one day when i'm feeling more poetic, i'll write about it. "because it's not my home, it's their home, and i'm welcome no more...."

pearl jam, ten- as obligatory as tori, at least for those of us born in the year of our lord, 1980. i only saw them in concert once, with a ragtag group of guys who bought me beer and politely laughed at my jokes. one of them complimented my shoes, my hideous orange DKNY's. this one was to later ask me out the same weekend chris did. i made a choice. i suppose i stand by it- despite the fact that chris would have made fun of those orange DKNY's had he ever had a chance to see me in them.

more than anything, this cd reminds me of going to columbia. and hating it.

u2, pop- this cd reminds me of mike. i suppose i can write about mike since i'm sure he'll never find this blog. mike liked me. i mean, he really liked me. and a part of me liked him back, even though he was not exactly the kind of guy i thought i could ever call my boyfriend. he was sweet, oh how he was sweet, but he was- he was something that i knew i didn't want. i've never had a boy try so hard for me, ever, even to this day. and i know i was somewhat horrible to him, for whatever reason that only a psychologist can help me uncover, but- i couldn't help it. sometimes when i think of mike, which is rarely, i feel so fucking sad. and so awful. and i question him. why me? did you see how much of a bitch i was to you? did you see how i used you as a pick-me-up on low-self-esteem days? i'm sorry, mike. i've never been more sorry about anything else, ever before.

and that's the truth.

i think this is the point in the blog entry where i end things.

How come nothing interesting ever happens whenever I go to the zoo?

Bear kills and eats monkey as horrified visitors stand helpless.

Get THIS.

So, I go into my second job tonight, the one in which I have not even worked a full 40 hours at in this current year and the one in which I am already grossly overpaid for since they still kept me at management level pay when I went back. AND I open my paycheck and it's twice what it should be. So I notice that my boss put me in for four hours of vacation time. Vacation time? How did I earn vacation time when I'm hardly ever there? Then I look at my hourly rate and am stunned. I also somehow got a raise in the past month. All this for the kind of employee who gives discounts out like there's no tomorrow. Or like there is a tomorrow, but one in which everybody needs dirt cheap glasses for otherwise the aliens will have the upper hand.

So I'm getting vacation pay and raises for a job that barely qualifies as a job and is more an excuse to take advantage of the complimentary contact lenses and have a good laugh at everybody else's expense. I guess there's no way I can quit now. Or ever bad-mouth that company again.

Ah, well. I suppose another 40 hours spread out over the next five months won't kill me. Until they find out that they've confused me with somebody who actually works there. I wonder if I'll get paid for Memorial Day.

Didn't visit my mother yesterday because I saw them last week and will see them next week for Marcia's graduation. Plus, I was feeling poopy. So, of course, I called her. It's the least a daughter can do- probably the very least.

"Hi, Dad, it's Jackie. I just called to talk to Mom."

"Okay, hold on." Muffled noises, and then, "Nancy. It's Jackie. I told you."

He told her? Did they have a conversation that morning sounding something like this?

"She's not going to call."

"Of course she'll call."

"That good for nothing... She ain't going to call."

"She'll probably call."

Real nice. Am I really the kind of person whose own mother doubts she'll take a whopping five minutes out of her day to make a simple, weekend-minutes-are-free phone call? What kind of bad, lazy attitude have I conveyed of myself?

Then again, this is Nancy we're talking about. She's always been the one with the problem, not me.

Happy Mother's Day, indeed.

One of the girls at work is planning on quitting as soon as she possibly can due to the fact that she works the crappy hours- evenings and weekends. See, banker hours have gone the way of the 8-track, and while I pretty much maintain great hours, she works late during the week (until 8), late on Saturday (until 4) and all day Sunday. My main concern, of course, is that if she quits, who's going to get stuck working her hours? So, in a desperate plan in order to keep my own cushy hours, I'm trying to convince her to stay. I feign interest in every job interview she goes on and then I point out what she's going to hate about that particular job. Then I remind her of all the great things about staying at the bank, which, of course, requires a bit of exaggerating. When she tells me that other places are willing to pay her more, I say, "Ach, that's only forty extra bucks a week. You're going to spend that on gas alone just getting there." I tell her how bad it will look on her resume to switch jobs after less than a year. I tell her that she'll never find co-workers as great as us.

It's down and dirty, because I would quit if I was her, but, hey, I am not about to work nights and weekends. So I must do what I must do and continue to psychologically erode her will to leave.

I'm helping Beth write a cookbook for Mary. I'm not sure how they're going to sell it, but I've so far plagiarized from at least ten different sources, and we've barely finished the "appetizers" section.

I am very impressed by this idea. They want to sell the cookbook at a golf outing they're having in Mary's honor to raise money for the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition, and of course the proceeds will go to the NOCC as well. Not to mention, it's a fabulous way to remember someone. Laying in bed the other night, I tried to think of what my family and friends would do in my honor if I were to pass. A cookbook wouldn't make sense, clearly, but not much would. I suppose my blog entries could be printed and bound, but I would be mortified, even from beyond the grave, if I no longer had control over my audience. My parents are *not* allowed to read this.

Anyways, we're using Microsoft Publisher to create the cookbook, which, for me, is so much fun. Microsoft Publisher to Jackie is like Some Random Sword and Goblin Game to Chris.

