In Which The Nineteen Year Old Model Stumbles Into Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous

I hope that everyone had an enjoyable Thanksgiving holiday-I am pleased to announce that I will be back to my normal posting rate. I will announce the winner of the Harlem contest after work today, so get your last minute entries in.

A few weeks ago, my beloved roommate, the nineteen year-old-model (NYOM) came home from a casting, elated, and proclaimed, "I'm going to the Bahamas for free!" Her generous benefactor:


Picture from www.notesfromtheworld.com

As her guardian, I did some quick research and found this wikipedia page featuring a pic of his private jet (with old paint job). Note that the information is sketchy enough that it doesn't meet Wikipedia's stringent requirements. I'm still trying to figure this all out, but I guess that he recruits models to "hang out" in the Bahamas with his friends. Someone canceled at the last minute and the NYOM's Facebook status read, "attention all models: who is in the city and wants to come to the bahamas with me for thanksgiving?? call me asap, jet leaves at noon!" I was almost a foot model, so I considered it.

Here are some snapshots from her weekend:

NYOM in a private jet (I don't know how to flip this pic), with hottie in the background.


NYOM getting a free massage


NYOM in an awesome pool


High caliber guy who was part of the entourage


Apparently there are girls who make a living doing this kind of thing-not sure what their official job title is. There will be no editorial comments from Miss Jill.

The Swan Song of An Aging Hippie/In Which Miss Jill Gives Thanks For Popular Books That Are Actually Good

One day I casually picked up my anonymous relative, "Amy's" copy of Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone and noticed that the inside cover was filled with tally marks. I asked her what they stood for and she replied, “Oh, I make a mark every time I finish reading it.” I discretely counted them. 87.

I opened up to a random page. I read, “A letter?”

Amy replied, “repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall.”

Miss Jill: Harry learnt that…

Amy: There were seven hundred ways of committing a Quidditch foul and that all of them had happened during a World cup match in 1473.

Miss Jill: Ronald Weasley…

Amy: Who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them.

In spite of the fact that my grandpa had recently chastised us all for knowing Harry Potter better than the Book of Mormon, I stared at Amy in humble awe. It seemed like something that should be capitalized on, so I took her to a Harry Potter trivia contest at the local Borders. As we walked through the discount book tables, I eyed the competition. Fifty percent of the participants were children. The other fifty percent were graying Woodstock alumni, which made me a little apprehensive. I looked down at Amy to see if she was also feeling pre-match jitters, but she was eyeing her rivals with condescending confidence.

After several rounds of intense questioning, only Amy and a sextegenarian donning a crocheted sweater vest over a tie-dyed t-shirt remained. The Borders employee’s braces gleamed playfully as she asked the Grandma, “How many Knuts are in a Sickle?”

Her eyes dashed back and forth in panic and in desperation, she looked to her silver pony tailed companion for inspiration. He shrugged dejectedly. Expelliarmus. Amy’s face lit up like my neighbors with their crack pipes. “Twenty-nine,” she shrieked triumphantly. As Amy left Borders that night, with a Hedwig the Owl toy cradled in her warm embrace, she knew that it was not just a personal victory. It was also a victory against the pernicious evils of free love and twilight years drug abuse.

This post is dedicated to Megan Shirk for demonstrating superior command of Harry Potter vocabulary.

In Which Miss Jill Gives Thanks That Her Relatives Are As Eccentric As She Is

Let’s be honest with ourselves-if you hate football, Thanksgiving is kind of boring. One of my beautiful memories is of the time that one of the missionaries gave my brother a black eye during the annual church football game. However, this is my best memory:

Thanksgiving 2001, Boise, Idaho

Thanksgiving was big that year, and most of my extended family was present. After listening to people’s boring musical talents (no offense), we were finally free to play a pleasant round of spin the gourd. Sorry to disappoint if you are hoping that this story ends with filial piety of the basest form, because Uncle Oed stayed home that year. Basically, if the top of the gourd landed on you, you had to divulge a secret about yourself or do a dare. Grandpa was even playing, although his idea of “truth” was telling lengthy stories about his college fraternity.

First, my 15-year-old cousin “Matt” was dared to call his long term crush, Mieko. When he got her family voice mail he stammered, “Uhhh…. Hi, Mieko. Uhhhh… this is Matt… uhhh…uhhh.. (cough)….. I uhhh…. want to tell you uhhh… Happy Thanksgiving!” hangs up. If I were in Mieko’s family, that voice mail would have been played at least 20 times.

Then my cousin Mikael (no name change necessary due to a general lack of shame) was dared to call someone’s neighbor (who she had never met) and ask him out. She grabbed the phone enthusiastically and dialed. “Heeeeey,” she greeted the unsuspecting victim. “I’m Mikael, Bobby’s cousin. He thought that maybe we would like to get to know each other. Let me tell you what I’m all about. I’m tall, blond, thin and (lowers voice dramatically) I’m a dancer. What are you doing tomorrow?”

Somehow through all of this, we ended up meeting this neighbor (he doesn’t deserve a moniker) and his friends to go to the movies the next day. We hated them, so we fled the scene without explanation.

I can’t remember if this was the year that my cousin Lacey ate an entire balut for the video camera, but needless to say, it was a poignant family Thanksgiving of the Norman Rockwell variety.

Disclaimer: This was 8 years ago, I did my best in recapturing the dialogue.

In Which Miss Jill Spends a Delightful Evening Viewing Alacakaranlık*

I’m pretty sure that most BYU coeds have had a conversation along these lines:
Coed One: Oh my gosh, The Backstreet Boys are so fine.**
Coed Two: Let’s send them Books of Mormon so we can marry them.
Coed One: That idea rules.

One of my roommates actually sent a Book of Mormon to Celine Dion, but as far as I can gather from a zealous following of US Weekly, it didn’t hit its mark.

