Chris and I baby-sat last night for little Elliana. Things went well, but not perfectly. She didn't want to eat, she didn't want to sleep, and changing her diaper took the two of us, double-teaming it up, ten full minutes. But last night, she helped me witness something very beautiful and endearing. Chris will be an excellent father one day. He was wonderful with Elliana- totally natural, totally comfortable, totally unbelievable. My dad keeps telling me that I did a good job when I "picked out" Chris. Things like this make me think he might be right. Now I just have to teach him to use a vacuum.

I found a new show on television that I'm greatly enjoying: TLC's "Dinner Takes All." Five strangers each throw a dinner party for each other during the course of a week. They're rated on food, presentation, and entertainment, and the winner gets a thousand dollars. Watching the show enables me to pretend that I'm at a party, but without all of the bothersome socializing. The only problem, though, is that they rate each other. You can see the problem with this. To ensure a win, the only thing you have to do is lowball all of your ratings for the other contestants. I believe the parties should be judged by an impartial panel of judges. The judges probably wouldn't have to actually interact at the parties, so I may write a letter volunteering to be one. Judges get to drink, right?

And now, for your entertainment, a history of my Google searches:

• Dom Deluise
• a slurry
• better posture
  
• bonus code partypoker
• bubble bobble
• bundt
• business account involuntary dissolution
• chicken potato mushroom
• chicken potato skillet
  
• children painkiller
• dyeable shoes
• finding change
• finding change on the street
• finding money
• free shit
• hawaii five-oh
• how not to nervous blind date
• how to jump a car
• induce menstruation
• kid painkiller
• mint car cure
• natural painkiller
• number one most popular answer
• ponderosa
• poop on you
• richest cities
• sore throat cough
• stroger is a crook
• stuff to put in menu bar
  
• things to do
• tips for being confident
  
• what to wear to work
• why is my period late
• wicked music super cheap

My "fight or flight" instinct is kicking in, and I have to say, I don't know if any "fight" is in me. Anybody who knows me, even on just a surface level, knows that I do not handle stress very well. I'm thinking of changing Under My Thumb's tagline from "One Woman's Search For The Perfect Sandwich" to "Jackie- Poorly Handling Minor Problems Since 1980."

I think I'd like to be a stay at home mother. Except without any kids.

My demeanor has changed drastically in the last few weeks. In a lot of ways, I'm out of control, making loud and inappropriate comments that often involve the use of a cuss word or the mention of a cocktail. This change has also been present in my wardrobe, which has quickly denigrated to mismatched pieces that appear, to the untrained eye, to be clean. My bitching has hit an all-time high. Even my handwriting- already "barely legible" at best- has spiraled out of control into totally unreadable, frantic black scratches. I've been snapping more. And my patience- which was already worn thin from years of "poorly handling minor problems"- has completely disappeared.

I'm afraid to look in the mirror for fear of seeing wrinkles or an unnaturally crazed look in my eyes. Which, by the way, are completely red and irritated from a bad batch of free contact lenses.

On a different topic, Patti and I are planning a trip to Philadelphia in November. I don't know what the hell we're going to do out there, but I have to go somewhere, anywhere, before the end of the year just to get away from things for a bit. I hear there's cheesesteak and a big bell and a statue of Rocky. As long as Philly has bars, we'll probably find plenty to do. We would have liked to go to Vegas, but I think Chris would have gotten jealous. But Philadelphia- I think he'll probably be fine with that.

Oh, and there's also cream cheese. Score.

I asked Chris the other day why he loved me. "Just give me one reason," I begged as we navigated 294 to my cousin's going away party (held at a midget bar, by the way- I didn't even know such travesties existed). "Any reason will do."

He hemmed and hawed, as was to be expected, finally giving me the half-assed answer I knew was coming. Funny, cute, and nice. What. The. Hell. Is. That? Funny, cute, and nice. As generic as generic is. Not to mention that I'm not a fan of the word "cute" after reading Cute, Quaint, Hungry, and Romantic: The Aesthetics of Consumerism by Daniel Harris. And nice? The DHL guy is nice- that doesn't necessarily make him marriage material. Especially because my particular DHL man seems to have a bathing problem.

That was the best answer I could get out of the Cheese, though, and then I ran the whole thing past my good friend Patti, who makes the after-work hour so very delightful with her homespun blend of margaritas and sass. "Get THIS," Patti said, waving her hands. "I asked R. what the best part of our wedding was, and do you know what he said??"

"I can only imagine!" I cried, stabbing my hot wing with a knife.

"The best part of our wedding," Patti began, "According to R., was 'seeing our friends and family all together having a good time.'"

"No, he didn't!" I exclaimed, snapping my fingers in that way the daytime television guests have. "The nerve!"

"I know!"

Men. So unbelievably generic. DETAILS! That's what we're looking for, me and Patti and every other woman in the universe. The best part of a wedding is when your uncle falls asleep in his soup, or when the groom gets on the stage for no apparent reason to sing a rousing rendition of "Johnny B. Goode." Not all that friends and family bullshit. And you love me because I make you see the world in some new and unique way, and because I wear four socks at the same time and because I rub my own butt while I dance. Not because I'm nice and funny and cute. Jack-ass.

