In Which Miss Jill Finally Understands the Appalling Literacy Rates of Prisons

Borders, Columbus Circle

In Which Miss Jill Funds a Summer Trip To Europe

This was posted on the front door of my building today. I've been looking ever since. I think I might figure out what a zippo lighter is and buy one, because it's worth $5,000 to me. Sounds kind of like a Nigerian scam, though..

In Which This Blog Changes To Mrs. Jill New York

One thing that I admire about my Muslim Turkish posse is that most of the women have not turned maintaining their appearance into a part time job. This is refreshing, as I come from a religious culture that is stereotyped by eating disorders, bleached, dome-like hair, fake tans and what my little brother used to call “beep jobs (implants).” I’m wondering if there is a relationship between the dearth of Wet N’ Wild at my school and the fact that most of my girls want to be doctors and professors.

I had a heart to heart with some of the tenth graders the other day and we started talking about the role of makeup and their interpretation of the tenets of Islam. Keep in mind that these particular girls are very conservative, and their views reflect that. I had been curious, so I asked them what makeup they thought was acceptable. One girl replied, “It is said that you can use a certain type of eyeliner if you are having a hard time finding a husband. It is a special kind that is healthy for your eyes and lasts for three days.” I later asked an adult and she was dubious about the existence of a scriptural reference linking eyeliner and marital status.

I forgot for a few days, until I was presented with my very own miracle makeup. Frankly, I was a little touched that someone realized that emergency action had to be taken while I am still tenaciously grasping onto the swiftly vanishing vestiges of my twenties. This is my seventh day wearing it, so you should probably save the date of August 14th. The only caveat is that I forgot to ask if its seductive power also entraps Christian guys.

In Which Miss Jill Unlocks the Mysteries of the Bible

I'm sad that my Grandma Peterson missed the great discovery that I made in the Atlantic Avenue subway station. She loved to talk about the whereabouts of the Lost Tribes and I found them:

Hey Fundamentalists, Don't Be Haitin'

As we all know, serious discourse is not really my writing style and I am not good at it, but I’ve been thinking about Haiti for a while and would like to discuss. Warning, this is a little cheesy and religious, even though I wrote it on the D train.

Due to my background, I have come in contact with more than my fair share of religious fanatics and usually I just take it in stride, while trying to cautiously distance myself. However, in church on Sunday someone insinuated that the earthquake in Haiti was a manifestation of the wrath of God and that threw me over the edge. I almost yelled, “Is this some kind of redneck Christian convention?”, but I restrained myself because I am in the leadership (I don't know what is appropriate to say) and I thought that I was probably judging the rednecks too harshly. However, I thought about it for the next twelve hours and all of yesterday.

1. Under this hypothesis, the people of Haiti suffer because of wickedness-but what exactly are they doing that the rest of the world isn’t? Most Haitians don’t even have the money or the resources to be trapped by the vices that entangle citizens of the developed world. How can these people justify the fact that Haiti was decimated and the following places have been spared?



Amsterdam



Las Vegas



Playboy Mansion

2. Isn’t it kind of arrogant to decide that you, some random person, are God’s mouthpiece? Even if the earthquake was the wrath of God, did He share that piece of information with you? However, if you do have some kind of direct line, please inquire about the location of my husband and put it in the comments section.

3. In my opinion quite a bit of the devastation in Haiti occurred as the direct result of man-made evils. Weaknesses in infrastructure and hundreds of years of misallocated resources are not an act of God. In life people inevitably suffer as the result of other people’s actions and decisions.

4. I only visited Haiti for a few hours, so I can’t pretend to be an expert on the people. However, I lived in Honduras for two years and if anyone told me that Hurricane Mitch was the fruit of iniquity, I would probably fruitlessly attempt to drop kick them. It’s probably pretty easy to pronounce judgments on people and situations that are so completely removed from everything that you are used to, but that isn’t an excuse for a lack of compassion.

5. If anyone is at fault, my guess is that it is people who don’t share the resources that we have been blessed with.

My overarching feeling on this topic is that there will always be a plethora of events that we don’t understand and that we will never understand. We can’t even start to comprehend all of the reasons for human suffering, but I think that it is our duty to help alleviate it whenever we have the opportunity. Even though God doesn’t stretch forth His hand to stop every single calamity, His love is in the hearts of all the people who see these problems and immediately donate their time and resources to succoring the survivors. God loves all of us and I’m pretty sure that He wants us to share that love with our brothers and sisters in their hour of need, instead of condemning them for alleged sins. Sorry for the pontificating, but I feel really strongly about this.

