In Which Miss Jill Discovers The Most Ingenious Place To Hide Your Ipod From Your Teacher

Turks: 1 Miss Jill: 0

In Which Miss Jill's Life Has More Rodents Than The Subway Tracks

On a balmy Honduran night in 2007, I entered my room and discovered a cat-sized rat lounging peacefully on my makeup case. As it fled, I screamed and my trusty maid Olga came running. "We must set some traps," she said with gritty determination. "But if I see one, I will beat it with my broom until it dies."

As makeup is an important part of my life, the experience was quit jarring. I thought that I was over it until this week. Due to our house nearly Chernobyling, I left a window open to ensure that no one in my household would sustain more gas leak related brain damage. I saw the error of my ways, however, when I received a text that said, "OMG I JUST SAW A MOUSE IN HERE!!!!" As I am cunning, I tried to take advantage of the situation and responded, "It would probably help if you did your dishes and moved the thong that you left on the living room floor. A mouse could have babies in that." She replied, "I am too scared to leave the loft bed."

Before going to bed, we set out some traps. When I woke up at 5:00 the next morning, I heard a strange rustling sound. I came out of my room and greeted the mouse, who was running wildly through the living room with a trap attached to its tail. Dealing with that did not seem up my alley, so I pretended that it wasn't happening and went to work.

A few hours later, I started talking to the nineteen-year-old model on Facebook chat. It was 8:00 a.m. and she had just come home for the night.

Miss Jill: Hey girl. Have you seen the mouse?
NYOM: Nope. Just sitting on the couch.
Miss Jill: Look to the right.
NYOM: OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG asdjflaksd gjaklsdjf sdlkfj It touched my hand.
Miss Jill: I will buy you dinner if you get rid of that thing.
NYOM is offline

I frantically texted, "Are you alive?" No answer. Then 30 minutes later I received this photo text:



Apparently NYOM picked up the mouse with cooking tongs and threw it onto the fire escape. It lost a brave battle against the elements and entered immortality last night.

In Which Miss Jill Meets a Kindred Spirit

My friend is singing in an American Idol contest at a popular neighborhood venue (ok, maybe it's at a gay bar-just the theatre part, not the actual bar).

I am halfway done with a post about this, but for now I'll just assure you that I have some good convos there.

Stranger I Just Met: I'm a really unusual guy, you know. I'm the only gay (I'm assuming he means out of the cloest) you will ever meet who goes to the Catholic Church every Sunday.

Miss Jill: Funny that you say that to a Mormon in a gay bar.

We then exchanged a high five.

It is also the only place I have heard someone described as "guylined* within an inch of his life."

Guy liner=man with eye liner

Uzbek-I-Can

During the second week of school, a new student came to my class. “Welcome to class!" I gushed enthusiastically. "We are so happy to have you here!" She stared at me so blankly that I felt like I was looking at a Mormon who has been asked to brew coffee (this has happened to me, so I know). "Do you know English?" I asked. No response. Hmmm... "Can someone tell her hello and welcome?" I begged my students. They shook their heads sadly. "She is not Turkish, she's from Uzbekistan," they informed me. "No one can talk to her."

Obviously, it has been a challenge teaching Spanish under these circumstances and at times I have found myself communicating one word at a time, through an online dictionary. One day, as I was giving up all hope, I asked the class if they remembered how to say "yellow." My charming Uzbek friend raised her hand and I thought, "what the???" I called on her and she said something along the lines of "amafhjlo" (for amarillo). As I grinned in amazement, the class broke into applause and began a brief celebration. As most of them are immigrants, they understood that they had just witnessed a multinational victory.

In Which Quails Appear on 7th Avenue

When I left Honduras, I was shocked by how much shopping I had done during those two years. Over consumption must have been my defense against home sickness, because it would have taken twenty times the regulation two suitcases to haul all that stuff back up here. My most insurmountable problem was that I had massive amounts of clothes several sizes too big for the native population, but my maid mysteriously claimed most of it anyway before telling me, "I guess I have to go work in a sweatshop now."

