Peters and Undercarriages

I'm extremely modest.  I blush saying the word penis or vagina or any version of the two and I still do the "if your hands hit below your dress hem line you are kind of skanky today" rule.


Love her or hate her, this is definitely a similarity between Zooey and me (click here and watch this short video for deeper insight)...

Pretty sure it started when I was really little and would confuse the words "bikini" and "vagina."  Like the time I went to the grocery store with my mom and yelled "Look mom, that lady's wearing her pagina in the gwocewy store!"  It's one of my mother's favorite stories and if you are a stranger on the sidewalk and talk to her for more than 4 minutes you are bound to hear it.

In every scenario our dads would consider this sense of modesty a good thing...except our dads never had to figure out how to slutify A-cups into a zookeeper or Hillary Clinton costume in college.

My modesty is no more apparent and debilitating than at my annual (and now that there's a baby on the way) monthly appointments at the lady doc.

I'll paint a mental picture for you:  The nurse comes in, tells me I need to put a robe on, I inevitably put the robe on backwards, I lay down on the freezing cold table and crinkle up that stupid paper and then freak out because I think some of my skin touched the actual table, I think about but most certainly do NOT put my legs into those terrifying stirrups until I absolutely have to and then I wait for this to happen...

Doc knocks on the door, I never know if I should say "Come in!" or "I'm naked!" or "Ready!" so I usually just mumble, she sits down in her chair and says,

"You can move down on the table a little further...keep going....ok you have about two feet to go...alright another foot...ok legs wider...wider...another 6 inches...a little bit wider."  And eventually she just gives up.

Once I'm in the correct position, I become the person who talks about everything but vaginas at the gyno.  I ask her what her Thanksgiving plans are. I ask her how her parents are doing.  I tell her about my Christmas bonus and how many pairs of socks I'm going to buy with it.

And then somehow I make it out alive.  Every single time.

So the last time I went to the doc for my monthly baby check up to hear the heartbeat, I was bound and determined to not let my modesty make me the most awkward person in my O/B's appointment calendar.  The door opens, she walks in, sits down on her stool, and I confidently pull down both my pants AND underwear.  Suck on THAT, bikini!

And you know what she says?

"Oh it's ok, you can leave those on today."

My Heroes.

I've been hearing a lot of buzz about these "inspiration boards" where people build a visual depiction of who they aspire to become, or who inspires their style or how they want to paint their kitchen.  Well I have one too.  My inspiration board is more of a "If she was a vessel for the miracle of life, I sure as hell can be too."

Here are my influences for the history books:

#1.  Snooki

#2.  Jay Cutler and Kristin Cavallari (Inspirational Couple of the Year...in this context)

#3. Rachel Zoe - only because it always looks like she's carrying a hot potato instead of her baby, but I'm sure the kid'll turn out fine.

 
#5.  Any Kardashian.  From now until the end of time.

#6.   Mariah Carey - twice.

#7.  Martha Stewart.

#8.  Keith Richards' mom.

#9.  The Trumps.

#10.  Obviously J Lo.

Lots O' Firsts

Sunday was a day of many "firsts" for me:

It was the first time I ran 26.2 miles.
It was the first time I won a medal for something that didn't involve me spelling anything.
It was the first time I used a port-o-potty 7 times in one day and still managed to pee my shorts a little.
It was the first (and last) time I used a port-o-potty 7 times in one day.
It was the first time I ate four pretzels and a banana out of some lady's Tupperware in Chinatown.

But the biggest and most exciting of those firsts was that I did all of it with a 12 week old baby in my belly! 

Some of you are probably in shock, "SHE ATE PRETZELS OUT OF A STRANGER'S BOWL WHILE SHE WAS PREGNANT?"

The other half of you are probably thinking "HOW did she become pregnant?"  And I'm 100% ok with explaining it to you but just know that it starts off with "When a man loves a woman..." and if you are anything like me when I was 10 and first heard those words, you will run out of the room bawling hysterically.

So heads up for a few more firsts coming your way in the next few months.  SPOILER ALERT:  The first time I fit into a B cup.  The first time I look down and see cankles where my ankles used to be.  The first time I shoot milk out of my boobs...the usual deeply analytical and educational material I assume you get from these posts.