My boss is going to Haiti on Thursday to help a Turkish charitable organization and last night his wife said, “I don’t want him to go, but he doesn’t have a choice. If something happens and there is a way to help, we have to do it.” Every day the students at my school throw a “bake” sale that consists of bags of chips, Entenmann’s doughnuts and Little Debbie snacks and they have actually earned quite a bit of money by ripping off other kids (one doughnut costs $1.50, when the box costs $2.99).

As I’d like to think that my readership is altruistic, most of you have probably already donated to Haiti, but if you’d like to give a little more (my birthday is in a few weeks, so if you are a high roller, send them a few bucks instead of the expensive gift you were planning to give me-unless it was a Target giftcard), here are some links:

Foundation For Children In Need

American Red Cross

In Which Urban Dictionary Reigns Supreme In An International Battle Of Linguistics

When one spends upwards of 40 hours a week with non-native English speakers, it is important to be cognizant of the weird words and phrases she may be saying, because they may be misinterpreted as standard American English. Thanks to my fine handiwork, countless innocents think that “Hey girl,” is a traditional greeting commonly used by a teacher.

Somewhere in Enchanting Hungary, 2000-2002
While serving as a Mormon missionary in Hungary, my cousin, “Dope,” taught some community English classes. One day he said to a particularly eager student, “In English there is a common expression that we use to express displeasure. It is ‘Homey don’t play dat.’”* She believed him.



Provo, Utah 2004
Several years ago, I went to my friend’s house-let’s call her Bethanie. When I arrived she was sitting in the living room with two Haitians-her roommate and her roommate’s boyfriend, Pierre. They had come to the United States to study at BYU’s English Language Center and were doing their homework.

Now, Bethanie was very frank about identifying her gentleman admirers, but I hadn’t realized how far her reach extended. The first thing she said to me was, “So girl, I ran into John the other day…” Pierre’s head snapped up and he said, in a version of English that suffered under the heavy influence of Creole, “John? Is he the guy who want your trash?” I cast a death glare in Bethanie’s direction and inquired, “Pierre, who is teaching you English?”

* For those of you who are younger than us, Homey the Clown was a character on the show “In Living Color.” Since we weren’t even allowed to watch the Simpsons in my home, my working knowledge of Homey is based upon second hand sources obtained on the elementary school bus. It has been twenty years, so I am unsure if my memory serves me well, but I’m pretty sure that there was a rumor in my neighborhood that a man dressed up as Homey was cruising the neighborhood in a windowless van, looking for kids to kidnap.

An Evening of Fine Dining With Miss Jill

San Juan, Puerto Rico 2002
I’m not proud of this, but in the spirit of full disclosure, during my trip to Puerto Rico I ignored the siren song of boricuan cuisine and went to Chili’s. Our waitress, Zuly, had diligently studied the hospitality industry with Pol Pot. When we asked for some ketchup, she responded by throwing it at us.

I laboriously started filling out a comment card in Spanish and I was sure to add my characteristic dramatic flourishes. As I was wrapping up my tale of woe, another girl, “Anna” said, “Because of your comment card, Zuly is going to go home sad. You don’t understand.”

“Actually I do,” I replied. “That is my goal. She made me sad when she threw ketchup at us.”

“Hand me another comment card.”

“Why?” I didn’t like where this was going.

“I am going to write a positive one.”

“That’s a lie. She’s the worst waitress in the entire world (Ah, the naivety of youth).”

“Maybe she’s having a bad day.”

“Who cares?”

Anna snatched a blank comment card and said, “I’m doing it.”

As I was overcoming by a blinding rage, I sputtered, “Make my day!”

I immediately stopped, fully cognizant of what I had done and cried, “I can’t believe that I just said that. Who am I, Hulk Hogan?”

As Anna falsely extolled Zuly’s virtues, I sat listlessly, staring into space with a glazed expression, in mourning.

Reynosa, Mexico 2005
We accidently visited while the city was under martial law because of violent riots and it was really creepy. For anyone who is familiar with Mexico, the sound of absolute silence in the streets is very unnerving. We got hungry and stopped at a local restaurant, where we enjoyed a cold reception from the staff. When we asked for sour cream, they brought us the whole container with the foil covering still partially intact. The highlight of the day was when my friend started pumping the soap dispenser in a crowded bathroom and loudly lamented, “¡No hay sopa! (There isn’t soup!)”