Saying goodbye to my maid was a traumatizing event (why can't she get Facebook?), but just as disconcerting was my fond farewell to the Honduran Mormons. They were there for me through stool samples, colonoscopies and myriad other dilemmas, so I was happy to give them everything that I had to leave behind. "Hermana," one of the women emoted, "This is our blessing for paying tithing!*" At first I thought that it was funny that someone would think my old stuff was a blessing, but as a New Yorker addicted to moving sales and Craigslist free, I finally understand.


Which brings me back to the fact that through events that could only be divinely orchestrated, my friend Stef and I are constantly the recipients of random prepackaged food items. Despite the general counsel to the contrary, I must admit that we drank the possibly A.I.D.s infected Gatorades mentioned here. It was hot this summer, ok? After this, I thought that we had been blessed enough for an honest tithe, but sometimes we receive much, much more than we give.

There was a torrential downpour on Saturday and thanks to poor engineering on the part of the City of New York, the streets were overflowing with water. As we waded down the sidewalk, my friend unexpectedly broke from the group and started frantically fishing out some mysterious items that were drifting downstream. This was strange behavior, even for us. Then she showed us her spoils and everyone cheered:



It was delicious.

*Mormons customarily pay tithing, or ten percent of their income to the Church.

In Which Miss Jill Almost Meets the Untimely Demise of Another Literary Genius

Look up Sylvia Plath if you need some help on the reference. Disclaimer, I have been really sick and do not currently enjoy the sense of smell.

Yesterday I was feeling lethargic and despite my good intentions, I was unable to get out of bed. I hate sleeping and am an Excedrine junkie, so I was completely at a loss. I slept and slept and slept and decided that I must have suddenly become clinically depressed (after 28 symptom free years). I couldn't even gather enough energy to blog (I know you are all disappointed in me). I just stared out the window despondently, wishing that I had the energy to leave the house.

Well, you can put your Zoloft gifts away, because our lovely friend Julianne came to visit the 19-year-old model and they smelled gas. The bad news is that the gas in the oven had been on, leaking toxic fumes into our home for days. The good news is that I am alive and my cousin looked into my eyes and declared me non-brain damaged. I would implore you to not let the teens in your household cook unsupervised.

I think I speak on behalf of the free world in thanking you for preserving my life, Julianne. I will live my life to the fullest to thank you.

In Which Miss Jill Discovers That Public Transportation Is The Key To A Fulfilling Social Life

A few months ago I was discussing life with an actress friend, let's call her "Hauntingly Beautiful Actress," and she said, "Miss Jill, you really should try meeting people on the subway. I do it all the time. I meet all of my best friends there."

Miss Jill: Ummm... that's a novel idea. Please elaborate.
Hauntingly Beautiful Actress: Once as I got on the train, I saw the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life. I couldn't believe it. I had to talk to him.
Miss Jill: Cool.
Hauntingly Beautiful Actress: We talked until his stop came. He got off, but I didn't want to lose an opportunity, so I followed him home.
Miss Jill (nervous laugh): How'd that turn out?
Hauntingly Beautiful Actress: We dated for six months.
Miss Jill: I think that you have to be hot to pull that one off, or else it's just creepy.

Regardless, at the time I had actually been wanting to expand my social circle to include people besides white, upper middle class (by birth, not by bank account), twenty-something, wannabe liberal Mormons, so I took her advice to heart. My opportunity came even more quickly than I had imagined.

A few days later, when I got off the subway, a girl approached me and asked, "Excuse me, could you tell me where St. Nicholas Avenue is?" Luckily, that is my street. "Can I ask you something personal?" she continued. "Of course," I replied sportingly. "Do you feel safe in this neighborhood?" "Sure," I replied. What she didn't know was that after I said "Sure," I thought, "compared to Mogadishu."

We continued talking, rapidly became bffs and now we hang out at least once a week. I think if I'm going to apply this principle to true love, I will have to go ride around in the Financial District. Burning passions up here in the Heights are too likely to extinguish into Baby Daddies and garnished wages for child support.