But then I thought, why do I love the Cheese? Was my answer to my own question as horribly generic as his? And the answer to the question about the question was a resounding NOT SO MUCH. Here is why I love the cheese:

Because he's shy, not cocky. Because he reprimands me when I make fun of people for no good reason. Because he's humble, not pretentious. Because he created a "spinach" beer cozy to complete his Popeye costume last Halloween. Because does things to make me laugh, even when he knows nobody else is going to. Because of the way he dices tomatoes and how he instinctively covers his wang when I burst into the bedroom while he's in the middle of dressing. Because of how he manages to deal with my mother with a two-pronged approach- one prong being subtle sarcasm while the other prong has a kid glove on it. Because of how he patiently taught me poker and spades. Because of the stories he comes up with, the way he manages to say the last thing I would ever expect to hear, because he puts up with me using a very simple this-too-shall-pass technique, because he's too good at Scrabble, and because he has such a good heart. I married him because he's like my dad, because he'll always try to be a good husband and eventually a good father, and because he can relax. Which balances me out, because relaxing seems to be my least favorite thing to do.

Maybe that's not any better than "funny, cute, and nice." But at least I've tried.

One of my customers told me about his bowel obstruction today.

I love working with people.

I decided that I know what happens to us after we die. Entire religions waste valuable moments taking stabs at what might occur after our final breath, and here I just figure it out one day after almost getting creamed by a pick-up truck. Of course, I could be entirely wrong, and, let's face it, I probably am, but the startling "vision" that I had felt so correct and comforting that I think I'm going to go with it.

Instead of just blurting it out here on my blog, I think I'm going to parlay it into something else. I thought a short story might be the way to go, but there are several problems with that. The main issue is that I know I'd end up making myself the main character in this travesty of a story, and I'm just not interesting enough to be a main character. Maybe a supporting character, or the banker to the main character, but I myself don't have a whole lot to offer as the star of the show. Any story that stars me is going to end with my character saying, "Fuck it, I'm having a bagel." That's no fun, but I can't see putting anybody else in this main character role, so fuck it, I'm having a bagel. The other issue is that a short story is not going to make a whole lot of money. And I'm kind of in it for the money.

Which is why I'm considering becoming a prophet of sorts, the kind of prophet that collects donations from people who don't have the strength to pick out their clothes in the morning. The kind of prophet that shares deep wisdom in the day time at a reasonable- but not too reasonable- cost and then retires to her secret mansion in the evening, bottle of wine in hand. I'm willing to write my own pamphlets and book my own television appearances, if that's what it takes. But I would like somebody else to do my dishes.

Chris can be my co-prophet, despite the fact that his last revelation involved a gallon of sour milk and a colossal waste of chocolate syrup.

Anyways, I can become this prophet, put up the start-up cash to make the whole thing work, share my ideas, wear some robes and... ahh, fuck it, I'm having a bagel.

But I kind of like that I almost got hit by a pick-up truck which subsequently led me to feeling mostly okay about death. I've been thinking about death too much. And I was definitely not paying attention to my surroundings that one particular day, which is why the pick-up truck driver gave me the finger instead of a genuine, somber apology.

Something tells me Chris and Jordan are not going to like this label. I know it's not a great label, but, hey, it's my first try. And getting that baby looking decent was a freaking bitch.

It's an admirable goal to speak only in palindromes, but it's not a very viable one. For example-

Star? Come Donna Melba, I'm an amiable man, no democrats!

First of all, I'm not sure what that means. Second of all, I don't know anybody named Donna or Melba, much less Donna Melba. Poor girl.

Then there's:

Suppository rot; I sop pus.

That's disgusting on at least two levels.

Otto did Bob did Otto.

Even if I did know a gay couple named Bob and Otto, I can't imagine myself saying this out loud.

My g-spot stops gym.

The whole gym just stops? And what is it about my g-spot that makes the gym stop? Does it explode? Or did my g-spot actually stop Jim? That might make a little more sense- I do know some timid Jims. But that's not a palindrome anymore, now is it?

Of course, there are some palindromes that I can easily see slipping into casual conversation. Such as:

Taco cat.

Best pet name ever. Or:

Oh, no! Don Ho!

I never got the appeal of Don Ho.

We panic in a pew.

I've actually said this before, at my wedding rehearsal. And that one time I went to church and was 99% certain that I'd parked in a tow zone.