Copan, Honduras 2006ish
My friend and I went to an ice cream shop and the clerk asked, “What would you like?” As I said, “I would like…,” she turned her back on me and casually sauntered away.

Chinatown, New York 2010, Shanghai Cafe
If any good came from this dining experience, it is that I can finally empathize with the prisoners of the Red Army. From the bellicose barks of our waitress, to cuisine evocative of a gruel line/feeding troth; it was the first time I have had bad food in a Chinese restaurant. To add injury to insult, when I bit into a “wonton,” some puss dripped out and slowly smoldered my lip. Shanghai Café, thank you for giving me a massive blister as a constant reminder of how much you suck (sorry for the mild profanity mom, but this situation warrants strong language).

In Which Miss Jill Makes You Rejoice That Your Child Is In The Low Reading Group (The Red Book)

I discovered the facts of life by accident, when I was five. When I first learned to read, I apparently had undiscerning taste in books. I somehow got my hands on a child development book and read with interest the section about the skills that a normal five-year-old should display and then I tested myself. Skipping. Check. Hopping on one foot. Check. After administering a battery of tests to myself, I concluded that I was developing normally and turned the page. “How To Teach Your Child About Life.” Hmmm… that looked interesting… Until I got to the part about talking to your middle school student.

I was aghast, disgusted, horrified and every other negative adjective and kept the sordid secret for several years. Maliciously, I had my mother give me the talk in 4th grade, just because I wanted to make her uncomfortable. Little did she know, I had been contemplating that topic for nearly five years. However, she was avenged last year when I awkwardly had to explain to her what swingers were (in reference to my former boss).

Another excellent source of forbidden information is the controversial Mormon Doctrine*. I was a pious youth, and probably read the entry “Signs of the Times” a thousand times, as I tried to ascertain if the end truly was nigh. There should be some kind of warning on that book, lest you are in elementary school and innocently turn to the entries “bestiality” or “incest.”

Disclaimer: My voracious reading habits were not my parent’s fault. Having supposedly innocuous reading material like a child development book and Mormon Doctrine isn’t exactly on the level of stashing Playboys underneath the bathroom sink.
* Mormon Doctrine is an encyclopedia of Mormon beliefs.

A Quick Missive From the Betty Ford

One of my former co-workers wisely uttered, “You know that you are getting old when your hangovers last two days.” I have had a terrible headache since the infamous day of the bananas foster incident, so I guess that the day of reckoning has finally come. I fully acknowledge that if you actually drink, these posts will be ridiculous to you. However, I really appreciated the tales of your indiscretions (food coloring?), because if there is anything I’ve learned about the solitary road to alcoholism, it is that any and all emotional support and empathy helps.

Much like the time I accidently dropped the f-bomb while quoting someone (the only time I have said that), I have been overwhelmed by the love and support of sympathetic friends and family in my darkest hour. Thank you for reserving judgment.

XOXOXOXOXOXO

In Which Miss Jill Has An Accidental Rendezvous With Jack Daniels

My favorite part about working with Muslims is that they are not fazed by and are supportive of Mormon dietary restrictions. They would undoubtedly be disappointed to know that I accidentally fell off the wagon yesterday.

Before sharing the lurid details, I would like to recount our family's history with controlled substances.

Sometime in the time period of 1945-1970
My grandma was “slipped a Mickey” right before performing in an opera. If any of my relatives have details on this story, please leave them in the comments section.

Chicago Circa 1989, CeeBees Grocery Store
On our family trip to the store, my three-year-old brother rode in the front of the cart. When we ran into another family from church, he looked at their cart and his eyes grew large, filled with unspeakable horror. He screamed, "It's poison!" Concerned, we looked and saw that they were purchasing a six-pack of Pepsi.*

* The suitability of caffeinated soda is widely disputed in the Mormon world. I craftily avoid this heated debate by hating carbonation.

Cancun 2004, Family Reunion
We were staying at an all-inclusive resort and every night there were different activities. My personal favorite was the night when the Mexican staff dressed up and lip synched to Andrew Lloyd Weber, but many of my cousins preferred the activities at the discotheque. After a particularly challenging round of the limbo, the hotel staff decided to reward my teenage cousin for his efforts. As his head was already tilted back, it was rather easy for them to pour tequila down his throat. I gasped in horror, but was secretly pleased.