We're different, but we're the same.

I'm going to New York in June to visit my Carole, and boy am I excited. Jessie and I are going together, and this morning I found myself thinking about how awfully convenient it is that not only have I become fantastic friends with my sister-in-law, but that she and my best friend get along famously AND that I've become good friends with HER best friend, Tara. What are the odds of this happening? I'm not sure, but I hope those two keep the crying to a minimum while we're in NY.

I suppose they can cry a little bit. What's a vacation without a few tears?

I went with Jessie to Tara's birthday gathering on Saturday night. We had dinner at a BYOB place in Lincoln Park and then hit the bars. A lot of Tara's other friends were there. I always try to imagine what the friends of my friends must be like, and then, upon meeting them, I'm always wrong. This is neither good nor bad. It just is. Maybe I should try not to form opinions and images before hand. Pre-judging always gets me in trouble.

Anyhow, I'm looking forward to New York, and also to Los Angeles, where I hope to go after a certain British girl gets her move on.

I drove straight to the DMV after work yesterday. Somehow a simple name change ended up turning into a vision and a written test. While the vision test was a breeze, I struggled with the written portion. I don't know how many feet before a turn I'm supposed to start signalling. I have no idea what to do if a tire blows out while I'm driving. To tell you the truth, I can't recall which one of these signs means "railroad crossing."

I was sweating it when I brought my test back up to "Michael," the surly test-giver. As I stood there waiting for him to grade it, I watched as he administered a vision test to an older foreign woman who clearly spoke no English. She couldn't read the English letters from left to right, of course, and so he failed her, just like that, with no remorse. The man was full of power. He took my test from me as the foreign woman shuffled away, and I watched as he marked red x's on my sheet.

"Oh, Christ," I muttered under my breath, picturing a life filled with riding my bike down the interstate to go see my parents and having to rollerblade to the grocery store while dragging along a wheel barrel. I waited for Michael to tell me to get lost and study for next time. Instead he grumbled, "One more wrong, and this would have been a failure." Then, surprisingly, he winked at me, called me honey, and told me to follow the red line to have my photo taken.

Since I'd come straight from work, I had work hair. I guess work hair really isn't that different from house hair or bar hair, but what I call work hair is a tight little bun/ knot with no hairs loose around my face. It's a stern "I can't remove these service charges" look, and it takes all of two seconds to do in the morning, which is the major draw. However, when the lady snapped my photo for my license and ID, my work hair, from the front, looked like boy hair, or no hair. My license photo now is just my unsmiling head, without hair, floating in space before a blue background. It's hideous.

Absolutely horrible.

I don't know what the policy is on changing ID's because the photo is god-awful. But part of me is afraid to show up again at the DMV, because I think my written driving test proves that I'm not fit for the road. And if I show up again, maybe they'll grab me by the arms, dump out the contents of my purse, take my license, and say, no, I can never have one again due to not knowing when to yield. Not to mention that they saw me going 40 mph in the parking lot up the down aisles and down the up ones.

I guess a horriffic license is better than no license at all.

I feel fantastic. I haven't felt this stress-free in about a year. The only minor irritation I'm experiencing is in regards to changing my name, which is becoming a bit of a logistical problem due to the totally inconvenient hours of the DMV and the Social Security Office. The Social Security Office is the worst. Monday thru Friday, 9 to 4. What the heck's that? What if you're not a retired old fart and actually have a job? Holy hell.

I guess I wouldn't quite be me unless I had something to complain about.

Saturday, we visited Jordan and Kim's beautiful new baby girl. I am always so nervous holding newborns, afraid that the slightest miscalculation on my part will result in a broken spine. Holding a baby is an art, especially in regards to holding the head. Not banging the baby against the wall as you squeeze down a crowded set of stairs is another art. It's not a bag of potatoes you're holding. It's a freaking life.

Afterwards, we headed over to Dan and Rachel's for some of Rachel's delicious home-cooking. Rachel never ceases to amaze me. Everything she makes is from scratch, but she's so casual about it. If I were making a meal from nothing but, heaven forbid, ingredients, I'd be a mess.

I'd like to strive for casual as opposed to messy. A co-worker of mine, a wonderful gentleman named Jack, observed that I am "wound tightly." "Wound tightly?" I repeated indignantly, noticing that I was clenching my jaw, tapping my foot, and completely avoiding eye contact. "Well, maybe just slightly."

Sunday was dinner at Chris' parents. Monday, I bit the bullet and ordered HBO. My evening after work was filled with three hours of Soprano episodes and a viewing of the move Rounders, which was surprisingly good. Yesterday, Beth, Mikey, and Mikey's girlfriend came over for a little while. Chris made dinner, Beth and I watched the Sopranos, and then the five of us played Taboo and Donkey Konga. All around wholesome fun. When Mikey arrived, he said, "Hello sister!" and proceeded to give me a hug. How did I respond? Did I hug him back or say, "Isn't that nice?" No. I exclaimed, "What are you, drunk?" He's never hugged me before. And I thought, after that little outburst, he'd never hug me again. Until he left. What a sweet little brother I have.

Here's to post-wedding life. May it be as casual as possible.