Jillian Lorraine

I spent the final minutes of my 25th year eating funnel cake cake and dancing it out in Malibu with some of the best people in the world.

You know when you’re a teenager and all you want is to get a glimpse of what your future self will be like?

Jumping around a dark kitchen with a ring strobe light I thought, “Okay 16-year-old self, this one’s for you.”

I hope my birthdays for the rest of my life are similarly happy.  I hope I ring in each new year with people I love and good food and some ridiculous music, just because.  I hope when I’m 50 and 72 and 95 and taller than any grandma ever was, that I still am dancing it out on my birthday, reveling in my moment as the Great Sparkling Queen Star of the Universe.

The older I get the more I think being a grownup is a journey not a destination.  It’s not a spot that I will just “arrive at” one day because I turn 26 or because I have a real budget or because of anything going on in my life. Being a grownup is a slow, sometimes painful limp towards the person I want to be.

Yesterday I limped along with funnel cake and glitter skirts a whole lot of love.

I have good feelings about this 26 thing.

Two girls have seriously entered Prince Harry’s heart in the last decade, or at least two girls that the public knows of have seriously entered Prince Harry’s heart in the last decade.   And while any time we speak of Harry loving anyone besides myself, it sends me into a bit of a tizzy (BREATHE, YOU CAN GET THROUGH THIS, etc.), I have squared my shoulders, grabbed a handkerchief and am ready to share my oh-so important thoughts on the pressing matter at hand:

Cressida v. Chelsy

Who is the right girl for Harry?

It’s a battle for the ages, one that includes two beautiful, accomplished girls, and one that ends in the heart of the finest man I do not know.  Without further ado or any more over-the-top adjectives I bring you–

Cressida v. Chelsy: The Smackdown

Coverage starts now.

Round 1: Hair

The royal family is nothing if not a bunch of women with fantastic hair.  Is this an overcompensation for the male pattern baldness gene that plagues their Y chromosome?  Only Freud himself would know.

(The answer is yes.)

Royal Hair Goodness:

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C: STOP THE TRAIN END THE CONVERSATION

So what about Harry’s loves?  Whose hair is up to the task?

Chelsy

Chelsy has the royal hair thing on lock.  You can just see her tresses under an absurd feathered hat as she laughs with Wills and Kate and George, all natural and glossy-like.

Cressida

Cressida’s hair has more of a bohemian vibe, like, “Hey I just woke up and this is what my hair looks like, suckers.” Also, note the Lauren Conrad braids.

Round 1 Winner: Cressida, though Chelsy’s luscious locks shouldn’t be underestimated.

Round 2: Potential BFF qualities with Kate

Whomever Harry ends up with will have to be Best Friends Forever with Kate, as William and Harry are BFFs, and this is just a rule.

It appears Kate would be easy to share a giggle with, “Haha I love Dirty Dancing, too!”  but the question is not of ease, the question is of kindred soul-dom.

Chelsy

We know that Chelsy attended the royal wedding and has years of double dating and Rock Banding with the Wills and Kate (one can only assume!)  I have to give her a leg up here.  ALSO look at that picture.  That’s some seriously long friendshipping happening.  Does Cressida have a picture with pre-perfect locks Kate?  Exactly.

Cressida

Cressida seems perfectly lovely, if a bit more daring than Kate, but she simply doesn’t have the history.  I see Kate as the older and wiser sister here, sweetly leading Cressida with the force of her already-iconic example.

Round 2 Winner: Chelsy

Random but important side note:  I know people love to talk about Harry and Pippa and their shared smiles at the wedding and how cute that little happily ever after would be, but hello to the power of blonde, Pippa is not his type.

Glad I got that off my chest.

Round 3: Royal name

Obviously the make or break point in any relationship, whose names match up best?

Chelsy

Princess Chelsy is very modern, like, look, we’re hip to the times, we have a royal Facebook page AND we just allowed women to inherit the throne!  Boom.

Cressida

Princess Cressida just has a ring to it, doesn’t it?  Regal, really.

Round 3 Winner: Princess Cressida, obviously

Round 4: Love Story

I personally can’t see Harry doing anything awkward at all, in the least, ever ever ever when it comes to dating.  He’s hot.  He’s suave. He doesn’t give a damn what you think about him.  It’s hard to imagine him less than swoon-worthy behavior in the dating world, so we’re going to assume that the details of both love stories are fairly adorable since we do not know them.  Here’s what we do know:

Chelsy

Harry and Chelsea met in 2004 and on and offed it until 2010 when they officially split up.  Chelsea is smart (a lawyer!), Zimbabwean (the daughter of a safari farmer!), and is said to have no interest in the royal lifestyle, thus the issues with the lovebirds.  The tabloids love to point out that the two of them continued to hang out long after their split, and that Harry brought Chelsy as his date to the royal wedding in 2011 (aww). (Enough with the parentheses, Jill.)