New York City 2010, Random Eatery On The Upper West Side
Yesterday was an unseasonably beautiful day in New York and my friend and I decided to go for a walk. During our stroll, we happened upon a tapas restaurant that advertised half priced food (half priced New York food is probably expensive elsewhere). That sounded up our alley, so we entered. It turns out that half priced is much like low fat-it causes you to ultimately splurge more than you normally would.

For this reason, we ordered Bananas Foster. As we greedily gulped it down, my friend paused and said, “Does this taste strange to you? Like alcohol?” I put down the spoon and concentrated on the bitter taste in my mouth and tried to ascertain if I felt more relaxed and uninhibited. Hmmm… I was in a pretty good mood. I laughed nervously, noting with irony that I was sharing the booze with two Muslims (they don’t drink alcohol either). We were too nervous to ask for confirmation from the waitress, so I’m wondering if any of you know about that recipe. I’ve braced myself and am ready to hear the harsh truth about my hedonistic lifestyle.

In case my mom wanted it for my baby book, I took a picture of my first drink:

In Which Miss Jill's Peaceful Slumber Is Disturbed By Enterprising Teens

I didn't get enough sleep on Friday night, so I fell asleep on the A Train yesterday. As this put me at the mercy of unsavory characters, some local teens were kind enough to wake me up.

My sleep was shattered by the heartfelt entreaty, "Can your boyfriend do this s(expletive deleted)?" I awakened to see these boom boxes next to the seat:



This is what transpired:









Thanks to my friend Heather who never reads this blog for the pics.

In Which Miss Jill Brings To Pass the Second Spanish Inquisition

Let’s be honest, I’m not much of a confiscator, because I am too afraid that I will immediately forgot where I put the seized goods. However, yesterday my hand was forced. A student named “Kerem” (not the real name, I just picked a random Turkish one) walked in several minutes late without a pass and sat down with his Ipod headphones in. I kindly asked him to remove them and he responded that he was not listening to anything. That is actually a really common excuse, but I don’t understand why anyone would just leave ear buds in their ear, chilling there with no music. I insisted that he take them out and he acquiesced. To my knowledge, this is the best Ipod hiding place.

During the last ten minutes of class, the students presented their work and Kerem volunteered to come up. While he shared some short sentences he had written about his family tree, I noticed strange background noise. As he droned unceasingly about “Mi abuela es baja, simpática y cocina bien,” I asked him to stop and show me his other ear. I was aghast to discover that the Ipod had made a startling reappearance. “It’s not on!” he protested, but I became annoyed and grabbed it to listen. He was enjoying what I presumed and had confirmed was a religious speech in Turkish. I guess that I have to give him props, because I am not devout enough to covertly listen to Mormon General Conference talks under the risk of Ipod impoundment. One day I may be the villainess in a tale of religious freedom.

I snapped, like Torquemada* before me, and demanded, “Give it to me, now!” Wearing an IPod during a class presentation is a grave insult that supersedes even my tolerance level. He detached the headphones and gave them to me. Leaving my hand extended, I insisted, “All of it.” “Ummmm…” he muttered sheepishly. “It’s inside of my shirt.”
“I don’t care. Give it to me now.”
“Can I go to the hall to take it out of my shirt?”
“Please.”

A few moments later Kerem returned and presented me with the IPod. “Thank you,” I said with satisfaction. Mere moments later, I realized that something was terribly wrong. “Kerem,” I gasped, “Why is my hand wet?” He giggled nervously as I realized that I had been handed an electronic device dripping with puberty sweat.**

* Brutal leader of the Spanish Inquisition.

** Kerem claims that he put drinking water on it to be funny, but the jury is still out.

In Which Miss Jill Discovers An Easy Way To Check Married On Next Year's Taxes

Here is a little story from my beloved cousin, who I will not name by name, because I don't know if she is ready to go public. She teaches at an elementary school with a high illegal immigrant population. She recounts the following-it seems that she has adapted the Relief Society tradition of the Good News Moment* to her classroom.

"Ok, the good news minute just took a turn for the worse and I thought all of you needed to hear about it. We started strong with a few announcements of someone's mom having a baby today and someone else's mom being pregnant. Then the girl that gets in fights, yet somehow gets elected as school Vice President, raised her hand. She is the one that has also shared about her brother in jail for kidnapping and her other brother getting murdered.


