Archive | June, 2014

Dramatic Poems, Flibbertigibbets And Mindy Kaling’s Birthday

24 Jun


Tonight Hilary sent me the following poem:

Just missing you

Only all the time

But it’s cool


Lying here

In my living room






I wasn’t going to write a blog post today, but after that, it’s kind of like I have to, you know?


Let’s start this baby off with my grandmother, who told me that she wants to jump out of an airplane for her 80th birthday, “And not just because George Bush Senior did on his 85th.”

I don’t have commentary on this, I just want you to think about it for a minute.

Or two.

Or three.

Or however long you need.

Next up in this manic thriller of a post–

Nick Hornby is writing about the World Cup for ESPN!  And I’m reading it!  I’m reading it all.  I’m also reading This is Where I Leave You which is the second book I’ve checked out in two months where the cover has compared the author to Nick Hornby and it’s like, oh please.

There’s only one man on earth who can make me read World Cup recaps  aloud over dinner, chuckling noisily, and that man is Nicholas Hornelby.

PS: Have you seen the cast for This is Where I Leave You?  It’s loaded and Feyed and I love a loaded, Feyed cast.

All right.  A few more items of business before you can return to watching the cancelled episodes of I Wanna Marry Harry on Hulu.

1. A friend just got me a LIBRARY due date card phone case.  It’s spectacular.

2. I tried chocolate chicken today and it is most definitely not spectacular.

Other not spectacular things in my life right now:

– My pasta salad scented lunch bag which ruins all edible items within three miles

– The fact that I won’t throw away my pasta salad scented lunch bag because I like the logo

– Adult acne

Other spectacular things in my life right now:

– My $5 knockoff Karen Walker sunglasses

– Gourmet pickles

– The Sound of Music Sing-A-Long at the Hollywood Bowl!!!!

I’m thinking of starting a countdown to the Sing-A-Long on the side of the blog to really prep myself for the experience.

(As if I haven’t been prepping for this moment my whole life.)

Maybe the countdown will have little fun phrases like “Just 42 more days, you crazy will-‘o-the-wisp!” or “Climb every mountain because you’re finding your dream in 12 days!” or “I have confidence that spring will come again in 21 days!” or something.

Or maybe it won’t.

Or maybe this is the best idea I’ve ever had.

And finally, before I log off and fall into the deep sleep of a full-time employee, today is Mindy Kaling’s birthday.

Last year for her birthday, Wendy’s sent Mindy’s staff free food. Mindy Instagrammed her spoils and said, “Your move McDonald’s” and then MCDONALD’S SENT HER FREE FOOD TOO.

This is so many levels of dreams for me.

Then today Mindy’s staff took her on a surprise helicopter ride to the Grand Canyon where they all had a lovely breakfast at the bottom of one of the wonders of the world.

Like nbd.

Mindy Kaling.  You’re a freaking birthday goddess.




PS: 87 days 18 hours and 49 minutes, you flibbertigibbets!!!

S’mores In A Cup And Working Full-Time

19 Jun


Tonight I told Luke I was giving up writing.

We were walking hand in hand along Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica, the palm trees swaying, the blue stretching out before us.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?!” I said.  “This was an extremely difficult decision, THE difficult decision of my life.  It cost me a lot emotionally and I would appreciate you taking this seriously.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Hrpmh,” I said as we walked into our restaurant.

I’m so tired.

I’m tired enough that I say things like I’m giving up writing when I don’t really mean them because I’m exhausted and I’m trying to tackle everything at once, and all see is a big future ahead of me where I have no time for anything but sleep and work.

I started my job this week, and let me tell you what, this is something of a lifestyle adjustment.

Tonight at dinner I kept laying my head against Luke, practically falling asleep at the table and our friends assured me it gets better.  I’ll adjust to my new schedule.  I’ll figure it out.

And I believed them, because they introduced me to the restaurant’s S’mores in a cup, and also because, no never mind, it was about the S’mores in a cup.

Oh!  Luke doesn’t like marshmallows!

Breaking news!

Well not breaking, as I have known this for some time, but breaking for my blog readers who are extremely interested in my boyfriend’s eating habits.

I ordered a steak tonight (more fun food facts, coming right at you!) and I when my plate got to me, I scooped up my spinach and mushrooms and put them on Luke’s plate and he said, “You know, your greatest flaw as a human is that you don’t appreciate mushrooms.”  Later, when I ate my S’mores cup and he refused the fluffy goodness, I said, “Your greatest flaw as a human is that you don’t appreciate marshmallows.”

