Happy New Year!

A few years ago I celebrated New Year's Eve with my grandparents in Idaho. They were watching the Times Square Celebration and at 10:00 the ball dropped and they started to cheer. "Alright, let's go to bed," my grandpa said. "In this house we observe the New York new year."

Happy 2010!!!!!!

In Which Miss Jill Explores Geriatric Abuse: A Case Study

I don't normally resort to bathroom humor, but spending too much time with my little brothers reminded me of this story. I have low traffic when people don't have any work to avoid, so I guess that I can write whatever I feel like.

Nauvoo, Illinois 2002 (Mormon heritage site)

My family righteously traveled to Nauvoo for the temple dedication and when we arrived, we had to wait for my dad to check us into the hotel. I got tired of sitting in the van, so I stood outside. After pacing for a few minutes, I turned around to see my 8-year-old brother's posterior hanging from the open window. In a malicious attempt to destroy my spirituality, he screamed, "Bombs away!" I will leave his meaning to your imagination.

As a foul odor filled the parking lot, he turned around and was horrified to see that I was not standing in the line of fire. In place of his intended victim, an elderly couple was shuffling along, helping each other walk to the hotel. Luckily, older folks are not strangers to intestinal maladies and they started to laugh.

In Which Miss Jill Is Shocked To Discover That She Is Destined For A Lifetime of Depression

As an Chicagoan and a New York resident, I thought that this study was interesting. I have no idea who the "scientists" they are referring to are, but they did a study that ranked states by the self reported happiness of their inhabitants. I appear to be doomed.

I found this here
Most happy to least happy:
1. Louisiana
2. Hawaii
3. Florida
4. Tennessee
5. Arizona
6. Mississippi
7. Montana
8. South Carolina
9. Alabama
10. Maine
11. Alaska
12. North Carolina
13. Wyoming
14. Idaho
15. South Dakota
16. Texas
17. Arkansas
18. Vermont
19. Georgia
20. Oklahoma
21. Colorado
22. Delaware
23. Utah
24. New Mexico
25. North Dakota
26. Minnesota
27. New Hampshire
28. Virginia
29. Wisconsin
30. Oregon
31. Iowa
32. Kansas
33. Nebraska
34. West Virginia
35. Kentucky
36. Washington
37. District of Columbia
38. Missouri
39. Nevada
40. Maryland
41. Pennsylvania
42. Rhode Island
43. Massachusetts
44. Ohio
45. Illinois
46. California
47. Indiana
48. Michigan
49. New Jersey
50. Connecticut
51. New York

In Which Miss Jill Shares Hard Earned Economic Advice Part III

I just wanted to do a quick update from my ancestral home in Chicago. The two hours I have just spent doing my laundry for free are making me reconsider my plans to return to New York. Not having the lingering smell of Penn Station on my person and crazy weather beaten hair is also a plus.

After we opened presents yesterday, my little brother looked upon his spoils and declared, "It's time for Ebay!" That's when I knew that the $3 I spent on an I Heart New York shirt was a worthwhile investment. It reminded me of a time in college when I decided that it was time to get rid of some clothes and my friends came over to enthusiastically ransack my closet. A few days later, my friend, TGass, quickly minimized a web page when I came into the room. Naturally, I became suspicious and inquired about her activities (as a caring friend). She looked at me sheepishly and stammered, "I can't tell you. You will be mad at me." "Not likely," I replied. She maximized again and I saw all of my clothes on her Ebay seller's page.

In Which All of the Sacrifices of Teaching Pay Off

3 Train, 9:00 a.m. Not sure on the date, but it was when I was working for the swinger

Teen 1: I’m writing this resume and I need to think of another way to say that I quit.
Teen 2: Oh, that’s easy. Say you was “terminated.” That’s the intelligent way to say that.

Yesterday, 3:55 p.m.

Kid: I don’t want to give you this present, but my dad is making me (obviously not Turkish-you would have to be a really, really Americanized Turk to say something that rude)
Miss Jill: Why thank you, how thoughtful!!

In Which 81 Is The New 18

When I joined Facebook a few years ago, I was a bit uncomfortable because I thought I was too old. However, it is an invaluable communication tool for a nomad like myself and I’ve never looked back. As the years progress and Facebooks has started graying, I am thrilled to glean such information as my former bishop’s Twilight alter ego and a work supervisor’s Farmville score on a daily basis.

Last week my students were complaining about how their parents were getting Facebook accounts just to spy on them and I was able to commiserate (maybe there are certain members of my family who troll my list of friends in quest of alleged love interests and maybe I received a text querying, “Your sister’s status said that she had the best weekend of her life. What do you think that means?”). One of my friends was recently scolded by her mother for appearing in a picture with a candy cigarette dangling from her mouth and I have already mentioned this, but I was reprimanded a few months ago for use of the word “sucks.” Will this insanity never end?