Me: What's your news Angelica?
Angelica: My sister is pregnant.
Me: That's great! When is the baby due?
Angelica: We are going to Mexico when it's born because she married the devil.
Me: That's too bad you don't like the dad.
Angelica: No, she actually married The Devil.
Me: What does that even mean? Like, not a real person?
Angelica: The Devil, El Diablo (Thank you Delanderos for naming a dog diablo so I knew the translation)
Me: Tell me more.
Angelica: She was playing a Ouija board and it was covered with cocaine. Then they started spreading the cocaine around and the board told her she was pregnant and then it said to marry the devil. There was a satanic priest using the Ouija board too so he performed the ceremony and she started dancing around and now she is married to the devil. She's really happy.
Miss Jill: Maybe I say this because of my economic situation, but doesn't that seem like a misuse of something as expensive as cocaine?
Me: I can't imagine that marriage is recognized by the state.
Angelica: It's real. A "muchachillo" married them. (I think that's the word she used, but I also seem to remember that meaning "backpack" from high school Spanish, so who knows.) Friendly note from Miss Jill-you mean "mochila."

At this point, there were so many questions from myself and the other kids that it got chaotic. To end it I made everyone raise their hands if they promised to never do cocaine, use a Ouija board or marry the devil."

* Everyone takes a moment to share good news about their life. It's not working if the abuse of depression pills in Utah is an indication of morale.

In Which A Community Writing Class Forces Miss Jill To Confront the Demons of the Past

In light of the promise of a new year, I attended a free memoir writing class last night. I wanted to take humor writing, but it was full. Before class, the teacher passed around a handout about different types of memoirs and I noticed that she had quoted herself extensively. A cursory reading therein exhibited that she had spent four years working as a dominatrix (do not google that, Mormon fans) and was publishing a memoir about her experiences. I am not very mature and had to keep thinking about my current housing situation to fight back laughter. I'm not 100 percent behind the subject matter, but she was a good writer and the class was interesting.

We did some writing exercises and a few people intrepidly volunteered their work and many of them were like this, "As I stood in the crepuscular gleam of the valley, my nascent dreams came upon me like the undulations of the gentle tide." Ok, I'm exaggerating, but I was a little below the intellectual level of the group. For example, the assignment was to spend five minutes writing about an important moment from your childhood. As people were writing about teen pregnancy, living with the lies of the past and divorce, I wrote:

"Ummm...," I stammered, gazing deeply into my beloved's eyes. "I'm, ummm.., like not sure that I can like, get this skate tied tight enough."

"I'll help," he offered with a seductive grin.

I could only manage to stare straight forward with a vacant, dreamy-eyed expression as his hands began to caress my skate clad feet. I realized with ecstasy that everything I had envisioned when I married myself to him on the cover of my Science notebook (Mrs. Jill @#$#@$) was coming to fruition.

As my feet were still cradled in his warm embrace, he uttered a particularly witty comment and I laughed heartily. Mere seconds later, I realized with confusion that my mouth felt lighter. I looked down upon my retainer, resting peacefully in the luscious auburn locks of my teen fantasy. Without expression, he picked it up and gave it to me. "You dropped this," he informed me coldly.

I didn't realize it then, but the disembodied retainer foreshadowed the coming decade of romantic calamities.

In Which Miss Jill Disproves Atheists By Her Mere Survival Part 2/Alf's International Appeal

First things first-if you happen to see mint M&Ms left over from Christmas please send them to me. I went to Hasidic Target last week to see if they had any left on clearance, but I was too late.

I got some funny comments on the transportation post that I would like to continue along that vein. This is an old favorite of mine, so I apologize to loyal readers who may have already heard it. Once in Honduras my blond girls and I spent a fun filled evening at TGIFridays (don’t judge the restaurant choice until you are an expatriate yourself). On exiting, we waited fruitlessly for a taxi and started to become impatient. As we were about to give up all hope, a modern day Lancelot pulled up and gestured furtively from the window for us to enter. My roommate strode confidently towards the car, greeted him warmly and got in. This, coupled with his open shirt and gold chain, led me to believe that he was a dad from school who knew my roommate. As we drove on, I was shocked to learn that our only tenuous connection to this man was that one of the girls had met him in a bar and cruelly denied him.

