Free Advice

There's a reason free advice is free... it usually sucks.

Since I have become recently single, my mother has started imparting relationship advice on me. Apparently if you "fuck up" a five year relationship there is something seriously wrong with you and you NEED help with life. On the bright side her advice has been free- we all know I can't afford to pay. But on the downside, well I'll let you judge the quality of the advice for yourself.

First Email:
"Just read some interesting articles online about relationships--7 mistakes women make, 8 tips to make him fall in love w/you. check it out..."

HAHAHAHAHA. Ok, now before I even comment on the actual content of the email, can I just say that there was no link. She later told me she thought I could just google the keywords she sent me and I would get the same article. I assured her there were probably about a buhjillian cosmo articles on the same exact thing.

Second- the content. Really? Really? Mom- I love you to death- but this relationship mumbo jumbo is ridiculous. The only reason people write articles on this kind of stuff is because when we are 13 years old and our hormones are raging and we just want to kiss a boy we think Cosmo has all the answers (and they know we will buy their magazines). The truth is we just have to grow up and beeee ourselves. Well this works unless your personality sucks and you are a stage 5 clinger... then the articles might help, probably not, but for you it is worth a shot.

After explaining to my mother that if she would really like to impart "wisdom" on me she should include a link, she sent the following email (no link, she just rewrote the entire article- because apparently that was easier?):

Second Email:
(Excerpt on things women should "NEVER DO"- and I'm shortening this because I can't stand long tirades and bullet points are soooo much cooler)

• He's responsible for calling & will when he's ready to
• Don't cry if he holds your hand
• Don't tell him about outfits you make for your cat
• Don't give him a card unless its his birthday- and absolutely no mushy note!
• Hold off on the horizontal polka
• When in bed don't ask questions about your relationship

All very valid points right? lol. Can I just say that these tips just bring a few thoughts to my mind:

1. What if he lives in Katmandu and doesn't have a phone?
2. How tight is he holding my hand?
3. I don't have a cat and I can't sew, so I'm pretty sure this is irrelevant
4. How about I just give him coal? And punch him in the face? hmm?
5. Hahaha. Yah. Thanks mom.
6. So does this mean these questions are ok in any other locale? haha

I think what shes trying to tell me is that Helen Keller was the perfect girl. Don't you?

Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did.

XOXO. Jildo

P.S. Mom, I really do love you to death. Don't EVER change.

The Responsible Slut

Apparently if you buy something from FlirtCatalog.com you better know you want it. Sure they have a 15 day return policy- that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the public humiliation of the return.

My beautiful skunk costume arrived while I was out of town. When I got home from Arizona I tried it on immediately. And by tried it on I mean I put one leg in it and called it a day. What am I a freaking pencil?! No. RE-TURRRRRNN. There was an option to exchange, but by this point I was over it. Time to get $140 back.

I box up the costume, write down the return address and head to UPS. As I walk in the door and approach the counter, a UPS stud comes to help me- tall, tan, broad shoulders, blue eyes. Pretty damn attractive. I hand him the box and the piece of paper with the address on it. He starts tippity tapping away.

"So...." he says, looking up at me, "shop at FlirtCatalog.com often?"

FML. God damnit. Really? Really? You would think God would cut me a little slack here... I am trying to be financially responsible by returning my ridiculously expensive skunky skunk outfit.

I cough. "Uh, no, it was my first time."

I curse myself mentally. He laughs.

"Can I get your number?" Pause. "For tracking purposes?"

I recite my number and quickly hand him my credit card. I tap my foot, look at the ground.

Swipe... swipe... I will him mentally to take the payment.

SAAAA-WWWWIIIIII-SSSSSSSHHHHH. Could you swipe a credit card any slower? Really? I'm pretty sure Little Foot could have swiped my card faster while wallowing in a pit of tar.

After what seems like an eternity he gives me my card back.

"Thanks" I say.

"No problem, we'll get this back to FlirtCatalog.com right away." He grabs the box, a grin spreading across his face.

I want to die. I look toward the back of the store where he takes the box. His associate, a rotund, jolly fellow is sitting down, talking on the phone. UGHHHH! Why couldn't he have helped me?! Can't a girl catch a break? Apparently not.

Lesson for the day: Think before you shop at websites with names like "FlirtCatalog.com"- there are ALWAYS consequences.