Regardless, when I received a friend request from this individual, I was skeptical:



I thought that my cousins had invented a prank Facebook account for my grandpa, but as soon as it said “no widows please” I knew that it was legit. I should have never been skeptical, because Grandpa is a prolific texting prodigy, i.e, “Be careful about swine flu. Love, gpaw.” So when my students were lamenting their parents on Facebook, I knew that I had a trump card that could top it all. I introduced them to my top friend, Marvin, and they loved him -he is now the most popular person at Turkish school. Yesterday a student approached me and solemnly declared, “Miss, I will always remember you for the rest of my life as the Spanish teacher whose grandpa has Facebook.” What an honor. You don’t read this, but thanks for being the hippest grandpa around. XOXOXO

In Which Miss Jill Becomes Vulnerable To A Hollywood Blacklisting

As I know that many of my faithful readers look to me for financial advice, I would like to pass on a conversation that I just had on gchat. I believe that its authenticity is supported by the lack of punctuation and our flexible adherence to the rules of grammar.

Friend: after church i went across the street and snuck into the nutcracker.

Miss Jill: dang
how did you do that

Friend: i just scope out the situ...watch for ppl with big groups that scan all the tix at once and pretend I'm with them. I sat 10th row center orchestra. it was so beautiful. I loved it oooh ooh guess what my new favorite hobby is!!?

Miss Jill: what is your new hobby?

Friend: Saturday I got some shopping bags, went to the top floor of my building and went in the refuse room and went through the trash and then went to every floor. (25). It was fun! I got this great white fluffy area rug for our living room. some baskets for our bathroom (for TP and magazines), a vacuum that works really well!, Stamps, a bunch of books, jeans and shirts that fit me, a brand new microwavable eyemask, a shelf organizer.... i just unfolded the stamp book i got, it has over 20 stamps in there! what is wrong w these ppl!!!!!?????

Miss Jill: check for size 8 petite clothes (I considered altering this to say 2, but too many of my readers actually know me and would be concerned that I had dropped to my kindergarten weight)and size 4 through 6 shoes


Friend: you got it

Miss Jill: if you dumpster dived my apartment building you would probably find a dead body

Friend: yah just listen at your place and you can hear ppl dying (this actually happened once)

After this conversation she did another round of scavenging and I am proud to say that I am about to become the proud owner of barely used Japanese snow boots (my small feet are attached to a person of the wrong race).

In other economic news...

Spanish 321 Class Picture, Santiago, Dominican Republic, 2002. My friend posted this on Facebook a while back and I couldn't help but notice that someone McCarthyed me in the sentence diagramming activity on the board. In case you can't see it, it says "Jill es comunista." Kindly ignore how I look-I have aged well.



I can't deny the fact that I bought a Che Guevara t-shirt and communist berets (sorry, but it was funny) when I visited Havana, but I acknowledge that 99 percent of Americans who wear Che shirts are ignorant hipsters who don't realize who it is that they are promoting. Yeah, you were hot when you were young, but what's up with the bloodbath, Che?

Along a similar vein, my investigative razr phone photojournalism failed to capture the full effect of this 60ish-year-old woman's shoes on the C Train yesterday:



Luckily, I found this closeup online:



Here's to spending your twilight years in revolutionary Keds-¡Hasta la victoria siempre!

In Which Miss Jill Gets Fired From Her Job At The Quarry

I am very lucky that I was born after the Industrial Revolution, because manual labor and laboring as a beast of burden are not my strengths. 95% of the time, if I am holding something heavy, whoever I am with gets frustrated by my torpidity and snatches it away (especially you, Drea). This is especially true when I am surrounded by people who are possibly involved in the drug trade or other women. It is less true when I am encircled by missionaries. Back when I lived in Harlem, I was walking down the street with four heavy grocery bags. As I struggled under their weight, I dropped one and its contents scattered across the sidewalk. At that exact moment, two missionaries walked by and my naïve heart rejoiced, because I thought that they were going to help me, their sister in the gospel. The missionaries glanced at my predicament, turned their backs on me and walked away. On the other hand, several inebriated, possibly homeless men were more than willing to come to my aid. I have no idea how the missionaries knew that being nice to me would not improve their end of the month numbers, because I wasn’t even wearing a BYU sweatshirt.*

Now let us fast forward to yesterday. I was carrying a backpack containing a computer, one hundred tests, a teacher’s edition textbook and a book about Palestine. It wasn’t really working for me and I was losing an epic battle against the subway stairs. A group of homies was behind me and saw the opportunity for a quick laugh. “You can do it, one step at a time,” they encouraged malevolently. “Come on, one more step.” When finally I got to the top of my Everest, they started cheering boisterously. As they joined me on the platform, one glanced at my face and yelled incredulously, “Youse young?” I refrained from comment.

