My $1200 stimulus rebate is showing in my checking account as pending for tomorrow. Sweet fancy Moses, it's about damn time! And while I should do something responsible with the cash, I'm thinking of blowing it on toys. Yeah, gas is nearly $4 a gallon, and I've got credit card debt. I need a new car, and I should save for the rainy day that probably isn't that far off in the future. Yeah, I know. But I'm feeling saucy, and I want some new stuff to play with.

I say "my $1200 stimulus" as if it doesn't belong to both me and the Cheese. Here's the thing about this stimulus credit. It is both of ours, very clearly. But there's this small, nagging feeling in the back of my head that if I hadn't ever told Chris about the money, he never would have known it was coming. He never would have expected it. Let's face it, Chris doesn't keep up with the news. He avoids it at all costs, and that's probably why he's a million times happier than me. And that small, nagging feeling is telling me that, maybe, just maybe, if I would have kept my mouth shut, the money could have been all mine. I could have spent $1200 on new clothes and electronics and games, and I could have hid my spoils in the closet and the poor bastard never would have know. Mine, all freaking mine. But, alas, it is indeed ours. And we have to agree to a spending (or saving) plan together, and that, my friends, is why I should never have mentioned this rebate in the first place.

Does this make me a bad person?

Anyway, the economy is very clearly in the toilet, and since there's nothing any of us can really do about it, I figure we might as well have a little fun before we have to sell our cars and try to find jobs within walking distance. This is going to pose a pretty big problem when that day arrives. The only place within walking distance is the gas station, and if I have to work there, I will probably die from the irony. So I say live for today. It's all we've got.

Today, I caught a man looking at my boobs. Not once, not twice, but three times. Three unmistakable looks at my boobs. This has never happened to me before. Thus, I was so thrown off-guard that I didn't get to use the phrase that I've been waiting years to use. I didn't get to shout out "I'm up here!" while pointing at my eyes because I was panic-stricken, I was shell-shocked, I was blindsided by an occurrence as rare as Comcast issuing a credit.

I thought about this situation for several minutes. Then, I found myself in the bathroom. The first thing that caught my eye when I looked into the mirror was my left boob. While getting ready for the day, I had managed to not only smear white deodorant all over the boob-al area of my shirt, but also raspberry yogurt. I was disgusting, I was a mess. This guy, he wasn't checking out my boob. He was calculating the odds of someone smearing the perfect storm of deodorant and raspberry so neatly over such a tiny, avoidable area.

Happy Bring Your Daughter To Work Day!

Several things.

First of all, I'm a little peeved that my dad didn't invite me down to the BP plant in Naperville for the day. It would have been great, Dad. Somebody could have explained to me why gas prices are so dang high, and then we could have taken one of your famous three hour lunches in search of the best tacos and cleanest Radioshacks the western suburbs have to offer. Note to my dad's boss: I think the three hour taco hunt was a one time occurrence, and, truth be told, we haven't been inside a Radioshack in at least a decade. Who shops at Radioshack anymore? How are those crapholes even around these days? Whenever I walk past one in the mall, I just feel sad for the lonely cashiers sitting inside. I just feel sad.

Second of all, one of the tellers brought her daughter to work today. If not for her, I wouldn't even have known that it was Bring Your Daughter To Work Day. But, boy, was it pretty cute to see this eight year old girl- in the most adorable pink party dress- sitting behind the teller window actually counting out cash and running transactions on the computers. Dollars to doughnuts, this girl learned more today than she would have learned at school. She definitely had more fun. It's so interesting how "grown up work" is absolutely thrilling to a child. Just wait, cute little girl. Just wait. It sucks. Big time. But, this girl was digging it, and I loved it. Although, I was a little pissed when I asked the daughter to call DHL for me, and she flat out refused. What the heck? You think YOU can refuse a demand from ME? I'm the officer in the bank, sweetheart. You're just the eight year old running bank transactions and violating only three million different privacy and child labor laws. Next year, you are calling DHL. You are also conducting my title closing and coordinating my collateral assignments while I go on a three hour taco lunch with my Dad.

Honestly, it was the most heartwarming thing I ever saw.

It got me thinking about one day possibly bringing a daughter of my own to work with me. What would a daughter have thought of me today, I wondered, had she been sitting next to me the whole day?

Probably:

Mom is so fricking crabby!

That doesn't look like a work related website.

How do any of these papers have absolutely any bearing at all on the real world?