I should have been open minded enough to realize that Mormons are not the only ones open to the classic flirt to convert maneuver. The 11th graders were creating Spanish periodicals and one of the girls was writing an article about Taylor Lautner, aka Jacob Black of Twilight fame. She looked despondently into the distance and I asked her why she was so glum. She sighed, “If only Taylor Lautner would convert to Islam.”

A large percentage of our students live in dormitories, because their parents are still in Turkey. For that reason, teachers are encouraged to reach out to students and spend time with them. It’s really difficult to live so far away from their parents, especially since English is pretty new for most of them. That is how I justify the ignominious fact that I took them to see New Moon on Friday night, because normally I would rather spend a night of passion with Diego Rivera (the morbidly obese geriatric years, just in case he was hot when he was young).

An extra girl decided to come at the last minute, so I had to find a way to get an emergency ticket. We were already in the school van on the way to the theater, so I called my mom to have her reserve a ticket online. She enjoyed the symphony of Turkish performed as the soundtrack to my billing information, because the girls were shrieking from excitement all around me.

When I got off the phone a student shook her head disapprovingly and scolded , “You really shouldn’t have called your Mom.” The other girls nodded in agreement. I asked, “Why is that? Did you want it to get sold out?” “No Miss! She is going to be really sad that she wasn’t invited!”

* Twilight
** I am old.

New York Neighborhoods Giveaway #1: HARLEM

Subway Platform, 125th Street, Harlem

One day as I was waiting for the train, two law enforcement officers approached me and queried, “Ma’am, are you at the right stop? We couldn’t help but notice that you look a little out of place and we were concerned.” I assured them that I was a local and silently wondered how they had missed the gentrification memo (j/k I'm too poor to be a gentrifier). In honor of the good times I had living there (where else will sketchy men follow you yelling ‘Goldilocks’ and ‘Snowflake?’), my next giveaway will feature the treasures of historic Harlem. From now on, my contests will highlight a New York neighborhood.

Prize package includes:

1. Pirate DVD of your choice
2. Michael Jackson glitter shirt (or non-glitter if that is too emasculating)
3. Incense
4. Obama pic (this should be easy enough to obtain, since there is one hanging in 95% of Harlem businesses)
5. Brown sugar themed novel-I don’t know the PC way to describe this genre of literature, but it is available on every street corner. A woman on the subway told me that they are really good.
6. Personalized drawing harnessing the universe to my bidding. Seriously, dreams have come true from these. If you need a refresher on my magical powers please click here.

Subject to availability: Urban tumbleweed*, fish bones, inebriated man extolling the virtues of your anatomy, pro-Mugabe poster

* Piece of disembodied weave often found on sidewalk or subway stairs

Rules: Due to the Thanksgiving holiday, contest ends November 30, 2009. To enter, please leave a comment telling me what kind of stories you like to hear (even if for some disturbing reason you don’t want to win, this would be helpful to me in general-I am sensitive to the needs of my readers). In order to win, you must be listed as a follower at left. Bonus: If you refer a friend who becomes a follower, I will put your name in the drawing four times.

In Which Miss Jill Falls Victim To a Treacherous Gossip Monger And a Glutton

November 2009, New York City

Last night I was coming out of a temple session (this post is making me look like a Molly Mormon, sorry about that) and I checked my phone in the dressing room. I had seven texts.

EMERGENCY
From: Jr (My sister, who is 8 months pregnant)
5:17 p.m. 11/21/09

ANSWER YOUR PHONE NOW, EMERGENCY
From: Jr
5:19 p.m. 11/21/09

Team Edward
From: Mom
5:22 p.m. 11/21/09

HELP
From: Jr
5:24 p.m. 11/21/09

Got a new Facebook profile pic. No widows please.
love, gpaw
From: Grandpa Cell
5:26 p.m. 11/21/09

BABY COMING
From: Jr
5:27 p.m. 11/21/09

R U free 2 night?
From: Hot Economist Fan
5:29 p.m. 11/21/09

So maybe I just took some creative liberties in reproducing my inbox. Anyway, I interpreted "BABY COMING," as an emergency c-section a month early, so I changed as quickly as I could and ran outside. I dialed Jr's number, my hand shaking.

Jr: Sup, girl? (Did not sound like she was currently on the operating table)
Miss Jill: What happened? Is everything ok?
Jr: Yeah, of course. I just wanted you to call me back. It isn't a lie, the baby is coming, just not today.
Miss Jill: @#$#!@%#$@#$@ What do you want?
Jr: I want you to get to a computer and look at this girl's Facebook pic. Her bra is totally hanging out.

I wish that I could say that this was the first time that I had been the victim of such utter perfidy, but I am shockingly gullible at times (I once believed that my grandma had expressed a desire for an eyebrow ring).

May 2004, Provo, Utah

Nature bestowed phone voices that are nearly indistinguishable from each other upon my friend Belinda and her sister Ernestina, a 300 lb dog groomer. I had just graduated and was homeless, so they graciously let me sleep on their couch. It was actually really fun, because I didn't have a job or school and I could just hang out with random people all day.

One afternoon I found myself waiting for a Mormon apostle to speak, when my phone rang. It was Belinda and she sounded a little hysterical. "HG! (Hey girl) Something terrible happened. My car broke down and I need a ride. It's an emergency." Just as the program was starting, I gave up my prime seat and frantically rushed home.

When I arrived, Ernestina was sitting on the couch with Belinda's phone in hand. I panted, "Where's Belinda? Is she ok?" Ernestina flashed a diabolical grin. "Belinda didn't call you, I did. I'm hungry, take me to Cafe Rio."

Taking Out the Middleman at Harvard

Someone set up this personless book sale in Harvard. If I were dishonest, I probably wouldn't take a book because I would worry that I was being video taped for someone's psych project.