* Don't be offended, I know that not all missionaries would do that.

In Which Giving May Be Better Than Receiving

This is an edited repeat from when my blog was private and I only had like thirty readers.

It was the second most exciting day of the school year in Honduras: 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 when a lecherous middle-aged man tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and he silently 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 the perfect size. Confused, I looked on the gift tag which said, To: Miss Jill From: 12-year-old, often sweaty, Casanova. I went to the Vice-Principal, who informed me that that particular student was the heir to a lingerie sweatshop. I could grudgingly accept that, but I was a bit disconcerted by the accuracy in size. 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 about me screams:

* 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 thought that he was Mormon until I was 7)

* From my cousin: Birthday clam juice-my friend drank the entire thing and was dubbed “Clam Juice Girl” after that

* 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 and a book called “Secret Passions (my mom wouldn‘t let me buy the one called ‘Seduction‘‘”).

In Which Tang Makes A Thrilling Comeback

When I lived in Honduras, I had a bedspread that was so blindingly white that it rivaled my legs (as I have received awards for the whiteness of my legs, that is no small feat). Since I generally do my makeup on my bed (the result of having to share a bathroom with two sisters growing up-one who is characterized by what my baby brother once called a “1950s prom ‘do“), this was only a good idea because I was helping the local economy by employing my trusty maid, Olga.

The white was working for me, until I invited one of my bffs over to watch Mormon General Conference on my computer. While “Carolina” relaxed on the edge of my bed, she voraciously shoved packets of tang powder into her mouth. Because my favorite candy is a nearly flavorless plastic byproduct known as Twizzlers Pull N Peel™, I withheld judgment. As those of us in the fold know, Conference has its ebbs and flows, and Carolina was soon sleeping peacefully.

Several talks later, her eyes opened and she jerked her head up, disoriented. I laughed and pointed to where she had been lying. My pristine bedspread was blemished by a colossal pool of neon orange drool.


This is unrelated, but I would like to share it anyway. I think that it’s possible that relying on free food was starting to make me malnourished, because my nails became translucent and started to break off. I decided that buying a multivitamin would be cheaper than continually purchasing produce, so I acquired this fine product about three weeks ago:



Ok, I need to tell you that on Saturday night a girl complimented my nails and I looked down and realized that they were really thick, healthy and shiny. I have been so busy living in third world conditions that I didn’t even notice that a miracle had taken place.

In Which The Turks Judge Miss Jill To Be A True Chicagoan

Yesterday the English teacher told me that one of their new vocab words was “crony*.” When she introduced the word, the kids responded by saying, “Oh! That’s Miss Jill! Miss Jill is everyone’s crony!” Which explains why I am so lucky that I work in a school where discipline is not a major issue.

* A close friend, especially one of long standing.

PG-13 Section of Post: A Trip To The Local Post Office

In other news, I’d like to discuss a recent trip to the Washington Heights post office. Like many local venues, it is characterized by slow lines, intense screaming matches between clients and employees (from what I could hear, most of them concerned money orders), female anatomy praisers, child abusers and five or six people who looked like upright citizens. A microcosm of the barrio, if you will.

Five seconds after I joined the line, a woman who made me wonder if Medicaid covered dental work cut in front of me. Nonchalantly, she confessed, “Sending a package to my stupid expletive deleted grandson. He keeps moving without telling me.”

Miss Jill: Oh, that’s too bad. How old is he?
Hater Grandma: Eight. Makes me mad. Don’t be in any hurry to get your own, if you know what I mean. Plenty of time for that.
Miss Jill: Nervous laugh. Don’t let my parents hear you say that. I’m not that young.
Hater Grandma (sizing me up): How old is you, anyway?
Miss Jill: 28.
Hater Grandma: Never mind. Time is ticking, God Almighty, time is ticking!
Random Eavesdropping Lady in Line: Uh. Huh…
Hater Grandma: Now me, a man gave me this one between the hours of 2:00 and 4:00 a.m. on September 26, 1966. Shows me a picture of Sidney Portier holding a baby (I‘m not saying that he is the father, because I’m pretty sure that Mr. Chips could do better than Hater Grandma). Hate this guy now (referring to the baby).
Miss Jill: How did you meet his father?
Hater Grandma: Back in ‘65 I moved to L.A. without a dollar to my name. Met the father and the next day I had a roof over my head, plenty of food and some spendin’ money.
Miss Jill (feeling strapped for cash): How did you meet?
Hater Grandma: Bus stop. God protects babies and fools and we both know that I ain’t no baby.
The rest of this conversation has been edited out due to graphic content, but rest assured that I wrote it down the second I left the post office, so the accuracy level is high.