Frodo Feet

Ain't nothin like a double leg amputee sitting on the corner of LaSalle and Adams broadcasting daily "SHE HAS GORGEOUS TOENAILS"  to get your buns to the nail salon.

Without this city's homeless population keeping my beauty regimen in check, I would be a troll.

I Guess You Could Call It Sporking Now.

It all began one fateful morning while spooning... 

I was taking on the traditional roll of little spoon, and my home skillet was fulfilling his manly duties as the tilted big spoon (for those who don't know, a full on spoon is when you're both laying on your side, the tilted spoon is when the big spoon is not fully on it's side).  Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, thoughts of flapjacks were dancing through our heads...and then it hit me, "what the fuck do I do with this other arm?"

Everyone knows the first arm is occupado.  You wrap that sucker over the big spoon, duh.  But the other arm? It's just hanging out there in all it's nubby glory being totally useless.  If you place it under the pillow or tuck it under your body I've heard you have to get it amputated.  If you put it straight up over your head, it gets stuck up there.  And if you try to cross it under your other arm, well then you're just uptight and shouldn't be spooning in the first place. 

Other than amputation, I can't think of a resolution so from now I'm thinking I'll just go with this cat move:



If you have any suggestions, send them my way.  It's too late for the cave people and hopefully my parents, but our children and our children's children will appreciate it some day.

No offense.

I see this poster every day, yet on this Monday morning the thought of having to do this to any of my coworkers makes me want to curl up into a ball on the couch with a jar of peanut butter, a shot of whiskey, a Real Housewives marathon and never ever ever leave.

King Size

Sarah Silverman said something like "self deprecation is another form of egoism."  True story.  But how else am I supposed to understand my monthly mail receipt of "King Size" magazine and process water cooler conversations like these:

Mail Guy:  Girl, why you workin' here?! You could be a model.

Me:  Oh thanks, that's super nice of you to say but nah, I'm good here in my cubicle.

Mail Guy: You tried it before?

Me:  Sort of, once in middle school.  They told me my hips were two inches too big and that I could get surgery to shave the bone off but my parents love me.

Mail Guy Who Really Knows How to Talk to a Woman:  Well they make those plus sized models don't they?

Me: Yes.  Yes, they definitely do make those.

Me (internally):  You sonofabitch.

I'll still drink it.

"What's your name?"

"Jordan"

"OK wait, Gordon?"

"Nope, Jordan, J.O.R.D.A.N."

"With an O?"

"Nope, with an A."

Sleep Charisma

I've always wondered what it's like to sleep with me.  Not actually WITH me, but literally NEXT to me.  I wonder what it's like to say your sweet dreams, think you're finally going to get a solid summer nights sleep, pull the covers up to your chinny chin chin, let the city sounds lull you into a peaceful slumber...and then have your world rocked by some tall broad asking if she can borrow your umbrella at 2am. 

Ask my boyfriend, it happens to him every single night.

Per his account of events, I have managed to do the following while sleeping:

#1.  Way too early in our relationship ask way too creepily "DID YOU JUST ASK IF YOU COULD POOP ON ME?"

#2.  Ask him if I was actually sleeping with George Clooney.


#3.  Attempt with all my might to flip over his dresser because I thought he was stuck under it.

#4.  Proceed to unload one of the drawers of that dresser and create a pile on the floor then wake up to learn that I had put my pajamas and underwear on inside out and backward.
 
And that's really in the past 12 months that all of that has happened.  Before then I had my hands full...
 
#1.  Yelling at new roommates to "GET THEIR SHIT OUT OF MY WAY" while pulling their suitcases (which had been neatly piled in the closet) into the middle of the bedroom.
 
#2.  Frantically trying to rescue my grandma who I thought was trapped under my bed.
 
#3.  Taking all of the clothes out of my drawers and barricading myself behind a wall of refolded clothes aligned along my bedside. 
 
#4.  At middle school sleepovers asking my friends if they saw the man hunched over in the corner and probably consequently never having another middle school sleepover.
 
The weird thing about this sleep talking phenomenon is that I'm a really mild tempered person when I'm awake.  In fact, sometimes I worry that I'm actually more charismatic in my sleep and have considered falling asleep before I go to job interviews, house parties, weddings, etc. 
 
