Archive | January, 2014

Premature Grandmotherhood

14 Jan


 Image via my Instagram

I need your honest opinion, do I or do I not have the personality of a grandmother?

You can go ahead and give me the verdict based on your experiences with your own grandmother, if that’s easiest.  I mean, she’s probably the one you know best.  If you have a best friend’s grandmother you’re really close with she could work as evidence, too.  All grandmothers are welcome in this discussion of my PREMATURE GRANDMOTHERHOOD.

It’s a thing, but first, let’s back up.

I’ve always known that if/when I am a grandmother I would like to be called Mimi.  I’m not sure where this desire comes from (Mariah Carey), it feels like it’s always been my destiny to be Mimi (Mariah Carey) and I can’t escape it (Mariah Carey).

Grandma Mimi.  J. Lo for short.

You’re feeling it, right?

Wait, what was that?  Could Mimi be based on Mariah Carey’s nickname?

Now that you mention it…

IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: I recently tried to get my nephew to call me Aunt Mimi.  This did not work for several reasons, and not just because he is quite a distance away from speaking.  When I announced I would like to be Aunt Mimi everyone said, “No Jill!” and “That’s not how it works!”

I retorted, “Yes, well Mother changed her name to Nana as soon as she had a grandchild, why can’t I change mine to Mimi?”

It’s like people can’t see logic.


Hilary has a Grandma Mimi, and when she told me I was absolutely delighted.  I instantly felt a kindred soul connection that only women who choose to name themselves Mimi can share, and asked to know everything about this fine woman.

It turns out Mimi has a love story that rivals Jacob and Rachel (there are parallels, this is not me going religious on you), she knits, she has a huge shoe closet, she watches soap operas and has avocado appliances, and, oh yeah, SHE OWNS ALL THE GONE WITH THE WIND BARBIES.

When I told Rob that I was Hilary’s grandma, he seemed unconvinced until I told him about the Barbies and then he said, “Whoa, Jill.  That really narrows it down to a select few in the world.  You probably are the same person.”

I don’t know why people keep doubting me.

All right, so Mimi is evidence #1 that I am already a grandmother.

Evidence #2 comes in the form of my father’s Grandma Ileen.  This little woman drove to McDonald’s every day and the workers knew her by name and had her order ready and waiting. Like, “Hi Ileen, here is your burger. Good to see you today, by the way.”


That’s like verbatim my interaction with the Malibu McDonald’s workers.

Oh, and as I made juice the other night and offered it to my father, he said, “No thank you, that just reminds me of my grandma.”  Apparently Ileen was a carrot juicer as well.

I would rest my case, but there’s more.

Evidence #3 (as if we needed it): muumuus.

I mean, conversation over, right?

The whole grandma thing came together this week at Rob’s birthday dinner.  We were talking about Rob’s family and I mentioned how much I love his grandma.  She’s a character, that Miss Angela. She runs a book club in New York, she loves a good piece of gossip, and when we were roommates back in the good ole Cape Cod days we got on famously.

Famously like on that trip I brought a book to the party hosted by my peers, but I spent large amounts of time talking about life with Angela.

That kind of famously.

As I recalled this all at dinner and reflected on my Mimi self, Rob said, “So is that it then?  You’re just a grandma already?”

I thought about it for a second and then said, “Yes.  Yes, I am.”

Premature grandmotherhood.

It’s a thing.

Hopefully premature Mimihood is next.

Happy One Year Blogiversary To Me!

13 Jan


OK, OK I get it, “blogiversary” is a weird word.  A lot of things about blogging are odd, we just don’t think about them too much or none of us would keep going.


One year ago today I took this little baby of mine and released it into the interwebs.  I wasn’t quite sure if it would last or if I would die of embarrassment and put “tried to blog” on my tombstone next to “I had good intentions and now I have nachos,” and “Married her best friend, Prince Harry,” but you know what?

I love it.

I love to blog.


In honor of this momentous occasion, I present to you some of my favorite searches that have driven traffic to this site in the last year.  These things are forever associated with my name, people.  We all have victories, we all have failures, these are mine.  (Victories and failures.  And other things that I don’t have words for.):


What happens when you watch too much TV


Mindy Kaling as Diane Chambers

Living in a Hipster’s Paradise

Side Effects of Hot Water Bottles

When all you need is Pacey Witter

Is there a name for someone obsessed with the royal family

Liz Lemon blue dress

Signs you are royal

Veronica Mars macaroni and cheese processed

Where is Marissa Cooper’s lifeguard station?