Hater Grandma gave me so much to ponder that when I got to the window, I had a difficult time understanding what the cashier was saying. The tapping of her five inch rhinestone nails depicting a Caribbean sunset increased my state of confusion. She quickly became impatient and asked, “Young lady, is you in some sort of trance?”

And that is how, after an hour and a half of forging life long friendships, I managed to mail a package.

In Which Rocky IV Nearly Brings Down the Iron Lady

I’m racking my brain, and I’m pretty sure that I’ve only cried twice as a resident of New York. This is a gift to humanity, because my mode of operation is a 3 million decibel banshee shriek that lasts for like two hours. When I was a teenager, my dad would implore me to quell the hysteria so that the neighbors wouldn’t think that I was the victim of child abuse.

Luckily, I have only cried in one movie in my entire life, said movie being the critically acclaimed Rocky IV. I was so moved by the untimely demise of Apollo Creed at the hand of a dastardly Soviet, that I suffered a complete emotional breakdown. I came face to face with all of the sorrows of the world, which was a deadly blow for an overwrought middle school student such as myself. Long after it was over, I continued replaying the scene in my mind and I was inconsolable. The sound was so deafening that my mom thought that we were fighting and we were punished.

This has never happened again and I doubt that it ever will. I was once told that my failure to cry during the Mormon movie, Charly (melodramatic film about a newlywed who dies of cancer), demonstrated my lack of a soul. I would like to publicly proclaim that Charly is the most annoying character ever (except for Dobby the House Elf of Harry Potter fame, although his death was a tiny bit sad somehow) and the world of Mormon fiction is now a better place.

In Which PS 32 Doesn't Look Quite So Terrible

One of my co-workers in Honduras stated that he moved to Central America because the American education system is so terrible that the literacy rate is only 60%. If that were true, would we be so awesome at Facebook chat and texting, lol? I don't think so. And can't we read Twilight?

Anyway, if you are an American public school hatah, I would like to present some alternate case studies (ok, I don't know if these stories are the product of the fruitful imaginations of youth). In Honduras, my bff’s children went to public school and her daughter told me that in second grade, her teacher had a loose relationship with work. Every few days she would recruit a sixth grader to watch her class and then she would ride off into the sunset on the bus. As soon as she was gone, the second graders would tie up their babysitter with jump ropes and gag him with tape. Then the boys would take off their shirts and start to dance crazily around the room and sometimes they would even adorn themselves with war paint. When the kids saw the teacher coming back, they would clean everything up and kick the sixth grader out with the threat to mobilize against him if he tattled.

Yesterday, I was writing recommendation letters in a classroom after school and a student entered and said, “I want to tell you something. In Turkey I was in a public school in 8th grade and one day the teacher left and all the girls. Then, men with knives came and wouldn’t let us leave. They ask for money. We get rid of them. Then, another day we have fight against another school. 60 against 70. It was very fun. Have a good weekend, bye.” I have no idea what prompted this divulgence.

Both of these kids are smart, so maybe we aren't competely products of our environment.

In Which NYOM Flaunts What Her Momma Gave Her

First, thanks for all the calls, e-mails and Facebook chats regarding my last post. I’m not feeling so melodramatic about the situation today, because there was heat yesterday, but still no hot water. Please be grateful that you do not have to shower by heating water in the microwave and pouring it over yourself from a pitcher.

Last weekend the nineteen-year-old model (NYOM) planned to meet me at 66th Street. While my friend and I were waiting at Barnes and Noble, my telephone rang..
NYOM: I’m at Columbus Circle (one of the subway exits is at 60th Street, so only 6 blocks away).
Miss Jill: We are at 66th Street, come meet us.
NYOM: Ok, I’ll get back on the subway or take a cab.
Miss Jill: It is only 6 blocks. That’s probably a 5 minute walk at most.
NYOM: I don’t really want to.
Miss Jill: Are you actually that lazy?
NYOM (laughs nervously): Ummm… no. I guess that I should be honest. My pants are too tight and I can’t walk that far.

In Which Washington Heights Is A Little Too Authentic Of A DR Substitute

You Know That You Should Move When...

1. You live in developing country conditions, but without the benefit of a tropical climate.

2. You are forced to go on an urban camping trip with a nineteen-year-old model when you are left without heat, water and electricity. You can’t light a candle, because you are afraid that there is a gas leak and you will be incinerated.

3. Your idea of a shower is heating up water in the microwave and pouring it onto yourself with a pitcher.

4. You find out that your neighbor was stabbed to death, because someone erected a shrine on the south side of the building.

5. You have to find your clothes in the morning by the light of your cell phone. You then do your makeup on the subway, because cell phone battery is running out.