In Which Miss Jill Is Relieved To Note That She's Not The Only Nut On The Family Tree

"If I don't find a man this year, I might have to graduate." -Female Relative, BYU Junior (this is a hint)

"He was so retarted (sic)."-Female cousin, hopefully doesn't remember writing that

"Let's go shopping at 'Pubics.'"-Male relative, referring to the grocery store "Publix"

"If I stay single for much longer, I'm pretty sure that I'm going to have to sire a b@#tard child. It's the only way that people will know that I'm not gay." -Male Cousin, Age 27

"I'm so old, I can say whatever I want. What are they going to do, shoot me? That would be a favor!" -Male Relative, 80

"Whoa, that guy looks just douchy enough for me to be attracted to him."-Female Cousin (I appreciate self-awareness)

"Wow, this show has a really good plot." Middle aged-male relative, not realizing that Baywatch was on

"Cats marry cats, dogs marry dogs." -Female relative, in reference to interracial marriage (luckily my parents are more progressive than that)

My youngest brother, sadly, when I was a junior in college and my sister was leaving home for the first time: "I wish that there was no such thing as college... except for Jill."

In non-relative news, I just received a text that said, "Do you feel like having me and two Iraqis sleep on your floor tomorrow night? The have an RV, but it sounds like a nightmare taking it to New York."

In Which Miss Jill Attempts To Break Into An Industry Currently Dominated By Asians

A special shout out goes to my landlord today, for violating New York law by not turning on the heater. Thanks landlord, for making me sick and denying Spanish education to Turkey's future leaders. Based on my voice alone, you would expect to see a senior citizen with a tracheotomy, not a brilliant young woman in the prime of life.

Today my friend, let's call her "Japanese Eye Candy," kindly came over to bring me some orange juice and Dominican beef (we have to work with what the barrio gives us). While she was there, the Nineteen-Year-Old Model was on the phone with a man she met through a millionaire matchmaker service she joined last week. Millionaire members of the service pay $30,000.00 to get set up with young, nubile models. As Japanese Eye Candy is a kind, caring individual, she was concerned about Nineteen-Year-Old Model's physical welfare.

JEC (Japanese Eye Candy): Aren't you worried that some of these men are going to expect something after spending all of their money on you?
NYOM (Nineteen-Year-Old Model): No way, I tell them what I'm all about. We're just friends.
JEC: Don't you think that it's kind of dangerous? What if something happens?
NYOM (with conviction): What could possibly be dangerous about money?

Afterwards, while NYOM was submitting her photograph online to castings, she requested that I position my foot so that she could snap a picture with her phone.

Miss Jill: What are you doing?
NYOM: Starting your foot modeling career.
Miss Jill: ?????
NYOM: This casting is perfect for you. They are asking for size 6 feet.

Technically, they are 5 1/2, but I can't let technicalities impede my nascent modeling career. This is my equivalent of modeling headshots (don't worry, I already know that my feet look like a National Geographic spread about the dangers of albino foot binding):

In Which Miss Jill Reflects Lovingly on the Metropolitan Transportation Authority

I hate to reinforce negative stereotypes about women, but I have the driving prowess of a fifteen-year-old brace-faced, permit holder. Consequently, I have been in seven car accidents. Although only two of those were technically my fault, I can’t help but think that a more skilled driver could have avoided the majority of them. Except for one.

I was home from college one summer and I went to the gas station to vacuum out my car. One minute I was leaning into the trunk and the next minute I was lying on the ground six feet away. When I came to my senses, I looked up and saw the back of a twelve passenger van planted firmly in the front of my car. At first I interpreted the colossal van as a sign that my assailants were fellow Mormons, until a morbidly obese woman in a bikini emerged from the wreckage. “@#$#@$,” she stated.

“@#$#@$,” responded a group of teenage Goths who approached the scene. “Do you need witnesses?” they asked me enthusiastically. “Uhhhhh…..,” I responded, taking charge of the situation. A voice that would be at home on a Bollywood soundstage yelled from the store, “The police are coming. Stay calm.” Botticelli’s muse gasped and ran back into her van and several minutes later she returned donning a fishnet cover-up. She must have figured that law enforcement personnel deserved a higher level of modesty than the population at large. “This isn’t my fault,” she lamented. “My kids were wrestling and they knocked the car into reverse.” The gathering crowd looked into the van and five or six bedraggled kids grinned out. It was obvious that they were the breed of kids who would wear a Garbage Pail Kids t-shirt to school on Picture Day. Think the Herdmans from the Best Christmas Pageant Ever.