Go see a shrink you say?  No way! I sleep like a rock and my uber-patient sleep buddy says he enjoys the entertainment (either that or he's secretly videotaping me and plans to post it on YouTube and make a bundle).  Besides, who needs a shrink when any deeply seeded issues I could possibly have I rehash and work through from the hours of 11pm to 7am free of charge.

Grim Reaper Delivery.

When my mom answers the phone and says "Soooo...have you talked to your father yet today?"  experience has shown me that I should immediately hang up the phone and dial my pop. Not necessarily because I'm terrified of the bad news that I'm about to hear, but I know that his version of whatever bad news I'm about to hear is not going to be an episode of Days of Our Lives.  My mom's delivery of bad news takes twenty minutes and a panic attack to learn that my dad is, in fact not dead (because I was could have sworn that was where the story was leading).

Yet somehow, I keep falling back into the same ole black hole of bad news delivery from my mother.  This is how the conversation goes:

Mom: "Soooo....have you talked to your father yet today?"

Me: "Umm nope, but now I think I probably need to."

Mom: "Hmmm, well, hmmm, ok.  Hmmmmmm...well, I don't want you to freak out, everything is going to be fine, but..."

And then she goes into a 30 minute story about when my sister was visiting and they were doing some yard work and they found this mole on my dad's arm and you know how your father has that dark complexion and so he doesn't wear sunscreen and I keep telling him he needs to wear that sunscreen and you hear all those horror stories about people with melanoma and you know what melanoma is right, and so Rachel and I both thought for sure he should get it checked out but you know how your father hates to go to the doctor and I also told him he should get that sleep apnea checked out because he snores, have you ever heard your father snore, I mean the house sounds like it's falling down, but he says he doesn't have time to go to all these doctor appointments right now and he's been so busy fixing the Honda, did I tell you the Honda broke down, so your father finally goes to the doctor and we've all just been on pins and needles the past couple of weeks and do you know what they did, they took a HUGE piece of his arm out, I mean HUGE, like pineapple sized and they did a biopsy, you know what a biopsy is right, I've gotten a ton of them, well it's when they take a...

Me: "MOM I KNOW WHAT A BIOPSY IS.  IS DAD ALIVE?"

Mom:  "Oh.  Fine."

Me: "Well can you just tell me?  My heart is palpitating over here."

Mom: "Well yeah, of course he's fine! Geesh."

Phew.  So then she tells me the modified version I would have loved to have heard 20 minutes ago, I hang up the phone and call my dad and this is how the conversation goes:

Me:  "Hey, you ok?  I just talked to mom and it took me a while to figure out you hadn't died in a hit and run."

Pop: "Yeah, not to worry, they just took a chunk out of my arm and we're going to monitor it closely.  They should have taken some off the other side too, make me more sculpted on both sides, like a bicep tuck."

Done and done.

SKORT!

I've been stewing over this one for a while.  After conducting face to face interviews, leading hours of thorough due diligence and observation, and even taking the personal liberty to experiment on myself with the hopes of reaching some great epiphany that I would share with the world, (or at least my German and Taiwanese readers (see last post)), I remain baffled.

Ma'am, excuse me ma'am...WHY are you wearing that running skort?

I walked into the perfectly-lit-to-make-you-look-10-pounds-thinner-and-hence-buy-more-loot dressing rooms at LuluLemon with an open mind.  Hey, maybe that extra layer of cloth will channel the wind through my legs propelling me toward the finish line a hell of a lot faster.  Maybe I'll finally be discovered by modeling scouts roaming Lake Shore Drive just looking for that one gal who can really make sweat and tears look adorbs if you put a skirt on her.  Either way, I left with a solid chuckle and my mind securely sewn shut to the idea of running in a skirt with shorts fastened underneath them.

I suppose if you want to feel real pretty while you run, then by all means put that skirt on and work it, but if you're like me and are just trying to finish a run without peeing yourself, then separated exposed stems it shall remain.

Crazy Wench Has Gone Global!

Grüße Mitmenschen!  人類同胞問候！

That's obviously "Greetings fellow humans" in German and Mandarin.

That's right, lookout world...my blog has gone global!  According to those handy weekly stats compiled by Google, there are two foreigners reading my posts over their morning frühstück (who knew that the Germans had it in 'em to make the word breakfast sound dirty...). One resides in Taiwan, the other in Germany.  Granted, the German most likely found it trying to figure out how to spell "smorgasbord" and the Taiwanese person was probably hacking into my account (JK), nevertheless, I'd like to welcome both.  And being the inclusive, open minded, and cultured person that I am (after a week riding public transit in Mexico, I think I can throw cultured in that mix), I'm so happy to be a part of intimately connecting the globe.  Maybe soon I'll be able to convince a Canadian to read it.

If you are out there my new Taiwan and German friends, please feel free to contact me as I have a couple questions for you (#1.  Why do all German men wear speedos and capris? and #2. Where is Taiwan?).
 
在你的女孩叫喊.  Höller in dein Mädchen.  (That's obviously "holler at your girl" in Mandarin and German).

The Joys of Self Diagnosis

There are two reasons why I despise going to the doctor.

#1.  I'm terrified that I will go in with heat rash and come out with a flesh-eating bacteria diagnosis

and

#2.  I'm terrified that I will go in with [what I think can only be] a flesh-eating bacteria and come out with heat rash.

That second option is served with a severe case of Ifeellikeanasshole.

Character Building Cars

I grew up in a family that drove what one might call "character-building cars." Translation: they were revolting. Whatever everyone else drove, the Hoffs chugged around in the model that was cool 10 years earlier.

First there was the Escort we drove while we lived in Kentucky. It was puke colored. Like I'm pretty sure if my dad was going anywhere, my mom would say "Hey Bill, you taking the puke car?" Of course he was.

Sadly, this car bit the dust after, during an evening commute, the drivers seatback decided to give out leaving my 6'4", 250 pound dad laying down in the front seat. Why my family of giants got the smallest car we could fit our gams into remains a mystery.

Then came "the boat." It was a white Cadillac or Chevy Oldsmobile or something. Driving this car was super convenient because now I know how to parallel park a yacht if the need ever arises.

For a while, we were driving my grandpa's old car, which I'm pretty sure was a major upgrade in our eyes...until the ceiling fabric started to come loose and my dad had to take a staple gun to it. The staples didn't stick that well so he would have to position the hanging fabric behind his head in order to drive like a real person. Grandpa was generous enough to also pass along his pee jar, which was a rusty coffee can that my little sister found rolling around in the back seat.

Shortly after these guys kicked the bucket, my parents came home and excitedly informed my sister and I that we would have the good fortune of choosing the color of our new mini van. Yay!

"Red or Blue?" my dad asked.

"Like maroon or fire engine red?" we asked.

"I don't know, it's red" my dad replied, like a dude always replies.

"Like navy blue or robins egg blue?" we asked.

"Girls, it's blue."

"Ok, fine. Blue."

Biggest. mistake. of our teenage. lives.

The first lie was that this was a mini van. It was no mini van. When I hear mini van I think Dodge Caravan, orange slices, sweet TVs that magically appear on the back of seats, me hopefully making out in the backseat with that summer camp counselor. What my parents had so proudly purchased was a Chevy Astro Van....a box on wheels. On more than one occasion I'm pretty sure I got that thing to ride on two wheels.

The second shocker was the color. Pops wasn't lying, it was most definitely blue...a blue I had never seen in my life. This blue could melt your eyelids to your pupils. If you took fifty smirfs, melted them down and threw in a bunch of toxic sparkly shit, that's what our van was covered in. To their credit, my parents did succeed in something - buying the one van on the planet that guaranteed the absensce of back seat makeouts.

To us, a car was and always will be a way to get you from point A to point B. It wasn't about status, or speed, and it sure as hell wasn't about safety, as exhibited by the top heavy Astro van. The truth is that I really wouldn't have wanted to be carted around in anything else. Some of my best memories growing up took place in these cars. They shuttled my buddies and I back and forth to many a field hockey, basketball, and softball practice. They carried my sister and I and our friends down the Taconic and back to spend weekends exploring New York City. And they toated my mom, dad, two sisters, and me and everything I owned from West Hebron, New York on a 900 mile drive to Chicago, Illinois where I started a new chapter in my life...and then vowed to stick with public transportation.

Lips...The Asian Bistro Kind Obviously.

I've always been a fan of nicknames. From 4th grade to senior year I'd look at my classmates Meatball and Doober with some serious envy of their affectionate identifiers. It is my firm believe that you know you are doing something right in life when your namesake is a ball of ground up beef and a doober, whatever a doober may be.