Cressida

Cressida and Harry were introduced in 2012 by his cousin Eugenia/aka Owner of THAT royal wedding hat. Cressida is a dancer, student, and the daughter of a  former British “It girl” and businessman.  Really we don’t know much more about her other than she’s bringing scrunchies back.  Thanks, Cressida.

Round 4 Winner: Chelsy 

Round 5: Wardrobe

Chelsy

Chelsy would be the type of princess who wore tailored outfits and black Middleton wedges and fit in oh-so well to royal society.

Cressida

Cressida would be the type of princess who wore overalls and neon sunglasses, and bucked all royal trends, thus earning her nickname, “The anti-Kate.”  First Princess with duckface selfies is all I’m saying.

Round 5 Winner: Cressida.  I think we all need a little more overall wearing princesses in our lives.

Overall winner: Chelsy Davey

I know!  The points don’t add up, but you can’t add up points in love.  Chelsy was Harry’s first love, they’ve been on and offing it for years, and I think his torch for her is as bright as Kate and William’s wedding.

Who I think Harry will end up with?  Cressida

Or another fabulous blonde.

Or me.

Probably me.

But definitely not Pippa.

And probably me.

Images: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Here’s the thing about on and off relationships.  You never really believe they’re over. You figure if the two of you survived The Great Christmas Party Incident of 2011 or the 700 “I never want to talk to you again” conversations, then you can survive anything.

You figure if you forgave him for not coming to that wedding, he can forgive you for that stupid thing you said when you were tired and angry and dramatic.

Your relationship, The Relationship, is bigger than that.

Here’s the thing about on and off relationships.  There’s this forever feeling of “maybe.”  This idea that, “Well it’s not the right time for us right now because of my school or his work or my need to eat a donut at this very moment.”   And you realize how ridiculous you are for thinking that, and how absurd your excuses are getting.  But whatever.  The two of you always come back to each other.

That must mean that one day the “maybe” will become a “yes.”

Here’s the thing about on and off relationships.  No one is going to compare to Him, at least not at first.  They haven’t devoted years to figuring out what you love and hate.  They don’t have the natural smoothness, the comfortable physicality, the history.  They don’t understand you like He does.

So when you find yourself on another bad date with another guy you have zero chemistry with, you end up contacting Him and reminiscing about the good old days.  Because, man, that was love, wasn’t it?

And you’re never going to find that again.

And you make your life a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Here’s the thing about on and off relationships.  You’ve gotten so practiced at telling everyone, “No, we aren’t dating right now…” and leaving it up to their imagination, that you can’t even face the reality of the relationship—that is in your imagination.

It’s only in an imaginary future with an imaginary person that is not the individual you’ve been breaking and making up with, that this dysfunctional relationship could work.

But admitting that would feel like admitting that years of your life were a mistake.  And you can’t have made that big of a mistake.

You just can’t have.

Here’s the thing about on and off relationships.  They aren’t nearly as romantic as they seem in the movies.  There’s a whole lot more tears, and a whole lot more people messed up in the process, and if you could go back in time you would just make a clean break in the first place.

Or maybe you wouldn’t.  Who even knows at this point.

Because that’s the thing about on and off relationships.

You can’t help but think that maybe there’s hope.

You can’t help but think that maybe this time it will be different.

Pepperdine photo via Caitlin Markham/DJ Kitty Cat

When Hilary was younger, she used to say her favorite day of the week was Monday simply because Mondays don’t get any love and she wanted them to feel important.

I think that sums up Hilary and her Pollyanna heart rather well.

When I was younger, my favorite Pollyanna character was Mrs. Snow and I would quote her as she yelled, “I’m pickin’ the lining for mah coffin!”

I think that sums up me and my crotchety old lady heart rather well.

I’m always, always more interested in the Mrs. Snows of stories, but that’s another post for another time that I promise I’ll get to one day when I’m not talking about WEDNESDAYS!

Because Wednesdays!

At this point in my life, it feels like I spend all day and all night on campus, all of the time, always. And as beautiful as Pepperdine is, and as excited as I am about its new tea station (honey in the house!) this is too much time for me/anyone to spend on this/any campus.

But then there are Wednesdays!

Wednesdays I exercise and clean. I read the book that’s been sitting, staring at me all week. I cook! I make Hilary’s beef stew and she has to field 10,000 questions like “Where do you find beef stew meat in the store?” and “Explain your salsa choice in depth”– the sorts of things only someone who never, ever cooks asks when they try to make a three-step recipe.