To make a long story short, she gave me fake insurance information and my parents paid for the damage because we were all too lazy to hire a bounty hunter. And that is why I smile contentedly when the stench of homelessness wafts into my nostrils on the subway.

In Which Miss Jill Shares Hard Earned Economic Advice: Part Two

Economy got you down? No worries, the chronically unemployed Miss Jill is here to help you out. These methods are probably most effective when you are the spawn of the upper middle class, but have fallen on hard times. Actually looking poor may hurt your chances of scoring free merchandise.

Sephora

Does your income force you to reach for Wet n' Wild and Cover Girl, when you have grown up on Lancome and Estee Lauder? Do you need a quick fix because you are running into your crush or do you have to be somewhere important in the middle of your walk of shame? Sephora has your back. Because most New York stores have terrible customer service, you can develop an entire look without running the risk of an employee accosting you. I stopped in one day on my way to meet someone and I left with a new face created by a Dior makeup artist from Moscow.

Macey's Makeup Counter

Because I spent my formative years with the complexion of a Bubonic Plague victim, I like expensive foundation. The Macey's Elizabeth Arden counter is especially helpful, because they never have the lightest foundation colors in stock. As soon as they tell me that my color is not there, I begin a rehearsed monologue on the difficulties of being pasty white. Then I list all the cities that I have lived in which this product was also out of stock. As this is not interesting, they desperately squeeze a month supply into a sample jar and send me on my way.

Bakeries at Closing Time

On Thursday I was at a bakery in Hell's Kitchen with my cousins. In spite of the fact that my cousin was loudly outing Daniel Radcliffe for several minutes (really, who would want Equus associated with their demographic?), the flaming bakery worker sent us home with large bags full of baked goods.

Penn Station Terminal

If you are homeless and dirty, you could probably get away with this one. Because one of my college friends wanted to save money for snowboarding, she went to Costco every day at 3:00 p.m. (sample time). As this is not necessarily an option in Manhattan, a close second is Penn Station at rush hour. Everyone is in such a rush that the food service crew is almost grateful to you for taking the samples off their hands. The portions of the smoothie samples are liberal enough to tide you over a while.

Harlem Library

Before I amassed a critical amount of library fines, I went into the public library in Harlem and found a book about Cuba. As I went to check it out, the library employee said, "Just go ahead and keep it. No one wants that book." The residents of Central Harlem knew something that I didn't, because that book had about the same entertainment value as Twilight. But it was free. However, a myspace/AIM using teen stole my hat at this same location.

In Which Miss Jill and Siblings Receive a Fortuitous Gift From the Orient

Gertrude, Ethel, Pearl -we all know and love Asian immigrants who anachronistically rename themselves after reaching the shores of the United States. Heck, even in Honduras you are constantly running into people with names like Melvin, Marvin and Shirley. Not wanting to succumb to this alarming trend, our Vietnamese neighbors in Chicago carefully studied American cultural trends before bestowing a name upon their young son. As it was the mid-eighties, he was dubbed “Rambo.”

He and my little brother quickly became fast friends and little Rambo was a regular visitor to our home. Some neighborhood kid ingeniously nicknamed him “Ramboner,” and who were we to buck the trend? Later, in the hallowed halls of junior high, I gained some insight into the etymology of the moniker and realized how hilarious it was that we were allowed to use it. Let’s just say that my little sister thought that Babe (that movie about a pig) had a swear in it because Babe threatens to kick someone’s butt.

Every time I said “Ramboner” in my house, I felt an overwhelming sense of freedom and excitement. My memory is a little murky on this one, but I’m pretty sure that my dad even said it a few times.