Mom sure has a lot of stuff under her desk. Is that the entire series of Six Feet Under, ten VC Andrews books, a Christmas candle, three Tupperware bowls, AND a box of crackers down there?

Can I have some crackers?

What do you mean they're two years old?

Can I watch Six Feet Under?

What do you mean not until I'm nine?

Mom is nice to people on the phone! Why is she so dang mean to Dad?

Oh, she's nice on the phone, but then she swears when she hangs up.

Her handwriting is a thousand times worse than mine.

No way in hell I'm calling DHL!

Happy Earth Day! Or, as some ignoramus at work today said, "Isn't today 'Green Planet Day' or something?"

I've committed to doing my part to green-ify my life as much as possible. I had a long, torrid love affair with the Styrofoam coffee cups at work (how can you not love cups you can doodle on?), but me and Styrofoam, we broke up, like, weeks ago. Also, I'm going to finally get a tote for my groceries. The tote had a tree-hugging, weirdo vibe to it for a while (at least for me personally), but now I'm embracing it. Also, that blue bin with the circular arrows on it that came with my house? The one I'm supposed to put paper, plastic, aluminum cans, and glass into? Well, I've taken my various painting supplies and hammers OUT of this bin, and guess what I'm actually putting into it. Paper! Plastic! And glass! Note: We don't drink out of cans in my house, we're not barbarians.* And although I'm relatively new to this whole recycling thing (I come from the school of apartment living where nobody hands out blue bins and if you ask the garbage man what to do with your wine bottles, he gives you a funny look and points to the ground), I think it's going well so far. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be SORTING the stuff I put into this mystical blue bin, but so far, the recycling man has dutifully taken my stuff with nary a word nor a written warning. So, golden, right?

I'm jazzed about new Enviro-Jackie. True, I've been on the swirly light bulb kick for a while, I've been anti-SUV for as long as forever, and I'm a regular bible thumper when it comes to admonishing people on buying bottled water for no good reason, but this? This is something. Welcome to the revolution. Welcome to Green Planet Day, every day.

*Okay, occasionally, I have a six pack of Dr. Thunder or Meijer Root Beer (in the cute little 8 oz cans!) in my fridge, but that's neither here nor there. Next time I actually have pop, I will most likely, probably, remember to recycle those cans. I promise? Oh, and I forgot Red Bull. But, actually, at Aldi, it's called Red Thunder. It's a third of the price and tastes as much like Red Bull as Dr. Thunder tastes like Dr. Pepper. I promise!

A Good Point to Remember:

Setting: Bedroom, 6 A.M.

Jackie: Happy anniversary!

Chris: Happy anniversary! How does it feel to have been married to me for two years?

Jackie: Eh, could be worse.

Chris (threateningly): And don't you forget that. IT COULD ALWAYS BE WORSE.

I'm turning into a news junkie, which is unfortunate since popular psychiatry states that one of the keys to being happy is avoiding the news. Other keys to being happy include getting plenty of sleep each night (nope), maintaining a healthy diet (my personal nutritional pyramid consists mostly of cheese and grease), being married (this makes little to no sense), and exercising (ha!). Thus, except for the mysterious "marriage" element, the ingredients to personal happiness are largely, if not entirely, missing from my life. This should explain an awful lot- except for the fact that, lately, I've been feeling happier. I'm partial to believing that it's the spring weather that has me feeling chipper- which, all things considered, also makes no sense as I tend not to like being outside. The lack of electrical outlets in the great outdoors is really a deal breaker for me.

Oh well, whatever. Despite all of my complaining, I'm generally easy to please. I have a stack of library books, a couple of good Netflix DVDs, endless bottles of wine (almost as endless as what I am now referring to as the Lake Geneva Weekend Nine), a new game site Chris introduced me to (I keep earning badges, and while I can't do anything with the badges, the fact that I have them- albeit digitally- is tickling me pink), and a kitchen arsenal fresh from a monster grocery trip. Tonight, it will either be salmon, roasted potatoes, and Caesar salad or a buttered English muffin. The choices are seemingly endless!

Also, I just completed the first part of another freelance writing job that I procured, and, based on the exclamation points and the word "love," I'm feeling pretty good about getting more jobs from this marketing company in the future. In my wildest fantasies, the company takes me on full time as a writer and pays me extremely well to sit at home and write from the comfort of my living room. I am wearing my robe in this fantasy, of course, and the television is tuned to "daytime smut" for a little background ambiance.