This is what Wednesdays are for. Wednesdays are for adding another three-step recipe to my repertoire and texting any one of my 12 to 15 very close friends about my success.

Okay, texting every one of my 12 to 15 very close friends about my success.

(I really wanted to throw that Girls “12-15 very close friends” quote into something, and now that I’ve done it–and twice!–I feel quite accomplished. That’s who I am and that’s what my wins are, in case you were wondering.)

Wednesdays!

Wednesdays I go on walks and take pictures. I paint my nails. I blog and I check on online orders that haven’t arrived. I run grownup errands, and catch up on sleep, and brainstorm articles, and sometimes, if I’m very, very lucky, I write for fun.

I curl up in my newly cleaned room with newly cleaned sheets and I write those stories I’ve been wanting to tell but haven’t had time to because of life, but now have the time to because of Wednesdays.

Goodness gracious, Wednesdays!

Me and my Mrs. Snow soul are very, very glad to have you in our week.

The following movies I am not allowed to watch unless I’ve sought and obtained permission from two of my close friends and both are convinced my emotional state can handle the viewing:

On Friday I headed to Disneyland with my mother, my baby sister, my baby sister’s friend and Caitlin/Thelma/Ben.

There is probably a more fun way to phrase that sentence, so I’ll let you get on that.

We walked around looking like mice all day because before we put on Minnie ears my energy was at a 0 and after we put them on my energy was at a 1 and we need to take these victories where we can get them.

MORNINGS!

Going anywhere with Caitlin means I take more pictures than I am comfortable with.  By the end of the day as we passed yet another perfect backdrop I said, “No more pictures, please.  I have enough awkward hand-on-hip shots to last a lifetime here.”

I really need to practice my photo taking skills, especially if I’m to call myself a blogger, but it just seems so out of character. You know those adorable girls on Instagram who just casually laugh and hold each other all the time and you go, “Is this real life?” and “That seems exhausting to cultivate”?

Yes, well that seems exhausting to cultivate and also nothing like my real life.

Oh!  And another thing about pictures with Caitlin, she keeps them all, INCLUDING THE BAD ONES and then comes back and tries to blackmail you with them later i.e. “Tell me about this conversation with this boy or I will post a 2012 OC Fair photo on Facebook.”

She hasn’t actually posted any because she loves me, but it is frightening to think that those photos of me are still out there.

What if they fell into the wrong hands?

I believe the greatest blessing to come from technology is the freedom to delete photos and try again and never, ever mention they happened.

And now that my Disneyland post has taken a drastic turn for the photo, we will end with one last, happy picture and the knowledge that on Saturday  I woke up and had a Disneyland caramel apple for breakfast.

Successful weekend all around.

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The other night after class I headed up the PCH to the place formerly called home.

I hadn’t done that yet this semester for a number of wishy washy reasons that involve carpooling and late classes and other things that seemed important but probably weren’t.

Last week, though, I made it to North Malibu and back to the Caitlin/Jill apartment of yore.

Cait screamed when I knocked on the door.  A loud, over-the-top scream that continued on even when she let me in the apartment.

I have missed that.

I have missed that more than I thought.

We spent the night sitting on Caitlin’s bed talking about a little of this and a little of that and a whole lot of nothing.

Caitlin soon found herself in the Affair to Remember pose, blanket tucked over her, arms perched on her stomach. I soon found myself saying, “All I want is to wear my glitter skirt somewhere and maybe my glitter shirt on top of it and then probably never take either off again.”

Which is to say, soon we found ourselves exactly where we’ve always been.

We laughed at my inappropriate laugh in class.  We laughed at our latest dating disasters.  We laughed as Caitlin suggested we were Thelma and Louise and pulled up a picture of Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis and decided she was a Geena and I was a Susan.

I mean, the scarf and glasses.

I mean, the gun.

We laughed and laughed and talked and talked and at one point I did a dramatic reading of the Thelma & Louise Wikipedia page so we could relate it to our lives.

I find myself giving a dramatic reading of something or other quite a bit these days.  It’s one of those things I’ve discovered about myself in adulthood and knew about myself in childhood—I love to read things out loud.

I can’t tell you exactly what it was about that Malibu evening that made it so special.  It was simple and regular and I don’t remember most of what was said or done.  I just remember the feeling.

It’s the feeling that I forget I need when I just go through life and don’t pause for glitter skirts, Thelma and Louise, and An Affair to Remember nights.

It’s the feeling of, “I am understood completely. I am me completely.”