In Which Miss Jill Discovers That All Relationships that Bear Fruit are Good

On a road trip my laugh was once described as "an annoying blow horn sound that never stops." It is so distinct and grating that after I left the BYU freshman dorms to go to New York for Model U.N., a girl told me, "I miss you so much that I hear loud phantom laughter throughout the building." I always thought that I should probably work on it to increase my marriageability, but I wasn't very motivated until last night on the M100 bus.

I was laughing with two friends (most likely at my own lame comments, let's be honest). Five seconds later the loudspeaker emitted a psychotic, jackal-like howl. Startled, I said, "Whoa, that sounds familiar. Was that my laugh?"

Several bus patrons pointedly said, "Uh, huh," and I was ashamed after realizing what I had subjected them to.

A snaggletoothed bus patron turned to me and said, "Youse gotta be careful. Those speakers pick up everything. Once my sister and me, wese was talking about makin love with our men and suddenly the whole bus found out what we had done."

Miss Jill: How did you feel about that?

Snaggletoothed Bus Patron: Real embarrassed. I'm 50 years old. I've done a lot. But I still ride the bus, even after that. Can you believe that I'm 50 years old?

Miss Jill (thinking "not 60?"): Oh no, I never would have guessed that.

Snaggletoothed Bus Patron: Yeah, it's hard to believe, because I got me a 42-year-old Baby Daddy.

Miss Jill: Wow, good for you. How did you manage that?

Snaggletoothed Bus Patron: Don't worry about it. At your age, you need to find an older man.

Miss Jill: How old?

Snaggletoothed Bus Patron: 40, at least. Then they have a good job and you don't have to do nothing.

Miss Jill: Good idea.

Snaggletoothed Bus Patron: Now take me, my first Baby Daddy was 36 and I was 16.

Miss Jill (wondering about the statute of limitations): How'd that work out?

Snaggletoothed Bus Patron: Well, I had a baby, so obviously not too bad.

In Which Miss Jill Engages in a Battle of Wits with a 19-Year-Old Model and Is Vanquished

As a disclaimer, if you are into bathroom humor and vulgar language, my family is the antithesis of anything that you would think is cool. A few weeks ago I was talking to my mother on the phone and she said, “I was sorry to see that you wrote a swear word on your sister’s Facebook wall.” There are a few problems with this scenario, but the major one is that I only engage in Mormon-style profanity (I.e. “What the h?”). Perplexed, I loaded my sister’s Facebook page and saw that I had opined, “Your pics suck.” As you will see, this upbringing has left me incapable of successfully interpreting common social cues.

I was at Starbucks waiting to go to American Idol and on leaving decided to use the facilities. I was thrilled to meet a local homeless man who had the same agenda. As I approached, he adroitly flashed me a peace sign. I am a fan of peace signs,* so I eagerly returned the gesture. Then he sportingly decided to engage me in small talk. “Gotta take a dump,” he confessed. Startled that he would say such a thing to an obviously classy stranger, I thought that I had misheard him. “Pardon?” He looked at me with wild desperation and reflected on how to rephrase his statement. “Gotta take an s#%t. A huge one.” He shuffled around to show me the urgency of the situation. “That’s interesting,” I replied. “Can I use the bathroom first then?” He eyed me warily, “If use fast, but as I said, I really gotta take a s#$t.” This proclamation was followed by an interpretive dance. I decided that I could hold it and bid him adieu.

As I was recounting the events of the evening to the 19-year-old model, she started to laugh and said, “He wasn’t flashing you a peace sign. He was telling you that he had to go number two. Now if you don‘t understand something perverted or gross, you know who to come to.” I was stunned. The poor man had attempted three different means of expressing his dilemma before the dumb, but attractive, blond woman was able to understand.

* After I quit my job by e-mail, my friend Stef lamented that I hadn’t had the professionalism to attach a .jpg file of my hand doing a peace sign to tell my despotic boss, “Peace out.” I admit that that was a grave oversight, but as my current job is cool, I don’t think that I will have a chance to try this out anytime soon. Now instead of saying goodbye, Stef and I flash peace signs and say “J-Peg.”