I'm sure this won't happen. But to wear my robe while working? Lord. I wonder what would happen if I wore my robe to my current job. I bet I'd be sent home with the gentle option to "take as long as I need" until I came back. Hmm, may not be a bad way to go.

This weekend, Chris and I are celebrating two years of marriage. Unbelievable. We're going to a nice French restaurant, with an actual chef from France, with a menu that changes nightly based on what is fresh. I love it. Next year, for three years, we may do Applebee's.

Aimee Mann- Thirty One Today

I've been listening to Aimee Mann's latest (new album this summer!) on repeat every morning on the way to work and every evening on the way back home. She's back, and I love this song. The Silver Fox almost can't wait to turn 31 in three and a half years.

"Magnolia," my introduction to Aimee, came out when I was maybe 18, maybe 19. Maybe 17. Can't remember, to be honest with you. But what I do remember is:

Not at all liking the movie.

Lots of frogs.

Thinking that the movie was insanely long for no good reason.

And, of course, that I loved the music. I went out and bought the soundtrack, and "Save Me" was my first true love. My "repeat" button was invented for, and only for, "Save Me, " for long car drives in the rain and the kind of romantic, lingering depression that only the young and full of life are truly capable of.

Aimee Mann- Save Me

Brings me back, it does. Sigh.

I found my first grey hair yesterday. It's long and prominent and ridiculously silver. In fact, I told Chris that from now on he has to call me The Silver Fox.

Part of me is appalled at the sighting of this grey hair that's sprouted from the crown of my head. However, the other part of me is somewhat elated at the silvering. Sure, I'm getting old, blah, blah, blah. But the grey hair just means I've "arrived." That this is the beginning of the end, and the fact that the light is almost visible is somehow, strangely, thrilling.

I'm planning on compiling some short stories and "essays" in a self-published (Lulu or Cafe Press, perhaps) book. I hope to have this done by the summer, and it's a project that is keeping me alive. I'm tentatively calling the book "Fire and Spit," but if another set of words present themselves to me before I'm done, then I'm willing to negotiate. With myself. Hopefully, I'll win. Anyway, I don't expect anyone to even buy this book, but it's something that I want for posterity, so that when I'm on my deathbed my future children can thumb through the book and say, "Well, at least she did something. Even if it was a bust."

I'm working on a short story now, and writing this particular story is one of the few times that the ending has come to me in a beautiful, dreamlike manner. Usually, endings are where I am weakest. I always think I have something to say, and then I get to the end and get stumped. Then they lived happily ever after... until they realized it was the butler... The end! This time is different. And this dreamlike story is making me feel good again.

So, wish me luck on "Fire and Spit" or "Doughnuts and Poop" or "The Mysterious Third Nipple of Bobby McSlobby." Wish me lots.

My mother has combined prescription drugs with frugality, and it's a sad combination. She only takes her anti-depressants once every four days. They are supposed to be taken daily, but a one month supply cost forty dollars. The solution, to Nancy, was plain as day. The only problem, of course, is that she's now more fucked up than ever. A telephone conversation with my mother is a train wreck. Even more so than before. And as if the telephone conversations weren't terrible enough, imagine spending an afternoon with the woman who stretches a one month supply of badly needed meds into four long months- into an entire third of the year. Everyone who has come into contact with her has offered to donate the forty dollars to the cause. But, no, she won't have none of that. She's beating the system, you see. Bringing down Big Medicine, one pill at a time, once every four horrible days.

The Frugal Duchess of Crazytown rides again. This is the woman who once wore two different shoes at the same time because each inverse shoe had worn out separately, somehow, and she was left with one perfectly good right shoe and one perfectly good left shoe. They looked close enough, and so she went with it. Two different shoes. One set of feet. Like many stories involving my mother, I wish that I was making this up.

I think that she may be the sole reason that I have delayed my housewarming party for so long. I picture my boss, my neighbors, Chris' family, whoever, being stuck at the same table as my mentally lopsided mother- who, I'd like to note, has taken to traveling without a bra under her white T-shirts- and having to listen to her endless tirades about how she keeps getting "Jewed" out of things. That's her racist thing, not mine, and I by no means condone the use of that awful, slangy verb. Nonetheless, she doesn't seem to think it's a problem to tell strangers about getting "Jewed" out of everything from a parking space to the good heads of lettuce at the grocery store to whatever else. She's the only person that I've ever really heard to use that term so freely- and use it freely, she does. Thus, you can see why I don't need to be introducing her around at a housewarming party.