6. Your elevator is constantly broken and you see your 80-year-old disabled neighbor shuffling up six flights of stairs with the aid of a nurse.

7. You constantly have to wear five or six pairs of pajamas to fight the onset of hypothermia.

8. The landlord gets so many complaints that she disables her voice mail.

9. You come home from work and the police are standing next to the elevator, banging on it and yelling, “How many of you are in there?” The next day the glass in the elevator is mysteriously shattered:


10. The neighborhood kids attack you with light sabres.

11. Every morning the elevator reeks of urine and cigars and everyone knows that it was the Section 8 (government subsidized housing) people on the fifth floor. Sometimes they are even kind enough to leave behind vomit and loogies. A couple of days ago, I scored this free pizza:



12. You get a sin-free marijuana high every time you enter the stairwell. Maybe I should start putting their leftovers in little baggies to make some extra cash.

13. You tried to make garlic bread by putting a cookie tray on the stovetop, because they refuse to fix your oven.


14. You don’t know that the previous tenants left because the apartment was destroyed by a fire, until the Jehovah’s Witnesses tell you.

15. On top of this, you have a three hour roundtrip commute. !#@!$@#$!@#$!@#$!@#$!@#$!@#$!@#$^

16. You don’t think that any of this is funny anymore, which for me, is a bad, bad sign.

So gentle readers, these are the horrifying deets of my current housing situation. A few days ago, I came to work with greasy matted hair, subway style makeup and the first symptoms of frost bite. I poured out my troubles to the school secretary and she immediately had some ideas. And yesterday, my boss said, “I heard what is happening and time to move. I asking around and maybe this guy moving to Turkey and his place will be free (see previous post about how much I love the Turks).”

I need some feedback. Should I move to a family neighborhood in Brooklyn? It is way cheaper, I didn’t sign the current lease and my attorney (aka my newly barred cousin) thinks we can lawyer out of it for my ex-roommate. Sorry friends, I’m not usually one to blog grievances or personal data, but I hope that this was at least semi-entertaining.

If anything, this has made me truly empathize with the plight of the urban poor in this country. They spend their whole lives in these kind of conditions and no one cares. I looked at the city’s complaint log of our apartment building and I’m pretty sure that all of the complaints came from the twenty-somethings in the building who come from middle class backgrounds. I think that the others are too resigned to their fate to complain.

In Which Miss Jill Pledges Her Allegiance to the Republic of Turkey*

Eight Reasons That I Have A Death Crush On My Job

1. It is safe to assume that 99% of the students are not getting more action than I am.

2. No fist fights. In fact, this job does not require mad discipline skills, which is good, because that is not my strength. We need to figure out the state secret that makes Turkish kids so respectful.

The best fights that I have broken up at other schools:
* “The Lopez Fight” (so named because both of the parties had the same last name) in Utah. It involved two twelve-year-old girls who were fighting for the love of some twenty-one-year-old sleaze ball. I told the counselor to call the police, but she told me that the parents approved of the relationships.
* A fight that began because one kid told another kid that he was “The Black Kid Who Controls Chucky.” He obviously didn’t recognize the highest order of praise found in the seventh grade lexicon.
* A fight between two massive Arab Hondurans (one in 8th grade, one in 12th) for the love of a good woman. I walked over and said, “Stop” and the fight ended immediately. Later, the 8th grader reported to the school counselor, “I was so mad, but so mad. I wanted to kill him and I almost did. And then the little teacher came and I was calm again.”
* Water fight/wet t-shirt contest that was filmed for youtube. I had to push through about 300 adolescent guys to get to the epicenter and when I got there, one of the girls sighed with relief and said, “Oh, it’s only you Miss Jill. I was afraid that we were going to get in trouble.”

3. Baklava and an unceasing supply of delicious food that everyone is excited to share.

4. We are allowed to take the girls to movies and out to eat, because their parents are in Turkey.

5. They understand when you say that you are fasting. And I’m kind of jealous of Ramadan’s weight loss possibilities.

6. I don’t understand Turkish swear words. My vast vocabulary of Spanish cursing prompted a kid to ask me if I were a CIA agent, but I’m pretty sure that a middle school teacher has more learning opportunities than a spy.

7. No one would ever throw a large rock at my head (yes, this has happened).

8. They are enthusiastic about learning in a way that people who are trying too hard to be cool would never be. When we learn new songs in class, half of the students go home and look them up on youtube or download them to their Ipods. Quote from a student: “I went over to the Turkish dorms yesterday and my friend got excited and said, ‘I will play you a song that I love.’ She got on youtube and I sat, waiting for a song to start. Then I heard Caracas, Venezuela, Caracas, Venezuela (this is the Latin America capitals rap) and I knew that something was very wrong.”