Not So Funny When You Are a Single Mormon Pushing 30

In Which Miss Jill Realizes that Korean Students Do Not Have a Monopoly on Good Behavior

After my sad departure from the below mentioned law firm (sad departure=quitting without notice by a strongly worded e-mail), I propitiously found a job teaching Spanish at a Turkish school in Brooklyn. As my last educational endeavor included children who threw a blazing firecracker at their beloved teacher (luckily not me), I was a bit apprehensive.

My fears, however, were misplaced, because these students are a dream come true. As I lovingly instructed the seniors on present tense verbs during the first week of school, I tripped and fell onto my back. Of course I started laughing and expected a spirited reaction from a room populated almost entirely of seventeen to eighteen-year-old males. As I sheepishly stared at the ceiling, I was startled to realize that I was the only person laughing. The only sounds in the room were concerned inquiries about my welfare and about the state of my back. Stunned, I asked, “Why aren’t you laughing? Your teacher just fell!” They replied, “What if you had been hurt? That’s not funny.” And that, my gentle readers, is why I have the best life ever.

In Which Miss Jill Starts to Worry That News Magazine Shows About The American Education System Are Right

Friend: What are you watching?
Miss Jill: John Adams, that HBO miniseries
Friend: Oh, is that the giant who plants trees?

In Which Miss Jill Is Thankful to Be A Teacher Again

Let’s get this out in the open-it is not my destiny to be a secretary/administrative assistant. Among the many disadvantages are

1. You have to be organized.
2. You have to pretend to care about making copies and stapling in the perfect spot
3. Office humor (i.e., “another day in paradise…”).
4. You have to read passive aggressive signs about stolen food, the filthiness level of the fridge and “when you tinkle, please don’t sprinkle (complete with Clipart).”
5. You get a gift certificate because your co-worker nominates you for “whitest legs in the office.”
6. You get reported to Human Resources for talking too much..

Ok, some of these are case specific, but you get the idea. No offense to any of my beloved readers, but working for attorneys is the worst. Even if they graduated from some no-name state school and can’t tell the difference between its and it’s, some of them have egos that would be more understandable in Bill Gates, Albert Einstein or Nobel laureate President Obama (shout out to Grandpa).

It took me a few weeks of my last job to realize that my boss was not just shy, he actually didn’t see me as a viable human being. You really have to telephone me to come out of my office to pick up a fax that is five feet away from you? You can’t take a twenty second walk to the water cooler? Do you really have to leave files on the floor for me to fetch like a dog, when it would be just as easy to hand them to me? Give me a break. Once he said, “How are you?” and I was so shocked that I almost fainted on the spot.

So one day, he sent me to the bank and as I was walking back, the sky broke into a torrential downpour. I walked for several minutes, until a woman took pity on me and shared her umbrella. I was so wet that I had to go into Borders to put my shoes under the hand dryer. I was wearing a cotton dress and it looked like I had taken a swan dive into a swimming pool. Eye makeup streamed down my cheeks. I cannot overemphasize how wet I was. Bookstore patrons were staring and laughing in my face.

Still dripping, I went back to work and entered my boss’s office to give him the deposit receipt. As I was a non-person, he did not even notice or remark upon the fact that I had inadvertently become a wet t-shirt contestant while doing his bidding.

In Which Miss Jill is Forced to Refuse a Second Serving of Rice and Beans

I accidently brought the wrong keys to work today, so I am sitting outside of my door, waiting for my roommate to come home and let me in.

Today my friend mentioned that she had a beautiful experience traveling in a bicycle taxi. Unfortunately, I am unable to fully endorse her recommendation, as my personal experience nearly launched a series of events that would have landed me in an anorexia clinic against my will.

My beloved friend TGass and I participated in this form of transportation on a balmy night in Havana. Halfway through our ride, our bicitaxista stopped and panted, unable to support our weight with his malnourished frame. "You are really heavy," he managed to say between tortured gasps for air. This event was so traumatic that TGass blocked it from her memory, because once I told this story to some people and they didn't believe me. I boldy stated, "Let me call my friend and she can verify." I called her and asked her if she remembered and she hesitated before saying, "Oh yeah." I could tell from her tone that she really meant, "Where are you getting these crazy stories?" I think I generally have the superior memory (sorry girl), but I am requesting that if you are a Cuban bicitaxista and you remember this incident, please leave your contact information in the comments section. Thanks.

