Saturday Student Memories: Is Your Refrigerator Running?

One night while I was living in Honduras, there was a knock on my bedroom door. When I opened it, I was pleased to see my maid’s crazy, uni-browed daughter, “Carmen.” She had taken a moment out of her regular schedule of singing “Hallelujah” out back in a voice that sounded like first grade recorder players. “Teléfono,” she announced. I went downstairs and answered it.

Man: Are you Miss Jill Wagner?
Miss Jill: Yes.
Man: I am calling from the Municipality of San Pedro Sula. There have been some problems with the phone lines and the water service. What is your address?
Miss Jill: My address is ...... (Ok, that may not have been my brightest moment, but in Honduras addresses didn’t always help-it isn’t like you put it into mapquest)
Man: Have you had problems with your services?
Miss Jill: No
Man: What channel are you watching (lots of phone surveys ask that)?
Miss Jill: None
Man: I have heard that you are a foreigner. Do you have any complaints about San Pedro Sula?
Miss Jill: No.
Man: I don't believe that.
Miss Jill: Too bad-I don't.
The man starts getting nervous like he can't remember the questions that he is supposed to ask.
Man: Is it true that you sang in a concert last week at school?
Miss Jill: How do you know that?
Man: Everyone knows.
Miss Jill: Who are you?
Man: Long made up Spanish name.
Miss Jill, in English: Yeah right.

Miss Jill hangs up.

Five minutes later the phone rings. It is Baby J. To this day, I do not know how they got my phone number.

Baby J: Hey Miss Jill. How are you?
Miss Jill: Why are you calling me?
Baby J: I'm bored.
Miss Jill: Who just pretended to do a phone survey?
Baby J: I'm so offended!! How could you say that I would do such a thing?
Miss Jill: I know it wasn't you. It was a kid whose voice has changed. Get some hobbies. Have your parents sign you up for some lessons or something.
Baby J: This is my hobby.
Miss Jill: Bye

Phone rings again.
Miss Jill: Stop calling (hangs up)

Phone rings again
Miss Jill: Hello (in a man voice)
Baby J (unnerved): Who is this?
Miss Jill: Your mom (hangs up)

Phone rings again
Miss Jill: What do you want?
Lil’ M: Hello Miss. I am long Spanish name and I did the phone survey.
Miss Jill: Good job. Your parents will be really proud.
Lil’ M: The best moment of my life was when you said "Your mom" in the voice of a man.
Miss Jill: Thank you.
Lil’ M: Can I have Miss A's phone number? Miss A. was the hot counselor that all the teens had a crush on.
Miss Jill: Sure, here it is.
Lil’ M and kids in the background celebrate: Miss, you are the best!! We love you!
Miss Jill: I know

Phone rings again
Miss Jill: Hello
Baby J: Ummmm... I don't know how to tell you this, but that wasn't a real phone number.
Miss Jill: Sorry, I must have made a mistake. Here is the real one. Bye.

Phone rings again.

Miss Jill: Hello
Baby J: Miss, I don't find this to be funny.
Miss Jill: What do you mean?
Baby J: That taxi company got mad and hung up on me.
Miss Jill: Nervous laugh. Have a great night!!

Why Public Transportation is My Secret Crush/A Showdown with Miss Manners

My gentle readers, let me take you on a sensory journey. Pretend that you are around 5'1", the Shakespeare of your generation, and standing on a crowded subway. You are swimming in a sea of outstreched arms, as those around you are gripping the pole above. Then, because you are our Lilliputian heroine, imagine where your head is placed. If you guessed gently nestled in the armpit of a questionably groomed stranger, you are correct. Despite this daily inevitability, I love the subway with all my heart.

I intended to write this post about my terrible driving skills, but because someone's Facebook status said "Smile : )," I have decided to focus on the positive-the lifelong friends I have made. One morning I was minding my own business on the 3 train and the ride was particularly bumpy that day. There is only so much you can do to avoid colliding with other passengers. The train stopped at 72nd Street and the seat below me became free. Most of the time I prefer standing, so I gestured that the middle-aged lady behind me should sit there. She promptly sat down and turned to the man next to her and asked, "Have you ever noticed how all white people are rude? They just sit there crashing into you on purpose, just because they don't feel like holding on." Ok, wait a minute, a super attractive blond girl gave you that seat, last time I checked. As we rode on, her monologue's intensity grew and grew until she yelled, "White people smell like wet dog fur. Who is with me?" Ummm... from the looks that she was getting, I guessed that her revolutionary drive had hit a pothole. I finally escaped and forgot about the incident.

Two days later I found myself on the subway once again. It started getting crowded as a large group got on at 116th. And then I heard it again, "You ever heard of saying 'excuse me' when you get on the train? Do you even know how to talk like that?" I turned around and saw my friend of yesteryear facing down a very tall Dominican man. I guess that our rudeness was starting to infect the other races. He did his best to ignore her, but she kept shouting, "Repeat after me, 'excuse me ma'am." At the next stop she looked at him contemptuosly and said, "This is how you treat people." She walked over and said to me in a very affected tone, "Excuse me, miss. Could I kindly stand next to you?" I couldn't deny such aristocratic manners, so I assented, even though I was wondering if she remembered that I and all of my ethnic group were stricken with the putrid stench of wet dog fur just a few days before. I guess that the Victoria's Secret body spray was a good investment.

Lamentably, since that day, our lives have taken different paths, but I will always remember the lessons that she taught me.

Is It Tacky to Ask for a Gift Receipt?

It was the second most exciting day of the school year: the last day before Christmas break. Piles of chocolate covered cherries, boxes of Ferrero Rocher and gawdy jewelry sets covered my desk. I even had a delicious fruit cake made lovingly by one of my favorite fluffy haired students (or possibly the household help). I was walking through the school cafeteria and a somewhat lecherous man handed me a gift bag and walked away. I opened it excitedly and was ummm... surprised to see a lacey bra and panty set, in my size. I looked on the gift tag and was thrilled to see the name of one my students, a 12-year-old Cassanova. At least I wasn't the teacher who got the red thong.

I wish I could say that it was the only time that I have been blessed with such a thoughtful gift, but alas, I am often on the receiving end of similar good will. I don't know what made people think that I needed:

* From China: A journal featuring a cat sporting a tiara. The caption says, "I'm your Princess Cat, I'm Your O.K. Lover."

* From Mexico: A Virgin Mary statue inside of a glittering seashell.