Stevie Nicks a witch

JLo bags pic

Spice Girls 1998 (yes!)

Diva hulu

Pencil bouquets

Beach goddess

Be like Marissa Cooper

Seth Cohen skate

Who is Chris Harrison married to?


Prince Harry heart

Mark Sloan

Contact Stevie Nicks public relations

Amy Poehler deserves awards!

Jonathan Taylor Thomas

2013 songs female anger

Seth Cohen instagram

Mindy Kaling scars

12 year old girlfriend

Quarter life crisis Van Gogh


And, my favorite:

Jillian sexy

OK, wait, this one is my favorite:


Or maybe this:

Dawson Leery psychological disorders

No, you know what?  They are all my favorite.  You are all my favorite.

Happy Blogiversary to me!

I think I’ll spend the day posing like Marissa Cooper.

Or setting up a Seth Cohen Instagram account for the world to see and love.

Yes, that one.

C’est La Vie And Other Things You Tell Yourself When You Take Solo Pictures

10 Jan


Let me set the scene for you here.

It’s 4PM on a Sunday in Sin City.  I’ve been driving all day and am wearing a muumuu/bits of cinnamon bears.  My best friend and I are on the hunt for a place to take pictures before the sun sets.  I have a pile of clothing on my lap and I keep yelling, “How about over there?  What do we think of that BARREN FIELD?”

Ashley, said best friend, pulls over to the side of the road.   “Yes, a barren field could work.”  “But this barren field?  Or that barren field?”  “Why do we keep saying barren field?” “I don’t know, but are we doing the barren field?”

The words “barren field” are tossed around 700 times EXACTLY NO EXAGGERATION.

Barren field yields pictures like this:


No go.

Our spirits are broken, we can’t go on etc.

But wait!  There’s Jokers Wild Casino which has a big stucco wall for picture taking opportunities! Never mind that Ashley’s home has a big stucco wall for picture taking opportunities, the time is now!  The day is here!

I stumble out of the car in my muumuu.  Awkward photos are taken including an entire series with a shoulder shrug?  (I don’t know.  My shoulder doesn’t even know.)


Second outfit is pulled out.  Ashley blocks my body from the dead end traffic so no one sees it.  We realize that I am facing a major road and they can see everything.

Sun is setting!

Accidental prayer photo is taken. (I was not praying, SO YOU KNOW.)


Bad group shots are taken which Ashley will not even give me so I can decide on my own how poor they are.


C’est la vie.

(Which, incidentally, was the name of my favorite song for several years of elementary school. I can still sing every word in full Irish accent, and I will try to pull a Michael Flatley if you put it on in my presence. In another life I was the bad dancer in a girl band.)

Say you will!  Say you won’t!  Say you’ll do what I don’t!

Bringing it back around.

Flatley contained.

The end result was this picture, which I needed for blogging purposes.


This whole photoshoot (?) was for blogging purposes because I’m always woefully lacking in headshots and single shots and all shots and now you know why. When I try to take pictures it turns into a story, but never into a usable photo.

Honestly, I don’t know how other people do it.  I still have mini panic attacks when I think of the shoulder shrugging photos and I still reevaluate my desire to blog when I think of every having to do it again.

C’est, c’est la vie.

Falling In Love With A Place

8 Jan


My first day back in Malibu I was so light and happy I almost didn’t recognize myself.  The sun was out and the ocean was shimmering like Ariel’s sparkle gown and my heart was so full it almost ached.

I am completely in love with Malibu.

A friend once told me that she had fallen in love with a place.  In her case it was New York City, Brooklyn, to be specific, and I remember listening to her speak about her home in animated and adoring tones, much like the ones I used to describe the boy I was mad about, and thinking I had never really experienced that.  Was that even a thing?  Do people fall in love with places, and if so is it like falling in love with a person?

I guess I got my answer this week.

Yes and yes.

You would think that falling in love with a person would be different than falling in love with a location, but in my experience it isn’t. I could list all sorts of awkward love parallels about initial attraction and compatibility, but the bottom line is when I’m in love I giggle a whole lot and when I’m in Malibu I find myself giggling and giggling and giggling for no reason at all.

Oh yes, I love Malibu.

In fact, I would go so far as to say that when it comes to relationships Malibu is The Perfect Boyfriend.

See that?  Awkward love parallels accomplished anyway.