After a few minutes the culprits disembarked and left my friend Tatiana to our own devices. As I am the extrovert between us, the burden of the conversation fell upon me. A transcript of our exchange follows.
Inebriated Gold Chain Man: I'm one of the most important men in this city. You are lucky to be here with me.
Miss Jill (in standard monotone voice): Ah yes, this is the best day of my life.
I later discovered that his claim to fame was that his daughters had appeared as extras on an episode of Alf.
Inebriated Gold Chain Man (while lovingly stroking my arm): I’ve been drinking since 11 a.m.
Miss Jill (lamenting that breathalyzer tests were not a major import): Wow, that’s quite an accomplishment.
Inebriated Gold Chain Man: I know, you can’t even tell.
Miss Jill: Uhhhh… (accompanied by nervous laugh).
As we pulled up to the gate that night, I had never been so happy to see my guard Omar and his neon orange “Player of the Month” shirt. My relief even overshadowed the fact that his only hair was bangs gelled into a perfect roll.

That’s all for today. Thanks to everyone who has added themselves as a public follower at left. If you read this blog consistently and have no done so, please take a few short moments to satisfy my vanity. Have an awesome Tuesday.

In Which Miss Jill Sadly Realizes That She Will Never Be A NYOM (Nineteen-Year-Old-Model)

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to spend time with my cousin, who was nine years old at the time. He lives in another state, so I had not seen him in several years. On reuniting, he sized me up and said, “What’s going on here? I am nine years old and you are old and we are the same size. This is too weird, I’m freaking out.”

There are some disadvantages to my Lilliputian stature:
• My baby brother places things on high shelves and says, “Jump little Hobbit, jump.”
• On many New York City buses my feet do not reach the floor.
• When I was a student teacher at a big high school, everyone asked for my hall pass (ok I would be thrilled if this happened now)
• My pants are constantly worn out at the bottom because someone who wears my jean size is supposed to be 5’10”
• My feet are a size 4 or 5 and I consistently wear size 6 anyway, so I often walk with a limp because I am trying to keep my shoes from flying off. I have been wondering if I might have more success with Asian brands.
• Back when capris were really in, I kept trying to get some, but was horrified to discover that they fit like full length pants. I have had some mild success with long shorts.
• When the train is crowded, I often have my face gently nestled in someone’s armpit as they grasp the overhead bar.
• When you say that you hate when children are put on sheep and sent out into the sunset (see previous entry), someone suggests that you would probably fit on one.

A few years ago I completely changed my fate by moving to Central America. Along with experiencing a second puberty (the intense humidity combined with no exhaust legislation made me break out like a teen), I also grew several perceptional inches. Apparently in the land of the Mayas, the 5’1” woman is queen.* My most triumphant moment occurred at a church Enrichment meeting. As I stood up to leave, I realized that I was the tallest person in the room. Now, the only place that that happens is the fourth grade classroom.

*Ok, I’m exaggerating. There were still a lot of people taller than me, but it is more like 60 percent instead of 95 percent.

In Which Miss Jill Leaves Her Stint at the 1999 DuPage County Fair Off Her Resume

I have to be honest with you guys, children love me and I finally figured out why: I care about their welfare and they must be able to sense it. I didn't realize how rare this quality is in a single adult until last night at a bull riding competition in Madison Square Garden. I was confused about the origin of the fans, because it is very uncommon to see white trash people in Manhattan. A few years ago my cousin made up the term 23-20 as a nickname for them, based on the w as the 23rd letter and t as the 20th. This code is very, very useful in Walmarts of the Intermountain West. However, in light of the fact that I was once a carney, I might not have the credibility to judge.

Halfway through the competition they introduced an event that a quick google search revealed is properly called "mutton busting." They put small children from the "Real America" onto sheep and see how long they can stay on. Here are some chilling examples:









As a blue state native from a certain socioeconomic background, I was reasonably horrified. Each time a child was thrown from a sheep, I held my breath, nervous that their necks would crack and they would be paralyzed for life. My friends cheered enthusiastically and one proclaimed, "I'm making my kids do this, I don't care if they want to or not." This came from a girl who once showed me a pic of her grandma and nephew feasting on a cooked squirrel, so I knew that my protests would fall on deaf ears.

This experience has transformed me into an activist. Last night I founded PETWK (People for the Ethical Treatment of Redneck Kids). I will keep you posted on our meeting schedule. Lest you think that I am judging country folk too harshly, I will say this-I appreciate that they unabashedly love the United States.

In Which Miss Jill Gives Up and Moves Back Home

J/K, but I was shocked that anyone would deem an $8.99 bottle of pasta sauce "affordable." What is wrong with this city?