* From Provo: A voodoo doll

* From Bolivia: A liter of holy water

* From Oregon: Chakra gems

* From a girl in my high school Civics Class: A Ronald Reagan calendar (Ok, not so weird, because I celebrated his birthday every year and I thought that he was Mormon until I was 7)

* From my cousin: Birthday clam juice

* From a student: A plastic meat cleaver and Jason mask. We kept giving the mask away at bridal showers, so I don't even know where it is now.

* From another student: A disguise mask, as follows:

Playing Russian Roulette with the Gene Pool or The Revolutionary Baby

Big forehead, teen acne, thin hair: I have lost the genetic lottery more than once. My sister used to say as an insult, "You don't really look like the rest of us." However, the day of my revenge has come. Due to her parentage, you would assume that my niece, Baby G., would be attracted to either Shopaholic or a Calculus textbook (my sister has a prom do' and my brother-in-law is an actuary). However, you will observe that she is clamoring for the autobiography of Che. If I never have children, I will find solace in knowing that my character traits are floating around in everyone's DNA.

HASTA LA VICTORIA SIEMPRE

A Trip to the Local Burger King

I love living in the most patriotic neighborhood in the country. Also note that the calorie counts above our 44th president's head are all in excess of 1,000.

Thanks to my roommate Alison for bringing me home this beautiful photo, even though it was probably embarassing to take.

Go Online, 2009 by Guest Blogger Cindy

Today I am pleased to introduce my friend Cindy, who will be flying across the country to meet an Eharmony match this weekend. For those of you who are interested in breaking onto the online dating scene, but are too afraid to ask, this is your moment. Because of my advancing age, people often ask me if I would turn to online dating. The answer is no. I think that you have to care that you are single to meet people online.

The Perils of Online Dating

In an effort to follow my friend Sara’s* mantra “leave no stone unturned” in the dating world, I recently gave in and joined the successful online dating site Eharmony.com. Thanks to Eharmony, this means literally no stone is being left unturned.

A little background for those of you not familiar to the way the Eharmony world works: you fill out a series of questions based on the way you see the world, and Eharmony subsequently categorizes you into a certain personality profile. Based on your responses and your preferences, you are then given “matches” that are more highly compatible with you than others.
So, every day I get a series of emails saying, “Cindy, we’d like to introduce to you to…Alex”, or Bob, or Jim, or any number of eligible bachelors out there who are supposed to be my potential soul mates.

Now, granted there are a lot of factors unknown about a person when a point and click method is all you get when deciding on something as important as your future companion, and so my own screening methods could arguably be considered a little crazy.

Screening Process 1: Grammatical Errors and Typos

Ok, this may come across as snobbish, but grammar has almost become my number 1 factor in deciding whether to communicate, or continue to communicate with my potential matches. Here are some examples of some unsuspecting men’s profiles:
First message to me:
“hi their ”
What are you passionate about?
“meditation is a great release for me it alows me to realise what it really important”
“I enjoy playig soccer”
Something you want your matches to know about you?
“I have expertice in different aras” (apparently his expertise is NOT spelling)
Nevermind the fact that Eharmony has a page of tips on how to improve your profile that states that grammatical errors and typos are a turnoff. Alright, point made.

Screening Process 2: The Transferring to a New Technological Medium

If, and this is a big IF, the person passes this initial test, we begin what Eharmony deems “open communication”, which is a fancy way of stating that I begin emailing with said match via Eharmony’s website.
The next deal breaker for me is this initial email: “So….do you have facebook?”
It’s not enough that I have an extensive profile of pictures and information about me on Eharmony. I am now being transferred to another website in which to communicate with them. Good thing I paid a membership fee to use a website, just to be transferred to a free one.

Screening Process 3: The Actual Date

Now, I can’t complain too much here because I basically look at this as an opportunity to be paid back the money I invested in online dating. I’ve been feeling particularly business minded when it comes to this stage of the dating game, and so it’s important to consider the amount of money spent on me, and the investment of my time.
Date 1: 30 dollar dinner. Investment of money in Eharmony repaid. Investment of my time worth it? Debatable.
Date 2: Same person as date 1. 20 dollar dinner. At least I’m now in the black. Investment of my time worth it? Definite no this time. Goodbye Match X.
Date 3: 130 dollars toward a plane ticket to meet Match Y. 20 dollar dinner. 10 dollar movie. Investment of my time worth it?
The verdict is still up in the air on this one.
If I actually make it to screening process 4, whatever that may be, I’ll keep you posted.

*Names have been changed to save what’s left of the dignity of those mentioned

A Little Game of Hide and Sikh

My little brother was a varsity athlete in high school and our house was constantly blitzed by toilet paper toting cheerleaders. One afternoon my mother noticed that a little Sikh boy was circling our house on his bike, mesmerized by Charmin. He stopped, stealthily grabbed a handful and rode off. She forgot about it until she drove by his house later that day. Hanging from the branch of a tree was a solitary string of stolen toilet paper.

In Which a Strange Man Encourages Miss Jill to Disrobe

Last night a homeless woman approached my roommate and me and demanded that we buy her a cup of coffee so that she would be allowed to sit inside of Starbucks. I paused and looked at the woman helplessly, thinking that I wouldn’t even spend $3+ on a drink for myself. However, it is very difficult for me to say no and I just stood there, mute. I was on the verge of giving in when my roommate grabbed my arm and forcibly extricated me from the situation. I was very grateful, because it might just be the antithesis of Mormonism to buy someone coffee on the Sabbath.

That being said, homeless people are a very large part of my life. One of my favorite homeless people is Nicotina, a woman who lives outside of City Mall in Honduras. Because she has her own Facebook fan club, I was able to obtain this photo:



Everyone says that she used to be a doctor or a lawyer who somehow ended up dreadlocked and living off of the good will of others. I gave her half of a hamburger once, so she probably does quite well for herself.

Now that I live in New York, I come in contact with Nicotina’s Yankee/Yanqui brothers and sisters on a daily basis. Two weeks ago, I was going home from church on the subway and was lucky enough to meet a sprightly little man who, for the purposes of this blog, we will call Gollum. He sprang into the subway car and immediately began to dance with a change cup in his hand. He exclaimed, “Hello everyone! I’m going to perform for y’all today. I can do it all! I speak English, I speak Spanish and even some Chinese.” Then he stood directly above an i-poded Asian girl (she looked Korean to me) and yelled “Ni hao! (hello in Chinese)” She didn’t respond, so he got even closer and rasped “Ni hao!”