Of course, my mother thinks that she is paying the Jewish faith a compliment when she uses that term. She is saying, "That guy was smarter than me, and he saved some money/time/space/whatever, and here I am spending forty dollars every four months on pills that I'm not sure I really even need like some kind of sucker!" Which brings me back to the prescription. For those of you who are unsure, let me tell it to you straight. If you need to take a little something something to stabilize your mood, don't do it in the most unstable manner possible. It will only make your condition worse. A million times worse. And next thing you know, it's Christmas 2007, and you're sitting at the holiday table wearing a weight vest, a crooked, too-tiny Santa hat, and two different gym shoes. Your red lipstick will be all over the place, and the eyebrows that you thought you so carefully penciled in earlier in the day will be nowhere near the mark. Eyebrows in the middle of your forehead. And let's even repeat the awful, tear-inducing sentences that will fall from your brain to your mouth without the remote appearance of having first been filtered by a sense of sanity.

I felt sick all last week, due mostly to problems of the female persuasion. Sometimes, I despise being a woman; the fourth week of every month, I feel like I become an entirely different person altogether. Last week, the problems were mostly physical, and I ended the week being even more sedentary than usual. I read Christopher Pike's latest adult novel "Falling" in record time. If you know me at all, you know that I worship Pike's YA novels, and "Falling" was a great new story in a familiar, much beloved voice. How I adore that man.

I also watched "Bottle Rocket," which I've shamefully never seen. To be granted Pike's words and Anderson's sense of style. One can only continue to dream, I suppose.

We did go out to the Hawks' game on Sunday night. Chris will attest that I was crabby and full of complaints. I was uncomfortable in my coat, crammed into my little chair next to a real Chatty Cathy while I tried to juggle a beer, my purse, and a basket a fries. Sunday was one of those nights when the kindness of strangers really irritated me, when a few friendly comments from the Chatty Cathy (Chatty Charles, I suppose) to my left drove me absolutely nuts. Shut up, I wanted to tell him and his d-bag son. I'm not here to make friends. I'm not even here to watch the game. I don't know WHY I'm here. To eat six dollar french fries, I suppose.

By the end of the evening, I was managing to enjoy myself, though. I don't like or understand most sports, but I've developed a small amount of fondness for hockey. I'm attracted to the combination of ice skates and blood, of banged up boys with bad teeth and fights over only God knows what. Oh, and the game itself, I suppose.

Last night, Chris and I went back to the United Center for the Bulls' game. This time it was a little different; we had box seats with a private bar and buffet. Swanky, right? And I was in a better mood, probably because I had a place to hang my coat and the beef sandwiches were free. Basketball is another game that I understand. But the players usually have nicer teeth and tend not to fight as much. So, you know- basketball is cool, but hockey's obviously cooler.

Oh boy.

She and her husband also have cut back on eating out and no longer peruse
Wal-Mart, Best Buy or other retailers looking for DVDs, clothing or things
for the house. Still, she is holding on to one luxury — her Starbucks white
chocolate mochas — "even though, when I really stop to think about it, I pay
more for a cup of coffee than I do for a gallon of milk."

I keep reading articles like this. One minute, a person is bitching and complaining that their grocery bill is an extra ten bucks each week, and the next minute they're saying, "We can barely afford the two mortgages on our house and our SUV payments!" What? There was a perfect example the other day of some idiot out in California who had gone from making $70,000 per year and was now on food stamps. She blew through her "savings" in less than one month. Then she says something about her fully mortgaged $900,000 home, which she had bought in the last few years with no down payment. Excuse me? Argh!

That's another thing that gets my goat. All these lenders being forced to take full responsibility for the sub-prime loans and borrowers WHO SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER are basically without blame. Hello! If you don't have money, DON'T BUY A HOUSE.

I feel like people who do things the right away are going to be punished by the idiots in the world. All of these borrowers will get bailed out, and who do you think will eventually pay for that, either in the values of their own homes, their ability to borrow, or straight out of their pockets somehow? Me. You.

And it's not like I'm not being affected by higher gas and food. I don't like it any better than the rest of you. But, guess what. An extra hundred a month isn't going to break me. I can spend an extra hundred and just subconsciously make up for it along the way- without even really thinking about it. We've never been in the habit of spending every dollar that we make in a month. And it's not because we make a whole lot of dollars.