In Which Miss Jill's Hips Don't Lie

Burrito or hamburger, Shakira or Taylor Swift, having rhythm or clumsily dancing like a buffoon -bicultural life has its challenges and at times I feel divided between the gringo and Mexican sides of my character. Sometimes when I’m throwing a wine bottle at my faithless lover, I casually check myself out in a reflective surface and behold a posterior with the topography of Kansas. “@#$#@#$#,” I think, “I’m looking pretty Anglo in these jeans.”

And then other days, I’m at a theme party, talking incessantly about Darfur and freeing Abu- Jamal, while hiding the fact that I am more interested in Venezuela, Honduras and Fidel. At this peak moment of ultimate WASPyness, the universe provides a gentle reminder of mi madre patria (my mother country).

Here I am, displaying my friendship for this charming, bibliophile Oxford graduate. After this picture was taken, I grabbed the camera to see how the photo would look in a glittered BFF frame. “Cute,” I uttered, but then I gasped. Inexplicably, a taquito was hovering over my head, reminding the world of which side of the Rio Grande produced my father.





This is redundant, but ¡¡¡¡¡Viva México!!!!!

In Which You Stop Pushing Refresh

Picture of the names I printed from blogger and cut up for the drawing:



Unfortunately the 19-year-old model and her skimpy outfit were temporarily unavailable for the drawing, as she was allegedly detained at the celebration of the birth of P-Diddy.

Before anyone leaves me hundreds of hate comments, I would like to announce that there will be another contest starting next Monday. My friend Stef and I came up with the perfect Harlem assorted gifts giveaway.

So, with no further ado,the winner of my first giveaway is none other than the illustrious Karla Fonseca. She is pictured in the glamor shot below. A native of San Pedro Sula, Honduras, Karla is currently studying some kind of engineering or something sciency at UNLV (you might want to clarify that in the comments section). She is single and looking for the right guy. If you like sassy Latinas, maybe I can arrange a different kind of giveaway. Karla, if you don't claim your prize by tomorrow at 6:00 p.m. I will do another drawing after I return from taking the Turkish students to New Moon.



Thanks everyone for reading and playing. Please look forward to my next ingenious giveaway on Monday.

In Which The Nineteen-Year-Old Model Is Inspired By Enrique Iglesias (See “Escape” lyrics)

You have until I get home from work tonight to enter the contest. Please carefully read contest rules, because people keep telling me that they are entered without adding themselves as a follower. No pain no gain, peeps.

My roommate, the nineteen-year-old model (NYOM), has been begging me to take her to school for "Take Your Daughter to Work Day." I keep trying to convince her that no one will believe that I begat a hot six- footer at the age of nine, but she persists. Unfortunately, I’m not so sure that the Turkish school carries out that tradition and I‘m especially certain that they would not want to meet the fruits of my third grade indiscretion. However, the NYOM is cunning and outsmarted me once again.

Today my 8th graders were learning the names of clothes in Spanish and their assignment was to design a fashion line featuring items from our vocabulary list. A few days ago a student approached me after school and queried, "My dad work for clothing company. Can I please bring catalog for inspiration?" "Awesome," I replied sportingly.

Today they were working on their projects and as I walked by, I spied the dad's catalog on the desk. I was interested in what kind of clothes a conservative Muslim would be peddling, so I craned my neck for a better look. It was open to a full page spread featuring this individual lounging in casual wear designed for members of the PS108 PTA:



I gasped. “That’s my roomate!“ As the NYOM stared up at me, I realized that I was facing a an unconquerable foe.

In Which Miss Jill Argues For A Truly United States Of America

Don't forget to sign up for awesome prizes here

New York/New Jersey, Utah/Idaho, Illinois/Iowa, California/Everyone else: state superiority complexes are a serious challenge to our national unity. Maybe this is because I am a Preston, Idaho (home of Napoleon Dynamite) native, but when I was at BYU I could never figure out how denizens of one rural, right-wing state full of Mormons could be so smug when discussing another rural, right-wing state full of Mormons. Before I gave up my political career, I went to a Utah Eagle Forum banquet full of home schoolers in colonial garb (I believe that two of my charming readers were also present) in which the speaker beseeched, “George W. Bush is too liberal. Who’s with me?” I’m definitely not saying that that is a reflection of the Utah population at large, but I’ve never been invited to a similar event in Manhattan.

Anyway, when I lived in Arizona I often heard people making disparaging comments about New Mexico. I am not a scholar of the southwest, so I do not have a well informed opinion on that topic. However, my friend Kristen from 1999 (thanks Facebook!), was kind enough to lend us some insight into the Land of Enchantment. She sent me this pic, noting that “I know you don't drink, but regardless, might find the label a funny substitute for its more popular cousin wine Gewurtztraminer.”

In Which Miss Jill Submits Her E-Harmony Profile Rough Draft To Her Readers For Helpful Feedback/The Immigrant Experience in Los Estados Unidos

Don't forget to enter my contest!!


1981

I’m sure that most of you have played the standard get to know you game, Two Truths and A Lie. In case you haven’t, the premise of the game is that you say three interesting facts about yourself-two are true and one is a lie. Everyone has to guess the lie. For example, BYU Coed: “I hiked Mount Timpanogas last summer, I think that singing hymns in an enclosed space is an awesome date and I drank alcohol once in high school.” When it is revealed that a night of passion with Jack Daniels is the lie, everyone gets a good laugh at the edgy, ironic reference to sin.

The fact that I am half Mexican is my reliable truth time after time, because I look like a fresh off the boat Swede (ok, maybe shorter and chubbier, but with better teeth). You should not be misled by the fact that my little sister was once cast as a Hitler Youth in a school play-the blood of noble Montezuma pumps proudly through our veins. Ok, that’s my fib, because we are Mexican by virtue of descending from 19th century polygamists on the lam. Shout out Mitt, because so are you!