After several more failed attempts at showcasing his Chinese skills, Gollum gave up and started singing. It sounded like a monotone version of this: !#@$!@#KDFJLKSADJGVDAIOSFJK#@$!L@K#$JKLADJFLKSDAJFKLJEWALKEJFLKJASDFLKJASDLKFJ and he was cracking more than a junior high boys choir.

He took a deep breath and launched into a similarly dissonant melody and started pointing to me as he sang. I was deeply touched, because it was the first time that a man has dedicated a song to me. That’s worth 50 cents. After I paid up, I was able to decipher, “Now take off all your clothes!” I gave him 50 cents for indiscernible Nelly?

The grand finale was “Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee and then he hopped out of my life as quickly as he had entered it.

I Don't Know Why I Let a Facebook Ad Freak Me Out So Much

Does anyone else have strong feelings about this?

Mi Príncipe Azul

Dear Mom,

Your ardent prayers have finally been answered, because my single years have ended. Yesterday, I was dining at my favorite Dominican restaurant when I realized that I was being watched. I looked up and saw this fine gentleman smacking his lips as I met his gaze. I tried to ignore him, but it is kind of awkward to rapidly stuff fried yucca and plantains into your face while your destiny is sighing and licking his lips.

I tried to focus, but he kept taking a swig from his beer bottle and yelling to his friends, “¡Ay, que linda es esa rubia! ( “That blond is so pretty”). He is obviously a man of unparalleled good taste and discernment, so I’m deciding to take a chance on love. I know that everyone thought that my 18-year-old sister would beat me to the altar, but sorry girl, this is my year.

Love,
Miss Jill

UPDATE: After the publishing of this post, my mom sent me a text that said "Aim higher." The wedding is off.

* Photo courtesy of Aging Stripper's discreet IPhone skills.

Left Behind: More Than Just Post-Apocalyptic Novels for Evangelicals

Yesterday as I was leaving work, I opened my desk drawer to retrieve my book. I realized with horror that the drawer was empty, except for about thirty ketchup packets and various tea bags, kindly bestowed upon me by my predecessor. The discovery was especially painful because it was my favorite book and I had found it at a used bookstore for $4.



I must have left it somewhere during my lunch break, and was unsuccessful when retracing my steps. It is my sincere hope that whoever finds it likes to read about dictatorships in the Dominican Republic.

However, there was a silver lining (I’m such an optimist!) because this experience reminded me of all the times that I left important belongings behind in public places. Although what follows will not showcase my intelligence, I have written a comprehensive list:

TOP NINE ITEMS I HAVE LEFT BEHIND (I CAN’T THINK OF TEN)

Item: Passport #1
Where I left it: Somewhere in London
Current Status: Lost forever. My repatriation was a miracle, but I hope that some Moldovan used it to live out the American dream.

Item: Passport #2
Where I left it: Shady temp agency where I saw a woman throw away a resume.
Current Status: Recovered

Item: Gloves I borrowed from someone I had known for about 22 hours.
Where I left it: Cash register at the Gap
Current Status: Recovered, but I had to beg the security guard to let me in because the doors were already closed.

Item: A signed stipulation that I was supposed to take to Court the next day.
Where I left it: Barnes and Noble magazine section.
Current Status: Recovered. I realized what I had done about two minutes into a temple session (for non-Mormons, it is a religious service where you can’t get up to leave). I had to sit there for two hours, thinking that I was going to be fired the next day. I almost started crying when they produced the manila envelope from behind the café counter.

Item: $100 bill
Where I left it: San Pedro Sula, Honduras airport
Current Status: Guess that was someone’s salary for the year

Item: Wallet
Where I left it: Movie theatre at City Mall in San Pedro Sula, Honduras
Current Status: See above

Item: Cell Phone
Where I left it: Tanner Building, BYU
Current Status: Never recovered, although I could check the voice mail from another phone and my friend had called and yelled, “Thief!” Where’s the honor code now?

Item: MasterCard Debit
Where I left it: Booth at Applebees, LaCeiba, Honduras
Current Status: Recovered, thanks to an honest employee who pursued and flagged us down in the parking lot. Good thing I’m easy to spot down there.

Item: Estee Lauder cleanser and moisturizer
Where I left it: Wendy’s counter at Metroplaza, San Pedro Sula, Honduras
Current Status: Partially recovered. I guess that the employees only wanted to keep the moisturizer for themselves.

Sign of the Times

St. Jesus Pharmacy, Washington Heights

In this era of economic uncertainty, no one's job is safe. I was horrified to discover that even Jesus has been demoted.

Saturday Student Memories: The Shut Up Lady Kid

Although I don't miss teaching, I miss teens and the funny stories that they provide. For that reason, I will dedicate every Saturday to honoring such fallen heroes. Of course, Garbage Pail Kids were off limits during my happy 80's childhood, but I have a feeling that the protagonist of the following story would be a fan. Thank to my friend Jen for editing this.

One of my most memorable students was a charming child named David, a student in my Utah Studies class. As I have never run in counter-culture anarchistic circles, I don’t have the necessary vocabulary to describe his style, but I will do my best. He had several piercings in the cartilage of his ear, and the lobe was stretched, National Geographic style, by a huge plastic circle. He was adorned by worn out black and red cloth bracelets, which were designed to tastefully accent his death metal t-shirt. Even the rubber bands on his braces were as black as coal (which is what he undoubtedly received in his Christmas stocking). His face, which may have been cute in a better world under happier circumstances, reflected the insidiousness of his demented little soul. Had he hit puberty already and grown past a diminutive 4’6”, he may have been a formidable sight to behold.

As I was lovingly teaching eager seventh graders about Utah’s illustrious past, at regular intervals, David would interject, “Shut up, Lady!” followed by a machine gun torrent of giggles. After a few weeks of listening to his endearing cries, I started calling him “The Shut Up Lady Kid.” And thanks to him, I had to fill out a detention form that stated “Student refers to teacher as a ‘fartknocker.’” Although I still don’t know the exact etymology of that word, I feel confident that there are probably more respectful forms of address.

The most peculiar thing was that the more I punished him, the more he sought my company. I think that he was sharp enough to realize that he would have to have an artillery much more powerful than “fartknocker” and “shut up” to earn my animosity. One of the reasons that middle school teaching wasn’t my long term career plan is that I am incapable of instilling fear in the hearts of children. When I think that I have lost my temper uncontrollably, no one’s feelings are hurt and no one is afraid. That year I felt bad about constantly nagging and punishing a pesky seventh grader named Paco, and I gave him so many detentions that he got suspended three times. He was so consistently disruptive that I had to send him out to the hall several times a week. Nevertheless, he stayed after school in my classroom everyday and constantly visited me between classes. One day after school he told me, “Teacher, thank you for being there for me all the time, and being nice to me even when I am annoying. I will put you a nickname: ‘La unica maestra que me soporta’ (the only teacher that puts up with me).”

I seemed to have the same affect on David, because he loved to pay me visits throughout the day. While I was teaching another class, the students would suddenly gasp in horror and I would be confused until someone finally managed to utter, “Miss Wagner! The…. Shut. Up. Lady. Kid.” I always turned around to see his punctured little face staring in through the window. As soon as he caught my attention, he would open the door, yell, “Shut up lady! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” and run away. At times his exclamations were punctuated by an obscene gesture and a snarl. Because the majority of my students were Mormon gifted talented students, the David show was the closest they would ever come to a rated-R movie, and they were overjoyed. Everyone awaited his visits with breathless anticipation and they were very rarely disappointed-he was one of those kids who is always roaming the halls because they are so rowdy that no one wants to deny them bathroom passes. Unfortunately, he never felt the urge while I was at the helm.

Another time as I was teaching, I kept hearing weird sounds coming from the heater. It sounded like a hybrid of a slowly dying dog and a novice woodwind player. Although the school dated back to “the greatest generation” and had a tendency towards weird noises, this appalling symphony was abnormal. I rambled on and on, trying to focus, but the sounds were driving me to distraction. Kids were laughing, and only the ones in the very back corner seemed to know what was happening, but they refused to share that information. Then, halfway through the period, an eerily familiar voice rang through the semi-silence of working students, finally solving the mystery of the malfunctioning heater, “Found a quarter, hehehehehehehehe!” I walked to the back of the room and found the Shut Up Lady kid gently nestled behind the heater.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, overcome by my good fortune.

“That fartknocker Mr. Garcia kicked me out of Industrial Arts.”

“Why?”

“I called him, ‘@#$@#$@#$#@$#@$#@$#@$@#$#@$@#$@#$@#$@#$#@$’ before class started and he got angry and threw me out into the hall. Hate that guy.”

“Then go out into the hall. Mr. Garcia punished you, not me.”

“No please! It is scary out there! They’ll kill me! NOOOOOOOOO”

“That would be sad. Bye.”

But of course, it was not that simple. Twenty minutes later, David was still in my classroom, eating candy contentedly after being part of a victorious review game team. He left when the bell rang. His parting words: “See you next period.”

My New Communicable Disease

Ok Overshare #2 for February 20th. I got on the subway to come home tonight and noticed that there was a little drama going down on the platform. As the doors began to close, a girl jammed her body in the opening so that the train couldn't leave. My ears were ringing so much from the constant stream of profanity that I thought that I had sustained a concussion and woken up in a junior high classroom.

The girl jamming the door pulled her friend into the train, but as the doors were closing, someone hawked a perfectly timed loogie (I had to look up that spelling on urbandictionary.com) through the crack. I watched, riveted, as it ascended in an arc above our heads. During its descent it abruptly divided and suddenly my hand felt cold and wet. Nasty, but I was not the only casualty. I looked up into the exquisite tresses of an elegant Asian girl and saw at least three inches of thick saliva. She looked at me and asked, "What was that?" I hesitated before delivering the worst news of her day.

The Whole Foods/Sterility Connection

DISCLAIMER: THIS IS NOT ACTUALLY A COMMENTARY ON WHOLE FOODS, IT IS JUST A SYMBOL OF A HEALTHY, ORGANIC LIFESTYLE

Everyday in the city I see people proudly displaying their Whole Foods bags. I look at them with envy, because my salary is the recession special and I would be just as likely to be caught carrying a Hermès bag (not the unmarked ones people are using now to hide their purchases from the angry masses). However, this was not always the case.

Back in August my roommate, her strange co-worker “Bo” and I went on a detox. It involved taking these expensive pills and eliminating all processed foods of any kind. Bo dropped out midway because he said that the detox changed his body so much that he was unable to eat a chicken sandwich from a hospital cafeteria without becoming ill. I felt terrible that he had to endure such deprivations.

I, on the other hand, was awesome at the detox. I felt like I was starving to death, yet lost no weight. To stay alive, we would go to Sweet Tomatoes and eat vegetables until we wanted to pass out, while my roommate’s sister enjoyed mac & cheese and assorted desserts right in front of us. Things were going well, until I realized that my period was 8 days late. That is where most of you will say, “Where is the problem?” However, my eggs are already rapidly aging and I have been Mormon long enough to know where my value lies. The days went on and on, without excruciating death cramps, and I didn’t know what to do.

When my co-worker started checking up with me about my “Immaculate Conception problem,” I knew that action had to be taken. As this blog contains no baby ticker, I think that you know how this ends. I came home one day, starving, and opened the fridge to see hundreds of vegetables in varying stages of freshness. I slammed the door shut and started dialing a local pizza place. In one fell swoop, I happily destroyed a month of meticulous eating and my period started again the very next morning.

Swan Song of An Aging Stripper (Happy 30th!)

I know that that sounds like the title of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez book, but it is actually a chapter of my life.

* Aging Stripper decided at some point that she had a man harem. Her roommate was Haitian and she was dating a countryman. His English was not very strong, and I struggled to understand anything that he said. One day Aging Stripper came home and said, "Guess who I saw today? 'Billy.'" The Haitian, in very heavily accented English, didn't skip a beat, "Is that the guy who wants your trash?" I directed an accusatory stare at Aging Stripper and asked, "Who is teaching this man English?" He later took the phrase "wants your trash" to his English class on idiom day and was cruelly rejected by the instructor.

* One day we had the privilege of travelling to Reynosa, a Mexican border town. In a crowded bathroom she fruitlessly pumped the soap dispenser and exclaimed with anguish, "NO HAY SOPA (THERE ISN'T SOUP)." I guess that she was right.

* Through a stunning turn of events, Aging Stripper was invited to my family reunion in Cancun. My brother, Baby T, even tagged her in the "My Family" application on Facebook. She looked around the hotel and asked, "Is it just me, or do foreigners think that things are super nice and ritzy when we just think that they are ok?" As I am not an imperialist, I just let it go. Then my dad (a foreigner) walked into the room and exclaimed, "This hotel is so sharp! Can you believe it?" He had no idea that he had walked into an ethnocentric trap.