XoXo. Jildo

Put It On the Dad Tab

When I said I wanted to have money saved so I could be there for the people I love, I meant it. But by no means am I anywhere close to that point yet--my temporary solution:

A. If I love you, you are not allowed to get sick (That's right. I want you getting 8 hours of sleep a night, drinking so much green tea that your pee has healing powers and grinning from ear to ear when you wake up, even if you have to force yourself too. And, yes, I will know if you are doing this or not.)

if you can't handle option A... I have come up with an alternative:

B. I will force myself to stop loving all you people (Yes. That's right. If you can't love yourself enough to do the very best you can to keep yourself healthy, I will be forced to stop loving you. I mean it.)

Last week despite all his healthy lifestyle choices my grandfather had a heart attack. And, as his wife, Debbo, would later point out in the hospital after he had been resuscitated:

Debbo: "Donno, can I just tell you something? Can I be honest?"

Gpa Don: "Yeah?"

Debbo: "You were dead. You know that? You were dead for fifteen minutes."

Gpa Don: "I was?"

Debbo: "Yup. You were dead."

Thanks to my Dad I was able to rush out to Arizona to be with my grandfather throughout the whole scary ordeal. For a whole week everything went on the "Dad Tab"-- plane tickets, breakfast, lunch, dinner. I love the Dad Tab, made me feel like a kid again.

I did contribute periodically. There was that one time we were playing cards in the hospital cafeteria that I got hungry and I spent $.67 of my own money to buy an apple. Or how about when we went to Walgreens to stock up on supplies and I bought myself that pack of Circus Peanuts? That was a solid $.99.

The Dad Tab is a beautiful, beautiful thing...that is until the whole family starts to go bananas from being together for 12+ hours a day, sitting around waiting for news, drinking cup after cup after cup of coffee to pass the time (which isn't all together un-enjoyable if you love coffee as much as i do. YUM).

The first 4 days we all kept it together pretty well. You could only slightly tell that we were all teetering on the edge of insanity. By day 5 it got downright ugly. We all had different breaking points. For me it was playing cards with my father, cousin Kealey, my dad's wife, Robin and my aunt, Tierney. We were playing Phase 10, this ridiculous card game that sucks ass (and not just because I lost!), and I could just not get past phase 6. You had to get a run of nine (its like a straight in poker). I had been on the phase for 8 hands, because my family members kept completing their phases before I could get on the board. FINALLY, FINALLY I was dealt a perfect run of 9. I didn't need a damn thing. I was so f*ing pumped. My aunt Tierney got to play first.

She got dealt a perfect hand, too. Jildo had just got screwed, by her very own aunt. It was at that moment that I went Coocoo for Cocopuffs. If you can picture me slamming my forehead to the table in repetitive FML movements that would probably be pretty accurate. The fun didn't stop there.

With visiting hours coming to a close the whole family schlepped back to the hotel for the complimentary happy hour (which was more like I'm so stressed out pour me a scotch on the rocks/vodka soda/whiskey diet/pinot gris/gin and tonic hour- now lets play guess who's drink is who's! Haha jk. We don't need to do that). The happy hour was then followed by dinner at a local sushi restaurant. My dad drove. My dad stopped in the middle of the street to let everyone out. My dad got pulled over by the po. Poor dad.

By the time we finally sat down to eat, I wanted to face plant my bed at the hotel. Debbo and I sat quietly on our side of the table and talked about how good her seaweed salad was and about how weird the music at the restaurant was. Dad kept ordering more food- you would have thought he were feeding an army. It stopped at some point and we all crawled back to the hotel and fell into our beds.

I wish I could have appreciated the Dad Tab more. If only I hadn't been mentally mind f**ked and exhausted beyond comprehension.

I finally fell into my own bed last night. No more Dad Tab. Sigh. Just glad that my grandfather is alive and on the road to recovery.

XOXO. Jildo.

P.S. Happy Birthday Daddio :D

Death and Taxes

Everyone has heard it before. There are two certainties in life: death and taxes.

Two days ago I pulled myself out of my bed to go to work. I had only gotten three hours of sleep the night before (partly because I really wanted to stay up to blog, but mostly because I had had pre-birthday drinks), but I didn't care because it was my birthday and I was pumped.

WARNING: Proceed with caution. This post is more serious than not. Do not pass go, do not collect $200 if you cannot handle it.

I was born on 9/11. Which most of you probably knew (thanks for the wonderful bday wishes). When I was born it was a totally cool date. Ten years ago it turned into a totally sucky date and yesterday I officially dubbed it a cursed date.

It was 10:30am, the phone rang at work. I picked it up. When the person on the other end of the line started to speak everything froze. "Jillian, it's your mom."

Silence. "What?"

Again. "Jillian. It's your mom. You need to call your dad. Your grandfather has had a heart attack."

She keeps talking. Probably telling me what has happened, any details she has, but I can't hear anything. My ears just start buzzing and a huge unpenetrable cloud envelopes me. Unconsciously my elbows and forearms drop to the desk. This can't be happening. This CANNOT be happening.

I cried a lot. My boss asked me if I needed to sit down. I went to the back office and dialed my dad. I wanted to be strong for him, its his father, but I can't keep my voice from shaking. He tells me they, my gpa and his wife, are at the Grand Canyon. Get on a plane now, he says.

My grandfather is the healthiest person I know. He is 81 years old, but he is probably morefit than I am. No joke. He works out 5 days a week, spins, lifts weight,and is on a next to no cholesterol diet. He is freaking ripped. So for my father to tell me I need to get on a plane stat, I know its not good.

Two and a half hours after I get the call I'm headed to LAX to catch a plane to Flagstaff, AZ. Ten hours later I'm next to my grandfather at Flagstaff Medical Center.

To be continued.

NOTE: I thought about not sharing what has been going on the past few days. I thought hey, it's really personal. Is it inappropriate? Your blog is about money, does it even have anything to do with that? But then I thought, you know what... This is the whole reason I started the blog. Family. Friends. Yah, my monetary rehabilitation is probably for the most part amusing... So its easy to lose sight of the real reason for financial responsibility. I need to be financially stable, because I need to be there for my family and friends at the drop of a hat. I need to know that at any moment I can just get up and go anywhere.

Everything is ok- no need to respond or offer condolensces. I'm not telling you for that. I just hope it puts into perspective what is truly important in this life.

Xoxo. Jildo

Skunk'd

When you start playing the back nine, you start to get serious. That's right you pull out the magnifying glass. I found that out tonight-- thanks, Alexi.

Tonight starts out like any regular night. I get a text from Jes: "Our Idiot Brother" tonight, you down? Its at 9:50pm.

I'm in.

7:30pm. Jes: Wanna come over and pre booze before the movie.

Do I need to tell you what happens from here? I think so. So we're all hanging out having a good time... social boozing, then social foodtrucking, then non-social boozing at the movie (can I say that?).
So far a pretty, fucking rad night (aside from the burger that they tried to- ok they did- serve me on a Ciabatta. What's up with that? Wrong on so many levels, but thats neither here nor there.)

By the time the movie gets out its a quarter to midnight. I have to get up at 6am to work. We head back to Jes and Alexi's. I stand at the door with my purse on my shoulder.

Alexi: What are you doing? Sit down. Birthday shot.

They have tequila. I'm always in for tequila.

I take the shot, Jes sings "Good morning" to me in spanish (which apparently is the authentic mexican birthday song- but it never actually says birthday in it... although it does say cake, so I guess that will work) and then the MAGNIFYING glass comes out.

Soo.... you're 26. Tweeennnty-six.

Alexi: It's cool, chicks just get way hotter with age.

Me: (in some what of an alcohol blur) I'm 26 years old and I bought a skunk outfit for $140... I didn't even get the boots with the fur!

Wait. Rewind. Yes, this past week I bought my Halloween costume. I was soooo completely stoked. I have ALWAYS, ALWAYS wanted to be a skunk for Halloween. My spirit animal is the skunk (no I'm not joking. Really. This is me being dead serious right now. Skunks, they just like me... no, they find me. But they don't spray me so it's all good). Anyways, since skunks and I seem to get along so well I have always wanted to be a skunk for Halloween.

Randomly last week, while googling "vegas dresses", I came across the website FlirtCatalog.com. I know, I know. You don't have to say anything- you can just laugh your asses off now. So, I'm perusing the dresses and then I see the light "COSTUMES". Score!

I start scrolling through the costumes and I'm actually pretty impressed. Sure they have the regular slutty, unoriginal, way overplayed costumes, but they also have some really rad ones-- like the hamster costumes from those stupid car commercials. You know what I'm talking about.

When I get to about page 8, I see it, my skunk outfit. It was everything I had ever wished for and more. A fluffy skunk headdress, skunk arm warmers, skunk corset, skunk skirt, fluffy skunk tail and boots with the fluffy skunk fur. I had stars in my eyes. PURCHASE!

I didn't even have to think about it. When you know, you know.

I felt sooo good about my purchase... that is until tonight. While I was hanging out with my friends, I of course wanted to show them my HA-MAZING outfit. We go to the webpage.

Jes: You paid $140 for that? You don't even get the headdress, arm warmers or boots with the fur.

WTFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.

Jes: Salsa (this is me). Salsa, did you not read the fine print?

FUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK.

I am now 26 years old and I still can't read the fucking fine print. It's not that I can't, I'm just too impatient. But obviously, by not reading the fine print I got SKUNK'd... for $140.

Sometimes I think I might be bringing shame and dishonor on my family (yes, that is a reference to Mulan).

Gah, so disappointed in myself right now. So disappointed.

I swear I'm not a retard all the time.

Jildo

P.S. Sorry if this story is a bit discombobulated. There were multiple drinks tonight. But I am happy to report we didn't bring out the salsa machine.

Thanks to my amazing friends for the perfect start of my back nine.

Dental Work for the Dumbass?

There is a reason I hike and run for exercise. I DON'T WANT TO DIE.

Yah, seriously. Me and balls, we don't get along so well. In elementary school I took a swing at softball- the only time I got on base was when I was walked for getting hit by the ball. In middle school it was tennis. The ball ALWAYS got stuck in the hole below the face of the racket. And, in high school, when I was required to take gym class, (although I opted for the safer option of walking the perimeter of the gym) I would without a doubt get hit by stray volleys from the volleyball quart.

For some reason adults choose to surround kids with the most fucking dangerous objects. Its like its a freaking joke. Hahaha. Let's see if little Jilly can survive all the f**king balls we'll throw at her today. Survival of the fittest honey, sure you will do great!!! Despite a few scrapes and bruises, I DID survive the dominant presence of balls in adolescence.

You might think I would have a better handle on balls now that I am older. A little more seasoned, quicker reflexes, better at running and dodging. Heh. Neh eh.

First day back to boot camp. Ten minute warm up and then six movements. I get through the first five exhausted, but intact. The last station? Squat/jump/throw with medicine balls. AWESOME. Balls. I grab the 20lb ball. Squat. Check. Jump. Check. Throw. Check. Get hit in the jaw with the 20lb medicine ball when it bounces off of the asphalt. FUCCCCKKKK. Chris, one of the trainers, laughs. "Don't worry, no one saw that but me." Heh, I laugh.

Yah, no one saw me slam a 20lb ball into my face, but they will sure as hell know about it when I can't move my fucking jaw and have to spend $30K+ on a bone grafting surgery. No, I'm sure its not that bad- at least I hope not. But, this whole ordeal has made me reflect on my monetary rehabilitation. I will always need to have more money saved than other people, because I am a damn klutz. Sucks... balls.

I'll keep you posted on the jaw sitch. Right now it just f**king hurts. Gahhh. I really need to invest in full body armor... or maybe just head to toe foam padding. That might work.

Mrrrr. Jildo

P.S. No one is allowed to call me "Jilly". EVER. (except maybe Natalia, but that's just because she's been doing it forever).

$600 for 4 Minutes

I am paying Jenny Schatzle (best damn trainer in Santa Barbara) $600 over the next 3 months to kick my ass, so I can PR my next half at 1:50. Now on any ordinary day you would freak out and tell me this is MOST DEFINITELY not in my budget. But today you are not going to say or even think that, because last week I told you I am no longer spending $80,000 on business school. Look at that! God, I am so good at budgeting.

(Actually, the whole business school thing was just a rouse so when I told you I was shelling out $600 to shave 4 minutes off of my best half time, you would nod your head in silent appreciation. "That makes sense. It's only $600. What a steal of a deal.")

Still not convinced, huh? Jeez. Tough audience. You are just like my mom. When I stopped taking boot camp back in April to save money, my mom said "Sweetie, you don't need to pay someone to tell you what do." Guess what mom, I DO, especially if I want to run my next half faster than I've run one before. Sure, I can run on my own until my feet fall off, but that is only going to get me so far (probably to Goleta and back, and probably not that quickly). What I need to run faster is not more time on treadmills, roads or trails. What I need to run faster is those damn squats, jump squats, lunges, jump lunges, burpees, tire flips and maybe even... dare I say it? Shhh... the prowler.  I think we all know none of those things are happening on their own. (Damn Schatzle, I think I'm bleeding blue for you). 

So here's to getting my ass kicked for the next three months. Woo hoo! So PUMPED.

Over and Out. Jildo

Golfing for Boobs

"So, I know you can booze, but can you swing a club?"

Three weeks ago my friend Jes invited me to be on her golf team for todays charity golf tournament at Glen Annie. It's a scramble she said, so you don't have to kill it at every hole-- just try not to suck the WHOLE time. I said I could do that, so Jes, Veronica, Jenny and I shelled out $130 each to whack balls, look like idiots, get drunk (did I mention each hole is sponsored by a different booze?) and save boobs.

This tournament has become quite the expensive endeavor-- costing me waaayyy more than $130. There was the cost for the 10-holes of golf we squeezed in last week before the sun went down, the tokens for the driving range and then of course the pre/post boozing before each event. But on the bright side I did get a free cart rental and lots of free balls/tokens from other golfers and golf course employees-- hey, they offered!

So yes, this whole golf thing isn't really helping the budget (thanks dad for teaching me how to golf back in the day-- couldn't pick a cheaper sport, could you? Nope didn't think so.), but it's a hell of a lot of fun, so cest la vie.

Amped and ready to save the boobs!
(Did I mention all the proceeds will go towards raising money for local breast cancer treatment? Thus the excessive talk of boobs. BOOBS.)

xoxo Jildo.

D-fer. Sounds like Reefer.

D is for Defer: Part Dos.

Lets be for real. I'm not deferring. I mean technically I'm deferring, but I'm not going to go to Pepperdine. Why? Yes, the whole idea of it sounded beautiful on paper, but since I'm being honest, I'll just put it out there. I started applying for business school back in January after I was passed up for a promotion.

The message was clear: Jillian you are not good enough. "No? Ok then. What can I do to make myself a more marketable job applicant?" MBA. That was that. I can't be happy if I am not learning, progressing or facing new challenges. I HATE stagnancy. HATE IT. Capital H-H-H. Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up in my mouth. So I started applying to schools.

I started thinking about my future. No, really thinking about my future. I want to buy a house. I can't buy a house now, but I sure as hell need to start planning for it now if its ever going to happen. 

Maybe this sounds weird to you... but I'm not banking on having a man to provide for me. Heck, I don't want to have to depend on someone else to take care of me. I'm not a feminist. I'm just... I dunno, watching out for myself, I guess.

In the months leading up to the end of my relationship, I would no joke have serious emotional breakdowns about living in Santa Barbara and how expensive it is. This drove my boyfriend crazy beyond no end. He would tell me that I didn't need to freak out that he would pay for things for me. "I don't want you to f**king pay for me to live!!!" And, it wasn't really that- the cost of living in Santa Barbara is high, but I was freaking out because I knew if I stayed with him he would never want to move and I would never have a career... which would mean I would be dependent on him... FOREVER.

OK. Now I really did just throw up in my mouth.

I don't think me wanting to take care of myself is a bad thing at all. It doesn't mean I don't want to have someone special in my life-- thats not the case at all. I just know I would never be happy as a stay at home mom. It would literally crush my soul.

With not getting the promotion at work and sensing the impending doom of my relationship, applying to business school was the best thing for me at the time. Until I got accepted. I was accepted into Georgia Tech's MBA program-- my first choice. It seemed perfect. My grandfather went to Tech, I grew up hearing Ramblin Wreck and watching the Georgia vs. Georgia Tech game every Thanksgiving. My father had a second home outside of Atlanta where I would live rent free until I found my own place and the resort I work at now had a sister resort in Atlanta that offered me a job-- which meant I would be applicable for in-state tuition.

But, I kept holding off on my acceptance. For some reason I just couldn't say yes. I let months roll by. Adam asked me to apply to schools in CA for his sake. So, I did... and I got in... but my heart wasn't in it. After Adam and I broke up I knew I couldn't drop $80,000 on a school that I had applied to just because someone else didn't want me to go somewhere else... especially when Jildo is trying save money!

Another promotion came up at work. I applied again, and this time I got it. You have no idea how ecstatic I was. When I got home I couldn't stop jumping up and down. Maybe when you make one change to start living for yourself again everything else just starts to fall into place.

I'm gonna go with that, cause I'm pretty damn happy now. Broke, but happy.

xoxo. Jildo.