And that is why I have the best job ever.

* Don’t report me to INS, I have enough love in my heart for all of humanity.

In Which Miss Jill Wishes Herself A Happy New York Year Anniversary

Ten Things I've Learned Since Moving To New York City

1. Chivalry lives on in the homies. Yes, someone was stabbed to death next to my building (middle of the night drug trafficking type thing). Yes, the lingering smell of marijuana is omnipresent. Regardless, the gang bangers in my building are always willing to lend a hand. Once I came home carrying a laptop, two teacher’s edition Spanish books and several heavy bags of groceries. As I walked through the door, I realized that the elevator was out of service. I live on the sixth floor, which is an insurmountable challenge at the end of the day.

As I stared at the elevator door despondently, willing it to fix itself, I was approached by a teen donning a hair net and a Virgin Mary shirt. “Do you want me to take that up?” he inquired, while staring at me seductively (j/k I’m like twenty years older than him). Crestfallen, I replied, “I live on the sixth floor.” He gallantly grabbed my bags. “I just can’t let a lady carry that, that ain’t right.” This is not an isolated incident-people in the barrio and the hood are the most helpful people in the world.

2. Not all broken English Craigslist job ads are scams. I am currently employed.

3. My Chicago accent sounds like Sarah Palin. I have also been called out by my co-workers for saying “cheese pizza,” as the colloquial term is “a slice” or “regular.” Apparently, the assumption is that all pizza has cheese on it, so why do you need to say it? When I first moved to New York and heard people talk about waiting “on line” (instead of “ in line”), I thought that they were just uneducated. Then I saw it engraved on a plaque in the Bronx courthouse, so the jury is still out.

4. Don’t put your hat down on the shelf in the Harlem Public Library. Some Harlem resident is now wandering around town in a hat with ivory foundation on the brim.

5. Living with a nineteen-year-old model (NYOM) is fun/funny. No explanation necessary. LYLAS.

6. Anything goes. If you tell people that you quit your job working for an adulterous swinger by email, no one bats an eyelash and a few people can even top it.

7. The people who seem the hardest often really have the softest hearts. One of my co-workers admits to despising small children and enjoys casually yelling at them (she is a high school teacher, don’t worry). However, as traumatized first graders flee from her presence, homesick eleventh graders turn to her for comfort. The conclusion that I have come to is that although New Yorkers have a reputation for blunt coldness, they are often really kind and caring underneath.

8. It really is as expensive as people say. Since when did items on a fast food dollar menu cost $1.80?

9. Ingenuity reaps financial rewards. One of my bffs bought a Rockette costume and spends her evenings posing for pictures with tourists. I tried to think of something that I could convincingly dress up as, but the only thing I could think of was a Hobbit and they are kind of out of vogue.

10. For me, all of the challenges associated with living in New York (and there have been plenty) are outweighed by the benefits. Before I moved here, I had lost interest in life and my faith in humanity and my sketchy life here has restored both.

In Which Miss Jill Wonders What Is Happening In The Living Room During Her Peaceful Slumber

What I found in my coffee table centerpiece yesterday as I cleaned up for the arrival of the missionaries:

In Which Miss Jill Pays Homage to the Funniest Baby on the Block

Only one good thing happened to me in seventh grade (1993-1994)-my brother, Baby Troy, was born. Romantically, his name was inspired by a super hot 12-year-old from church who I wanted to marry, even though I can't recall ever meeting him. I'm not sure if this is better or worse than my brother Ty, who was named after legendary gunfighter Tyrel Sackett from a Louis L'amour western. Unlike my imaginary paramour, at least Tyrel Sacket was the fastest gun alive, until the day he died.

I developed some health issues when I lived in Honduras (it didn't help that the doctor did a colonoscopy on me incorrectly). While I was visiting for Christmas, I became very sick and an extended period of esophageal gymnastics left me with streaks of makeup all over my face. Afterwards, as I was writhing in agony on the floor, Baby Troy casually walked by, cast a perfunctory glance in my direction and inquired, “Circus in town?” After that, we started calling some girls from church who Tammy Fayed "The Circus in Town Girls."

When he was ten or eleven he declared, "I am going to be a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy."* A few days later, my sister caught him doing something naughty and she reminded him of his aspiration. He replied solemnly, "the plan has changed."

The last thing you should know is that he has awesome dance moves and we have no idea where he learned them. He is the kind of dancer that people stand in a circle around at dances.

So it is an honor to wish the funniest member of my family a happy sixteenth birthday. Please leave birthday wishes in the comment section, because he will want them (I don't care if you don't know him). And yes, I will call him Baby Troy until the day he dies.

*Mormon leadership

The baby after a pizza eating contest.