* My weirdo cousin gave me a bottle of clam juice for my 22nd birthday. I was deeply touched by the gesture, but a little uncertain about what to do with it. Luckily Aging Stripper chugged half the bottle, unprovoked. From that day forward, my cousin referred to her as "Clam Juice Girl."

* When I came back to Utah at the end of the summer, she showed up at my house with a prom do' in my honor. I didn't realize that you could get one at a booth in the mall.

* I was eating dinner at our hotel in Cuba and saw a massive crowd of Europeans congregating out in the lobby. They seemed to be enjoying some show of sorts, so we went out to investigate. We soon discovered that Aging Stripper had joined forces with the octogenarian hotel pianist to create a musical variety show.

* However, her greatest talent is her eating prowess, hands down. It has reached such mythic proportions that I don’t even know what the true numbers are, but included are: 5.5 chocolate lava cakes, doused in whipped cream, eight filled Krispy Kreme doughnuts and ten candy bars in a two hour road trip. Feel free to add some to the comments if you know of other feats. I got really frustrated on a road trip with her because she would only stop at Dairy Queen and explained, “I’m going to eat the desserts anyway, why waste calories on real food?”

Happy Birthday, Girl!

Can We Talk About This?

Graduation Day

When I was 21 I went to my brother's football banquet and his Social Studies teacher asked, "Who is the next Wagner to enter middle school? You?" In this case "you" was me. That was the year that I made the mistake of getting a body wave, but come on!

Those days are over, however. I was standing on the train next to a group of teens, and as that is my favorite demographic, I was having a great time. I even learned a new catch phrase, "Don't let the door hit where the good Lord split." Ok, I would never say that, but it was clever for a Bronx teen. Then, one of them accidently touched my hand and said, "Oh no, I'm really sorry Ma'am." AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!! When did I graduate from "Miss" to "Ma'am?" I don't think that it is in good taste to start Botox injections during a recession, but I should get my tax return sometime next week...

Miss Jill's Myth Busters #1: BYU Admissions

“You know Mary from the ward? She got a 34 on her ACT and was valedictorian of her class, but she got rejected from BYU because she is from Utah. Can you believe that?”

No, I cannot believe that, because I worked in a division of Admissions when I was 19. Sorry friend, but at least back in those days, Mary’s application would have been accepted automatically, unless she didn’t have an ecclesiastical endorsement. Those Utah rumors exist to make people justify their rejection. In my opinion, however, it is harder to be accepted as a transfer student than a new freshman.

Although I was eventually the victim of a workforce reduction and restructuring, I loved that job. After they cut half of the staff, my friend pointed to the Director’s new desk and said, “Look, there is our replacement.” In their defense, most of the time we had nothing to do and sometimes my co-workers would sneak downstairs and prank me from a courtesy phone in the lobby. Although of course, I would never dream of doing this, I had access to everyone’s grades and could check if people’s crushes were worthy of their affection.

I also got to see some interesting things:
• A letter of recommendation from one of the Apostles that read, “I don’t actually know Applicant, but her dad is my doctor and is a very nice man.
• A letter of recommendation from a member of Congress (applicant had TERRIBLE grades) on official letterhead: “I strongly support this application, because the applicant is an outstanding young man. He also happens to be my grandson.”
• An admissions essay in which the applicant described, in poetic detail, the romantic, bacchanalian night in which she lost her virginity. That sure beats the essay template, "After being the only (or one of the only ) Mormon(s) in my school, I would love to be surrounded by people who share my same values." I can't knock it, because I probably wrote that.
• An ecclesiastical endorsement that said, “Do not admit this applicant under any circumstance. She is a member of a polygamous cult and will proselytize.”

If you take nothing else from this post, just know that if you are a Utahan applying to BYU, don’t give up hope. You don’t have to go through a more rigorous application process based on proximity to school. If that were true, wouldn’t our classmates from Provo have been embryonic Nobel Laureates?

Sometimes Homeless People Are Just The Enemies You Haven't Met Yet

I realize that I have been compulsively blogging for the last few days, but I guess if stories have to be told, it is your duty to tell them. I had kind of a rough night. The subway system is always jacked up over the weekends, because they use the time to do construction. As I entered the subway station, I excitedly saw that the train was already sitting on the 2/3 track. I ran to get in, without looking at the numbers on the train. I had faith that because it was the 2/3 track, the 2/3 train would be there. In retrospect, that exhibited naive, misguided trust in the Metropolitan Transit Authority. I boarded and started eavesdropping on a kid in a yarmulke with an Amy Winehouse vocabulary.

My spying was a fatal error in this case, however, because I didn’t notice for several stops that I was on a 1 Train, not a 2 or 3. Apparently it was running on the 2/3 track because of construction. It is not surprising that I didn’t notice, because I’m a girl who didn’t notice on two separate occasions that someone did not have an arm. I shared a hotel room with one of them for ten days and I probably didn’t notice the missing limb until Day 8. If you are uncomfortable with any aspects of your appearance, I am the person to hang out with.

To get to my house I had to backtrack to where I had started, which I took in stride. That is because I didn’t realize what I would encounter once I got on the correct train. I transferred and minded my own business this time. On entering I saw a homeless woman out cold, taking up a good portion of a fairly large bench. At first I thought that she was deceased, but eventually I could tell that she was breathing. I sat down across from her. After several moments of deep slumber, she started to shake and opened her eyes. She looked straight into my eyes and said, “Don’t make me go over there and beat you, you hear?” And then she fell back into a peaceful slumber.

Hey You! Pizza Face!

What are your feelings on naming a high fashion boutique "Acne?" We were trying to figure out if it was actually a word in a foreign language, or if we were mispronouncing it. Why would you want people to think about the horrors of their unretouched senior pics whenever they walked by your store?

I had TERRIBLE skin as a teenager, but it has calmed down to the point where I only have problems once a month. However, when I moved to Honduras I hit puberty for the second time (at 24) and my skin looked like Jessica Simpson's in the "Before" Proactiv pictures. The tropical heat and the abscence of air pollution regulations are a deadly combination, although most of my Honduran friends somehow have gorgeous skin. I knew that I had to do something, so I prescribed a round of tetracylcine (an antibiotic) for myself along with Retin-A. Honduras is light years ahead of the U.S. in that respect-the pharmacies realize the efficacy of cutting out the middleman, in this case, a trained physician.

Do You Want Some Fries with that Shake?

The other day I was walking around during my lunch break and I entered a store on 34th Street. Ok, store is a pseudonym for buying this:



As I was examining the merchandise, one of the clerks yelled, “Oh no she di’nt.” I turned around to see where she was looking and my gaze was met by a massive ghetto booty in tight jeans. A few second later, another woman walked by and the girl yelled, “Whoa, that booty gonna drag her to the ground!” As this went on for several minutes, it was obvious that these girls had found the most worthwhile way to utilize down time at work. That trumps the time that we spent a good four hours coming up with celebrity alter-egos for the entire office and someone said that I was Kathy Griffin (RUDE) and I whined about it until he took it back.

After the complete massacre of every woman walking by was complete, I said, “Wow, I’m never walking past this place again.”

Clerk, “What do you mean?”

Miss Jill: “My body image isn’t good enough for that kind of slaughter.”

The clerk was confused and did not reply.

Amor Verdadero

After receiving a delivery from 1-800-FLOWERS, one of the girls in my office was dreamily talking about how wonderful her husband is. “He does the dishes, the laundry, he cooks and now this.” The other girls looked at each other skeptically and one replied, “Uh oh. You know what that means?”
“That I have a good husband?”
“Um… no. When stuff like that happens to us Spanish girls, it’s time to hire a private investigator, because something is wrong.”
She thought for a moment. "Well, now I'm happy, but if you hear me yelling !#$!@#$ into the phone, you'll know what happened."

My Favorite Neighborhood Bistro

Sorry, this post might be a little rambling, because this is a topic I feel very emotional about.

If you are hoping to gain a lifelong enemy in the author of this blog, I have some excellent advice for you. Say, in a really patronizing tone, “There isn’t any good Mexican food in FILL IN THE BLANK WITH YOUR CITY.” My first question is, “Have you been to Mexico for longer than a Tijuana run?” They always reply, “well you know, I’m from California or I’m from Texas.” Well, you know, I’m half Mexican and the only place I’ve ever lived with a dearth of good Mexican food is San Pedro Sula. Sorry Hondurans, but every time something looks like it is going to be good, you bite into it and sample cheese that tastes like curdled radiator fluid. The all out best Mexican food is in Arizona, but you can always find something.

My next questions is, “Do you actually live in a city without this?”



Now, I might be a bit biased since this is my favorite restaurant (except the nasty excuse for a Taco Bell in Penn Station), but why the hate? Why are the cultural authenticity police always having a shakedown at the local Taco Bell? Once I was enjoying a chicken baja gordita and my revelry was cut short by this doofus at work who pointed an accusatory finger at me and proclaimed, “That isn’t authentic latin food. They would never eat that in Cuba.” He was right. One of the gravest disadvantages of living in a communist country is the lack of a Taco Bell. Furthermore, I doubt our pizza is 100% authentic Italian style, but no one ever hates on that.

Another time someone told me, “Your dad is from Mexico, how can you actually eat that?” All I have to say is that he isn’t thinking about culinary snobbery either when he is halfway through a grilled stuffed burrito. Who wouldn’t want to eat this?



I can’t believe that I am getting so upset writing about Taco Bell hate mongers, so I’d better go to bed. Just know that if you proclaim yourself an expert on Mexican cuisine, it will have the same affect upon our friendship as if you had said, "My favorite book is the Alchemist." I will leave you with the little known fact that Taco Bell relieved my sister’s morning sickness. Feel free to send me Taco Bell gift cards for my recent birthday, address available upon request.

Every Homeless Person is Just a Friend You Haven't Met Yet

I am genetically predisposed to talk to random strangers, because I have half of this man’s DNA. My dad has always been one to talk to whoever is available. Sometimes this embarrasses us on family vacations (i.e. dad, stop monologueing those Danish girls about your childhood in Mexico), but I can’t say that I’m not susceptible to the same behavior.

If you ever find yourself urgently needing to find me, try the Borders next to Madison Square Garden at 2:00 p.m. You have a 98 percent chance of finding me reading books and magazines that I am too poor to buy (hard cover biographies of first ladies and queens don’t come cheap!) Yesterday I was sitting next to the magazines perusing Reader’s Digest, when I heard, “Yeah, they just expletive deleted cut his face right off.” I looked up and saw a group of umm… less than ideally groomed men sitting with suitcases. Because I am stupid, I thought, “Oh, they must be waiting for a train (we were next to Penn Station).” I kept reading but had a hard time not listening to the profanity ridden story about the defaced man.

After a few minutes, an employee came over and told three of them, “Sirs, the general manager would like to clear this area. We are going to have to ask you to move.” One of the men replied, “We shouldn’t have to because of Obama.” The woman replied, “I’m sorry, but we are clearing the area.” A businessman, a young homeless guy with a massive suitcase and I survived the raid.

They stood up and one of them said, “This expletive deleted won’t happen for long, cause of Obama.” Then he pointed to my side of the magazine section and said, “What are you? V.I.Ps?” I just ignored him, but the homeless guy next to me replied, but I didn’t hear what he said. The expelled man said, “What’s wrong with you, brother? Ever heard of CHANGE?” My neighbor replied, “I hate Obama.” Even I gasped at that one. The exile yelled, “Well youse the only one. CHANGE! CHANGE! CHANGE!” Then he was led out by security.

Unfazed, I continued reading tips from experts about finding jobs in the current economic climate. After a few minutes, my seatmate asked, “Miss, can I commend you on something?”

Miss Jill: Of course.

Homeless Friend: You are the only woman who has been able to sit by me for more than ten minutes.

Miss Jill: What do you mean? (I always say this either to get more gossip or to buy myself some time).

Homeless Friend: Everyone sees me and runs away.

Miss Jill: Nervous laugh. Maybe you are imagining it. Most people are pretty self-conscious.
At that point I noticed that his three-inch long, dirty fingernails delicately grasped a joint.

Homeless Friend; So, you’re an intellectual?

Miss Jill: I don’t know about that.

I proceeded to talk to him for the rest of my lunch break. I learned that he came to New York from Seattle to go to film school, but dropped out, lost his job and ended up on the street. His family still thinks that everything is fine. He didn’t seem too motivated to change his situation, because the only job that he was willing to take was something in the film industry. I sagely said, “I do a job that I don’t exactly love because it’s better than the alternative.” He pointed to his suitcase and laughed and said, “I see what you mean.”