The other morning I woke up and wanted to write.

This is a non-thing for me.

I am firmly in the, “Let’s do everything between the hours of 11:00 PM and 4:00 AM” camp in life, along with the other zombies in the world who shuffle along, cursing themselves for choosing the wrong end of the 2:00 AM debate.

*2:00 AM debate: “I could go to sleep right now because I have to get up at 7:00 AM, or I could stay up and write all these moving and profound ideas I have that will probably turn into the next Great American Novel!*

The world is not kind to night people, of this I am sure.

Morning people have it made.  They get up at 4:00 AM and work out and craft and make their own headboards for $0.15 and then, hours later, when I stumble out of bed, they look at me all chipper and say, “Isn’t this just the best morning ever?  I got so much done!”

And I glare at them and burn bridges and have to apologize around 2:00 PM with an, “Oh no, did we speak this morning? I’m SO sorry.  I’m not a morning person.”

And they smile and I smile, but I have a feeling we don’t really understand each other.

Or at least I don’t understand them.

We are a different species of humans, morning and night people, two that probably weren’t meant to interact except during the golden hours of 3:00 PM to 5:00 PM when we are both fully awake and functional.

And maybe not even then.

I’m thinking this week I should add “Be fully awake and functional” to my goals list along with, “Figure out why I wanted to write last Wednesday morning” and “Remember to drink water.”

It’s looking to be a very important next seven days over here in LA.

I should get some sleep.

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I’m a voice girl. If a guy has an outstanding voice I will often overlook his other not-so-outstanding characteristics and decide we can probably make this thing work as long as there’s a lot of talking involved. Now, repeat what you just said!

This love of voices has naturally bled into my obsession with television and movies. When a leading man’s raspy growl or smooth baritone hits me in the heart, I’m forever devoted.

Here are nine Hollywood men whose voices make me (at least a little) weak at the knees.

AND…now it’s your turn.

Who are your Hollywood voice obsessions?

Go.

Inspired by this post about being 20 years old and what that means.

Twenty was a big year for me.  Looking back, it was maybe The big year.  The year where all the things that make me who I am today were set in motion.  The year I was presented with some of my first Important Life Lessons, and the year I completely failed to figure out what most of them meant.

Twenty was a turning point.

At 20 years old, I was in graduate school at the University of Utah.  I was studying social work and interning at Valley Mental Health and eating a lot of Swedish Fish and cream cheese bagels from the Marriott Library.

It’s funny how certain foods are associated with certain times.

It’s funny how I don’t eat Swedish Fish much anymore.

At 20 years old, I was positive I knew how my life would go.  I knew what career I would have.  I knew what boy I would be with.  I knew that everything was about to come together in my life, finally!  Finally it seemed, things were about to all fall into place.

It would take me four years to quit the career I had at 20.

It would take me a very, very, very long time to quit the boy I had at 20.  In fact, we might call 20 the beginning of my Kate Moss “years and years of tears” phase.

At 20 years old, my very best friends in the world and I were all single.  My first best friend got married later that year and from there, one by one, my favorite people suddenly found new favorite people.  And while these girls remain my kindred souls, 20 was the last time our friendships were so carefree and spontaneous and silly.

Twenty was the year grownup friendships began.

At 20 years old, I went to Europe for the first time.  It was a point of personal pride that I made this trip happen, that I got my passport, that I planned it all out with my best friends.  It was the culmination of a lifelong dream and an event that proved I could live the life I imagined.  When I touched down on British soil for the first time and heard The Beatles playing in the bathrooms at Heathrow I thought, “Yes.  This is for me.”

Three years later I returned with a working visa in hand.

At 20 years old, my parents moved back to Utah from Kentucky.  This move was something I had eagerly anticipated for over two years, something I was certain would fix all the troubles in my life.   At 20,  I believed I had two main problems, and between This Move and That Boy, all the things wrong in my life would be magically right.

What a simple, and difficult lesson it is to learn that no one event, certainly no one boy can fix all the problems in my life.

At 20 years old, I saw the Spice Girls in concert.  I flirted with a man named Romeo at an outdoor restaurant in Italy.  I watched the Olympics in Trafalgar Square.  I graduated with my MSW.  I got my first job.  I started a 401K.

I became a grownup way too young, but then again, I was always a grownup way too young.  It was this premature  adulthood, this rigid idea of what my life would be and the ultimate crumbling of that imagined future that spurred my quarterlife crisis now simply referred to as “Malibu.”

That 20-year-old Jill, man.

That silly, wonderful, thought-she-knew-what-“finally”-meant,  20-year-old Jill.

I can’t escape her.