In Which Miss Jill Is on the Receiving End of a Mother’s Desperate Love

On exiting the subway one day, I checked my phone and saw that I had several new text messages. My heart beat quickly with anticipation (after all, it could be a booty call request) but it promptly slowed as I saw that all five messages were marked “Mom“ (don't worry Mom, I was still exited to hear from you).

Incidentally, my record number of simultaneous texts received is 17, which occurred after I sent 50 people the inquiry “What happened to Michael Jackson? Is he dead? (we were still waiting for wireless in our new apartment at the time, but I had seen a mourner on the street with a photograph printed from the internet of the King of Pop around his neck).”

One after one, I opened them to see such friendly greetings as “U r not funny. What is up with that creepy voice mail greeting?” and “Are you alive?” I also received a frantic voice mail requesting that I confirm that I was not currently the victim of a kidnapping or a violent crime.

So of course I called my mom out of curiosity. As my current voice mail message states, “555-555-5555 is not available. Please leave a message at the tone,” I began to worry that a student had hacked into my phone and changed my message. I called myself with the 19-year-old model’s phone and heard the lazy person’s greeting as anticipated.

My mom claims that when she called my phone, she heard a message that said, “Mommy, help me! Mommy , help me!” Regardless of the fact that I have never called her “Mommy” and I would probably just call in an emergency instead of setting up a frantic voice mail greeting, she thought that I was in mortal peril and panicked. Now we can only hope that the message was the product of a fertile imagination and not the cries of an abducted child.

In Which Miss Jill Dejectedly Acknowledges That If She Packed Heat for Protection, She Would Die from a Self-Inflicted Wound

This post is NC-51 (Not appropriate for 51 year olds. Sorry Mom)

A few months ago I was returning home at around 10:00 p.m. and noted that there was a shrine adorning the south wall of my apartment building. There were flowers, candles, and pictures of a teenager with a liberal dose of R.I.P. I sadly wondered what had happened to him and reflected on the frailty of life and our tenuous grip on mortality, etc. Luckily some teens walked by and relieved me of my curiosity.

Teen 1 (pointing to my apartment building): Girl, is that where that kid got stabbed?
Teen 2: Oh yeah, they stabbed him so many times and there was blood everywhere.
Teen 1: That’s sad.

Awesome. I went home and googled “Stabbed, Washington Heights,” but Manhattan media was only able to produce an article of one sentence stating his name, age and cause of death. I realize that gang related deaths are commonplace up here, but doesn’t everyone deserve at least a paragraph acknowledging their existence on this planet?

In other tenement news, one day I was climbing the stairs to our sixth floor apartment, a journey I was forced to take in spite of the fact that I had written a passive aggressive repair request in white board marker on the elevator door. Twenty minutes into the treacherous ascent, I was pleased to see some teens meticulously rolling joints on the top stair. I’m not going to lie-I was disappointed that I was too early to enjoy the sin-free pleasures of second hand marijuana. As they started to clear me a path up the stairs I said, “I can get through, don’t worry. You’re good.” One of the girls flashed me crazy eyes and replied (as a joint dangled precariously from her adolescent hand), “Sorry Miss, but you are wrong. Drugs are not good.” Touché.

In Which Miss Jill Displays Her Passionate Love for Unicejas

The good news is that I have realized that writing blog posts is a good way to kill commute time.

At the start of the school year I wanted to gauge my students’ knowledge of vocabulary words, so we played a game in which I quizzed them on random words. In one class the game ended in a tie and I used the word “ceja (eyebrow)” as a tie breaker. The kids begged me for a hint and I acquiesced-”Some people have one of these and some people have two,” I said. They thought for a moment and one student enthusiastically threw his hand into the air and shouted, “I know it! I know it! It’s eyebrow!” I was impressed and asked him how he figured that out so quickly. “I knew it because I’m one of the people who has one!” A cursory inspection of his beaming face inspired me to think, “True dat.”