Life as a first generation American can be difficult, especially when your parents have the motherland enclosed in a vice-like grip. When I was a teen, my dad had a shirt that proudly proclaimed, “Orgullo mexicano (Mexican Pride)” and I was always afraid that he would get jumped by countrymen who thought that this rubicund, blond man was making fun of them. Soulful mariachi music pumping from the family minivan wasn’t necessarily the culmination of all of my adolescent fantasies, but my early exposure to Latin America has shaped the course of my life. I am hoping that that will culminate in a holy union with a highly educated Latin Lover who takes me to his country and gives me twenty maids (potential to become a military dictator a plus, unless you are Mel Zelaya, the deposed Honduran president). If you fit this description please enter my contest (you will receive an autographed glamour shot of me, not the nineteen-year-old model) and then leave your foto in the comments section. Gracias.

¡¡¡¡¡Viva México Lindo!!!!!

In Which Miss Jill Barely Escapes From An Untimely Death At The Gallows

These beautiful pictures of Salem, Massachusetts are courtesy of my friend Stef, a local improv celebrity.

In Which Miss Jill Is a Capitalist Sell-Out and Does A Giveaway Involving An Underage Model

Good morning everyone! My friend and I were talking last night about how we could enrich people’s lives by encouraging them to read my blog (a humanitarian service project, if you will). We noticed that mediocre, but popular blogs have one major thing in common-giveaways. After I saw a post about someone eating pancakes receive 300 comments, I knew that it was worth a try. I discuss this with you in the spirit of glasnost.* Here are the details:

How to Enter:

Become a public follower of my blog (look to the left of this where it says "follow"). I know that I write weird stuff, so I do not request that you leave comments.

Selection of the Winner:

In the spirit of a television game show, the 19-year-old model will don a skimpy outfit and choose a name out of a bowl.


The Prize Package Includes:

1. $20 Barnes and Noble Gift card
2. Autographed Photo of the 19-year-old model (NYOM)
3. Turkish Treat
4. Personalized drawing in which all of your dreams come true. Explanation of my magical powers can be found here. These are subject to my discretion-if you are 100 lbs overweight, I am not drawing you with a six-packed hottie (unless you are a Mormon man, because that isn’t totally unrealistic)
5. I Heart New York pencil
6. Autographed copy of the popular youtube Thanksgiving video, Turkey Killer. Click here to watch it. The demented Pilgrim at the start is a beloved sister in the Relief Society.


Ends:
THURSDAY


IF YOU ARE ALREADY A FOLLOWER, YOU ARE ENTERED. FEEL FREE TO CHEAT AND ENTER YOUR SPOUSE, SAHMs.

* A Soviet policy permitting open discussion of political and social issues and freer dissemination of news and information.

In Which Miss Jill Discovers The Manhattan/Kampala Connection

The Children's Revolutionary Forces in training, Fort Tryon Park, New York City

In Which Miss Jill Creates The Center For Emo Human Rights

Gypsies, Goldman Sachs executives, telemarketers- being a member of the world's most reviled groups can be difficult. Luckily, you all have been supplanted by a perceived international epidemic: The Emo Lifestyle. For the middle-agers who read this blog, Urbandictionary.com defines Emo as, "Genre of softcore punk music that integrates unenthusiastic melodramatic 17 year olds who don't smile, high pitched overwrought lyrics and inaudible guitar rifts with tight wool sweaters, tighter jeans, itchy scarfs (even in the summer), ripped chucks with favorite bands signature, black square rimmed glasses, and ebony greasy unwashed hair that is required to cover at least 3/5ths of the face at an angle."

I grew up in the height of the The Age of the Goths and because I went to BYU, I did not even know about the existence of Emos until I became a teacher. I realized that they had achieved the status of a global scourge when a Honduran student invited me to a Facebook group with almost 2,000 members called "Asociacion Anti-Emos Del City Mall (A.A.E.C.M)." It is pronounced a-mo.

Yesterday I was on a fieldtrip with my Turkish posse and a student placed an Ipod earbud in my ear. After I listened for several second to what I perceived to be a Turkish ballad she asked, "Are you depressed yet?"
Miss Jill: Why would I be depressed?
Turkish Hipster: This is the Turkish version of Emo. The lyrics are horrible, they make you want to commit suicide.
Miss Jill: Ummmm... I think I might be immune to the deadly power of Turkish emo lyrics.
Turkish Hipster: My mom's sister was engaged to this guy and it was broken off. For months all she did was sit in her room alone, crying and listening to this.
Miss Jill (still listening): I'm sorry to hear that. I don't want to commit suicide yet. I have too much to live for (waving my hand across a bus full of Turkish teens).
Turkish Hipster: You should also know that they pass out razor blades when you enter the concert so that people can cut themselves. (I would be interested to see if this could be verified).
Miss Jill: Neat.

I think that the obvious comparison between me bravely resisting suicide and Odysseus withstanding the power of the Sirens must be made. I'm not sure if this post has a point and I should be doing makeup right now, but please try to show our Emo brothers and sisters a little more tolerance and love. This is easy for me to say, because I don't think that I have ever met one.

In Which Miss Jill's Knowledge of Weaves/Synthetic Hairpieces Is Put To The Test

The stabbing, the lingering smell of urine, the graffiti and broken windows-I do not go to any great pains to mask the fact that my apartment complex is unsuitable for human habitation. As you can imagine, our neighbors don't exactly come for the highest echelon of society, which must mean that neither do we.

Over the summer, the nineteen-year-old model and I were experimenting with glue-on nails that cost $5.99 at the local CVS. We thought that they were pretty high class until the neighbors incessantly complimented them. If my apartment were in the West Village I may have been flattered, but I couldn't trust a person with eight inches of bare muffin top protruding from her jeans.

I experienced my own lapse in credibility the other day while I was riding the elevator yesterday. The woman next to me had beautiful chestnut ringlets and I said, "You should know that your hair looks really good." She laughed and looked at me incredulously. "This is a piece!" she exclaimed. "You know you're white when you can't recognize a piece."

In Which Miss Jill And Her Teenage Cousin Accidentally Miss The Hogwarts Express

Since this blog used to be private, many of you probably don’t know that I have magical powers. Please click here to get the background story.

My recent victories include my job (I drew a picture of myself saying, “I work with kids and I love it”), my friend hooking up with a guy with luscious hair, the nineteen-year-old model (NYOM to some of you) going on two dates with NFL players and another friend getting her dream job. Yes, there have been a few failures (where is my true love, Mr. Economist Reader?), but I think that they are just a matter of timing, which is a factor that I have been unable to harness control over.

I would be remiss if I did not mention that I am not the only person in my family who has mystical capabilities-one of my cousins is also blessed with a similar gift. As we were eating dinner one day she announced, “Good news. I know how to read auras.” My interest was piqued because my friend Tiff and I wanted to learn and I practiced the skill on my classmates while I was taking these boring graduate education classes in Utah. I’m sure that they loved my squinting stare in the middle of a lecture. My biggest accomplishment was seeing a shady outline around a third grade teacher from West Jordan, but that may or may not have been because I didn’t wear my glasses that day.

She taught us that when we closed our eyes, the first color that we saw was the color of our aura. Everyone closed their eyes and excitedly shouted out what color they saw. I saw yellow. As she explained what they meant, we were amazed that the descriptions fit each of us so well. Even the middle aged uncles closed their eyes and concentrated on the colors.

I was excited that I finally had a marketable skill, so I called my sister from the dinner table and had her try it. Hers was black, which I took as a dire portent and reflected with more insight on the time that she told me that she was going to poke my eye out and cheerfully watch the oozing goo. Because I believe in repentance, I will not reveal which sister this was.

As I was about to mass text all of my new age friends, I asked my cousin where she had learned this marvelous new skill. “It’s easy,” she replied. “I made it up, but it makes sense, don’t you think?” I was seriously impressed that she had motivated several people in their sixties and even my eighty-four year old grandma to strain to see the colors. Try it yourself and let me know what you think.

In Which We Support the 19-Year-Old Model and Fashion Photographer Heather Tullis

Hey everyone! My friend Heather entered this photograph of the NYOM into this contest for Armani Exchange. The image was selected as a finalist. If you have a sec, please vote for "Love In the Afternoon." I promise that this is the end of the internet requests for now.

Thanks! -Sorry the link was on the word "this" but it wasn't showing up.

CLICK HERE

In Which Miss Jill Uncovers The Homeless Obesity Epidemic

“Ladies and Gentleman, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m homeless…” -subway riders will recognize this heartfelt cry. As you avert your gaze from this personification of human misery, have you ever asked yourself, “If he’s so destitute, why does he have more rolls than a bakery (shout out to Eastview Elementary, 1987 for that awesome joke)?” I wondered that myself, until I took a proverbial walk in their shoes.

Living in Manhattan is a financial drain and it is necessary to utilize free food options in order to maintain the caloric minimums recommended by the World Health Organization. As I’ve mentioned before here and here, free food often drops out of the sky for me as a result of paying tithing. I’ve only spent about $20 on food in the last two weeks because I’m experiencing an unprecedented streak of luck. You could call it divine food stamps.

Unfortunately, as the free food rolls in, my waistline rolls out. The first problem with free food is that people say, “I baked these delicious cookies, have one,” not “Here are some steamed vegetables and brown rice.” The second is that you don’t know when luck will strike again, so out of necessity you are forced to eat 10,000 calories in one sitting, just in case. My co-worker threw a Turkish breakfast party at 10:00 a.m. yesterday and I was still painfully full at 9:00 p.m. It’s like preparing for a hibernation that will never, ever come.

Luckily, my two week death spiral into obesity has not caused me to lose hope, because as I have mentioned, I live with a nineteen-year-old model. No one is more uniquely qualified to be my mentor in an insalubrious dietary journey/crash diet. Although she has been on several “lifestyle changes” since we started living together (one involving the ingestion of human hormones), I haven’t noticed any adverse changes in her mood. This is fortunate, because a few months ago she was working as a hostess at an upscale restaurant while doing the Master Cleanse. I think that this involves drinking lemon water, but the NYOM is sleeping right now, so I can’t ask.

I guess that it was affecting her life outlook and energy level, because the boss warned, “If you don’t start eating again, we are going to have to fire you. A hostess can’t have a glazed expression.” As the NYOM was trying to go from plus-size to mainstream modeling, she replied with unexpected vigor, “NEVER!” She lost that job shortly thereafter, but has never looked back.

In Which Miss Jill Figures Out Why People In Harlem Keep Asking To Take Their Picture With Her

Yesterday I substituted for the ninth grade math class and there wasn't a lesson plan, so the girls and I uploaded their student id pics into this website to see who their celebrity twin was. I enjoyed a good natured laugh when they got celebrities such as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Brad Pitt (they are all girls).

Later that day, I uploaded my own pic and was shocked to realize that I have a stunning resemblance to the leader of the free world:



Sorry Drea, I know that they were spot on with Obama and me, but you don't look like Chelsea at all.

In Which Miss Jill Opens An Illegal Side Business Involving Minors

Sometimes encountering the changes of puberty on a daily basis makes me think that my life is running parallel to that of a Parisian elevator operator. A few days after school started, a kid raised his hand and queried, “¿Cómo se dice (How do you say… ) deodorant?” “Desodorante,” I replied with a nervous laugh, feigning that his motive was vocabulary enrichment.

Today we were enjoying a round of vocabulary bingo and one of the students asked if we were competing for money. “Does this look like a gambling den?” I retorted. A girl’s hand shot up and she answered, “Well, we are in a small, really hot room that smells bad. What do you think?”

Easy Service Opportunity

When you have a sec, please go to this blog and click on the ads. I don't know how much detail I can go into, but my friend is using the proceeds to surprise a needy family.

Thanks.

In Which We Celebrate the Scorpios In Our Lives

Today my little sister, Jr, turns 27 (we are 21 months apart) and I would like to share two stories. The first is that when she was a newborn, my mother discovered me magnanimously stuffing an enormous chocolate egg into her mouth. I nearly became a murderess at the tender age of 2.

When Jr. was in high school, she inadvertently acquired a low socioeconomic status man harem in gym class. She was so appalled that she threw herself off the bunk bed to try to break her arm and get out of school. This predicament escalated when a gang banger named Melchor presented her with a heartfelt note that proclaimed, “Your body is the boom (sic).”



In other news, tomorrow in class the ninth graders (all girls) and I will be celebrating the birth of one Kevin Jonas. The only way that I can justify this is that it is the last day of the quarter. Although Kevin will not be able to attend, a life size poster will make up for his absence. Today one of the planners was sitting pale and listless in class, when she is usually very gregarious. I inquired about her welfare and she said that she felt terrible and was thinking about going home. I asked if we needed to postpone the Jonas party and she shot me a look of steadfast determination. "I would never, ever miss the birthday of Kevin Jonas. There is absolutely nothing in this world that could keep me from that party."

PS: Please tell me if that pic is not actually Kevin. I can't tell the difference.

In Which Miss Jill Briefly Converts to Judaism

Every morning I wake up in a Dominican neighborhood and take the train to a Russian neighborhood where I teach Turks Spanish. My favorite thing about New York is that I am exposed to a myriad of cultures on a daily basis. Unfortunately, I wasn’t born with this love of the exotic.

When I was in fourth grade, a Filipina girl from my class invited me to her birthday party. She was cool, so I was excited. I arrived with my little friends, and the mom invited us to go downstairs where the refreshments had carefully been laid out. As I descended the staircase, I was horrified to see an entire pig carcass, eyes bulging, with an apple protruding from its mouth. This was the kind of thing that I had only seen on Looney Tunes and I was not mentally prepared.

As we stood on the staircase, quaking with terror, my WASPy crew and I saw only one solution: flight. We ran back up the stairs and did not stop until we reached my house. I was still clutching a wrapped copy of Babysitter’s Club Book #59: Mallory Hates Boys (And Gym)* in my tiny hand. It was time to regroup. We knew that what we had done was a grave infringement of the rules of etiquette, but we had panicked.

My mom found us and told us to go back, so we slowly trudged down the street, with the icy fingers of dread clutching our hearts. We tried to give ourselves a pep talk, but each step brought us closer to the unspeakable. When we arrived, I stammered, “Uhhh… sorry, I forgot something,” and bestowed the gift upon my forgiving friend. As we went back down the stairs, we realized that our porcine foe had lost the element of surprise and we were able to face him valiantly.

* This may or may not be historically accurate, but it‘s an educated guess of what kind of gift I would give in 1990.

In Which Street Vendors Keep Up With Current Obesity Rates

Chinatown, New York



Sorry for the mild profanity, but it was funny. Thanks to my cousin Brandon for his fine photography skills.

In Which Miss Jill Receives An Unexpected Gift From Yesteryear

After a long day of get to know you games, I stood at the bathroom sink in Deseret Towers (now demolished BYU dorms). As I reflected on BYU orientation, I blinked back tears dejectedly. I would never fit into this weird Stepfordian subculture where people thought that it was normal for 18-year-olds to make up cheers about how awesome their orientation group was and belt them throughout campus competitively. I didn't know it at the time, but 90 percent of the kids who grew up outside of the intermountain west were experiencing the same culture shock.

A gorgeous Navajo girl (let’s call her Friendly Indian-she came up with this, lest you brand me as un-pc) entered the bathroom, and although I was determined to get the heck of out Dodge as soon as possible, I introduced myself. With nothing to lose I said, “This sucks so bad. These people are crazy.” I knew that I risked being labeled as an apostate, but she answered, “I know, right? They think this is EFY*.” A beautiful friendship was born that day, woven together by the bonds of bad attitude (this may or may not be a theme in my life).

Years passed and the Friendly Indian lives in Boston right now because her husband is finishing up his PhD at Harvard. As I am in Boston, I texted her yesterday morning to see if she wanted to reunite. I never heard back from her, and went to Salem with J Lo, my former BYU Spanish teacher. While we were in Salem, a sinister old man approached us and said to J Lo’s ginger six-year-old, “Do you know why the first person was hung in Salem? For having red hair." She was creeped out, but took it in stride.

On leaving Salem, we stopped for ice cream at this crazy furniture store that features a water light show (I don’t know the proper name for that) and an opportunity to become a trapeze artist. As we were eating our ice cream, a voice called, “JILLLLLLLL!!!!!!” Before me stood the Friendly Indian. We were flabbergasted, knowing that it was no coincidence that we had found each other. She hadn’t received my text, but we had been given another chance. You know you are having a good week when you have two stories to submit to the Ensign.

* Mormon summer program for teens.

In Which Miss Jill Submits An Inspirational Story To The Ensign*

One day I woke up at 4:00 one Sunday morning and my face felt swollen. I ran to the bathroom and was appalled to note that I had suddenly developed the symptoms of Bell‘s Palsy. The right side of my bottom lip was fully two inches higher than the left. I glared at my image helplessly, lamenting the years I had spent decrying my average appearance. Having a five head (so big that it ceases to qualify as a four-head) was now the least of my problems. Mediocre suddenly seemed so much better than my new face, which could only belong to the scorned lovechild of Quasimodo and Popeye.

In desperation I lifted my eyes to the heavens and implored, “I think that we both know that there is no way that I’m going to go to church looking like this. Your call.”

I went back to sleep and when I woke up a few hours later, I looked completely normal.