And that maybe sums us up in some weird way.

Or maybe not.

Or maybe yes.


Another fun Luke fact: he goes to the store every single day.


He likes it.  He enjoys the grocery store like no one else I’ve ever known.

The day he moved he had a semi-emotional goodbye with his butcher.

And when Luke told me about his store habit, I was so incredulous I could not even speak.  “Stop,” I said.  “Stop it right now.  You go back to the store and you buy seven yogurts, that’s what you do.  You do not go every day to buy a single yogurt.”

But then again, I’m a girl who goes to the store once every quarter so maybe he shouldn’t listen to me.

All right.  Where were we?

Oh yes, I’m working.

I’m working in Downtown LA where the view from my building is as you see above.

Like, hello city.

And every time I look at this, I can’t help but think about Young Jill.

Young Jill dreamed of nothing more than working in a big city. She was sure she belonged in the middle of everything, soaking up culture and refining her mind and buzzing and bursting and flowing and something.

And here I am, all grown up and working in a big city, and it’s nothing like what I thought it would be.

For one, it’s not New York City, which I always kind of imagined it would be.

And thank heavens for that.

New York and I were never meant to be, though it’s still the city I get every time I take one of those “What city should you live in” quizzes, I’m apparently so fond of taking.

I get New York and Luke gets New York and Cait gets New York and it’s like all my favorite people are the type of people who should live in New York but don’t.

And maybe that doesn’t sum us up or whatever.

So that was for one, in case you forgot.

For two, cities aren’t as glamorous as maybe I once thought they were.  Like today, on my two-mile trek to Chipotle, I stepped on a rogue earring and the stud managed to pierce its way through my wooden ankle boot and up to my foot!

What disease do I have now?!

(Don’t worry, my mother is in Utah exploring the fine print of my shot records.)

After I stepped on the disease tack, I kept thinking, “I’m going to die.  This will be it.  I will have died because of my greed for Chipotle.  Who knows what rare and terrible diseases that thing had.  I’m going to die, slowly and painfully and probably be on the news.”

And then I bought myself a dozen M&M cookies to go along with my Band-Aids because it was that sort of day.

And then I came home to write.

After eating a steak with no mushrooms.

And S’mores in a cup.

Because I’m not giving up writing, it turns out.

I’m just tired.

Royals and Beckhams

13 Jun



Hello again.

I have a few important items of business to cover.

First off, Luke got a David Beckham swimsuit on our shopping trip of yesterweek.

This is listed first because it’s most important.

That’s how the “first” thing works.


Before you go saying what you’re thinking, I swear to you, I’m not trying to pretend Luke is David Beckham.

(Insert some sort of vague emoticon that can be interpreted all ways.)

The honest to goodness truth is as soon as we walked into H&M, my entire being was drawn to this one suit, a classy pair of striped navy shorts glowing amidst a rack of palm tree atrocities. Even after Luke tried on every other swimsuit in the store it was still the one, Shania style.

And right when we decided that, that there could be no other swimwear in his life, Luke looked down at The Shorts and we gasped.  For what did they say on the bottom right corner but “David Beckham bodywear”?!!!

FATE and a half plus London.

(Second emoticon!)


I just watched Diana on Netflix.

And I know. I call myself a royal fan and the rest of you probably slept over at the movie theater the night before it was released and wrote your thesis on the film and spent at least 12 days rewatching the movie to see if you missed something important or this was really it.

I know.  And my preteen self is disappointed in me for waiting this long.

But I would now like to ask for your forgiveness and also for your conversation.  Have you seen it?

It’s a hot mess.

A really hot mess.

Which is disappointing on a lot of levels, but really, with Diana they had such the opportunity here.  This should have been Oscar-winning, life-changing, soul-moving sort of stuff .

They couldn’t even get her hair right!  Which, at first was very irksome to me, but then I realized something deep and profound: the only person on this earth who ever pulled off the Princess Diana hair was the queen of hearts herself, and asking a film crew with several million dollars to try to copy it was simply a lost cause.

My grandma tells a story about going to a hairdresser circa 1996 and asking for a “Lady Di” and leaving looking like a bald, drowned rat.

(I came up with bald, drowned rat as I don’t remember exact words.)

(Bald, drowned rat seemed to convey the feeling I was going for.)