When it was time for me to return to my inspiring, intellectually stimulating job, I asked, “Is there anything that I can do to help you?” I thought about giving him a gift card that I had won at my last law firm for “whitest legs.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he told me. “I just want you to go live the best life that you can and shoot for your dreams.” I wished him luck and we went our separate ways.

Happy Birthday Jackster

To usher in Birthday Week, I would like to take this moment to pay tribute to my beautiful comrade, Dr. Jacki Lee Walker. I have many touching memories of Dr. Lee and would like to share a few with you, my Internet friends.

• When talking about her crush, “He’s the nicest guy. He always does volunteer work with kids in wheelchairs. What a minute? How can I get a wheelchair so he will talk to me?”
• She always used to stalk guys in college as a game (sorry, but this is true). I met her once in the library by periodicals and she pointed our several innocuous looking, studying girls who were actually her spies. Her most brilliant spy move occurred after struggling to find out her target’s name. A breakthrough came the day that he was studying for his religion exam. If you are a good Mormon you will know why.
• Once she threw this party that involved some super, super boring movie involving winter sports (refresh my memory on that one). She bought this super expensive gargantuan television and returned it after the party was over. The salesperson asked her why she was returning it and she replied, “Too big.”
• I went over to her house her third year of college and she announced, “I just went grocery shopping for the first time.”
• She joined the Breakdance Club at BYU and somehow I ended up at a performance in the Wilk, probably holding a sign.
• Nuestra amiga, “Quisqueya la bella.”
• I found out that she was engaged because I imed her and someone replied, “This is Jacki’s fiancée.” We are old, so that was in the B.F. era (before Facebook).


I could go on, but this is a blog about me. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

Chocoholic?

The gold image is a wrapped Godiva bar, chilling on the ground at the subway station. The featured leg in jeans belongs to a man who kept kicking it to see if there was actually chocolate inside. There was, and I'm pretty sure that if his wife was not looking at him in disgust, he would have picked it up and gone to town with it. Is there anyone besides Bethany C. who would eat this?

A Poignant Farewell

February 11, 1981-February 9, 2009

When I first moved to New York, I quickly discovered that this is not the best city/time to hunt for a job. After a few frustrating weeks, I started to wonder if the incredulous, “You moved to New York without a job?” people had a point. As news continued rolling in about massive layoffs throughout the city, I got a little nervous. But not that nervous. because I am crazy and through the grace of God my erratic decision making has never come back to haunt me. I always look back on things that I’ve done and think, “Wow. I’m surprised that I’m not dead.”

So as the fruitless job search continued my sister, Jr., advised, “My husband and I think that you can’t find a job because New York is going to be destroyed and you need to leave (See President Antichrist).” Then I did what any logical person would do: I googled “New York destroyed” and was dismayed to discover from a man who calls himself a “Modern Day Jonah” that we faced nuclear annihilation on February 9, 2009. This struck me as overwhelmingly unfair, because I just got here.

I don’t know how to insert a link, so see for yourself:
http://www.apocalypse2008-2015.com/NYC_Days_Numbered.html

If you just checked your calendars, you will realize that this is my last day to live. Should you be reading this after hearing news of my untimely demise, please know that I am in a better place now. It was better that I went quickly, because the rest of you will face untold horrors and pestilence leading up to the Apocalypse.

Goodbye. If I invited you to this blog, it means that I had no temptation to make fun of you on it, which is the highest compliment that I can give a person. I lived a good life, and it was only fitting that I spent my final days surrounded by crazy people.

Reaching Back To My European Roots

My former co-worker, "Jane," was an interesting character. One day, as she was walking past my desk, she muttered, "Get back on the cocoa box!"

"Pardon?" I asked innocently.

"Get on the cocoa box!"

"What could you possibly mean?"

"What I mean, Swiss Miss, is get back on the cocoa box where you belong."

"Ummm... that's an interesting nickname. What should I call you?"

"E.D."

I obviously watch too much CNN because I asked, "erectile dysfunction?"

"No, Swiss Miss. Ebony Dragon."

Another day my co-worker, Mormon Mom, was looking through some surveys that asked about everyone's foreign language capabilities. She became confused and asked, "Guys, umm... Jane speaks a language that I've never heard of."

I am pretty confident in my cultural knowledge, so I asked her to tell us what it was.

"Ummmmm... ebb-oh-nicks? Where do they speak that?"

"Ebb-oh-nicks? Hmmmm...." And then it came to me. She was saying Ebonics. And now I know where they speak it: it's called my street.

President Antichrist

I guess that it is my turn to talk about the historic changes going on in our country, namely the election of Barack Obama. Early in the election, I was sitting in a dream work seating arrangement, with the best coworkers of the century (teaching friends don't count because you don't sit and talk to them all day). Obama was popular with certain members of that crowd, and they were extolling his virtues for everyone within earshot. I was close to being to be won over, when another co-worker rained on their parade with some apocalyptic news. Let's call her Ana.

Ana: You all know that he's the Antichrist right?
Miss Jill: Could you please elaborate on that idea?
Ana: You know, he will form a worldwide government.
Miss Jill: Who gave you this idea?
Ana: A guy from my church. He reads the Bible a lot.
Miss Jill: Oh. Where exactly in the Bible does it say that Obama is the Antichrist?
Ana: Have you ever heard of the Book of Revelation? I'm not saying that I can stop it, but I refuse to be a part of it.

So, I became a bit concerned and googled "Obama Antichrist" and that was like discovering treasure, let me tell you. I had no idea that there was such a strong movement against the President. As I kept reading, I started getting too into the scriptures from Revelation (I wasn't seeing the connection with Obama though), and it really creeped me out. I started freaking out about the pending end of the world and started to feel the looming presence of the Antichrist in my apartment. Suddenly, the beloved dog of the house, Sam, looked outside and started barking out of control. I slammed shut the laptop, convinced that it was responsible for my feelings of impending doom. I started hyperventilating, and thoen the complex lost all electricity. I became hysterical, because it was obvoius that I was about to be murdered by Satan's minions. I called my roommate, hoping to at least make a human connection before my untimely demise. Luckily she answered from the parking lot. I fled to her car and we went to Carl's Jr. until I could calm down. I don't know if the events of that day were a sign, but if they were, I guess that I voted for the Antichrist. I even commissioned the creation of this cake for a departing coworker who will remain nameless:

Wash Hut Revisited

Ok, I really wanted a picture of the Provo Wash Hut for this post, so if someone has a pic, pass it on.