• The abrupt changing of the seasons has been the impetus for my annual "Changing of the Seasons" cold. I would have taken a sick day, but that's not how I roll. The guilt that overcomes me from calling in sick is a far worse feeling than just dealing with my cold at work. On a side note, yesterday I was the only one sneezing, and now, today, two other people are sneezing. Whoops.
• I've decided that a change is in order in regards to my life. I think the season finale of "Six Feet Under" is mostly to blame for this. I'm 26 years old, and I'm not really doing what I want to do. Twenty-six is still young enough to START doing what I want to do, but it's just old enough where I'm also feeling like I've already wasted too much time. Now if only I could figure out what it is, exactly, that I want to do.
• Chris and Jordan are brewing beer all day long. I've never seen Chris have so much purpose in life. He woke up earlier than I did today, which never happens, and had a bounce in his step that I've only seen once, maybe twice before. I wanted to design labels for the beer, but Chris immediately vetoed that idea, mostly because he doesn't like to see me happy. Since Jordan's daughter is at home with the boys while they brew, I thought I'd name their new venture "Two Dudes and a Baby Brewing Company." The labels would include a photo of a bassinet filled with beer bottles. Or a nipple on top of a beer bottle. Highly appropriate, I think.
• I do like this weather, though, despite my cold. It's the beginning of autumn, my favorite season. Autumn is sweaters and tea and changing leaves and the end of reruns. Autumn is Halloween costumes and dark evenings. Autumn makes me feel alive. Summer drains me, winter depresses me, and spring is like an unkept promise.
• My cousin is moving to Virginia in less than two weeks with her fiancee. It's nuts, but she's so happy and excited. I envy her.
• And my parents. Oh, man, my parents. They're thinking of moving to Arkansas within the next two years, and I cannot begin to tell you how much that pisses me off. Five months ago when Chris wanted to move to California, my dad indirectly pulled the biggest guilt trip on me about how family staying together is so important, etc, etc. While I had other reasons for not wanting to go, my parents were the biggest, and ultimately the deal-breaker. This despite the fact that I can barely stand my mother on a good day. Now, out of nowhere, they're thinking of moving over ten hours away. What the heck? I guess that's what I get for... being me. I wish the timing of all of this had been different. Maybe the outcome would still be the same, but maybe not. All I can say is, watch out Arkansas. You're in for a world of hurt once my parents realize that they're stuck there with no one else but each other.

G. was trying to explain to me that he's just about ready to snap. We're sitting outside on a break, and he's fumbling for words. Finally, he says, "Do you know how you solve a rat problem?"

"Rat poisoning?" I guess.

"Well, first you have to catch one rat," G. says. "And then you sew its asshole shut."

"What?" I wasn't expecting the conversation to veer so quickly into talk of assholes. "Who would sew a rat asshole shut?"

"Somebody with a rat problem," G. replies. "You know why?"

"Just tell me already."

"If you sew a rat asshole shut," G. explains, "it will drive that particular rat nuts. And when that rat goes nuts, it'll kill all the other rats. Rat problem, solved."

I didn't know what to say. Too many questions had occurred to me all at once. G. just looked at me and shook his head, then continued, "That's how I feel at work. Like that one rat with its asshole sewn shut."

We sat in silence for a few moments. Then I told G., "I have to go."

I got eaten alive on Sunday. These are only two mosquito bites out of nine, but I kind of like how these two bites are so close together, like a husband and wife mosquito decided to feast on me at once. I don't know; there's something about my mosquito bites that never quite look like my friends' mosquito bites. Other people get little round bumps. Their bites are cute. Mine are an explosion of blood. And itchiness, we can't forget the itchiness.

These two bites are on my calf. Due to perspective, the top picture looks like I have a gigantic calf. I assure you this is not the case.

I just found out that i-Tunes offers free downloads every week. "Los Angeles" by Sugarcult is this week's song. How come Los Angeles gets to be showcased in relatively hip songs while Chicago gets stuck being "that toddlin' town?" Ah, who am I kidding, getting all uppity and offended. Like I really care.

Well, I just finished watching Six Feet Under- the last episode of the last season- and I could not possibly be any more depressed. Which is nice, I suppose.

Patti's wedding. All the details in place. Not a decorative stone left unturned. I want my next friends to get married in a VFW.

This picture is awesome. I know. But you should probably tell me anyways.

My sister told me the BEST story regarding my mother and a trip to the dollar store gone horribly, horribly wrong. It's a real winner, but I won't do it any justice on this blog since I think I'll need to act it out.

Friends With Babies

They used to party
And they used to drink
They used to not care
They used to not think

They once kept offices
In their spare rooms
Now they don't work
One only assumes

Because those old spaces
Now hold the crib
It's storage for toys
For Baby and bib

They used to go out
At least thrice a week
Now they stay in
To play hide-n-seek

And they call to talk
Of how Baby is cute
How Baby got spit up
On Daddy's new suit

You try hard to listen
And feign that you care
You buy little gifts
A rattle, a bear

But, frankly, it gets
So hard to relate
I guess that's what happens
When one gets a mate

After all, it's the rhyme
That right after marriage
Comes ever so quickly
A baby and carriage

Yet while I've succombed
To wearing a ring
I refuse to have wee ones
On my apron string

The babies of friends
Really mess up my night
We could have had fun
Having kids, what a blight

Yes, it would be nice
And it would show caring
If my friends all agreed
To stop child-bearing