In Which Miss Jill Disproves Atheists By Her Mere Survival

Yesterday some local police officers came to school to do a presentation about drivers licenses and safety. The discussion was not particularly germane to our student body, because most of the high schoolers are Turkish boarders who will not be driving through the perilous streets of Brooklyn any time soon. One of the highlights for me was when the female cop said, “Kids, you don’t want the judge to be pi@@ed.” However, one useful fact emerged from the day, because one of the topics at hand was a mode of transportation called dollar vans.

As a transplanted Chicagoan, I had never heard of this phenomenon and as a dollar is my general price range for just about anything, my interest was piqued. After we returned to class, I grilled my students about dollar vans and they gave me the following explanation: Men of afro-caribbean (Haitian, Jamaican, etc.) descent often obtain vans and deck them out with signs advertising discotheques and dance halls (that seems like the Jamaican way to say that). Then they attach a rope to the back door and open and close it while yelling, “Dollar van, dollar van, dollar van.” Most of these vehicles are illegal. I’m going to look into trying one out, because it seems like a good way to relive the wonders of Central American transportation. My Sikh students from Queens also mentioned that some people there drive around their own cars and yell “Taxi, taxi” out the window to get a little extra spending money.

I’ve experienced too many weird modes of transportation for one post, but I will mention a few today. In the Dominican Republic, they have cars called conchos that drive certain fixed routes throughout the city. To take it a step further, they also have motorcycles called motoconchos that you can utilize for a very nominal fee. Basically you get on and wrap your arms in a loving embrace around a sketchy man with questionable hygiene and he takes you to your destination. In retrospect, that may not have been the wisest decision of my life.

Another one of my favorite memories is riding the bus in Guatemala. Many Central American countries use refurbished yellow school buses as public transportation, so you can be walking down the street and see a bus that says “United School District of Des Moines” next to a horse drawn vegetable cart. I went on a church trip to the Guatemala City temple and my Honduran friend and I, let’s call her “Sandy,” set out in search of a supposed Gap/Banana Republic outlet. Unfortunately, we were not successful and I have the sneaking suspicion that said outlet was just a store where someone had brought a few items of clothing back from the States. We got ripped off by the taxi on the way there, so we decided to try to return by bus. Her family was pretty upper class, so she was even less used to transportation of the proletariat than I was.

We got on the bus and quickly realized that the clientele were all en route to a casting for a documentary on Central American gangs and by that I mean that there were more grills than you would find at a Fourth of July fireworks display (ok, that was a lame joke, I admit it). A flashing disco ball hung from the ceiling and illuminated the décor, which displayed a Simpsons motif. Sandy began to panic and as her eyes darted across our predicament she stammered, “Ummm…, sister, I don’t know about this bus.” As the sweet strains of reggaeton carried us back to the safety of the temple dorms, she lovingly clasped my hand in hers.

I razr phoned the woman on the right because she kept saying, "Is it because I'm so d-word sexy? It has to be that I'm too d-word sexy."



Does anyone have any cool transportation stories?

NYOM: Jamaican Me Jealous

While I was in Chicago, I received a text message from the Nineteen-Year-Old Model (NYOM) that said, “I’m going to Jamaica tomorrow.” There is a part of Queens called Jamaica, and I immediately wondered why she had to go there. It was not until I actually spoke with her that I realized that she meant the country. I don’t know all the deets about how this trip came to pass, because the NYOM was on the phone last night when I got home and I didn’t get the chance to ask her. Stay posted.

NYOM returned on Tuesday and as soon as I got home she said, “Ok, you know Shaggy? He’s really cool, we’re like best friends now.” The miracle is that I did know and that I had several of his songs memorized. Unfortunately, this shows that his career climax occurred when I was in high school/early college, because that was the only time that I listened to non-Spanish, non-classical music. I only know who Lady Gaga is because my friend Jendar dressed up as her for Halloween, so I googled it. My favorite Shaggy line is, “She was there for me during my incarceration, I want to show the nation my appreciation.”

My other major Shaggy experience occurred when I was in the Dominican Republic in 2002 and some of us BYUers went on a beach trip with the local Mormons. In the van en route someone turned on the radio and the first song was “Banging on the Bathroom Floor.” Please do not google that if you are a middle aged Mormon mom. Not appropriate to the tenth power. Although their grasp of English was nominal, they were able to sing the entire song perfectly and had some nice accompanying dance moves. We didn’t have the heart to tell them what they were singing about. Ok, I’m off on a huge tangent now, but I want to mention another D.R. moment at a local park. My friends and I were approached by three young gentlemen who were trying to learn English. One of them said in consternation, “There is a word in English that I am trying to figure out. I don’t know it, my teacher doesn’t know it and I can’t find it in a dictionary. What is this word, ‘Bootylicious?’”