* Mormon Magazine

In Which Miss Jill Loses Her Chance For True Love

Tonight is the New York Mormon single adults speed dating activity. Unfortunately, I am in Boston for my cousin’s music recital and will be unable to attend. The nineteen-year-old model had a different excuse. I asked her if she were planning on going and she replied, “I can’t go until I’m at least 25. If I went now, everyone would get angry and ask why that pretty young b@#$h was there, stealing all their men.”

In Which Miss Jill Embraces Her Role As A Social Pariah

Recently Metro, the free newspaper you get by the subway, featured an article about annoying New Yorkers. As I was reading, I started to see an unsettling trend. They mentioned:
* People who carry a huge backpack that hits everyone else in sight while they pass by. Guilty. Once I used the 80 lb backpack for evil when I “accidentally” ground it into this annoying woman at a restaurant. My cousin finished the job by sneezing on her twice.
* People who take up several subway seats for their stuff. Guilty. My home office on the B Train takes up a minimum of four seats. Sorry, but my coat needs a seat more than you do.
* People who stop in the middle of the road to text. Guilty. Not coordinated.
* People who talk on their cell phone on the subway train. Guilty. I have 30 minutes above ground in Brooklyn and I can’t stop myself from calling relatives to tell them that “Not much is going on.”

Since my behavior reflects half of the list, I guess that I have no choice but to come to the conclusion that I am annoying. Luckily, that doesn’t stop me from branding other people with the same moniker. My personal subway arch nemeses are as follows:

The Romanian Girl Who Ate An Entire Bag of Pepperidge Farm Chocolate Chip Cookies Right Before My Eyes
This was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life, so I am unable to find the words necessary to elaborate.

The Nose Picker
I am only writing this because I am staring at one across from me right now.

The Pimps and Hos Theme Party
Just looking at this group makes me want to become a fan of Planned Parenthood on Facebook. I lament the lack of justice in this world when I realize that I would get much more action if I were 250 pounds and wearing a spandex midriff. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time and the energy necessary to maintain jeweled acrylics, so I will remain celibate. The fun can’t last, however, because in a few short years this group matures into:

The Call to Family Services That You Can’t Make Because You are Underground
This is more or less the same genus of peeps that you will find at an uptown McDonalds (every time the 19-year-old model passes the Golden Arches she points and yells, “Child abuse!”). This usually involves telling a 4-year-old that he is a b@#$ard just like his father, because he dropped his bag of potato chips. Once an abuser struck at an inopportune time of my cycle and I started crying on the platform.

The Oversharer

Albeit, 90 percent of my total interpersonal encounters somehow fall into this category, but some people cross the line (ok, psych). One beautiful summer day, a member of this group approached me at the 125th station-.
Unwed Mother: Holla (Ok, not a direct quote. I just want it to be).
Miss Jill: Holla (Ditto)*
UW: Do use know how to get to 116th Street?
Miss Jill: Shares helpful advice.
UW: So girl, ya know, I’m going to go visit my Baby Daddy. He don’t know that he’s the Baby Daddy yet, so I’m nervous.
Miss Jill: That must be so difficult for you.
UW: It is. Especially since he’s not gonna believe it. Coulda been lots of people, but I’m pretty sure it’s him.
Miss Jill: As I’ve never been able to score a Baby Daddy, I am not an expert, but you might not want to present it like that.

* I am so unhip that when my brother kept greeting me with “Holla” online, I thought that he was spelling “Hola” incorrectly.

The Subevangelist

We Mormons are no strangers to missionary work, so I can‘t judge, but I‘m talking about freelancers who share eternal truths such as, “I used to be mad high on crack and now I’m mad high on Christ.” Yesterday a woman was kind enough to pronounce a blessing on the entire subway car and everyone on it (which I took to mean that my wedding date is now impending). I tried to snap a pic of her rapture, but I would make a terrible photojournalist, because I only managed to capture this pic of her elbow as she exited the train:




New Yorkers, do you have anything to add?

In Which Miss Jill Learns That You Are Only Cheating Yourself

We are working on preterite (past tense) right now, and I had the students do a timeline of their lives with 2040 as the end point. I was proud to receive a paper in which a student wrote: 2024-Escribí un libro (I wrote a book): “How to Cheat.” As a teacher working with diverse populations I have found that academic dishonesty is truly the universal language. I love asking students what the words in their papers mean and receiving a glazed expression in response.

When I was in high school I had this class in which our only activity was watching movies (I wish I could say film strips here, but I’m not quite that old-that was elementary) about B-list historical stars. For example, I will always remember that Charles Gaiteau is the name of the man who shot President Garfield because we enjoyed a week long documentary series about him. When it came to the final, we were at a loss, because we hadn’t learned anything and most of us only went to that class a few times a week.

Our teacher photocopied five or six different tests for us to take as the final and left them on a table in the classroom. Of course, this resulted in theft and people went home to craft and distribute answer keys on Scantron sheets. No one questioned the fidelity of the bootleg cheat sheets until it came to light that a popular one earned the cheater a 59%.

I probably copied worksheets sometimes, but I was never a huge cheater for selfish reasons. I’m pretty sure that Harvard PhDs are not the people selling term papers online (undergrads maybe) , so I don’t trust anyone to do higher quality work than mine. There was a close call, however, when I was in college. My friend had taken a class four times and was heading for a fifth because she didn’t have time to write the final paper. This is a transcript of our conversation, circa 2004:

Miss Jill: Girl, you can’t take this class again. I’m tired of this, I’m writing your final paper.
Friend: Great, it is about the history of salsa dancing.
Miss Jill: I’m not writing about that.
Friend: Well, that’s what it is about.
Miss Jill: Were you assigned that topic?
Friend: No, but I like it. We can write about whatever we want.
Miss Jill: As you will not be the person doing the paper, I don’t think that that matters. Can I do it about Che (I already had several good resources in my personal library)?
Friend: No, it has to be about salsa dancing.
Miss Jill: That does not make sense. You don’t even have to read it. I’m offering you a free paper here, and history shows that you will get an A on it.
Friend: Sorry, I’m really committed to that topic.

So BYU Honor Code Office was off the hook, because there was no way that I was doing academic research on an activity I abhor more than being weighed at a medical clinic (and that hatred earned me pneumonia once because I refused to go to the doctor because I knew that a scale would be involved).

PS, if you read this blog consistently, please add yourself as a follower at left. This is hard work. Thanks.

In Which Miss Jill Discovers that Bosnia and Latin America Have More In Common Than Land Mines

As my ninth graders were working today, I started playing Spanish music in the background. I put on an RBD song to see if they would like it. RBD is a Mexican pop group that also starred in a soap opera called “Rebelde.” A few notes into the song, a Bosnian student stood up and yelled, “YO SOY REBELDE!” As this was not on the vocabulary list, I was impressed.

Miss Jill: How do you know about RBD?
Bosnian: I go to my country every summer and the television shows there are terrible. No one watches anything Bosnian.
Miss Jill: So, they watch Spanish soap operas?
Bosnian: Yes, everyone loves them. My cousins watch so many that they speak Spanish fluently.

I guess that I should let the BYU Spanish Department know that Sarajevo is an underrated, yet very viable option for their study abroad programs.

Buen Provecho, 168th Street

Sorry for the Razr quality image, but I had to be sneaky. This fine gentleman fell asleep on the subway platform with almost an entire pizza next to him. It smelled really good, so a few people had a late night snack.

To Clarify

Just in case anyone was wondering, I'm not an apostate Mormon and I don't drink alchohol. I just think it's important to reach out to people instead of shutting them out. Thanks.

In Which You Discover The Origin Of The Dilapidated Magenta Umbrella You Bought in Chinatown

Scene: The corner of West 4th and 6th Avenue, New York City Halloween Parade

The streets were swollen with people, so my friend and I climbed onto a traffic light pole so we could see. We thought it was the perfect spot until it started raining and people’s umbrellas kept getting stuck in my earrings and hair. I‘m sure that more than one person went home and wondered why they had a long blond hair in their umbrella spoke.

During one of several “Thriller” dance sequences, I dropped my own umbrella. I stared at it, debating if it was worth sacrificing my prized perch to retrieve. As I was about to jump off, a diminutive Chinese woman walked by, stooped down and discretely stuffed the umbrella into her bag. As she darted swiftly through the crowd, I was transfixed. I knew that any effort to catch her would be futile, so I decided that my second best option would be to take a picture of her on my snazzy Razr phone.

As I was grabbing onto a pole for dear life, I was only able to snap this masterpiece:




I sent it into NYPD for analysis and will let you know if they are able to make a positive identification match.

In Which Miss Jill Gives Her Life A Senior Awards Banquet

Somewhere in my parent’s house in Chicago lies a framed computer printout that proclaims me “Most Sarcastic Female, Class of 1999.” When I took it home and proudly showed it to my mother, she shook her head sadly and lamented, “Some people’s children get ‘Most Likely to Succeed.’” Sorry mom, but those parents are from New Delhi.

I believe that this honor makes me uniquely qualified to bestow similar awards. The contenders are everyone I have ever met. So with no further ado…

Students: Keeping My Biological Clock At Bay
Best Behaved Students: Turks/Koreans
Best Looking Students: Hondurans-there is a reason that Latinas always win Miss Universe. We were always wondering why they didn’t have an awkward adolescent phase like we did.
Hardest Grade to Teach: Seventh
Biggest Overachievers/Suck-ups: Mormon gifted/talented students
Students Who Cheat On Homework Worksheets: 95%, regardless of cultural background


“Career”
Co-workers Most Likely To Show Concern For Your Well-being: Turks
Co-workers Most Likely to End Up On An Episode of Dateline: Fellow Certified Nurses Assistants from a state run nursing home for severely disabled adults. I worked there in high school and my main job description was enema giver and diaper changer
Most Passive Aggressive Co-workers: Mormons with a capital M-Sorry guys, we are :) (which is why I hate smiley faces in any form)
Nicest, Most Egalitarian Bosses: Principals
Most condescending co-workers and bosses (even when they don‘t know how to use apostrophes): Attorneys
Worst Boss: Adulterous Swinger
Shortest Job: Three week telemarketing stint
Most Prestigious Workplace Award: Whitest Legs


Peligro

Closest I Have Come To Receiving My Eternal Reward: Honduran colonoscopy
Closest I Have Come to Spending the Rest of My Life in a Developing Country Prison: Managua, 2006
Meanest Personal Fantasies: Randomly pushing people onto the subway tracks and stealing change from homeless people’s cups. Everyone probably fantasizes about that though.
Most Likely To Follow You Home While Asking For A Guided Tour Of Your Anatomy: Harlem Residents

Potpourri

Dumbest Thing I Have Ever Said That I Truly Meant: MAKE MY DAY!!
Lamest Thing To Brag About: Honduran man who boasted that his daughters were on two episodes of Alf.
Biggest Federal Crime: Cuba, 2002. Thanks BYU Study Abroad for turning us into criminals.
Dumbest Thing I Have Ever Done: Locked the keys in my car when they were still in the ignition. Unfortunately, I was ditching school, so I couldn’t call my mom for the spare. Fortunately, it was 1998 and gas was 99 cents a gallon.
Worst Thing I Have Ever Said: F-bomb. I was telling my friend Kristy a story and I accidentally directly quoted my roommate instead of saying "eff." I immediately stopped, gasped and put my hand over my mouth. Kristy's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.
Person I Want To B-Slap The Most: Myself, because I am wearing a skirt inside out and it took me an hour on the B Train to notice.