One kind of bad thing about New York is the laundry situation. After having a maid who lovingly ironed my underwear each day, hauling clothes down the street is an insurmountable hardship. I realized that the wash and fold service at the local laundromat costs about the same as doing it myself, so I left a few loads of launadry there last Friday. I returned on Saturday morning, excited to pick up my clothes. There was a man in front of me in line who made the laundromat employee, or laundress, if you will, take each item of clothing from the bag and count it in front of him. He turned to me and said, "These people were losing all of my clothes. This is the only way to do it." Cool. Then he asked for a dry cleaning item and she was unable to produce it. He replied with, "@#$#@$#$@#$!#$!#@$$@#$!#" and asked when the manager would be there next. She told him Monday and he pointed at her and snarled, "See you Monday!"

As I was paying for my clothes, eager to leave, another man ran through the door. He was holding a black sweatshirt that was covered with white bleach stains. He screamed, "Which one of you did this?" Ok, it might be time for me to get a good book and to do it myself.

For My Non-Facebook Readers

25 Amazing Facts About My Life

1. When I was born, I had a rough trip down the birth canal and I had a conehead. My parents thought that I had a deformity.

2. This is so nerdy, but I LOVE Jeopardy. He denies it, but I beat my dad at the computer game when I was 13. My friend Monica and I watched it almost everyday when we were in Honduras , but we would mute out when the contestants introduced themselves, because that part is so awkward that it makes me uncomfortable and we wanted to talk. In fact, I am watching it right now.

3. After an intense session of praying to the porcelain god (not capitalizing for obvious reasons), my eye makeup was all over my face. As I was writhing in agony on the floor, my little brother walked by, looked at my makeup and asked, “Circus in town?”

4. When I was in high school, I had a job where I changed diapers and gave enemas to disabled adults. Once I had to go home because a diarrhea blowout ended up in my hair. Every time people complain about changing baby diapers I am skeptical. KEEP READING, this is the only disgusting one, I think.

5. I was a Type A child and once in 4th grade, I forgot my homework. I started crying so hysterically that the teacher had to remove me from the room. While we were in the hall, she kept trying to figure out what was REALLY whipping me into such a frenzy. She figured that no kid would be that upset about missing homework. She was wrong.

6. My junior year my friend Stephanie and I skipped our History class (if you were in that class, you skipped it too) to go visit a teacher at another school (this is nerdy in itself).. I accidentally locked my keys in the car, while they were still in the ignition. I couldn’t call my mom to bring me the spare key for more than an hour, because I didn’t want her to know that I wasn’t in school. Good thing it only cost $9 to fill my car back then.

7. Once at a family reunion my cousin Ryan said, “Let me translate that for you” and started barking at me. I chased him, body slammed him and stuffed grass into his mouth. He aged well and is now cool and I have my anger issues under control.

8. Another time, some bullies pushed my little brother over as he was trying to learn how to skate. My sister and I became enraged and started chasing them while pelting tennis balls at their heads.

9. My cousin Brandon wanted to run for President of BYU (that idea died), and you had to be an officer of a club or something to qualify. Thus, we made up this club called “Latin Roots” to celebrate our Mexican heritage. I even got a faculty sponsor from the Spanish department. Every meeting (and I think that there were two) consisted of us eating at a Mexican restaurant with our non-latino friends.

10. I’ve been to Cuba-BYU was an accessory to that crime- and despite what Michael Moore says, I would not like to be hospitalized there (although I had a colonoscopy in Honduras, so never say never). For the dignity of everyone involved, I will omit the part where we put on Che hats and pretended to be communists.

11. My dad doesn’t like when we say this, but my mother loves fat men. Her celebrity crushes are Haus from Bonanza and Hurley from LOST.

12. I can't say no. Once when I was walking home from BYU a random girl shouted at me, "Hey you, give me a ride. I need to go pick up my food stamps." I took my roommate Anth with me for safety.

13. When I was 21 I got into an argument with a girl and shouted, “Make my day!” As soon as I said it, I knew the gravity of what I had done and said, “That is the stupidest thing I have ever said.” However, I was outdone a few days later when my friend Tiff threatened someone with, “See if you have any friends left!”

14. I fell in the sewer when I was 9 years old and my cousins left me to die because we were in the middle of a scavenger hunt (I’m going to tag you two so you know that I didn’t forget). In a valiant act of heroism, my 7-year-old sister ran and got help.

15. After 25 years of pristine language, I accidentally dropped the f-bomb. I was telling a story to my friend Kristina and I was quoting someone. Instead of substituting, I said the real thing and suddenly stopped and threw my hands over my mouth, in shock. She hadn’t even notice until I did that, but she was proud to be there for my big day.

16. I fought my whole class on the pronunciation of the word “colonel.” Ok, I was wrong.

17. I hate sports, but when the Chicago Bulls were really good, I proudly sported a a Threepeat shirt (5th gradeish).

18. Thanks to my beloved ex-roommate Angela, I drink a spinach smoothie everyday. If you would like the recipe, send me a message. My immunity is stellar.

19. Once I got into a vehicle in Honduras with some guy I didn’t know, because my friends strode confidently towards his car. His claims to fame were that he had been drinking since 11:00 a.m. and that his daughters guest starred on an episode of Alf.

20. My brother and I almost filled out a whole Cafe Rio incentive card in one weekend.

21. I got so nervous during an episode of 24 that I automatically started praying for Jack Bauer to successfully dismantle the bomb and to save Los Angeles.

22. I had to play the piano at a Mormon function in a soccer stadium where one of the top leaders was present (Elder Scott for those in the know). Thanks to Honduran standard time I was really late and missed the prelude and the opening song. Sorry guys, but it did not sound good without me.

23. Due to a liberal teacher, I organized this “Save the World” club in 3rd grade. I was trying to be a vegetarian, but my dad didn’t support my goal. By the third day he forced me to eat meatloaf while he had a stopwatch running (don’t call Family Services, it was funny).

24. I was a carney (spelling) for one beautiful day, selling jewelry cleaner. I'm pretty sure that my friend Michelle was there for that wonderful trip down the socioeconomic ladder.

25. It was my Finnish coworker’s birthday and my roommate and I painstakingly made a cake that looked like the Finnish flag (this took more than an hour). I was the first one there, so I had to enter a code. As I was opening the door, I dropped the cake, flag side down. And that, my friends, was the saddest moment of my life.