In Which Miss Jill Briefly Reconsiders Her Stance on U.S. Immigration Policy

Because I wanted to recreate the beautiful memories I made during my study abroad in Santiago, Dominican Republic, I moved to Washington Heights in May. I love the neighborhood and it gives me abundant opportunities to practice understanding Spanish that sounds like this: ASDFAKSJNKLANVALKDFJLKDAFJSLKDFSAJ. One day I went into a deli to get some change and was delighted to see that the man working there was rather attractive. As I approached the counter he asked, “¿Cómo estás, mi amor?” I stared blankly into his dark, entreating eyes, as years and years of Spanish drained out of my brain and onto the food stamps scanner. I managed to produce a few short sentences that would make any junior high Spanish 1 teacher beam with pride and sheepishly shuffled away.

I was despondent. Somehow I had forgotten an entire language. With a heavy heart, I entered the elevator of my apartment building, where I ran into the super. He looked as forlorn as I did, as he was scrubbing fruitlessly to eradicate the eternally lingering scents of urine, marijuana and cigars. We quickly embarked on a heart to heart about his teenaged love child in Costa Rica and I realized that my Spanish abilities were inversely proportional to the attractiveness level of the man with which I was speaking. While I was a middle aged housewife using Rosetta Stone when I spoke with the hot/phat deli employee, I was a university grammar professor from Madrid with the building superintendent.

The super developed a fine rapport with the Venezuelan homeless girl who lived with me all summer and she would often complain that he would use terms of endearment with her like “negrita” and “nena.” I thought that it was pretty hilarious until I called him a few days ago to see if he had any insights to share about our lack of hot water. It turns out he didn’t, but he called me “negrita,” which, correct me if I’m wrong, is pretty ironic. I thought it was funny, so I texted the Venezuelan, “Paco called me negrita.”

Except for that I didn’t text the Venezuelan, I inadvertantly texted Paco. I stared with horror at the message‘s sent status, ruing the dark day that I paid my overdue cell phone bill. I quickly texted a sketchy excuse, but Paco started calling me relentlessly. I kept rejecting him to voice mail and he left one, but I am too scared to listen to it. It was a nice day on Sunday, but I was too terrified to leave the house, lest I run into Paco. When I came home last night I called my mom as I was entering the building because I wanted to be unavailable to talk, just in case. And that was how I became a prisoner of my own idiocy, living in fear of a chance encounter with Paco. Maybe I will file a report with INS to solve this problem. J/K, don’t worry.

In Which Miss Jill Lives With a Teenager and Likes It

This is my beloved roommate, the 19-year-old model. Among her many virtues is a keen self awareness. She was thinking about going blond and tested out the look by holding locks of my hair against her face. "I don't know if I should go through with this," she told me thoughtfully. "I already wear so much makeup that my hair color is the only thing standing between me and looking like a porn star."

The local Mormon church has a website called "Hire a Saint" on which people list their skills in hope that someone will have a need for their services. Example: Patty Smith, Skills: Babysitting, Scrapbooking and Crochet. One day the 19-year-old model asked me, "Do you think that I could list myself on 'Hire a Saint' as a trophy wife?"

As you can see, she is a perfect addition to my household.

In Which Miss Jill Shares Hard Earned Economic Advice Part One

As you know, New York has fallen on hard times. We have all had to be creative to minimize the overdraft fees and utilities bills. The following convo took place via Facebook status in August.

"Miss Jill's Friend"-Is looking for a break from this humidity-it was fine when he had somewhere air-conditioned to be, but not anymore.

Miss Jill-Get on the bus and don't get off.

"Miss Jill's Friend" (later that day)-took your advice. stuck with the train tho. seen coney island 4 times today.

and-

Miss Jill to roommate via text: "My cheese is gone. Please reapply for foodstamps."

The Ultimate Dis

Woman on the B train:

"Yeah, and we was at this party, and there were four other baby mamas there. Can you believe that? Four! He had them all in the same room. And he greeted all the other baby mamas with a kiss on the lips, but me? He gave me a high five."

Vocab Word of the Day:
Disembodied piece of a weave resting on the sidewalk (this happens often in Harlem)-Urban tumbleweed*

*Thanks Stef