I had a lot of qualms with the film–directing, screenplay, choice of storyline, inability to capture the amazingness/activism/vulnerability of Diana, but I do have to say…

Holy costuming.

Seeing those dresses come to life was most definitely my favorite part of the film.  And realizing that Diana’s clothing choices 20 years ago have stood the test of time really made me wonder about some of my, shall we say, less timeless pieces of clothing.

Cough cough weirdo headband.

Really the best part of watching this film was it opened the door for one of my first, in-depth royal discussions with Luke.

We spent an evening, me growing more and more animated, he staying his same level of animation, discussing everything from why Charles didn’t marry Camilla in the first place to Diana’s public war with the royal family to Tampongate.


Being able to drop that in casual conversation really made me feel like all of my years of reading royal biographies were finally worth something.

(Insert third emoticon.)

PS: SheKnows, baby

This twerking kitten puts Miley Cyrus to shame

Don’t miss this live stream of planet Earth from outer space

10 Modern families that are making a difference through activism (I managed to fit the royal family into this one, obviously)

Father’s Day cards that dads with teenage daughters will appreciate

Sheryl Sandberg says this one thing will abolish the gender gap in leadership roles

5 Graduation fails better than the Davenport University face plant 

9 Reasons why this Yorkie should have a fashion blog

Dexter the Dachshund is so happy, it’s contagious

Overanalyzing The Meaning Of My Closet

10 Jun


So here’s the deal.

Yesterday my grandmother told me she was worried because I haven’t blogged in a while. This is the woman who taught me to love the Egg McMuffin with my whole before-10:30AM soul, who introduced me to soap operas, and who texted me, legitimately, a month ago to say:

Heads up!  Princes Harry is now single and is in Miami this weekend.  You two would be a perfect couple.  Go to Miami now!!!

If this fabulous woman says I’m not blogging enough, well then by golly gosh darn it lickity split holy smokes I’m not blogging enough.

That’s the deal.

I’m in the midst of the undermployment period of my life, a time both fraught with “When am I getting a job? Am I a worthless loser who should pursue full-time rollerblading and peach buying?” and “Oh no, if I get a job I probably can’t go to the beach every day any more, can I?”

I’ve been doing this whole working from home/attending school thing now for going on 2.5 years, and I have to say, it has been the best 2.5 years of my adult life.  Human beings are made for Malibu and nachos and flexible schedules, and I am a human being.

It’s that type of profound writing that the world has been missing the last few weeks.

In this weird time, I’ve found myself cleaning out my closet in a big way. Well, in a “I’m-unemployed-and-casually-approach-it-sometimes” way.

I’m thinking I should complete the task in approximately 24 years.

This is progress, people.

Important: I recently missed a family vacation because I am unloved and no longer living in Utah, and I was informed that on said getaway, my family played Mafia and when it was my mother’s turn to host she said, “OK, people, welcome to the show…”

By golly gosh darn it lickity split holy smokes I can’t escape my genetics.

So this closet clean out, when it happens, has been good for my soul.  I know this is not groundbreaking, and everyone at some point or another realizes how nice it is to have less stuff.  To be less cluttered.  To let things go.  But this particular closet clean out has been more than that realization.

It’s been a realization of who I’ve become.

I’ve heard before that the human brain stops developing at 25.  I haven’t looked this up to confirm it, and I don’t know if it even really matters, but that idea has been on my mind lately.

So has this F. Scott Fitzgerald essay on being 25, which you should read right away.

I turned 25 right here in the great state of California, in the beautiful Malibu nachos time of my life.  And it’s here in California that I’ve become the adult person I am.  My views on spirituality and relationships and what I want out of life…those have all become more and more solid as I’ve been here.

My style too, that has become more and more solid.

As I clean out my closet I notice a lot of what I’m throwing away is from about three years ago, an era where I dated a very stylish, very preppy boy.  It’s funny how distinct those clothes are.  You could walk into my closet and say, “Oh that’s from the Josh era.  And that menswear-inspired bit, well that must be from it too.  And these thick, uncomfortable pants scream ‘I’m trying to impress a boy named Josh.'”

And I’m shedding that self.  That undeveloped, willing-to-change-who-I-am-for-a-boy self.

I’m shedding all the boy selves, actually.  Their actual clothes, which I’ve collected as one does in relationships.  But also the subtle changes my closet took while dating them.