This got me thinking about my relationships with the other cities I have lived in and called home.  If Malibu is The Perfect Boyfriend, then what exactly were they?

Las Vegas was The First Love

Vegas is the first place I remember clearly devoting my whole heart to.   I loved my life and I loved my friends and I loved freely and without thinking because I was young, and that’s what we do when we don’t realize that love only comes around every once in a great while and we should savor it.  I didn’t think about loving, I just did.

When things ended with Vegas, I didn’t get over it, not for a long time.  After all, first loves.  They stay with you.

My freaking goodness I should know.

South Jordan was The Best Friend

SoJo is the guy that I completely adore, but not in a romantic way.  It’s the one I know will always be there for me when I come around, but not the guy I want to spend my life with.  Not a love match.  For either of us, really.

SoJo doesn’t want me long-term.  SoJo knows if I were there forever I would be dissatisfied and our relationship would be ruined.  We’re better as platonic friends and so we were and so we remain.

Which led me to…

Provo, The One That Never Should Have Happened

Provo was bad fit all around. It’s the relationship I gloss over when telling my life story and the relationship I only ever talk about in hushed tones with the people closest to me.  We’ve all picked the wrong match before.  My wrong match was Provo.

And then there was…

Crestwood, Kentucky, The Blind Date.

I did not choose Crestwood, but rather it was chosen for me when my family moved there after I graduated from high school.  I did my best to give Crestwood a shot, after all, you never know?  Maybe something could be there with such opposites? Maybe after Provo anything was better? But alas, there was nothing and I left barely remembering it ever happened.

Which brought me back, of course, to SoJo, my good pal, (all roads lead to SoJo?) and once we had spent a sufficient amount of time together and I had regrouped I moved on to…

London, The Dream Guy

London was the relationship that I had spent so many years fantasizing about that it could never live up to its impossible expectations.  London carried the weight of every dream my dream-heavy heart could project, and, as with most Dream Relationships, it crumbled under the pressure.

London did, however, introduce me to therapy.

And so it was back to the always open arms of SoJo and then it was to Malibu, because I was getting restless and SoJo is a pal.

By now we know how I feel about Malibu.

I considered naming Malibu “The One,” because that’s what I like to do when I fall for something.  I want it. All of it.  Forever.  You and me, all the time.  But alas again, I fear Malibu is simply a good phase in my life.  A boyfriend to remember for the happy times, but not the one to call home forever.

I think The One is yet to come.

This year my life is going to change in significant ways and I don’t know where I’ll end up. San Francisco has been on my mind for some time, kind of a hazy shape of idea that hasn’t formed into any real plans yet.  There’s always the possibility of LA, of course.  And then there’s New York.  Ah, New York.  “Finishing school for girls like us,” as Jen Lindley told Joey Potter.  I’ve never been one of those people obsessed with getting to New York, but perhaps that is why it will happen for me.  Cait’s vibing it, and I  trust nothing if not Dawson’s Creek and Caitlin’s vibes for my life.

So perhaps New York is The One.

Or San Francisco.

Or maybe, just maybe, if I play my cards right and cross my fingers twice and throw a pinch of salt over my shoulder at exactly the right time, my Perfect Boyfriend could become The One.

Just maybe.

Heaven knows we’re a good match.

Magical, Mystical Shopping Day

6 Jan


Last week I had a magical, mystical shopping day when all the consumer gods aligned and I was blessed with clothes  beyond my wildest dreams.

You know the days, stop pretending you don’t.

I went in with the thought that I might buy a necklace and left with everything on my imaginary shopping list plus jean cut off shorts!  J. Crew jean cut off shorts in the dead of winter in a dead hole of service in Lehi, Utah nonetheless!

It was a New Years miracle.

In some ways I can’t imagine my life without those jean shorts that I’ve yet to use.  In some ways the only future I see is me on the beach wearing those shorts and laughing at others who are less fortunate and have not found their pair of perfect jean shorts yet.

Don’t worry, I will only laugh at them in my head, stop pretending I’m mean about this.

Stop pretending everyone on the beach wasn’t laughing at my lack of jean shorts for the last year and a half.

Throughout this whole silliness of a post, I just keep thinking of the last time I remember using mystical in my writing.  It was something far more dramatic and I just looked it up so I could quote it:

It’s like she had reserved all those for him.  All her flirtation and excitement was bottled up for some mystical future where he loved her again like he loved her before and she could be silly and giggly and happy with him forever and ever.