In Which A Full Moon Illuminates The Subway Platform

I just walked in the door of my house and I have to share the bone chilling events of the night immediately.

On my way home, I was drifting off on the A train and my head was resting gently on the glass window of the subway car (and I wonder why I keep getting sick). As we screeched into the 145th Street station, someone knocked loudly on the glass and my head jerked up. Still dazed, I looked through the window and my gaze was met by an enormous ebony posterior, undulating to an imaginary beat. I screamed, the other passengers laughed merrily and the offender pulled up her pants and fled the scene.

PS, people keep asking me if they can tell their friends about my blog. Obviously, only an egomaniac of epic proportions could post as much as I do, so I am going to have to say yes to that.

In Which Miss Jill's Womb Briefly Cries Out, Yearning To Be Filled

One of my male cousins is a few years older than me and single. When I asked him why he doesn't date girls close to his age, he replied, "What? Do you want me to have down syndrome kids?" It was an interesting comment choice when talking to two 28-year-old single Mormon girls, but luckily I don't care and I realized immediately that he had given me a blog entry. My sister is convinced that our youngest siblings get more cavities because they are the products of older eggs. I'd better start saving up for co-pays.

The good news is that I recently received an email from a caring individual who is hoping to help me with my marital status problem. Unfortunately, I don't think that these Russians realize that "Miss Jill" is a girl's name.

I submit:

Hello! You are welcomed by marriage agency. To you the young girl
looking the partner in life has shown interest. We send you a photo
of this girl, and as her email the address agency.acquaintances@gmail.com. She will wait for your letter. We guarantee confidentiality of correspondence.
Yours faithfully marriage agency.

In Which Miss Jill Reveals the Elephant in the Closet

Should I change the font to Times New Roman? I am asking that even though I don’t know how to do it.

One of my grandpa’s favorite stories involves a 1940 playground scuffle over a Wendell Wilkie (Republican candidate against Roosevelt) button. The school bully demanded that he relinquish it and my grandpa doggedly refused out of loyalty to the Republican Party. I’m pretty sure that this story involves punching someone in the gut and getting sent to the principal, but I can’t remember the details.

Naturally, I just assumed that Republicanism was a genetic trait that I had inherited. When I was 18, I owned the following items:

* Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush family paper dolls
* A red, white and blue elephant watch
* Liberals Make Me Sick bumper sticker
* 1980 election poster, “Bringing America Back”
* Ann Coulter book
* Ronald Reagan 1999 calendar (two copies)
* Lots of pins (Somehow years later, I accidentally had a Reagan pin in my luggage in Nicaragua and feared that it would be revealed to people still hostile about the contras)

Weird Things That I Did:
* Celebrated February 6 every year (My Ronnie’s birthday). One year I decorated the freshman dorms with dozens of pictures of him to commemorate the day.
* Repeatedly called “Nickelodeon Kids Pick The President” millions of times to vote for Bush, Sr.
* Had an election party that was featured in a local newspaper (I still remember that my dad randomly bought a carton of lemonade cans for it. Thanks)
* Performed yearly pilgrimages to Dixon, Illinois (Ronald Reagan’s boyhood home).
* Put a Republican sign in our precinct leader’s lawn in the middle of the night
* Listed Orrin Hatch as someone whose influence I appreciated when I spoke at high school graduation
* Said that Democrats should be excommunicated from the Mormon church and meant it (If you are a Democrat, don’t get mad, keep reading-this is a story of repentance)

At that point I decided that I wanted to pursue a career in politics and all of my user names were SenatorJill. This probably sounds crazy to anyone who met me after 2002 or so. By the time I was a junior in college, I was a state vice chairperson (I forget the exact wording) in the College Republicans organization. It was a fun hobby, I met lots of nice people and weird stuff went down constantly(which is a litmus test for how much I will like pretty much any given activity).

The semester before I did study abroad, the state president was an affable guy who happened to be a Harry Potter clone. At some point the BYU club president, Bad Pants Boy, and his evil henchmen from the University of Utah (I’m pretty sure that one of them was later convicted of child molestation-Colleen if you are reading this, help me out) decided to put forth impeachment proceedings against him for indiscernible reasons.

I was flabbergasted because:
1. Nothing was going wrong.
2. Maybe they should get some hobbies.
3. This was a college club.
4. This was a college club that was not exactly impacting the voting patterns in the local community.
5. I would never put this experience on my resume-let’s be honest, I live in New York City

I emailed the club president (as I was a state officer, I was his superior) and I inquired about why he felt that such drastic steps were necessary. He replied, “After much prayer and contemplation, I have been prompted that this cause is just. Like the righteous impeachment of William Jefferson Clinton, these proceedings must go forth.”* It was a stretch for me to believe that the Holy Ghost was behind a Machiavellian coup of a campus group, so I briefly contemplated getting him impeached, just for fun. Then I realized that I was going to be drinking piña coladas in the Dominican Republic the next semester and that I didn’t care what happened.