My nicknames, on the other hand, haven't really been anything to write home about. I usually end up with a "Jord", or "Jordie," or "Johhh-rdie" (the Midwest version of Jordie), or "Jawdie" (the Long Island version of Jordie) or "that tall broad" or "you there."

Thanks to one oddly named sushi restaurant, I finally have a SICK nickname, and I mean that in every sense of the word.

It's Lips, at your service (and you don't even want to know how badly I wanted to say "Lips, at your cervix" right there. Hey, Tina Fey didn't get famous by thinking about her mom listening to her stand up now did she?)

Here's how it happened - One second I'm walking down the street talking to a very perceptive young man and I'm saying my usual profound thoughts out loud like "Ew sick, who would name a restaurant that sells raw fish LIPS?" The next thing I know that same young man is on the phone with his mom saying "Yeah, Lips and I will be over for Easter dinner on Sunday" or introducing me to people as "Lips, this is Doober, Doober, meet Lips."

The best part about this nickname is that there is no meaning behind it and no personal reference to any lips of mine (I know not a single person reading this is going to believe that).

What I will defend to the end is that this is simply one man's successful attempt to capitalize on a humongous language barrier. How were the Lips owners supposed to know they were dealing with a bunch of pervy Americans, not one of whom thinks of the intended lips when they ask "Hey, Lips tonight?"

Sadly, Lips has closed, but I will do my best to ensure that the name lives on in full lipped glory. Now get your mind out of the gutter.

Money Tree Guilt

I'm feeling a little guilty this morning. My boss just came to my desk to tell me that she "took back my tree."

Talk about a loaded statement for a Tuesday morning.

A few months back I decided to spice up my desk, took a trip to that horticultural haven known as Ikea, and bought myself a cute little flower pot and put a money tree in it (with the hopes that a growing money tree on my desk may translate to a growing paycheck). Given my track record with fish, I should have known this was a terrible idea. I watered the tree every few weeks, then I over-watered the tree, and then I eventually stopped watering the tree because I thought I had over-watered it. But damn did it look nice for those first two weeks (see below).

Apparently it's been depressing the shit out of everyone in my office for the past month.

In their defense, it was an incredibly pathetic display of life. The leaves were crispy and brown, and the soil dried up so the poor thing slumped over all wimpy and depressed. But in my defense, I did what I thought needed to be done...give it some space, like a month of dark, dingy, space. So my co-workers "Take-Back-Jordan's-Dead-Plant Movement" must have gained enough momentum that my boss swooped in undetected, moved the plant to the living plant community located on another file cabinet where happy plants go to thrive, watered it adequately and brought that sucker back to full fruition.

It's basically my cubicle's version of Jesus' Resurrection. A true Easter miracle. And if there's one positive to come from this semi-humiliating conversation, it's that this money tree is right where it's supposed to be...about five cubicles away from me.

A thought on babies and boys

I met my boyfriend's brand spankin new baby nephew this weekend. You know how some newborns look like aliens and some look like beetles, let me tell you...this one does not. He looks like one of those adorable Anne Gedes babies they put in weird things, like corn cobs and tulips and watering cans. But way cuter. Thank god he is too young to get creeped out by some tall lady staring and making weird contorted faces at him for an afternoon.

Like pretty much anything I do in life, I rehashed the introduction and have a few concerns about my behavior. Well, mainly one concern - what did my level of drooling and oodling say about my desire to spring my own spawn? Did I drool so much that my main squeeze now thinks I want to have a nugget of my own? Am I going to have to over-dramatize my birth control intake and have him double check that I swallowed? Am I going to have to put the kibosh on my "hey look at my food baby" jokes? Should I resist the urge to say "awww!" every time I see a newborn in a newsboy cap and baby Chuck Taylor's? I don't know that I'm capable of giving all that up.

Let's face it, if you have any sort of blood pumping through your heart, it would be impossible to call this little guy anything other than adorable. So for now, and until I'm ready to have a bun in my oven (not for a few minutes if the bf or my mom is reading this), I'm going to keep living vicariously through my boyfriend's sisters and continue to encourage them to do the heavy lifting in the baby department. And I'll be right there to help drool and make the weird faces of admiration.