So just know that I once wrote things like that and now I write things like this, and also know I have jean shorts.

And leggings.  I don’t want to know your opinion on them, since I’m sure I already do, but I’m having the hardest time going back to pants now that I know there’s an option for “putting on pants” and yet feeling as though I’m wearing warm, wonderful air.  I bought a pair on the mystical shopping day (not to be confused with the mystical love day) and when my family went to Cafe Rio after I said, “Let us please get it to go so I can get home and put on my leggings and take off my bra before I eat.”

No one laughed because I was being serious.

Other things I bought that I’m excited about:

1. A Heisenberg shirt in the men’s section (I don’t even know)

2. Waterproof mascara to solve all my makeup removing ills

3. A super preppy mini skirt for every day preppy use

4. Workout pants because it’s New Years and I’m ROLLERBLADING THIS YEAR, PEOPLE

Magical, mystical, wildest dreams you get it.

With leggings on top.

And 500 million percent off.

SheKnows Sunday

5 Jan


My latest (and only) SheKnows posts.

Latest and greatest seemed like a lie.

21 Warrior cats defending the world

In which I dive into the unfairness of the term “guard dog” but never “guard cat.”

These Maine coon kittens know they are just too cute

Things every girl needs for her first apartment 

Including my actual bed I SLEEP ON TODAY and a velvet couch because all I want in life is a velvet couch.

12 Celebrities who garden

Inspired by my obsessive following of Oprah’s Instagram.  I find personal delight in giggling, “Oh look, there’s Oprah!  Ooh, there’s Stedman again!  And now they’re setting the table!  And now she’s using vegetables from her own garden!” etc. etc. etc.  Nobody save me.

New Year, Same Jill

2 Jan


On New Years Eve I sat with a pile of Popeyes chicken and talked with my best friends about goals and life and resolutions.  One of my friends said, “I keep waiting for the year where I go, yep, please let next year be as good as the last one.”

All three of us laughed because we have never experienced a year so great we’ve wanted to repeat it.

2013 was close, though.

When we’re talking years, 2011 always takes the cake for the worst.  One day when I have the energy I will write up my birthday that year because it was such a doozy.   It was the pit of the pits and perhaps a symbol for the pit of the pits of my life.

The irony was that I thought 2011 would be the best, most exciting year of my life.  I moved to London on my own.  I traveled Europe nearly every weekend.  I lived in my dream place and did dream things and yet, when 2011 ended I was broken and tired and it took several months of me back at home to figure myself out and find a new direction for my life.

2011, may you ever rest in peace.

2012 I spent in recovery mode, as you might expect. I knew that I couldn’t keep going how I was going and so I didn’t.

I quit my career, I chose another one.  I worried that at 24 I was too late to choose another career.

I examined my faith.  Hard.  Again and again.  I examined every aspect of my life with my social-worker-meets-writer-lethal-combination brain and then I examined it up and down again until I was utterly exhausted.

2012 was all about new starts and restarts and letting go of the past.

2013, though, 2013 was all about my future.

How wonderful is that?  The luxury of a year simply about what I want to be.

At the beginning of 2013 I declared my word for the next 365 days would be “writer.”

And so I wrote.

I wrote an episode of New Girl.  I wrote a sitcom pilot with teenage leads that I absolutely adore.  I wrote 215 blog posts.  I got PAID for my writing.


And then paid again!

And I wrote a book!  And talked with literary agents about my book!

Yes, surely in 2013 I was a writer.

And yet.

I want my word in 2014 to be writer.

I want my word in 2015 to be writer.

I want my word every year for the rest of my life to be writer.  I want writing to be such a part of me that it’s a given, it’s not an assignment or a goal or a definition of the year.

I am a writer just as I am a woman or I am a daughter or I am a friend.

I think my actual word for 2013 was “forward.”  2011 my life stopped. 2012 I healed from that painful breaking.  2013 I moved forward.

I moved forward towards the life I hope to lead, towards a new career and new goals and a new future.  And while surely 2013 was filled with its share of tears and heartbreak, it was also filled to the brim with this new life I am so proud of myself for creating.

I’m proud of myself for quitting one phase of life and choosing another.  I’m proud of myself for pursuing my dreams.

I’m proud of myself for moving forward.

I can’t help but wonder what happens next.  I’m out of my broken stage, out of the healing stage, and am fully on to my life.

Where do I go from here?

I can’t wait to see.

I can’t wait to write all about it.

I hope it includes a lot of nachos.