That incident marked the dramatic denouement of my meteoric political career and I decided to be independent a few years later. Maybe after I get rich and move out of the barrio, I will want to come back. And as for political aspirations, all the time I’ve spent in Latin America turned me from a Type A personality to a Type H or something and now I would rather just do weird stuff than be in charge of anything. I am still super open to being the wife of a Latin America despot, so if you think you have that potential, please leave a comment. Se habla español.


* My memory may have made him more eloquent

Harlem Contest Grand Prize

Photo courtesy of http://www.jazzhostels.com/blog/946-michael-jackson-tribute-at-apollo-theater/

Today my friend Japanese Eye Candy and I approached a shirt stand on 125th Street by the Apollo (where the Jackson 5 got their start). We were attracted by a Michael Jackson shirt, glittering in the gentle glow of the street light. I knew immediately that it had to be mine. "I need that sir," I implored the street vendor.
"Don't have no more of those," he replied.
"It's an emergency. Can I have the display t-shirt?"
"You don't understand. This is the last. The Last of the Mohicans."
Clever literary reference.
“Why do you need a display shirt if you don’t have any to sell?”
He was no match for my razor sharp tongue (in all honesty, the line is blurred in my mind and it is quite possible that Japanese Eye Candy did all of the talking) and handed over the goods. I wanted to take a picture of the stand and our new friend, but the cracked RAZR phone’s abilities are a bit limited at night and J.E.C. uncharacteristically did not have a camera with her. She is pretty reliable in that regard, because she sees it as a duty to her lineage to turn every situation into a gratuitous photo shoot.

So with no further ado, I am proud to announce that the Harlem prize goes to our good friend Chilly, at Chillys World. Since she was roughly a third of the entries and half of the people declined Harlem stuff (which makes me wonder if my readership is as vanilla as the very high amount of Utah traffic would suggest), I was very happy, but not surprised to draw her name.

Girl, let’s figure out a way to get me your contact info. Stay tuned for the Upper East Side drawing.

In other news, the nineteen-year-old model (NYOM) told me that she saw John Mayer and Lindsey Lohan together at a club. She claims that in contrast to his photographs, John Mayer is hot in person (I’m going to be honest, I kind of hate him). If you did not read it in her Facebook status already, remember that you heard it here first!

In Which Miss Jill Finds Herself Working in Turxico

Source: http://www.mundodescargas.com/2k6/servicios/especiales/julieta_venegas/fotos_julieta_venegas.htm

Harlem drawing tonight. Some homesickness went down at work yesterday, so I found myself in a Turkish restaurant last night trying to recapture the wonders of Istanbul. My apologies for the delay.

Some of my best Spanish class memories revolve around singing songs by popular artists in class, so I want the Turkish kids to have the same beautiful musical memories. The first week of school we learned the classic, “Estoy aqui” by Shakira and I went through the lyrics with them (shout out to Hermana Bond for making this an important part of my life). As I was explaining a particularly harrowing verse about lost love, a student raised her hand and demanded, “Miss! Please slow down! I need this for my Facebook status.”

A few weeks later we graduated to “Me voy” by Julieta Venegas as featured here.

The students seemed to enjoy it, but they didn’t know me that well at the time, and no one said anything. The next Monday a student approached me shyly and declared, “You should know that all weekend we spend watching ‘Me voy’ in the Turkish dorms and downloading it onto our phones and I-Pods. Very good song. We like Spanish class now.” Of course, I was giving myself all kinds of mad props for this cultural coup, but I have been unable to find a song as popular with the kids as ‘Me voy.’” Suggestions are welcome.

Last Tuesday was Teacher’s Day and the students threw the teachers a surprise party after school. I found out about it early because I heard a student say, “I didn’t realize that the party was after school. I want my $2.00 back.” They had decorated the gym and provided the customary Turkish school party fare: ice cream cake and barbecue chips. After celebrating the entrance of each teacher, they plugged in some speakers to pump out some tunes. The opening song: “Me voy.” I’m pretty sure that the other teachers were thinking in Turkish, “What is this strange music?”

In related news, the administration decided to start playing a Barney style clean up kid’s song on the loudspeaker during the last five minutes of class. I was teaching 11th grade at the time, so I decided that it was n/a and forgot about it. But it had not forgotten me. The Social Studies teacher approached me on Monday and informed me, “When the 4th graders heard the clean up song, they started screaming, ‘It’s Miss Jill!!!! Miss Jill is singing clean up!!!! Ahhh!!!!’” As the 4th graders are not my students, I am touched that they associate me with a grating sanitation ditty.