I’m shedding the things that were never truly me but that I tried on for size.  Wedges, for one.  Blazers.  Pants!  Oh pants.  I don’t think I’m going back to you ever.

And I’m finding at the bottom of it, at the bottom of my closet, the girl I’ve become.

Last week Luke and I went on our first shopping trip, an event that really deserves it’s own post, perhaps its own screenplay.  What happens when someone who loves to buy things ends up at the mall with someone who shops so infrequently he believes his foot is FOUR SIZES different than it actually is.

I’m calling the pieceWhen Harry Met Sally.

At one point in this shopping trip I was sitting on a stool against the wall in the Levi’s fitting room hallway, drinking a Pawnee-sized Diet Coke and calling helpful things over the dressing room stall, “You’ve just never put in the actual effort.  Shopping is a process!” when the fitting room attendant found me.

“Miss, can I help you find anything today?”

“Oh no, thank you,” I said calmly, “I don’t wear pants.”

The attendant smiled and ducked out, and before I could say, “Luke, let’s talk about shopping more!” the worker was back with this delightful, oversized jean mumu, exactly what I would have picked out if I could choose anything in the world for myself.

Seriously, there’s this great triangle embroidery thing on the perfect colored neckline.

You should see it.

I tried the mumu on right away, yelling over my stall, “Oh my everything, this is so thick I won’t have to wear a bra!  My life is all coming together!”  Luke replied, in much quieter tones, “Sounds perfect, Jill.  I’m really happy for you.”

And soon we walked away, he with his new pants, me with my new jean mumu.

Later that night, I added that jean number to my closet next to my yellow mumu.  And the maxi dress I never take off.  And my tutu.  All of the things that survived the great closet purge of 2014.

And I recognized myself in them.

The Fake Celebrity Sightings of my LA Dreams

3 Jun


Important information right here, people!  Important information!

I’m tired.  And my brain does not want to give me a blog post.  And luckily for you all, I wrote a guest post not too long ago about my four dream LA celebrity sightings and now you get to read it.

Also, I’ve recently taken to bidding for vintage mumu patterns on eBay so there’s that.

On to the fake celebrity sightings of my LA dreams!

1. David Beckham

David is clearly at the top of this list as David is clearly at the top of life.  One of my professors recently said she wanted David to decorate her living room and now I just can’t that glorious visual out of my head.  What a living room!

I imagine I would run into David on the beach.  He, holding a surfboard, me wearing a non-pretentious cover-up that conveyed both personality and sass. He would smile, sensing a connection, but things wouldn’t go too far.   WE BOTH RESPECT VICTORIA.  We would lock eyes, wistfully thinking about what might have been in another life under other circumstances. On my deathbed I would yell, “It was always David!”

2. Stevie Nicks

My meeting with Stevie would take place in some ultra-hippy, possibly communal restaurant where we sat on the floor and vibed with the universe. (Duh.)  Stevie and I would discuss life, love, and the pursuit of proper hair products.  (There has to be a secret to those curls, there just has to be.)

We would also get down to business—what’s her favorite line in Dreams? When did the “witch” label come about?  Exactly how much is she in love with Lindsey Buckingham this very minute? Sigh.  I get excited just thinking about it.

3. Scott Disick

I would meet Scott at Duke’s in Malibu.  He would be drunk (Scott!) and at the bar, holding court.  “Let me buy you a drink!  Join us!” he would say, in that thick New York accent of his.  I would spend the afternoon listening to Scott tell increasingly outlandish stories.

At the end of brunch we would go our separate ways, he to a scolding Kourtney, me to my computer, where I would create a new blog entitled “My encounter with Scott Disick.  One post per minute in his presence.” The blog would be a runaway hit.  I would quit my day job and move to Prince Edward Island.  Scott would have another baby with Kourtney.

 4. Oprah

I would glimpse Oprah at a gas station in Hollywood.  She would be in a limousine (obviously) and someone else would be filling it up (obviously).  I would pay attention to the car only because of the intimidating security guards and the general aura of self-fulfillment coming from its very core.

Just as I was getting curious enough to try to sneak a peek in the car, Oprah would roll her window down and give me a small wave. I would take that moment and turn it into a new life for myself, a life of fulfillment and inner peace and chai tea.

When people asked me what changed, why I was a drastically different person, I would just say, “Oprah” and leave it at that.

Which celebrity encounters do you dream about?

Do you, too, respect Victoria Beckham?