Ok, I’m disembarking from my trip down memory lane and getting back on topic. I was dubious of NYOM’s ties to Shaggy until a Facebook album entitled “Shaggy and Friends” appeared on my daily newsfeed. Therein appeared the NYOM, posing on a Jamaican yacht in a miniscule gold bikini. In the next month she has another Jamaica trip planned and similar voyages to Miami and Paris. Feel free to ask questions in the comment section and I will be happy to do an FAQ with NYOM’s assistance.

In Which Miss Jill Explores Her Gender Identity Issues and Dies Slowly of Hypothermia

Ok I’m writing this on the subway and a creepy man is staring at me and seductively stroking his beard. That’s the real time update.

In other news, a couple weeks ago I was thinking about the origins of my hatred of ponytails. At the tender age of 6, I naively went to the doctor’s office for my annual checkup. As the doctor began his examination he said, “We know that your sister is a girl. Not sure about you. Let’s check.” Although I could sit on my hair at the time, I developed a gender perception crisis that lasted for more than a decade. Until I was 21 I rarely deigned to put my hair back, because I thought that everyone would mistake me for a man (in spite of the fact that I am 5’1” and almost always wear a skirt).

I would like to end this post by imploring the LDS/Mormon Church, in which I consider myself a shareholder (albeit a minor one in comparison to the Marriott Empire and Stephanie Meyer), to turn up the heat in all New York buildings. Not only did I have to wear a hat, gloves and scarf over my face on Sunday, but last night at the temple, mid-session a woman turned to me and said, really loudly, “Is it just me, or is it freezing in here?” “I have lost all interest in continuing with life,” I replied somberly. I looked around and saw everyone rubbing their arms, teeth chattering. It was almost as traumatizing as the time when I was at the temple and looked over to see Glen Beck. This must be a recurring problem, because once I wrote on a tithing slip, “For the express purpose of heating the chapel.” These are dire times in which I would find it possible to draft a treatise in favor of the burqa as a fashion statement.
PS, don't get mad about this, I'm just joking

In light of the fact that nothing I have written has a united theme, I will now say goodbye. Stay tuned because tomorrow we will discuss my roommate, the Nineteen-year-old model’s (NYOM), statement, “Shaggy (of Banging on the Bathroom Floor fame) is a great guy. We are like best friends now.” Have a great Wednesday!

The Fall of the Ottoman Empire

A few days before Christmas break, a 9th grader got a deep paper cut and asked to leave to get a Band-Aid from the office. On returning she proclaimed, “Oh my gosh, look at my Barbie Band-Aid. Isn’t it cute?” Her announcement was met with high-pitched exclamations of approval.

A few hours later the secretary approached me with a pile of grainy photocopies in her hand. “Someone used the copier to repeatedly make copies of their hand,” she informed me. “The machine was jammed and we couldn’t use it for thirty minutes after that. I want to find the culprit.” “Let me see,” I replied, not expecting to be able to shed any light on the situation. However, providence smiled down upon me that day, as the ring finger of the guilty hand was gently swaddled in a Barbie Band-Aid.

In Which Miss Jill Reluctantly Boards the L Train to Williamsburg*

Today I will be playing the Voice of America. Strained zippers, gaping buttons, a food pregnancy that won't go away-December was a rough month for most of us. I didn’t fully comprehend the impact of the damage until Saturday, when I was reunited with a friend. “Oh wow,” she something. “Look at you in those tight pants (like I was trying to look sexy). I can’t pull off skinny jeans.” “@#$@#$,” I stammered. “These aren’t tight pants.” I nervously gazed down at my leg and saw the personification of a tightly wrapped sausage. Unfortunately, I had accidentally left my body image back in mid-November and things had changed a little bit. The time to blame my parent’s dryer has officially ended. I’m now undertaking an epic fast (of course, for religious reasons).

My brother’s girlfriend came for Christmas and it was her first visit in the United States. After she had been with my family for two weeks, she started saying that she wasn’t hungry and refusing food. For two days. Finally, the truth was exposed and she revealed that she was having trouble buttoning her pants. God bless America!

* Unholy hipster stronghold characterized by citizens donning skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts.